#I set a timer to be productive on a fic before showering to go do Easter dinner

[totalfreakingloser]

in case nobody knew this do not eat 4 clementines in one sitting your tummy will hurt and when you ask the internet why you will learn that eating multiple in one go can cause gastrointestinal discomfort

[howdoesagrapewrites]

You should do one where reader just wants to spend time alone by themselves(whether it be the afternoon or morning) but hobie and pavitr won’t let them

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙨

Cw: reader x lovesick!Hobie Brown x lovesick!Pavitr Prabhakar, overlooking toxic behavior, touching with dubious consent, oblivious reader, anxious attachment (Pavitr), suggestive, aged-up characters, reader's gender neutral but it is kinda fem aligned, reader knows about the multiverse but it's not clarified if they're a spider person, I already warned this but just want to say that just because the toxic behavior here isn't portrayed as negatively as my others fics doesn't mean I condone it.

Notes: while I was writing the first paragraph I was like "damn I should do this too" and started deep cleaning around my house. This triggered an episode and that's the reason I haven't been posting as much, I was cleaning. I'm actually on a break from cleaning /srs

You prepared everything to have some alone time this afternoon, you cooked your favorite meal, did an everything shower with your favorite products, you cleaned up everything yesterday so you didn't have to do anything today, and after putting on comfy pajamas, you sat on the couch with snacks and a face mask to watch a comfort show.

It was halfway through the fourth episode when you heard noise coming from your room, and see your boyfriends appearing into your living room, even though you told them you wanted to be alone today. You try and give them the benefit of the doubt, and imagine maybe the mission today was extra rough and they needed comfort, or they forgot about your petition, Pavitr had university, being spiderman, reporting to the spider society, Hobie was, well, trying to bash the president's head with a guitar plus the spider society stuff, so yeah, they had busy lives.

"Hello there, looking lovely" Hobie chuckled with his hands on his pockets, probably laughing at your face mask, Pavitr came in for a hug, you accepted, "ohh, self care day? Do you have any extra masks, I can buy us snacks? Wait- mumbattan currency doesn't work here, I forgot, anyways, is there any room left for us?" You moved quietly and smiled to let your boyfriends sit beside you.

It's not like you want them to go, but they do take too much space. Talking about the couch, of course... And maybe about your life a little bit, you loved them, but when you started your long distance relationship (between universes) you thought you'd have just a tad more time to yourself.

You can't concentrate in the show quite as well, thinking about what could make them forget about your you-day and still want to come, why did they always forget? They both seem to have pretty good memory, the zone off for a minutes, fortunately for you, it's the fifth time you watch this episode. Your phone rings and before you can grab it, Hobie picks it up, notices is not a call and hands it to you, it's the timer for your face mask, how kind of him to even set off the alarm to you since it's your day off.

You take the sticky sheet off your face and massage the serum into your skin as you start to walk to the living room, wanting to scratch the itch and address the subject you've had in your mind, you decide to soft launch it.

"Did any of you, read the chat yesterday?"

"Yes, I always do, Hobie does too, why?" Pavitr lies on Hobie's chest and mindlessly scroll through his phone while he answers you

"Then maybe you forgot that today I kinda wanted to be alone, you know, me-time? You also forgot last week, and the week before that..."

Hobie spoke "Sorry 'bout that, 'have bad memory, a flaw of mine, we can leave if we're a bother" it saddened you he saw himself as a bother, he just forgot, we all make mistakes

"Oh, I didn't forget, I just don't want to leave you alone" Pavitr responded with normality, he didn't like having Hobie speak for him, he regularly contradicted him in stuff like this. Hobie laughs and pata his shoulder, he laughed like a joke, so then it was probably a joke, even though you three were dating, they had their own things, so this must be one of them.

You sat down, you were on the right arm of the couch, and Hobie was in the left one, Pavitr was between you both, he didn't seem at all displeased.

You laughed at the show a few times, and a couple minutes in, you feel Pav's hair ticking you, he's sniffing around your neck.

"You smell good, like your regular scent but better, did you tried the body wash I gave you?" You nod and smile at his sweet antics "And your skin, you look radiant, jaanu" he kisses you cheek, then makes a face, scrunching up his nose at the taste, you giggle. "It's supposed to be good for my skin, not be tasty" you say in airy laugh, he pouts, "But I wanted to kiss you", "my lips have no serum" he looks like a kid on Christmas morning and puts dives right into your lips, you expect a quick kiss before going back to your binge-watching (that you'd been looking forward to all week) but he crashes his lips into yours with need, you try to pull away two times before patting his shoulder, Hobie sees this, and now manspreading on the coffee table instead of the couch, he grabs Pavitr's hair and lightly pulls, "give 'em a break, sweetheart" he obediently looks at him, dilated pupils and breath hitched, Hobie's hands traveled to Pavitr's cheek and he nuzzled on it like a cat, "We don't want them to pass out, now, do we?" Hobie's tone is firm, but still has that certain rogueness he always speaks with. Even though Pavitr's mouth isn't on you, he's still mostly on top of you, and his hands don't stop wandering in your sides, pinching playfully at the fat, kneading on your waist, you really wishes you could keep watching your show and then read the book you always say you should read, or organize that messy shelf that keeps stressing you out, but hey, is not like you dislike this, right? "You won't-?" Pavitr asks in a whisper, when Hobie takes his fingers off his mouth "I'll watch for now" his smile makes you bite your lip in excitement, it seems to have a similar effect on Pavitr, who grips your waist harder, and slowly goes to grab your hips, "Keep going?" Hobie asks, deep black eyes set on yours, it makes you flustered. He's asking for consent, he's very nice, and Pavitr did have your consent earlier, it's just he was a little... Excited, it's okay, because he's nice.

You have two very nice boyfriends, even though they're forgetful.

[drewsbuzzcut]

Y/n Barzal’s Night Out Glam | Vogue Beauty Secrets

mat barzal x model!fem!reader

a visceral in doses fic (the vogue series)

warnings: alludes to sex, mentions being naked, and I think that’s all

You step out of your large shower cavern, water still dripping from your body, and you find Mat sitting patiently on a bench you have in your large ensuite. The sound of the shower door closing has his head snapping up in your direction. He watches as you towel off and slip on your robe, mouth watering at the sight of you.

Before you can walk to the counter, he reaches out to pull you in between his legs. His hands rest peacefully on your hips. You smile at the puppy eyes he’s giving you, carding your hands through his hair to get a sigh out of him. He slowly makes his way to the ties of your robe, fiddling with the material.

“No funny business, mister,” you tut, tapping your finger on his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his last word comes out in a moan as you pull on the small strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

“I need to film the video for Vogue and you’re trouble,” you whisper.

Mat doesn’t respond, he just pulls on the ties of your robe, revealing your naked body. You smirk at the way he ogles at you. Even after carrying his 3 babies, you’re still the prettiest woman he’s ever known. He presses kisses along your stomach, nipping at the supple flesh of your boobs. He glides his nails along your side, creating goosebumps in their wake, and you have to grip his shoulders to stop yourself from falling to the ground.

You scratch the stubble on his jaw, the result of not shaving for a few days, and angle his head back so you can kiss his waiting lips. You can feel your body sinking into his touch, so much that you straddle his lap, wanting to be closer to him.

“I thought you said no funny business,” Mat says, quickly silencing your rebuttal by letting his tongue dance with yours.

Immediately pulling away, resulting in him letting out a disgruntled groan, you get up from his lap and tie your robe again.

“You’re right! I need to film this video, and you need to get the kids and yourself ready. I love you. Tonight, you can have me all you want,” you say to him.

“Yes ma’am,” he kisses the back of your neck before exiting the ensuite.

You pull out all your skincare products, plus makeup, hair tools, and perfume. You tousle your wet hair, giving it life instead of just looking flat. Two deep breaths and you turn on the camera, setting a 5 second timer before it starts recording.

“Hello lovelies. Y/n Barzal here, and I’m going to show my routine for a date night!” You talk to the camera.

“So, usually for date nights I keep my makeup simple. I use less eye makeup and focus more on my lips. However, tonight my husband and I are attending a YSL event and we’re turning it into our own little date, so my makeup will be a little more than simple.”

You grab two hair clips to pin your hair back, and go into your skincare routine.

“First, skincare. I already washed my face in the shower, so we’ll move right into my next step which is eye serum. Technically the next step would be a toner, but I don’t use one. Ever since having kids, my skin isn’t the same as it used to be when I was younger, so I feel like a toner doesn’t work well for me. I also should be using an eye cream as I’m getting older, but I just don’t feel like I need it at the moment. The eye serum does what I need it to do, which is to lighten my dark eyes. It’s the Mudmasky: vitamin-infused serum,” you say while applying the serum under your eyes.

“Next I use vaseline. I use it for my dry spots, and you might wonder why I don’t use a face oil, but vaseline just works best for me. It always has. For the most part my skin has always been fairly good. I do breakout every now and then, but it’s mostly hormonal,” you explain, reaching for your next product when you hear the ensuite door open.

“Mommy,” Nolan whispers, knowing that you are busy.

“Hi, my love. Is everything okay?”

He makes his way to you, arms lifting up so you can carry him. He’s already 4 but he’ll always be your little baby.

“Miss you,” he whispers into your neck.

“My baby, want to stay with me?” You ask, rubbing his back and smiling when he nods his head.

“Sorry for the little interruption, guys. My little man missed me. I hope you all don’t mind a guest. The next step is moisturizer! I use Saturday Skin’s carrot moisturizer,” you show the product and expertly open it and apply it while also holding Nolan.

“This is a sport. Younger me would have a panic attack at the thought of multitasking. 4 years of being a mother has trained me so well,” you laugh.

“Baby?” Mat calls for your attention.

“Yeah?”

“Is Nolan awake?”

“Hmm…” you look at Nolan who still has his face hiding in your neck and pretend you can’t feel his eyelashes fluttering against your skin every time he blinks. “I don’t think so. Why don’t I wake him up?” You say out loud, beginning to tickle his sides. He starts squirming and squealing.

“Daddy! Help!” He reaches out for Mat.

Mat brings him in his arms, once again shirtless in a Vogue video. Your heart flutters at the sight of Nolan holding on tightly to his daddy, he presses a kiss to his cheek the moment he’s in his hold.

“You were cuddling with mama, little man? I wish I could cuddle with her, too,” Mat says and you playfully roll your eyes.

“Hi, Vogue!” Mat greets the camera.

“My man loves being shirtless for the camera, apparently. It’s his inner model,” you tease him, reaching your arms out for him just like Nolan did.

“Not funny when you have your hands all-“ he gets cut off by you throwing your arms around him, letting his face rest in your neck.

The camera gets a perfect shot of his hand caressing your back before falling to your ass to squeeze it.

“Give mommy kisses before we leave,” Mat instructs Nolan. Nolan just looks at you with so much love, hands holding your cheeks so he can press a small kiss to your lips.

When they leave you turn back to the camera with a content smile on your face.

“I love being a mother and a wife!” You squeal.

“Okay! Next step: face massage with my jade roller. I love this step because it’s so soothing for me. I learned about this through a makeup artist I was working with a few years ago.”

You continue to go on with the rest of your skincare, styling your hair in a quick updo. You change out of your robe, about to start your makeup when Mat comes in again. This time with Sloane and Angel in his arms.

“Sloane is hungry and I got to get the boys dressed. I tried to lay her in the crib, but she isn’t having it,” Mat says.

“Is my girl hungry? My precious baby! Mama will feed you. It’s okay, hotshot, I got her. I love you,” you respond, squeezing Sloane in your arms and squeezing Angel’s cheek.

“I love you.”

“Sorry again. When you’re a mom, family always comes first! That being said, it’s time for makeup!

I’m not using any foundation or concealer only because my skin is in a good state, and I don’t want it to suffocate. I will start with applying gel to my eyebrows; the NYX brow glue is my go to,” you say to the camera as it gets another view of you getting ready with only one hand available. You expertly carry her in one arm while that hand flexes oddly to hold her bottle to her mouth.

“I’m going to curl my lashes off camera because I just can't do it through the viewfinder,” you announce, stepping away.

Since you’re away from the camera, you take the time to finish feeding Sloane, knowing that the big pause will be edited out of the video.

“Mommy!”

“Mama!”

You smile when you hear both your boys, their loud footsteps that you can hear Mat chastising them about.

“Don’t be so loud, mama is busy,” Mat tells them.

“It’s fine! I’m taking a little break,” you assure him.

Their little bodies crash into your legs, but they’re so little it’s like getting hit with a pillow.

“Look,” Nolan says, pointing at his spiderman shirt that Angel is also wearing.

“Oh my goodness. You’re matching with AJ. I love you guys so much. You look so cute, mister,” you say, kissing his cheeks.

“Mama!” AJ yells to get your attention.

“I know, bubs. I love you, too. Come give mommy kisses.”

He waddles over, giving you the messiest kiss, but you can’t complain.

“Bev is here,” Mat lets you know.

Beverly, your best friend, is going to watch your kids for you, so you can have the rare night out with Mat.

Once you make sure everything is packed in their backpacks and give them so many kisses, you resume back in your spot in front of the camera.

You feel Mat’s hands sneak around your waist, stopping you from turning the camera on.

“Don’t start yet,” he says.

“Why?”

“I want a kiss, one that shouldn’t be on camera,” he whispers in your ear, sending chills down your spine. His lips press on your neck, nipping the sensitive skin. His hands start to fondle your boobs over your sweatshirt.

“Baby, we can’t do this. Not right now,” you mutter, turning around to press your lips to his.

“You’re killing me,” he groans.

“Your incoming beard is killing me. It’s so sexy on you.”

“I’m about to shave it right now.”

You pout up at him.

“Can I at least shave it for you?”

“Of course, pretty girl,” you blush furiously, still feeling like that girl with a high school crush.

You sit on the counter and he stands between your legs, handing you the shaver before he puts on the shaving cream. You’re so careful with your movements, not wanting to cut his pretty face. Every now and then you’ll catch each other's eyes, and he’ll let his hands fiddle with the band of your small boxer shorts.

“All done, baby,” you help clean and dry his face, tossing your arms around his neck so you can brush your lips on the freshly shaven skin.

“Thank you. Can I join you for the video?”

“Of course!”

He pulls you into his arms, your back against his-still shirtless-chest, and his head leaning on your shoulder when you return to the front of the camera.

“I’m back! Back to the scheduled program, we have mascara. I will be using the Too Faced: Better Than Sex Foreplay mascara primer and mascara. Oh, and we have a special guest! My husband, Mathew Barzal,” you speak, turning your head to connect your lips in a sweet kiss.

“Off camera, Y/n shaved my face and she’s an expert,” Mat tells the camera.

“I am an expert; I have years of experience,” you smirk.

As you’re applying your mascara you can feel his eyes on you, so you turn to see him looking at you with infatuation.

“I can watch you put makeup on, take your makeup off anytime. You’re just so mesmerizing,” he declares. Your heart flips at his remark.

“Stop, you’re making me blush! Guys, Mat is trying to make me flustered,” you say with a laugh when he starts lightly tickling you.

“Instead of eyeshadow, I’m using eyeliner and smudging it out to give a bit of a smokey eye look,” you explain and show how you do it.

“Next up is blush! I will be using Rare Beauty’s liquid blush in shade bliss.”

“I like this color,” he compliments.

“Thank you, barzy.”

“After the blush, it’s time for lipstick, the best part!”

“It’s not the best part. Once the lipstick goes on I can’t kiss her,” Mat says to the camera and you playfully glare at him.

“That’s so not true. You know that I still kiss you even after I put lipstick on,” you retort.

“Anyways, I use a NYX lip liner in espresso, and since we’re going to a YSL event I will use their candy glaze in shade 14. It’s one of my favorite lip combos.”

“I love the candy glaze. Her lips are so glossy for so long. This isn’t an ad by the way.”

You giggle at Mat’s little speech.

“See! Isn't it so pretty?” You exclaim!

Mat rests his arm over your shoulders, and you decide to give him a lipstick kiss that you apparently deprive him of. He doesn’t even see it coming, you grab his jaw and pull his face closer to yours to slot your lips with his. You can literally feel him melt into you.

“Ahem… it’s kiss proof, so even better,” you say out of breath, and Mat is just awestruck.

“I want to show you guys my outfit because I actually love it so much. Oh! This is the necklace I’m wearing tonight,” you grab the camera and show the silver heart pendant that you’ll be wearing.

“Let’s go to my closet so I can show you the dress! Hey, hotshot, you coming?” You ask Mat who’s still dazed. He snaps out of it, hurriedly catching up to you.

“Here’s a little look at my closet, maybe one day I can film a tour for you all.”

You set the camera on one of the counters in your closet, and show off your dress for the night.

“It’s simple but still has a little flair to it! I will be wearing some YSL sunglasses and heels and will top it off with their Black Opium perfume. If you can, you guys need to buy that scent, it’s amazing.”

“It does smell really good- especially on Y/n,” Mat agrees, once again making you blush.

“Thank you all for watching! I hope you find something helpful in this video. Now, I got to go, there’s a tie that needs to be tied on Mat’s neck, and a fun date night waiting for us. I love you all, bye!”

You click the camera off, turning around to throw yourself in Mat’s arms.

“I’m cold,” you whine, mouth pressed onto his jaw.

His hands gravitate to the backs of your thighs, lifting you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist.

“Let me warm you up,” he says softly, lips already kissing your neck.

“We cannot be late tonight,” you warn him, already feeling your resolve crumbling.

“We can be fashionably late,” his lips wrap around your earlobe. You moan out and your hips start to move, your heat desperate for friction.

“We really shouldn’t,” you mutter.

“Want me to stop?”

“Hell no,” you say surely, lips colliding with his and your tongue ready to tangle with his.

a/n: The second installment of the vogue series. I hope you all enjoy!!!

[mjxmoon]

dream helps you on wash day  🌱

dream x black reader

word count: ~870

request: Could I get a Dream fic where he helps you out on wash day please?

a/n: i’ll stop writing paragraphs here enjoy lol

warnings: swearing 

You yank your comb through your hair rather harshly, and let out a huff “Dammit.” you curse resting your hands on the counter in front of you, a little peeved at how uncooperative your hair is today.

Dream peeks open the door to the bathroom, popping his head in only to be met with the sweet smell of your conditioner. “Hi!” He says cheerily.  You turn to him with a frown, not knowing how to be enthusiastic when you’re a broken comb away from shaving all of your hair off. “What's wrong?” Dream questions seeing your frustration.

“My hair is being a bitch today” You complain pointing a finger at it.

He sticks his hands in his hoodie pocket as he rocks back and forth on his feet “Maybe I could help…” 

You pause for a moment thinking about how he could either make your situation 10x better or 1000x worse. I mean he’s gotta learn at some point, so when you’re old and frail and can’t detangle your own hair he’ll be able to do it. 

“Fine.” You agree, extending the comb towards him “Lets see how you do.”

Dream cracks his knuckles and stretches out his fingers before taking the comb from you. He’s acting very casual but deep down he's quite excited that he’s finally getting the chance to do your hair. He’s always been fascinated with the different ways you take care of and style your hair, but has always been too afraid to ask you much about it.  

“So section it off, apply the conditioner, comb it through then twist that section so it doesn't tangle up again.” You explain looking at him in the mirror “Got that?”

“Got it” he doesn't, but he’s feeling rather confident today so he’ll just go with his instincts. Dream uses the end of the comb as he’s seen you do and parts your hair making the first section to work with. He reaches for the jar of deep conditioner and takes a rather generous amount for the small section he’ll be putting it on. 

He applies it to the section and begins to comb it through. Dream pulls your hair just how your momma used to do when you were younger giving you war flashbacks of the nights you sat trying not to cry over your tender head. “Ahh wait wait!” You exclaim. “Gentle! start at the ends then comb up to the roots.” 

“Mhm mhm.” He hums trying to brush you off, but still doing what you told him. You’re surprised that he’s actually listening and applying your instructions. Usually he’s pretty headstrong and will keep going until he figures it out himself but today he’s being rather attentive to your advice. 

“Oh wow good job!” You compliment seeing the nice little twist he made. “I'm surprised you’re doing so well!” 

“Why? I'm very good with my fingers.” Dream says giving you a wink in the mirror. You fake gag as you swat your hand back at him, of course he had to find a way to ruin this cute and wholesome moment “What I am!” 

As time passes by you’re shocked at how much of a pro he is, for a first timer at least. Detangling should be an olympic sport at this point because despite how easy it might look the effort, strength and dedication it takes is not minimal. 

“Ok done.” Dream says admiring his work. The parts are a little uneven, and the twists are pretty wonky but all in all your hair is evenly coated and nicely detangled. You giggle at his satisfied look and can tell how happy getting to do all this made him.  “Now what?”

“Now we wait.” You say pulling your shower cap over your head so that you can let your hair set. “Thank you for the help” You lean in and kiss him softly on the lips, before going to put the products you’ve already used away. 

“What, you're not gonna return the favor?” He questions twirling his hair around his finger. You giggle at his joke before realizing that he’s dead serious. “Dude none of my products are gonna work on your hair.” You explain. He crosses his arm and pouts, letting you know that he could care less about the logistics. “Ugh fine- as a token of thanks,” You reach into your basket and pull out one of your durags.

He gasps because he knows exactly what it is and squeals as you drape it over his head before tying it. “There, that way I don’t waste my expensive ass conditioner on your hair.” You say with an eye roll, as you leave the room. 

Dream spends the next half an hour in the mirror taking pictures of himself with your durag on and sending it to Sapnap and George. You’re thankful he’s still hiding his face from the internet because if he wasn't he certainly would have posted all of the selfies he took on twitter. 

[nitannichionne]

If He Was YOUR Fan Chapter 16: Monday (A Henry Cavill Fan Fic)

Chapter 16: Monday

You get up earlier than usual, having spent the night at Henry’s. You awaken to the smell of coffee, basically because you took the time to set the timer. He finds this a pleasant surprise, having never thought to do it, and takes a minute to serve you coffee, smiling about not having to wait to get to the filming site to have some. You fill water bottles and hit the door, Kal being the only one who had breakfast. You decide that you really should stay at your own place on Sundays from now on so as not to interfere with his work rhythm or your own. You are at the gym really early, so early, you steal a nap in the car. Even Kal naps in the car. But Henry? Superman, yes, though a bit of a sleepy one, but after a few swallows of coffee he’s ready to go.

                                          “How are you holding up?” he asks, having finished a set. You take a ten minute walk on the treadmill, which you usually don’t do, but you have time. The coffee and adrenaline have brought the electricity to his eyes and the glisten to his skin, highlighting curves of toned muscle. You pause. He looks something like this after sex, but honestly, more intense.

“Hanging in there, honey,” you say. Your breath catches. Wait, you call Stella honey from time to time, especially when smarting off, but saying it to him now seems…you smile widely. “Elliptical, here I come.”

He gives you a wink, and you both move on with your workouts.

You are halfway through when Archer, Stuart and Stella arrive. Relieved that Hannah isn’t with them, you greet them brightly. “Hey, guys!”

Stella greets you with a warm hug. “You look like you survived!” She smiles and glances at Henry, who is working out. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “You stayed with him?”

It was a good thing you could read lips, because she barely got the words out. You give a small smile.

“Ohmigosh!” Stella covers her mouth, her eyes going as wide as saucers. She takes you by the arm and leads you further away. “So…what happened?”

“He was worried about me, and picked me up so I stayed with him,” you say simply. “Good thing, too, we barely made it before the storm broke and—”

“Oh. My. Gosh.”

“What?”

“He’s the lookalike, isn’t he?” She shakes her head at me. “There never was one?”

You lock elbows with her. “I need you to just not say anything especially to Hannah.”

She gasps, eyes going wide again. “I can understand that.” She crosses her heart. “I won’t tell a soul.”

You feel yourself relax. “Thanks—”

“We workin’ out or what?” Archer asks with a frown.

Henry turns and looks at him.

“Just a second, I’ve got one for you!” you call nervously, and look in the mirror to see Henry’s jaw clench.

“What is going on?” Stella asks. “I’ve never seen Henry look like that. He’s usually upbeat.”

“I need to know something,” you tell her. “You guys didn’t know you left me behind. right?”

“No!” Stella’s eyes went wide again. My, but she was an owl today. “Hannah said that someone told her.”

“Someone?” you frown. “No specific name?”

Stella exhales heavily. “No.” She loses eye contact with you. “That doesn’t seem right, does it?” She looks up hopefully. “Maybe it was Colin or Cindy?”

You remember that Cindy was also checking people out. You didn’t work with her as much as Hannah so maybe Cindy mixed you up with someone else. You were willing to settle for that. You didn’t want to think someone wanted something bad to happen to you. “Makes sense.”

“Either way, it ended well, right?” Stella asks hopefully. She uses the mirror to glance at Henry. “Is that why he looks so…unhappy?”

“He’s concerned, is all,” you say. “He is the main in this production, so he takes safety and production seriously.”

“You sound like public relations,” she teased.

“Ha, ha, ha, the money would be good,” you shrug. “I might need a ride, though.”

“There’s room for sure—”

“It’s Archer’s car,” you point out. “How did the weekend go?”

“We went to their place in town, and Hannah and I took Stuart’s room,” she shrugged simply. “But honestly, we mostly all slept around the telly in the living room.”

“Sounds like you guys had fun,” you smile.

“But it was just you and Henry—”

“And Kal,” you add quickly.

“Not kissing and telling?”

You shake you head, and Stella squeals.

“Archer got room in the car for my friend?” Stella asks.

“Always,” he nods, but doesn’t look at you.

You feel a loss, but manage a smile. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” He looks at Henry and you check the mirror. His cap is lower than usual as he works out, his eyes somewhat shaded from view, but his jaw is set and he looks serious as he curls.

You work out with Stella, and Archer works out with Stuart. You challenge them to do three circuits of eight machines, a minute on each. You catch Henry trying not to laugh as you all do it, some doing well, some not as much. You know the guys are using too much weight, and only suggest they lower it once, but they don’t listen. You and Stella don’t do more than fifty pounds on each of the machines, but the guys were trying to go twice to triple that.

“I can’t believe we did all that in thirty minutes!” Stella smiled, her face bright.

“Gotta have a short intense workouts in case you can’t do an hour,” you pant. “I actually prefer them. We are about to be on our feet all day, anyway.”

“Yeah, all day workout!”

“I got like twenty-thousand steps one day—” You are stopped when Archer steps in front of you and inhales deeply.

“You smell different,” he says in a low voice.

You shake your head. “How would you even know?” You step past him and head to the showers. You shower and dress quickly, a few minutes behind Stella. Henry pulls you aside as you get ready to leave.

“Everything okay?” Henry asks.

“Yeah,” you nod.

“What did he say to you?”

You scoff, “That I smell different.”

“You probably do,” Henry smirked. “You showered with me.”

You feel your cheeks heat.

“No worries, darling,” he grins. “you just used your own stuff, right?”

“Right.”

He kisses your cheek. “Have a good day. Talk to you soon.”

You stretch up and kiss him back shyly.

“Talk to you later,” he whispers.

“Later,” you say and turn to go, only to see Stella waiting for you by the door.

She smiles widely and waves good bye and you walk out. “He looks into you!” she says excitedly.

“Stella.”

“Okay, okay!” Stella bumps you and makes you giggle. “Come on, this is thrilling!”

“He’s actually…not what you think, Stel.”

She gives a low whistle and shakes her head. “If you say so.”

You get in the car, and there is an awkward silence.

“Well, heigh-ho, heigh-ho!” Stella says with forced brightness. “or, how is you say?”

You laugh, “I owe, I owe.”

Stuart laughs at that, and Archer smiles and shakes his head. “Off to work, Arch!”

“Here we go.” Archer starts the engine and speeds off.

The morning goes well enough. You try to keep your head down and work, but you find yourself looking for Henry when you can. You chastise yourself for it, but after the weekend you had with him, it’s normal to want him so soon, right?

You are startled by a hand on your shoulder and look up to see Colin.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Hey,” you smile, grateful he can’t tell that you were thinking about Henry and not fully concentrating on your work.

“Glad you’re okay,” Colin nodded.

“Thanks,” you smile, but slightly frown. He didn’t call you back that day, did he? “Any idea about how the mixup happened?”

Colin shook his head. “Actually, no. I talked to Cindy and she isn’t sure either, and we are so, so sorry about that.” He paused. “But you caught up with Stella after all, right?”

“My ride came, yes,” you say evasively.

“Great,” Colin grinned. “No harm, no foul.”

“Yeah.”

“Talk to you later,” he says and leaves.

That didn’t give you much information at all. From the sound of things, he didn’t know what happened either. Resolved and a bit happy to think of it has a mix up, you continue on with your work, part of you reliving the events of the weekend.

Your phone chimes and you look at it.

DAL: Thinking of you.

YOU: Thinking of you.

Now you can’t do anything but smile.

Thanks for reading! I enjoy comments, and please let me know if you want to join the tag list:

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Also, please feel free to check out my other Cavill Fan Fics. Wisdom and wellness to you.

[emmerrr]

Neil has never had Christmas cookies (even those not too sweet shortbread ones or the extra gingery gingerbread men) and Andrew is personally offended. So of course he takes it upon himself to remedy the situation. “Shut up, Josten, they’re just cookies.” For the winter fic prompt.

this isn’t quite what you asked for because i’ve grown kind of allergic to headcanons that are like ‘neil has never [fill the blank]’, but i can absolutely write cute holiday cookie shenanigans for you! :)

-

The smell of cinnamon and cloves filled the hallway of the third floor of Fox Tower. Andrew followed his nose to the girls’ room, and Neil followed Andrew.

In the kitchen was organised chaos; Renee rolling out dough on the counter, Dan pulling out a cooked batch from the oven, Matt icing cooled gingerbread men, powdered sugar smeared across his cheek. Nicky and Allison were also there, Allison sitting on the breakfast bar reading a magazine, and Nicky doing little else other than getting in the way by the looks of things.

Matt looked up at Neil and Andrew’s entrance. “Oh good, you guys can help now, me and Dan are going to the movies and Renee needs happy helpers.”

Andrew rolled up his sleeves, putting his armbands on full display. “How about indifferent helpers,” he offered.

“I’ll take it,” said Renee.

“What are we helping with?” Neil asked.

“Cookie making,” Renee said, then took in Neil’s confused expression. “For the bake sale?”

Neil knew about the bake sale; all the PSU sport’s teams were putting one on to raise money for the children’s hospital over the holidays. For some reason he hadn’t considered they’d have to actually…bake stuff.

“Ah. That.”

“We’ve got it down to an art-form,” Renee said cheerily. “A fine-tuned machine.”

“Where does Allison fit into this assembly line?” Andrew asked.

“I’m project manager,” Allison said without looking up from her magazine.

“And Nicky?”

“Quality control,” he said with a grin, picking up one of the finished cookies and biting off a leg.

“Hey, quit eating the product, this is for charity,” Matt said, swatting Nicky’s hand away.

“You’re absolutely right,” Nicky said in a faux-apologetic tone, holding his swiped gingerbread man out to Matt. “Here, this one’s an amputee. We can make him little gingerbread crutches.”

Matt scowled, but Renee smiled patiently. “Just eat it, Nicky. But no more, okay?”

“Scout’s honour,” he said solemnly, hand over heart. Neil was pretty sure that wasn’t how the boy scout salute actually went, but whatever.

“Matt, come on,” Dan said. “You need to shower before we go, you’re covered in powdered sugar.”

“What?” His hands flew to his face. “Where?”

“Right there.”

He wiped at his face, smearing it even worse and adding some more for good measure. Dan sighed with fond exasperation and took his hand. “...Yeah, you got it, babe. Let’s go.”

They said their goodbyes and went to get ready in Matt’s suite, leaving Andrew and Neil to take their places. Neil stood in the middle of the kitchen for a moment, looking at all the bare cookies that still needed to be decorated. He’d never felt more out of his depth, and he’d been involved in a mob war.

Andrew flicked his nose lightly. “They’re cookies, Neil. They won’t bite.”

“That’s funny,” Neil deadpanned. “You’re funny.”

“I’m a regular comedian.”

Renee swooped over and handed Andrew a piping bag. “Have you decorated gingerbread men before?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Once or twice.”

“Great. Do whatever you want, just within reason, okay? Nothing rude.”

“Renee, who do you take me for?”

She just smiled serenely and Andrew headed over to the decoration station. Renee turned to Neil.

“In a couple of minutes, a timer’s going to go off, and when it does I need you to take the baked cookies out of the oven, and put in that last batch of uncooked ones. Can you do that for me?”

It sounded easy enough. “Got it.”

While he was waiting for the timer to go off, Neil washed up the dishes that had been soaking in the sink. Allison and Nicky had now moved over to the sitting area, and Allison was painting Nicky’s nails.

“So you two are really just not gonna help at all, huh,” Neil remarked.

“I’d love to, but like...my nails,” Nicky said, wiggling his now pastel orange fingertips Neil’s way.

“I’m really better in a moral support kind of role,” Allison added, looking up at Renee with a smirk. “Right, babe?”

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” Renee retorted, and Allison snorted a laugh.

The timer went off, and Neil removed the cookies and set them on the side, then put the new ones in and reset the timer.

He dried the dishes, then moved the baked cookies to a cooling rack.

“What now?” he asked Renee.

She looked up from decorating. “Now you can grab a piping bag and come do some decorating.”

He’d kind of been hoping to avoid this part, but he went over to have a look.

Renee was giving all of her gingerbread people festive jumpers with patterns that looked like they should take ages to do but somehow she was speeding through it, and they all looked identical.

There was a bunch of finished ones on the other counter that Matt and Dan must have done. They were all pretty basic, with smiley faces and buttons, reminiscent of ones Neil had seen in stores. He was fairly confident that he could recreate something similar.

Andrew hadn’t said a word since Renee had sent him over to start decorating, and he was now hunched over a cookie with his piping bag as he worked, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration. Neil smiled and went over.

“Can I see?”

Andrew shifted back so Neil could have a look. The gingerbread Andrew was currently icing wasn’t yet finished, but it had the outline of a Foxes jersey on, black hair, and a tiny little queen chess piece on its cheek. 

Neil grinned. “It’s Kevin.”

“It will be,” Andrew said, and continued icing. Neil looked past him at the ones Andrew had already finished.

There was a Renee, complete with her pastel dipped hair, and a Wymack with his tribal tattoos and a whistle around his neck. And next to them, with auburn hair and a number 10 jersey, was a Neil.

“You made a gingerbread me,” he said with quiet awe. The icing on the Neil cookie was the driest; Andrew had clearly decorated this one first.

“I did,” Andrew said, without looking up. 

“You’re making the Foxes.”

Andrew sighed. “What’s your point.”

“My point is that you could have decorated these however you wanted, and you specifically chose to make us. Your team.”

He looked up. “It’s not my fault I have to spend all my time with you assholes.”

“Yes it is,” Neil said, smirking. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“What’s going on?” Nicky called over.

“Andrew’s making the Foxes as gingerbread men because he loves us,” Neil replied, without dropping Andrew’s gaze. The corner of Andrew’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Awww, Andrew!” Nicky exclaimed. “Make mine the prettiest.”

Andrew waved a hand at his cousin, agreement or dismissal, it was hard to say. Quietly, just for Neil, he said, “You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“I know.” Neil grabbed a piping bag filled with black royal icing and got to work.

Andrew paused in his own decorating to peer over Neil’s shoulder, and it didn’t take long for him to sigh when he realised what Neil was doing.

“You’re so predictable,” he drawled.

“You started it.”

Neil finished outlining gingerbread-Andrew’s second armband and hurriedly filled it in. “Renee, where’s the yellow, I need to do his hair.”

It took him ages to finish this one cookie, but he finally had a passable Andrew, complete with a tiny cigarette. He put it next to gingerbread-Neil, and Andrew snapped a picture of them with his phone.

“For Dan’s photo wall?” Neil asked dryly.

“Beats getting my own photo taken,” Andrew said with a shrug. “I wonder if I can use this for my student ID...”

Nicky came up behind them and got a good look at their creations. “Oh my god, I want the Kevin one. And look at the little gingerbread-yous! They’re adorable. You guys are adorable.”

“We’re also finished now,” Andrew said, brushing his hand against Neil’s. “Your turn, Nicky. And Allison.”

“Oh what? I’ve already been here all afternoon!” Nicky complained.

“And what a help you’ve been,” Renee said, her tone not betraying any sarcasm, but her smile definitely did.

“Yeah, come on,” Allison said, finally deigning to come over now the bulk of the work was done. “I want to make a prettier me than Andrew did. Although,” she allowed, “that’s not bad.”

“Maybe if stick-ball doesn’t work out I have a promising future in niche cookie decorating then,” he said. “Renee, we’re out.”

“Thanks for your help, guys!” she said with a wave, and Andrew took Neil’s hand properly, leading him out and up to the roof.

It was cold up there, but it wasn’t so bad huddled together, sharing cigarettes and kisses.

“I can’t believe I got away with only decorating one cookie,” Neil said.

“It did take you, like, half an hour.”

“Still. You did loads.”

Andrew shrugged. “In fairness, yours was the best one.”

Neil took Andrew’s hand, warming it between his own. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Andrew pressed a kiss to Neil’s jaw then leaned his head on his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky, Neil.”

He squeezed Andrew’s hand. “Too late.”

[factoffictionwriter]

Tiva Fic Amnesty #2

This is also a piece of the multichapter fic in which Ziva returns to DC a few weeks after ppf. Here’s just a peek into an age old Tiva trope.

He had been expecting an apron, but instead she was wearing one of his old OSU t-shirts that fell mercilessly to her upper thigh. She was standing in front of the stove, a clunky book in her hands as she squinted at the pages, concentration drawing her features down. There were two big pots on the burners, and she seemed to be consulting the book for what to do with them next. 

She hadn’t heard him come in, at least she hadn’t led on that she did, and he just couldn’t bring himself to interrupt her. Something on the page seemed to confuse her, and he watched as she captured her lower lip between her teeth and gnawed at it. She turned her head toward the ovens, as if debating whether she should tend to the dish in there before continuing on with the contents of the pans, and then turned back his direction. She jumped the slightest bit when she saw him standing there, and he found it oddly satisfying to have snuck up on a notorious ninja. 

She continued on as if he hadn’t scared her, “You are home…” she turned back toward the ovens for a second to check the time, “... at a perfectly reasonable time. I did not expect you for at least another hour.” 

He bit back a smile and moved to take a seat on one of the bar stools, “It was a slow day. I blew through my case files. Boss couldn’t think up an excuse to keep me.” 

She set down the book, which he could now see was an old Julia Child cookbook he kept on a shelf for posterity. She glanced between the two pots for a fleeting second before deciding that they could both use a good stir, “You blew through desk work? You? Tony, I once watched you balance a pencil on your nose for 2 hours rather than fill out a report.” 

He laughed as she moved on from the pots and made her way to the oven, opening the door and giving Tony a good look at the two large steaks she was nursing.

“Let’s just say that today I was a highly motivated man,” his eyes trailed down her back and over her bare legs as she rolled up onto her toes to get a better view at the cooking meat. His tone must have alerted her to his alternative meaning, as she quickly closed the oven door and turned back his way, letting her hair fall into her face as she leaned against the counter. 

“You have been highly motivated before, I am sure.” 

He shook his head, watching as she slowly drew her hand across her shoulders and neck, sweeping all of her curls to one side, “Never this motivated, no.” 

She considered the statement for a second, then seemed to accept it as she moved back to the pots on the stove. 

Tony looked around the kitchen, “Did you buy food?” 

She shook her head, “You bought food and forgot about it. It was probably months ago. The steaks were in the back of your freezer.” 

He watched her turn off one of the burners and move the pot over to a waiting holder, “It’s probably best that they weren’t found until now. I would never be able to do them justice if I tried to make them.” 

She shrugged, “I also found an old box of macaroni in your cabinet. It’s not much, but I added some vegetables and threw in some spices. It should make for a decent side dish.” 

He gestured to the pot still boiling, “And that one?” 

“Mashed potatoes. Or, it will be, once I actually get around to doing the mashing.” 

He watched her stir the boiling potatoes, gauging how soft they were becoming. A small, intimate smile crept across his lips. 

It was almost a minute before she realized he hadn��t moved and looked up at him. 

Her brows furrowed at his expression, “What is it?” 

He shrugged, “You’re just being so… domestic.” 

“I have cooked for you before.” 

“Yeah, at your place. With clothes on.” 

She looked down at her attire as if just now remembering how little she was wearing, “My clothes are still in the dryer. I did not want to wear the same thing tomorrow without washing them. Plus, I smelled like airplane… and sweat,” she scrunched up her nose for emphasis. “I also used your shower, though I have to admit that your hair care products leave something to be desired.” 

He trained his eyes on the still boiling pot, trying not to imagine her standing in his shower… water running down her skin… suds all over her body…

“Yeah, sorry about that. I wasn’t really expecting company. But maybe we can head to the store tonight? Get some more food… maybe some beer… whatever else you may need…”

If his hinting at a prolonged stay surprised her, she didn’t show it. Instead she glanced back down at the large t-shirt hanging loosely on her frame, “My clothes probably won’t be done for a while, and I don’t think I can reasonably go out in public wearing this.” 

“Trust me, no one will mind,” he let himself run his eyes up and down her body again, studying the way the loose cotton folded and twisted around her hips. 

She laughed quietly, reaching down to turn off the final burner and moving the pot onto a cooler one, “It will be late by the time we are done eating anyway. I can go to the store tomorrow while you are at work.” 

“And clothes?”

She nodded, “I will buy some of those while I am out as well.” 

“Why didn’t you bring any with you?” 

She stopped her assault on the soft potatoes for a second, looking up to meet his eyes with an expression he couldn’t quite identify, “I… um… left in a hurry. I did not take the time to pack anything, really.” 

He reached into his suit pocket and fished out his wallet. He pulled out his Mastercard and held it up for her to take. 

She immediately shook her head and pushed his hand away, “I have my own money, Tony.” 

He held the card out again, “You’re not working right now. It’s not a big deal, consider it a gift.” 

She pushed it back again, “Seriously, I do not need it. I am sure I don’t have to remind you that my father was a very powerful man. He had accumulated a considerable amount of wealth in his life, and being the only living relative... Anyway, most of the money was tied up in various assets-”

“Let me guess: diamonds?” 

She smiled, “There were some diamonds, yes, but mostly it was in real estate. He had houses and land all across Israel, and even some over in Europe. I kept a few that had sentimental value, like the ones we used to visit during the summers, but the rest were of no use to me. So I sold them. That is another thing I have been working on this past month.” 

“You sold everything you didn’t want in a month?” 

“Unfortunately, no. There are still a dozen or so listings that I’m waiting on, but I did some damage. The point is, I have more than enough money to pay for myself.” 

She got back to working on the food, and he put his wallet back in his pocket, making a mental note to slide her a 50 tomorrow, just to help cover groceries.  

He resumed his previous line of questioning, “You were in a hurry? What, was this a last minute trip?”

She nodded a little, “I guess you could say that.” 

“Something important you had to do?” 

She looked up, “I would consider what happened last night to be important, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course,” he stood a little in order to reach across the kitchen island and tuck some loose strands of hair behind her ear, “I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you came back now. When I left you on that tarmac, you were pretty hell bent on giving all of this up - DC, NCIS, the whole bit. What changed?”

She shook her head, “I am still not returning to NCIS. I meant what I said about giving up the badge. I do not want to chase bad guys anymore.” 

“Okay. But what about DC? And the team? Aren’t we going to pull you right back to where you started?” 

She didn’t respond. Instead she finished up her work on the potatoes and moved on to stirring the mac and cheese concoction for a second before a timer went off and she gracefully pivoted to the oven and removed the masterfully prepared steaks. She set them on the counter and admired her handy work. 

Finally, she said, “Dinner is ready. I think we would both benefit from having some food in our stomachs before we dive into THAT conversation.”

[the-pontiac-bandit]

we can take the world

alright so i blame @jakelovesamy @dmigod and @elsaclack for this e n t i r e l y. i was never going to write ng fic. i wasn’t going to do this. and yet winston and aly sucked me in and, like, four deep binges later, i’m 6k words into a pregnancy reveal. so here you go, world. (title from take the world, by johnnyswim, which has dominated all playlists for several weeks)

also on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14193303

Aly is sitting in the stall, feet kicked up against the door (how she ended up a married adult woman living in a loft with a bathroom stall she doesn’t quite understand. She used to have covered parking). The timer on her phone is running, ticking off the seconds as a white stick develops in the corner. She can see it out of the corner of her eye, so she does her best to look anywhere else, to think about anything other than the timer counting down on her phone or the pee-soaked pregnancy test exerting an irresistible pull on her gaze. She isn’t particularly successful.

They’d talked about this before, of course. Once when Winston was still sweaty from a bobcat costume (and from the celebration after) and they were curled up in bed, planning their new futures together. And once this time last year, when Winston, uncharacteristically serious, spent a day in careful manipulation to ensure the loft would be empty at dinner so they could talk about starting their family.

But then she’d found out she was on the shortlist for a promotion, and then Nick and Jess had gotten engaged, and then her new job was busier than she’d expected, and then...and then...and then Jess had grabbed a box of tampons during a Target run and then Aly got a sinking feeling in her stomach because she hadn’t needed one in weeks and then that sinking feeling turned quickly into the violent nausea that had been dogging her for days and then—oh.

She’s staring out the pebbled glass of the small bathroom window, trying to identify indistinct shapes on the street below (trying to think about nothing) when she’s jerked out of her reverie by a far-too-familiar voice humming indistinctly. She doesn’t need to peer through the crack to know it’s accompanied by a well-tailored suit and a custom shower caddy with at least twelve hair products.

Schmidt.

She can feel the seconds ticking down with each heartbeat, but she spends several of them paralyzed. She had been alone in the apartment - she’d waited for that. It was just past noon on a Tuesday, but somehow, Schmidt was in the bathroom of a loft he no longer lived in, apparently to do his hair.

She remembers the timer on her phone with just seconds to spare. She’s fumbling for cancel as she watches the seconds tick from 14 to 7. She almost sighs in relief - Schmidt doesn’t seem to have noticed he’s not alone, and she’d prefer to keep it that way - but she manages to suppress the noise. And then, the reason she’d set a timer in the first place forces itself back into her consciousness, driving her heart rate through the roof and stealing her breath.

She tries to turn slowly, to stay calm and measured, as though controlling her movements will control the response. But then she’s leaning, snatching the test, unable to stand another second of suspense. She turns it over in her hand, her heart skipping a beat, and immediately brings the test to eye level, to see the two pink lines at close range. She stares them down like they’re a perp she’s interrogating, as if her scariest glare (the one that makes criminals cry but makes Winston weirdly giggly) will force one line out of existence.

Schmidt’s humming has transferred to full on beatboxing, using the word chutney as a rhythm, which she’s thankful for only because it provides cover for the small sigh she lets out as she drops the arm holding the test. She leans sideways against the wall of the stall, praying that the emotions knotting her stomach don’t make their way back up her digestive tract, dragging her breakfast with them. She wants nothing more than to sprint for her car and drive to the precinct, drag Winston outside, and spill it all to her partner. But outside the door, she can hear Schmidt uncapping the first bottle and apparently beginning to narrate the process to his hair follicles, so she settles in for a long wait.

——

Twenty three minutes and forty seven seconds later, Schmidt announces loudly over the god-awful noise he calls music that his hair can get ready for step six. Aly knows it’s been twenty three minutes and forty seven seconds because she’s been timing the ritual, but based on the early markers of insanity clouding the corners of her brain, she’d guess it’s been at least three million years.

At minute three, she’d typed out a text to Winston explaining her predicament, knowing he’d find it funny, that he’d do that silly little giggle he saves for when she’s truly gotten herself stuck. But then she’d realized, finger hovering over the send button, that text was probably not the best way to tell him about his impending fatherhood. So she waited.

At minute twelve, she’d rediscovered the joy that had bubbled up in her chest last year, when she’d seriously pictured for the first time a little boy with Winston’s kind eyes and penchant for terrible pranks. The first knot in her belly untangles, and her fingers drift from the windowsill, where they’d been silently but furiously tapping a rhythm, to her still-flat stomach.

At minute seventeen, she’s established a comprehensive work plan (what can she say? She’s efficient) and resolved the fifteen most likely potential conflicts in the coming months. She’d started drafting an email to their captain, to set the wheels in motion for the mountain of paperwork before her (who knows, she might be able to finish it all by the time Schmidt finishes his hair care routine in six weeks). But then she remembers that her captain is at the precinct. With Winston. Who should probably know first.

At minute nineteen, Aly realizes that she totally could have flushed when Schmidt came in and snuck the test out in the waistband of her pajama shorts. There was no need for her to sit in painful, torturous silence, listening to him lovingly address eleven specific “hair regions” (she misses the days when he had a job). She hits her head against the stall wall in frustration, and sure enough, he’s far too immersed to notice.

At minute twenty three, Aly has lost all her lives on Candy Crush, and her thumb is hovering over Winston’s name in her phone, vain thoughts of whispering the news into the microphone riding a tide of rapidly amplifying excitement over all the change to come. Every additional minute that Winston doesn’t know feels like an eternity, and she would literally slit Schmidt’s throat if it meant she could be bouncing on a trampoline with Winston to celebrate (after a brief google search about the feasibility and safety of trampoline jumping while pregnant, she revises the thought).

And so, at minute twenty four, Aly decides her only logical solution is to army crawl out.

Schmidt is so immersed in his routine that he probably won’t notice, she reasons. And she can be quiet when she wants to. So, test in hand, doing everything in her power to block out questions of when someone last cleaned the bathroom floor, she drops to her elbows and knees and lowers herself slowly to the floor, suddenly thankful for the small stature that her roommates love to mock. As she inches forward, ducking her head below the stall door, she silently lifts a prayer to whoever’s listening that Schmidt - currently mid-dance using some kind of electric hairbrush as a microphone - stays this distracted.

------

She’s so close she can taste it. The fingers of her free hand are reaching for the threshold, inches from the hardwood of the hallway, when the beat of Schmidt’s music changes. All of a sudden, he’s spinning on one heel, jar of hair chutney in hand. She freezes, breath held, as though if she’s still enough his eyes will pass right over her. Tragically, if unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work, and all she can do is stare open-mouthed, pressed flat against the bathroom floor, as Schmidt falls backwards, his hair chutney flying across the room to crack against the far wall, and lets out an ungodly shriek.

“Aly!” His voice has risen at least two octaves, to a pitch that makes her want to clap her hands over her ears. “My chutney! That cost--do you have any idea--you hooligans--”

He’s livid, his face slowly turning red, as he leaps over her body across the room to start scraping it off the wall and onto his head, muttering about the importance of proper hair hydration and disgusting roommates, but he loses steam quickly as the futility of saving his chutney washes over him. She can see in his face the processing as he moves beyond his chutney, dripping down the far wall in a trail of purple slime that will definitely stain, wondering why on earth an actual resident of this apartment is crawling across the bathroom floor. He scrutinizes her closely as she pushes up to her feet.

“What--how long have you--why--is that--is that a pregnancy test?”

Aly had almost forgotten about the little white stick still clutched in her hand. She decides deflection might be the best course of action. “Why on earth are you in my apartment at--” she glances at her watch, “--12:34 on a Tuesday afternoon?”

She’s inching for the door as he mumbles some incoherent answer about mirror size and sink depth, considering making a break for the front table where she can picture her keys in a haphazard pile next to a picture taken by some unfortunate ex of a room full of people double-fisting beers on top of furniture and shouting FDR. But her feet, already beginning to move, suddenly stop cold when Schmidt retorts:

“Are you pregnant?”

Something about hearing the words out loud stops her in her tracks. All plans for deflection, or for straight-up avoidance, run for the hills as a mixture of joy and apprehension and nerves and excitement and love for this thing she doesn’t even know yet all wash over her at once. The word echoes, reverberating around all the corners of her brain she’d thought atrophied while she learned about the intricacies of Schmidt-level hair care. She hasn’t managed to find her voice, but her free hand drifts reflexively to her stomach while she belatedly tries to shift the test behind her back, out of sight. It’s all the confirmation Schmidt needs.

“You are! A sibling for Ferguson! A miraculous chocolate-vanilla swirl!” And then his arms are around her back as the artificial blueberry smell of his hair products engulfs her. And she’s laughing breathlessly into his shoulder as her arms move to hug him back. At the feel of the stick making contact with his shoulder, though, he jumps back. “Pee stick! Pee stick!”

“Right, right,” she acknowledges, still giggling in some combination of shock and disbelief and overwhelming happiness. “The pee stick.”

“Does Winston know?” If she didn’t know him better, if she hadn’t seen the douchebag jar in person, she’d swear his voice was cracking (maybe Ruthie’s changed him more than he wants to admit. But she shakes that thought to the back of her head).

“No. I’m on my way to tell him now. So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna--and you can finish whatever--just, please, please be done when I’m back from my shift.”

“You’re just going to tell him now? At work? When Cece was pregnant, I bought out the entire florist! Pregnancy is grand, a miraculous occurrence, Allison! You can’t leave the reveal to some germy precinct hallway!”

“My name isn’t Allison.”

“Alexandra! Aurelia! Eulalie!”

“Really, just Aly is fine.”

“Alright, Aly. The point is you can’t just tell him! Where’s the ceremony? The pomp? The circumstance?”

She sighs, but she can hear her sister’s voice echoing his. And then her brain is providing her with flashes of picnics with a common cactus in Malibu and a bobcat costume in a public bathroom and the choreographed dance he led at their wedding and a thousand other silly moments. And then half-baked plans are forming, before she’s even given them permission to exist, of him opening a present with a onesie or finding the pregnancy test in a backpack confiscated during an arrest, and the way his eyes would light up is making her heart skip a beat. So instead of doing the sane thing, instead of bolting for the door or punching this idiot in the face, she settles onto one hip, arms crossed.

“Any ideas?”

------

Mercifully, when she arrives at the precinct for her afternoon shift, Winston is out after a perp. She can’t focus on any work-related task for more than thirty seconds at a stretch, and she spends the better part of the afternoon alternating between reading mommy blogs about pregnancy that make her want to tear her hair out and planning how she’ll tell Winston on an elaborate Excel spreadsheet that is getting increasingly complicated but not bringing her any closer to a solution that perfectly toes the line between loving exchange and psychotic prank that Winston finds so effortlessly.

By early that evening, only an hour from the end of her shift, she’s begun drafting an email to the Los Angeles Zoo, to find out how much it would cost her to rent their new baby panda and its mother for the day, as part of some yet-to-be-determined baby-panda-baby-Bishop reveal. She’s not quite sure what she’d do yet, but she knows that Winston cried over the panda when they had to work the press day and it’s really cute and it’s a baby and she’s having a baby and she’s praying for inspiration to strike and--

“Whatcha up to?” Winston’s voice sings into her ear, his breath tickling her neck. She almost falls backwards out of her chair, clicking away from the letter what she knows must be just a second too slowly. She knows his face so well that as she turns to face him, she can see the split second where he processes the words he read, filing them away for analysis at a later date.

But then she’s just looking at his face and it’s so stupidly cute and she’s got butterflies in her stomach worse than when he told her she’d be a beautiful bride someday and for a split second she’s worried it’s nausea but it passes and then she realizes she’s definitely been staring at him for at least three seconds too long with a dopey smile on her face. So she sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes instead, and his smile brightens as he throws back his head in laughter. He’s turning to walk away, to go back to work (because they are at work), but before she knows it she’s on her feet, grabbing him by one arm.

She loves the look on his face as he turns, mostly confused with a hint of the surprise that makes his eyes pop. And then she’s pulling his head down to kiss him, and the last time they did this at work they were in an evidence locker and they got caught and almost lost their partnership, but they’re married now and she’s so happy she can’t quite bring herself to care. He stills, and then pulls her closer, moving his lips gently against hers with one big hand pressed between her shoulder blades, holding her close for exactly five seconds longer than would be strictly appropriate. From the corner of her mind, she can hear the wolf whistles of their fellow officers, most of whom have stopped working to watch the scene.

He breaks away first, leaning his forehead against hers. “So, what was that for?” he asks, not quite able to pull off the reproachful look he’s going for.

“Just wanted to kiss you,” is the only reply she can come up with, half-focused on how close Winston’s hands have drifted to the baby he doesn’t know exists yet.

“I know I’m irresistible, but we should probably keep our hands to ourselves, Officer Nelson,” he retorts, breaking away to continue towards their captain’s office, skepticism and happiness etched in equal measure on his features. She manages to swat his head as he retreats, and turns back to her desk, resigning herself to a long evening of catcalls and reminders that no matter how often she sleeps here, it isn’t her bedroom.

------

By the next afternoon, Aly has become so weirdly stilted around Winston that she’s sure there’s no way he doesn’t know. She’s so distracted she can’t even muster an eye roll at the grainy cell phone pictures of her and Winston kissing that have been printed out and taped to her desktop, her captain’s office, and even the mirrors of the women’s bathroom. That morning, when she’d woken up at 6 to throw up (for the tenth day in a row), she’d shouted him out of the bathroom. Over breakfast, she’d panicked and accidentally-on-purpose dropped the cup of coffee he handed her, shattering a mug and making them both late for work. And she’d been so engrossed by her spreadsheet all morning that she’d barely looked up when he asked her for help on the work they were supposed to be doing.

She’s learned a good bit about pregnancy in the past twenty-four hours, most of it on her phone under the covers when Winston was asleep. She’d learned that, by her best estimate, their baby is now as big as a raspberry, and she’s considered everything from renting a raspberry costume to purchasing a giant statue of a raspberry on the internet (a bargain at only $8,000) to removing the furniture from their bedroom and filling it with as many raspberries as $8,000 can buy. Somehow, none of those feel quite right, and they’re all over budget.

By that evening, she’s getting desperate. Raspberries have turned into a full litter of kittens for Ferguson to adopt, which have turned into purchasing a house and decorating a nursery, which somehow turned into saving tomorrow’s vomit in a jar for the announcement. She shudders in horror at the thought (and swallows hard to choke down a fresh round). Part of her wants to simply tell Winston, wants to get to curl up in his arms while he laughs into her hair, fancy announcement be damned. But the rest of her can’t quite shake the need to surprise him, so she finds herself ready to tear her hair out, carefully positioned on the couch with her socks clad in fuzzy feet in his lap so that he can’t see her computer screen, where she’s doing extensive research into the biggest loaf of bread available for purchase (she’s trying for a play on “bun in the oven”, although these loaves are far too large for any domestic oven).

She’s vaguely aware of the click in the lock and the creak in the front door that means Nick or Jess is home, but she doesn’t bother looking up - she’s far too busy drafting an email to the owner of a roadside statue of a stork in Nevada about nearby hotel options. It’s not until he stops by the couch that she acknowledges his presence at all.

“Hey, guys, wanna go grab a drink?”

“Nick, you just came from the bar,” she points out, hoping that will be the end of it.

“I just came back from bartending, Aly, there’s a very big difference. You see, it’s all about your state of mind -”

“I don’t care.”

“C’mon, I guarantee you guys aren’t doing anything better right now! What are you even doing, anyway?” he asks as he cranes his neck, like changing his angle will allow him to see through the backs of their laptop screens.

She and Winston simultaneously mutter noncommittal answers about work, neither of them making eye contact with their roommate.

“No, it’s Wednesday. That means Winston is editing pictures of Ferguson for his weekly Instagram post. You should stop playing with the contrast, by the way, that way you can use that hashbrown no filter thingy.”

“There’s no way you don’t know that it’s hashtag, Miller.”

“Which brings me to Aly.” He’s got that look in his eye, the one she’s come to associate with his sudden fixation on solving a self-created mystery.  “You’re not normally on your computer this late on a weeknight when you don’t have a case, and I know you don’t have one because you’ve been coming and going at all your normal times lately.  Which obviously means you’re--” he starts to move around the couch, to catch a glimpse of her computer screen, and she’s just a second too slow in slamming her laptop shut. “You’re emailing--”

“My captain! Nick, can I borrow you for a sec?” she inserts, far too quickly to sound casual.

“I thought you said you and I don’t ‘have that kind of relationship’,” he replies, clearly caught off guard, but she’s already lept off the couch, kicking her husband in the stomach in the process, and grabbed him by one arm, her laptop clutched tightly in the other. She’s dragging him towards his bedroom before he even has a chance to react, leaving Winston gaping on the couch. As they turn the corner, though, she can hear him muttering something about Ferguson’s unique fur patterns requiring more contrast, not less.

When they turn into his room, she slams his door behind her.

“I know trying to look at other people’s screens is kind of a dick move, but it’s not illegal, okay, I know my rights--”

She cuts him off before he can get any further down that rabbit hole. “I’m trying to prank Winston, and I’m bad at it. I need your help.”

“Why do you need to prank your husband? I thought your anniversary was in April…”

“Does it matter?”

“In terms of pranking?” He seems to ponder it for a second, thoughtful gaze drifting to the ceiling, before snapping back down to her face. “Not for Winston, no.” he shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets and waiting expectantly for her to continue.

“Anyway, I’m running low on ideas, and nothing is clicking. What would you do to prank Winston?”

“You’ve come to the right person for assistance with this matter.” he says, backing away from her slowly. “In fact, you’ve come...to the master.” He pauses, hands held out on either side of him like she’s seen pastors of megachurches pose, and her eyes feel like they’re bulging with the effort it takes to keep from rolling them at him. He quickly drops the stance. “Lemme just grab the binder--”

“The...the binder?” she asks, but he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he’s moving towards a shelf of binders in the corner, pulling off one that’s noticeably messier than the rest, shoved into one corner with lopsided labels and bent tabs.

“You have...a prank binder? Just...why?”

“Well I used to just keep ‘em on bar napkins, but then Jess suggested I put ‘em all in here to keep ‘em straight and it’s been pretty useful.” he replies, answering only half of her question as he scrolls through section after section (she’s pretty sure he even flips through a tab for Ferguson). She sighs, wondering for perhaps the trillionth time in the past three years how she ended up living with these idiots.

“Anyway, Winston. He spooks easy, so you’re going to want to focus on shock factor. If I were you, I’d go for a basketball angle. Start with his old Latvian teammates - I have their numbers right here, although the international rates are a bitch. If you can manage to get them all to agree to fly them here, that’s your best bet. You’ll also need at least 200 basketballs, and a square acre of basketball net, but that’s hard to buy, so you might have to buy a bunch of individual nets and then sew them together. I’ll ask Jess to help you - she loves crafts. You’ll want to--”

She cuts him off, a little impressed by the first page of what’s apparently a very elaborate plan. “I don’t really think that’s what I’m going for. Got anything else?”

“Dammit - I was looking forward to seeing those guys again…” She rolls her eyes and uses one hand to motion that he continue. “Well, paying someone to kidnap him is always a great option. You can go in a lot of different direc--”

He’s cut off suddenly by Winston bursting through the door. “Miller! Just what kind of relationship are you trying to have with my wife?” he shouts as the door slams into the wall, knocking several balls of yarn off the dresser behind it.

“The kind where we’re actively plotting your murder,” Aly replies automatically, face serious as Winston drops his angry facade and starts laughing.

“Nick would never murder me,” Winston sighs, before his gaze flicks from Aly’s face to Nick’s over her shoulder, his smile disappearing at once. “I know too much.”

She furrows her brow, staring at her husband, wondering what ridiculous expression is contorting Nick’s face behind her.

“I know my rights,” Nick says again, though significantly more fearful than before.

“He was helping me with some details about bar financing. For a case,” Aly fills in, saving him from what would likely have been minutes of floundering.

Winston looks suspicious, letting out a long mhmmmmm and raising an eyebrow. Her mind has jumped into overdrive, thinking of every possible way to distract him.

“We don’t have any cases in a bar right now, Aly,” he points out slowly. His arms are crossed, and his expression has transformed from confusion to cockiness; he’s sure he has her dead to rights. And he does. So she pulls out all the stops.

“Hey, Winston! Wanna have sex?”

Nick groans. “Guys, we’ve talked about this. It’s Amendment 72C in the Loft Agreement - the Bishop-Nelson Public Disclosure Clause! In your room only!”

“Cool then,” she shrugs, doing her best to sound nonchalant. “Winston, wanna go to our room?”

Winston looks a little whiplashed from the sudden change in topic; his face is changing expressions approximately twice a second, shifting from confusion to arousal to deep thought and back again faster than she can recite police codes. She can tell he’s still pondering what on earth could have brought her to Nick’s room in the first place, but she also knows her husband, and she’d guessed right when she’d assumed he’d rather have sex than think about it further.

So as he grabs her hand and drags her out of the room, she mouths a thank you to Nick over her shoulder, wondering as Winston pins her against the wall in the hallway if kidnapping is really a viable option - she should really find out about hotels near the Nevada stork…

------

Aly should’ve known what was coming as soon as she got a public disturbance call while Winston is out on a coffee run. She definitely should have known what was coming when Leahy, who volunteers to accompany her, willingly drops back and lets Aly push through the door to the abandoned warehouse that’s supposedly the site of “giant and violent game of human monopoly”. She absolutely positively should have known when the warehouse is empty. But it’s not until a door on the far end opens and at least fifteen badgers come flooding out that all the pieces click together.

Winston.

Later, when he asks when she knew, she’ll lie and say she’d known what he was up to all morning, will insist that she didn’t jump even a little when the first badger sticks its nose out the door. But she has to mask an ounce of surprise as she calls out calmly, “Winston, where are you?”

No reply. She tries again. “Bishop! I’ll shave Ferguson tonight if you don’t get out here right now!”

A beat. Then two. And then Winston is following the badgers (who are now either sleeping or fighting in the middle of the open warehouse, the humans on the other end entirely disregarded) out the door with a shout.

She takes a second to take him in as he whoops and hollers, running through the badgers to startle them into continuing their path across the room (she turns and sees that Leahy has been dropping food strategically just behind her. Of course.) He’s wearing a giant badger costume, all but his face obscured by synthetic fur and a big red sweater. His arms are flailing, and she can already see the sweat glistening on his face on the warm September day. He’s out of breath by the time he reaches her, so she gives him a moment to catch up as she turns on the safety and re-holsters her gun.

When he finally takes his hands off his knees and stands back up, she gives him a look. “Wh--just...I mean...I know I signed up for…” She sighs. “Why?”

“Badgers are objectively the best prank animal, Aly! They’re small enough to be easily transportable, but big enough for effective attack! Random enough for full shock value, but instantly recognizable! Remarkably aggressive, but they’re only rabid, like, 20% of the time!”

“Haven’t you...used these before?” She’s conjuring vague memories of a photo album filled with pictures of an angry badger and a collapsed chuppah, Winston tangled in the middle, and stories about arranged marriages and vents and Jess’ crush on Nick. “Running out of new ideas, Bishop?”

“Hey!” He’s indignant at her implication that he’s getting rusty. “That was one time! You weren’t even there! And this was the perfect prank if you hadn’t ruined it - the badgers were gonna--”

She cuts him off before he can build up too much steam - she wants to know as little as possible about what awaited further in the warehouse. “Badgers are fine, Bishop, but why were you gonna prank me?”

“You were gonna prank me!” he practically shouts, hands flailing wildly as he explains. “I had to strike first! You can’t prank Prank Sinatra! He’s everywhere, Aly! All the time, everywhere, Prank S. is there!”

“You idiot. I wasn’t going to prank you.”

“Marriages aren’t built on lies, Aly! You were so gonna prank me! I heard you asking Nick - did you decide to go with the Latvians? Or the kidnapping? I should warn you, if you called Genadijs, he will poop on our welcome mat as a sign of respect - there’s some weird head injuries that come from outdoor basketball on a hill, and--”

“I didn’t call the Latvians,” she replies, deeply glad they’ve never saved enough money to go back and visit Latvia.

“Okay, so the kidnapping. You’ve been weird for days - all those emails! I knew something was coming, so I had to act!”

His eyes are a little wild, and she can see the glisten of sweat turning into beads that are starting to run down his cheeks inside what she’s sure is a literal oven of a mascot suit. So she takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself for what comes next. She resists the urge to bring her hand down to her abdomen, a gesture that’s become shockingly habitual in the past forty-eight hours, and instead grabs his paws.

“You’re so...so…” She tries to find the word for the combination of affection and frustration that’s welling up in her chest, but she can’t find a single word to describe it. So she finishes, “You’re so...you.”

His eyes are looking down, all attention on her now, and she sees a hint of concern there. She’s sure her cheeks are bright red, and she can feel her hands shaking in his a bit, but his eyes ground her as she whispers the next sentence. “I’m pregnant, you maniac.”

She’s braced for a kiss, or a bear hug, or even a tackle. She’s ready for him to take a step back in shock, to ask when or how or are you sure. She’s not ready for him to fall backwards, collapsing in laughter.

“Oh--you’re preg--oh, that’s a good--you really had me for a sec--” and then all coherent words are lost to deep belly laughter that has him literally rolling on the ground, clutching his stomach.

��I am! I took a test and everything! I had to army crawl out behind Schmidt - did you know he still does his hair in our loft while Ruthie’s at school? And I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you all week!”

“Pregnant--Schmidt in our bathroom--oh you’re good, Nelson! Good!”

She realizes she’s not going to get through until he manages to calm down. So she walks over and stands by his head, looking down with her arms crossed, waiting patiently for him to catch up.

Slowly but surely, he starts to catch his breath. And that’s when he finally notices that she’s not laughing with him. “Hahahaha...ha...ha…...ha…...h-Aly?”

“Yep?”

“You’re….you’re….pregnant?”

“Yep.”

And then he’s on his feet, pulling her up in his arms. She feels her feet leave the ground, and then she’s spinning. She can hear his laughter, somewhere on the corner of her consciousness, but it’s less loud now. It’s softer, happier, and she can hear his breath hitching on the downbeats. His arms are holding her close, and she’s deliriously happy, or maybe it’s just dizzy, but she never wants this moment to stop. Until her breakfast starts making moves in her stomach, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of the distinctly badger smell behind her and the way her stomach is churning as she spins.

A little squirming, and a few squealed stops do the trick, and her feet make contact with the ground, much to her relief. She stands for a few moments, one hand on her knee while her other holds her nose closed to block the smell. She’s doing her best to breathe deep and even through her mouth when she feels a soothing hand between her shoulder blades, rubbing gently.

“This is why you’ve been sick…” he says, his words full of a degree of awe she’d never expect from the love of her life as he watches her choke down vomit.

She doesn’t manage a reply for a few more seconds. “Yeah…” Another breath. And one more. And then she straightens. “I think it’s passed.”

“Thank God, because now I can do this.”

And he’s leaning in to kiss her. It’s gentle, far gentler than she can remember, like he’s scared she’ll break. Her hands have found his face, her thumbs smoothing his beard, while his hold her sides, ghosting over her stomach. He’s smiling against her lips, and she knows she’s about three seconds away from her face splitting into a smile almost as wide as his. And then he’s breaking away, leaning his forehead against hers and looking down into her eyes.

“You’re really….you’re really pregnant? It’s really happening?” His voice is quiet, as though he’s a few moments away from tears.

And she doesn’t even make an effort to swipe away the wetness she can feel below her eyes as she replies, “Yeah. Best I can guess, it’s about as big as a raspberry.”

And then he’s laughing again, a gentler chuckle, more out of happiness than humor. “A raspberry…” He trails off, then freezes entirely.

“If you’re really pregnant, we should definitely get out of here.”

“What did you do?”

“You really don’t want to know. Suffice to say badgers and...a number of other things in this room are definitely not baby-friendly. We can let Leahy clean up.”

He slings his arm around her shoulder as they turn to walk out, and she pulls him close, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“You know, I spent two whole days trying to figure out this prank thing. I really just don’t get it.”

“Oh, you are about to be so outnumbered.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian fic - “Always and Forever” (Rated NC17) 4/24

After the death of their daughter Grace, Kurt and Sebastian drift apart. Kurt wraps himself up in his grief so tightly he starts to push Sebastian away, and Sebastian, feeling himself shoved aside when he needs Kurt most, cheats. They make the decision to start over, to leave New York City and their pain behind, and start over again in a house Upstate. Sebastian buys Kurt a “fixer upper” and gives him free reign. While redecorating the room that will be his studio, Kurt comes across something interesting underneath the wallpaper. It starts to become an obsession for Kurt - an obsession that begins to replace Kurt’s love for his husband, which Sebastian is holding on to by a thread. Can Kurt and Sebastian break through the pain and the hurt and find a way to fall in love again?

This chapter inspired by the K*laine advent drabble prompt “dessert”.

Read on AO3.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

That evening, Kurt sets his alarm. He needs to take control of his life. No more depending on his circadian rhythm to wake him up on time. From now on, he sets his own rhythm and follows it. Kurt has always followed the beat of his own drum. He needs to go back to that.

For his sanity if for nothing else.

So his alarm goes off at seven. He gets out of bed, gathers his skin care products and his clothes for the day, and heads to the bathroom. Before he turns on the shower water, he sets another timer. He’ll give himself an hour. Half-an-hour seems like rushing, but if he stays in there for longer, he might as well bring a sandwich and set up shop because he’ll be there all day.

Sebastian used to joke about Kurt and his “two hour showers”, claiming that Kurt’s showers alone deprived most of the city of hot water. He blamed three separate water shortages on Kurt (even though none of those droughts affected their area). So on the mornings that Sebastian went to work late, he’d join Kurt in the shower. As soon as Kurt broke out his body wash and started soaping up his skin, Sebastian would relieve him of that responsibility, and Kurt’s “two hour” solo shower would turn into a three hour orgasm.

As much as Kurt misses those, he doesn’t want to remember them. He’s not ready for those to make a comeback.

An hour in the shower is fine.

While he lathers up, he starts making a list of things to do to keep his mind from wandering. First, he needs to finalize those orders sitting in his shopping cart since yesterday. After lunch, Kurt didn’t go back to working on the house. Instead, Sebastian lured Kurt into another movie marathon. Movies are the way that Sebastian deals with his depression. As a child, he and his father loved going to the movies together. The minute the newest blockbuster hit the theaters, they were the first two in line. But adult Sebastian can’t stand going to the movies. He doesn’t like anything about it, from the overpriced tickets to the sticky floors, and the popcorn, which Sebastian accuses of being stale even if it’s freshly popped before his eyes. He says it’s because he has no desire to waste his time in a stuffy, poorly ventilated theater, watching a movie that will be on Netflix in a few months anyway, especially when there’s book reading and fucking to do.

Kurt thinks that might have something to do with the falling out Sebastian and his father had after Sebastian and Kurt got married, but Kurt has yet to ask.

If he did, Sebastian probably wouldn’t talk about it.

Sebastian hasn’t cracked a book since Grace got sick. Reading gives him too much time inside his own head with his intrusive thoughts. And fucking … well, that isn’t something they did anymore.

So movies it is. Sebastian can get lost in movies. He can shut off his brain and just follow along with the words and the action, seeing everything, hearing everything, having it all handed to him without exerting any effort, and absorbing nothing. Kurt will ask him, on occasion, about the show that he’s been watching so intently, but except for the prior five minutes, Sebastian usually can’t tell him what the plot is. Even without Kurt by his side, he usually falls asleep with the television on.

The television is on in their room right now, cycling from one episode of Lucifer to another on a continuous loop.

Kurt’s list making grinds to a halt when thoughts of his husband lying in their bed, curled on his side with the television on, interrupts his contemplating over whether he wants to refinish all of the floors, or does he want carpet on some. Sebastian. His marriage. That’s something Kurt’s going to have to work on, too. But is that the kind of thing that you jot onto a list filled with stuff like order paint, hire a contractor, and call Terminix to make sure there are no termites in the exterior wood before he starts tearing out drywall? Kurt does have a habit of living his life by lists. If it’s not on a list, it often times gets forgotten.

So, yes, working on his marriage makes its way onto his “to do” list.

He rinses off and gets out of the shower before his timer goes off. After he dries, moisturizes, and dresses, he grabs his sketchbook and ventures downstairs. In the few days they’ve been there, Kurt hasn’t spent more than five hours total in the downstairs of the house. He’d better get a move on if they want to enter the New Year with more than a handful of chairs, an old flea market coffee table, and a futon.

Or maybe he should have Sebastian send for the rest of their furniture from the penthouse.

Does Kurt really see himself going back?

Rustling around in the kitchen, getting a pot of coffee started, covers the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Kurt wanders from room to room as his coffee heats, but the footsteps join up with him in the room that will become Sebastian’s office.

“I didn’t think I’d find you down here.”

Kurt doesn’t look up when his husband stops in the doorway, but Sebastian sounds tired. If the man’s still tired, why doesn’t he stay in bed? Kurt wonders. It’s not like he really needs to be anywhere.

Of course, he could be doing like Kurt, setting a schedule and sticking to it, all in an effort to stay sane.

Kurt can respect that.

“Yeah, well, there’s a ton of work to do in this house of yours,” Kurt says, walking the room. “I can’t rest on my laurels.”

Sebastian frowns at Kurt’s distinction. Sebastian had seen this as their new house, their new start, but apparently Kurt doesn’t see it that way. “Well, it’s nice seeing you out of your studio,” Sebastian says with slight, petty emphasis in an attempt to get Kurt to correct himself.

He doesn’t.

Kurt’s first thought is to come back with, ‘Don’t get used to it,’ but he can’t. He has to remember that he’s supposed to be trying. He promised he’d try.

“Thanks,” Kurt says instead. A long silence stretches between them, but those have ceased to become awkward. It’s a consequence of them learning how to communicate with one another again. When they first met in their teens, they had such similar temperaments, which made talking (and insulting) one another simpler. But nowadays Kurt is more prone to flying off the handle, and in response, Sebastian has become submissive, more likely to roll over and expose his belly than instigate a fight.

Kurt hates that. It might be easier for him to decide what he wants to do – stay or go – if Sebastian hadn’t begun to change. But Sebastian’s adjusting to Kurt, so Kurt only has himself to blame.

Then again, cheater, so …

“Was there something you wanted to ask me?” Kurt says while focusing on his drawing, deciding in what ways the layout he created matches the layout of the actual room.

“Uh, yeah.” Sebastian steps in, but not closer to Kurt. He’s simply occupying a similar vicinity. “I wanted to know … do you need me here this afternoon? To keep you company or anything? Because I thought I’d run some errands.”

Kurt doesn’t really give his husband’s question too much thought. He doesn’t know what he’d need Sebastian for if he stuck around. “No. I’ll be fine. You go ahead.”

“Okay. Did you need anything from outside?”

Another non-thought. “Nah. I’m all good here.”

“Do you … want to know where I’m going?”

Kurt stops pacing. Does he need to know? He has to learn to trust his husband again. If there’s no trust in their relationship, then this relationship is never going to work. And just this morning, Kurt promised to make a greater effort. Here’s Kurt’s chance to prove that he wants to. “That’s okay,” he says, waving Sebastian away. “You have fun.”

“Yeah. Right. Loads,” Sebastian says with a nervous laugh and an audible eye-roll, neither of which Kurt seems to catch. “Oh, I peeked into your studio to see how things are coming along, and you still have the wallpaper up. I thought for sure that was the first thing you’d tear down.”

It would be if you weren’t hiding crap under it, Kurt thinks. He’s been wavering on his belief that Sebastian doesn’t know that word is there. He may not have put it there himself, but he could have gotten someone else to do it. He sent a colleague here - what was his name? - Tristan. He’d sent Tristan to the house to look it over. Facetimed with him, too. Kurt wouldn’t put it past Sebastian to tell the man to write it if he thought it would win Kurt back.

“I am. But I want to find a decent floor guy before I get started on the walls. That floor is a disaster. I’d like to do them both at roughly the same time. Minimize clean up.”

That wasn’t true at all. It was hard for Kurt to take the plunge. He wants the room to be perfect, but considering his design, he’s apprehensive to see what it will look like when it’s done.

“Is that the sketch of my office?” Sebastian has gotten closer, step by step while Kurt paced, without Kurt noticing.

“Maybe,” Kurt mumbles, changing direction.

“Can I see it?”

Kurt curls his sketchbook towards his chest. He had erased everything he had added to make it unique, to give it a bit of Kurt Hummel flair. But after having the night to think it over, he feels he copped out. But if Sebastian looks at this bland drawing and loves it, Kurt will realize that writing himself out of the picture might be what Sebastian wants. “Not yet. It’s not ready.”

“Well, I can’t wait to see it when it’s done.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow, then his eyes. “Wh-what if you don’t like it?”

Sebastian cocks his head, smiling at the worry on Kurt’s face. It’s nice to know that his husband still cares what he thinks. “That’s not too reassuring, going into this project assuming I won’t like it.”

“But what if you don’t?”

Sebastian doesn’t want to answer that. It sounds too much like a test, and Sebastian’s too afraid of failing any more of those. “You know, I’m not even considering that a possibility because I know I’ll love it.”

It annoys Kurt that Sebastian didn’t answer the question, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. But the blank, disaffected face he makes instead, his default face for anything that falls between sadness and anger, Sebastian can’t stand.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna go do my thing,” Sebastian says. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Kurt nods, returning his attention to his sketch. “Take your time.”

***

Kurt remembers talking to Sebastian that morning before Sebastian left, but he doesn’t realize Sebastian’s gone until he’s been gone for hours. Loneliness seeps into his skin all the way to his bones. Kurt feels his chest tighten, and hears a ringing in his ears in place of conversation. Kurt doesn’t have a problem being alone, he just doesn’t do it well. This house is not the best place to be alone, he’s begun to realize. It’s steeped in spirits. Kurt can hear them in the wood when the house creaks, talking to one another in the eaves when the wind blows. Kurt doesn’t mind ghosts – he has plenty of his own - as long as they leave him alone. But these ghosts are beginning to discover that he’s there, and they’re trying to get his ghosts to come out and play.

He’s thankful he’s not back home, alone in the penthouse. After Grace died, their home filled with a brand of silence that Kurt never got used to. It was cruel, held memories of laughter and jokes and singing that would never again be heard within those walls. Kurt tried to bring it back by watching old home videos, but he couldn’t stand it for too long. It was too painful.

With the specters of this new house closing in around him by way of lengthening shadows across the floors, he didn’t enjoy being stuck in this silence either. Would he ever be able to handle being alone again? Why couldn’t he exist by himself in his own flesh for longer than a few hours? He tries putting on music, runs upstairs to find something on his iPod that he can blast throughout the whole house, noise ordinances be damned, but nothing he finds helps. Every song he knows, every playlist he has, has a connection in one way or another to someone he’s lost – his mother, his stepbrother, his father, Grace … and Sebastian. Kurt’s about to switch to radio and settle on a Spanish station when he hears the front door open and shut.

“Kur-rt. I brought you desser-rt,” Sebastian calls, crossing through the empty living room to the kitchen and setting a bakery box on the table. “Something I know you’ve been missing.”

The silence broken, the ghosts go back into hiding, and Kurt’s relieved to have Sebastian home.

That’s why he needed him, Kurt thinks with a mental scoff. To keep the ghosts away. Shit. That makes Sebastian damn near invaluable.

“Really?” Kurt asks. He ventures down the steps, intrigued. He sees Sebastian open the lid and his eyes light up. “Cheesecake?” he gasps. “You bought me a cheesecake?”

“Yup,” Sebastian says, going into the cabinet for plates.

“Where the heck did you find cheesecake out here in the boonies?”

“Kurt, we haven’t left civilization, you know. They have a mall out here. It even has a Nordies.”

“Well, thank heavens for small favors.” Kurt doesn’t wait for a slice, digging out a piece with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. He doesn’t chew. He doesn’t have to. The cream cheese goodness melts on his tongue. He closes his eyes and sighs. Yes siree. That’s the good stuff.  When Sebastian doesn’t give up the name of the bakery, Kurt takes a peek at the lid. If there’s a place anywhere near them that sells cheesecake this heavenly, Kurt’s going to send Sebastian there every day. But when Kurt flips the lid down and sees teal writing against white paperboard, he doesn’t have to read it. He’s seen this box a hundred times before. “You got this … from Renaldi’s? You went … you went into the city?”

Sebastian puts the plates down on the table gently so they don’t clatter. He doesn’t go back for the forks. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Sebastian had picked the cheesecake up on a whim. He didn’t have an ulterior motive other than he wanted Kurt to have something nice to bring him out of his funk. It hadn’t hit Sebastian until close to home what he had done. He contemplated stopping off somewhere and getting a plain box to replace the custom one, or pitching the cheesecake altogether, but he didn’t want to keep any more secrets from Kurt.

He was in a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.

“You … you didn’t tell me you were going into the city.”

“I asked you if you wanted to know where I was going, and you said no,” Sebastian points out.

Sebastian’s answer isn’t an answer. It’s a loophole. A fucking loophole!

Kurt wants to pick up a chair and throw it.

“I had some quick, last minute business to attend to,” Sebastian explains, the last resort of a drowning man who’s sunk his own ship. He knows he fucked up. Now he has to keep his head above water long enough to swim to shore. “You know, tie up some loose ends.”

“A-ha.” Kurt crosses his arms. “Did you go to wrap up loose ends, or did you go to see him?”

Sebastian has to physically stop himself from retaliating, keep the dozen bitter comments that rush to his tongue from firing. Kurt may have built up walls, but Sebastian doesn’t. He forgoes walls entirely in favor of weapons – insults, sarcastic remarks, low blows. They may do nothing to break down Kurt’s walls, but that was never their purpose. They’re there to inflict pain. But Sebastian doesn’t want to do that. He can’t do that. “Actually, I went to see her.”

Kurt’s face goes from red with anger to pale and sick. He suddenly feels sweaty, like he might throw up. “You … you went to see Grace … without me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to go with me.”

“But you didn’t even ask me!”

“I didn’t want you to get upset.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing an amazing job there!”

“I’m trying to be the good guy, Kurt!” Sebastian says, begging Kurt to see reason, to see his side just once. “I’m doing everything you want! I’m giving you your space!”

“This is different and you know it!” Kurt cries. “We swore we’d never go without each other! You promised!”

“I’m sorry, Kurt. I am. But I … I needed a moment with her alone.”

“Are you sure it’s her you needed a moment alone with? Are you sure you’re not using her as an elaborate excuse?”

Sebastian stares at Kurt as if he punched him in the face, rammed him in the stomach, and kicked him in the balls. “Kurt, that’s not fair.”

“Right.” Kurt hugs himself tight, feeling vitriol rise up inside him and embracing the temporary rush. “I’m the one who’s not being fair. You’re breaking promises left and right and I’m not being fair!?”

“Kurt, I’m trying to do what you want, I swear. I’m trying to fix things!”

“You don’t fix things by keeping secrets from me!”

“I don’t know how to talk to you anymore, Kurt! You’re so wrapped up in your own depression, in your anger towards me that you seem to forget …” Sebastian pinches his lips shut, which makes Kurt curious as hell. He’s never seen his husband slam to a stop in the middle of an argument like that before.

“Forget what?” Kurt says. “Go ahead. Come out and say it.”

Sebastian’s jaw doesn’t loosen when he talks. “That you’re not the only one here who lost a daughter. I lost one, too. The only difference is that now I’m losing a husband as well.”

“Losing?” Kurt laughs at the gall of that statement. “You didn’t lose me. It’s not like I wandered off alone, or you forgot where you put me. You tossed me aside! You stepped out on me! I needed you! I needed you to need me, I needed us to grieve together, and you went to someone else! You don’t get to blame me for that!”

Sebastian takes a breath to calm down. “I know, Kurt,” he says, letting the breath go. “I know. I’m ...”

“You’re what? You’re sorry? Saying you’re sorry without changing things doesn’t fix them! Sorry without action is just a word! And it’s one I’m getting tired as hell of hearing.” Kurt storms away from the table, blowing through the living room to the staircase with Sebastian following behind.

“Kurt! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to work on my studio,” Kurt declares, racing up the stairs.

“But … but what about the cheesecake?” Sebastian asks, grasping at straws to make Kurt rethink himself and stay.

“You eat it. I’m not hungry.” Kurt gets to the top landing and stops. There’s something he’s about to say, buzzing at the tip of his tongue, but he has to ask himself - is he going to say it just to hurt Sebastian? Or is this what he truly believes? Either way, it makes an entrance before Kurt has the chance to stop it. “You know what? You might want to hire a decorator to do your office.”

“What?” Sebastian gasps like Kurt tore out his heart. “But … b-but why?”

“Because I think you were right the first time,” Kurt says, knowing that this is the truth – a heartbreaking truth. “We need our own spaces.” Kurt sees his husband’s face drop, every inch of hope on it crumbling away, and even though Kurt’s mad at him, he can’t leave him that way. “At least … we do for now.”

Kurt marches down the hallway and into his studio, but he doesn’t close the door behind him. He hears Sebastian in the living room. Or, more to the point, Kurt doesn’t hear him, not for a while. Sebastian remains at the bottom step, staring upward in disbelief, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now. But it’s not long after that Kurt hears stomping across the bottom level, followed by the loud scrape and angry splat of what has to be a cheesecake flying off the kitchen table and hitting the floor.

***

Kurt glares at the walls of his studio, at the floors, and his sketchbook - the top page showing the plans he’s made, plans he’s putting off - and decides enough is enough. No more waiting. He needs to jump in with both feet. That’s what Sebastian does. He doesn’t consider consequences. He just does what he wants. And who tells him no? No one. No one ever tells him no. No one tells him to wait, or he can’t, or he shouldn’t. No one except Kurt. But Kurt’s opinion doesn’t matter. When Kurt says no, Sebastian always finds a way around.

Loopholes.

“You should have known better than to marry a lawyer, babe,” he’d say, and then he’d laugh like it’s so funny. Like it’s such a big fucking joke. A big fucking joke with Kurt as the big fucking punchline.

They had made a pact, and to Kurt, that pact was sacred. But Sebastian doesn’t seem to know the meaning of that word. Their vows were sacred, too, but he found a loophole around those. Apparently grief gives a person carte blanche. Kurt wishes he’d known that was how it worked. Maybe he could have found solace between another man’s legs and chalked it up to grief, too.

But Kurt wouldn’t have even if he could have. That’s not the man he is.

So what does he have? What vices does he get to fall back on? Nothing. He’s never been a vice kind of guy. In all his life, he’s gotten drunk about four times, gotten one piercing (that he took out two days later), and one lame tattoo. And even though he’s standing in the center of a bridge between repairing his marriage and leaving his husband, he can’t bring himself to indulge in one revenge fuck that, by all rights, he’s entitled to.

Well, he’s had it! No more emotional manipulation, no more secrets! Kurt’s not a teenager anymore, sitting on a block of ice, watching Sebastian fuck everything on two legs, waiting in the wings because Sebastian says he’s unsure of his feelings even though he claims he fell in love with Kurt the moment he laid eyes on him.

No more living in fear that one day Kurt won’t be good enough, handsome enough, exciting enough, daring enough (even though those thoughts were Kurt’s and Kurt’s alone – he recognizes that) and Sebastian will leave him for someone else.

Kurt’s living that reality now, even if it was just the one night. In Kurt’s eyes, that should imbue him with a certain amount of freedom, but he feels locked down even tighter. Sebastian cheated on him and yet the burden seems to be on Kurt to make things better. Sebastian says he’s trying to fix things, but Kurt’s the one who’s expected to give him the time to do that.

Sebastian takes, takes, takes, and Kurt gives in.

But no more. No more slip-ups in the name of grief. No more white lies shadowing half-truths. No more, no more, no more!

It’s about time that Kurt starts rebuilding, and in order to do that, he needs to tear something apart other than himself.

And Kurt knows exactly where he wants to start.

His eyes zero in on the torn corner of wallpaper. He barrels up to it, grabs the edge, and tugs. He meets resistance, the glue adhering the paper to the wall much stronger than Kurt anticipated. It’s difficult to hold on to with just his fingers, and it doesn’t want to come down without a fight.

“So you’re not going to go easy, are you? Well, fuck you, then!” He steps back and yanks hard. With a final tug that nearly sprains his wrist, the piece vised between Kurt’s fingers tears free. The corner scores along the seam of the window frame with a dull noise, like linen rending instead of paper, and then snaps free, sending Kurt stumbling back about five steps. Breathing heavy, Kurt looks at the piece of wallpaper in his hand, the word darling printed in reverse on the opposite side, which should tell his rational brain that Sebastian, or Tristan, couldn’t have written it. It had to be underneath the wallpaper when it went up on the wall. Judging by the texture of the paper, the fact that there’s more than one layer of paper fused together, and the pebbly remains of the glue underneath, that couldn’t have been recently. Kurt’s done enough renovations to know that, but he doesn’t care. Whatever this is, he’s determined to blame Sebastian for it, because the fault lies with him. Everything that’s gone wrong in their lives thus far is his fault … his fault! And now Kurt has to pay the price. Kurt crumples the piece of wallpaper in his hands, digging his nails into it until a sharp edge of folded paper digs into his palm. He finally looks at the wall, ready to read whatever else Sebastian had the gall to hide underneath this paper because logic and reason don’t live here anymore. Only hate.

And Kurt’s ready to hate Sebastian more.

But when Kurt sees the writing revealed by the torn paper, his mouth drops open.

What’s underneath the wallpaper isn’t just words. It’s a love letter, like Kurt suspected.

Except, it’s not a letter to Kurt.

And it wasn’t written by Sebastian.

To my darling, my beloved, the love of my life,

I pray every day that things were different between us, that I could be where you are, that I can do more than just send you letters. I want to see your smiling face, touch your hand. I want to know in no uncertain terms that you love me. You tell me you do, but I miss hearing your voice. With every minute that passes, I lose hope that we’ll finally be together. Please tell me you’re still willing to wait for me? I can’t lose you. Not now. Not ever.

Forever yours, I shall remain –

Blaine

Kurt reads the letter to himself, then once again out loud. He looks at the tear in the wallpaper and sees more words, more letters hidden underneath. They’re not written on the wall. They’re paper letters glued to the wall that were covered up by the wallpaper … several layers of wallpaper, since underneath this top cover is a red rose paisley, followed by a plain seafoam green, and a cream with gold filigree; at least seven individual layers that Kurt can see, as if someone went to great lengths to cover up these letters … and forget about them.

His anger from earlier momentarily forgotten, Kurt reaches up and traces over the name with his fingertips.

“Blaine,” he whispers, narrowing his eyelids. “Who are you, Blaine?”