#EATS GLASS SHITS BRICKS OPENS AO3.

[kissingagrumpygiant]

I think also the vibes of solas and cullen's respective romances are different. sure, cullen has a couple of sweet moments in his overall romance but he's always posited as a golden child with no flaws (despite his many flaws) and it's all hunky-dory. solas' romance paints him as this pretty flawed dude! he's weirdly secretive and distant at times, he acts meek sometimes and blisters with rage at others. the things he says don't always match up and the trespasser reveal is the start of understanding why.

cullen is fairly simple to understand. he has some complexity but it is mostly an open-and-shut case and once you've finished his romance/storyline, you can mostly understand him. not so much with solas, he's so squirrelly and contradictory. he knows he shouldn't be getting in a relationship, but he does it anyway. he knows you'll be his enemy one day but he'll still stop your arm from wrecking you so you can talk one last time even though it could potentially give you time to attack (which if you have low approval with him and do try to attack, he immediately stops you by influencing the anchor but still).

he's not even ugly, he's just bald 😭he's a bald little dude who says he's turned his back on the world but when the inquisitor reaches out a hand, he takes it!! anyway I'm completely normal about solas.

its about the character study its about the Layers its about the complexity of a hypocrite who at his very core cares for others so much its his driving motivation from thousands of years ago but his pride is too much to admit he made a passing judgment, a mistake, and now he refuses to back down from his original plan its about how he now gave his whole heart to another person who isnt his people and now he has TO DEAL WITH IT, and hes gonna have to hurt them to reach his goals but he still cares and hes not like coryphaeus as he tells himself as he tries one last time to help the inquisition by tripping the qunari spy network because he CARES and he recognizes somewhere deep in himself these are his people too and he cant ever really turn his back on lavellan bc he still visits their dreams

[fieldsofview]

The Opening Scene of my new fic, Spiderman: Homesickness

Summary:

Nearly 5 years after Dr. Strange's spell and the events on Liberty Island, Peter has settled into a routine. Patrol. Edit the footage. Sell the footage. Pay rent. Remember to eat. Remember to sleep. Repeat. Sure, he misses his friends. He misses May. But that doesn't matter, because he's saving his city one petty crime at a time. Alone, because he doesn't need a team anyway. Just like the Avengers don't need him. The multiverse is intact and everything is as it should be. He's surviving just as well as anyone else nowadays. 100%. or: The week that Peter's life flipped upside down, one overly friendly stranger at a time.

Rated: M

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Read on AO3 here and let me know what you think!

His foot connects with the gunman’s head, sending the man spinning face-first into the alley wall. The guy’s nose makes a sickening crunch upon impact with the brick and Peter grimaces at the sound, not that you can see it through his mask. Peter uses the momentum from the kick to launch himself up the wall across the alleyway and stick himself there.

Gunman No. 02 slams shut the car's trunk, snapping her head up at the noise to look at Peter - or Spider-Man, as she sees it. Clutched in one hand is a small, silver briefcase, and in the other some kind of pistol, equipped with a silencer.

She sneers, gun aiming right at Peter’s face. “Don’t you have bigger problems to solve, Baby Avenger?”

Peter’s eyes dart back and forth between the man crouched low on the ground, clutching his broken nose, and the woman pointing a gun directly at his face. Her sleek, blonde hair is pulled up in a tight ponytail at the back of her head. He keeps his voice even, light, “Look, Regina, maybe the pressure of Prom Queen has gotten to your head, but you’d think by now you’d realize that dealing illegal tech is not the way to go. I mean, come on, you must know that it was never gonna fly, right?” He holds his position steady, muscles poised to leap at any moment.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and before his brain can register it, Peter’s body is twisting and flipping to the side, just out of the way of a series of bullets from the entrance to the alleyway. The sound they make as they embed in the brick reminds him of tiny footsteps.

Oh wait, those are actual footsteps. Faintly, Peter hears behind him the sounds of Regina running away down the long narrow alley, but he really has to focus on one thing at a time.

A third man stands silhouetted at the entrance, aim steady as Peter launches this way and that, back and forth between the walls. “Where’s your little sidekick now, Spider-Man?” The gunman cackles and fires two more bullets, each getting slower to their target. Sidekick? With a sting, Peter’s shoulder feels hot. It’s a familiar, biting heat that comes from being grazed with a bullet, followed by the drip of warm blood.

Okay, time to wrap this up.

He shoots a web at the newcomer, sticking to the gun and yanking it away, where it fires mid-trajectory. Schtink! The sound of shattered metal and glass to Peter’s right makes his stomach drop. Shit. Well, that’s a problem for tomorrow. He bites back an involuntary groan.

“So you must be Gretchen,” Peter smirks, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to the now nearly unconscious 1st gunman, “and that makes Einstein over there Karen. You think he knows when it’s raining as well?”

Two more webs are sent at the newcomer’s feet, as well as Karen, and Peter’s down to just one. Regina took his distraction and ran with it - Ha! Pun intended - and is attempting a getaway on foot. “No can do, blondie,” he says as he sends one web at each wall and uses them to slingshot him in an arc between the buildings. With a last-minute twist, he narrowly misses the handrail of a fire escape and lands directly in front of her.

In a one-two series, he webs her mouth shut and her hand with the pistol to the side of a dumpster. She lets out a furious screech, muffled by the webs, and swings the silver case in an arc at his face, but Peter casually ducks out of the way.

On the backswing, he holds out a hand and catches the case, twisting in a way that forces her to let go or risk breaking her wrist. He tosses the case upwards and webs it to the wall, well out of reach. She attempts to kick him, to punch him with her free hand, something, but Peter’s done this so many times now that it’s rather predictable. Each swing is easily dodged or blocked. She’s just a person, really. And regular people never have been a match for him. He lets her keep swinging though, until she starts to tire herself out and sags with exhaustion. It’s a cute little workout after all, it gets his blood pumping and his heart racing, just a little. He might as well take advantage of it.

When she’s done, she leans back against the dumpster in defeat, eying him warily.

“Okay, princess, now that you’ve tired yourself out, go ahead and take a nap. Your prince will be here shortly.” He straightens up, stretching out his back and rolling his shoulders. The wound on his shoulder stings still, but he can tell from the feeling that it isn’t deep and likely won’t require stitches. He’s definitely had worse. He webs her feet to the floor for good measure and begins walking back down the alleyway towards the other two, ensuring that no one intends to make a break for it.

Gretchen is attempting to pry the webbing from his feet, unsuccessfully. He looks up as Peter approaches and spits out, “Fuck you, Spider-Man. You couldn’t have left well enough alone, could you? Head up your ass just like the rest of th- oof!”

Peter sends a web at his shoulder that knocks him off balance onto his ass, followed by two more that pin him fully to the ground, and a final one to his mouth for good measure.

“Shut up,” Peter bites out.

Karen is out cold. Beautifully silent.

Karen, huh? Maybe he shouldn’t have picked that particular media to label them with. Reminds him of his other Karen, from long ago.

Nope. Enough of that.

He taps twice at the Bluetooth earpiece in his ear, hearing the beep that it’s listening for a command. “Alert Officer Davis,” he enunciates clearly, and then, a moment later, he can see a small red light begin to flash in the periphery of his lenses, along with tiny writing that says ‘3 min.’ Not bad, maybe he’ll get to bed at a decent time tonight?

Peter takes a moment to look over the car, their gear, and the surrounding area. Nothing seems amiss, and so, Peter spends the last bit of wait time climbing up the walls to free the silver case from the wall and collect all of their weapons into a pile for ease of evidence collection. From his perch on a window ledge, he flicks open the latch on the case and opens it, seeing several tiny glass containers filled with various colored liquids of different viscosities. They all tip and slide as he shifts the case this way and that. Huh.

It’s not his problem though. He snaps the case shut just in time to see flashing red and blue lights appear at the end of the alley. With a web and a smooth swing, he lands in front of the police cruiser.

Faintly, Peter can hear a voice speaking into the cruiser’s dispatch radio, “…minimal backup required for pickup and drop off. Stacy and Miller should be in the area. 10-50...” Stepping out of the car is a broad-shouldered police officer in his pressed, blue uniform. He smiles wearily at Peter as he takes in the scene in front of him. “So what’s the situation, Spider-Man?”

Peter tosses the case at Officer Davis, who catches it smoothly. “I’m not sure where Huey, Dewey, and Louie over here got ahold of it, but I overheard them talking about taking that and selling it to the highest bidder. I don’t know if it’s terrestrial.”

“Alien, huh? Well, we’ve had enough of that going around, they could have gotten it nearly anywhere.” Officer Davis flicks open the case and examines the contents. “I have a contact at SHIELD I can pull in if necessary.” He runs his hands over the vials, pulling one out and examining it. The dark, viscous liquid clings to the glass as he shifts it this way and that.

“Glad to know you’ve got it covered. If you do talk to SHIELD, make sure to keep my name out of it, I don’t-”

“Yes I know,” Officer Davis smiles at him in that way that you smile at your friends when they’re doing something you don’t approve of, but you don’t want to tell them no. Peter hates that he knows that look so well. “No SHIELD, no Avengers, and no pulling you in as a witness. I know the drill.”

Officer Davis’ phone rings out from his pocket, “…beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy…” He nods at Peter once before turning away to lean against his car and answer the phone.

Peter takes this as a moment to double-tap his earpiece and state “Recall.” An erratic whirring noise starts up behind him as his miniature hover drone buzzes its way over to him. It’s obvious that at least one thruster is broken, and maybe the camera’s lens. Peter turns and lets the drone settle into place on his chest, deciding it will be best to assess the damages later at home.

“… your uncle’s. I’ll be off shift in a few hours and can pick you up then. Say hi for me. I love you.” Officer Davis cuts the call, rubbing a hand across his face. Turning his attention to Peter, he says, “I think I’ve got what I need from you, I’ll call if there’s anything else. Thanks.”

Another cruiser turns around the corner from down the street, pulling up to the curb and flicking off its flashing lights.

Peter nods. He feels as tired as Officer Davis looks. “See you around, Officer.” With a flippant salute, he shoots a web upwards and vaults away, happy to head home for the night.

[eirian-houpe]

No Saving Throw

Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Relationships: Chrissy Cunningham/Eddie Munson

Characters: Chrissy Cunningham, Eddie Munson, Jason Carver, Other Character Tags to Be Added

Additional Tags: Fear, Supernatural Elements, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Abuse, saying it again for the folk in the back - major character death

Summary: Eddie saves Chrissy not once, but twice - doesn't seem to matter to his reputation nor to the threat of arrest, Carver and his cronies see to that.  This is an angst ridden reworking of Stranger Things season 4 (and maybe beyond) if Chrissy had lived.

For @deliriumsdelight7

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 - Range: Touch

The buzzer was still sounding, echoing around in her head and only added to the oppressive ache that sat behind her eyes. Like a startled rabbit she turned side to side as if looking for a way out, which she was. The last thing she wanted was to deal with Jason’s bullshit. She had a belly full of that shit-show earlier.

"Chris.” Maybe if she just kept walking he’d take the hint and leave her alone. “Hey, Chrissy!”

He caught her arm and her belly lurched. Without thinking she snatched her elbow out of his grasp. She didn’t miss the frown that darkened his face. It was only for a moment, but it was a moment too long and she shrank away from him.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, I—” She squirmed and tucked a strand of hair back from her face.

“I don’t think you’re even listening to me,” Jason complained, a note of incredulity that well and truly rubbed Chrissy up the wrong way. Not that she’d ever do anything about it - except maybe feel bad that she didn’t, just, give him what he wanted. “—after the game?”

Shit. What had he been saying? Something about the game - after the game - party. Damn stupid, she should have told him. Didn’t she tell him. Of course she didn’t. She wasn’t about to ever tell him she’d rather eat glass. That would go down… about as well as his shots in basketball - which was to say - nowhere near the basket and—

“Chrissy!  What the hell!” Jason grabbed her arm again and shook her. “You’ll be there.” It wasn’t a question.

“Jason, I can’t. I told you—” 

“You’ll be there.”

The spectators had started to move; the band was making its way out, as well as the rest of the cheer team. The players were well on their way to the locker room.  If she was lucky, should could lose herself in the celebratory crowd. She could already feel his eyes. Searching for her. Slip out without notice.

The hour is laaaaate… Chrissy!

Chrissy turned the opposite way, hitting the bar to open the fire door, and one by one the lights flicked out with a heavy thunk against an off key clock, chiming in the space between. She rubbed her eyes as if the added pressure would somehow root out the ache, took a moment to ignore it all except the breeze that twined, cat-like, around her bare thighs. When had she gotten so overheated? Neither the pressure not the ringing in her ears went away. It felt like the world had tilted in some way.

She pushed away from the rough brick wall and began to walk, picking up the pace as if the footsteps she could hear inside her head were following along behind, alternately dessicated; dead on the rear sidewalk, and the sodden squelch of a wet washcloth. She started to hum under hear breath, then barely murmur the words as off key in her fear as the lingering, intrusive chime.

…bet she’s never had a backstr—

The figure melted away from the corner of the gym in the darkness. Unexpected. She muffled a yelp. Almost a scream and broke off from humming; turned, off balance. strong, supportive hands caught her elbows in a gentle grasp, and she felt herself drawn in to a warm, firm body. Even then, she twisted. Fight or flight instinct.

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey, hey.” The voice broke the spell the shadow at the back of the gym had over her. She knew it. Knew him.  Even knew the words. “Sorry.” A self deprecating chuckle. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” A pause. “You okay?”  She nodded, swallowing, and offered Eddie a wan smile. “You know,” he said, the frown and the smile that combined on his face read as though he was as freaked out as she was, “we gotta stop meeting like this because,” his expression relaxed, though, as the joke picked up speed, “I’m not sure how much more of this my heart can take.”  He offered her his denim clad arm, and the absurdly old fashioned gesture made her chuckle just a little, and that kindled a bigger smile on his face. “I saw you come out,” he explained and gestured back toward the exit she’d used. “I had to park a way out because of the… you know… game and,” he shrugged, “I didn’t want you walking all that way on your own in the dark.”

“Aww.” She leaned his way a little as she moved into step with him. “That’s really sweet.”

“I’ll give you that this one time, but…” he shook his head as the two of them headed a little way along the darkened lane together. “…man’s got a reputation to uphold, so, I’ll have to ask you never to repeat it.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at her almost expectantly, and for a second she couldn’t tell if he were serious. Then he chuckled, and  she giggled, and suddenly she realized the pressure, and the noise, and the creepy ticking inside her head were silent, and the only whispers she could hear were the soft susurration of the breeze stirring the leaves of the trees lining the sides of the road.

They walked in silence for a moment before she heard him take a breath as if to speak, so she turned her head to look his way just as, with a new frown creasing his brow, he said, “Really?”

“What?”

“Uptown Girl?”

“What?” she frowned herself, confused at the shift in conversation.

“You were singing it, when we…” he gestured between the two of them, the dim light glinting off the rings on his fingers. “… you know, when you ran into me… again.”

“What about it?”

“Well, it—” he stopped with a slight shrug.

“It’s a good song,” she insisted. “I like it.”

“You like it,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” His expression was unreadable now, not so the slight, teasing glint in his eyes. “I see.”

If he were going to say anything else, she would never know, because their steps slowed, and he gestured to the vehicle beside them. “You’re chariot, my lady,” he said as they came to a stop at the passenger side door of a well used van. She looked up at him, for a moment second guessing herself and he must have seen the look of worry cross her face because he he pursed his lips and and offered quietly, “Seriously, Chrissy, you’re safe with me, I promise you. You don’t want to do this then you just say and I’ll run you home; see you to your door, and no more need be said. No pressure; no harm, no foul.”

“No, Eddie,” she said, and though maybe a little bit too hurriedly added aloud, “I want this.” I need this, she didn’t say aloud.

“Be iest lîn,” he mumured, and gave her another, teasing smile as he pulled open the door, and helped her inside.

[retrogalwrites]

Hawks/Takami Keigo x  catgirl!reader

Title: “Canary killed the cat” / view on ao3

Summary: Hawks takes a stray cat home with him. Yes, that cat is you.

warnings: dubcon, yandere hawks, misogyny, manipulation, dehumanization, literal pet play, kidnapping/abduction, mommy issues, softness but in all the wrong ways

words: 1800

He found you shivering behind a dumpster in an alley, it took him less than five minutes to track you down.

A pair of feline ears stood above your head, pointing backwards in sign of pure fright, they were the color of your hair. You stared at him with wide eyes and bared teeth, hands desperately clutching the stolen bread against your chest so hard it had become mostly wasted crumbs scattered on the ground. You pleaded, you hissed, shaking like you were going to crumble as well.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go!!!"

"Wish I could, but as you must know, stealing is a very bad thing to do, sweetheart..." He spoke casually and condescendingly, of course, someone who did not really believe in the very things he preached.

"I know...I know, I just..." You had started to cry. "I was so hungry, please, let me go..."

It was a pathetic sight, but not one Keigo hadn't already seen far too many times to count. There are people like you everywhere, he grew up with people like you, and they always end up in the same place.

It shouldn't have made a difference, you shouldn't have made a difference. But when he approached your struggling form pinned to a bricked wall by feathers, Keigo couldn't help the curiosity that made him peer at your face.

 It was the curiosity that killed the cat.

"Oh?" He sounded surprised, because he was. "You are cute."

"...w-what?"

Crouching down next to you, he forcefully grabbed you by the jaw to turn your head to the side, inspecting you from different angles with a gaze of morbid curiosity.

Indeed, you were cute, extremely cute. Perhaps too cute for your own good. Was it something in your eyes? Your features? He wasn't sure, and that only intrigued him more.

Of course, you were a disheveled mess, all rags, dirt smeared on your face and bruised limbs, surely from a life living more like animal than a woman in a society that had no place for the outcasts. No, you were nothing like those women he was used to, perfect beauties and bimbos born into wealth and acceptance, instead you were just a pitiful looking thing.

And yet...you were so cute, despite of that. Or maybe because of it.

"W-What are you going to do to me?"

Keigo smiled at you, he had already made up his mind on that matter.

"What's your name?" He asked instead, purposely ignoring your question. Confused and frightened, you hesitated before answering.

His smile grew wider, feathers ruffling behind his back.

———————

After taking you home, the first thing he did was getting you clean.

It pleased him greatly, how you didn't put up a fight even when he ordered you to take off your rags for clothes while he prepared a warm bath for two. Perhaps you were too exhausted, maybe too afraid, or maybe it had just been that long since you were given the most basic care that, even in a situation like this, the prospect of a bath was too good not to submit to it.

"Wh...why are you doing this?" You asked meekly, as you undressed in his bathroom, under his gaze. "Are heroes even supposed to...?"

"Shhh. Don't worry your little head about that, let's just get you cleaned, alright sweetheart?"

He spoke amiably, but his eyes openly leered at the curvature of your hips, the ripe swell of your breasts and that pretty pussy covered by a patch of pubic hair (most women trim and shave these days, a shame, he preferred the natural look).

While you submerged yourself in the tub with him, Keigo eagerly scrubbed your body off all the grime and dirt. His hands eagerly explored your body, testing the softness and the suppleness of your flesh by groping it. He was hard the entire time, watching your skin become clean and soft filled him with certain satisfaction that had his cock begging for attention, wishing to be buried deep in the warmth of your tight heat, but he had to control himself for the time being.

If you noticed his erection poking at your backside, you didn't say anything, and Keigo liked that in a woman.

Keigo liked you.

———————

It was not like you had a home to return to, nor people waiting for you anywhere, right? There was nothing technically wrong with taking something that didn't belong to anyone, and he loved living on technicalities.

That's right, taking a little stray cat home should've been fine.

Even if you tried to claw your way away after the first day, when you realized he had no intentions on letting you go back to the streets.

"You should be grateful, don't you think?" He spoke bemused by the sight of you, curled into a ball with your tail wrapped around your body, it was cute. "You don't have to live like a stray anymore."

"B-But I'm a person, this is wrong...you just can't..."

"When was the last time anyone treated you like a person?"

Your silence in that moment sounded like the beginning of your acceptance. The despair on your face reminded him of something, or rather someone...that despair looked a lot like his mother's eyes.

He didn't want to see that look on your face.

———————

Keigo simply locked you in a room for a few days after that, waited until you calmed down, he figured that you just needed to get familiar with your new home, he knew that he had to be patient when it comes to adopting a new pet. He brought you presents everyday for a week, all the luxuries girls love and that he knew for a fact you never had known about: expensive clothes (tailored to his tastes), plushes, shoes, perfumes, chocolates and candy of all types.

When he found you nibbling on candy, curled up on a giant teddy bear, he knew that it was just a matter of time before you were seduced by the opportunity of living a comfortable life.

————————

Pretty girls had been more like a given commodity for most of his life, from A to Z he had fucked most beauties out there with a big enough names that many would been jealous of his body count, but Keigo was never one to really fawn over any of them before, he couldn't even remember the faces of more than half of them either.

But in that moment, having you nestled between his legs trying to fit his cock into your pretty mouth until your nose was buried in his pubes, Keigo felt like he was with the cutest thing in the entire fucking world, and the shit-eating grin plastered on his face showed it. You were just too adorable, trying so earnestly not to choke on the size of his fully erect length, the head already poking at the back of your throat and he hadn't even started moving yet.

"Good girl, you're doing it so well."

He flicked one of your ears with his index finger, it twitched.

Purring loudly, you tried bobbing your head as you nursed on his cock, drooling all over it in the process. It felt good, better than good, and Keigo was overcome with how beautiful you looked in that moment, and how no one would've looked at you twice before he found you.

As your mouth worked on his cock, one of your hands massaged his balls, he didn't even had to tell you to, a sign you had learned well. Soon enough he felt that pleasure getting dangerously close to reaching climax, and he made you stop. You whined, a disappointed sound being pushed away as his cock slipped out of your mouth, a trail of saliva still connecting his the head to your swollen lips.

"Don't pout at me like that, today I feel like filling you up, pussycat." He chuckled, he large palm petting the top of your head, which you were quickly nuzzling against. "Get on the bed."

Well trained as you were, you climbed onto the mattress quickly getting on all fours, and Keigo was quick to follow. Grabbing you by the hips, he pulled your round ass against his erection, your fluffy tail stood up in the air vibrating with anticipation as strong fingers   pulling at your soaked pussy lips to expose your tight little hole to his hungry gaze. Purring, your back arched when Keigo slowly buried his cock into your cunt, he felt your fleshy walls stretching around him, shaping around him to his shape and girth, until he was balls deep inside.

You moaned, tightening around him with a vice grip that could've made him cum a little too soon.

"M-Master...master...please...."

"What a dirty girl, begging for cock like a whore." And he made you into that, he couldn't have been more proud. Getting you to call him your master took a little while, but damn had it been worth the wait.

Keigo started moving, thrusting his hips and pulling his cock half-way out of you before slamming back in. He watched how your cunt swallowed him hole with ease, the ripples on your ass when his hand came down to slap one of your cheeks, making you mewl like the animal you had accepted to be.

Kaigo threw his had back when he felt that climax brewing all over again, before his thrusts came to a halt as he held your hips in place. He spilled his hot cum right into you, the little entrance of your womb sucking the semen straight from his cock like your body was begging to be stuffed with it.

He pulled out his softening cock, a trail of cum dribbling down your thighs and onto the sheets. You never stopped purring.

————————

Keigo returned from his patrol to find you looking out of the large glass window of his bedroom. He petted your head as he approached you from behind.

"You don't miss it out there, do you?" He asked, you shook your head. Of course he knew you didn't, otherwise Keigo wouldn't allow you to approach the windows on first place.

He pulled out a rectangular box from his pocket, watched with delight the way your curious eyes stared at it, already knowing it had to be a gift for you. Keigo chuckled, you were getting very spoiled, he thought for a second, but only a second.

"I thought it was about time I got you one of these." He opened the box to reveal a pet collar with a tag showing your name engraved. "What do you think?"

The smile on your face was the sort of look he always wanted to see on it.

[heynikkiyousofine]

A Deal With A Demon 

Summary:  Kagome’s struggling to keep her family’s bar afloat after her mother’s death. One night, a demon makes a deal, intriguing her to change her life.

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4

ao3

Dedicated to my dear friend @enchantedink-ag, can't wait to for y’all to read it. Much Love! 💕

“Hey! Kagome! Kagome! Another round for the three of us!” The wolf demon hollered across the bar and she smiled, nodding her before turning her back to him. Koga’s drinking tolerance are the only reason this bar stays open. That, and his affection for me. Rolling her gray eyes, she swung her body around, reaching for the scotch. Pouring three double neats, she slid them across the worn bar top, throwing a fake smile for the wolf demons. “Thanks babe!” 

“You boys need anything else at the moment? I’m gonna take a five minute break.” Kagome waved her hands, looking around the almost empty bar. Not staying to hear whatever perverted answer Koga had to say, she snagged her phone and headed towards the back door. Propping it open with a broken cement block, she pulled her phone from her jeans pocket to see a few texts from Sango.

Hey, how’s work? Is Koga back again tonight?

The bank called the home phone again, dod you want me to give another excuse?

I can ask my dad to help you, I just want to help.

I love you, I’ll see you later.

Kagome sighed, leaning against the brick wall, closing her eyes. I can’t keep doing this. Dad’s drinking has just gotten worse after mom’s death. Maybe I should’ve listened to Souta and just left after high school. Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she tried to clear her thoughts, to focus on coming up with a plan on how to save her family’s bar. Sighing once more, she kicked the block out of the way, the metal door slamming close behind her. Glancing at the clock above her office, she winced as the wolf demon’s voice grew louder. Only four more hours to go, then I can go home.

Taking one more deep breath, she rounded the corner, almost bumping into Koga, who was blocking her way to get back behind the counter.

“Koga, I need to get back to work.”

“Kags,” he slurred and she almost rolled eyes once more at the annoying nickname, “All I ask for is one date. What do I gotta do to persuade you?”

“Keep buying drinks and I might just have a night off, but that would take even more drinks than you and your friends can handle.” She grimaced, realizing her words as they came out. His blue eyes lit up brightly and she stepped around him, anxious to get away.

“I’ll hold you to that. Now, another round if you please!” He raised his fists, his two friends whooping along. Gritting her teeth, she turned towards the scotch, pouring another round, praying he wouldn’t remember her proposal when he was sober.

———————————————————————————————————

Fate was on her side this week, Koga had yet to mention their little deal, but night after night, he was in with his friends. Sometimes there were two or three more wolves added, but always at least him and the two twins, who Kagome had actually begin to grown fond on, were there, night after night. They didn’t say inappropriate jokes and whenever Koga was off flirting with another chick, they always checked in on her, making sure she was eating at some point during the night. She always made sure to give them some snacks on the house, especially after finding out one night, they were only here to support their friend’s drinking habit. A week after her one sided proposal, Kagome was finishing up the last round of glassware, the last of the bar guests leaving. 

She was humming to herself, the night having been pretty steady, pretty positive she made a dent in the monthly expenses. Polishing the last glass, she heard a door shut loudly.

“Sorry! We’re closed for the night!” She called over her shoulder, focusing on a particular lipstick stain.

“Kags, don’t you remember our deal?” Koga’s slurred words came from the bathrooms and Kagome froze. Shit. Gripping the dirty glass, she whirled around, eyeing a drunk Koga as he leaned against the barter.

“Koga, we’re closed and you’re drunk. Where’s Ginta and Hakkaku?” She sighed, careful of her words. He was known for his temper when he was wasted, having remembered cleaning up broke stools once or twice.

“I think they are at another bar down the road, I stayed back to spend some time alone with you, since you’re my woman and all.”  She wrinkled her nose, disgusted. He stepped around, blocking the only entry way in and out from behind the bar and Kagome froze. “Now, let’s talk about that deal you made me. Did you think I would forget?” He wobbled forward, his legs shaking.

“Koga, back away. I said one date when I got a night off. I have yet to have a day off in three weeks, you know that.” She tried to stand her ground, gripping the glass tighter, glancing around for a way out. He was a demon, faster and stronger than her, so running would be useless, but she could try her damn hardest to fight. He continued to move closer, clumsily bumping into bottles.

“How about we start it right here, the bar’s closed, no one here to take your attention away from me.” He smirked and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Swallowing a bit, she took a step back, reaching around for something, anything, to defend herself. Her fingers grazed the fruit knife and she whipped her hand, holding the knife in front of her. He began to laugh and she frowned, fear knocking in her belly.

“Kagome, I’m a demon, and unless you’re going to slice me into pieces, that knife isn’t gonna do much.” He laughed louder and pushed her hand out of the way, the knife clattering to the ground. Think, ‘Gome, think! The next second, she use the glass in her hand, crashing it against the side of his face, Koga yelping. Not bothering to check on her hand, feeling the blood drip down her fingers, she tried to push past him while he was cradling the left side of his face. He snarled and wrapped his arms around her waist, throwing her onto the ground. Grunting, she landed on her back, into the broken glass, staring at him with wide eyes. She tried to get up, to roll over, to crawl away, but when she made it a few steps, he kicked her in the gut and curled into a ball, groaning. 

“You bitch! I’m going to get what I want.” He knelt down, wrenching her arms away, so she was flat on her back once more. He yanked on her hard, growling in her face and she froze, paralyzed with fear. She knew what he was capable of, that after tonight, she knew she would never be the same. Once he realized she stopped struggling, he let go of one of hands and began to unbuckle his jeans. She closed her eyes, tears falling into her hair and prayed. Kami, please don’t let him kill me. I will do anything to make this stop, please! Anybody, help me! I’ll do anything!

———————————————————————————————————

Whimpering, she failed to notice when Koga stopped moving on top of her and she opened her eyes to see him frozen in fear. Figuring now was her best chance, she shoved him and he backed off, shaking a bit and she frowned. She shook her head and raced to feet, determined to get out of there. She could come back early tomorrow and clean up the mess. She ignored her palm, grabbing the keys and whirled around when she heard his groaning. Pausing to look back once more, she stood a few feet away from the frozen man.

Koga was on his knees, staring straight ahead, his neck pulsating. His eyes were wide with fear and she wasn’t sure what was going on. An icy breeze brushed past her, causing her to shiver, followed by an intense warmth as if something was soothing her. Freezing, she watched silently as a clouded figure emerged out of thin air, his clawed hands wrapped around Koga’s throat. She gasped, as the figure’s body became more clear, his features glowing in the soft bar light. A giant growl came from the figure and when she gasped once more, she noticed two small white ears flicker atop his head, one pointed towards her. His hair flowed down his back, his red cloak concealing the shape of his body, but she assumed he was strong to have a wolf demon on his knees.

His arm was decorated with blue and red stripes, black symbols intertwining through out and she had this sudden urge to trace every single line with her fingers. Shaking her head at her surprising thoughts, she listened closely.

“You dare harm an innocent?!” His gravel voice caused more shivers down her back and she thought she heard him snicker. She counted to watch silently as Koga shook his head miserably. “When an innocent is praying even to a demon for help, you have committed a crime. Leave now, and do not come back. If you do, your balls will be detached and sent back to your mother in a coffin and your head will adorn my desk.” He snarled, bringing his fangs to Koga’s pale face. Koga nodded and was released instantly. 

He didn’t dare look at her, only scrambled over the worn counter, knocking over more glassware as he leaped towards the door. Unsure of what just happened, Kagome stayed in her spot, waiting for the cloaked figure to turn around. When no one spoke for a few minutes, she cleared her throat and watched his back stiffen.

“Thank you, for saving me.” She whispered. She could see his fists clenched and suddenly began to be very afraid for herself. Feeling the urge to keep talking, she spoke the only thing she could think of. “How can I repay you?”

He turned around, his golden eyes burning into hers and she held her breath.

“You can pour me a drink.”

———————————————————————————————————

Kagome swallowed and nodded. It was then she realized he was standing in her well and she was blocking the stools. Stepping out of the way, she gestured to let him past, staring in shock when he leaped over the counter. He looks uncomfortable now, I wonder why. She straightened her shoulders, determined to get to the bottom of it, ready to repay him for saving her. She walked through the glass and reached for the nicest bourbon on her shelf, figuring he deserved the best. Forgetting all about her hand, she whimpered when her fingers wrapped around the handle.

“You’re hurt.” 

“I cut my hand earlier, breaking a glass over his head.” She answered, her voice trailing off. Setting the bottle down on the counter, she grabbed a clean bar towel wrapping her hand quickly. She’ll deal with it later, figuring it wasn’t too deep. Reaching for a rocks glass, she poured in double and slid it towards him.

“Thank you, again.”

“You said that already.” He mused, a smirk on face. He glanced at her hand and frowned. “You should clean that. I’ll wait.” Surprised at his generosity, she nodded dumbly and headed towards her office to the first aid kit. With her mind blank, she cleaned her wound with alcohol and antibiotic wipes, wrapping the last of the gauze. She headed back to the bar to, grabbing the broom on the way.

“Do you mind if I clean up while we talk?” She asked softly, her mind still somewhat fuzzy. He nodded and she began to sweep the broken glass.

“What’s your name?” He murmured so softly, she barely heard him.

“My name is Kagome.”

“Inuyasha.” Stopping she looked up at him.

“Are you a demon?” She whispered, trying to grasp everything that just happened. He nodded and hummed at him, she returned to sweeping.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.” He mused.

“Well, I’m used to being around demons, so that part doesn’t exactly scare me.” She shrugged, sweeping the last of the pieces into the pan. She heard his grunt and looked up.  “Why do you ask?”

“You were more emotional when he was attacking you, not everything that happened after.” He waved his hand, staring at her like she had grown another head. She began to laugh.

“Inuyasha, I’m not even sure what happened, but with the way my life has been going, I’m not really surprised at anything anymore.” She laughed again, watching his cheeks flush. She smiled softly for him, setting the broom aside and leaned on the counter. “I know I’ve thanked you already, but really, thank you. I appreciate you helping me.”

She watched him blush harder, looking deep into the glass as he swirled his drink. Downing the rest of it, he stood, looking straight at her. She shivered, hoping he never look away.

“Be more careful Kagome, okay?” He grunted, taking a step back and she loved the way he said her name.

“Are you leaving already?” She asked softly, hoping he would stay.

“You’ve repaid your debt, by pouring me a drink. If you should need anything again, just pray to me.” He smirked, his fang peeking out, raising his hand and snapped his fingers. His body turned into black mist, the last thing to disappear were his amber eyes as they gazed at her. She blinked, staring at the now empty bar. Her phone vibrated along the counter and her mind began to boot back up, focusing on getting the bar cleaned and heading home. Glancing at the screen, she saw Sango’s name pop up.

“Hey San, I’m cleaning up now. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just noticed it was almost 4 and you weren’t home yet. See you soon?”

“Yes! Getting ready to lock up now.” 

“Okay ‘Gome, bye.” She swiped her screen, ending the phone call and looked around. I’ll finish tomorrow, I need to get out of here. Feeling uneasy about being alone once again, she headed to the office for the rest of her things, her mind retelling over the night’s events. As she crawled into her bed that night, the last of the conscious thoughts were of golden eyes and a fanged smirk.

taglist: @enchantedink-ag @yukinon-writes @jeremymarsh @thejustmaiden @sailorbabydoll92 @loveinu40 @knittingknots @dawnrider @moonandwind @lavendertwilight89 @malditamigs @coyfoxmama @hazelhalfpint @sailorlolo @liz8080 @eriimoonsstuff @gottalottasocks @swaggingtomboy @kalcia @splendentgoddess @wheremydreamsliethereyoullfindme   @elcubanpapi13 @kawaiichan67 @mandirox89  @banksdelivers @sorayastrife @abominablesnowpickle @joaniemae @sheremylunadandelion90

[let-it-raines]

What a Lie We’re In (1/3)

All Emma was doing was trying to be nice. Her roommate didn’t have anywhere to go, so she invited him home for the holidays. She thought it would be fine and Killian would be a good buffer for a week at home with her parents. That is until her ex-boyfriend showed up, and while she was freaking out, Killian told him they were dating.

That would have been fine except her parents overheard it.

(A Christmas Fake Dating AU)

Rating: Mature 

a/n: What? A holiday fake dating story? So original, you say? No one has ever done it before? Especially not me. lol. Forget all of that, and let’s jump into this trope-a-palooza of a holiday story!

Big thank you to @resident-of-storybrooke for reading over this and convincing me that I still know how to write ❤️

ao3: | HERE |

-/-

“Did you eat all of my candy?”

Emma opens another cabinet, looking inside to the wine glasses and tumblers, before closing it. She’s been keeping her bag of candy in the cabinet where they keep their plates and bowls, hidden at the very top behind some reusable water bottles. Killian is a healthy eater, always stocking the fridge with fruits and vegetables and food she doesn’t think is actually real food, so she didn’t think she had to hide her junk food that well.

Hide it, yes. Hide it well, no.

Until now.

“What was that, love?”

Emma slams another cabinet closed and turns to look at Killian. He’s walking out of the bathroom, chest still damp, and only has a white towel wrapped around his waist. When he first moved into the apartment six months ago after Ruby abandoned Emma to go live with Dorothy (live with, get married to, same thing), Emma was taken aback by the lack of clothes wearing Killian partakes in. He’s an attractive man. She’s not blind. He goes to the gym as often as she does, but mostly, he spends a lot of time doing heavy lifting at his job as a contractor since he apparently likes to be hands-on, literally. His body is toned, and the son of the bitch knows it. He also knows he’s got the face to be able to get away with a lot of…well, a lot.

At first, it was all disconcerting, but now, he could walk around with his dick out and Emma wouldn’t care.

What she cares about is where her candy is. That’s the real priority. But she knows Killian will try to use his lack of clothes to distract her. Never worked in the past, not gonna work now, bud.

“My candy,” Emma repeats. “Where is it?”

He wipes behind his ear with the small towel in his hand. “I wouldn’t touch the stuff. You don’t like the good candy.”

“Well, my good candy has been moved, and we’re the only two people who live here.”

Emma places her hands on her hips, staring him down hoping he will somehow be intimidated by her stare and fess up to everything. He won’t be, but Emma can try. They both have their tactics.

Killian clicks his tongue. “What about the fellow you brought home last week?”

“Do you mean the plumber?”

“Was that who he was?”

“You know I don’t bring guys back here.” Emma moves from the counter and opens the fridge, taking out a handful of grapes from the fridge. She probably needs to eat some of them and not candy anyway. As she pops one into her mouth, that’s when it clicks. “Your girlfriend ate my candy, didn’t she?”

He scoffs and keeps drying his hair, but she sees the way he scratches his ear. Gotcha, Jones. “I don’t believe I have a girlfriend.”

“What? Tink break up with you because you wouldn’t let her eat dessert on your dates? Wait, I heard it. Don’t make it dirty.” Killian walks toward her, getting in her space, and she knows him well enough to know he wants her to flinch, to move, to stop her line of questioning. That’s exactly why she doesn’t want to. Emma pops another grape in her mouth. “Did you eat my candy? Was it your way of wallowing? It’s okay if you did. I’ll take another bag for payment.”

“For your information, Swan,” he whispers as he places his hand on her hip, “we are no longer seeing each other, but it was mutual. She did, however, eat your candy when she was last here. If you really want to know, we used it to – ”

“Stop,” Emma groans, pushing him away and running to the other side of the kitchen. “Nope. Don’t take that any further. Some things should be left private.”

His head tilts back as he laughs, the underside of his jaw black with stubble, and then he’s reaching into the cabinet above the fridge and tossing her the bag of sweets.

Oh.

“I hid it after Will and Rob found it while we were playing cards last night. Will nearly went through all your milk duds before I realized what was happening.” He raises his brow. “You have something you want to say to me?”

Emma knows what he’s aiming for, and she isn’t going to give it to him.

“Yeah,” Emma says, “you need a thicker towel. I don’t think you want people seeing you when you look like…that.” She nods her head down and then picks up a handful of Kit Kats. “I gotta go to work.”

“Off to die inside at your cubicle, love?”

“Oh, you know it.”

Emma grabs her purse and unlocks the door only to hear Killian speak. “It’s December. How do you still have Halloween candy leftover?”

Emma shrugs. “I bought one bag to pass out to kids, two bags for me.”

“Bloody brilliant.”

“I do what I can. See you tonight. I’ll try not to wake you up from your nap when I come in.”

“That would be the least you could do.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but then she’s officially walking out the door of her apartment and down toward the elevator, a Kit Kat bar hanging out of the side of her mouth.

The thing about Killian Jones is that he’s simple to her.

He likes his friends, his job, his rum, and his women. There’s not much else to him, and Emma is okay with that. While her last roommate was her best friend, this one doesn’t have to be. He can just be a guy who pays the bills so she can keep living in a nice place and who, on occasion, talks shit about other people with her while they binge watch TV.

That’s all she needs.

And all and all, Killian Jones is a…fine roommate. Yeah, fine is an accurate way to describe him at least eighty percent of the time.

Even if she does get annoyed when he brings his dates home. But that’s only because it’s always on the nights she plans on going to bed early, and the noise of other people being around keeps her from catching up on sleep.

Emma is not one to mess around on sleep.

But yeah, he’s fine. Annoying as hell over half the time, but he’s fine in the small dosages she sees him in. He works odd hours, isn’t always on the job, and she is stuck with regular hours in her office. There’s not a lot of glory in working HR for a small engineering company, but that’s what happens when you make dumbass decisions like Emma did. She’s lucky she has a stable job. She’ll try not to complain too much about it.

That’s what she tells herself every morning when she sits in her car and stares at the drab brick building.

Money. She has to make money.

And hey, she gets almost an entire week off for Christmas next week, and that’s fucking incredible, even if she does have to spend it in her hometown with her parents and their Hallmark-like attitude toward the holiday and the events it puts on. Her mom is a teacher at the elementary school and produces the Christmas play every year while her dad is a vet and outfits all his patients in little holiday bandanas and bows. He even has a tree in his office decorated with bone ornaments.

It’s…a lot. But it’s family, and as Emma stares at this building that’s sucking the life out of her, she can’t wait to have a change of pace and some home-cooked meals, even if there are as many downsides as upsides to going home. Her Kit Kat bars aren’t giving her the nutrients she knows she needs.

Being an adult is not all it’s cracked up to be sometimes, especially when going home for the holidays is seen as more of a burden than a gift with a fancy bow on top. It’s more like that turkey that dries up and falls to pieces in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

Well, that and the squirrel crashing every decoration in the house.

Happy holidays.

-/-

“Nah, mate, I don’t have any plans.”

Emma quietly puts her keys down on the table next to her front door, laying her purse down with it, and she kicks her boots off until they topple over each other and lay in the middle of the hallway. She can hear Killian talking, and it gets even louder when she walks into the kitchen and turns on the coffee maker.

“No, no, well, you know, I rarely do anything, not since Liam.” There’s a pause as the coffee begins to percolate and Emma grabs another Kit Kat from her bag. “I went home with Milah once, but that was years ago…no, mate, it’s alright. I don’t mind staying here by myself…yeah, I think Emma is going home to her parents.”

And that’s when she realizes what Killian is talking about.

Christmas plans.

He doesn’t have any. Emma didn’t know that. She didn’t really bother to ask. She doesn’t bother to ask much of Killian. She picks up pieces here and there, as she’s sure he does to her, but they mind their own business.

He doesn’t have a family to go home to? She knows he’s originally from England, but still. There must be someone.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Killian says. “I promise if I need anything, I’ll let you know. Alright, bye Scarlet.”

The coffee finishes, and Emma picks the pot up and starts pouring, filling her large mug halfway before getting hazelnut creamer out of the fridge and making the coffee drinkable. Killian joins her in the kitchen and perches himself on one of their stools.

“Good day at work?” he asks.

“Eh, it was a day. You?”

He shrugs. “The same. I’m finishing up on this house tomorrow, hopefully, so tomorrow will be a good day.”

Emma nods and sips on her coffee as Killian taps his fingers on the counter, the rhythm the same as the song he usually hums when cooking. “So, when are you heading for Storybrooke?” he asks.

“Monday after work.” Killian nods and keeps tapping his fingers, and Emma, stupidly opens her mouth because despite what her exes have told her, she does apparently have a heart. “If you don’t have any plans and have off work, you’re welcome to come with me. My parents are always thrilled to welcome more people. Just be prepared, it’s like a Hallmark movie up there.”

His eyes widen, the blue lighting up, and his upper lip starts to quiver, laughter very obviously waiting to break through. Dammit, why the hell did she decide to be nice? This is going to give him all of the wrong ideas.

“Why, Swan,” he smirks, leaning forward and resting his chin in his propped-up hand, “are you inviting me home for the holidays with you? You’ve been harboring a crush this entire time, haven’t you? I can’t say I’m surprised. I see the way you look at me when I finish up in the bathroom. Don’t be ashamed of it. Most women find me attractive.”

Emma flicks Killian’s forehead, and really, he should be thrilled she didn’t dump her hot coffee on his lap like she wanted to.

“I was just trying to be nice. You didn’t have to be an asshole about it.” Emma rolls her eyes and turns on her heels to walk away. She is going to her room. She doesn’t have to put up with his shit. “Forget I even offered.”

“Wait, wait, Swan.” Emma’s shoulders tense, and she doesn’t turn around. “Are you serious about your offer?”

“I mean, it would have some conditions in that you are a slightly less obnoxious version of yourself, but yeah, if you don’t have anywhere else to go, you can come home with me.”

“I’d like that.” Emma twists around, trying to size him up, and for once, everything seems genuine. “I have a condition as well.”

Idiot. “What could your condition possibly be?”

He winks, and she already knows this is going to have her eyes rolling so far into the back of her head they get stuck there. “Don’t go falling in love with me.”

What a cheesy ass sarcastic line.

“In your dreams, Jones.”

What the hell has she gotten herself into? This is absolutely the last time she lets her conscience guilt her into doing something nice. Emma was already going to be miserable, but now she’s miserable with a buffer.

At least her mom will be happy getting to go into hostess mode.

-/-

In the days leading up to them leaving for Storybrooke, Emma convinces herself Killian is going to back out of the trip. He’ll realize this is awkward and not a good idea. They live together, sure, but they don’t actually know each other. They’re not close friends.

But Killian never backs out. Instead he asks her things like what the weather is like there, if her parents drink wine, if he needs to bring his own bedding. He asks a million questions a day, and they continue when they’re in her bug making the drive from Boston to Storybrooke. He wants to know what her parents do for a living, what their hobbies are, pretty much everything someone needs to know when they’re about to spend half a week in the house of strangers.

Strangers who don’t actually know they’re having someone stay at their house to awkwardly sit on the sidelines as Emma’s family celebrates the holidays and has their usual holiday arguments.

Yeah, Emma didn’t ever tell her parents Killian was coming. She knows her mom well enough to know the moment Emma mentioned bringing someone home, her mom would have stopped listening before Emma could explain that it was just her roommate. It would have been this whole big thing, and Emma knows she can handle explaining it better in person when she can snap her mom out of getting excited about nothing.

Plus, who doesn’t want a Christmas surprise?

(Emma doesn’t.)

After Killian stops being one of those obnoxious kids who never stops asking questions, they sit in relative silence for the car ride, music entertaining them, and little by little, cities fade away and more trees pop up, evergreen forests surrounding them. It’s always the sign for Emma that she’s leaving her life and going back to her old one.

That and the “Welcome to Storybrooke” sign.

Everything about the town is the same. The buildings are small and kind of dingy downtown, and when she passes Granny’s, she bets those onion rings are the same too. God, she hopes they are. This is probably the only thing that can get her through this week. She should have texted Ruby and made sure her grandmother hadn’t changed any of the recipes. If she had, Emma definitely would have stayed home.

People walk down the sidewalk all bundled up in their coats and scarves, saying hello and chatting with others they pass. It’s the opposite of Boston where Emma can go her entire day without having to say hello to someone, and a little shiver runs down her spine at the thought. She needs to get out of here as soon as possible and to the isolation of her parents’ farmhouse, even if that presents her a new set of problems.

Storybrooke, Maine is, decidedly, not Emma’s favorite place for a hell of a lot of different reasons.

Killian, though, seems to be taking it all in with the wonder and confusion of someone who has never lived in a small town like this and who is a bit shell-shocked.

Get used to it, buddy.

“Oh, hey, one more thing,” Emma sighs as she pulls up to her parents’ street a few minutes later. “My real last name is Nolan. I changed it after high school, so my parents’ names are Nolan. The whole ‘Swan’ thing is a sticky situation for them even though it’s my mom’s maiden name.”

Killian’s eyes narrow, and she has definitely shared too much about herself now. “Am I allowed to ask or…”

“No. just try not to call me ‘Swan’ around them.”

“Whatever your heart desires, love.”

Emma slows down as the road turns from paved to loose gravel leading up to their driveway. There are several cars parked alongside it, and either they now own extra cars or her parents have friends over. Great. Just what she needed. Other people around when she’s coming home and surprising her parents with a guest. At least Killian will likely be that buffer she keeps hoping he’ll be.

They get out of her car, and Emma pops the trunk for them to get their bags. Killian grabs the bigger ones despite her arguing with him about it, but she’s fine to just carry her purse and the bag with presents. Emma closes the trunk, slamming it shut, and squares her shoulders.

This is fine. This is all fine.

Until ten steps later, it’s not.

Her parents have this incredible wraparound porch with swings and rocking chairs, and sitting in one of them is Neal Cassidy.

What the hell?

She doesn’t…she can’t…why is he here? He has no right to be here, no business being here, and seeing his face makes her want to vomit.

It makes her want to cry, too, but Emma can’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, she’d like to sink into the dirt and never emerge again.

“Shit,” Emma mumbles, stopping and turning toward Killian who is looking down at her with an arched brow. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What is it?”

God, she can’t believe she has to tell this to him. It’s too many pieces of her past in too short a period of time. This isn’t something she ever wanted to talk about again and certainly not to Killian. She was really hoping she never had to see Neal’s face again.

Honestly, she never considered it to be a possibility.

If only.

“That guy sitting on my porch is an ex of mine. And I’m talking about a bad ex, not one of those who you can be friends with afterward.”

“What the bloody hell is he doing here then?” Killian looks over her head to look at Neal, but Emma grabs his hand and yanks on it until he looks at her. “What?”

“Don’t look at him,” she hisses. “I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I’m sure it has something to do with my parents. Just…I don’t know what to do.”

“Do we need to turn around?”

“No, no, that’s pathetic. Just…maybe he’s going to leave soon, and it’ll be a quick hello and then I never have to see his face again. Let’s get it over with.”

“If you’re sure, Sw – Emma.”

“I’m sure.”

She’s not sure at all. Mostly, she wants to take Killian’s suggestion and run far, far away.

Once more, Emma braces her shoulders, and she moves forward. If she stops and thinks too much, she’ll chicken out. It’s how she is. If she thinks about something for too long, it ruins every bit of courage she has. Now isn’t the moment for that when this week is one that makes her need courage.

Maybe, Emma realizes, she didn’t invite Killian here just to be nice. Maybe she needed that buffer to keep her old demons at bay, even if just barely, and that was her motivation all along.

That really makes her asshole of the year. Well, after Neal. She hasn’t seen him in years, but he still gets the asshole of the year award.

Neal sees her before she can get to the front steps. He rises from the rocking chair and moves toward her. He looks older now. He was always older than her, but she can actually see it now. There’s gray in his beard and more lines on his forehead. His features are similar, but she swears there’s an eeriness to his eyes and a lie to his smile. Maybe those were always there, but Emma imagines she was blind to it all when she loved him.

Amazing how opening her eyes to love blinded her to so much else.

“Emma? Is that you?”

No, jackass, it’s some other blonde woman walking into her parents house.

“Hi, Neal.” She forces a smile that she knows is awkward, but he was never good at reading her enough to know the difference between a real smile and a fake one. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve just seen me for the first time in half a decade, and your first question is what I’m doing here? Nice to see you too, Ems.”

It’s illegal to murder, Emma, she reminds herself. You don’t want to end up in jail because of him.

“It’s my parents’ house. I’m supposed to be here. You’re not. So, again, what are you doing here?”

He shrugs and ignores her. “Who’s this?”

Emma turns to Killian who is staring ahead, his jaw clenched, and he speaks before she gets a chance to. “Killian Jones,” he begins, dropping a bag and reaching forward to shake Neal’s hand, “Emma’s boyfriend.”

Emma nearly chokes on her own air and possibly her own lungs and whatever else is down there, and she’s stuck. Her brain and her feet and especially her mouth are all stuck. What the hell is he doing?

“Emma’s boyfriend,” Neal repeats, his voice incredulous like the fact that she could have a boyfriend is ludicrous to him. “Really?”

“For awhile now,” Killian lies. Wow. Has he always been this good of a liar? “It’s nice to meet you, but I think Emma and I need to get inside and put our stuff away. It’s been a long drive.”

Neal nods, but Emma catches his eyes glance over at her. What was that? “I understand. I need to get my fiancée from inside, but then we’ll be on our way.”

Fiancée?

Neal has a fiancée? Who is in her parents’ house?

What kind of upside down hell has she walked into and how does she reverse time and get back to the place where things are normal?

“Nice seeing you,” Emma lies, but Neal is already walking inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him as if it’s his house to go into. She quickly turns to Killian and hopes her face conveys the “what the hell” look she’s going for. And in case it doesn’t, she hisses, “what the fuck was that?”

“Forgive me, love, but you obviously didn’t want to see that man, and I figured there wouldn’t be any harm in saying that. You weren’t planning on ever seeing him again, aye?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“So what’s the harm in him thinking you have a devilishly handsome new boyfriend?”

Emma rolls her eyes, ready to take the piss out of him, when her mother comes running out the front door.

“Emma, you brought a boyfriend home?”

Well, that’s the harm, Jones.

-/-

Emma tries explaining to her parents that Killian isn’t really her boyfriend, that he’s just her roommate who came home with her because he doesn’t have any family, but she never really gets the chance with Neal still hanging around. That would be mortifying, so she rolls with it, hoping that she can clear it all up sooner rather than later.

But Neal never seems to leave.

His fiancée, Tamara, apparently teaches with Emma’s mom, and from the looks of it, they’re great friends. She can’t imagine any other reason why her parents would let Neal Cassidy in their house, but then again, they have always been great at doing the exact opposite of what’s good for her. It’s torture, and as the night goes on, it seems like it’s never going to end.

When are they going to leave?

When can she stop listening to Killian falsify their life?

She’s got to say that he’s fantastic at taking truths and turning them into lies. According to him, they met when he became her roommate (true) and got to know each other as friends first (eh, a half-truth). Then, slowly, feelings started to develop in the little moments, and they decided to give their relationship a chance (unequivocally false).

He’s got this uncanny ability to make everything feel…not ridiculous. She doesn’t know the word she’s searching for, but she’s sure as hell that Killian could find it and incorporate it into a story to make everyone here think they’re in love.

Emma has no clue how they’re going to get out of this without her parents being heartbroken because Emma can see the hope and happiness in her mom’s eyes. She’s over the moon. Her dad, however, doesn’t seem to be.

Of course this is how it goes. Her mom is thrilled because she’s not a spinster, and her dad is upset because she’s not a spinster.

“So what do you do, Killian?” he asks. “You need a roommate apparently.”

“Dad,” Emma hisses, wanting to sink into the couch, especially because she knows she’s the one who needs the roommate and not Killian. “Don’t.”

“What? I’m not allowed to ask about the man who my daughter is dating?”

“You are, but you’re not allowed to interrogate him.”

Killian places his hand over Emma’s on her thigh, and God, this really is the worst night. Why do people have to go home to family on the holidays? At least she didn’t automatically flinch at the feeling of Killian’s hand on hers.

“I’m a contractor,” Killian tells her dad. “I used to work with my brother. It’s his business, but I’m the head on projects now. It’s hard and unpredictable sometimes when my job is to make it predictable, but it’s good work. There’s a lot of good new housing popping up in the neighborhoods outside of Boston. Beautiful new construction.”

“What happened to your brother?” her mom asks.

Killian’s hand tightens over hers while his other hand scratches behind his ear. “Liam passed last year. Car accident.”

Mary Margaret places her hands over her chest while Neal and Tamara look at each other, obviously ready to go. Emma, meanwhile, tries not to act shocked. She should know this. She should know that he had a brother who died. She’s heard him talk about Liam before, but she thought…she thought he was alive, just that he lived really, really far away or something like that.

“I’m so sorry, Killian,” Mary Margaret sighs.

“Thank you, Ms. Nolan.”

Silence falls in the room, and it feels like a lot of her time in high school when she got caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. At least now she can have alcohol or drive away. One or the other, though, obviously.

Or she can go back to that sinking into the ground thing. That seemed like a good idea.

“Oh, would you look at the time,” Tamara sighs with a clap of her hands. “Honey, we need to go.”

“Won’t you stay for dinner?” Mary Margaret asks.

What the hell, Mom?

“We really have to go,” Tamara insists. “It was nice seeing you guys, though.”

“Oh, it was wonderful seeing you, sweetie. Good luck in New York. You’re going to be great at your new job.” Mary Margaret hugs Tamara. “Nice seeing you as well, Neal. You’ll fit right in, but I know your dad will miss you.”

Emma is so busy trying to take in all of this brand new information that she doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Through blurred vision, she sees her mom hug Neal, and yeah, Emma wants to go home. She wants to go back to her apartment where she doesn’t have to put up with this kind of shit.

Where there’s no Neal and his fiancée and especially where her mom isn’t hugging her asshole of an ex and treating him like he’s a good person.

There’s a squeeze on her hand and suddenly, Killian’s fingers are wrapping around hers. That’s when everything snaps back, and she realizes Neal is telling her goodbye.

“Yeah, bye,” Emma mutters, putting on that fake smile again.

“Maybe we could go for lunch while I’m still in town,” he suggests.

Emma bites her tongue to keep from scoffing, but she can’t help the words that come out of her mouth. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Have fun in New York.”

Neal looks like a wounded puppy when Emma manages to look at him, but she doesn’t care. He shouldn’t have had the audacity to ask her in the first place, not after everything he’s done.

Happy holidays to them all.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret hisses as soon as the front door has shut and Neal and Tamara are gone, “that was so rude of you! You can go to lunch with Neal.”

“Oh my God, Mom,” Emma groans, letting go of Killian’s hand and standing up. “I am twenty-eight years old. I’m not going to go to lunch with the man who ruined my life because you don’t like being rude. Just…let’s eat dinner, and you guys can tell me what we have planned for this week. Killian is thrilled to go to the play. I told him all about it.”

“Emma, I still don’t think – ”

“Come on, Mary Margaret,” David sighs as he claps his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get these two dinner. They had a long drive, and I’m sure they’re starving. You like ham, Jones?”

“Love it,” Killian says as he stands from the couch. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can get a wine bottle from the rack.”

They’re all going to need it. Or at least Emma is going to.

Dinner is, well, awkward, which Emma expected, but she expected the usual awkwardness of having dinner with her parents after going a year without seeing them. This is an entire other level. Killian tries to ease it. He’s put on his most charming smile, his accent coming through thicker with each story he tells, and while her Dad seems put out, her mom is every bit as charmed by him as Emma would expect.

That makes it all fine and good until Emma’s reminded that her parents think Killian is her boyfriend, and his place would go down in flames if she told the truth now.

As much as she would like to spite her mom, that is the last thing she needs.

“So, Killian, you can stay in Emma’s room,” her mom says as they finish up dinner. “I’d have you stay in the guest room, but it’s currently filled with props and costumes for the play. But you're both adults. Who are we to keep you apart at night?”

“The couch would be fine,” Killian insists, holding his hands up.

“Nonsense, you are a guest here. You need to be comfortable. Let’s get you all settled and ready for bed.”

It’s almost like she’s in a trance as her mom guides them up the stairs to Emma’s old room. She vaguely hears her tell stories of different pictures hung on the wall by the staircase, but she doesn’t really notice. Instead, she hangs back with her dad who does not look thrilled at the whole situation.

For some reason that offends Emma. As far as her dad knows, she’s brought a man home for Christmas. A man who she loves enough to bring home, which is not all sunshine and roses for her. Once again, she’s jealous of the people who go home for the holidays and know it’s going to be a happy time.

“You know, you don’t have to act like I’m sixteen,” she tells her dad. “I live with this man. I think it’s okay for us to share a bedroom here for the week.”

“What makes you think I’m not happy about this. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Emma stops at the landing and turns to her Dad, crossing her arms over her chest and staring him down. Or up. She forgot how much taller her dad is than her.

“Try a little harder to make that believable.”

David laughs and leans forward to kiss her forehead. “Welcome home, kid. I’m glad you and Killian are here.”

-/-

-/-

Tag list (You can be taken off or added at any time): @qualitycoffeethings @marrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @elizabeethan @jrob64 @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @inth-trees @galaxyzxstark @galadriel26 @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic @superchocovian @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615​ @onceuponaprincessworld​ @a-faekindagirl​ @scientificapricot​ @xellewoods​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @stahlop​ @kmomof4​ @tiganasummertree​ @singersdd​ @tornadoamy​ @cluttermind​ @lfh1226-linda @andiirivera​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @captain-emmajones​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @capthamm​

[silhouetteofacedar]

Impersonal, Ch. 6

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, Rated E

This is a mistake.

The diner is sun-warmed and bustling, rich with the aroma of coffee and butter. Scully feels oddly disarmed by the cheery atmosphere and steady stream of Sunday morning breakfasters parading past their little booth in the corner.

“It’s a beautiful day. Should we get our orders to-go?” she asks, scooting further towards the window.

“Coffee’s already poured,” Mulder replies, lifting his mug. “Relax, Scully. It’s the weekend. Besides, can you imagine trying to eat a Denver omelette while walking?”

Damn him, how is he so calm? There he is, freshly showered and shaved and smelling incredible in a soft navy blue sweater, dumping another packet of sugar into his coffee. She almost chastises him for it, as a defense mechanism, until she tastes her own cup and stiffens at the bitterness.

“Jesus, Mulder, why do you like this place so much? The coffee could strip the paint off my car.”

He grins at her. “It’s got character, Scully. And they make a mean hash brown.”

Scully had been planning her speech all day yesterday, preparing herself for this meeting. But her courage is waning fast. She tries to ignore the way the morning light kisses his face, lights up the colors in his eyes. He raises an eyebrow at her and the moment dissipates.

“So what’s the occasion, Scully? Am I in trouble?”

“In the grand scheme of things, it’s very likely,” Scully quips, taking another cautious sip of her coffee before giving up and reaching for another sugar packet.

“Mm,” he agrees. “Good thing I have you around.”

“Do you,” she murmurs, shaking sugar into her cup. She crumples the packet between her fingers.

“Don’t I?”

“Well, I’m here, so that’s something.”

“Yes you are.” His eyes are so soft she has to look away.

She takes a deep breath. “Mulder, Friday was the last time.”

His face goes blank. “Okay.”

She looks down at her mug. “Okay,” she echoes.

She thinks she should feel better, but she doesn’t.

Their waitress bustles in, popping the bubble of tension around them as she plunks their plates down on the freckled formica tabletop. “Denver omelette and fruit for the lady, and the home run special for this one,” the waitress says with an appreciative wink. “Bet you’ve stolen a few bases in your day.”

Scully can feel her ears getting hot, and she busies herself with her food until the waitress walks away.

“‘In my day’… was she calling me old?” he muses, shoveling eggs into his mouth.

“She’s got at least ten years on you, Mulder. I highly doubt she thinks you’re old,” Scully replies, stabbing a piece of honeydew with her fork. “I think it was a compliment.”

He watches her face as he chews. “Huh.”

“What?”

He swallows his mouthful, washes it down with coffee. “Scully, are you… are you jealous?”

Damn. How can he still read her so easily? She’s been putting up brick walls around herself all morning. “No, I’m not jealous, Mulder. Eat your breakfast.”

Mulder tears the crust off his toast with his teeth. “So are we splitting the bill or is this a date?” Scully opens her mouth, but he keeps talking. “Because if you’re wining and dining me I’ll order a glass of orange juice. They squeeze it fresh.”

Maybe she had misread the whole situation. She had invited him here to discuss the termination of their arrangement, yet after she blurted it out he seemed completely unfazed and continued making jokes and behaving as though nothing had happened.

Isn’t that what you wanted, Dana? To pretend nothing happened?

Mulder is talking to her with his mouth full, but she doesn’t hear him. She barely tastes her omelette, chases a grape around her plate. When did she get so damn soft? She used to be good at this, organizing her thoughts and feelings into neat little boxes. Mulder was supposed to be the sloppy one in this situation, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s just been knocked on her ass.

“Scully?”

Shit. “Hm?”

“I just said I’m having my right leg amputated in the the quest to fulfill my peg-legged fantasies, and you didn’t even offer to do the honors. You okay?”

Scully sighs. “I’m fine, Mulder. Just a little tired.”

“Was there… something else you were wanting to-”

“No, no,” she insists. Her coffee’s gone cold and sludgy with sugar at the bottom of the mug. “It’s nothing.”

Mulder shrugs and returns to decimating his breakfast.

When the waitress brings the check, Scully grabs it as Mulder begins to extract his wallet from the pocket of his coat. “I’ve got it,” she says, locking eyes with him. Please hear what I’m saying, she thinks. Don’t make me spell this out. Not yet.

“Okay,” he says softly, putting his wallet away. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replies.

He walks her to her car, and she wonders what wrong turn she made in life that guaranteed he wouldn’t be kissing her goodbye. They stand awkwardly on the sidewalk next to her vehicle, Scully clutching a styrofoam box containing leftovers she’ll eat in front of the tv tonight.

‘So,” Mulder says genially, “will I be held culpable in the afterlife as your reason for skipping Mass?”

“I think we can both agree that’s the least of your transgressions,” Scully replied. She laid a tentative hand on his forearm, gave it a soft squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mulder.”

“Later, Scully. Thanks for breakfast.”

She nods, fumbling with her keys, as Mulder walks away. He takes two steps before turning back to her. “Hey, Scully.”

“Yes?”

He scratches his chin absently. “Uh, if you ever want to renegotiate… I know a guy.”

Her stomach flips. She clears her throat, steadies herself. “Mulder, I’ve made it pretty clear to Frohike that I’m not interested.”

He nods sagely. “It was worth a shot, for the little guy’s sake,” he replies. “See you tomorrow.”

He gives her a corner of a smile before heading back down the street.

Scully is so flustered that she drives a block and a half before realizing she left her takeaway box on the roof of the car.

[iclaimedtobethebetterbard]

one chance to change your fate - chapter 6

Fandom: Sanders Sides Characters: All the sides, character!Thomas, Nico Flores, Dragon Witch (villain) Rating: Teen & up (see Warnings) Relationships: Loceit, eventual Dukexiety, Royality, background Karrot Kings Warnings: Language; Janus (who is 23) has one glass of wine together with another adult; past harm to a child (Janus thinks about the curse they were under and how it affected them); Remus makes a lot of Remus-y metaphors about lungs, mainly centering around them being too small or full of things that should not go in them (his actual lungs are fine throughout). Word count: 6078 Notes: a big big thank you to my awesome beta @yougoodfahm! 

Read on AO3!

My writing masterpost

start - previous - here - next - masterpost

Chapter 6

“I know what to do,” Janus breathed, feeling dizzy from sheer relief at having finally come up with a solution. Granted, it was stupid as hell and there was no way in a million years it would work. But if they relied enough on stubborn hubris, maybe they could pull it off anyway. They had a pretty good track record with that.

It wasn’t like they had other options.

“What are you going to do?” Patton asked, his tone a little too politely curious and his face a little too bland.

“You can’t stop me,” Janus told him, dragging the unspoken message out into the open.

Patton’s lips pursed in a frown. “If you think I’m going to try to stop you, maybe it’s something you shouldn’t be doing at all in the first place.” He crossed his arms.

This was a sound point. “Debatable,” Janus said anyway, waving their hand dismissively, because everything was debatable if you looked at it right. “I have to go run a couple of errands now.” They got to their feet. “To check on a few things.”

“...What sort of things?” Patton asked.

Janus held back a grimace. “Don’t worry about it,” they said. “I’ll be back in less than an hour, probably. It won’t take long.”

“No, wait, what do you mean—hey, stop!” Patton called after Janus as they darted down the stairs.

Ignoring Patton’s shouts from above—he was still wrapped up in the throw blanket, and detangling himself would give them a few extra seconds—Janus reclaimed their hat from the peg on the wall.

“Going somewhere?” Dad asked, raising an eyebrow as he placed a trayful of loaves into the topmost oven.

“Yes, actually.” Janus gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder, eyes flicking to the stairs as they heard Patton’s feet on them. Ten seconds to think of a way to stop Patton following them. “I’ll be home soon.”

Dad raised both his eyebrows at that, but shrugged in acknowledgement. He wasn’t a talkative man.

When Janus had been very little, he had been louder. More energetic, full of light and laughter and witty comments. But he’d gotten a lot quieter after the curse that had put a stranglehold on every word he’d spoken and made them not truly his own. Even now that it was gone, he used his words sparingly, like he was half afraid he’d run out of truth again someday.

“Hey, Pat,” Janus said quickly as Patton emerged from the stairwell, questions written all over his face, “would you mind helping Dad out? I think the top rack of doughs is ready for proofing.” They didn’t want to answer even a single one of Patton’s questions right now; he wouldn’t like anything they could tell him. They needed to redirect him long enough for them to get out the door.

“Sure,” Patton said after a pause, his voice the kind of sweet that was clearly covering up a layer of annoyance. He moved towards the shelves of dough; Patton didn’t like to turn down opportunities to help people, even if it inconvenienced him.

“Thanks,” Janus told him with a shit-eating grin and a wiggly-fingered wave as they moved towards the door.

“No, come back here and explain what you’re doing, you absolute—” Patton began, his arms now full of a large container of bread dough.

Janus maintained eye contact, still grinning, as they opened the door that let out on the side of the building and stepped out onto the couple of short brick stairs.

“Janus!” Patton snapped, stamping his foot.

Janus slammed the door and set off at a brisk pace, feeling only a little bit bad about it. They hailed a carriage; they weren’t looking forward to this trip, so best to get it over with as quickly as possible. The driver raised her eyebrows at the address Janus gave her, but urged the horses onward anyway.

Janus sat with their wrists crossed neatly in their lap and their shoulders straight. Not taut. It wouldn’t do to describe themself that way. Because, even if there wasn’t much of a practical difference between the two, straightened shoulders were confident, and taut shoulders were nervous. And Janus was not nervous. Certainly not. They were feeling calm and collected and not even a tiny bit terrified of the place they were about to go to.

Janus swallowed once, their mouth unpleasantly dry, and straightened their shoulders a little bit more.

All too soon, the carriage pulled up to a pair of large, wrought-iron gates. Janus heard the driver exchanging words with the gatekeeper. They took a deep breath, pulled on a wide smile that they didn’t feel at all, and leaned out, waving brightly. “Hello! Marius, isn’t it?” It had been years since they’d been here, but he looked the same; just grayer. “I know I wasn’t expected, but be a dear and let us in?”

The gatekeeper paused and looked over, his eyes widening in not-all-that-pleasant surprise at the sight of their face. “Ah. Yes, of course.” He moved to open the gates.

“Thank you so much,” Janus told him, settling back into their seat as the carriage began to move once again.

He coughed awkwardly and didn’t respond.

Janus closed their eyes and took one last, steadying breath as the carriage drew up to the base of the wide stairway that led to the front doors of the large house. Time to go on the offensive.

They paid the driver and made their way up the stairs, allowing their best bland smile to slip onto their face as they pulled the doorbell chain.

“Hello there,” they drawled to the butler, who was making about the same face at recognizing them as Marius had. “Would you mind telling my mother that I need to speak with her at once? I’ll wait in the drawing room.” They strode past him, enjoying the sound of their heels clicking against the marble floor. It was important to make the most of the little things.

In this house, the little things were all Janus had.

There were paintings on the walls of the hallway that led to the drawing room. Coats of arms, and portraits of people who Janus was pretty sure were their grandparents and great-grandparents and perhaps some cousins, and one of their mother. In her portrait, she was wearing a gauzy, pale pink dress that was made entirely of frills, and a hat tied under her chin with a large bow of the same fabric. She had the same wispy brown hair and tall, thin, birdlike frame as Janus, but otherwise didn’t look much like them—they took after Dad, for the most part, which they didn’t mind at all. The ruffles of her painted dress all but swallowed her whole. Her personality was much the same, as far as Janus remembered: frilly and overpowering, but with nothing much really there.

Janus’s mother wasn’t really all that bad, at least as long as the conversation stayed away from anything of substance. Boring, yes. Vapid, certainly. By turns chilly and too friendly, absolutely. But she hated arguing or any form of conflict, so conversations with her tended to be mostly uneventful.

She wasn’t the one Janus was concerned about.

There was another, slightly newer portrait outside the drawing room. This one was Janus’s least favorite. In it, their mother, in another poofy dress (this one sapphire blue and covered in bows), stood arm in arm with a man in a gaudy, brightly colored outfit that made him look like a gilded peacock. He clasped her hand and waist possessively, matching bands of thick gold on their ring fingers, and even the kindness of a portraitmaker’s brush hadn’t been able to erase the constant look of constipation on his haughty face. He was just above average height, too broad to be called skinny but not quite anything else either, with green eyes and a long narrow nose and a neat, short beard.

(He looked… altogether much more similar to Dad than Janus was comfortable with, even if his brown hair was darker than Dad’s dirty blond and his clothes were more expensively tasteless than Dad’s and his face was far less open or kind than Dad’s was. Evidently their mother had a type.)

Janus remembered when this portrait had appeared in the hall. They had been five. It had been less than a year after their mother married the man, who didn’t like Janus at all even if he pretended otherwise.

It had also been just a few months after Janus and Dad had been cursed.

Had the man in the portrait already been planning the curse when he was painted, holding their mother like a belonging? Had he been in contact with people who would concoct any curse for you, no matter how illegal, as long as you paid enough? Had he thought about it every day, or had it been a passing whim to casually ruin the life of a man he’d never met and a child too small to tie their own shoes, just because he could?

Janus’s mother had insisted that they still had to visit her sometimes, even after the curse—the visits had just gotten rarer and a whole lot more clandestine. Janus wasn’t sure why she bothered. It wasn’t like she liked them that much, and if she was ashamed of a bastard child, a cursed bastard was doubly bad. Janus had never seen anyone else in this house; they suspected this was more because their mother did not wish them to meet anyone she knew, rather than an actual reflection of the usual state of affairs here. But Janus’s visits here had tapered off anway, when they were about ten or eleven, and had started to age out of their chubby cheeks and gap teeth—which had made them interesting enough for her—and started to age into understanding things that were supposed to go over their head, and into having strong opinions and attitudes—all of which made them decidedly the opposite of interesting to her. She had stopped inviting them back right about when they turned twelve. The last time they’d been here had been when they were fifteen, to ask for a letter of recommendation so they could apply for a job at the palace.

Had she known from the beginning that he was behind the curse? Or how long had it taken her to figure it out? She’d never admitted that she knew it was him, but Janus could tell that she knew.

Had she even cared?

Janus pulled their eyes away from the portrait, pushed open the door to the drawing room, and strode in, holding themself at their full height.

The room still looked exactly as they remembered it: stiff and overdecorated, too many elegant details packed into every square inch of space, right down to the miniature paintings all over the wallpaper.

“What is the meaning of this disturb—ah.” A man in a red brocade outfit, his brown hair still in the same style as the portrait outside but now starting to show hints of balding, got to his feet angrily. He cut himself off and froze, paling, as he fixated on the left side of Janus’s face.

“Franz,” Janus greeted their mother’s husband, grinning sharp and dangerous as they crossed their arms and eyed him from across the room. They hadn’t wanted to see him. They had been hoping he would be elsewhere and they could get the information they needed from their mother without needing to cross his path. But they couldn’t have nice things, apparently.

“D—” he began to respond, sounding rather like the wind had been punched out of him.

Much as they enjoyed hearing that tone come out of his mouth, they held up a single hand anyway. “It’s Janus now. They/them pronouns.”

He nodded rapidly several times. “Janus. Good to know. Apologies.” He seemed preoccupied for a second, brow wrinkling as if trying to remember something; then his eyes widened.

“Yes, that Janus!” Janus told him in a cheery condescending tone. “Beloved companion to Prince Roman himself. That’s me!”

Franz looked like he had swallowed something very unpleasant. Janus, on the other hand, was soaring on a rush of adrenaline. They weren’t six and scared anymore, shrinking from Franz’s heavy pats on the head that were nowhere near as friendly as they appeared and listening to Franz’s compliments that were too self-satisfied to be anything other than jokes at Janus’s expense, but that they never could quite manage to understand. They had the upper hand now, they had everything Franz valued but even more than he did, and he was the scared one now, he was scared of Janus and their power and what they knew about him, and god, did that feel good.

“Congratulations,” Franz managed after a moment, all but dragging the word out of his mouth.

Janus gave him their most annoying smile and nodded acceptance, not even gracing him with a verbal acknowledgement.

Franz struggled in the silence for a moment, growing more and more visibly uncomfortable. Janus watched, trying not to look like they were having the time of their life, hands clasped in front of themself.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked after a moment, rote and slightly strangled.

“Ooh, yes please,” Janus, who was very fond of both wine and inconveniencing Franz, said. “What have you got?”

Janus selected the most expensive option out of the wines Franz listed and watched him go purple for a second. They then helped themself to an uninvited seat on one of the sofas as Franz pulled a bottle out of the crystal cabinet in the corner and went about pouring it out. They swung their legs up onto the sofa, too, planting their boots on the cushions and taking up as much space as they could.

“I appreciate it,” they said as he handed them a glass. Not a thank you, because they weren’t grateful, not to him. They sipped at the wine, watching Franz like a hawk as his eyes darted to their feet on the sofa cushion, briefly to the ceiling in search of patience, and then back to Janus themself with a now only thinly veiled panic at being alone with this new, grown up, confident, annoying version of them.

Janus gave him an impish little wave, taking another sip.

He grimaced. It had probably been meant to be a smile.

The wine wasn’t that bad, Janus noted as Franz took a seat opposite them. Certainly better than the present company.

“It’s been some time,” Franz said after a moment.

“It has,” Janus agreed, leaving their tone at a polite neutral with an undertone of sweet poison. Give him as little to work with as possible and watch him scramble to construct a conversation while wondering if he was being insulted or not.

Franz blinked rapidly and did not speak for several seconds. “How’s your father?” he managed after a moment.

“My fathers are doing fine,” Janus said. No thanks to you, they did not add.

“Ah, your other stepfather, too? Glad to hear it,” he responded after a pause.

Janus was pretty certain he was not glad to hear it. “Well, I hardly think of Pop as being like you so much as I think of him as my parent,” they said. “Seeing as he did far more to raise me than my mother.”

Franz coughed and did not acknowledge what Janus had said.

Janus shrugged and occupied themself with their glass. It made far better company than Franz. “You know, this is alright,” they said after a minute, thinking of a new way to get under Franz’s skin. “I mean. For a lord’s house.” They let their tone drip with distasteful condescension and waited.

Franz squirmed for a moment, but he couldn’t let the bait alone. “Oh?” he said at last, tone strained.

“Oh, yes. I mean, of course I’ve often had much better from the kings’ personal cellars, but this is… passable,” Janus responded.

“Ah,” Franz forced out, and to his credit it did not sound nearly as humiliated or hateful as the look on his face. “So,” he said awkwardly after a long pause, “I see you’re… speaking differently.”

Janus only just stopped themself from reacting to the jolt of panic that went through them at him referencing the curse. They had been hoping not to have this conversation. “Indeed,” they said idly, swirling their glass to hide the slight tremble in their hands. They did not elaborate. He was not owed an explanation about what had happened to their lie-speak. As far as they were concerned, he could burn himself up with curiosity over Janus’s un-cursed state until there was nothing left of him.

Who cursed a five-year-old? In what world did someone think that up, spend the time to find an expert, and shell out the money to make it happen?

“But you still have the…” He waved his hand awkwardly.

Janus looked up, catching his eye and watching him pale at the look on their face. “The snake scales?” they asked in their most pointed tone, not liking the way he was trying to step around naming them.

Franz coughed. “I… suppose so.”

“Yes. I do,” they said. “I’m quite fond of them.”

Franz began to relax. His mistake. “Oh. Well. That’s good,” he said, clearly aiming for jovial. “Glad to see some good came out of that.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you misunderstand me,” Janus snapped, getting to their feet. The way Franz started, looking almost afraid, would have been satisfying if Janus weren’t suddenly almost nauseous from the anger churning in their stomach. “What I meant,” Janus went on, “is that I’m quite fond of myself and the person I have shaped myself to become, and that includes my scales and everything else about me.” They jabbed a finger at him. “But I don’t like you at all, and you have done nothing for me, ever. Is that clear?”

“There’s no need to take that tone.” Franz stood, too, and Janus was very pleased to discover that they were taller than him now.

“I disagree, or I wouldn’t have done it,” Janus told him nastily, taking a long sip from their glass and then staring down their nose at him.

Franz opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by the door opening and the butler announcing, “Her Ladyship Genevive Masson.”

Janus turned away from Franz, pulling their most dangerous smile back onto their face. “Hello, Mother.” They weren’t quite able to force their tone into something pleasant, but they figured this visit was past that by this point and it wasn’t their fault she’d missed the window of civility Janus had available.

“This is… an unexpected surprise,” she responded as she stepped into the room, bypassing a greeting altogether. Good. Janus wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible too.

“Alright. Why don’t you sit down?” they said. “And my name is Janus now.” They tapped the orange stripe on the wrist of their shirt to bring their pronouns to her attention.

Their mother did not move to sit, remaining just inside the main area of the room with a smile that was far too perfect to have any real meaning behind it, but she did nod once in acknowledgement of this information.

“I hardly think it is your place to dictate what your mother does in her own—” Franz began.

Janus held up a hand without sparing him a glance. “Quite frankly, I will do whatever I like, Franz, and I wish you luck in stopping me. Nobody who came after me because of your curse could ever hold me back, and I suspect they all had more willpower than you.”

“Let’s not throw around needless accusations, now!” their mother interrupted, hands fluttering.

“What, that he cursed me? It’s a statement of fact, Mother, hardly an accusation. We all know perfectly well who was responsible for that,” Janus snapped. “Please. Sit. I would like this visit to conclude as much as you would.”

Their mother and Franz exchanged glances, and their mother crossed the room to place herself delicately in an armchair. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” she said coldly.

“Oh, I have a couple of questions I need answers to, and unfortunately you’re the one who’s best positioned to answer them for me,” Janus told her. “I’ll make it quick.”

***

Remus was not used to thinking about his emotions. On a normal day, he’d just have them and then made it everyone else’s problem. This had always worked out fine for him.

But the weird thing about this emotion was that it had immediately spawned a second emotion that made him feel really shitty about the first one.

Janus had come out of Roman’s room that morning, pale and shaking with fury, and had explained in short, terse sentences that Roman hadn’t confessed to their brother Patton after all—the gardener one that Roman never shut up about, the one who was nice enough but too sugary sweet and sunshiny for Remus’s taste, the “ohmygod, he’s not my boyfriend, Remus, stop calling him that before he hears you” one.

Roman hadn’t confessed to him, or done anything to break the overpowering sexual tension between them. (Probably sexual tension, anyway, though Remus wasn’t the best judge of that. He’d thought for about a three-month span a few years ago that Logan and Janus were interested in each other. In hindsight, of course, that was ridiculous. But regardless, it was hilarious to call Roman and Patton’s endless dancing around each other “sexual tension,” and then watch Roman shriek at him about it.)

But Roman hadn’t talked to Patton at all, and so Roman had to do the contest for real now.

When Janus finished explaining all of that, Remus’s knees had almost buckled with an overpowering relief, his heart thudding in his ears and his throat getting weirdly swollen up and lumpy inside. He wouldn’t be the only one in the competition anymore. He wouldn’t be left behind to a miserable fate as some sort of stupid shiny prize while watching Roman get his fairytale dream-come-true.

He wouldn’t be alone anymore.

He’d grabbed a mug and downed some coffee to give his throat something else to do than form such a big lump, forcing himself to swallow again and again until the urge to cry slowly faded. That had been one problem solved.

But that had freed his brain up to think, and it took less than two seconds of thinking for the relief to crumple up and do a swan dive into something completely different. Something a lot worse.

Logan and Janus had been too busy being worried and angry and talking about Roman and sending messengers to the kings to notice Remus and how quiet he’d gotten. Normally that would be kind of annoying, and maybe Remus would have done something stupid to get more attention, but at that moment, it had been… good, probably. Or at least convenient. Because of that new, shitty emotion. It was one that felt like worms squirming in his stomach and eating him from the inside out, and it made him want to hide deep underground where nobody could watch him fill his lungs with dirt so the worms would get out and he could stop feeling them.

After some thought, Remus had decided this second emotion was likely guilt. He was unfamiliar, and not a fan. But he guessed it kind of made sense. You weren’t supposed to feel relieved when something bad happened to someone who was kind of more important to you than your lungs were. Remus might not be the best at analyzing himself or his emotions, but he did know that much.

And then Roman had come out of his room, practically a puddle of remorse already, and Janus had absolutely laid into him, which didn’t seem entirely fair when Roman was so clearly already feeling all the bad things Janus was trying to make him feel more of. But what happened between Roman and Janus wasn’t totally Remus’s business, and they sure hadn’t appreciated Logan trying to step in.

So Remus stayed out of it, fidgeting uncomfortably and trying without success to quash the guilt guilt guilt bad feeling guilt guilt bad person guilt hurt Roman guilt guilt guilt (not alone) (not good) guilt ballooning slowly larger in his chest and taking away all the space where his lungs were supposed to be, and wow, he was really running with the lung analogies today, wasn’t he?

He still had half his breakfast in front of him, but he thought he might choke if he put another bite in his mouth. He imagined that drowning in syrup would feel pretty similar to the way he was already feeling; would he even be able to tell the difference? He poked a finger into the stack of pancakes, pressing down until he broke through the golden outside, then further down, through the entire stack, until his finger hit the hard cold shiny plate.

Roman and Janus kept arguing, and Janus was shouting and Roman was crying, and everything was all wrong inside and out, and Remus didn’t know what to do.

He’d wanted to ask Logan how you handled knowing you’d felt happy that your brother was miserable. But Logan hadn’t been paying even a little bit of attention to him; he’d been staring at Janus, and all of his body language was tense and distressed. And he’d stayed like that, the situation taking up all of his attention, all the way up until the kings arrived.

Instead, Roman had been the one that noticed that Remus was upset. Of course he had. The one time Remus really, really didn’t want him to, and he picked now to become emotionally observant. What was Remus supposed to do? Look his twin in the eye and tell him that Remus had learned that the thing Roman wanted most in the world had just slipped through his fingers, and Remus’s response had been to feel glad?

Remus couldn’t admit that to him. Especially not now when Roman was already so weepy. Sure, he liked messing with Roman, but not like this. This wasn’t fun.

What Remus wanted was to talk to Logan about it. Tell Logan the problem and watch him push those huge circular gold spectacles up his nose like he always did when he was processing new information. And then he’d say something vaguely annoyed that would also be the smartest thing Remus had ever heard, and it would somehow solve all Remus’s problems, just like that.

But Logan was gone. He’d all but sprinted out the door after Janus the moment he’d been dismissed, without so much as a backwards glance. Remus didn’t know what his problem was. But going to him for advice was out of the question for the time being.

Remus looked around at his family and realized that his options for what to do with the guilt still wriggling in the pit of his stomach were rapidly narrowing. Logan was gone. Any solution involving Roman was not an option, which was weird because normally he could say anything to Roman, whether Roman wanted to hear it or not. Papi and Dad were, understandably, more focused on Roman right now. Nobody else was the sort of person Remus could spill his thoughts out to. Not thoughts like these, anyway, that hurt so much, and would hurt Roman, too. He would happily spill other thoughts to anyone, thoughts that would get amusing reactions, but… not this.

He didn’t know what to do.

He did know that if he held still too much longer, or kept looking at Roman or talking to Roman or thinking about Roman even a little bit, he was going to explode from the lungs out. And not even in an interesting way. Just a painful one.

But right at this moment, Family Time was happening. He was seated between Thomas and Nico in a circle, with Roman across from him. Even though everyone’s attention was on Roman, up and leaving without comment was not happening. And the last thing Remus wanted to do right now was talk about it or answer questions.

Alright. Operation: Get The Fuck Out Of Here. This would take some doing.

Remus pulled his hands away from Thomas’s gentle grasp and settled them in his own lap. He twitched an approximation of a smile when Thomas’s eyes flitted questioningly to him for a brief moment; it was enough to soothe away any concerns, and Thomas looked back to Roman, who was curled up in Nico’s arms, clinging to him with all his might as he poured out his story.

Remus counted to thirty in his head, then shifted his weight, scooting back a few inches under the pretense of a stretch; Thomas’s glance was quicker this time, less attentive. Another wait, this time counting to forty, and he scooted back once again, this time changing his sitting position. A count of twenty, and Remus got to his feet and moved to the abandoned breakfast table, food still strewn across it in varying stages of congealment.

Roman’s voice died off when Remus stood. Remus ignored it and did his best to keep his movements casual, perusing the table like he actually wanted anything.

Aware of his family’s eyes on his back, Remus picked up one of the pitchers on the table at random—it turned out to be water with a few slices of lemon and sprigs of rosemary in it—and poured himself a glass. He lingered by the table, sipping slowly and staring out a window, until the conversation restarted and the attention in the room slipped back to Roman.

Moving as fast as he thought was reasonable, Remus made his way to his bedroom and locked the door behind himself. He collapsed on the end of the bed, staring blankly into space.

For a moment, there was quiet, and Remus wasn’t sure if the quiet was good or bad but at least it was different and his lungs had room to expand a little.

His hands were shaking. That probably wasn’t good.

“Remus?” Nico called from outside, tone too cautious and casual to be anything other than parental concern in disguise, and Remus decided that actually the quiet of a second ago had been fantastic and he wished it would come back.

“You good, buddy?” Thomas asked; there was a knock on the door.

“Go away,” Remus managed, his voice feeling out of place in his own throat, clenching his fists in the bedcovers so that they would stop trembling so much, except that the tremble seemed to have migrated to his vocal cords, and his throat was doing the annoying lump thing again, and his face was too hot and his vision blurred with sudden warm tears and an odd noise broke through the air that it took him a minute to realize was his own sob.

“Remus?” Thomas repeated, no longer hiding his concern; Remus heard him try the door.

“Go away!” Remus repeated, an angry painful shout this time, wavering between letting the tears just happen and trying to stifle them so that maybe his fathers would leave him alone faster.

There was a pause.

“Let us know if you want to talk, okay?” Thomas said.

Remus didn’t answer, and after a moment, footsteps receded from outside the door.

Remus rolled over to lie facedown and screamed into his mattress, not stopping until his lungs were out of breath and his throat was beginning to scratch in protest. He lay there, struggling to steady his breath, then on impulse sat up, body moving jerkily. He wiped vaguely at his face with the back of his hand, smearing tears and snot across it, and reached for one of the throw blankets on the messy bed. It was a weighted one, silver and fuzzy and soft as could be. Remus wrapped it around himself like some kind of pitiful cloak of sadness and poor comfort, slid off the bed, and crossed to the innermost wall of his room.

Remus had gotten very interested in ocean life for a solid year when he was fifteen, and while his interest had faded somewhat after that, he still liked it a lot. For his sixteenth birthday, his fathers had had a floor-to-ceiling aquarium installed in the room. His study, on the other side of the wall, was smaller now as a result of the installation, but Remus could hardly have cared less about that; he had an entire wall of fish, and eels and weeds and jellies and even an octopus, all sitting right there in his bedroom.

He plopped to the ground right in front of the tank, crossing his legs and wrapping the blanket more firmly around himself, and stared into the water, letting his eyes unfocus. The gentle motions of fish moving across his field of vision were nice. His hands weren’t shaking anymore, but his lungs were a little too small again, uncomfortably taut against each breath he took.

He wanted to talk about it. And he wanted someone to listen. He just really didn’t want it to be Roman, who would pretend too hard that it was fine when it super wasn’t, or Dad or Papi, who would let it get uncomfortably mushy and tender and still see right to the core of him and make all of his emotions ten times bigger in their quest to acknowledge them. The emotions Remus was feeling were already plenty big, thanks. He was having a hard enough time containing them in the one body he had available as it was. He didn’t need them to get bigger and messier. Not yet. Not until he had at least a semblance of an idea of what he wanted to happen to them.

A translucent pink jellyfish drifted right in front of his face. Remus reached out and pressed both palms flat against the glass, leaning close so that the watery view took up his entire field of vision but not quite so close that his breath would fog the glass.

It was a good jellyfish. Everything in the tank was fucking fantastic. But particularly this jelly, in this moment, floating peacefully in front of Remus, pulsing to a silent beat. It wasn’t a stinging jelly, sadly; nothing in the tank was poisonous or particularly spiky, because Remus’s dads knew him well, and also knew the scope of chaos that Remus was capable of causing when he tapped into Logan’s curiosity as a supporting force. Remus understood the reasoning behind the decision, even if it was disappointing. But he certainly didn’t think less of the creatures in the tank for not being deadly or even irritating. Jellies were still interesting, even when they weren’t poisonous.

For instance, jellies didn’t even have brains. That must be nice sometimes. Just being able to exist, without a tumult of thoughts constantly tumbling one over the other and demanding to be heard even as your lungs shrank tighter tighter tighter and your throat closed up and it felt like you were drowning in shallow breaths and pesky weird guilty emotions that you didn’t even want in the first place and you couldn’t stop imagining the way your brother’s face would look so hurt if you fessed up to the stupid thoughts you hadn’t meant to think but that still wouldn’t go away and—

Remus choked on a frustrated, angry sob, his hands clenching into fists against the smooth cool glass. The jellyfish pulsed, soft and steady.

Jellies were a poor replacement for Dad’s hugs or Papi’s gentle words of encouragement or Roman’s ideas or Logan’s endless willingness to talk about anything or even Janus’s snark. But jellies didn’t ask hard questions about you that you didn’t even know the answers to. Jellies didn’t demand explanations for why you sat there and sobbed your heart out, pressing yourself against the glass and watching the fish like they were somehow your lifeline. Jellies didn’t mind if you cried yourself hoarse and your lungs still didn’t feel big enough for your breath. Jellies had many excellent attributes like these.

Remus was really quite fond of jellies.

Taglist: 

@the-sympathetic-villain

@crazydemigod666

@nightweirdo

@private-snippers

[bad-bitch-beauchamp]

Songs About Me: Chapter Six

Yay! Thanks for your patience while I was away! Without further ado, the first (official) date!

READ ON AO3

Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston

“How’d you do that?” Claire was fumbling with her keys, trying to get the lock to work on her black front door while Jamie waited just below on the sidewalk.

“Do what?”

“How did you get here so fast? Because one minute, you said you were leaving your place and the next, you were on my front porch. The way I see it is you’re either Superman or you’re a stalker.”

He chuckled. “Just another twist of fate for us, lass.” Claire turned to face him. He stood for a moment watching her and if it had been any longer, she might’ve started to feel self-conscious from his gaze. He shook his head and looked up at her through long, red lashes. His hand stretched upward and outward toward her, and her soft smile made his heart soar. Claire took a deep breath, took his large hand in hers, and descended the brick stairs toward the night’s adventure.

There were only three things Jamie confirmed with Claire before their date that night: her address, what time he should pick her up, and if she liked Italian food. Claire was never one to turn down a bowl of noodles and, with a glance up at her rather large walking partner, ventured Jamie was never one to say no to carbs. He had declined to tell her exactly where they were to have dinner that night over text, and Claire’s curiosity was kicking in as they strolled through Boston Commons.

‘Ye said ye enjoyed Italian food, so just trust me that ye’ll like where we’re headed.”

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“It’s a good enough answer. Patience isn’t really a virtue of yer’s, is it?”

The pair continued to walk down through the Commons, wandering along pathways and strolling past monuments. Their conversation flowed easily and Claire found herself wondering how she could have only met this man, this kind and funny and compassionate and loving and enthralling man, mere hours before. Claire had grabbed a cashmere wrap before she ran down the stairs in case of chilly fall weather, and was glad for it. She started out her walk with Jamie by holding her wrap around her upper arms, secured by her hands held at her chest. As their walk continued, she caught herself letting go to touch Jamie’s arm, to lead him around a pond by the hand, to swat at him when he made a joke. She was comfortable. Their banter and laughter and talks were natural and easy.

“You have to tell me where we’re going! First, you show up at my home with a very thin explanation, and now you’re leading me through the city with no direction! I happen to think my stalker theory is holding more traction with every moment, Mr. Fraser.”

“Alright, a few things, Sassenach,” he said. Their arms were linked together as they made their way over the intersection of Charles and Beacon streets. “First off, my explanation was solid. It was fate I got to yer place so quickly.” He ushered her across the busy street and onto a smaller side street lined with trees and old facades. “Second, I’m no’ a stalker. If I was, I would have found as soon I could have after last night. Yer all I thought about today. Had I known how to find ye, I would have,” he said. He moved his hand to her lower back as he moved them down the sidewalk. Claire simply smiled down at the ground at his honest admission. “Third,” he slowed their pace, “did ye consider I jes’ wanted to spend a little extra time with ye?” He paused to open the door to the restaurant. A whisper brushed along her ear as she slid past him in the entrance, bushing against his chest. “The time I get doesna seem to be enough.” She turned to face him then. He only smiled softly, urging her forward through the doors.

Jamie pulled out a worn leather chair for her before seating himself across the small square table draped with a crisp white tablecloth and topped with two brass candlestick holders and a myriad of glassware. Claire smirked at the fanciness of it all -- they’d met in a dark bar in the middle of the night and talked over dusty bookshelves and now, she was pretending she belonged in a place like this. When Jamie had asked if she liked Italian, she figured they’d end up at a mom and pop place eating spaghetti and drinking too much wine, not acting on their best behavior at one of the finest restaurants in Beacon Hill.

“Are ye alright, Claire?”

Her head popped up to find Jamie studying her. His head cocked like a puppy who watches something new with a mix of awe and confusion in his eyes. He leaned forward as if to reach for her hand, and drew back.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about that, I must’ve zoned out a bit there,” she fibbed. She fidgeted with her napkin on her lap, folding and unfolding it.

“Ye know, I--” Jamie was interrupted by the waiter. He sighed and requested two bottles of wine, a red and a white, and two whiskeys. Claire stifled a giggle at the waiter’s outfit while Jamie was acting the role of adult: the teen wore clean black slacks, a pressed white shirt, a black vest, and a white cloth on his forearm completed the look. The waiter looked at her with confusion.

“Sorry, just thinking about something that happened earlier,” she muttered. The waiter walked away, with a parting glance at Jamie.

“Care tae share what’s so funny, lass?” She expected a look of disdain. The same look Frank would’ve given her, she realized, if she acted this way at a dinner with him. There was never to be any fun, never any giggles, never any banter. She straightened in her chair and attempted to put her feelings about the absurdity of the night behind her.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Quickly shifting the subject, she moved on. “Did I hear you order four separate alcohol drinks?”

“I wasna sure what ye liked, besides the whisky, so I thought I’d get one of everything to be safe.” It was Jamie’s turn to shift in his seat now. “Shit,” he muttered. “I forgot to ask for ice water.” Motioning back toward the waiter’s station he stopped to add, “Wait, did ye even want ice water? Mebbe ice tea? A coffee? I should’ve asked what ye wanted instead of assuming, Claire, and I’m sorry for it…”

“Jamie. It’s fine.” It was Claire’s turn to reach across the table and take his hand. His eyes moved from the waiter across the room instantly down to their hands. He marveled in the way her fingers intertwined with his, how she traced the bones and knuckles, drawing maps to nowhere in particular. He thumbed over the soft skin of her palms and looked up at her through long lashes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ye can ask me anything ye want,” he answered quickly.

“What are we doing here?”

That got his attention. His gaze hardened, his spine stiffened. “What do ye mean?” She didn’t immediately answer, so he continued on. “I asked ye here tonight, because I couldn’t stop thinking about ye all night. And then today, to see ye, to be healed by ye… Christ, I couldn’t wait to see ye or talk to ye or to hold yer hand or merely to be near ye again. If ye’d rather not see me after tonight, I understand and I respect yer wishes. If that’s the case though, I think I’d rather ye let me know that now instead of having me sit here knowing I can’t have ye. I have enough alcohol to get me through the night, I think…” A giggle erupted from the opposite side of the small square table.

“You certainly do have enough alcohol, but I’d rather like to enjoy it with you, if you don’t mind.” One hand held his, and the other held her chin in her palm, elbow propped up on the table.

“Ye’d let me see ye again?”

“Without a doubt.”

Tension flowed out of his muscles and his eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “Why’d ye ask what we were doing here then?”

“I just mean that you don’t have to go through so much trouble for us to spend time together. I know we just met but I’d wager that fancy restaurants with wine lists bigger than the menu aren’t your usual hangout. I’m a simple woman who enjoys simple pleasures, Jamie. Please don’t make this anything more than the perfect night it could be if you just relax.”

He studied her. The curls flowing down around her face, curling at her collarbones. The eyes the same color of his favorite whisky sitting in the crystal decanter on the sideboard back home. Her delicate features that reminded him of the stories of the faeries from back home. She wiggled in her seat under his gaze. He sighed. “I just wanted to honor ye, Sassenach. Do ye right,” she smirked at that. “Och, ye know what I mean,” he said and playfully squeezed her hand in his. “I wanted to treat ye the way I think ye should be treated.”

Would he ever cease to stop being so honest and vulnerable? She hoped not. This confession, his honest assessment of her, made her eyes shimmer with a thin line of unshed tears.

“Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if I overstepped…”

“You didn’t.” She looked up from her hand in his and marveled at the way she cared for him already, so soon. “Just… thank you, Jamie.”

The waiter reappeared to take their dinner orders and the two were left to talk under their meals arrived. He talked about his favorite book, Song of Myself by Walt Whitman (“Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.” he brought her knuckles to her lips. She shivered. He blushed.) ; she told him about the tropical plant she’d grown from a start for the last five years, the pride and joy radiating from her words and beaming smile (“I couldna ever grow something that took that much work,” “It just takes the right touch,” “Aye, that ye have.”) . The waiter arrived back at their table with plates and bowls galore. Soon, the small tabletop was brimming with large flat bowls of pasta and salad plates layered with leafy greens; all four glasses in front of Claire were full, wine and whisky and water warming her core.

Claire didn’t immediately reach for her food, and Jamie smirked. “Tell me what yer thinkin’ about, right now. Don’t think, just answer!”

“I’m thinking that I don’t know which of these fancy forks to kill myself with.” Silence, then roarous laughter.

“I’m no’ sure what I expected ye to say, but for what it’s worth, I did consider the same the question. This is a hell of a spread!”

Vaguely, Claire thought she should eat a little more food and drink a little less liquids, but the notion rolled passed her with another twirl of whisky in her mouth. Dinner continued to pass with much less fanfare and much more excitement and laughter and banter and all the things Claire thought a date should be. It wasn’t until she went to take another sip of her whisky that she noticed it was entirely empty. About to call for another, Jamie shushed her and brought a finger to his lips to stay quiet. She giggled, then remembering to stay quiet, brought her hands up to cover her mouth. Jamie looked around them conspiratorily and pulled a hip flask from his pocket. He poured a generous amount of what she presumed to be whisky back into her glass, and topped off his own. They continued this way, with mouthfuls of noodles and laugher and soft touches that grew more bold with each sip.

“You know, the drunker you get, the more obvious you’re becoming with your thermos.” The waiter was standing before them, hands on his hips.

“ Thermose? Thermasse? I'm sorry, I don't understand. What's a thermousse?” Jamie was trying his best to put on a serious front, but Claire’s giggles made his mouth spread from a smirk all the way to an honest to God grin.

“That one. Right there in your hand.”

“Oh, the thermas-eh?” Jamie patted the spot where the now-empty flask sat in his pocket. “For yer information, it’s a hipflask and it’s actually quite stylish.”

“Sir, I can’t have you in here, drinking liquor you bought from home.”

“Och well if yer selection wasna grossly overpriced, that wouldna be an issue. But alas, I suppose it’s time for me to take my most lovely date and be on our way. To the next adventure!” The waiter looked as if he wanted to throw Jamie out of the restaurant himself but since they were apparently ready to be off into the night, he asked for his payment politely and returned in record time to usher them out the door. Jamie lent out a hand to Claire and twirled her into his side when she stood, her laughter filling the cozy space.

“Sassenach, they’re all watchin’ us. Let’s get out of here, aye?” He whispered into her hair and he focused on not bumping into tables on their way out. The other patrons watched half in annoyance and half in good-natured smiles cast their way.

“Ayeeeee!” Claire rolled her r’s as best she could and Jamie laughed so hard she could feel his chest reverberate against her back as she led him outside.

Back in the park, Claire led him down brick paths and through lines of tall trees, and he followed her every move. She knew they were only minutes from her townhouse but reveled in the magic of the gardens at night alone with him. With Jamie.

“I wrote it for you, you know,” she said quietly as she walked along the low brick wall lining the gardens. Jamie, down on the sidewalk, looked up confused.

“Ye wrote what, lass?”

“The french song you heard today. I wrote that, last night. I couldn’t sleep.”

Jamie stopped walking. When he turned to face Claire head-on, she came up a few inches above his head from standing on the low wall but felt incredibly small under his gaze. She fumbled with her dress and tried to take a step forward along the wall, but two strong hands held in place by the waist.”

“Will ye tell me what ye wrote? What the words mean?”

“I thought you said you spoke french.”

“Aye, I did. But I was so entranced by ye when I saw ye in the shop, so surprised, that I forgot to actually listen and translate,” he smirked. “Please tell me?”

She watched him for a moment. Not yet. It’s too soon for that. She leaned in close, close enough to smell his cologne and see peak of ruddy stubble on his cheeks. He closed his eyes and his mouth fell open just a bit, and she whispered, “Not a chance.”

She jumped down from the wall past his grasp, strolling back down the brick path. Jamie stood stunned, shook his head, brushed back a few rogue curls, and jogged to catch up with her pace.

---

They arrived back at Louisburg Square not more than ten minutes later. The night was getting late. Claire fidgeted with the hem of her dress, Jamie kept shrugging his shoulders in the black leather jacket, and they walked slower with each step. When it couldn’t be delayed any longer, they arrived at the brick steps to Claire’s porch.

“So, this is me.” She turns to face him, to prolong this moment, this night.

He smirked. “Aye, Sassenach. I remember.”

“Why do you call me that?” He cocked his head at her. “A sassenach, I mean.”

“Och, I mean no offense by it and can stop if ye’d like. It just means outlander, someone not from here.”

“Here? It seems that here is Boston, and you’re not from here either!” She crossed her arms in mock admonishment.

“That mebbe so, but I can’t help that being with you makes me feel like home,” he said as he took a step toward her. Her arms fell to her sides then, and Jamie reached for them in his.

“Was that jus’ the most foolish thing to say? Shit, I jus’ keep making a right fool of myself around ye it seems. First the voicemails and now…”

“I understand… exactly, how you feel.” She couldn’t look at him. It should be too soon to feel this way. He was a practically a stranger, and yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling something was different. As if he could read her mind, he replied with questions of his own.

“Is it usual? What it is between us?” He watched her with such intensity, such revere, such awe. She met his eyes, and softened.

“It’s often something like this, I think.” He nodded in agreement. “But no. This isn’t usual. It’s different.” He nodded again, seeming to memorize the pattern of the bricks on the sidewalk under their feet. “I guess that’s my queue… Thank you for a truly wonderful night, Jamie,” she dropped his hands and began to walk up the steps to her door when a strong arm pulled her back into a familiar warm embrace.

“Claire, I--” he swallowed and took a step back from her. She noticed that in the distance he created, his hand still held onto her waist. His fingertips pressed into her flesh and goosebumps erupted under the fabric. She met his eyes and sank into their ocean depths.

“I’d very much like to kiss ye. May I?”

---

It's HAPPENING!!! These sweet babies went on their first date! I figured based on what we know about them, they're both too down to earth for some fancy restaurant acting formal. The flask/thermos scene is based on Jess and Nick's date in New Girl where they get absolutely trashed in a very similar situation. Plus, it just seems like Jamie would be the kind of guy to have a flask on him, right? How are we feeling about these two? About the date? I'm so excited to get to the angsty part of this! I promise it's coming up soon. (Like, next chapter, soon). Thanks for being so patient with me while I was away enjoying post-deployment bliss with my husband! Writing wasn't on the top of my list, but it's good to be back! As always, thanks for reading. Your comments and kudos here and interactions on Tumblr really do mean so much to me and I really appreciate your support for this story and for me. Stay safe and healthy out there! <3

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Habanero

You're a good girl, well behaved.

Absolutely not the type to rail random guys in nightclubs.

Until you are.

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Aizawa x Reader, eventual polyamorous Erasermic x Reader

Rating: Mostly gen, this chapter is pretty tame. Reader gets pretty horny towards the end but nothing below the belt actually occurs

Trigger Warnings: None in this chapter.

AO3: Here | Want to support me? I have a Kofi

Chapter: 5/16 (all chapters)

You didn’t get any sleep that night.

As a result of your visits to the police station, hospital and briefing at UA, you didn’t get around to checking your phone until 8PM, only to find it had exploded with missed calls, text messages and voicemails. You had missed well over 200 messages in the group chat you shared with your friends and 32 çalls from your mother.

They all knew you worked at UA and by now the attack was all over the news.

You gave up on catching up on everything you had missed after the first five minutes, choosing instead to send a copy pasted message to everyone in your notifications.

Hello, there was an incident at UA today. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Thank you for your concern.

Responding was a mistake, for even more messages flooded through the moment you hit send.

Everyone wanted to know the gory details. Cousins you hadn’t talked to in years suddenly had more than a passing interest in your affairs.

And then there was the message that made you drop your phone; a single sentence buried between notifications.

It was from your ex.

You had parted on relatively good terms, considering, though hadn’t talked since he picked up his things from your house. You had told yourself it was for the best, even if it shattered your heart to pieces.

It was strange to hear from him now and he seemed to know it, for his words were no more intimate or friendly than those of your distant cousins. It was as if you’d never been lovers, yet memories flooded back.

You remembered eating lunch together at your kitchen table; remembered wearing his sweater on nights he wasn’t home and burying your nose in the collar. You remembered picking out dresses for date nights and taking his hand on the train ride home.

It had been a long, emotional day and you didn’t trust yourself to reply. Instead you got up to make a late dinner, stealing glances at your phone out of the corner of your eye. You couldn’t help but wonder how today might have gone if you were still together. Would he have picked you up from the police station? Maybe he would have taken you for gelato.

You picked up your phone as you waited for your food to cook, opening and closing his message. You gave up in the end, copy and pasting the same response you had given everyone else, but with one minor change.

Hello, there was an incident at UA today. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Thank you for your concern.

How are you?

He replied within the next five minutes, detailing the brand new business partnership he had achieved with one of the major hero agencies in Roppongi. He’d been chasing such a partnership for many of the years you had known him and it was difficult to stop yourself swelling with pride. He wasn’t your boyfriend now, after all.

He was just as curious about your new job at UA, though mostly seemed confused. You had been in your previous job for years with no desire to move, after all. You kept quiet about the fact that if he hadn’t broken your heart you would probably still be there.

After an hour or so of back and forth, he finally sent the message you had been dreading.

We should go for dinner some time.

You cast aside your phone and poured yourself a much needed glass of wine. You didn’t trust yourself to see him in person. It took everything you had not to call him there and then so you could hear his voice.

Your reply was as polite as it was cagey, apologising for your busy schedule under the current circumstances. It was at least partly true, and he seemed understanding enough. Everyone in the country knew about UA’s upcoming sports festival, after all.

Little did you know you’d be seeing him far sooner than expected.

━

UA was closed the next day for repairs and staff meetings. All UA staff were present, with one notable exception. Shouta was still in the hospital and expected to rest up for the rest of the week.

The attack on the USJ might have been foiled, but the implications of it were massive, especially with the sports festival on the horizon. You expected the games to be postponed for the immediate future, but you couldn’t be further from the truth. If anything, the attack made Nezu even more determined to make this year’s games the biggest yet.

You understood his decision, even if you didn’t completely agree with it. The sports festival was critical to the future prospects of all UA students, many of whom (such as the third year pupils) would not get another opportunity to show off their skills in such a public manner. You only hoped that it wasn’t a mistake.

Your own contributions to the meetings were small in the grand scheme of things and you were finished up for the day by 1:30 in the afternoon. You considered picking up groceries on the way home, only to get off the train at the nearest platform to the hospital.

By now Shouta must have come around from his anaesthesia and you decided to call in and visit to find out if he needed anything, like spare clothes or someone to help out with his household chores during his recovery. You had heard Hizashi and Nemuri make comments about his love for cats and seen cat hair on his clothes on certain occasions. If he had pets, you were only too happy to babysit them while he was away.

Unfortunately, your plans were quashed almost immediately.

“What do you mean he discharged himself?”

━

You thought about Shouta as you took the train, as you packed up your groceries and slipped through your front door. He had been terribly beaten up the last time you’d seen him, so much so that even his doctors had recommended he rest for the week. Why would he leave after less than 24 hours? Why would he overstrain himself in such a way?

You thought about him as you made lunch and the final adjustments to your schedule. He was a grown man, you told yourself. He was perfectly capable of making his own choices and taking care of himself.

Even so, you couldn’t stop thinking about his two injured arms. How was he going to cook? How was he going to clean? Surely he didn’t mean to continue underground work with damage to his skull?

You lasted until 5PM before giving up and texting Hizashi.

Can you call me when you’re free?

He called you only seconds later.

“How can I help you, sweet listener?”

“It’s Shouta,” you said. “I called by at the hospital and...well...he’s discharged himself.”

“He what ?!”

“I know,” you said. “I’m really worried.”

“That’s so typical of him,” Hizashi sighed, “what is he thinking?”

“I was thinking I might stop by his place to check on him,” you said. “Do you know where he lives?”

He went quiet for a couple of seconds, clearly thinking about it.

“You know, (Name), it’s not the kind of neighbourhood for a lady…”

“I’ll text you when I get there?”

“Hmmm…”

You could practically see him leaning back in his chair and scratching his chin.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll text you the details.”

“Thank you!”

“You’ve gotta text me though.”

“I will!”

“And, by the way…”

“Mhmmm?”

“How long have you been calling him Shouta?”

You flushed a bright red, feeling as if you’d been caught with your pants down.

Of all of the teachers, Shouta was the only one who hadn’t openly given you permission to call him by his first name in informal situations. You referred to him as Aizawa while around other people and even on the rare occasions you were alone. You had reset, even if he would always be Shouta in your mind.

“I…I...I’ll speak to you later, haha, bye!”

You couldn’t hang up fast enough. You were convinced the intonation of your voice would betray the truth.

You buried your head in your hands, as if to hide your face from your phone.

Well, shit.

━

Hizashi hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Shouta lived in a shady area. Many of the buildings had boarded over their windows and just about every exposed area of brick had several layers of graffiti, most of which were obscene.

You felt eyes on the back of your neck as you pressed the buzzer for Shouta’s apartment, though soon identified the source as a grey cat sprawled across the wall, watching you with steady amber eyes.

“Hello,” you said, leaning over, “are you the gatekeeper?”

The cat yawned and stretched out a paw.

“Oh, I see, I see,” you said, tapping a fingertip against its paw by way of a handshake. “Well you’re doing a very good job.”

“What are you doing here?”

That voice sounded incredibly familiar and you glanced up towards the balcony above you. Shouta was peering over it, still bandaged up and both of his arms in casts. You couldn’t see his face but you knew he was scowling.

“I came to check in on you,” you called up. “The hospital said you’d discharged yourself, and-“

He turned on the spot.

“As you can see, I’m okay. You can go home now.”

“But…”

You had packed an insulated bag full of food before leaving home and glanced from that to the gate. Were you going to have to carry it back on the train? You’d already packed a big lunch for the next day, ahead of seeing 1-A through counselling. Just what were you going to do with all of this extra food?

Shouta peered back over the balcony and sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “But make sure you hold the door open for Sushi.”

“Sushi?” you wondered aloud as the buzzer sounded and you let yourself through the gate. “Who’s Sushi?”

As if in response, the cat hopped down from its position on the wall and wandered up the path as if it had done so a thousand times. It stopped at the front door to the building and turned back to you expectantly, waiting for you to open the door.

You followed the cat into the building and up the stairs. The cat, Sushi you supposed, would rush off ahead of you and then wait for you to catch up. It barreled up the stairwell and then sat at the top before climbing the next. You knew which apartment belonged to Shouta even without checking over Mic’s message, for the cat sat down outside of it and looked back at you.

“Thank you, gatekeeper,” you said, tapping at the door.

“It’s open,” Shouta called out from within and you reached for the handle, Sushi the cat squeezing through the gap the moment you opened it even slightly.

You didn’t know what you expected from Shouta’s home. You knew he spent very little time there and that much was clear the moment you got inside. He had minimal furniture: a couch in one corner, along with a small table and even smaller television. There were no photographs on the walls; no blankets or decorations. Everything in his home had a clear function, as if designed to be left in a hurry. It was the opposite of your home in every possible sense.

“Make yourself comfy, I guess,” he said.

“I don’t know when exactly you checked out of the hospital,” you said, “but I thought you might be hungry. I made a few things…”

You walked over to the table and unzipped your bag.

“I wasn’t sure what kinds of food you liked, so I brought a bit of everything,” you said, pulling out each container. “There’s some soup, some rice, meatballs, an omelette…”

Retrospectively, you had rather overdone it.

“Some of these can be frozen or reheated,” you said. “You don’t have to eat all of them at once.”

He glanced from you to your food containers, which by then had taken up almost all of his table.

“You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. We’re colleagues, remember!”

“Yeah,” he said. “I-”

He didn’t get to say anymore, though, for his stomach rumbled noisily.

“Shouta,” you said. “When did you last eat?”

“I...hmm...I had a small meal at the hospital before I-”

“You... wh-?! That was hours ago! You need proteins and vitamins to heal.”

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

It wasn’t fine. Not by any means.

You simmered as you plated up a few of the containers and refrigerated the rest. You couldn’t believe how little one person could care for their own body and pretended you didn’t see the bottles of antiseptic, antibiotics and bandages on his shelf. How many wounds had he gotten without seeing a doctor? How many of his scars came from cuts he had tended himself?

“I don’t want to hear you complain about Midoriya breaking his bones ever again,” you muttered as Sushi rubbed against your legs, seeming not to notice the bowl of cat food only a short distance away.

Of course he’d remembered to feed the cat.

Of course.

“Yes, yes,” said Shouta, leaning back on the couch and pulling down some of his bandages to expose his mouth and chin.

You brought the food over to his table and proceeded to pack away your empty food containers, watching out of the corner of your eye as he leaned over to pick up the cutlery, only to flinch and drop it.

“Do you need some help?”

“Nope, I got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ye-fuck.”

The cutlery clattered to the table with a dull thud and you took a seat next to him, reaching for the cutlery and holding it out to him.

“Thank you,” he said, albeit reluctantly, balancing it in his fingers before dropping it again.

“Let me help you,” you said, grabbing the fork and scooping up some of the omelette. “Open wide.”

“Wh-no way,” he said, eyes darting from you to the fork. “I ain’t a toddler.”

“It’s not like I’m going to make aeroplane sounds. Let me help you.”

Shouta grumbled under his breath, but ate from the fork you raised to his lips.

“..cious,” he murmured as you gathered a second forkful.

“Hmm?”

“I said...if you tell anyone about this I’ll shave off your eyebrows.”

“Neglect yourself this much again and I’ll shave your entire head.”

A smile crept across your face; you couldn’t help it. This whole situation was more than a little absurd. Here was the underground hero, Eraserhead, known for his smooth takedowns of villains in Musutafu’s underbelly, struggling to hold onto a fork. You were little more than a girl he’d hooked up, yet there you were, nagging him as if you were married.

Shouta fell into contemplative silence as well.

“At the attack,” he said at last. “Did they hurt you?”

“What do you mean?”

You hadn’t been involved in the fighting, but perhaps he didn’t know that?

“At the hospital,” he said, “you had blood on your shirt.”

Your heart skipped a beat, remembering how you had kissed his forehead before you could stop yourself. You’d thought he was asleep. Had he been awake the whole time?

“No,” you said. “Nezu had me go to the police station. I used my quirk too much on the suspects too much, that’s all.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Were you… worried about me?”

“Of course not! It’s just that you’re useless in battle.”

“Oh my god, you were worried about me.”

“No I wasn’t,” he said, stubbornly. “Now give me some of the chicken.”

You scooped up some of it and lifted it to his lips but he didn’t move, even though he’d asked for it.

“Shou…” you began, only to fall silent as he leaned in.

You told yourself you should pull away, even as you met him in the middle and ran your tongue over his bottom lip. He leaned over towards you and crushed his lips against yours, kissing you so deeply that it sent a shiver through your core. You wanted his hands on you; wanted to ride him until both your throat and cunt were raw.

Oh no...

Before this, you had never known that kisses could feel like stormy seas. For the first time in your life, you wanted to drown.

You reached to cup the uninjured side of his face.

Two seconds more and you would break the reset. Three and you wouldn’t even regret it.

Sushi took the initiative, though, making use of the distraction to hop onto your lap and steal the chicken from your fork. You broke the kiss, both pulling away as if burned.

“I…” you said, “I’m sorry.”

What were you thinking? Shouta was injured and likely still had remnants of anesthesia in his body. Even if he didn’t, the attack on USJ would leave anyone shaken. You had gone there to help him out with chores, not take advantage of him while he was in a potentially vulnerable state.

“I should go,” you said, clearing your throat and rushing away to zip up your insulated bag.

“(Name),” he said. “I-”

“It’s okay,” you said. “It was my fault. I…”

You gave him the biggest, most artificial smile in your arsenal; the one you used at job interviews and dinner with your parents.

“I’ll see you at work!”

━

You thought about the kiss on the train ride home, as you washed your dirty food containers and took a bath. You sank down into the water, wishing you could wash away the fluttering in your core.

It was just arousal, you told yourself. Sex released chemicals, namely oxytocin, and it was natural for you to feel attached to him. Hell, you’d seen each other completely naked, which in itself was something profoundly intimate.

It would fade in time, as all things did.

You repeated it over and over as you dried yourself off and got into bed. Soon, very soon, you would forget how it felt when he’d touched you. Bodies replaced their cells every decade or so; one day your bodies would have never touched at all.

The exhaustion from the past few days caught up with you the moment your head touched the pillow and before long you were dreaming.

You dreamed of waking in the arms of your lover, who ran his fingers through your hair and kissed you on the forehead. The bed was comfortably warm and bathed in soft morning light; your lover’s arm heavy across your waist.

“(Name),” he whispered in your ear and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“(Name),” he whispered again and you looked up into his face, taking in his black hair and dark eyes. “Why are you crying?”

Your eyes snapped open then, dragging you back to your empty room.

There was no one else in your bed, you realised. It was the middle of the night, with no trace of the early morning glow you had so happily basked in.

The tears, though, they were real.

━

A/N

yes, it's that Sushi

[jadekitty777]

On Your Six, Chapter 5

Day 5: Mission Go- Cooking for @taiqrowweek

Wait what do you mean I switched the prompt days around? Dunno what you’re talking about ;)

(Don’t worry it’ll make more sense in the long run)

Rating: T for this chapter, M for overall

Words: 2.5k

Summary: Qrow was what most of society would call a small-town criminal. But to those oppressed, he hoped only to be a healer. In an effort to make a change in the world, he moves from kingdom to kingdom, searching for branded omegas in need. His goal? To turn the derogatory words the reformatories forced them to bear on their skin into works of art.

Then one day, his past catches up to him in the form of Taiyang, his former best friend, with a brand of his own stained onto his skin and a plea for help in his eyes. Qrow has no choice but to answer, even if it means he’d have to face his mistakes once and for all.

[An ABO-style universe in a modern-day style Remnant. No Grimm, because people are the real monsters in this one]

Ao3 Link: On Your Sleeve

~

Tai had started feeding him.

At first, it had begun with little things, shortly following that fateful day he gave him the picture. Prepackaged snacks or fresh fruits or vegetables as a healthy addition to the cheap, instant lunch meals he could easily afford. Then it quickly dissolved into tubberware covered leftovers of various pastas or stews, things that kept well and were well adept at making in large servings.

By late May, with the advent of Qrow’s twenty-sixth birthday, Tai arrived at his place loaded with grocery bags, a proper skillet and a determined purpose to make his favorite dish of chicken curry. It was, hands down, one of the best meals he’d had in years.

Yet, even after the occasion passed, the trend continued until it seemed Sunday became the day his stomach most looked forward too. Normally, Qrow would put up a fight about being doted after – Tai wouldn’t be the first omega to develop the habit. The most prominent of whom had been Maria, whose sessions had to be shorter than most both due to her age and the difficulty working with thinner, more wrinkled skin.

But she had also been a grandmother. A feisty one, who smacked him on the head a lot with her cane, but was also kind and worried and constantly remarking on his too-thin frame until he just gave up and let her do whatever she wanted.

But with Tai, he couldn’t even manage to feign annoyance. In part because Tai’s cooking was damn good and he’d be a fool not to gobble it up at every opportunity. But also, because it gave an excuse for their sessions to run long.

He didn’t even think it was a one-sided endeavor. Beyond the innate omega instinct to care for and Tai’s naturally generous personality, there was a loneliness in those blue eyes that told the truth behind all the fumbled attempts to waste time or make breaks run longer. By July, Tai wasn’t leaving his place until at least ten at night.

Neither of them complained about the arrangement.

Then August rolled around, and Qrow had an absolutely foolish idea.

The first Sunday of the month was on the 5th and it passed with little incident or notice. They were back at the first of the designs, arguably the most complex with the amount of color layers needed, so their dinner was nothing fancy. Just simple sandwiches and side salads, so most of their time could be spent under the needle instead.

He’d banked on that happening so that what would happen next wouldn’t have a chance of paling in comparison.

You busy tonight? He messaged early Wednesday.

Tai responded a few hours later, probably when his first break popped up. No. Why?

Come over after work. I have something to give you. He replied after he’d finished with his client for the day, sometime early afternoon.

The final response was cheeky and towards the end of the school day. You’re about as subtle as a brick.

Almost at 6 P.M. on the dot, there was a knock on his door.

“Coming!” Qrow called, dancing between the kitchen and the table to make sure everything was perfectly in place. He gave it all a satisfactory nod, then hurried over, sliding the door open only enough so he could wedge between it and the threshold, blocking Tai’s view.

The omega looked different, fresh out of work. His blond hair had been lightly gelled, just enough to give it a bit of bounce. The casual wear he was normally in was swapped out for a more professional look; pants and a collared shirt ironed of any wrinkles and shoes shined enough they gleamed.

So of course his eyes fell onto the one thing that completely ruined the look with a teasing snort. “Nice tie, Tai.”

“You like it?” He grinned, pulling at the absolutely hideous yellow abomination that was covered in yapping cartoon corgis. “The kids love ‘em. They call me the Funny Tie Guy.”

Oh Gods. “Bet you get a kick out of it every time.”

“I literally can knot get enough of it.” Tai had the nerve to wink as he said it too.

Qrow groaned. “You are so lucky it’s your day. Speaking of-” He swung the door open, revealing the room with a flourish.

Admittedly, it wasn’t much. Still, it was satisfying to see the way Tai’s face lit up with joy as he spotted the modest little table set for two, dinner already set in their bowls and the most expensive white wine he could reasonably afford already poured. The omega looked from it to him, grin growing, “You did all this?”

“Yeaaah.” Qrow flushed, trying to hide his anxiety. He’d never been great with giving gifts. “Happy birthday ya big lug.”

Tai laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulders and pulling him into a hug. “Thank you. This is just what I wanted.”

He could have stayed there forever – but he didn’t work himself to death to let dinner go cold. He pat his back, mindful of the healing wounds, and said, “Let’s eat.”

Qrow’s relationship with cooking was disjointed and the spread seemed to reflect that. The fried rice was perfect; it was one of the first things his mother taught him how to make on the stove. The garlic broccoli, more of a staple in the Xiao Long family, had a bit of crunch where some of the pieces hadn’t fully cooked through because he hadn’t had Tai beside him to remind him to stir. Just like the many other easy things he helped him learn how to make when he found out he and Raven had been living off nothing but white rice and peanut butter sandwiches for months.

The moo shu pork was the trickiest and most complicated dish by far and nothing he’d ever even attempted before. His amateur hand left it looking a bit of a mess as they poured it onto the tortillas. Unpretty as it was in presentation and lacking a few of the pricier ingredients like oyster sauce and sesame oil, the marinade had the pork still bursting with flavor.  

The wine was there to act as a garnish to make the food seem better than it was. Which was probably why Qrow kept pouring it until he and Tai had split two and a half glasses between each other. Either that, or because Tai was adorably chatty when he was tipsy.

“So, there we are, watching about thirty of these Fayblades spinning around, knocking into each other and some of the cheaper ones are falling apart. Everything is going too fast for any of us to do the math problems on them. And Missy and I just look at each other like we both just realized what a horrible mistake we made. It was only the first week back and I was pretty sure we were about to lose an eye or something.” As he told the story, Tai animatedly gestured around with his glass, liquid sloshing almost past the rim. “We get the kids to back up until they all stop. Then Missy starts gathering a few up, saying how this time we would try less so we can actually keep count – when Velvet speaks up from the back and says ‘Blue wins 124 to 90’.”

Qrow polished off his own glass, setting it on the table. “That’s the quiet one with the rabbit in her bag, right?”

“Mmhmm. She kind of tries to hide when everyone starts looking at her, so I don’t say anything right then. Just take it as fact and move on. But when recess comes around, I pull her aside and ask her how she knew the answer. And she tells me, completely serious mind you, that she’s a camera. So it was easy to do all the math when she basically had the pictures saved in her head. And I’m like, holy shit!” He taps his temple for emphasis. “She has a photographic memory.”

“Ain’t that just a myth?” He asked, starting to gather the empty dishes.

Tai waved him off. “Pfft. Qrow, you gotta stop thinking like the world’s just a big science textbook. It’s more like a-a fairytale! Where magic can happen at any moment.”

“Tai, you’re drunk.”

“I am not!” This time, when he gestured, some of the wine hit the table. He blinked down at it. “Ah, shit!”

He laughed. “Man, you still can’t hold your liquor.”

“You dishonor me.” The omega accused, pointing to his right hand as if it were an exhibit. “I’m holding it just fine.”

That only made him laugh harder, until he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

~

Somehow, they found themselves laying side by side on the bed, shoulders pressed together. Tai’s scroll was balanced between the head of the bed and the wall, the display playing the finale of their favorite show growing up, Silver Eyes.  It was the height of the final battle. Rosette was locked in battle with Bastinda while the rest of her friends lay, unconscious or ensnared in traps, around them.

“Do you not yet see how pointless this all is? How my power eclipses you all?” Bastinda snarled as she swung her wand down. “You’re all just insignificant riffraff!”

Rosette seemed to find some strength, blocking the attack with her broadsword. “You’re wrong! No one is insignificant! Even the smallest of us has something good to contribute.”

“Foolish child!” A powerful gravity spell threw Rosette to the ground, knocking her sword out of her hand.

“Gods,” Qrow griped. “This is cheesier than I remember.”

Tai shushed him. “Hush, the best part’s coming up!”

He rolled his eyes, but his traitorous mouth smiled all the same. Alright, so maybe this part was pretty hype. Watching it play out again on the screen, he felt ten again, practically glued to screen as his excitement built.

A large shadow stretched across the valley, delaying the witch from striking the final blow as she turned to the source. Up on the hill, sun behind him, was Zwei. Rosette’s little corgi that had been with her from the start of the show. He came racing down the hill, stubby little legs barely able to pick up speed.

Bastinda sneered, pointed her wand at the dog. “Pathetic.”

“Zwei, no!!” Rosette cried, tears filling her eyes just as the blast fired.

It seemed like the end for the lovable pup as smoke filled the air.

And then, with a blast of light, something came flying out of the dust and landing before the witch. The world rumbled under powerful paws as the giant white wolf stood before her, letting out a powerful growl that brought her to her knees.

“I don’t believe it!” Blanca cried from her mirror prison. “Zwei’s a Guardian!”

The rest of the finale played out just as he remembered, Zwei turning the tide of the fight and giving Rosette a chance to free her friends, all of them coming together for one final attack that rid the world of the cruel witch once and for all. After that, the wolf turned back into the lovable and more marketable corgi pup, and everyone headed home to enjoy true peace for the first time in a millennium.

Tai sat up as the credits began to roll, stretching his arms above his head. “I still think it holds up pretty well.”

“Sure, if you ignore the fact they completely sidelined Silver Eyes. It’s only the title of the show.” He snarked.

“Come on now. It’s not about the power ups. It’s about the journey and the-”

“Friends they made alone the way.” He mimed gagging. It was only the motto shoved down his throat at the end of almost every episode.

Tai merely laughed at his antics, picking up his scroll and slipping off the bed. “It’s late. I better head home.”

Maybe it was the vestiges of the alcohol or maybe it was the other’s scent, sweeter and more inviting than usual, that loosened his tongue enough to offer, “You could crash here, if you want.”

“In your bed? We hardly fit.”

Acquiescently, he rolled onto his side, practically shoving himself against the wall as he pat the wide, empty space. “It’ll be fine. And your drunk.”

“Hardly. And I’ll have to get up early to get back home and get ready.”

“It’s fine.” The noise left him involuntarily. It wasn’t a growl, really; it was barely more than a rumble. Regardless, the regret hit him instantly as he bit down on his tongue and turned his face up apologetically.

The omega just arched a brow, entirely unaffected and unimpressed by his pitiful display. Then he chuckled, any meteor-sized tension there could have been burning up long before impact could be made. “Gods, you’re such a punk, you know that?”

“I…uh…”

“Alright, you win.” Tai set the alarm on his scroll with his right hand, while he crossed the room and got the lights with his left. He used the glow coming off of the device to find his way back, dropping it onto the nightstand. In the bits of moonlight coming from the window, Tai became an erotic beauty as he undid his tie and buttons, shrugging out of his shirt. His belt hit the ground next – though mercifully he kept his pants on.

Qrow watched him, utterly transfixed, as he lowed himself to the bed, mattress dipping anew with the readded weight as the omega stretched out onto his stomach. Beyond all comprehension, he had to fight every muscle in his body from reaching for him. The need to bring him close and curl around him was overwhelming. So, he shoved his hands underneath the crook of his neck and locked his elbows.

Why had he thought this was a good idea again?

Tai heaved out a long sigh, mumbling, “Goodnight Qrow.”

He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper as he responded, “G’night.”

Without a clock in the room, there was no telling how long he lay there, coiled up tight like a spring waiting for the pressure to come loose, listening to the sounds of Tai’s breathing slowly evening out. It wasn’t until Qrow was absolutely certain the other wouldn’t wake that he risked it.

Though it felt a bit reprehensible, it was with that same uncontrolled desire in which he found himself scooting his upper half forward, inch by agonizing inch, until the bridge of his nose was pressed up against the curve of Tai’s shoulder.

His eyes slipped shut, breathing in deeply. The omega’s scent swirled around him, sunflowers and soil and bright summer days; a smell that was unmistakably, irrevocably Tai.

Here. With him.

Slowly, the rigidity to his muscles relaxed and he finally drifted off, the scent embracing him as securely as its owner could.

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 46 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Pearl invited Adore to a party

This Chapter: Adore has a very bad week, the design team gets more cronuts, and Raven has a lunch date with her bestie.

***

“I don’t understand…”

It had been a great night. Pearl had picked her up, both of them dressed to kill, Adore’s hair freshly dyed an icy turquoise. They’d had dinner, laughing their asses off while they swapped stories about concert debauchery and their favorite bands, and then went onto the party. It was just hours of dancing and flashing lights and pounding bass, their bodies pressed together, chemistry electric like it’d been when they first got together.

Things were so heated at one point that Pearl dragged Adore off to fuck her against a brick wall, making her shiver and moan, fingers gripping the lapels of Pearl’s motorcycle jacket.

After the party, they’d gone to an all-night diner in DUMBO for pancakes, sharing sticky kisses, leaving most of the food untouched as they giggled happily, party drugs slowly leaving their systems.

And then lastly, they’d wandered over to the bridge, the best spot in the whole city to watch the sunrise.

It was then, snuggled in Pearl’s arms as they watched the sky slowly begin to brighten, the first faint rays of light turning a few clouds pink, when Adore carefully brought up the idea of being monogamous. If not now, she figured, clinging together under a cotton-candy sky, then when.

“This open thing, I just...I feel like it’s making me paranoid, you know?”

What she wasn’t expecting, not after a night like that, was that Pearl would immediately let go of her, shaking her head, saying, “I’m just not ready for that.”

Which brought them to the present moment.

“I don’t understand…” Adore began, eyes welling up with tears. “Didn’t you have fun tonight?”

“Yeah, of course. I always have fun with you,” Pearl said.

“So then why-” Adore gulped as a single tear spilled down her cheek. “Why am I not enough for you?”

“It’s not that! You’re great. You are. There are just things I miss when we’re together. And I don’t want to make you a promise that I can’t keep.”

“Like what? What do you miss?”

“Like…” Pearl faltered. “Like, little lacy panties and kissing with lipgloss. Having a manicured hand in my hair while I eat a girl out. Watching an ass in high heels and smelling floral perfumes. Carrying her tiny purse-”

“So...I’m not femme enough?” Adore asked, head still shaking in confusion.

“You’re the one who asked.” Pearl sighed, pushing away from the bridge. “I like you, and it makes me sound like a douche, but, I dunno Adore. I’m a lesbian. I like girls. Sometimes-” Pearl looked over at her. “Sometimes you seem more like a boy.”

Adore swore she could feel her heart shatter, a wrecked sob leaving her. Growing up, one of her biggest sources of shame was not being enough of a “girl.” She never liked frilly things, she never liked the things her older sisters did, like ballet classes and fashion and shopping. She remembered being a kid, bored silly with the endless conversations about nail polish and push-up bras that she was subjected to.

When she came out, one of the best things was that a lot of those expectations were suddenly removed, lifted from her shoulders. She could make her own rules, and so she did. But sometimes, secretly, she still worried. She still glanced at her reflection when in a group of other girls, still wondered sometimes how she measured up.

Most of the time, she got plenty of validation--her friends praising her constantly, and even her sister’s lighthearted shade was affectionate, never failing to slip in a compliment. So she was able to curb her inner demons, really believe that she was beautiful and cute and lovable, even if she wasn’t the most feminine.

But today, hearing Pearl’s honest opinion...it was like someone confirming her worst fear. Like a boy. As she continued crying, her chest aching, she felt like even more of a monster than she ever had.

“C’mon, don’t cry.” Pearl didn’t touch her, and Adore was so thankful for that, as it would have made everything worse. “You’re a really cool boy, and it’s fun to spend time with you.”

“Just stop talking.”

“Let’s get a cab and head back-”

“You think I wanna ride in a cab with you right now?!” Adore asked angrily, swiping at her eyes, surely smearing her makeup even more. “Fuck you!”

“Adore-”

“Just go!” she exclaimed hoarsely, glaring right into Pearl’s tired eyes, daring her.

After a resigned sigh, Pearl muttered, “Whatever you say,” and turned, walking back towards Brooklyn.

***

Courtney had almost finished getting ready for work, putting the last touches on her makeup and looking for a pair of earrings both plain enough to be acceptable, but that she was certain she hadn’t worn in the last two weeks. She’d just pulled out a pair of small, inoffensive black hoops when her phone started buzzing, sending a wave of fear and nausea through her all at once.

It was barely 6:30, and getting a phone call at this time could only mean that there was some pending disaster for her at work--or worse, something she’d already screwed up. She reached for the phone with her heart in throat, stomach churning, only to see to her surprise that it wasn’t her work phone ringing. Brow furrowed, she picked up her old personal iPhone, wondering what could be wrong.

“Adore? Are you okay?”

“Pearl and I broke up,” came Adore’s shaky voice, hitching on the last word.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!”

“We had the best night, I thought things were turning around, and then she-”

What came next was almost totally incomprehensible as Adore tried to speak through her sobs.

“Where are you, honey? Do you need me to come and-”

“I’m on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“You’re what!?” Courtney’s heart nearly stopped, panic rushing through her like a bolt of lightning.

“No, I’m…It’s just cause we were at a party here. Don’t-” Adore managed to chuckle drily through her tears. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.”

“I’m just gonna walk across and then like...I dunno. Probably go home and sleep all day. But I thought...maybe we could hang out this week?”

“Of course! Whenever you want, just say the word. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks. I’m sorry to...I know you’re probably heading to work, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You know you can call me anytime. And Dore?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

Pearl was leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed, a constant throb behind her right eye.

Normally, she had nothing against the big glass doors and windows that let her entire team see her at all times, the installment of them her own choice, but right now, Pearl desperately wished she had a private office.

She was feeling absolutely wretched from last night, and if she was being honest, it wasn’t just leftover alcohol and party drugs that had her feeling like shit.

Adore had completely misunderstood, had refused to listen to her when she explained herself, the whole thing a terrible terrible mess.

It wasn’t Pearl’s fault that Adore had agreed to something she apparently wasn’t cool with, this whole situation only happening because Adore didn’t actually know herself.

Pearl crossed her arms, groaning, the lie comforting for a moment, but it was just that, a lie.

Adore had asked for honesty, but it seemed like Pearl had made a mistake indulging it. She didn’t know what to do, the guilty feeling new and unfamiliar.

“Pearl?” Pearl opened her eyes to see Laganja standing at her door, a curious expression on her face. “I need you to-”

“I don’t need to do shit until after you get me a coffee.”

“Okay boss?” Laganja raised an eyebrow. “Way to be a bitch.”

Laganja turned around and walked away, Pearl groaning as she slid even further down her chair, today going from bad to worse to terrible.

***

“Hello! Earth to Chachki.”

“Huh?” Violet looked up, Bob’s voice cutting through her thoughts. It was midmorning, Trixie coming into work with boxes of cronuts, a smile on his face as the designers had flocked around him.

Everyone had gathered at the couches, Violet’s stack of magazines she had already read in the corner, Maxwell asking if he could read them when she was done.

“Are you going to eat that?” Bob pointed at Violet’s plate.

“Oh.” Violet looked down, the pastry untouched. “Umh-” April had been kind enough to bring Violet a plate without being asked, her and Alexis sitting side by side. “What’s Trixie’s deal with these anyway?”

“With the cronuts?” Jovan looked over at her, Maxwell next to him.

“It means there’s a tough week ahead-” Maxwell waved his cronut around. “It’s kind of an apology in advance.”

“Ha,” Violet smiled, that statement so fitting with everything she knew of Trixie, the man downstairs in a meeting with Bendela.

“And the question still stands on whether or not you're eating that,” Bob nodded, his eyes still firmly on Violet’s cronut.

“Ah.” She hadn’t even tasted it, but Violet was not in the mood, Sutan’s question about Aspen still playing around in her head. “No.”

“Dibs then!” Blu grinned, reaching over the coffee table and snatching it from Violet’s plate.

“Hey!” Bob yelled, outrage on his face. “That was mine.”

“We can share it.” Blu smiled, breaking it in two.

“You guys,” Alexis rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her coffee as she flicked to the next page. “Awww, look!” Alexis lit up, turning the magazine around. “Remember when Lupita Nyong’o wore my dress to the Grammys?”

“Gimme!” Maxwell reached out, snatching it from Alexis' hand and Violet leaned over so she could see too, Jovan inches away from her.

Lupita looked stunning in her dark blue gown, the flowy skirt making her look like a goddess, Alexis’ signature draping all over it.

“She looks great,” Violet said, “You should be very proud.”

“Thanks, girl!”

Violet looked closer at the page, grimacing when she saw Katy Perry’s weirdly unflattering, asymmetrical suit.

“Katy Perry, though, what an absolute mess. It looks as if Maxwell and Jovan collabed while on acid.”

The second the words left her mouth, Violet regretted them.

This was the first time she had spoken her mind around her new coworkers, the first time she had let out her most sarcastic and dry thoughts, her heart speeding up.

Jovan and Maxwell looked at each other, and Violet tensed, prepared for the angry response she was sure would be coming. But instead of snapping at her or putting her in her place, both men burst out laughing, the rest of the group quickly joining in.

This was unlike anything Violet had ever experienced in school, her peers not laughing at her, but apparently with her instead, the feeling completely new. No one giving her death stares or looking at her like she was a stain on a carpet.

“Omigod, draaag them!” Bob exclaimed, wiping his eyes.

“I-” Violet didn’t know what to say. As a child, she had kept her mouth shut, never saying anything, even when it got her in trouble. It had gotten better at the academy, her body speaking for her, but her classmates and coworkers had taken her silence as a judgement, her corrections of their work like attacks instead of the advice she had meant it as.

In college, she had just stopped giving her opinion all together, another girl leaving a critique in tears when Violet had shared her honest thoughts.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Just to be clear,” Maxwell smiled, “I refuse to have this color story pinned on me.”

“Oh girl shut up,” Jovan grabbed the magazine. “It’s not the colors that makes this terrible, it’s the fucking cut. Are you blind?”

“Anything but the neckline is fine.”

“Okay, so you are blind?”

“I think all of it looks like shit too.”

“BLU!”

Violet smiled, watching her coworkers argue, for once, feeling like she completely and absolutely belonged with them.

***

Bianca stepped off the elevator into her foyer, nearly tripping over a pair of studded black combat boots telling her that she wasn’t coming home to her usual empty apartment.

“Adore? Hello? Where are you?”

Bianca walked through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, assuming that’s where she’d find her sister, but there was no Adore to be found.

“Adore!”

She started to get concerned when yipping from the dogs guided her into the den, where Adore was curled up on the giant L-shaped sofa, buried under 3 blankets, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the coffee table.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Adore looked up, blue eyes red and watery, lip quivering, and Bianca immediately softened at the sight.

“What’s wrong?” Bianca asked, although she had a pretty good idea already.

Adore rubbed her eyes and sniffled before saying, “Please just don’t say ‘I told you so,’ okay?”

“Aww, baby girl…” Bianca rushed to her side, wrapping her up into a hug and rocking her, rubbing her back, letting her cry it out. “I’m so sorry, pussycat.”

“I’m so stupid,” Adore cried into her neck, and Bianca shook her head vigorously.

“You’re not. Not at all. She’s the stupid one. Okay?” Bianca murmured against her temple.

“Do you have any ice cream?”

Bianca smiled slightly, brushing away a few of Adore’s tears with her thumbs. “I’ll have some delivered. Cookie dough or fudge brownie?”

“Both.”

“Coming right up.” Bianca pressed a kiss to Adore’s forehead and reached for her phone. The fact that things between Adore and Pearl had ended like this was no surprise, not to anyone with half a brain, but she still felt badly for her sister, would still do anything possible to help her feel better.

***

“Juju!” Raven stood up, smiling brightly as she watched her best friend make her way through the restaurant. “It’s so good to see you!” Raven pulled her in for a hug, breathing in the scent of the coconut oil Juju always used.

“Hi gorgeous!” Juju said, hugging her back, and Raven grinned, pulling back to take her in.

Juju looked amazing, her brown hair styled in her signature curls, her blouse of the day a satin lilac with a bow. And of course that bump, growing every day.

“Mama, how did you grow this much in two weeks?” Raven put a hand on Juju’s belly, a tight pencil skirt holding it in. She couldn’t feel the baby yet, but that didn’t matter.

“My best guess is curly fries.” Juju laughed. “I’ve been hitting up Arby’s on my way home from the salon every day, because I…” Juju framed her face with triumphant jazz hands, “am garbage!”

“That’s why we love you,” Raven giggled, pressing a kiss to her friend’s cheek before getting back into their seats.

Raven and Juju had been friends for years. Raven had liked Juju from the moment they met,  Sutan putting her in Juju’s salon chair the second he had signed her for Elite, but they hadn’t officially clicked until she had started dating Raja.

Raven had never really had a best friend growing up, and she was so happy that she had Juju, even though they didn’t see each other as much as they both wanted to. Raven often visited the Sanderson household, spending her evenings there sometimes when Raja worked late--but with the twins, Detox and Kelly around, they rarely had time just the two of them. So as soon as the waiter came by and took their orders, she got down to business.

“Tell me all about your trip!” Raven said. “How’s the new location doing?”

“Oh man. I mean it’s going well so far, but could I have chosen a worse time to open up a new salon? I’m so busy already, and now this new kid. I’m a little worried.”

Juju’s New York salon was such a success that over the years she’d opened up several more locations: Los Angeles, Miami, and Chicago. And now, her latest one in Atlanta, opened just a month before she’d found out that she was pregnant again.

“If anyone can do it, you can!” Raven told her with an encouraging squeeze, remembering how hectic things had been after the twins were born. “Look at it this way...at least it’s only one baby this time.”

“Ha! That’s true. Anyway, so far so good. Plus it’s around the corner from the best restaurant I have ever been, in my life”

“In Atlanta?” Raven asked, stirring her iced tea, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, don’t be such a snob!” Juju laughed.

“Whatever you say,” Raven replied.

“Rave, seriously. I mean the food was good, but the desserts?”

Raven perked up, eyes getting bigger and bigger as Juju proceeded to describe a decadent chocolate mousse cheesecake and coconut bread pudding soufflé.

“Stop, omigod!” she finally interrupted, picking up her napkin to fan herself with it. “This is too public. It’s like watching porn on the subway.”

Jujubee laughed, clapping her hands. “Sounds fun! I’m gonna try that. Also...” Juju gestured to the dessert tray rolling by, piled high with confections.

“Ugh, I would push my grandmother in front of a bus for one of those!” Raven groaned, and Juju laughed again.

“So have one! You can’t still be on your runway diet, right?”

“No, I am. “ Raven sighed. “Galactica is doing that showroom thing for the holiday collection next week, and in December I have two swimwear shoots.”

Just thinking about it, Raven groaned. She was excited about the Galactica booking, showroom shows technically way below her level of modeling, but Raven took any excuse she could to work with Raja, spending time with her finacée more than enough reason to put up with the tedious task of playing mannequin for the day.

What was starting not to feel worth it, was the swimwear shoots.

Raven wanted the money, and she was happy she had work, but she couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving, Sutan giving her a mere 6 hours of carte blanche to eat whatever she wanted.

“I’ve been in the gym two hours every day, eating like, grass and leaves.”

Raja had been sweet about it, encouraging her and helping her, but her fiancée just didn’t understand, getting in shape and most importantly keeping the same shape never an issue for Raja, Raja’s measurements largely the same in her 40s as they had been in her 20s. Raven was just happy that Raja seemed to love her body no matter what, the grind of being perfect getting harder and harder every year.

“It’s been horrendous.”

“Aww, I’m sorry boo.” Juju reached over the table, squeezing Raven’s forearm. “If it helps, Kelly’s getting into cooking and yesterday she made us the most god-awful pancakes I’ve ever had. I didn’t want to discourage her so I had five.”

“How is you eating five pancakes supposed to make me feel better?!” Raven shrieked.

“They were terrible!”

“They were pancakes! Do you know how long it’s been since I had a pancake, you fuckin’ bitch?!”

Juju opened her mouth to reply, but instead, caught sight of the absolutely enraged expression on her friend’s face and burst out laughing. Soon both of them were laughing, clutching their sides, completely unconcerned with the number of Upper East Side ladies giving them the stink-eye.

***

COURTNEY: Hey honey, how’s it going?

ADORE: Well. Bianca is keeping the liquor cabinet well-stocked, so...counting my blessings.

COURTNEY: I really want to see you.

ADORE: Me too. Ditch work tomorrow and come hang out with me.

COURTNEY: Ha! I wish.

ADORE: Maybe Friday? Sleepover at my place?

COURTNEY: It’s a date. <3

***

“If you’d please direct your attention to the beading samples in front of you, I’ve made horizontal and vertical variations, the horizontal the pattern I’ve integrated on the bodice-”

As an assistant, Violet had been used to Fame’s steely blue eyes every single day, a squint, a lifted brow, the twist of a mouth more than enough to tell Violet everything she needed to know.

Now, it felt like Fame was a complete stranger, her boss sitting with Raja at her side, both of them completely impassive, Fame’s face not giving anything away.

“And it’s my clear conviction that that will be the best choice, the lines creating a more pleasant visual.”

Violet knew it wasn’t her outfit, her hair styled with a golden clip exactly like Fame liked it, her nails the almond shape and pale pink that was never a problem, her shoes the regulated height so Violet wouldn’t tower over Fame if they had to walk anywhere together.

“For the sleeves, I hope you’ll considered the flared options,” Violet twisted her mannequin, showing off the right sleeve that she had carefully attached with loose stitches to her dress, “But I’ve also done a more traditional slender-”

“Violet.”

Violet froze, looking over at Fame, her boss wearing a white sweater and white high waisted pants, the row of pearls on her Jimmy Choo’s matching her bracelet and earrings.

“That’s all.”

“Oh,” Violet felt her stomach clench, a flash of disappointment washing over her. “Yes Miss.”

Violet grabbed her mannequin, knowing defeat when it was staring her in the face. She had no idea what she had done wrong, Fame cutting her off mid sentence, all the other designers getting feedback or questions.

Violet watched as Alexis rolled up, the other woman instantly filling out the room with her personality, even making Raja laugh as she showed off the several garments she was working on.

Violet swallowed her disappointment, breathing through her nose as she left the meeting room, her nails digging into her palm.

Years of ballet had taught her that sometimes, even your best wasn’t enough, but without feedback, Violet had no idea what to change or how to fix the situation.

She sat at her desk, tailoring thankfully sending up a package with options for details on her prêt-à-porter so she could distract herself.

Violet was going over the button options for the clothes that would end up mass produced for the stores, when she felt Trixie’s hand on her shoulder.

“Good work today Violet.” Trixie smiled, sitting down on the edge of her desk. He was wearing a blue fuzzy sweater with a teddy bear on it, the creation so clearly made by Katya, a clipboard in his hand.

“Thanks.” Violet bit her cheek, doing her best not to let the disappointment show on her face.

“I know it’s tough right now, not knowing where you stand, but remember. You’re most likely already in the collection somewhere.” Trixie’s voice was soft, which actually only made Violet feel worse, his compassion not at all what she needed. “While we’re waiting for placements and final feedback, I need you to focus on Holiday.”

“Yes.” Violet nodded. She only had one piece in the holiday collection, but she still had to do her best.

“Everything is happening Monday, and I hope you’re ready for it. I expect you to be there bright and early, getting to know how these things work will be crucial for your further career here.”

“Yes sir-” Violet cut herself off, the sir feeling all wrong. “You got it coach.”

[hailing-stars]

next time we’re going bowling 

summary

“Do you think if the vampires suck my blood they’ll turn into spider-vampires?” Peter asks them.

Bucky narrows his eyes and tilts his head at him.

Sam grimaces, then shakes his head. “Now we are. Do us a favor and don’t get bit by one.”

The cage returns to silence, and Peter becomes more fidgety, more anxious to avoid overhearing anymore of the vampire dinner party happening up above. He tries not to let his mind drift to the unlikely hood of his plan not working, and that if it doesn’t, two of them will end up as appetizers.  

“Seriously, guys,” says Peter. “If they turn me and I end up biting your neck, you have full permission to stab with a stake and light my body on fire.”

OR 

It’s Peter, Sam and Bucky VS a bunch of vampires.

read on ao3 or after the undercut!!

It isn’t the worst cage Peter’s ever been locked in. Actually, it’s kind of nice. A little doom and gloom, not much lighting, but he’s relaxed, with his back propped up against the black brick wall behind him and his legs kicked out in front of him.

That’s the mark of a good detainment, he decides, leg room.

Even if his company doesn’t appreciate their mission, and current situation for what it is, quality bonding time, Peter doesn’t care. He’s determined to make the best of it.

Bucky sits in the corner, half his back against the unbreakable bars (he spent the first thirty minutes of their imprisonment trying to snap them in half with his metal arm) and half against the bricks. Sam’s sitting next to the door, occasionally glancing at the hinges, and trying to work out a way to trick it into opening.

Their sulky silence is getting old, and Peter begins tapping his fingers against the concrete floor. Without any noise to focus on his extra sensitive hearing branches out in all different angles. He can hear the leaky pipes, the rotting wood of the ancient building they’re stuck underneath, and the monsters upstairs, clinking together wine glasses filled with blood.

“Do you think if the vampires suck my blood they’ll turn into spider-vampires?” Peter asks them.

Bucky narrows his eyes and tilts his head at him.

Sam grimaces, then shakes his head. “Now we are. Do us a favor and don’t get bit by one.”

The cage returns to silence, and Peter becomes more fidgety, more anxious to avoid overhearing anymore of the vampire dinner party happening up above. He tries not to let his mind drift to the unlikely hood of his plan not working, and that if it doesn’t, two of them will end up as appetizers.  

“Seriously, guys,” says Peter. “If they turn me and I end up biting your neck, you have full permission to stab with a stake and light my body on fire.”

“I’m already considering that, actually, just to shut you up,” says Sam.

“Hang on,” Bucky pipes in. “How do you know they’re gonna pick you?”

“Well it’s obvious isn’t it,” says Peter, without blinking. “Vladdy said they’ll kill two of us and turn one, and I’m the most capable vampire candidate.”

“How’s that?” Bucky presses more, seeming, almost, slightly offended.

“I’m youngest, the strongest, half-spider. It’s a no-brainer.”

“I’m more menacing. And the strongest part is debatable.”

“But you’re pretty old, no offense,” Peter points out. “And you’ve become way less murdery over the years, so I’m still thinking they’ll pick me.”

“Will you two can it?” Sam stands up and grips the handle of the cell door. “They’re not picking any one of us because we’re getting out of here. Stop arguing about nonsense and help me think of a plan.”

“Already got a plan,” says Peter, with a shrug.

Bucky and Sam glare at him.

“Look all we gotta do is get Bucky to hit them with his silver arm, and poof, vampire problem is solved.”

“Peter,” says Sam, after a long pause and a long breath. “It’s werewolves that don’t like silver. And Bucky’s arm is metal, it’s not made out from silver.”

“Same difference, same color. Besides vampires and werewolves are like the same thing? They both have pointy teeth and like to eat people, so what’s the difference, really?”

“I guess now we know why Bella had just a hard time picking between Edward and Jacob,” says Bucky, leaning his head back against the bars. Sam and Peter stare at him. “What? The Tower gets boring sometimes and Scott lets me borrow his books.”

Before Peter could point out that it was always obvious Bella was going to choose Edward, the door at the top of the basement door creaks open. They all fall silent as the vampire, wearing a black suit and a velvet cape descends the stairs. His pale skin made him glow, almost, even in the darkness of the room.

Peter takes a deep breath and stands. “Hey, Count Chocula, mind letting us out of here? Didn’t anyone ever tell you? It’s rude to keep your guests waiting.”

The vampire doesn’t respond. Instead he continues to approach the cage, walking so graceful for a few seconds Peter thinks he’s gliding. When he gets to the bars of the cage, Peter steps up next to Sam.

He knows he has to be fast, and he is. With one fluid moment, he takes the small, but sharp, wooden stake out of his pocket and stabs it through the heart of the vampire on the other side of the cage. Vladdy falls to his knees, red eyes filled with pain, and Peter takes a step backwards and down on his knees, too.

“Quick!! Before you die, which one of us was gonna be turned vampire?”

He opens his mouth to answer but falls flat on the concrete before he can reply.

“Damnit. Whatever. He was gonna say me.”

Sam punches him on the arm. “Did you have that this entire time?”

“Yes,” says Peter. He shrugs. “We were vampire hunting. I had to have supplies.”

“Might’ve been nice to mention it, Pete.”

“We were bonding.” It’s his only defense, and the truth. He can handle vampires on his own, but why do that when he can also invite Sam and Bucky? “Besides I didn’t think we’d need it. It was my backup plan.”

For the third time the cage falls silent. Sam glares at him, while Bucky searches the dead vampire corpse and finds the key to their cage. He unlocks it and they spill out into freedom, the three of the looking around the dark basement, then finally up the stairs, the only way down of the coven’s house.

“Gotta anymore supplies?” asks Sam.

With a grin, Peter pulls three small gold and red Iron Man water guns from his pocket. “They have Holy Water inside. There’s this lawyer I know in Hell’s Kitchen. He knows a few priests.”

Sam and Bucky each take a water gun from Peter.

“They just had to be Iron Man…” Bucky’s voice trails off as the shadow of more vampires appear in the doorway at the top of the creaky, wooden stairs.

“I’m borrowing them from Morgan.”

“Of course.”

What happens next is the highlight of Peter’s week. It’s a water gun fight, except he’s shooting actual vampires and watching them crumple to the ground, scream, and be wiped from existence. He’s doing pretty good, too, until he’s out of water gun and gets cornered by one he hadn’t seen coming.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he repeats, voice getting higher, as his back hits the wall. He puts his arms up to protect himself, bracing for a bite that would bring about the reality of spider-vampires, but it never comes.

Instead, he hears more screaming, and when he looks, he sees the strangest sight since he walked in on Tony brushing Gerald’s fur. It’s the vampire, biting down on Bucky’s arm, and wringing in pain as Bucky pushes it off, its teeth remaining in his arm, pulled straight from the vampire’s mouth.

Sam is quick to put the creature out of its misery with a few sprays from the water gun.

And that’s it. They’re done. They’re three Avengers standing in a basement with a dead coven laying at their feet.

“That was… so awesome!” says Peter. He takes a step closer, and examines the teeth stuck in Bucky’s arm. “I knew your prosthetic would come in handy.” He looks at Sam. “See? My plan worked.”

“Barely.”

Together they do the last part of their job. They get a gallon of gasoline, pour it over the house, and light a match. Sam drops it in the basement where all the bodies lay, and they sprint from the house and watch from the yard as it begins to burn.

“That was fun,” Peter decides out loud. “We gotta hung out again sometime.”

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. “Next time we’re going bowling.”

Bucky’s too preoccupied trying to remove the teeth that are still lodged in his arm to offer anything meaningful to their conversation.  

“By bowling do you mean- “

“-actual bowling,” says Sam. “No vampires. No aliens. No freaky giant lizards.”

“Oh,” says Peter, deflating at first, but then after thinking about, “That sounds nice, actually.”

“I think I’m gonna need Stark to build me another arm,” mutters Bucky.

Sam whistles his agreement, and they turn their attention upward again, where the house, along with the monsters inside, are burning to the ground.  

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober Day 12

Broken Bones | Broken Trust

Ao3

Warnings: panic attacks, death of oc bad guy, misunderstandings, attempted kidnapping, threats against minor and infant, gun violence

-o-o-o-o-

Three years ago, Batman and Robin sat together above an old but locally trusted doughnut shop. The sun was nowhere to be found while the stars and moon hid behind storm clouds that threatened to rain at any second. For now though, the two vigilante's busied themselves with the slightly stale but still edible doughnuts the shop was about to throw away. It wasn't like they asked for the doughnuts, but sometimes Gotham's citizens showed appreciation for their local heroes in their own ways. 

Dick didn't think Damian’s ever had a crappy, all American doughnut before. By the looks on Damian's face behind his domino mask, he didn't like it. But it was a kind of dislike where you continued to eat it simply because it was a gift and there was nothing else to eat. Besides, Damian made that face for every meal given to him, even the ones Alfred prepared. Dick knew the poor kid was still adjusting to the food culture here. Dick  understood  it. He had to go through it too. 

Damian, despite his visual displeasure of the pastry, finished before Dick and sat there with a lax look on his face, kicking his legs out to a tune only he knew, letting the backs of his boots bounce off the lip of the rooftop they sat over. 

Damian had been quiet all night. Less chatty. Less insults thrown... even towards criminals. Dick knew something was on his mind, but he didn't quite know how to ask what was wrong. He was still learning Damian. And while the kid was… something like  close  with Dick, closer than what he was with anyone else in their shattered family, he still didn't like it whenever anyone so much as suggested he wasn't as calm, cool, and collected as he made pretend to be. 

Dick quickly stuffed the rest of his doughnut in his mouth, knowing Alfred already somehow knew they broke their diets and was preparing some sort of verbal rant session for the two of them, and turned to Damian. Cleared his throat. 

"Hey, Dami-an?" He asked, quickly continuing from where he accidentally almost left off with the nickname. Dick knew the kid secretly liked Dick's subtle way of showing affection with nicknames, but he would also sometimes bristle because he felt he needed to. Dick didn't want to immediately put him on edge. 

"Names, Batman," Damian replied, but it sounded half-hearted. They both knew the only thing listening to them right now was the mouse scuttling around in the dumpster in the alleyway below. 

Because Damian didn’t sound like he was going to say much more, Dick took a deep breath and took that as Damian’s response.

“You know, if anything is bothering you, you can talk to me, right?”

Damian didn’t reply, but his kicking legs slowed to a stop and his lips tugged down into a frown. Whether it was a thoughtful frown or an upset one, Dick couldn’t quite totally tell, especially from this side angle.

Dick was almost ready to jot this down as the end of the conversation when against all odds Damian opened his mouth with a shaky breath.

“Nothing is bothering me... Grayson,” he said slowly, carefully, like he was afraid the slightest misunderstood word would cause Dick to cast him off. “I’m just... thinking. About...” Damian paused. Dick remained silent. Damian took another deep breath, sinking back into his shell ever so slightly. “I was just thinking about how much... I unexpectedly enjoy being your partner. And that I am... honored to be trusted by you.”

Dick smiled and lifted one arm, wrapping his grasp around Damian and pulling him close to his side. Damian squawked, but it wasn’t angry. Dick squeezed his one-armed embrace tighter. “I’m happy you told me, little D. And, I hope you know that I don’t only trust you to be Robin, but I trust you with every aspect of my life. You’re family now, Dami. And I want you to know that you can trust me  too  . With  anything . I will always take your side. I’ll never assume the worst of you. You can trust me as much as you can trust that it’ll rain in Gotham tomorrow.”

Damian’s frown turned upwards ever so slowly. The beginnings of a smile. It made Dick grin wider. “I’ll remember that, Grayson,” Damian said, his voice oddly reverent. Damian ducked out of his embrace now, jumping to his feet and brushing stale doughnut crumbs from the bottom of his tunic. He pulled up his hood just as the first flash of lightning struck through the air, bringing an earthquake of thunder and a sudden sheet of rain. “It appears we have a patrol to finish before we’re soaked to the bone.”

“It appears so,” Dick laughed, and the thought of some criminal seeing him laugh like this, dressed like the dreaded Batman of Gotham and  laughing  caused him to almost laugh  harder .

With a nod to his young Robin, they both pulled out their grapples like a well oiled machine and jumped together out into the night. 

-o-o-o-o-

“Robin,” Batman’s voice commands, bringing Damian out of the focus he has on his current task. He looks up from the woman he’s helping to her feet, having gotten knocked over by the retreating bandits of her jewelry store to see his father scuffling with the three out of five burglars that haven’t managed to book it. “Door!”

Damian, right there, once again for the millionth time since his father has been back from being lost in the time stream, is reminded of the different expectations Richard and his father both have and had as Batman. While Richard would prioritize making sure everyone was okay before giving chase, father would give chase after making a mental note that everyone was at least  breathing .

It’s been two years since Damian’s been his blood father’s Robin. He doesn’t know why he still leans towards Richard’s way of things.

Damian nods and lets go of the woman, sticking around just a heartbeat longer to make sure she doesn’t fall over, but the moment he sees that she can balance on her own he turns tail and jumps over the smashed glass counters towards the emergency back door of the little jewelry shop.

He bursts outside the door, stepping out into the suffocatingly dirty air of Gotham that he can never get used to. He looks down the alleyway he has emerged into and pulls out one of his swords the moment he sees the two escapee bandits sprinting down the alleyway towards the road.

And Damian can’t have that. He begins chase, pumping his legs with practiced ease, the cape tugging on his neck as he tugs up his hood. One of the bandits looks behind her and gives a startled yelp when she sees him ever approaching. They run faster, but they’re heading to a chain linked fence that reaches up at least a story to prevent trespassers. Shockingly, the wires haven’t been cut through. They must have been recently replaced. 

Because most fences have more holes cut into them than what they should in this city. 

The man in this escaping duo grabs onto the fence and begins to attempt to climb. Damian uses his free hand to dig into his utility belt and throw with deadly— accurate , not deadly—precision a batarang with a small electric shock coded into its blades. He hits his mark, the man’s left shoulder, and soon the man is crying out and falling to the ground with his arm twitching. The woman swears and turns, pulling out a gun and dropping the bag of jewels she had been carrying and aims with shaky hands towards Damian.

Damian jolts to the side just as she fires her first shot, the bullet whizzing a pathetic distance to his side and sending sparks into the brick wall. Because of her laughable aiming and panicked actions, Damian manages to close in quickly and swing his sword. The blunted side of his blade—the side he’s become accustomed to using more often than its sharp counterpart—hits the inside of her wrist and knocks the gun to the ground. 

“ Fuck ,” she yells, grabbing her wrist and backing up like a cornered animal

Easy. Damian almost feels sorry for them. The man is getting back to his feet, but his legs are shaky and his face pale. The woman looks about ready to try and dart past Damian, but the alleyway is too narrow, especially with the various dumpsters lining the walls, for her to go much anywhere. 

"Will we do this simply?" Damian asks, bringing his sword out in front of him. "Or will you both continue to embarrass yourselves?"

"Fuck this bullshit," the man hissed, then pulls out a gun of his own that Damian honestly should have expected. It doesn't matter though, because the man's aim is just as off as the woman's and the bullet slams into the side of one of the dumpsters. 

And Damian was about to charge forward and put an end to this, but then an unexpected noise fills the alleyway. 

The screeching, terrified cry of an infant. 

Damian has just enough time to realize that the infant's cry is coming from the dumpster before the woman is charging forward and ramming himself into Damian's side. Damian swears—just barely in control of his emotions with the heightened risk of a  dumpster  baby to keep the curse in English—and carefully turns his body so when his opposite side hits the alleyway wall, it doesn't hurt too much. Hands grab for Damian's chest, thick arms attempting to wrap around his upper body to physically restrain him but Damian has none of it. 

With a dirty kick to the man's groin, Damian slips out of his grasp and brings his sword back in front of him. He looks at the burglars, about to charge, but then freezes in his tracks when he sees the woman standing by the dumpster, a wriggling bundle of moth eaten blankets in one arm while her free hand aims her partner's gun down. 

And of course this doesn't shock Damian. If these two are willing to shoot Damian, who is clearly physically a  child , then what gripes would they have with shooting an infant. 

"Back away, you shit," the woman hisses. 

The baby wails. Tiny lungs heaving for air, but not being able to grab enough before it's sobbing again. And for a second, Damian can't move. Trapped between wanting to stop these thieves and do as he's told and wanting to keep the baby safe. The innocent child that has done nothing wrong. Abandoned by its parents, left to either die or be found by someone willing to let it live. 

"The infant has no part in this-" Damian tries, but the woman scowls and presses the gun down, the barrel stabbing into the blankets and causing the baby's cries to rise. The man slowly backs away from Damian towards the chain link fence. Damian takes a step back, and then weighs his options. 

And in the end, there really isn't any. His father values the capture of criminals, but Damian was taught by Richard, who had always put the needs of the innocent above and beyond anything else. Is there anything in this world more innocent than a newborn? Damian can’t let this child be harmed. And he can’t trust it in these thieves' care. 

He makes to lower his sword, the woman slightly relaxes, then Damian  moves . 

Dropping a flare from a compartment in his gauntlet, Damian slams into the woman just as the alley erupts into light. Damian manages to grab the baby from the woman's hand and back up a few steps just as the light is beginning to fade, but then a heavy body jumps into his own. The baby screeches in Damian's ear as they both go down hard, and it's all Damian can do to protect its head as the man lands on top of them. 

Heavy legs begin to straddle his waist, a deep voice cussing threats. Damian's on his side, struggling to breathe, cradling a baby with his cape in one hand and realizing his other hand is empty. He has dropped his sword somewhere in the confusion. 

And maybe it's the adrenalin. Maybe it's the hand that slammed down on his head and pinned his face into the dirty cemented ground. Maybe it's the screaming baby in his ears, or the way it writhed, tiny limbs flailing for someone who would take it away and keep it safe. Maybe it was the intense desire to just. Keep. The. Baby. Safe. 

Damian let's instincts take over. He let's the baby's survival outweigh everything else. In a blink of an eye, the man on top of him goes still and warm liquid splatters all over Damian's face and chest, causing the already distraught baby to become more upset.

He recognizes the feel of blood. He recognizes the shape of his right handed sword in his left. He recognizes the sound of a man gurgling on his own blood, going limp and falling to the ground. When Damian opens his eyes, he recognizes the way the man twitches weakly, hands going up to the gaping cut in his neck. The blood spews from his open throat and mixes with the puddles of rainwater that never go away. The woman screams. The grasping fingers do nothing to stop the blood. 

And the horror sets in.

And Damian doesn't even have time to contemplate what he's done. He stares dumbly for a drop of time. A single grain of sand. Before he can do anything—cradle the child, staunch the flow of blood, stop the woman from screaming, cry cry cry because he messed up—a dark shadow moves behind him.

"Robin," a voice growls. 

And it's all Damian can do to continue cradling the child as Batman rushes to the fallen, dying man, and presses his hands against his neck. 

The baby sobs weakly, all of its energy spent, and Damian sits there until the life of the man ultimately fades away regardless of Batman's efforts. 

He… he didn't mean to.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick staggers into his apartment, feeling more like shit than the actual shit he had to go through tonight. Literally and figuratively. And he thought Gotham sewers were the worst. Dick's never going to complain about Gotham sewers ever again. 

Dick needs a shower. Pronto. To both wash off all the  icky  from his skin and the blood too. Tonight's been rough. Rough like sandpaper. Viciously rough like the skin of a shark. Criminals tonight were  on  one. Causing him to go every which way in the city, stopping bank robberies, drug deals, attempted kidnappings, a few premeditated murders here and there. And the worst of the matter was that at one murder he happened to stumble upon—as you do in Blüdhaven—the cops, on complete happenstance, managed to actually show up early this time. 

Dick just barely managed to not get directly shot in the head before jumping down the nearest manhole cover. They weren't cops he recognized. Ones he didn't know and trust from his old days on the force. BCPD, despite his constant efforts, just never seem to trust him. Always wanted to connect him to crimes. Turn the city against him. He can guarantee that tomorrow the headlines will read NIGHTWING: MAN SLAYER? or something just as false and untrue. So now he's going to be at the highest of the cops shit-list and it's going to be so fucking difficult to find who the actual murderer was. 

Just. Great. 

He needs a shower. 

He carefully maneuvers through his apartment, not wanting to drop anything gross from his soaking legs and boots onto anything important, and eventually manages to get to his bathroom without managing to completely destroy anything with sewage water. 

He's in the middle of stripping down to his grimy skin when his phone begins to vibrate on the bathroom counter. Dick ignores it for the moment and turns on the shower, a flash of irritation shooting through his nerves. 

Whoever needs him this early in the day can wait. He has 6 hours to shower, eat, then sleep before work starts. 

He's stepping into the shower when his phone stops vibrating. 

Then it immediately begins again. 

Dick sighs. So much for getting any sleep tonight. Maybe he can skip eating?

He pokes his head out of the shower and frowns. 

"B" is on the caller ID. 

Ugh. Okay, so this one he might actually need to take. He regretfully gets out of the shower and wipes his hands on the nearest towel before picking up his phone and sliding the answer button.

He brings the phone up to his ear. 

"What's up?" He asks. 

Bruce's voice growls in his ear. Dick almost jokes about how Bruce should have said something kinder and happier and ask how Dick's day had been, but then he processes the words said to him and freezes. 

"What?" He asks. 

Bruce continues. Dick slowly sits down on the toilet seat, able to do nothing but blink and process. Dick takes a deep breath.

"Is he okay? No- Bruce I know, but that doesn't- Damian doesn't just-"

"…"

"I see… no, I know.  I know . I can't Bruce, I have work-"

Frustration bubbles in his chest. "Bruce, he's  your  kid. Whatever happened tonight must have happened for a reason, and it's  your  job- I- Why do you think he only listens to me?!" Dick stands up from the toilet. "I'm the only one who bothers to listen to  him  half the time. Bruce did you even  ask  him why-? I can't come over."

"Bruce I can't-"

Dick takes a deep breath.  Fine ! Fine… fine. Fine, I'll come over. Just… give me a minute? I'll be over.…"

"I know, Bruce. I know. I understand. Mhm. K. Yeah. Bye."

Dick clicks off his phone and groans, leaning against the toilet's tank. 

So much for his ingenious plan of shower, food, sleep. He stands up and quickly washes the worst of the sewage off of him, then uses a towel to dry himself quicker. After walking briskly to his room and stuffing his still damp body into the nearest shirt, clean pair of underwear, and sweats he could find, he grabs the keys to his bike and is on his way towards Gotham. 

The entire way, he can only focus on the knot of worry in his throat. 

He was irritated. Frustrated. He's not Damian's father.  Bruce  should be the one to find out what was going on with the kid and what would lead him to… to  kill . 

But at the same time, he knew something more had to be going on. Damian doesn't kill. That isn't a part of his life anymore. 

This entire situation needs to be got to the bottom of. Dick just wished he had more than three hours of sleep from the night before while going into this himself. 

-o-o-o-o-

Damian's been back at the manor for about an hour and a half, hiding away in his bedroom while his father dealt with the police, the dead body, and the abandoned baby that had to be forced from Damian's arms. 

He took a shower. Scrubbed his skin so it's still raw and red. There's no blood on him, but he can smell it. The stench is powerful. Potent. So much so he's almost tempted to sneak from his room and grab that sinus teapot Alfred the Butler liked so much. 

But leaving his room involved… leaving his room. Besides, he's already stuffed his face under the shower faucet, nearly waterboarding himself to get out a fetor that's clearly and simply all his imagination. 

He can only imagine what will happen to him when his father returns. What kind of… punishment that awaits him. Damian knows he's not the first in the family to have killed. But for some reason, Damian's always felt a pressure on him that must have been heavier than the rest. The others slipped from their lighted paths and made mistakes. Mistakes can be forgotten and forgiven. Damian, however, was born into this shadowed path of death and gore. He fought his way up to justice, crawled up the slope of redemption with bloodied hands and knees. 

Damian killing again? Like this? It was him returning to his old ways. 

It wasn't a mistake. It was Damian showing his true colors. 

And that scares Damian, so he doesn't think about it longer. He's faced punishments far worse than what Batman would ever give. He can take whatever his father gives. 

Even if it… even if he takes Robin away. Damian will take it. 

He just feels like there's something missing in all of this. Something Damian himself isn't grasping. Saying he's killed a man so easily feels wrong. Untrue. Like his own brain is trying to convince him that he's wrong. He didn't murder. At least, he didn't do it with a cold heart. Like the entire night was a giant puzzle, and there was one piece missing that could change the entire picture.

He's reading too much into it. He hopes the baby, at least, is fine. Maybe father can adopt it. Replace Damian with a real child. 

There's a knock on his door, thankfully tearing him away from those thoughts. 

He looks up from where he's been picking at his clean nails, trying to get every last bit of invisible dried blood from his person. The door is knocked on again, and Damian stands up. Something in his chest flutters with panic, but he ignores it and lifts his chen proudly. He will not cower into his father's fury. 

He will not. 

He opens the door, and then  everything  falters.

It's not father. It's Richard. 

And the fluttering panic turns into trembling hope.  Richard  . Standing in front of him is none other than the one person Damian can  always  trust to find those last, tiny little puzzle pieces to make everything okay again. Damian thinks he smiles, but his face feels too raw from scrubbing—and definitely not wiping away tears—for him to be sure. 

He almost greets Richard, but then he notices how haggard and worn he looks. His clothes don't match. His hair is a mess. There's a strange stench that almost overpowers the blood that sticks to Damian like super glue.

"Richard?" Damian asks, trying to sound braver than what he actually all of a sudden felt. He has no need to be fearful of Richard… so why does he rapidly feel so afraid when Richard gives him a cold look and steps into the room?

"Sit," Richard says, pointing to the bed. Damian does as he's told, slowly. He tries to think of what Richard would be so upset about. Surely he's not here to simply carry on the will of their father and punish Damian himself? "Bruce told me to talk to you."

"I see…" Damian says, scooting to the side to make room for Richard to sit besides him. Richard doesn't take the offer. He stands tall above Damian, his arms across his chest. 

He remains silent as Richard takes a deep breath. He remains frozen as Richard begins to speak. "Bruce told me you killed someone."

And those words coming out of Richard's mouth… hurts. Hurts enough for Damian to realize that they're  not  true. They  can't  be true. Damian… he doesn't kill. He  doesn't . And there has to be... some sort of explanation he hasn't realized yet. He opens his mouth. "I didn't kill him."

And it sounds true. It  feels  true. 

But Richard's face doesn't soften. It doesn't fade into sympathy and understanding like Damian had… expected it to. In fact, much the opposite happens. Richard's face screws up like he's bitten into something bitter. It makes the bags under his eyes so much sharper. Damian wonders how much sleep he's gotten. 

"You sliced a man's  throat  ," Richard argues.  Argues  . It shouldn't shock Damian, but it does. He can just sit there and Richard  glares  at him and begins to pace, wringing his hands together with jolting movements. "Jesus, Damian. Fucking  Christ ."

Damian's rooted to the spot. His mouth dry. Richard… has never sworn at Damian like this before. Has never been this visibly angry. 

"I've had a long ass week," Richard continues, his voice rising to almost hysterical. "And right when I'm about to take a  shower  and go to  bed  , your dad calls me and tells me a man died tonight. A newbie burglar. That you could have fought off  easily  . Bruce doesn't know how to deal with you.  No  one knows how to deal with you. So I'm forced to drag my ass over here to find out what happened while Bruce deals with the  cops  and-"

"I didn't kill him on purpose!" Damian shouts, shocking himself with the anger that shook his tone. Richard stops his pacing and looks at Damian without a smidge of belief. It sends a dagger through Damian's gut. "There was a baby, and I just wanted to-"

Richard releases a bitter laugh, stopping Damian mid sentence; he sinks to the ground and places his elbows on his knees, cradling his forehead in his hands between his curled up body. "I'm too tired for this, Dames. I'm really too tired."

"Richard-"

"Just," Richard huffs, rubs his temples, "stop."

Damian snaps his mouth shut. His chest feels tight. He's seen Richard worn down like this before. He's seen how far Richard can fall in the right circumstances. But never before has his… frustrations ever been directed at Damian like this. Never before has Damian been so obviously the cause of his headaches. 

A beat of silence passes and Richard exhales. Doesn't bother to look up. "What's done is done. We'll deal with this and… figure out what to do with you later."

"What to do with me?" Damian repeats, and he hopes his voice didn't squeak. It probably did. That sentence somehow hurts more than anything. "You mean… get rid of me?"

Now Richard looks up, his eyes as wide and shocked as his red rimmed eyelids would allow. "Damian-"

"You're finally done with me," Damian continues, standing up from the bed and crossing his arms to hide the way his hands are beginning to shake. He can't breathe. "I make one mistake- I try to explain- and you want to get rid of me?"

Richard shakes his head. "No- no of course not-"

"You said you trust me." Damian feels something wet gather at the corners of his eyes. He ignores it. For all he knew, it could simply be blood. Murderers don't deserve to cry real tears. "And I can trust you. You said you'll always take my side."

Something hot falls down his cheek. Richard looks genuinely lost on what to do now. Of course he is lost. Father  forced  him to  deal  with Damian because no one else wants to bother. Damian's always been different from the others. A parasite. Something unwanted. Father chose the rest of his kids, but Damian was involuntary in every sense of the word. 

Damian's killed a lot of people. Damian's hard to get along with. Most people don't invite him places because they know he'll bring down the mood. Richard was the  one  person who looked past all that and gave him a chance. Saw the good in Damian that Damian had once thought was a weakness. 

Damian didn't  murder  the man tonight. He saved a baby. He was… defending himself. He- he let his instincts take over. So why is Damian to blame for that? Why should he be made out to be a monster when his instincts are still very much the very things he was brainwashed to believe since he was big enough to hold a sword? 

"You  promised , Richard," Damian chokes. Why is he getting so emotional? Somewhere, deep inside him, he’s always known this would happen. It was always just a matter of time before everything came falling down around him. That he'd chase everyone away to the point that neither his mother's family nor his father's would want him. 

He wipes his eyes. 

"I  trusted  you."

"Damian," Richard finally speaks, but Damian shakes his head and runs towards his bedroom door without a single glance back.

He's through the hall, down the stairs towards the library, and into the cave all before he finally sucks in a jittering lungful of air. He scrambles for his bike, wiping blurs from his vision. He's speeding out the cave right as a voice shouts his name. 

He's too far away, driving too fast, to care. 

-o-o-o-o-

Damian's never had a panic attack before, but by the time he skids his bike to a stop in some random part of Gotham, he thinks he might be experiencing one.

His nerves are shot. His hands don't want to hold still. His vision keeps blurring and his chest really  really  hurts like his heart is finally deciding it doesn't want to belong to him anymore.

Why is he panicking like this? He's overreacting. He knows he is. He's still in a stupor thanks to the events that conspired a few hours earlier. He's still in disbelief that Richard has finally shown how little he actually values Damian's opinion. But these things don't warrant a panic attack. 

He's literally been through hell and back.

This should feel like nothing compared to that. 

And yet? It feels like a single pin has cracked through the surface of a frozen lake. A simple, stupid little thing hit the exact right places to send him spiraling. 

He hates this. He can't breath. His ribs hurt like they're broken. His head is fuzzy and he's overreacting and maybe Richard didn't actually mean what Damian thought he did. 

His knees give out and he scrambles backwards, splaying his hands on the ground and trying to grasp onto  something , but his back just hits the wall. With blurry eyes, he looks up to see he's parked in an alley. Of course he has. He can practically imagine a tall, chain link fence and a corpse laying in front of it, blood pooling around him like spilled ink. 

He sucks in a breath, or maybe he sobs, and buries his head in his knees. His hands fly to his hair and he tries to  think . 

But he can't. Because father doesn't want to deal with him. Richard deals with him because he's obligated to. All the other so-called siblings of this—that—family don't even have Damian's number. They don't want to talk with him. They don't invite him anywhere. They always look at him like he's made of slime. 

Damian understands. If he met someone exactly like him, all he'd see would probably be an irredeemable murderer too. 

Something suddenly sounds from down the street. Damian startles out from his cradled position to see moving shadows further down the alleyway. Panicked, Damian scrambles to his feet; his vision tilts and his legs shake as he does so, but he forces his body to move. He's dressed as Damian Wayne. Robin's cycle is right besides him. 

Damian can't mess up a second time tonight. 

He thinks maybe about jumping on the bike and riding away, but he can still hardly breathe. Do panic attacks normally last this long?! How does he get them to stop?!

Knowing it would be dangerous to ride in the state he's in, he uses every drop of will power he had to shove the vehicle behind a dumpster— a  dumpster where a sobbing child lays, vulnerable to the nearest person with a taste for death and a gun in their hand. He shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek to try and focus. Once he's sure the bike is hidden and out of the way, he turns around to find an escape route he can take while still compromised like this. 

His vision wobbles and he stumbles. A voice he doesn't recognize calls out. 

How would Richard say it? Oh yeah.  Fucking  Christ. 

Damian turns, heart in his throat, and begins to run the other direction, but somehow his unexpected guests catch up quicker than what they should. A rough hand the size of his entire bicep wraps around his upper arm, tugging him out of his uneven retreat and into a sturdy chest that  reeks  of marijuana. 

"What's a kid like you doing out here all alone?" A voice asks. Woman. Damian tries not to choke, but the stupid panic attack isn't  leaving . It's just getting worse. He brings his free arm to grab at the restraining hold on him, but he gets nowhere. 

The man holding him chuckles. Tightens his grip around Damian arm and chest. Damian can’t stop the whimper that leaves his throat; the pressure is enough to easily bruise. His eyes sting traitorously. 

A third man steps in front of Damian. He looks like a rat personified. "The poor thing looks terrified," the man sneers. "Maybe we should take him somewhere safe. Off the streets."

Damian shakes his head, gasping, tears streaming down his face. Pathetic.  Pathetic . He's better than this. He tries to breathe, but he just chokes again. He fights to be back in control of his own mind again and pulls his free elbow back, hitting the man holding him in the gut. 

The man groans, meaning Damian has managed to actually hit him effectively even in his compromised state, but the man doesn't really let go. In fact, the opposite happens. The man tightens his grip to an almost agonizing kind of pressure, then throws Damian to the side and against the dumpster. 

Damian hits awkwardly, his arm in front of his chest when he hits face on. He hears something snap. He hears his own scream. But he doesn't feel the pain until he's blinking stars from his vision, curled up on the ground. 

And now? Nothing makes sense. He's trapped in a haze of pain and terror that all he can see through his teared up vision is three vague, human-like forms approaching him. All he can hear is echoing laughter and the distant sounds of sirens going in the opposite direction. 

Damian would cry if he wasn't already. 

A heartless hand wraps around his arm again, dragging him to his feet with an uncaring roughness that sends Damian reeling with pain. It's this moment that Damian knows he's lost. He can't fight back like this. Not dazed and trapped in his own mind like this. He wonders what they'll do to him. Gotham criminals aren't like others. They don't care if their victim is a kid. 

They'll torture, beat, abduct,  rape  him the same they would any adult. 

He wants to fight back. He wants to go home and fall to his father's feet and beg forgiveness. He doesn't want this. He's being manhandled further down, away from the mouth of the alleyway, away from his bike, away from the home he was so sure he used to have. 

With his good arm, he clutches to the shirt of the person dragging him away. He can't find his feet, he can't find his brain. 

He doesn't want this. He didn't mean for this to happen. Not any of this. 

He closes his eyes and tears drip.

However, right as he lets his eyes fall closed to accept his fate, a fourth voice shouts into the alley. A familiar voice. One that has him shooting his eyes open in shock. 

Richard is wearing an old Nightwing suit. But it's still undeniably him. Looking pissed as hell. The escrima sticks in his hands already sparking with electricity. 

Damian let's his eyes fall back closed. He goes limp as Richard makes embarrassingly quick work of Damian's would be kidnappers. Embarrassing for who? Damian's not sure. He feels mostly like crap.

Soon enough, he's back on the ground, gasping for air as familiar arms wrap around him and pull him closer. And even though Damian feels betrayed and lied to and broken, he immediately relaxes against Richard's chest, forcing himself to listen to the breaths Richard takes and match them accordingly. He has his broken arm cradled to his chest, and Richard is impossibly gentle while lifting him up so he hadley feels it jostle. 

"I've got him B," Nightwing says, sounding breathless and angry. "I'm bringing him back."

-o-o-o-o-

"I watched the cowl footage," Richard says while driving the Batmobile; Damian sits in the passenger seat as they make their ways back to the cave. 

Damian doesn't speak. Just looks out the window. Pretends his arm that's in a makeshift split doesn't hurt to high heavens. 

Richard takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Damian."

That gets Damian's attention. He looks over at Richard and his eyebrows raise at the sight before him. Richard looks… torn. Face a mixture of a deep sadness and guilt that surely must be turning his knuckles white around the steering wheel.

"Bruce saw you kill someone. I saw you pinned and protecting an infant. I saw you grab the wrong blade with your wrong hand, but use it in the way I taught you. If you were using your left handed sword, you would have hit him with the blunt side."

And the missing pieces slowly fall into place. 

"The police aren't going to press charges," Richard continues, "as far as they're concerned, it was out of self defense."

And just like that, things make a perfect picture. 

But Damian... doesn't feel as relieved as he should be, even though now he has proof that his natural instincts aren't to kill, but only to disable. 

"You didn't believe me," Damian whispers. But it's so loud inside the car. 

"I know," Richard replies with a tight and wet voice. "I know. I… you were right. I told you I'll always take your side… and I  didn't  this time. I was frustrated and angry with Bruce and I took that out on you instead of doing what I promised I'd always do…"

"You only came because father  forced  you to."

Richard winces. Bites his lip. Inhales deeply. "He couldn't force me to stay away from you, Dami… I just… it's been a really long week. And it… it frustrates me to see that even after all these years, I'm still more of a da- guardian to you than he is. He calls me whenever he doesn't understand something about you. I just  wish  he'd learn to understand. I know he's doing his best, but… I'm not your dad. I can't… I can't run at every dime to help you when he should have… I guess I'm saying Damian is that I would drop the whole world to be with you. I just wish Bruce would… "

Make the same effort. 

Damian understands. 

"You're so easy to love, Damian," Richard whispers. "So  easy ."

Damian licks his lips. "So… you still mean what you said?"

Richard frowns slightly. 

Damian elaborates. "All those things you said. That I can trust you no matter what. That if father never came back you would have adopted me yourself."

"Yes," Richard says immediately. 

"So if I asked you," Damian continues, tugging at the fabric of his pants with his uninjured arm, "right now to turn around and drive to Blüdhaven. Let me take your guest room. Tell father he can't have me back. You would do it?'

"Yes."

Immediately. Damian feels his throat tighten. 

The Batmobile slows to a stop off to the side of the empty streets just outside Bristol. Richard breathes for a moment. Then turns towards Damian fully. 

"Is this… you asking?"

Is it? 

Damian bites his lip. 

Then he shakes his head. 

"No. I know my father is trying his best. I wish… to try a little more with him."

Richard nods. Just nods. Doesn't express disappointment or relief. And Damian feels like the world is right again. 

"He loves you Dames," Richard says. "He's terrible at showing it. But I meant it when I said you're so  easy  to love. Just not everyone is as awesome at what makes you tick as I am."

"Careful to not be too humble, Richard," Damian teases, wiping at his cheeks which are wet again.

Richard laughs and leans over the seats of the Batmobile to pull Damian into a careful embrace. 

"I'm sorry," Richard whispers. 

Damian smiles. His chest feels lighter than what it has in awhile. 

"It's okay. I trust you.”

"I trust you too…” Richard takes a deep breath and lets go of Damian. He pulls the batmobile back onto the road. Damian almost thinks that the rest of the ride will be spent in companionable silence. But then Richard says one more thing. “I love you, Dames. More than anything in the world."

Damian trusts Richard. He believes him. He finds a smile spreading further on his lips. A warm feeling settles in his chest.

“I love you too, Richard.”

[refinedbuffoonery]

Riley + Sunglasses + Undercover (4)

masterlist.

Read it on AO3.

*****

The ballroom was crowded with beautiful women, but Mac only had eyes for one in particular. 

Riley flitted about the room with him in tow, making small talk with strangers at random. Stumbling upon a group of men who all seemed to be software engineers of some sort, Riley joined their discussion, challenging their ideas with “I’ve found it more effective when…” and what-if questions. Mac stood back and admired her, not understanding a word any of them said. He could tell these men were smart, but she was smarter. Her brain worked faster than anyone else’s he knew. Watching her mind at work was hot. Like, really hot. 

She turned around and flashed a wide, bright smile at him, and all he could think was, Oh shit. It was the one that she reserved only for him, Mac noted with no small amount of primal satisfaction. 

“Damon, honey.” She wiggled her index finger at him. “Come here.” Snapping himself out of his daze, he complied. Riley introduced him, “This is my boyfriend, Damon.” 

“Damon Townsend. Genius, philanthropist, playboy, millionaire…” He shook each man’s hand in turn, ignoring Riley’s side-eye. “But, who am I kidding? Danika’s the impressive one.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. 

She beamed, dark eyes locking with his. Those damn eyes fucked him over every time. So dark they blended in with her pupils half the time, yet warm and soft, they were so easy to get lost in, like drowning in a sea of midnight waves. Drowning was not a pleasant way to go, but Mac was more than willing to drown in her. 

His favorite thing about her eyes was that they betrayed her every emotion. No matter how well she hid it in the rest of her face and body language, her eyes always told the truth. 

And with the way she was looking at him… It was getting harder to pretend everything was fine. To pretend he wasn’t in love with her. Mac caught himself leaning forward a fraction, as if he were going to kiss her. He pulled back. What the hell was he thinking? 

Mac could’ve sworn she’d leaned in too, but he chalked it up to his overeager imagination. 

Not breaking eye contact, she said, “I’m hungry. Let’s find something to eat.” Mac nodded. Riley turned to the men, who were starting to look uncomfortable. “It was nice meeting you all.” 

She led him toward the hors d'oeuvres table. “I didn’t realize I was dating Tony Stark,” Riley said, her voice low. Mac chuckled. 

He popped a bacon-wrapped date in his mouth. They were one of his favorite appetizers, salty and sweet at the same time. Riley ate one too. 

Desi flagged them over to her hiding place in the corner, and Mac grabbed a date for the road. 

“Meet anyone interesting?” she asked. 

Riley shook her head. “No, they all seem clean.” Trying to sniff out the seller at the auction was a long shot, but it was the best they could do until the facial recognition Bozer was running on the security footage from the pool found a match. 

“We’ll take another lap,” Mac said. Resting a hand on the small of Riley’s back, he led her through the crowd. His thumb brushed her bare skin, exposed by a cutout in the back of her elegant navy gown. Riley gasped on contact. It took every ounce of willpower to stop himself from sliding his hand up to learn exactly what would cause her to gasp like that again. 

He and Riley neared the front of the ballroom, having nearly completed their lap. There were fewer people at this end.

In his peripheral vision, a guard pointed directly at him. “Damn,” he muttered. 

“Mac, what is it?” 

He nodded toward the guard making a beeline for them. Mac observed his surroundings, knowing Riley was doing the same. There was nowhere to hide, and with all the exits sealed, there was literally nowhere to run. They were out of options, and the guard was now mere feet away. 

His plan was stupid, in so many ways. But, it was the best he had. 

“I’m so sorry, Riles.” 

He didn’t wait for her response before gripping her waist and pushing her up against the nearest wall, next to a coat closet. His lips crashed into hers, every bit the fiery public makeout their covers supposedly indulged in. She hesitated for only a second before closing her eyes and kissing him back. 

Their kiss was everything he’d ever hoped for. 

Well, except the fact that they were Danika and Damon, not Macgyver and Riley. 

She gripped the back of his neck and pulled him closer. How could she commit to putting her hands in just one place? Because she doesn’t have feelings for you, idiot. He ran his hands along her sides, her hips, her back, never staying in one place longer than a few seconds. Trying to memorize the feel of holding her, touching her, kissing her because he knew he’d probably never get this chance again. 

No wonder Bozer had once said he refused to die before he could kiss her. Mac felt like his bones were on fire and the world stopped spinning and time slowed down just for them.  

If someone pulled him away and asked him what two plus two was, he would’ve said her name in answer. 

Riley swiped her tongue along his lower lip, and Mac almost combusted on the spot. She’s just playing. She’s just playing. She’s just--

A soft moan escaped her lips. 

Fuck. 

He never wanted to kiss anyone else again. One kiss from her ruined everyone else. 

She dropped her hands to his shoulders as the approaching guard quickly found somewhere else to be. Crisis averted. Mac’s own hands finally stilled--one on her waist and the other tangled in her hair. Their kisses became languid, yet deliberate. Exploratory. God, she’s a good kisser, he thought. His heart pounded so loudly Mac was sure Riley could hear it. 

He needed to end this before he did something he regretted. Mac trailed chaste kisses along her jaw to her ear. “Closet,” he growled. 

“Uh-huh.” She slammed her hand into the doorknob, flung the door open, and dragged him inside by his tie, their lips colliding once more.

*****

Bozer sat in front of the computer, monitoring the auction and wishing Desi would smuggle him some hors d'oeuvres. 

So far, no luck, even though it would’ve been oh so easy to wrap something up in a napkin and slip it in a pocket unseen, since every pair of eyes was trained on Mac and Riley stumbling into a coat closet. 

Bozer took one look at Mac’s tie in Riley’s fist and knew his best friend was a goner. 

The pixelated camera feed did nothing to hide the horrified expression on the incoming security guard’s face. At least he knew better than to interrupt that. The guard veered to the left and suddenly found the floor very interesting. 

Bozer was about to give Mac and Riley the all-clear when Riley’s hand appeared pressed into the frosted glass of the coat closet door. It reminded him of the iconic hand scene in Titanic. 

Bozer cringed but mumbled, “Damn.” In the corner of the screen, Desi subtly pulled out her phone. 

His phone buzzed. Well that was fast, her text read. Bozer figured that was as positive of a response as they were going to get from her. He started to text her back, but was interrupted when Riley’s laptop made a pinging noise. 

Facial recognition found a match.

*****

They were still kissing after Riley pulled the closet door shut and locked it behind them. Every pair of eyes in the room had been on them as they shamelessly made out against the wall before stumbling into the closet like lovesick idiots. Don’t kid yourself, Riley. You are a lovesick idiot. All the outside world could see now was two faint silhouettes through the door’s frosted window. 

Still holding his tie, Riley tugged Mac closer. Now that she had him, she couldn’t get enough of him. Her whole body curved into his, and he braced her neck while his mouth slanted over hers, teeth tugging at her lower lip. 

Kissing Mac felt like a thousand stars exploding in her chest all at once. 

Even though it would never be reality, Riley let herself fantasize about the op ending with the two of them alone in a hotel room. Her toes curled in her stilettos. She needed to stop, but she couldn’t. She wanted to eat him alive. 

Riley murmured his name against his lips, and Mac’s hands curved around her ass like he was going to lift her up. She traced the outline of his lips with her tongue, teasing him while she waited for that little squeeze, signaling her to jump and wrap her legs around him. 

What started as just a diversion morphed into something much, much more, and the last threads of her frayed restraint finally snapped. Louder this time, she said his name again, her voice low and sultry. 

Mac suddenly ripped himself away. 

His absence hit her like a brick. A whole fucking truckload of bricks. Riley stumbled backward, steadying herself with a hand on the window. Her eyes refused to open for a few moments. Her lungs stopped working. A thousand questions burned on her tongue, but she ignored them all, too busy engraving the moment into her memory. 

It was just an act, she reminded herself, but his lips were so soft and warm and damn he tasted good. He pulled away. He didn’t mean it. They probably only kept kissing for ten, fifteen seconds, tops, but it felt like an eternity passed in those precious few seconds. 

In all the times they’d gone undercover as a couple, they’d never kissed before. If he’d kissed her like that on an op, she would’ve realized her feelings long ago. 

She finally dared look at him. He wore that dazed expression he got when he was deep in his own head. What if…no. 

Get it together, Riley. She couldn’t. 

It meant nothing. It was everything. 

He’s just doing his job. He could’ve found another way to escape. He’s MacGyver. 

The voices in her head needed to shut the fuck up. Their little retorts were not helping. 

“I’m sorry, Riles.” His voice was hoarse. 

His apology snapped Riley out of her head and into reality. Mac looked almost...broken. Not the same broken as after his dad died, but broken nonetheless. Her heart sank in her chest. 

“Mac, it’s okay,” she reassured him, voice equally hoarse. 

“No, it’s not. I should’ve found another way. At least I should’ve asked first. I’m sorry. I panicked.” He was spiraling. 

“Mac,” she said firmly. “Look at me.” He did. “It’s okay. I would’ve done the same thing.” 

“As long as you’re sure.” He still looked guilty. 

Riley took a deep breath and removed her hand from the door. “So, now that the whole world thinks we’re having a quickie in a closet...what do we do now?” It was a feeble attempt to regain some normalcy. 

A smile tugged at Mac’s lips. Riley noticed they had a reddish tint from her lipstick. “I have no idea.” 

She tried to come up with a bad joke about improvising but was interrupted by Bozer’s voice in her ear. 

“Sorry to interrupt the party, guys, but facial rec found a match for the seller in the Interpol database. His name is Raymond Pierre.” Bozer said his name with a terrible French accent. “Interpol doesn’t have much on him, other than that he’s French and has a couple charges of identity theft.” 

“So he’s a con man?” Riley prompted. 

“More than likely,” Bozer confirmed. “Can you--”

“Do my thing and find him? Yeah, we’ll be right there.” 

Mac muted his comms and motioned for her to do the same. She did, raising her eyebrows to silently ask, Are you okay? 

His arm twitched, as if he was going to reach for her and thought better of it. Feelings be damned, she took his hand in hers and squeezed. 

Holding hands with Mac didn’t create sparks or stir butterflies. Their intertwined fingers just felt natural. Safe. Reassuring. Like a silent I got you. 

He squeezed back. “Can we stay in here for a minute?” His voice wavered. 

Riley nodded, the pained expression in his eyes sending her spiraling once again. Oh. Right. Shifting back into work mode, Riley momentarily forgot about the situation she and Mac had gotten themselves into. Though this was far from the first time she’d dragged him into a closet, this was the first they’d ended up so…disheveled. 

It was just a diversion that got carried away. That’s all.  Liar. Liar. Liar. 

The problem with kissing someone was the echoing possibility of doing it again. Riley felt it in the space between them, like static electricity during a lightning storm. 

She needed to get out of that damn closet before she did something incredibly stupid. Riley wanted nothing more than to back him into a wall and lose herself in him, but Angus MacGyver wasn’t hers, and they had a job to do. 

She took another deep breath. Mac asked for a minute, and she respected that. Running away from whatever this was wasn’t an option. 

“Riles,” he said softly. She stood completely still as he reached for her face. His fingers hovered millimeters from her lips in hesitation, giving her the chance to back away. When she didn’t, he gently swiped his finger along the edge of her lips. Her pulse thundered. That small, reverent touch was more intoxicating than his hands on her skin or his tongue in her mouth would ever be. 

Belatedly, he said, “Your lipstick was smudged.” 

“Thanks,” she breathed.  

His other hand tightened on hers. “Riles, I--” He was interrupted by both of their phones ringing. 

“We should probably answer that,” Riley said. Reality beckoned. She wasn’t sure whether she was grateful or furious. Maybe both. 

It was a text from Bozer. Turn your damn comms back on. Desi’s gone.

[lynnchkn]

The Last Good Day

"On Thursday, his son Ronan found his body in the driveway."

On Wednesday, the Lynch brothers went swimming.

Read it on ao3!

It was a Wednesday.

Declan was not particularly hungry, and he had too much to do, so he opted to skip breakfast. Or he would’ve if Aurora hadn’t intercepted him as he tried to sneak past the kitchen.

“Declan, honey, I’ve got waffles.” Her voice drifted down the hallway and swirled up through the foyer. He could smell the waffles. He could also hear the shuffling sounds of Ronan and Matthew goofing off. He wasn’t sure what lured him in.

The sun had lit the kitchen in a soft golden glow that morning, prettier than most. Ronan had half a waffle sticking out of his mouth. But even his usual manufactured dishevelment looked tidy compared to Matthew, with syrup in his hair and his florescent green t-shirt already dripping with sweat.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

There was work to do. He wasn’t sure when his father would be home. Did he have two hours or two months? There was no way to know for sure. But if he came back to find Declan slacking off…

He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to eat waffles. He took a seat.

Aurora turned back to the waffle maker with a subtle grin. She poured some batter into the machine and left it, collecting an extra plate and some napkins. The waffles wouldn’t burn. They couldn’t burn. Nothing at the Barns could burn. Sometimes Declan dreamt of burning the whole damn property to the ground. But that was why Ronan was the dreamer and Declan did the dirty work.

“What are you boys getting up to today?” Aurora asked.

Ronan and Matthew shared a glance, a silent agreement between brothers. Neither of them looked at Declan.

“We’re going swimming,” Matthew said.

“Oh,” Aurora said. “In the creek? That should be fun.” She smiled at them and presented Declan with a waffle. She handed him a bottle of syrup, but he politely declined. He chewed nervously at it, and it settled like a brick in his stomach. “Are you going to join them?” she asked.

He started to say no. He should’ve said no. Declan toed the line between brother and parent, and sometimes that meant Ronan wanted time away from him.

“Well,” Ronan said. “Are you?”

Declan refused to be flattered. It was pathetic at times how much he cared. It didn’t matter. He was meant to protect them. But once upon a time, when the stakes had been much lower, he’d been allowed to chase them through the field behind the house for hours. They’d let into cow piles and chased chickens until sunset. And sometimes he missed that. “I guess I am.”

Matthew whooped, mouth full of his third waffle. Declan tucked what was left of his first into a piece of aluminum foil to finish later.

After changing into his trunks, Declan found Matthew waiting on the back porch. It was appropriately hot for Virginia in July. The sun beat down on them and he considered going to look for Ronan. Even through the layer of sunscreen, he could feel the UV tearing through translucent Celtic skin. He brought extra with him and reminded himself to make sure Ronan and Matthew were both wearing plenty.

When Ronan came to meet them, he held himself strangely, arms wrapped around his stomach. He glanced over his shoulder, and Declan worried he may have fallen asleep. Worried he’d dreamed something worth running from. Hoped he hadn’t dreamt the thing that would finally kill them all.

But he was grinning, devilish. He looked like Niall when he did that. He looked like a bastard.

Sometimes it felt like Ronan was a helium balloon. He was floating further and further away every day, and one of these days, he’d float too high, and Declan wouldn’t be able to reach him.

“Fucking cold,” he hissed, pulling a Guinness from under his shirt. He pulled out a second and offered it to Declan.

“Ronan,” he warned. “Dad’s going to notice they’re missing.”

“Relax.” He wiped his hands off on his trunks. “He won’t care.”

He definitely would care, of course. It was just that Declan would take the brunt of the punishment.

He continued offering the second beer, but Declan shook his head, sipping on his water instead. Ronan shrugged. “More for us.” He tossed it to Matthew instead.

“Are you kidding?” Declan said as Matthew wrung the can nervously between his hands.

“It’s fine, man,” Ronan said. “He’s fourteen. We were younger than him when we started drinking.”

“That certainly isn’t an endorsement.”

In the face of scrutiny from both of them, Matthew held onto the beer anxiously, tossing it between his hands. He didn’t like to come between them, and Declan knew this. Ronan did too. This was the part where a younger Matthew would have burst into tears, and while the tears weren’t present, the emotion behind them still was. “You can if you want to,” Declan said. “Just don’t feel like you have to because he wants you to.”

And maybe, just once, Declan wished Matthew wouldn’t do whatever Ronan wanted. Be your own person, Matty. Don’t let him have this power over you.

Matthew cracked open the can and took a long drink.

He didn’t let it sting for long.

“Let’s go,” Ronan yelled, stuffing the rest of the beers under his shirt and running ahead. Declan followed with Matthew at his side. His blonde curls bounced as he walked, but he did not meet Declan’s eyes. That was fine. Declan let his hand rest on the back of Matthew’s neck. They didn’t need words.

The creek had grown with the boys. When they’d been very young, the water had stayed shallow no matter how much it rained, but in recent years, it’d grown deeper to allow them enough room to swim comfortably and it didn’t show signs of stopping. Declan and Ronan had both finally hit the 6’ mark and Matthew was following quickly behind them.

Ronan jumped in without hesitation. He hit the water with a splash that sprayed Declan. “Are you coming in?”

He shook his head, wiping the worst of the dampness off with his towel before laying it out on the grass beside him. He sat down and dangled his feet over the water.

“Suit yourself.”

“Come on, Declan,” Matthew said, allowing himself to tumble gracefully into the water. “It’s hot. Come swim with us.”

Declan held up his copy of Othello. “Summer reading,” he said.

Ronan made a fart noise with his mouth but surprisingly didn’t push further. Instead, he popped his head under the water and pushed the curls back out of his face. Then he let out a pained gasp.

“Ronan?”

“Shit,” he said. He grabbed at something beneath the wet, possibly his leg. “Fucking shit.”

“What happened?” Declan rushed toward him, leaning over to get a closer look.

“Here,” Ronan said, hopping toward him. He held out his hand. “Help me up.”

Declan reached out and pulled, watching for signs of pain or injury, but instead, Ronan flashed him a wild-eyed grin. Then he jerked Declan forward face-first into the creek.

Matthew’s delighted giggle and Ronan’s hysterical gasping broke through the surface of the water, and Declan came up spitting and angry. Then he saw them, both of them, not much younger than him, but so fresh, so innocent. He wanted them to be like this. He didn’t want them to turn into him. Cautious, calculating. That was the price he paid for being the oldest. He didn’t always like it, but what was the alternative?

This was the way things were, and he was comfortable with that. He didn’t want anything to change.

Because if stayed vigilant, if he watched their backs, Ronan and Matthew didn’t have to care about any of the other bullshit Niall was dragging him into. They could spend the whole day swimming in the creek. And maybe this was the best way to watch their backs. To remember he was one of them.

Ronan was filling out, but Declan was still older and had a good inch and a half on him, allowing him to get the upper hand when he dove at his brother, full-force, crashing them both under. They came up together, spitting and coughing. Ronan swore as he scrubbed water from his eyes.

“You bastard,” he yelled, but it wasn’t angry.

They left the creek a few hours later as the worst of the midday humidity hit. They made their way to the kitchen, where their mother waited with sandwiches and lemonade. All four of them ate on the porch, gathered around the old glass table Niall had brought back with him from his recent trip to Venice. He hadn’t said where he got it, but when they placed their cups on it, the glass turned cold, keeping their lemonade perfectly cool.

“What are you boys up to now?” Aurora asked.

“Air hockey?” Ronan asked.

Matthew drummed his hands against the table, tilting it slightly. He grinned sheepishly at the rest of them as they shuffled glasses and plates, catching everything before it tipped. “You’re gonna play with us, right?” he asked.

“Of course,” Declan said. Because he was beginning to realize Niall didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d gone on for years about how they were in danger, warning Declan to stay vigilant, to stay careful, but the truth was no one had come for them yet. Sure he’d always have to protect Ronan and Matthew, but they were growing up. They could look after themselves. Maybe they didn’t need a protector. Maybe they just needed a brother.

Niall could stay gone forever as far as Declan was concerned. He knew the constant pressure made him hard to be around. He knew that when Niall was around, he wound himself so tight he snapped at anyone who crossed him. He hated it. He hated what he was becoming, but was powerless to stop it.  But without Niall, he was free. He could play with his brothers. He didn't realize how much he'd missed playing.

And so they played several rounds of air hockey. They turned it into a tournament and made detailed brackets with construction paper and markers. And Declan couldn’t even bring himself to be mad when Ronan won because he was smiling. And that was what mattered. Ronan was happy and Matthew was happy. It was the best day they’d had in a while.

In the morning, when Declan came downstairs, he went straight to the kitchen.

“French toast?” Aurora asked.

“Yes, please,” he said. The quiet hum of rain washed over the house, and it made the place feel that much cozier. It was their shelter, their castle. So long as Niall was gone, they were kings, and they ruled this kingdom. There would be time to finish the paperwork and the calls. He’d get it done before his father returned. But he was going to spend the day with Ronan and Matthew. “Rematch?” he asked his brothers, shoving a hearty bite of french toast in his mouth.

“Only if you’re okay with getting your ass kicked,” Ronan said.

Aurora gave him a stern look as she used a napkin to wipe syrup off Matthew’s face.

“I play winner,” he said, wiggling away from their mother’s hands.

Aurora finished cleaning Matthew and scurried off to the laundry room.

Ronan rose from his seat and dumped his empty plate in the sink, casually leaning against the counter behind him. He peaked through the doorway to make sure their mother was out of earshot. “Wanna make it interesting?” he asked.

“No gambling,” Aurora called from down the hall. Or maybe she was just that good. Maybe that was something Niall dreamed into her. Declan didn’t let himself dwell on that for long.

“Sorry Mom,” Ronan called back. He laughed and shook his head like he was stupid for thinking he could get away with it. Like he knew she’d hear him, but said it anyway. Like he was invincible, which Declan supposed he was.

Good. Invincible meant safe.

“Hey,” Ronan called, turning to look at the large windows over the sink. “Dad’s here!” He ran around the counter and out the front door to greet him.

A knot curled in Declan’s stomach. He wasn’t ready. He was stupid for putting things off. He knew how important this stuff was and he knew Niall would be pissed. He hated himself. He hated Niall. He hated Ronan and Matthew for dragging him into things, except that he didn’t and he’d had fun.

Ronan’s scream tore through the kitchen.

Niall never got the chance to ask him about the paperwork he didn’t finish or the calls he’d never made.