#also what’s the deal with all these weird sleeping bag shapes what the fuck is a spoon shaped bag

[ssvnormandie]

rei sale this week you know what that means ……

[twodimecastle]

fifty bucks & six months.

spencer reid x gender neutral reader new relationship, secret keeping nonsense, 4.5k words, ao3 a/n; turns out i love writing texting fic but tumblr destroys the formatting rip

zero months.

You smile conspiratorially, extending a pinkie towards Spencer and he gives you a skeptical look.

“You know the odds of being found out immediately are-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“Astronomical, I know. I know. But don’t you think it’ll be fun to see how long we can push it?” you wheedle, not caring that your voice sounds more like begging than is strictly dignified because seeing the way Spencer’s nose crinkles in amusement at your heavy handed persuasion is too adorable to pass up. You scoot closer on the couch, tapping the end of his nose with your pinkie finger, letting him catch your hand between his as you continue “I think we’ve got a good shot at hiding it for a little while. It would be like a game.”

Spencer draws your captive hand to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles and watching fondly as you forge ahead in your campaign to persuade him, enjoying the show and the attention too much to tell you he’s already on board. Your eyes are shining with the prospect of the caper, and you’ve made no move to take your hand back from him, and Spencer’s pretty sure he’d be more than happy to sit with you in this moment forever. “I mean-” you go on, gesturing animatedly with your free hand, “you’re like-a really good liar when you want to be. And everyone else always forgets how good you are at it.”

He snorts at that and the sound makes you light up, eyes tracking the arch of his brows, the warmth in his soft brown eyes, memorising the way he looks like this; utterly unbothered, completely at ease. It might be your favourite version of him, but that race has always been a tight one with no clear winner in sight. You have lots of favourite versions of Spencer. Twisting your hand in his, you tangle your fingers together, savouring the way you feel his thumb glide delicately along your skin and the unhidden joy in his face at the simple show of affection.

Time to play your trump card.

“$50 says we can hide it from the whole group for at least six months. If everyone figures it out before then, you win. But if not everyone has worked it out by then, I win.”

The mischievous shine in your eyes is irresistible, and Spencer smiles, disentangling one of his hands from yours to extend his own pinky finger.

“You’re on.”

The words barely make it out of his mouth before you’re colliding with him, pressing your lips to his.

two months.

“So, how long has this whole thing been going on?” Derek’s question catches Spencer off guard, and, based on the way he can see you freeze in his peripheral vision, takes you by surprise as well. Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, Derek continues “I hope you didn’t think you were gonna be able to keep me in the dark for long, pretty boy. You should know better than that.”

Following mechanically after him, Spencer takes the passenger seat, trying to frame his next statement as carefully as possible as he hears your door close and the car start. “We were-going to tell you guys-” he begins uncomfortably, glancing back to you for support, but you look just as on edge as he feels. “We were just gonna-keep it to ourselves for a while-before telling Hotch and everything-” he tries again, the mounting tension levering his shoulders higher and higher with every passing moment, but then Derek just laughs, shaking his head.

“Hey, I’m happy for you, kid. For both of you.” He spares a look at you in the back seat through the rear view mirror, and you can feel the tension in your jaw relax, the furrows in your brow straightening out at the note of approval in Derek’s voice. “I’m glad you two finally figured it out,” he says, fondly, and you laugh.

“I bet Spence we could keep it from you guys at least six months,” you explain, reaching forwards through the centre console to link your pinky with Spencer’s, and the touch of your hand releases the last of the tension he had been harbouring as he covers your hand with the other one of his own. He knows Derek clocks the motion, filing it away in his mind somewhere, but he doesn’t care about the scrutiny so much right now. Not when your hand is so warm and comfortable in his.

Derek reaches for the dial on the radio and flicks through the channel, thinking about something, and as you watch, a slow mischievous smirk spreads across his face a moment later before he glances first at Spencer and then at you.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says to you, and Spencer can feel a familiar grin tugging at his own lips as he watches a plan take shape in his friend’s eyes. “I’m happy to sit on this information for a while for a cut of the winnings from whichever one of you comes out on top.” He snorts good naturedly as he continues “I have my own bet to win with Prentiss, so if you two help me win that one, I’ll cut you in too.”

“A quid pro quo of sorts,” Spencer says slowly, and he feels your fingers tighten around his, as you snort softly, and he knows instinctually you’re grinning the same way you always do when you’re winning a game. “I think we can do that.”

Derek grins, turning the music up as he nods, eyes on the road. “Then you two love birds have got yourselves a deal.”

two months and two weeks.

PG: youre not as slick as you think you are ;)

YN: ???

PG: ;))))))))) you should invest in some concealer for your work bag sweetness or tell the good doctor to pay more attention to whats visible in your work clothes

YN: oh my fucking god wait how do you even know thats how that happened

PG: im all knowing and all seeing im like the omnipotent goddess of the fbi

YN: derek blabbed

PG: he sang like a canary but also im an omnipotent goddess im also totally clued in on the whole bet situation with em so for the low low price of every single juicy detail about how this adorableness went down you can buy my silence :)

YN: im getting derek decaf coffee on all coffee runs from now on >:( traitors dont get caffeine

PG: darling sweet angel i need deets all of them like immediately

YN: >:( fine ok so. after that case down in georgia a few months ago? the weird one? with the creepy mother son thing?

PG: omg yuck pls dont remind me im here for the CUTENESS not the MURDER

YN: sorryyyyyyy anyway so spence was like being super weird about it all on the plane and whatever but he was doing that super annoying thing where he ignores it and says hes fine so everyone leaves him alone

PG: YEAH why does everyone here do that ALL THE TIME its SO annoyingggg

YN: ikr its insufferable and like super not subtle ANYWAY. spence was being weird and whatever and i just. refused to let him sulk on his own or whatever like i could tell there was something bothering him and so after work i insisted that we were gonna get like shitty diner food or whatever and watch a movie and he knows better than to say no to me

PG: smart boy

YN: so we got fries and milkshakes and then went back to his place to watch a movie and he was still like weird and silent and like brooding yknow? but whatever just figured hed talk about it when he was ready so i put on a movie and offered to make popcorn and then he was just staring at me and he looked so SAD and TIRED and i thought id done something wrong like the poor guy looked like he was gonna cry and i was panicking over fucking popcorn and then he says ‘why are you always so nice to me?’

PG: oh my god hes like if a sad victorian orphan was actually a triplicate phd holder

YN: i was SO thrown off i was like spencer. spencer were best friends. ive been forcing you to hang out with me for years now why do you THINK im being nice to you its bc i care about you asshole and then. like after another million years after letting me sweat it out over whether hes about to cry for like fucking years the asshole grabs my hand and says. i shit you not. ‘you know im in love with you, right?’ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YN: anyway hes my boyfriend now :’) dont tell anyone tho gotta win the bet

four months.

Lingering by the elevator, you glance around at the uncharacteristically silent office building, waiting for Spencer to leave the bullpen. The sound of his footfalls drawing nearer makes you smile and you mentally applaud yourself for suggesting the two of you remained behind after disembarking from the plane, taking advantage of the manufactured privacy to take the same car home, back to his apartment.

When he sees you waiting for him, he can’t help the soft fond smile that tugs at his face, as he reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers into yours with a gentle squeeze, the quiet of the building allowing him to indulge in the show of affection. You return the squeeze, leaning your head on his shoulder with a yawn and as he presses a fond kiss to your temple he’s rewarded by a sleepy hum of approval from you that sends a rush of quiet joy shooting through him.

“At least we won’t be sleeping in hotel beds again tonight,” you say, voice weary, and Spencer nods as he shuffles you into the elevator. The doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move and in the moment of absolute privacy, you steal a kiss, tilting your chin up to catch his lips with yours, revelling in the soft huff of surprise he lets out, even as he smiles against your mouth. Even after months, the simple act of kissing Spencer still feels new and thrilling somehow, like you can’t quite believe it’s something you’re allowed to do.

His nose brushes yours and he breathes “unless something big comes up, we get a sleep in tomorrow too,” and the way you beam at him sends his heart racing in his chest, unable to look away from the fondness shining in your eyes.

As the two of you exit the elevator and make your way through the Bureau car park, you tuck yourself against his side, wedging yourself under his arm with a happy sigh, eager to get yourself horizontal and asleep as fast as possible. Spencer brushes his lips against your temple again as the two of you close in on his car, almost free and clear of the office when a voice behind the two of you brings you up short.

“Reid?”

Spencer is reacting before his mind catches up, turning on his heel towards the sound of Hotch’s voice echoing through the parking lot, conscious of the incriminating way you’re still tucked against his side, even as his brain is rifling frantically through any possible excuses for the current circumstances.

“Hotch-” you step away from Spencer, cheeks flaming, not wanting to chance a look at him. “I-we-thought everyone else had gone home,” you trail off lamely, trying your hardest not to balk under Hotch’s ominously impassive scrutiny. A second passes, then another, and the short silence feels like months, or years even as the three of you stand locked in a stalemate.

“I take it the two of you would prefer to keep this under wraps?” He asks, finally, and it registers with Spencer, somewhat belatedly, that Hotch’s tone isn’t admonishing. It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension coiling in Spencer’s muscles just yet, but he spares a glance at you as he nods, and a moment later, Hotch gives the two of you a curt nod of his own. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, a shade of irony colouring his voice. “If you two fill out the paperwork for in-team relationships for me, I’ll keep it to myself. I understand privacy is hard to come by in our office.”

The words take a while to fully sink in, and you’re conscious that you’re standing there blinking and gaping at your boss like a bemused fish for a good few seconds before you’ve composed yourself enough to say “absolutely, sir. Of course. Thank you.”

Hotch nods again, heading towards his own car, and as he passes the two of you, a brief smile flashes across his face.

“Congratulations, you two. Get some sleep.”

four months and three weeks.

Spencer isn’t sure how late it is, but he knows you’re not asleep yet, the faint glow of your phone screen casting faint distorted shadows across his room as your free hand rests lightly on his chest. In the dark blue twilight of his room, the space feels undefined and dream like somehow, the line between his mind and his surroundings blurry or indistinct somehow, and as you huff out a near silent laugh at something on the screen in your hand, a thought rises to the surface of his thoughts like flotsam on an unwanted tide.

The more clinical part of his mind notes the autonomic response in his body, the way his heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, heart rate rising with an influx of cortisol through his nervous system, automatically rifling through ways to control the anxiety response. Age old instinct surges forwards, starting to push his spiralling anxiety down out of sight so as not to bother you with it, but then your hand shifts infinitesimally on his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt, and for once his body is miles ahead of his brilliant mind, your name is leaving his lips before he’s really aware of it happening.

Your gaze flashes up from your phone at the sound of his voice, soft and hesitant, and you let the screen go dark as you set it down. You can feel Spencer’s heart hammering against his ribs under your palm, and your brows knit together in concern as you shift closer to his side, tracing gentle circles over his shirt with your fingertips, the repetitive motion intended to soothe, though you’re not sure if it’s for his benefit or yours.

“Yeah, baby?” You ask softly, working hard to keep the rising worry from your voice. After three years of friendship and almost six months of dating, you know him well enough to sense when his propensity for overthinking and catastrophizing is slipping out of his control. You can feel his chest rise as he inhales sharply, whatever he’s about to say cut off by second guessing, doing nothing to pacify your concern. “Spence? Is everything okay?” You ask again.

“This-bet-hiding our relationship-it’s-” he trails off, throat tight as he rolls onto his side, facing away from you, and smushing his face into the pillow, already wishing he hadn’t said anything. You’re the kindest person he’s ever met, but offering up this kind of raw insecurity feels like pulling teeth. Even if it’s you. Especially if it’s you. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out if you care about him enough to stay when his racing mind gets the better of him. The pillow muffles his voice as he says “never mind.”

You feel your own heart rate tic up in response to that, matching the wild beat of Spencer’s that you could feel under your palm only a second ago. “Baby, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, face still hidden in the pillow. “It’s stupid.”

He can feel the rush of your breath on his back as you sigh, and your voice is almost achingly patient as you say softly “it’s not stupid if it matters to you.” There’s a long pause, and you press yourself against his back, settling close and letting your hand slide over his side to rest on his chest, the heat of his skin sinking into yours even through his thin shirt. In spite of his height, he feels so small as you wrap yourself around him, drawing closer, trying to reassure him without yet knowing what he needs to be reassured of. “Spence?”

“Are you ashamed of-being with me? Is that why you want to hide it?” The words are almost whispered, the sound almost lost against his pillow and your heart sinks, plummeting faster and further than if you’d dropped it off the side of a skyscraper. You should’ve known he might worry about that, should have realised it might have felt that way. Remorse rises hot and bitter in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to steady your voice.

“Spencer. Sweetheart. No. Never. I could never be ashamed. I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrap more tightly around him and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, the tension you can feel in every inch of his body making you feel more cruel and short-sighted than you already do. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might feel like that. I could never be ashamed of being with you, Spence. You’re my favourite person.” He takes the kind of shaky, shallow breath that comes with trying not to cry and your heart breaks a little more as one of his hands slowly moves to cover yours where it rests against his chest, just over his heart.

As his hand rests over yours, his thumb strokes lightly along your knuckles, and he knows you know him well enough to notice the way his hand trembles, just a little, because then your hand is shifting against his, turning to clumsily tangle your fingers with his, holding tighter to him as he tries to collect himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes squeeze shut. He can hear the contrition in your voice as you say softly “I’ve never really liked having people know everything about what’s going on in my life. And I love our friends but-something like this, that’s so-special? So new? I wanted to be able to keep it to just us for a while.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out a little shaky, scarcely more than a whisper, and it’s more than you can take as you pull back and gently force him to roll over to face you. He’s not crying, but his eyes are glassy and you recognise the fight to keep the tears unshed in the tight set of his jaw and the hard line of his lips. Leaning on your elbow, you lift your free hand to gently smooth out the furrows of his brow, letting your fingers linger along the planes of his face.

“Why are you sorry,” you ask gently. “You don’t need to be sorry, baby. Not for talking to me about things that bother you. We can tell everyone else tomorrow, if you want? We can call off the bet. Derek will live. If he’s got a problem with it I’ll turn all his shirts into crop tops.”

He can tell the joke is a last bid attempt to make him smile, to ease his fear, and it works. In spite of the anxious weight in his chest that feels like it’s pressing him into the mattress, Spencer laughs weakly, meeting your eyes, and he watches as a relieved smile breaks across your face, releasing your lower lip from where you’d trapped it worriedly between your teeth. The unmitigated affection that floods into your eyes renders him momentarily breathless as he takes in the moment. You’re still here, still trying to take care of him. Just as kind and steadfast as ever.

“No,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down on top of him like a living weighted blanket, letting your warmth chase the bulk of the tension from his body and luxuriating in the way you curl into him, one hand sliding into his hair. “We shouldn’t call off the bet. We still have to take Emily’s money, remember?”

Your sleepy laugh is the last thing he hears before his eyes close and the feel of your body wound around his lulls him to sleep.

five months.

SR: Can I talk to you about something?

DM: you dying or something? that’s a really fuckin ominous text to recieve out of the blue

SR: I’m not dying, why would that be what you assumed? I just have a question.

DM: just a figure of speech but what’s up?

SR: It’s about your bet with Emily. What’re the terms for it?

DM: wym?

SR: What exactly did you two make the bet about? What needs to happen in order for you to win the bet?

DM: does this count as collusion?

SR: Technically yes, but calling it collusion implies a certain degree of illegality.

DM: whatever anyway the terms i made with em were that you’d make some kind of move before your birthday but she reckoned you were gonna need some kind of near death experience to do anything about your crush why?

SR: I’m just making sure I have all the information.

DM: what’s going on pretty boy? you planning something?

SR: Maybe.

DM: not a helpful answer reid is everything good?

SR: Everything’s fine. We’re just figuring some stuff out. Nothing to worry about.

DM: is there something you’re not telling me?

SR: Don’t worry about it.

five months, three weeks and six days.

In the chaos that was the scramble from the briefing room to the jet, you haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Spencer about the outcome of his most recent thesis defence panel. By the time you’ve got a moment to breathe, the jet is underway, coasting across the country towards Montana, the whole team settled in for the six hour flight. You corner him in the tiny kitchen area of the jet as he’s making a mug of mediocre coffee, fingers tapping out an absent minded rhythm on the countertop as the coffee machine whirs, clearly not paying attention to anything outside of his head.

“Hey, boy genius.” He jumps, whirling around, eyes wide with surprise, and you smile fondly. “So?” You demand, and Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion. You snort, rolling your eyes as you elaborate. “Your defence panel. Did it go okay?”

You’re shifting your weight and fidgeting restlessly with the belt loops on your pants and as he studies you for a moment, it occurs to Spencer that you’re nervous for him over this outcome. The thought brings an almost giddy smile to his face.

“You know this isn’t my first thesis defence panel, right?” He says mildly, deliberately burying the lede, enjoying the way you scowl in irritation too much to answer your question right away, too enamoured with this display of concern on his behalf.

“Don’t be difficult, Doctor Reid. It’s still a big deal.” He just shrugs noncommittally, and you huff, swatting his arm lightly. “So did it go well?” You ask again, eyes narrowing as you try to dissect his microexpressions, trying to discern the answer he seems determined to keep from you for yourself. A few seconds later, he relents.

“I can now add degree number six to my wall.” He confirms. Getting degrees doesn’t hold the same rush of pride for him now, the accomplishment feeling somewhat less exceptional as he acquires more of them, but the way your face lights up with pride for him reminds him how special the things he’s capable of can be. You’ve always made him feel like more than the sum of his parts somehow, like something infinitely more precious than he always assumed he is.

“I fucking knew it. That’s amazing, Spence,” you say, chest warm and full with pride and love, and his almost shy smile in return is enough to make a decision for you in a split second. Your hand dips into your back pocket, drawing something out, and you carefully hide it from view in your palm as Spencer tracks the motion curiously with his eyes.

Your eyes are shining with affection and something that looks like mischief and the way you’re smiling at him is more than enough to divert his attention as you step closer, just barely noticing as you slip something into his hand. You’re dangerously, distractingly close now, and he’s conscious, if somewhat distantly, that neither of you is concealed from the rest of the team, scant meters away in the seating area of the jet. But you’re smiling and close enough for him to feel your breath on his face and suddenly your lips are on his, and even after nearly seven months of being able to touch you like this, it’s enough to make him forget everything else as he melts into the contact, savouring the warmth of your skin and the faint smell of your shampoo.

You pull back a second later, the kiss over almost as soon as it started, but it’s enough to attract attention, and you can hear a belated ‘oh SHIT’ from Emily in the main cabin of the jet. In your peripheral vision, you can see money changing hands, your friends scrambling to react, but you don’t look at them, choosing to enjoy the bemused, affectionate look on Spencer’s face as his brain catches up to the events unfolding around the two of you.

“I was tired of keeping it a secret,” you say fondly, loud enough only for him to hear. “You win.”

Blinking in confusion, he finally tears his gaze away from yours, fingers uncurling to reveal the fifty dollar bill you had pressed into his palm right before you kissed him. The penny drops and he snorts with laughter, shaking his head in half hearted indignation as his other arm loops around you, pulling you in, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, hiding your face from the rest of the team as he kisses your temple, revelling in the way you wind yourself around him in response.

“I was gonna do this in like two days. I wanted you to win,” he murmurs against your hairline, and he can feel your faint laughter.

“Too bad, baby. I’m used to getting my way,” you say, pulling back to steal another quick kiss before peeling yourself out of his arms with a wink, turning to face the onslaught of ‘care to fucking explain that’ and ‘I fucking told you so’ from the rest of your friends, tugging him with you by your joined hands.

[hops-hunny]

Flufftober Day 4: Second Kiss

Pairing: Hanamaki Takahiro

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 850

Summary: first kisses are the journey but second kisses are the destination

Warnings: none! all fluff

A/N: I loved writing this krekr I’ve been getting so many haikyuu characters from the wheel, god bless. If you wanna read the rest of my flufftober fics, you can find them here!!

Takahiro knew he had no business being with such a cute, sweet girl. Hell, everyone knew. The team would never let him forget! He didn’t see the big deal though, he liked (Y/n) and she liked him. Nothing more to it.

Sure she was different from him, anyone with eyes could see it. Whereas he was always on the look out for some trouble, she never stepped out of line. Sometimes people would call her a teacher’s pet or a kiss ass but truth be told, that isn’t why she did half of what she did. (Y/n) was kind by nature, always going out of her way to help whoever she could no matter what they needed help with. She was a cheery girl with a bright future ahead of her, fueled by nothing but to make others smile.

And yeah, she was slow when it came to things. They had been dating for four months and the furthest he had gotten was their first kiss which had also been her first one ever. He didn’t mind though. He found it cute how she’d get all nervous and warm just from a hug, how she’d jump a bit when he’d come up behind her and hold her waist, it was precious. At least he thought it was.

“Wai-wait are you serious right now?! You, of all people, haven’t so much as even made out with her yet?” Oikawa cackled out, pointing at the pink haired man. A few others joined the setter’s teasing, laughing along with them. However Makki rolled his eyes, spiking the ball at his head.

“Something about that doesn’t seem right. Don’t you usually sleep with the girls you date like the first week?” Iwaizumi said bluntly, genuine confusion on his face. Hiro felt the vein in his forehead bulge, eye twitching.

“Gee, thanks for the faith, Iwa. I mean I don’t always do that. Sometimes I wait.” he muttered.

“Really? Name one instance other than this one where you actually waited to get in a girl’s pants.” 

“....Shut up, Issei.” before anyone else could put their two cents in, the heavy doors flew open with a thud. A hush fell over the boys as they stared at the girl at the entrance. (Y/n) stood there out of breath, puffs of air seen by the light chill of fall. Her hair was styled cutely as usual, a little bow in it was her signature look. She looked like a doll which he coincidentally called her quite a bit. Running over to him he instantly pulled her to his side, his arm wrapped around her. He watched as she shrunk a bit, looking up at him with a shy expression.

“You okay, doll?” he asked, watching as his friends did a shit job at pretending to not be listening.

“I’m okay. It’s just that when I snuck that pencil into your bag earlier I noticed you didn’t have a snack for practice! So I decided to bring you this!” she pushed a box into his hands which he took, pulling her closer as he opened the box. The boy’s stood behind them in the distance, nosy and itching to see what she had packed. Inside the bento was a bunch of heart and bear shaped foods. “I couldn’t find you earlier so I kept it in the home ech room and got it when the club was over. Do you like it?” her eyes were watery with nerves, causing his expression to soften. He gave her head a pat, petting her gently.

“Yeah this looks good as fuck! I’m so lucky to have such a cute girlfriend. Thanks, honey.” he placed it on the bench safely.

“Well I gotta go! There’s a test tomorrow first period and I don’t wanna fail it.” there was a test tomorrow? She gave him a smile before beginning to head out.

“Wait! Where’s your jacket?” he asked. She shrugged sheepishly, looking at the ground. Placing his jacket around her shoulders, he smiled proudly. The sight of her in his volleyball jacket made his heart skip. What was she doing to him? “Wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

“Thank you, Hiro. See you tomorrow?” he nodded at her words, feeling himself turn mush at her pretty (e/c) eyes. Leaning down he placed a peck on her lips, causing her eyes to go wide.She let out a squeak, hand flying to her lips as if she couldn’t believe it.

People always made it seem like the first kiss was the most important, but he’d disagree. First kisses were always weird, a bit awkward. They could be beautiful experiences but the second kiss always mattered the most. It’s the bridge between all forms of affections that come after. Nothing more can be formed until that second kiss happens to let you know ‘hey I like this!’.

He smirked, sending her a wink before joining the others back on the court.

“Let me guess, first kiss?” Oikawa teased. The man looked behind once more to catch one last glimpse as his girlfriend left the gym.

“No, second.”

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Into The Unknown, Part 6

First

Previous

Marinette woke up because of a whack to the face. So that was fun.

She blinked her eyes open and was met with a scowling, squirming baby.

She sighed and considered letting the baby squirm for a little so she could get another few minutes of sleep…

Oh. Right. He cried in the morning. An unfortunate thing to forget about.

She grumbled a quiet “fuck” as Damian started screaming.

“Tim, your turn.”

Tim grumbled incoherently and attempted to disappear in the plush mattress.

She considered kicking him to wake him up but decided against it. She was feeling nice that morning.

(Also, she figured that kicking a half-awake vigilante might end badly for her.)

She shrugged Tim’s arm off and then tumbled out of bed, baby securely wrapped in her arms. She laid flat on the ground, baby raised in the air above her like a less cute version of That One Scene from The Lion King. She squinted up at the screaming child, struggling to get her brain to function, and then sighed.

“Right, let’s get you all changed, huh? Clean diaper? Pretty new clothes? Will that calm you down?”

She really didn’t know why she was talking to him, she doubted the kid really understood what she was saying, but his wailing was starting to die down a little. She hoped it was because she was using her nice voice and not because he was straining his vocal cords.

She smoothed out his hair and then pushed herself to her feet.

After she had changed the kid’s diaper, she spread all of his clothes out on the floor in a loose circle (it kind of looked like an egg, but at least an attempt was made).

She set the baby down in the middle of the egg and stepped back.

He looked up at her, confused.

She motioned to the clothes. “Go ahead. Yakhtar.”

There was a few minutes where the baby continued looking at her, clearly expecting something but she had no clue what.

Then, finally, he looked around at the clothes.

He crawled over to a yellow shirt with a cartoon bee on it that she had paired with some black and white striped leggings and slapped it a few times. He babbled angrily at her.

… did that mean he wanted it or that it was out of the running?

… she was going to assume that he wanted it.

She picked up him with one arm and the outfit with the other -- something made very difficult by the fact that Damian was now slapping his little fists against her shoulder in an attempt to be let down -- and then started the process of getting the kid into the clothes.

“You know, he probably would have been fine with anything you picked.”

She glanced up from where she was trying to shove Damian’s pudgy little baby arm into a sleeve. Tim was sitting up in bed, legs crossed criss-cross applesauce and head propped on his hand. An amused smile played at his lips.

She rolled her eyes and looked back down at Damian so she could complete her grueling task. “Probably. But I’d just keep dressing him up in red and black and, apparently, he doesn’t want that.”

“Don’t know why. Red and black are objectively the best colors.”

“Totally,” she said.

Damian babbled angrily some more and attempted to punch her arm. She tried not to show on her face just how much it had hurt.

“I guess yellow is pretty okay,” Tim said, grinning.

“Eh. Yellow is like… the fifth best color. Green is where it’s at.”

Tim made a face. “Ew. Green?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not allowed to talk about what looks good. You had a completely brown suit for ages. Terrible, isn’t that right, Dami?”

Damian clearly had no idea what was going on, he was busy trying to help Marinette pull his pants up (he was accidentally pushing them down but it was the thought that counts… she was pretty sure, at least), but he nodded decisively.

Marinette turned her head away from Tim and Damian, lips pressed together thinly to keep her laughter under control, before she turned back and finished the kid’s outfit.

“See, Tim, even the baby agrees.”

Tim scoffed. “He agrees with everything you say.”

“Because I’m always right.” She leaned forward to nuzzle her nose against Damian’s with a bright smile. “I can already tell you’re going to be the best kid. Isn’t that right?”

Damian giggled.

~

Tim held the baby as they checked out at 10:55. Usually, he would try to be earlier, but… baby.

Yeah. That was all he needed to say about that.

(If you want to know: Damian had finally managed to succeed in his attempts to fall from a high place, effectively scaring the shit out of both of the teens who were taking care of him. They’d checked him over for any injuries -- it was more difficult than usual, they couldn’t tell him to clench and unclench his fists to make sure they weren’t broken. When they were sure he was okay they took a few moments to hug him and assure themselves that it was fine and that babies were flexible for this exact reason… unfortunately, this ended with the kid learning that falling from high places=hugs and was now, somehow, even more determined to do it.)

Marinette turned to him with a smile.

“Do you want to get the car or do you want to get the baby’s carseat?”

Tim thought for a minute before sighing. “Would you make fun of me if I picked out a stupid-looking carseat?”

“Absolutely.”

He rolled his eyes and handed off the baby like he was a baton in a very weird relay race. “No thanks. I’ll get the car.”

She grinned. “Probably a good idea. Right, see you.”

“Get some baby formula while you’re out.”

Marinette looked down at the kid, eyes wide. “Still?” Then she shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

He tossed the bag of diapers and stuff to her and, with that, they started off in separate directions.

He picked up a rental car from Enterprise. They offered the ability to pay a little extra to leave the car at another location. He doubted that that was in place for things like moving across the country but he wasn’t about to complain.

But, when he picked up Marinette and Damian outside the door and caught sight of the carseat she’d gotten, he absolutely would complain.

“Spiderman?” He said.

“Technically, he’s ArachnidKid, here.”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her.

She had the decency to look a little sheepish. “He screamed every time I tried to choose anything else.”

Tim sighed and knocked his head against the top of the steering wheel a few times before turning around.

“I’ll deal with the kid while you figure out the thing.”

… or, at least, that was the intention. It turns out that baby carseats are… difficult. They’d pulled into a spot and gave Damian his stuffed cow and a phone to distract him and they’d gotten to work. There were two adults and two magical beings trying to figure it out and not a single one of them had any idea what they were doing. The instructions made absolutely no sense, they may as well have been written in Greek -- except they all knew how to speak and read Greek because of magic. But this shit? Illegible. It was like the written version of baby language. No one knows what was going on, he was beginning to think that the people trying to give them instructions didn’t even know. Tikki was puzzling over the instructions despite this, Marinette was having a breakdown, Tim wanted to be back in his world so he could punch someone, Kaalki was in the process of being eaten by Damian. It was chaos.

~

They were on the road. Marinette lazed in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard as she half-listened to the audiobook Tim had put on -- something about a kid who stole lightning or something (she didn’t see the big deal, it wasn’t like it was hard or anything). Tikki and Kaalki were using her headphones to listen to music. Damian had fallen asleep and was now peacefully sucking on one of the horns of the cow plush.

(He’d, apparently, dubbed the plush ‘Cow’. It was a fitting name, she supposed.)

Tim glanced over at her. “If we get in a crash you’re going to fly through the windshield.”

She lifted the cheap heart-shaped sunglasses she’d bought on impulse while waiting for Tim to show up out of boredom. Just so he could see how unimpressed she was.

“Maybe you should drive well so I don’t have to worry.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. She saw the speedometer drop a bit regardless.

~

They stopped for food pretty soon after they started on the road. Funny how quickly a day could go by, it was already noon.

They ended up at Carl's Sr., because that was what they had found first.

He bounced Damian on one knee absently. The kid wasn’t thirsty, it seemed, so they were just trying to keep him entertained while they ate. He didn’t know why they bothered, the kid was currently entertaining himself with nothing but a rubber duck.

Marinette nibbled the last of her sandwich. “I wonder if he can have fries.”

“Fy!” Said Damian, who had apparently learned that ‘he’ usually meant him.

“Well, he’s convinced me,” she said.

Tim rolled his eyes. “The book I read said that if you give him regular food he’ll realize ours is better and won’t go back to the baby stuff.”

“Good for him if he stops eating it. I got curious and tried it, it sucks.”

He shrugged a little. “He only needs to keep eating it for, I think, another year…?”

“Two whole years of that stuff? That’s evil. I’m giving him a fry.”

“Fy!” Said Damian again, this time slapping the table to punctuate the word.

Tim sighed and pulled out his phone to check that that was allowed. Apparently, despite the fact that kids can breast feed up to two years (or even longer), they can start with ‘table foods’ around a year. That made exactly zero sense to him but okay.

“... I guess that’s fine,” he said, eventually.

Marinette beamed and tore off a piece of her fry for Damian.

The baby was enlightened.

~

Despite the fact that they’d originally agreed to split the driving evenly, with long shifts so they could go straight to Gotham without any major setbacks, Marinette ended up doing most of it.

It turns out that Tim got car sick.

She didn’t say anything about it. He seemed embarrassed enough as it was, especially since Marinette and Damian were wholly unaffected.

It was… fine. She used the extra stops to get coffee each time. And, whenever it came time to feed or change Damian, she glared Tim into submission. It may not be entirely his fault that his stomach was protesting the car ride but it inconvenienced her so fuck him.

… she did feel a little bad, though, so she always held his hair out of his face and made sure to give him water so he was fully hydrated.

~

They arrived in Gotham and collapsed in the hotel bed pretty much the moment they could. They’d done hygiene stuff, of course, neither of them were eager to lay in their filth for the night after an almost day-long drive (there had been a lot of stops)… but once they had bathed and brushed their teeth? And cleaned up Damian? Straight to bed.

Tim had finished up first since his showers were quicker and he rested an arm around Damian to make sure he wouldn’t leave. He needn’t have worried, Damian was apparently just as happy as they were that they were in an actual bed again because he was in dreamland almost the second he’d touched it.

He closed his eyes and relaxed.

The bed dipped a little as Marinette crawled in and he let go of the kid so she could wrap around him per usual.

Tim hesitated here. He’d wrapped an arm around them before, sure, but that was different. That had mostly been a thing he’d done in his sleep.

After a few moments, Marinette sighed and scooted closer, tangling her legs with his.

He flushed red. “Uh?”

“It happens every night anyways, I’m resigned to my fate.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or frown.

She opened her eyes a little and smiled. “Relax. Chat Noir is super touch starved, I’m used to platonically cuddling with people.”

He relaxed a little and hesitantly rested an arm around the pair.

Marinette nuzzled her face into Damian’s hair and closed her eyes again.

He smiled at the scene and started to close his eyes… but then Kaalki caught his gaze.

He gave a small puff of laughter.

“You know, I just remembered something.”

Marinette hummed to say she was listening.

“My power is the ability to create portals.”

“... god fucking damn it.”

~~~~~

Next

@nathleigh @peachmuses @unoriginalmess @hammalammadamdam @astrynyx @laurcad123 @927roses-and-stuff

[morizoras-cave]

Drink (Request)

Ryan Reynolds x teen!daughter!reader

Genre: angst, fluffy ending

Request Description: Could you maybe do a Ryan Reynolds x teen!reader where the reader maybe goes to a party and something gets slipped into her drink but she calls Ryan and says she doesn’t feel well and he gets her and looks after her? Only if this is okay for you to write and you feel comfortable doing it. I love you work so much🥺 Thank you!🤍

Warnings: attempted rape, drugging, language

(A/N): this is my first ryan reynolds post. v excited. reading this back, i realized that this could be taken as victim blaming. the beginning part where ryan is talking about how his daughter “shouldn’t wear that dress out” was more of a “awww look hes a protective and good dad”. i dont believe in victim blaming at all. (off topic here) also i wrote the last part of this drunk af. anyway i hope y’all still enjoy. now smell you later losers!! break begun!

“Y/n, you are not going to a party in that outfit!”

You glared at your dad, who was both shaking his head and wagging his finger in disapproval. 

“What’s so wrong with this dress?” you protested, crossing your arms. 

“The boys and the girls will be after you in seconds! I will not have some sweaty teen thinking something nasty about my daughter!” his voice was high (as always), as he squealed his argument. You rolled your eyes. 

Your mom walked into the room to grab something from the fridge, but stopped and looked at you. “Nice dress, N/n, you going to a party?” 

“Don’t encourage this!” Ryan hissed and you smiled scornfully. Blake’s laughter came throughout the room and she stopped beside you with her glass of milk in her hand. 

“Calm down, Ryan. She’s growing up!” 

“Nuh uh!” your dad looked away, still unsatisfied. You couldn’t help but giggle. 

“Y/n, just go to your party. I’ll deal with the grump lord,” your mom pushed you towards the entrance. Ryan’s face twisted into that of someone betrayed by his closest. 

“Woah, woah, woah! Grump lord? I have a code name? In my own house?” 

You skipped to the entrance room, sliding on your jacket and your shoes, smiling playfully. “Wait!” your dad yelled and footsteps nearing you, as he jogged to the entrance. You looked at him. 

“Just.. Call me if you’re in trouble. Anything at all,” he knew he was defeated. Although, you loved basking in the glory of victory, you couldn’t help but smile at your dad’s kind words.

“I will,” you promised.

The party was loud and booming. Every inch of the house was hot (in an uncomfortable way) and crowded, teenagers rubbing against each other and dancing. You found yourself with your friends in the living room, dancing to the sound of a Nicki Minaj song. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink!” you yelled over the music. Your friends, extremely intoxicated and doing ‘the stanky leg’, gave you a mindless thumbs up, and continued to dance. You giggle was drowned out in the music. 

You squeezed your way past different people, finally making it to the table with all the liquor. The boy who was hosting had miraculously bought enough for there to just be an all-you-can-drink table. 

The unnerving feeling of someone watching you became immediately clear. You looked around, finding the person fairly quickly. It was a boy, maybe a couple of years older than you, with a drunken gaze and tousled hair. He was smirking at you. You rolled your eyes and poured yourself a gin and tonic. 

The moment the drink was finished, someone poked your shoulder. You looked up. It wasn’t the same boy as before. This one was bigger and broader. He had the same knowing smirk on his face. You felt unnerved.

“Hey. Is this your friend over here? They look pretty smashed, you might want to check on them,” he pointed to somewhere behind him, taking all your attention from your drink to your idiot friends. You told them not to drink too much.

“Can you show me where they are?” you mumbled and the boy nodded, pulling you away from your drink. He led you to somewhere entirely different in the house, where a girl you’d never seen in your life was doubled over, puking on the poor host’s carpet. 

“I don’t know this girl,” you explained and the boy’s mouth made an ‘o’ shape. He sighed and then shrugged.

“Sorry, I thought I saw you talking earlier. Sorry to bother you,” then he walked off. You shook your head at the weird incident and walked back to you drink. You started gulping it down hungrily, deciding you were definitely too sober to be at this party.

 Almost immediately, you started feeling extremely drunk. Extremely. Which was weird, you thought, but it was hard to concentrate on it, when the environment was so loud and your thoughts were so blurry. 

Then, slowly, you realised that you didn’t usually feel like this when you were drunk. You tried to rationalise it. Maybe you just put too much gin in your drink? Maybe you had forgotten that you’d drunk something? Whatever the case, you started feeling weird. 

Everything was spinning. You wouldn’t have been able to find your friends if you wanted to. Then, in your chaotic state, your eyes passed someone else’s eyes, and you recognised them. It was the boy from earlier, the broad one, smirking at you. This time, his smirk felt alarming. Chilling. 

That moment was when the penny dropped. Your head snapped to the other boy, the one who’d just watched you. He gave you a grin. 

You were shaking, blinking away tears. You realised the position you were in. You were prey. And you were vulnerable. You took a few shaky steps, trying to make it seem like you hadn’t just realised you’d been roofied. 

When your back was turned to them, and you were stood behind a wall of dancing bodies, you pulled out your phone from your bag. You couldn’t tell if it was your vision, or if your hands were shaking, but everything was buzzing, unable to keep still. 

Your finger hovered over his number. What if you weren’t roofied? What if you were just drunk and silly? How embarrassing would that be? You felt tears prick your eyes. 

His voice echoed in your head. “Call me if you’re in trouble. Anything at all.”

You pressed down on his number, bringing the phone to your ear. You could hardly form a sentence. Everything was moving and it was so loud. 

“Hello?” Your dad’s voice was like cutting open this hellspace to some sort of heaven. It felt safe. You closed your eyes, a tear running down your face. 

“Hi, dad,” you had to yell, “can you- can you come pick me up?” 

There was a moment of silence from the phone, before he said: “Sure, why? You’re at Erik’s house, right?” 

“Yeah, Erik’s house. Let’s talk about this later!” then you hung up. It almost felt like your heart was shaking in your chest. It was too much, all of it. You could hardly walk, but you took a step towards the door, then several more. 

You feverishly grabbed the door handle, trying desperately to open the door, but you weren’t strong enough. It was a chilling realisation, that you weren’t even strong enough to open a door. 

“Do you need a help?” 

You jumped and shrieked, but it was drowned out by the music. No one noticed. You looked up and you had to stand there for a moment, before you realised that it wasn’t any of the boys you’d seen before. 

This boy looked concerned. You couldn’t even process how you must look, tear-streaked face, ruined makeup, shaking and helplessly grasping a door. You didn’t care. 

“Here,” he mumbled and opened the door for you. You whispered a ‘thank you’, and wobbled out on the street. You heard the boy leave, but you kept standing there, waiting uncomfortably for your dad to show up. 

Eventually, you saw his car pulling up in the distance. You breathed out in relief and dashed to his car, opening the door and sitting down beside you dad. He was looking at you, brows furrowed in concern. 

It was a scary thing. He was always afraid of seeing you like that. Seeing you scared and drunk and desperate. As you sat down his hand grasped yours. 

“Are you okay, Y/n? What happened?” 

You shook your head. You felt so unfocused. It was impossible to understand everything that was going on. You missed being sober. “My- My drink,” you mumbled senselessly, unable to speak normally. 

“What about your drink?” Ryan pressed, squeezing your hand. You were his child. He loved you. He was worried. Beyond belief.

“I-I think someone.. I think someone put something in it..” you mumbled, head swinging. You were far from the normal you. Everything was swinging right by you. 

“You think someone..?” Ryan trailed off. You saw his knuckles turn white as he grasped the steering wheel angrily. “Did they- Did they touch you?”

You shook your head. You saw your dad breathe out in relief, his hand never leaving yours. 

“Alright, I’ll just drive you home. It’ll be fine,” he mumbled (mostly to himself) as he started the car and drove away from the booming, partying house. “It’ll be just fine, N/n.”

He kept mumbling to himself, but you fell asleep in the car. Eventually everything was too much for you, so you just decided to close your eyes. It was a good decision. Sleep was so peaceful. 

Ryan drove you home, carrying you into their house and into your room. “What’s wrong with her?” Blake would yell, confused and scared, but Ryan would just focus on getting you to bed. 

“She was roofied. Someone put something in her fucking drink! She could’ve been- She could’ve been fucking raped!” he ranted to his wife, whilst you slept peacefully in the other room. 

Needless to say both your mom and your dad were much more overprotective after that, both with parties and with boys. But it was okay. You woke up safe and sound, and you were happy your dad had gotten you before something awful happened.

Honestly, you didn’t oppose their overprotectiveness, because after that night you felt like you needed it. No matter what way you twisted it, that night fucked you up. You weren’t as reckless or careless after that. And you got help from a professional, but still. It was an awfully traumatising experience. 

You were just happy your dad had been with you that night. And that he cared for you. Of course, he would. He was your dad. He loved you more than anything else in the world. You had no reason to worry, not when you had your dad by your side. 

___________________________

Tag List:

@hera-the-writer @marvel-madness @40srogcrs @whatthefuckimbisexual @snarky–starky @garbage-potato @lozzypoz321 @allthecreativeonesaretaken @missamericana713 @rororo06 @shady80smusicsingercolor @ireadfanficforfun @deephideoutmilkshake @rae-is-typing @sophs-library @herecomesthewriterwitch @alicedanganh @eviemarvel @idk123906

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Ep 17 part one

(Masterpost of all the rewatches) (Canary’s pinboard of original content)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Inaccessible

Wei Wuxian hides in a boat among the lotuses next to a pier in Lotus Pier, the second-most-literally-named home in the show, after The Burial Mounds. This pier has a railing that goes all the way around it, without any ladders or anything. Not to be ADA on main but this means if you can't Jedi jump, you're fucked.  

Hefeng Liquor

While Wei Wuxian waits and tries, not very successfully, to keep his shit together, he hears the guards talking about the local booze that they're going to drink at their murder victory party. We learn, in a desaturated flashback (that OP has done her best to resaturate), that this is lotus-infused wine invented by Wei Wuxian during happier days. 

He kicks the flashback off with his favorite activity, Unnecessarily Erotic Beverage Drinking. (gifset) I’ve slowed this gif down so we can all appreciate the unnecessariness. The way his hand caresses that leaf OMG

Hopefully he is not drinking lake water out of that leaf. Side note: How is it possible that Xiao Zhan doesn't have a drinking water endorsement deal? I had to resort to Zhu Yilong's brand of water for this gag. I figure if it's good enough to pour directly onto a lightning burn like they do in The Lost Tomb Reboot, it's good enough for a leaf hummer chastely drinking out of a leaf

(more behind the cut!)

In his memory, Jiang Cheng tells him to stop fucking around and come help with the basket of lotus pods. Wei Wuxian responds by grabbing one for himself and then sitting his ass down and not helping. Cause he’s a motherfucking P.I.M.P.

Emotional Rescue

Wen Ning arrives on the pier with Jiang Chang, to Wei Wuxian's extreme relief. Look how much emotion Xiao Zhan is able to convey even with half of his face hidden, my lord.

Wen Ning carries Jiang Cheng on his back, in an echo of other significant piggyback rides in Wei Wuxian's life.  

Wei Wuxian's relief is at war with his fear, seeing his brother in such bad shape. Remember, these are cultivators, who heal quickly and mostly don't get their asses beat this hard. The only time Wei Wuxian has been comatose was after the Xuanwu cave, and that was probably because of his prolonged contact with resentful energy/Yin iron.

Hibernating Zidian

Wen Ning gets ready for his first, but not his last, boat ride with an unconscious Yunmeng brother in it. He tells Wei Wuxian that Jiang Cheng is pretty fucked up but isn't dead.

Then he gives Zidian to him. Before we talk about Zidian, let's talk about BAMF Wen Ning.  Wen Ning is an awkward goofball. He’s also insanely competent at just about everything--wine-drugging, dude-smuggling, corpse retrieval, dog acupuncture, drug pushing. As well as shooting rocks out of the air and, later, beating zombie ass, and resisting mind control. . 

This is the foundation of their friendship; it’s not actually about Wei Wuxian being nice to the weird kid. He initially sought Wen Ning out for the same reason he sought out weird kid Lan Wangji--his martial skill. He accepts his weirdness and is protective of him because of his missing-spirit problem, but he did not befriend him out of altruism.

Wei Wuxian is so forgiving that he can smile fondly when looking at the weapon that whipped the shit out of him a couple of days ago.

Wei Wuxian puts Zidian down right next to Jiang Cheng's hand and...nothing happens. It doesn't recognize him or spark to life. This didn't seem meaningful when I watched it the first time, but rewatching...yikes. It KNOWS.

Wei Wuxian admits, with tears in his eyes, that there is nowhere safe for him to go with Jiang Cheng, and Wen Ning immediately offers care and shelter. Even though that is putting his own life at serious risk.

Life obligation is a common theme in CDramas. It’s often something a person chooses as a way of showing love. Guardian builds an eternal romance out of two people saving each other’s lives over and over.  But accepting the obligation is a choice (in fantasy dramas, if not in real life). Love and Redemption has a gloriously harsh sequence where a life is saved, and the save-ee cooly rejects the saver.

Every time Wen Ning saves Wei Wuxian, he cites that one time that Wei Wuxian saved him from the water demon. And Wei Wuxian cites this rescue right here when he throws everything away to save Wen Ning. Meanwhile, Jiang Cheng doesn't acknowledge any debt to Wen Ning at all, only--grudgingly--to Wen Qing. And people are ok with that.

Basically all this is to say that I think Wen Ning leans into this life debt because he loves Wei Wuxian, and Wei Wuxian leans into it because he loves him back. Non-romantically, I think...at least on Wei Wuxian’s part. YMMV.

They go to pick up Yanli from their Granny, telling her to go into hiding. She starts to cry, not knowing how she'll manage on her own. Wei Wuxian tells her that they will come back, as Wen Ning looks super unsure about that.

Of course Wei Wuxian can't know, at this point, whether they will come back. Wei Wuxian always wants to make everybody feel better, and sometimes you really can't make someone feel better except by lying. He compulsively says shit that he thinks people want to hear, almost as if he was beaten frequently and arbitrarily as a child.

Wen Ning is doing his best for the recreational boat ride industry, as he rows the Yunmeng trio through some amazingly beautiful scenery.

Core Melting Time

Meanwhile, back at Lotus Pier The Yunmeng Supervisory Office, Wen Chao is hung over, Wen Chao is angry, Yawn

For some reason, Wang Lingjiao has suddenly decided to talk to Wen Chao in the most cloying and annoying way possible. 

Also, the fact that she still addresses him as Gongzi when she is totally fucking him is kind of great. This is like those fics where Elizabeth Bennet calls Mr. Darcy "Mr. Darcy" even when they're married and hitting it. 

Wen Zhuliu demonstrates why he's called Core-Melting Hand, by punishing the wine guard. He's able to melt a guy's core by grabbing him by the throat, and also picks him up, Darth Vader style, for extra meltyness.

All that stuff I said last time about Wen Zhuliu feeling ambivalent about being a villian...yeah, he seems to have gotten that right out of his system. 

Chilling in Yiling

Wen Ning is doing his best for the recreational carriage ride industry.  Wei Wuxian, after presumably several hours in the cart, decides that now is a good time to get curious about where they are going. 

Here we start to see a new side of Wei Wuxian.  Before this he was carefree, other than specific worries about his friends. He confronted danger with lightness and humor, or with temporary fear, that he let go of once the danger passed. Now, after all the deaths and seeing Jiang Cheng so injured, he's twitchy, anxious, and angry.

Very, very angry.

When he realizes that Wen Ning has brought them to the Yiling supervisory office, he goes off, demanding to know whose home this was before the Wens took it and grabbing Wen Ning and shoving him into a decorative...decoration.  He thinks Wen Ning brought them here to harm them. 

I wouldn't have thought such a pretty dude could be so menacing, but holy crap.

The way he's confronting Wen Ning here is not his normal style. He's not trying to provoke a bigger fight like he usually does; he's not trying to create distance, the way Jiang Cheng does. He's very intimate, getting right in his face and maintaining eye contact. He trusted Wen Ning and feels personally betrayed.  

Shy little Wen Ning is remarkably calm when confronted like this. Wen Ning really isn’t afraid of anything, despite his general air of nervousness. (Full gifset of Angry WWX over here.) 

He calmly and kindly explains the situation. He doesn't appeal to Wei Wuxian's trust, saying "oh I would never;" he appeals to his logic, which gets through to him. 

Wen Qing comes out and the guards start banging on the door and Wei Wuxian flips out again, grabbing a sword and pointing it at Wen Qing as she decides what to do.  Wen Qing seems unruffled by Wei Wuxian's sword pointing, and we see her weighing up the situation.

She makes her decision, sending the guards away and deciding to help the fugitives, officially joining the Clear Conscience Club. She could probably get Wen Ning out of trouble by turning them in, but she opts to put personal loyalty and her belief in her own ideals ahead of her family's safety.

Wei Wuxian is not ok. He’s just not ok. He tries to act like it after they get settled in with Wen Qing, but he's not, and I think that plays into his next several choices. 

Next comes a whole sequence of Jiang Cheng being unconscious with pins in his head--ow--while Wei Wuxian twitchily tends to him. 

This sequence is kind of unfair to Jiang Yanli. What matters to the story here is Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian's relationship, so that’s the focus of these scenes. But really, there is no way Jiang Yanli would not be at Jiang Cheng's side unless she was literally unconscious herself. Let's assume Wen Qing stuck a needle in her to make her rest while she has a fever. Shippers should also feel free to assume that Wen Qing spent hours at her bedside, tenderly wiping her forehead and holding her hand as she recovered. In his sleep, while Wei Wuxian sits by his side, Jiang Cheng calls for his sister, mother, and father, but not for his brother. Ouch.  

Let's pause to appreciate Wei Wuxian's new outfit, which is the sort of getup most people in this society probably imagine Yiling Laozu wearing, rather than the low-key homespun stuff he actually spends his Yiling year in. This robe has fancy shoulders, shiny material, touches of Jiang purple, strange red hoody strings, and a fuckin' CAPE. He didn't bring any luggage with him from Lotus Pier, although he's still got his Yin Turtle Sword hidden in a bag of holding. So the most likely explanation is that Wen Ning hooked him up with this lewk. "Wei Wuxian is a nice person. He should have a magnificent cape."

Wen Wing and Wei Wuxian take a breather to stand on the porch and work out what their status is with each other, like a couple of fucking adults, which is amazing. Basically Wei Wuxian is ready to forget earlier Wen shenanigans, but is going to avenge Lotus Pier. 

Wen Qing isn't enthusiastic about that but doesn't argue, just asking, mostly rhetorically, if he plans to kill her too. He's uncomfortable considering that; the role of avenger isn't one that's comfortable for him, although he turns out to be extremely good at it. He does not, of course, plan to kill her too. In a few months, imprisoned in a Wen dungeon, she will be the only Wen left alive after Wei Wuxian 1.5(No-Gold Edition) and Chenqing come to visit.

Jiang Cheng finally wakes up, and the first thing he does is to test out his spiritual power by hitting Wei Wuxian as hard as he can. 

DUDE.

Look at Wei Wuxian's face, as he goes from happy, to shocked and hurt, to laughing it off. It's exactly like when Jiang Cheng shoved him in the Rock Lady temple. Has Wei Wuxian spent all of his years with Jiang Cheng going from affection, to hurt feelings, to pretending it's fine? God, I think he probably has.

This episode raises a question that will come up again later, but never be answered. That question is, what the fuck are these weird footies and why the fuck does Jiang Cheng wear them to bed?

Jiang Cheng reveals that his golden core is gone, that he can't cultivate any more, which means he can't avenge his parents or achieve any ambitions in life. Nobody has apparently given any thought to why Wen Zhuliu is called "Core-Melting Hand" before this, which is hilarious, frankly. If I fought with a guy called, for example, Brain-Eating Mouth, I think I would make certain assumptions about him and what he planned to do with my brain.

Something interesting is happening in this moment, because as he comes fully back to consciousness, Jiang Cheng pours out all of his trauma and horror to his brother, telling him about the core melting and practically wailing about his feelings over it all. And his brother understands, and ultimately finds a way to help him. What does Wei Wuxian do after his own trauma? Keeps it secret, so nobody finds a way to help him, although many people try to. So Jiang Cheng is, in this way at least...emotionally healthier than Wei Wuxian? That's unexpected.

Jiang Cheng is super upset and is mad at eternal scapegoat Wei Wuxian for saving him. Jiang Cheng would rather be dead than be a regular person. Whereas Wei Wuxian, faced with the same problem, is like, *shrug* I’ll adapt. These are both valid emotional responses to suddenly becoming disabled. Losing a golden core is definitely a disability, in this environment; it's not just about magic sword fights. Jiang Cheng's home is designed for people who can fly; Lan Wangji's home is designed for people who don't feel cold, and Wen Central is made of actual lava, for example. 

Jiang Cheng is already struggling with a lot of difficulties. He was raised by shitty parents, he's got anger management issues, he has a crushing weight of responsibility. And now he's also lived through the deaths of most of the people who matter to him. If sword cultivation is the one thing that gives him joy in life (ok one of two things, obviously fashion also gives him joy because he WORKS it), he can't reasonably be expected to rally when it's taken away.  

Oh, honey. Oh, baby boy. 

Wen Qing picks the worst moment to come in and tries to tend to Jiang Cheng, who starts off being devastated that the girl he likes is seeing the wreck he's become, and then moves along to helpless rage when he remembers that she's a Wen, and he screams at her to get out.  

Jiang Cheng is not able to put personal loyalty ahead of clan loyalty like Wei Wuxian is. Partly this is his nature, and partly it's his role as the lineal descendant of the clan leader. As a firstborn son of a gentry family, his destiny as clan leader is in his blood, and so is his responsibility to the clan. When Wei Wuxian praises Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen for caring less about bloodlines than about shared ambition, he is speaking from the position of someone who's bloodline ain't shit. Jiang Cheng will never be able to share that perspective.

Next: More of this excruciating episode!

Writing prompt: The Day I Discovered I Could Melt Your Fucking Core, by Wen Zhuliu Drabble prompt: Why I Wear Socks to Bed, by Jiang Cheng

[em0avacado]

Only You

( Angel Reyes x Reader )

trigger warnings : none i think, guys being dudes, soft at the end. Language maybe.

word count : 2.1k ish

You were difficult to figure out, that was one thing you knew very well. You’d grown up around teenage boys all your life, being rough, chaotic and careless is all you knew. It’s who you were. Everyone knew that, but what no one knew? Was that you very, very capable of having a soft spot for someone. It was rare, when you were in highschool you swore to yourself there wouldn’t be another man you’d let close to your heart, and you were doing so well being, well, that bitch™, that when you met Angel Reyes, it threw you off, horribly so. You didn’t know how to handle it, you saw him, and you wanted to make sure he was taking care of himself, which, was likely that he wasn’t. It only got worse when you and him quickly became the best of friends. For some reason, when you started liking him a little more than the rest of your friends, you were lost, so unfamiliar with any emotions, having shut that out eons ago. Somehow, you’d worked it out in your head that you had to be more mean to him than the rest of them.

You had come home late from work one night, you were exhausted, and very much irritated when you heard rustling and noise behind your door. Nearly groaning, you shoved the key in your door and let yourself in, clearly, the boys had done the exact same who knows how long ago. You dropped your bag, and keys on the table before wandering into the very noisy living room where Angel, Ez, Coco, and Gilly were sat on your couch, feet up, beer in hands. Clearing your throat was what caught their attention, their cheers of excitement hurting your pounding head. They looked happy, and relaxed. You wouldn’t admit it but that was your favourite thing to see. Except, Angel. He didn’t look impressed.

“well look who decided to show up.” he said with an unimpressed tone, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Yeah, sorry I came home late to guests I didn’t invite over.” you muttered, pulling your coat off and setting it aside. “next time i’ll let the boss know I can’t take the last shift there might be a bunch of weird men in my home.”

“you sure it was just a late work shit? You not fucking your boss?” he asked with a hint of.. something? In his tone. Who the hell did this man think he was? Rolling your eyes once again, you didn’t have the patience to fight with Angel tonight, you’d said your boss was attractive once in response of him gushing over some girl at Vicky’s and he hasn’t let it go since.

“Why? You jealous?” you asked, and very quickly got a reaction, he got defensive.

“No.” he nearly spat “why would I be jealous of your boss?” his arms crossed over his chest. The rest of them watched with wide eyes. Except Coco, who was too invested in Tiger King.

“Because you want to fuck me.” you said blatantly, he, and Gilly, choked on their beers as Angel quickly tried to regain himself.

“I do not!” he protested, coughing and wiping at his face.

“mhm.” you hummed, pushing off your boots and heading off to the back, wanting to just have a shower before getting comfortable for the night, hoping to forget, even for just a moment, that there was a bunch of home invaders in your living room. Just as you were shutting your bedroom door, you heard mumbles and a then very clear conversation.

“You wanna fuck [Y/N]?” Gilly asked Angel, Ez could only laugh, he knew his brother, he knew he did.

“no.” grumbled Angel.

“Isn’t that kind of gay?” asked Coco. “I mean - she’s one of us, she’s literally beat you up, she’s a bro. That’d be like fucking me.” You snorted at that, of course he’d say that shit. Always. “Isn’t she.. a lesbian?”

Next you heard “Oh shit I thought she was too.” from Gilly.

“She’s not a lesbian! She thinks Bucky Barns is hot, she’s said she wants him to crush her head with that metal arm of his.” Said Ez, you heard Angel huff like a child.

Great, you thought to yourself, now you have a living room full of idiots trying to figure out your sexuality. You grabbed a towel, rolling your eyes at your friends, and went for your shower. Washing away the days stress, replacing the stench of oil and hard work with your signature cucumber, aloe vera scent. You settled on a thick sweater and plaid pj shorts before heading back into the living room where you expected to see the rest of your friends, now more ready to deal with them until you went to bed, but when you saw no one, you grabbed a water and headed to sleep.

The next few days were an endless series of hectic, and tiresome hours put into work, every day something went wrong. You hadn’t been so close to having a total breakdown in forever, but the weight on your shoulders felt so heavy. You couldn’t wait to go home, you had the next two days off and you couldn’t wait but dream of catching dreams and nothing but that. But when you got to your door, it was unlocked. Pulling the gun from your waist, you cocked it and raised it as you entered, only to find Angel at your table with his head in his hands. Setting down your things, you locked the door behind you and shed your work clothes.

This was a routine whenever either one of you had a particularly hard day, you turned to one another, despite the endless banter, you two easily fell into being each other’s safe haven. You deemed it to be because you understood each other, like best friends did, it worked. At some point, though, you’d began to fall for Angel and you had no idea how to deal with it.

“am I okay to shower?” you asked softly, crouching down beside where he sat, running a gentle hand over his head. He aches for your affections, even the slightest of your touches calmed the man, but he knew that you had to be the one to instigate it. You hated physical contact, it was rare you trusted, let alone liked someone enough to let them touch you. You were picky with it. Angel respected that, though he did sometimes want to just pull you into a hug when his world was spinning, yet he didn’t. You saw it in the way that he involuntarily followed your hand that it was a hard day for him, when he nodded, you gently squeezed his shoulder. “okay, take off your kutte and boots and go lay in bed, i’ll be there after, okay?” when he nodded again and began to move, you headed off to the bathroom quickly to rinse off.

Not all that long after, you’d met him in your room, like you promised. You wore pj shorts, and a tank, he was in his wife beater and boxers. You climbed in, and lifted the comforter wordlessly, inviting him in. He quickly settled against you, his face laid against your chest. You trailed your fingers over his back, drawing soft shapes on his skin a mark that didn’t stain much more than his mind. You both laid in a comfortable silence, his hands were secured at his sides, eventually yours sat in his hair, playing with the short strands as he listened to your heart beat. He never thought he’d be more thankful for someone else’s beating heart.

“Do you like Bucky Barnes more than you like me?” he asked, breaking the silence after a while. You furrowed your brows slightly and looked at him. You saw his glassy brown eyes staring right back at you. Your heart melting at the sight.

“Angel, Bucky is a fictional character.” you answered simply.

“So you do.” he said in disappointment, sighing. Jealousy hung heavy over his head, perhaps it wasn’t just that, perhaps he had an exceedingly difficult day. When he started pulling away from you, you wrapped your arms around his head and pulled him in, the gesture was.. sweeter and much more gentle in your head, but everyone knew you weren’t the most graceful, so you accidentally jabbed him not only in the eye, but also picked his nose for him. Dismissing the fact that you did that, you took his face in your hands and had him look to you.

“Bucky Barnes has nothing on you.” you said, doing your best to sound reassuring.

“What about his arm?” he asked, puppy eyes on full display. This man will be the end of you.

“I’d let you run over my head with your bike.” you told him, trialing your thumbs over his cheeks. Something inside you told you that there was a fine line between platonic and romantic, and that you’ve both bolted passed that line ages ago, in private, at least.

“you really mean that?” he asked yet another question, you knew you were playing into his ego but you could only give in to him.

“i do.” you said, yawning. He wrapped his arms around you again, and settled back down. Shutting his eyes. You had a few minutes at best before you were out, and Angel knew that once you started yawning, it only took a little while till you were out.

But the next morning, when you slowly started to come back to the world of the living, you heard Angel mumbled something into the phone. Being the nosy son of a bitch you were, you listened in. “I don’t know, man. All I know is that if I don’t leave now, I don’t think I ever will. She doesn’t see me the way I see her, I can’t force this on her, I’ll lose her for good and I’d rather have her as a friend, but I can’t lose her. On god little brother I can’t.” he mumbled, and you felt your chest heat up. He was talking about you. To Ez. Shutting your eyes again for a moment, you took a deep breath and climbed out as you heard him rustling around. You grabbed one of the blankets, surrounding yourself with it to try to warm back up after your toes were kissed by the cold. You headed out of the room, your toes padding against the hard wood floor. You’d caught him in the middle of opening the door, and talking to Ez still.

“Please don’t leave.” You said, your voice soft, almost timid. Angel turned around, looking at you all wide eyed.

“Wh - huh?” he looked at you dumbfounded.

“Come back to bed, I’m cold.” you said, clutching the blanket tighter.

“[Y/N], I - I have to go.” he responded, fumbling with the phone in his hand as Ezekiel yelled at him to get his head out of his ass on the line.

“You’re an idiot.” You quickly shuffled closer to him, letting go of your grasp on the blanket, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands and you lead him closer to you. Looking into his eyes, you felt his hot breath brush against your face, taking a second to really look at him before connecting your lips to his in a soft kiss. This was definitely crossing the friendship line, but he was intoxicating. “Don’t leave now. Don’t leave ever.” you said when your lips parted for air. Your eyes on him, all you heard was his heavy breathing, and the cheering on the other end of the phone.

The sight of you right then and there let Angels heart melt into puddle, he hadn’t seen it before but you looked at him like he was the world, and he was, he was your world, even though you’ve quite literally sucker punched him in the stomach for taking your last cheese bun.

“So she’s not a lesbian right?” you heard Coco ask everyone.

“Coco I’m gonna beat your fucking ass.” you said, grabbing the phone before hanging up. “but first imma eat yours.” you tried to say in a serious voice, but the moment Angels face twisted in disgust, you lost it.

“Way to ruin the moment.” he groaned.

“You want me to bring the moment back?” you asked, raising a brow at him when he nodded. You reached up, brushing back his hair, taming the bed head ever so slightly, you brought your hands down to his beard, scraping your nails gently against it as you brought your lips back to his. “give me another kiss then, baby.” your voice drawled out softly, meeting his lips in a soft, yet passionate kiss.

Taking his hand after a few moments, you pulled him back to the bedroom, he was completely caught in a trance. So, as you walked, you set his phone aside, you pushed off his kutte and tossed it on the couch, you unbuttoned his flannel and tossed it on a close by chair. “Are you trying to fuck me?” he asked, bewildered.

“No, not right now.” you chuckled softly. “I want to lay with you, I want your warmth, and your smiles, and your laughter when I tell you some stupid joke, I want your arms around me. I want to hold you. Only you. Let me feel safe in your arms because I don’t anywhere else.” you admitted, pulling him into you. He looked like a lost puppy as you spoke, but then he fully dove into you, not wanting to look back.

“and after our nap? I’m making waffles.” you said in your donkey impression, making Angel roll his eyes. “Angel baby.. When we fuck I’m gonna moan like I think Donkey does when he and that dragon fuck, okay?” you ask, entirely serious.

“oh god please no.” he laughs, hiding his face in your chest.

Tag List :

@mayans-sauce

@queenbeered

@lilacyennefer

[worldsentwined]

(No)NaNovember

Since November is right around the corner (wtf where did this year go) the annual NaNoWriMo hype is starting up again. I love seeing all the energy and excitement for writing that it produces! But. I am in no way, shape, or form capable of writing 50k words next month without running myself into the ground. I’m not really in a place where I can commit to doing anything every single day for a month unless it’s already something I do every day to keep myself alive. Last year I attempted NaNo, wrote 30k words (at least 10k of which were unrelated to my main “project”) and then couldn’t write for months. So I’m not going to do that to myself again.

Instead, I’m going to try to make progress on some of the many, many works-in-progress that I’ve started and left unfinished over the past year or so. Maybe I’ll write a sentence or two. Maybe I’ll try to actually iron out some plot problems. Maybe I’ll do silly ask/prompt games to get me thinking outside of the box. Or maybe I’ll draw character art instead of actually writing because sometimes when I tell myself to write all I want to do is draw instead. 

Some of these stories might be familiar to folks who have been following me for a while - I’ve either posted excerpts or promised spinoffs/continuations. I figure if there is excitement out there for some of these stories, it might make it easier to work on them? So I’m going to lay out the ones I’m thinking about, partly to keep my brain organized and partly to see if there’s interest in reading a particular story. If something piques your curiosity, feel free to ask questions about it!

Dual Citizenship

On my first night in this apartment, I couldn’t sleep. I was exhausted, worn down from a stressful day after weeks--months? Years? Of anxiety. I should have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, but I couldn’t escape my circling thoughts. I was going to live. I was going to live here, in an unfamiliar space with unfamiliar people. I told myself back then that it didn’t matter who I lived with, and it didn’t matter what I had to do as part of this new society the robots were creating. I had enough insulin to stay alive and a safe place to sleep. That was all I needed.

I can’t sleep tonight either, and this time my insulin stockpile is cold comfort.

~15k words (with nearly 5k of extras/deleted scenes/notes) I saw this writing prompt about a robot apocalypse in which a person with an insulin pump gets dual citizenship due to being a cyborg, and some of the replies made me so angry that I decided to write a story as a giant “fuck you”. But then I got really invested in it and now I just really want to tell this story about a cranky diabetic dealing with their weird roommates and also emotions. Delves into the inherent ableism of our capitalist society and some of my own repressed medical anxieties. Also there’s an nb/nb romance that keeps trying to take over the plot even though it is so not the point of the whole thing, oops. This is the story I’ve actively been working on for a few months so it is the one I’ll most likely keep working on if people don’t chime in about other stories.

Operation: Wingpeople

Second pressed a button--all of their monitors went dark--and tossed a set of keys to Greg. “You’re driving. We need to stop by my place first, though.”

Greg caught the keys. They were his keys; they had been in his pocket, last he checked. He sighed. “Sure. What are you thinking, bugs so we can keep an eye on the place? I wonder what their security system is like.” That was Second’s area of expertise, but they’d worked together long enough for Greg to pick up some basics.

“No, I already have my surveillance kit,” Second said, extracting themself from the bean bag and tying their hair up in a loose bun. “I need to get my ball and shoes.”

“Your...what?”

Second opened the door and waited for Greg to follow. “My ball? My shoes? We’re going bowling, Greg.”

~3k words When I wrote Operation: Boyfriend in a frenzy last spring, it went from being a silly idea that I was going to write out and post in a day and forget about (ha!) to being my most popular work on AO3 ever. I had a lot of fun writing Sasha and Charlie’s story, and apparently people also enjoyed reading it. I also became very fond of Sasha’s henchpeople, Greg and Second, and had this idea to write a spinoff about what they get up to while Sasha is busy being a lovesick disaster. Enter this story, in which Greg and Second go undercover in a bowling league (to sell one of Sasha’s more ridiculous lies) and discover a secret plot. No romance here so far, but I’m putting up as many neon signs saying “this character is asexual and probably some flavor of aromantic” as I possibly can. 

A Stitch In Time

Three things make a stitch in time, Mom always said. A piece of the past. A piece of the present. A hand to guide the needle. With my prize in hand, I start the stitch.

The world puckers. Time folds around me, and I close my eyes, feeling my way through the weave of it. I never know exactly how far back an object will take me until I get there--the farther I go, the worse the distortion usually gets. This house is old, though, far older than the jacket, so I’m expecting familiar surroundings when I arrive. 

So it’s a shock when the stone floor and cheerful yellow walls of my kitchen are replaced by some kind of--research facility, all chrome and glass and inexplicable translucent white surfaces. In the time it takes to recover from the stitch and get my bearings, three things happen.

First: an announcement over a loudspeaker. Welcome to the Bureau of Time Tailors. Your current chronology is 14:35, the ninth of May, 3021. 

Second: something wrenches the jacket from my hand, and cool metal clamps around my wrist.

Third: the person standing in front of me, all crisp blue uniform and neatly coiffed graying hair, smiles. “Ah. I see we’ve caught you at last, Ellis Corvi.”

~6k words (and it’s SO close to being finished but I was having trouble sticking the ending so it’s been left lying) Yet another one from a writing prompt, this one about a time traveler who travels through time by touching objects and going to when they were made...who unexpectedly ends up in the future. Enter Ellis Corvi, recent college graduate and casual “stitcher” - a person who can move through time - and their best friend Rigel Crow. Turns out that messing with time isn’t quite as consequence-free as Ellis thought, and the details of their own past are more of a zigzag stitch than a straight seam. No romance, but lots of friendship and family dynamics.

Meeting of the DKP Squad - Continuation

Some said the first dragon had cursed the kingdom with its last breath, dooming them to repeat its reign of terror. Others said it was a protective spell by a benevolent witch, ensuring that a hero would always rise when the kingdom needed one. A few select scholars argued that perhaps the dragons had some ulterior motive for appearing, such as migration patterns or territory expansion, and only stole the princesses by coincidence--but most people dismissed their ideas as flights of fancy.

Even as a little girl, Princess Magnolia had thought the “fanciful” scholars had a point. Curses and spells were tricky things, easier to imagine than to set in motion. But she could appreciate a finely-woven story. In many ways, a well-crafted tale could serve just as well as magic.

~4k words (including the already-posted section) I wrote the first part of this story and posted it on Tumblr a while back, and I promised I would continue it but uh. I got stuck because Plot. Basically a knight, a princess, and a dragon are best friends in private and enemies or lovers in public. This is a problem, because the knight (super gay, pining for a hot magic student) is supposed to marry the princess (also pining for someone hot, not interested in marrying the knight) and before the wedding he’s supposed to kill the dragon (who’s just, really into hot sauce). Anyway I know parts of how this goes but I haven’t figured out what the Plan is to stop the wedding (it doesn’t have to even work, but the characters have to think it will). So this one will probably stay on the backburner unless I get a brilliant idea for it, but I haven’t forgotten about it. The plan is to have both m/m romance and f/f romance in this one, depending on how things work out.

[taetaespeaches]

“This is weird, isn’t it?”

namjoon x reader (or oc) genre: fluff word count: 3.4K

a/n: This is where shit gets weird between Joon and Daisy (so, like right away). The morning after their supposed to be one-night stand in “Lead the way, Dimples”, they realize that they don’t want it to be a one time deal. Therefore, Joon asks Daisy to stay at his place before he leaves to work... like who does that? Anyways, I hope you all enjoy and thanks for reading! :)) 

TOMORROW’S problem. Those were the words playing inside your head as you fell asleep in the arms of the man who was meant to be a one-night stand. Well, “tomorrow’s problem” had turned into “today’s problem” and you had no idea how to handle the problem.

Peeling your eyes open slowly, you were met with the sun beams shining through the blinds, casting Namjoon’s chest in a golden glow that made his skin look even more gorgeous than it was in the moonlight. His exposed skin reminded you of his and your own nakedness, further reminding you of the previous night.

The sex was good. Really fucking good. That’s why I stayed the night, you thought to yourself. It had nothing to do with the way every touch he laid upon your body felt like it was meant for you, not only in this lifetime but in all your past existences. No, because relationships are messy and love never works out the way lovers want it to.  

But his body was so warm and comforting pressed against your own. And he snored and for some reason you found that endearing. You watched the rise and fall of his chest, simultaneously hoping he’d wake up in that moment so you could speak to him in the light of day, while also wishing he’d stay in slumber as to prolong the inevitable walk of shame. What a shame that walk would be, leaving behind something, someone, that felt so right. No, this is just a hook up.

As Namjoon stirred, a groan rumbling against his chest as the snoring cut out, you didn’t know whether you should alert him to your consciousness or if you should take the cowardly option and feign sleep. Well, you never did claim to be brave. Shutting your eyes, you attempted to keep your body still, but relaxed, as if you were still asleep and blissfully unaware of the pending awkwardness that was to ensue.

“Babe?” Namjoon suddenly asked, his voice sexy in all its morning roughness, especially when calling you that simple term of endearment. When you didn’t respond, the man chuckled. “I know you’re awake,” he told you, your body tensing as you held your breath. Defeatedly, you lifted your face from his chest to look up at him, finding him smiling at you with an arm tucked under his head for support.

“How did you know?” You pouted, trying to play off your childish act. “Is my acting that bad?” You asked, hoping to joke your way out of the impending tension.

Namjoon smiled widely, shaking his head. “No, it’s just,” he paused as you tucked your hand underneath your chin against his chest. “You snore,” he told you, you holding back an embarrassed smile as the man unabashedly laughed at your expression.

“Oh my god,” you breathed out, dropping your forehead to his chest, the man letting out an adorable but teasing laugh.

“It’s really cute,” he complimented, you groaning as the man continued to chuckle at you.

“You snore too,” you retorted, lifting your head to look at him again, meeting his fond smile. Your hair had fallen into your face just slightly, the man gently reaching to tuck the strand behind your ear.

“I’ve been told,” he agreed, you raising your eyebrows in question.

“Other sleeping partners?” You asked brazenly, secretly hoping you were wrong. No, get a grip. He’s a hook up.

“No,” he chuckled. “No, I actually don’t do this,” he gestured to your nude bodies with a nod of his head, “very often.” You hummed in understanding, ignoring the ache in your chest at the reminder that this was just a one-time thing. The man ran his hand over top your hair before settling it on your shoulder blade, massaging your shoulder gently.

“That’s surprising to me,” you told him with a flirty edge in your tone, the man humming in wonder. “I just mean, you’re hot,” you smiled, “and really good.”

You watched as he smiled bashfully, dimples on full display as he squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck you were smitten. A hook up. “Well, no,” he said again through his smile. “I don’t really do this kind of thing often.”

Observing him thoughtfully, you found yourself wanting to know more about him. “And why don’t you?” You asked him, the man’s smile slowly fading as he stared down at you.

“I’m not very good at it,” he said bashfully, you pulling a look of disagreement.

“I would have to disagree, Dimples,” you told him through a smile, the man squeezing his eyes shut with an embarrassed chuckle.

“I mean, I just prefer connecting with people,” he said simply, but the words echoed in your thoughts for days after he spoke them. Partially because of the endearing fact that he was as good looking and successful as he was, he still wanted pure connection with the people he slept with. But perhaps also because you knew there was a connection between you both, no matter how much you wanted to deny it.

Gently, he grabbed your waist, guiding you to roll onto your side as he rolled onto his as well so you were facing each other. “Hey,” he whispered, now that your faces were level with each other’s.  

“Hi,” you whispered back with a fond smile.

Reaching out to cradle your jaw in his hand, he soothed his thumb over your cheek. The action felt so intimate, especially for the morning after a hook up, but it also felt comfortable. Leaning into his touch, you found yourself craving more of his simple affections. It is just a hook up.

“Wait, who complains about your snoring?” You suddenly asked, a smile nearly spreading across Namjoon’s face before it was quickly replaced by a look of panic.

“Fuck, my members,” he said suddenly, sitting up quickly as he reached for his phone. “Shit,” he huffed, “I’m gonna be late.”

“Oh fuck,” you sat up as well, holding the blankets to your chest. “I’m off today, I didn’t even think-”

“No, no, no, it’s not your fault,” he assured you, pressing a quick peck to your lips, the casualness of the action taking you by surprise. Is this just a hook up?

You watched as he scrambled out of the bed, clumsily, appreciating the view of his bare body before he pulled some clothing on. It was really unfair that he looked just as good dressed up in the baggy cargo pants and sweatshirt as he did nude. Of course he had to be effortlessly stylish as well. Just add it to the whole fucking package he was shaping up to be.

“To answer your question,” he started as he looked around the room for certain belongings. “My members complain about my snoring all the time. Since I got my own place and therefore don’t stay at the dorm as much, the complaining has lessened, but I still get teased.”

“Ah,” you said in realization, nodding as you watched him throw a laptop into his bag.

“I’m surprised you got any rest,” he laughed at himself, squeezing his eyes together as he did, you smiling adoringly at the expression.

“I’m a deep sleeper,” you told him through your smile. “It kind of seems like we were made to sleep together,” you teased, not sure why you spoke the words when this was supposed to just be a hook up.

Finally making the connection that he was about to leave for work and you were still naked in his bed, you moved to get up. “No, you don’t have to leave,” he told you quickly. “Take your time.” Wide-eyed, you observed him carefully. You couldn’t actually stay there, could you? I mean, I shouldn’t, right? He’s just a hook up. We just met, that would be really weird. Instead of listening to the voice of reason inside your head, you listened to Namjoon’s.

“So, you’re an idol, right?” You found yourself asking, curious of the job he was rushing out the door to get to.

“I am,” he nodded. “I hope that doesn’t freak you out,” he added, you shaking your head. “I would understand if it did.”

“I mean, it does a little but you’re just a person,” you started, Namjoon’s eyes softening as he stopped his busy movements to look at you. “A ridiculously handsome person, but a person,” you added, Namjoon laughing as he went back to cramming more items into the bag. “What’s your position?”

The man paused again as he watched you carefully for a moment, inspecting you from your spot on the bed. “Are you really interested?” He asked, your eyebrows pulling together curiously.

“Yeah,” you confirmed simply, Namjoon slowly nodding.

“I’m a rapper,” he told you. “And a leader,” he added a bit less confidently. “Songwriter and producer.”

“Wow, you do a lot,” you noted, impressed. “It suits you,” you agreed, Namjoon chuckling as he raised his eyebrows. “Now that you told me, I actually can’t see you in any other position.”

He smiled shyly as he zipped up the bag. “I want to know what you do too,” he told you as he slipped the bag’s strap over his shoulder.

“It’s not nearly as exciting,” you told him, Namjoon immediately shaking his head in disagreement.

“Maybe you can tell me about it when I get back?” He asked, walking toward you.

You should have said no. You should have said you were leaving. Why weren’t you dressed yet? With Namjoon getting closer and closer to you, you found yourself just sitting there lamely as you awaited the kiss he was obviously planning to give you by the way he seductively stared at your lips.

Inches from your face, he smiled. “Good morning, by the way,” he told you, you returning his smile as you inched your face just the slightest bit closer to him.

“Good morning, Dimples” you replied softly, just as Namjoon closed the gap, pressing his lips to yours for the second time that morning, though this one was much more passionate than the last as he deepened it almost instantly. The kiss was soft and his lips were perfectly plush. One kiss made you want more of them, and in that moment, his mouth working against your own, you didn’t care how strange this whole interaction was.

Maybe it isn’t just a hook up.

Breaking away from the kiss reluctantly, you placed a hand to his face, feeling his soft skin under your fingers. “You’ll be late.”

He hummed in frustration, resting his forehead against your own. “You can stay here,” he told you. “I mean it.”

“Namjoon,” you sighed, not sure of what to do.

“I’m leaving it up to you,” he told you, and you realized that he was. You could walk out that door and never come back, leaving not even a phone number or a single trace that you were ever there. And that respect he had for you to decide yourself may have been the very thing that drove you to kiss him once more, softly, already having made your mind up.

“Thank you,” you said simply, the elusive but appreciative comment making Namjoon smile as he pressed his lips to yours again, deepening the kiss but keeping it slow and passionate.

Breaking away, he hurried toward the bathroom . Sounds of rummaging, cabinets and drawers opening and closing, and the sound of the sink turning on and off echoed into the bedroom. Whereas you should have taken the moment of alone time to think over what the fuck you were still doing in your one-night stand’s bed, you instead got distracted by looking around the room, smiling fondly at the number of figurines that lined the walls.

Suddenly, Namjoon stepped back into the room with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. “Hey, I managed to find a new toothbrush,” he told you through his mouthful of toothpaste, “I’ll just leave it on the counter.” You nodded as he disappeared around the door frame again, only to pop back in immediately. “And feel free to take a shower,” he added, “if you want.”

“Ok,” you giggled as you watched him leave again. Searching around the bedroom floor, you tried to find all your pieces of clothing, spotting all but your panties when Namjoon walked back in.

“I have to go,” he told you, “but I’ll be back in a few hours.” You simply nodded at the man, watching as he neared you, easily slotting his lips against yours as if he had done it a thousand times before. Maybe he had, who were you to say he hadn’t kissed you in a million lifetimes before this one. He is a hook up, my god woman.

Pulling away just slightly so his lips hovered over top yours, he sighed against your mouth. “Please be here when I get back,” he begged with a desperate smile, you giggling at the expression as he backed away.

No other words were spoken between the both of you, you simply watching him back all the way out of the room, not wanting to look away from you just in case it was the last time he’d ever see you. And fuck did you look perfect tangled in his sheets with your bare shoulders exposed, a smitten smile plastered to your face.

He stared a moment longer before you smiled and shooed him away, the man’s dimples indenting his cheeks as he forced himself to leave. The front door opened and closed a few moments later, leaving you alone in his apartment, which was a trusting move from the man. You adored the slight naivity he seemed to possess and it made you want to stick around even more. This is obviously not just a hook up. Fuck.

Rising from the bed, you held the sheet to your body as you walked around his bedroom, observing the different figurines and toys, along with the countless notebooks piled upon his table. The leather spines of the journals were worn, evidence to how much they’d been used.

Meandering back to the bed, you caught sight of the books stacked on his bedside table. You had a similar situation on your bedside table, or more appropriately known as the storage table for your favorite novels, stories, and poems.

Intrigued by the title of one of the books, “Sky, Wind, and Stars”, a collection of poems by Yun Dong-ju, you pulled it out from between two thicker books, inspecting the back cover as you lowered yourself back to the mattress.

Opening the collection, you began reading the foreword, already interested in the rest of the works. You read the first few poems, taking in the formation of the carefully selected words. However, what really captured your attention was the pen markings on the pages, underlining and placing small stars next to certain stanzas and sentences.

In the poem, At the Summit, a work about reaching the summit of a mountain and looking down on the small landscape and people below, the line, “I yearn to climb to higher ground” was underlined.

In the poem, Contemplation, the words, “My eyes are loosely shut like a small push-out window. Tonight, love seeps in everywhere, like the dark,” were starred.

“Alas! The field has become desolate — what tears and sobbing! The dream has been shattered; the tower has collapsed” were the lines underlined in A Dream Shattered.

In Mountain Forest, the lines, “When the ticking of the clock beats in my heart, I grow anxious and the forest on the mountain calls me… only the stars twinkling through the trees lead me to hope for a new day,” were underlined and starred.

On a lighter note, in the poem, Doves, “Seven little mountain doves, so adorable, I wish I could hold them in my arms,” were underlined. Cute, you thought.

“But there is no one to talk with tonight,” in the poem Water from the Depths of a Mountain Valley; “I inhale deeply on this placid morning, again and again,” in Morning; “I long to walk to places I am familiar with, and perhaps to those I am unfamiliar with,” in the poem titled Grief; “On a still night, when the moon waxes like the rings of a growing tree, love, alone like the moon, grows like such aging rings, filling my heart to aching,” in Like the Moon.

Your favorite, the one that stopped you for a moment as you thought of the man you already knew so intimately, was from the poem What do they live on?

“People by the sea eat the fish they catch. People in the valleys of the mountains eat the potatoes they roast. People on the stars — what do they live on?”

Reading through the poems, paying special attention to the words that were given special emphasis by Namjoon’s pen, you realized the fear Namjoon lived with that he would never feel as though he achieved enough, or that he would achieve too much, and then what happens when it inevitably disappears? Would love catch his fall? Or would he be alone?

A Poem That Came Easily made you think of Namjoon working on music. The accolades he must receive in conjunction to the sacrifices. How music must be the one thing he knows he got right, but how much he must miss out on due to a life dedicated to his work.  

“Life is meant to be difficult: is it too bad that a poem comes so easily to me… Extending a small hand to myself, I offer myself the very first handshake, tears, and condolences,” the poem read.  

The poem Self Portrait made your heart hurt to read, and you wanted Namjoon to walk through the door so you could hug him.

“And a man is there. I turn my away because I hate the man, somehow. Pondering over him as I set out to leave, I feel sorry for him and go back and look in: he is still there.”

You’d known the man for a grand total of about 12 hours and you already knew the man was beyond worthy of love. How could he not see that in himself?

You didn’t mean to read the entire collection of poems, but as you flipped the last page, you closed the book, deep in thought. And every single thought circling your mind was of Namjoon. A desire to explore his mind struck you and you immediately regretted sleeping with the man upon first meeting. Would you ever be able to be anything more than sexually intimate? Love never works the way lovers want it to, you thought. If you let Namjoon in, you’d be setting yourself up for heartache, you just knew it. But even still, you wanted to know him and you wanted him to know you.

By the time you had taken a shower, the scent of his products taking you back to the previous night, you realized you didn’t have a change of clothes. Wandering around his living room in nothing but a towel you found in a cupboard, you thought about how fucking weird this whole situation was. Why didn’t you leave? I don’t even know this man—

And just when you thought Namjoon couldn’t get any more endearing, you spotted the plants lined up along his window, interrupting your thoughts momentarily. There was a good amount of them, all meticulously trimmed. They were cared for deeply by their gardener, that much was obvious.  Their gardener…

Were you just prolonging the inevitable separation from Namjoon by sticking around? You both entered into the previous night with the understanding that it was a one-time thing. But there you were, still in his apartment, and he wasn’t even home. This was weird, people didn’t just do this. Panicking, you decided you needed to leave, striding across the living room in a bee line to get dressed and get out, just when the front door opened.

Snapping your head toward the entrance, you and Namjoon met eyes and a relieved smile spread across his face. Suddenly, you remembered why you stayed.

“You’re here,” he breathed out, as if he had been holding it since he left earlier that morning.

“I am,” you confirmed dumbly. “This is weird, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he chuckled. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

He stayed in the entry way of his apartment for a moment, simply staring at you as if he was making sure he didn’t conjure you up through the power of wishful thinking. Cocking your head at him, you shrugged.

“Welcome home, Dimples.”

[dcforts]

[day 2: childhood memories + day 3: motel rooms]

One minute Dean is soaping up in the shower - under what could be described more as a lukewarm leak than an actual shower spray - and the next the whole thing dies on him.

Dean sighs heavily, steps out on the cold bathroom tiles and towels off the soap as best as he can. He is sticky and uncomfortable when he gets into his clothes but it’s not worth bringing up the issue at the front because they are leaving the motel anyway.

Sam says, “Maybe they’ll let you take a shower in another room,” but Dean doesn’t want to. This is just the cherry on top of a godawful day and he wants to get out of there now and don’t ever come back. He is sick of those carpeted floors, those disgusting smells, the stained curtains, the dirty ashtrays.

He is well aware that if they didn’t find the bunker they would have spent the rest of their lives in dumps like this, so it’s not like he can look down on anything with a roof on. Still, Dean finds more and more intolerable the places he grew up in.

The ones his dad would leave them in when he was barely ten years old and he was too afraid to fall asleep because of the scary noises coming from the walls and the scary lights coming from behind the curtains. He would think that if he closed his eyes then someone could come in and take Sammy and he wouldn’t relax until he heard the rumble of the Impala in the parking lot. He would finally calm down and be lulled into sleep only by the creaking of the floorboards under his father’s boots, his heavy breathing, the tv turning on, the hiss of a beer being opened.

He is not complaining, but he knows now, that it was fucked up – how they lived. He’s got fond memories too, he is not complaining. He’s just tired. Maybe he’s getting older, that’s all.  Maybe he’s becoming one of those old grumpy dudes that can make a fuss about anything.

“I’ll take care of check out,” Sam says and hands him his bag. “See you outside.”

Generally, he is not bothered by any of those things. Too preoccupied with whatever they are dealing with, he moves on autopilot. But today he woke up with a sadness that he doesn’t know where it came from but it grew and it grew – during the long hours of a stake out, and each time he was thrown against a wall by the monster they were fighting, and finally, half an hour ago, when the shower head of his filthy motel room decided to die on him while he was still all soaped up.

So when Sam leaves the room Dean takes a moment for himself. He sits down on the nearest unmade bed and drops his head in his hands.

There are voices coming from the rooms nearby, not really muffled by the thin walls of the place. A kid crying, a man yelling at his phone, a television blaring commercials.

One time when he was nine, Dean had been having a hard time because little Sammy wouldn’t stop crying. It took him a long time to calm him down and even longer to make him fall asleep. Then from next door came the sounds of a couple fighting and Sam started to stir in his sleep. His father had told him to always be brave, so Dean had gone knocking on their door, his heart in his throat. “Could you keep it down? My little brother is sleeping,” he’d said to the man who’d opened the door. The man had spit on him and slammed the door.

He had washed the spit out of his face together with his tears, wishing for his father to come back and take them out of there.

He knows he is not that kid anymore. He went through so much worse; he went through literal Hell. He sighs and wipes a hand over his mouth, telling himself to get it together. He didn’t get enough sleep, that’s all.

Someone pushes open the door that Sam has left ajar. Cas takes in the view of Dean sitting on the bed with the bags at his feet, surveys the empty room and asks: “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

Dean looks up at Cas and unsurprisingly he is wearing a frown. Also unsurprisingly, he picks up Dean’s bad mood. He walks into the room and asks: “What is it?”

Dean looks down at his shoes and weights what chances he has to get away with a ‘Nothing’. He still doesn’t feel like moving though, so it would be a little weird to say that and then keep sitting there.

“Just a bad day,” he says in the end.

Cas is quiet for a moment, Dean can hear him shift his weight from one foot to the other, can hear the rustling of his trench coat as he moves his arms.

“Tell me about it,” he says and his shoes come into Dean’s view as he approches him and then crouches in front of him trying to catch his gaze. His eyes are soft and questioning. Dean doesn’t like making him worry.

“I’m just being a whiny baby,” he says, trying to playing it down, attempting a smile. “My back hurts, that vamp kicked my ass, I could not even take a freaking shower and now I gotta drive for hundreds of miles.”

“What else?” Cas says and he puts his hands on the mattress to keep his balance. His chest bumps against Dean’s knees.

He shakes his head: “Remembering some stuff from when I was a kid. I dunno, maybe I haven’t slept all that well. My pillow was bumpy.”

A corner of Cas’ mouths lifts.

“I told you, it’s nothing. I just needed a minute.”

“Can I do something to help?” he asks and a warm feeling expands in Dean’s chest. He shakes his head.

Cas studies his face for a moment longer, then Dean feels his hand on the back of his neck gently pulling his head forward until he ends up in a sort of a hug that works and doesn’t work, but still brings Dean’s face pressed against his shoulder and into the fabric of his trenchcoat, so that all he can smell now it’s the not rancid tobacco, not the cheap detergent used for the bedsheets, not the old mouldy wallpaper.

Just Cas, the soap Sam packed for the trip, the Impala.

He smells like home. And that anchors him to the present. A present made of eggs and bacon every morning, of record players blasting his favourite songs, of soft clean clothes and the feeling of safety; a present made of people that call him just to know he’s alright, that would drive from another state just to see him, that will hold him for as long as he needs it.

People that love him and that he loves.

So Dean lets Cas hold him and not hold him for a little while longer - or for a long time, Dean is not sure anymore - before he feels ready to slap his back and say: “Alright, let’s get out of here.”

He stands up and takes one bag, Cas takes the other.

He still looks at him like he’s not convinced that Dean is fine, so he says, “I’m fine,” but then feels embarrassed and stammers a bit when he adds, “T-thanks, Cas.”

Cas nods briefly. “Anytime.”

joining @bend-me-shape-me  in doing this!

[thhimble]

baby don’t hold out(it’s cold outside), ii

Henry cavill x reader

part i: here

Warnings: none yet. A bit more cheese. A bit more nerdier. I tried to keep the reader as blank as possible, but i think she might be a bit of a nerd, so a heads up for that. Hopefully it doesn’t throw anyone out of the fic too much.

Tags: @harrystylesholland​, @spideysimpossiblegirl​ , @laurakirsten0502​

baby don’t hold out (it’s cold outside), ii

.

.

                  It’s not a big deal, you tell yourself, standing outside of room 208, your nose and ears burning from the warmth inside compared to the cold outside… from how long you spent lingering in the snow, trying desperately to figure out a solution that you knew, really, wasn’t there.

Clara was right, after all, you did help make the lists, you helped write and organise and plan… and your options are—

Henry pops into your head, pitch a tent? Camp out in the lobby?

Your options are basically zero.

And you’re an adult not a pre-teen girl screaming over a hot boy. You can do this. You can absolutely do this. He isn’t fucking Adonis.

With a snort, you bury a laugh into your scarf. He’s just a guy. Just a really attractive guy. With really nice hair. And shoulders. And eyes. And—

Ugh, you think and blow out a breath, staring down the tauntingly-silent, somehow loopingly-mocking numbers staring you down from the upper middle of the door.

Fuck you, 208.

If numbers could personally offend, 208 was well on its way.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt personally victimized by 208.

208 stays silent, cursive and nailed to the door.

You resist the urge to lift your hand, yes, hi, I have. Let me introduce myself—

With another snort lost to your scarf, you close your eyes and pull in a steadying breath—

And lift your hand.

“You got this,” you mutter into your scarf. “You totally, absolutely got this.”

You’re a rock. Captain America’s shield. Mithril.

Sam carrying Frodo up the face of Mount Doom.

You knock.

There’s a noise inside, a shuffle—

You are absolutely not at all interested in running away.

You glance at the stairs you came up.

The door opens.

You feel like Frodo, holding the One Ring over the lava.

Henry’s in the same soft, dark blue sweater, but the dark of his hair is a little softer than it was earlier and his sleeves are pushed up over his forearms and he’s in socks and it’s all so— so—

No. You’re totally Samwise.

“Hullo,” Henry says with this slow smile that absolutely does nothing to your insides. “Thought maybe I lost you to a tent after all.”

“It was a close call,” you lie, swallowing around your heartbeat. “But the ground’s frozen. For you know. The tent thingies. That go in the ground.”

You make a weird hammer motion with your hand, it doesn’t at all look like a jerking-off motion. It doesn’t.

His smile goes crooked, his eyes flicking from your face down to the shift of your hand. You tuck it back into your coat pocket and decide you hate him. Him and his stupid, crooked smile.

“Stakes,” he says, with that stupid smile that looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Yup, those,” you say with a forced laugh. “Tent thingies.”

He snorts a laugh, but steps back, his hand spreading wide on the door, the thick of his arm holding it open for you as he tilts his head into the room.

“Come on then, girl scout. In you go.”

You hesitate before you remember you’re totally Samwise Gamgee and you heft your metaphorical Frodo and push past him into his— your— whatever— room; ignoring the heat of him, size of him, smell of him, so close to you.

(You’ve been here before, anyway, in the bar that first night, with his mouth to your ear; buy you a drink? But it’s somehow, no less staggering.)

Objectively, it’s a nice room, from the zero-point-one second you glance over it before your eyes land on the bed—

The bed you’ll be sharing with him—

No, nope. There’s no way you can get into that bed with him, you think. No way you can lie down and pretend that you’re not… at least a little bit attracted to him.

Like, a bit.

You glance down; the floor is a tanned-wood colour, but there’s a nice grey rug spread out in front of a gas fireplace, that’s not all that thick, but maybe…

Henry clears his throat behind you and you startle a little, lost in the maybe of camping out on the floor.

No stakes required.

There are plenty of pillows on the bed, you think, with a quick glance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“About earlier,” he starts, and your eyes dart up to his, startled out of your thoughts again. “I know you’re not…” he huffs something like a laugh, crossing his arms. “Well. You aren’t thrilled, yeah? But listen, I’m not in the habit of being a prick, so I’ve made a few calls, and there’s a chance one of the other hotels a town over can bring a spare cot by. They’re going to give me a call back. But until then, I have no problem sleeping on the—”

“I can take the floor,” you interrupt because really, he’s not— it’s not his fault, is it? You were the one dicking around outside and avoiding— not avoiding, just… circumventing the inevitability of him and what he does to… a large portion of the human population. Regardless of gender or orientation. Apparently.

What he might, maybe, sort of, does to you.

It’s not his fault, exactly. (Maybe his parents though, maybe you should write in a complaint, a strongly-worded letter: dear Mrs and Mr Cavill, how dare you?)

Henry pulls a face and scoffs. “You’re not. Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not daft,” you parrot back, pulling your own incredulous face. “I’m serious, you’re,” you wave a hand over him, a vague Henry-shaped circle. “All you, like. And I’m… good with a little pillow-pile on the floor. It’s like, you know, girl’s sleepover. But—”

But in the bedroom of a totally-not-Adonis.

“All me like?” he questions, his brow tilting up.

You make a noise in your throat. Pressing your lips together beneath your scarf. It’s too hot in here, you think, with the gas fire on and the whole— whole man in front of you in this stupid small room with its stupid one bed.

“You know. You’re like. Big.”

“Big,” he says with a slow-widening smile, and crosses his arms. It does nothing at all to his biceps. You totally do not look.

You roll your eyes, because muscles don’t just happen, and— and you know what? It is his fault, you think, he made the very conscious decision to become a brick shithouse.

That’s absolutely on him.

(Your metaphorical Frodo gets a little lighter, you think you might actually make it.) Blaming someone else usually helps lighten a load, doesn’t it?

This is his fault. Who cares what Clara says?

“Yup,” you say and pop the p with a finalizing sound. “So that’s settled then, yeah?” you say, copying the way he says the word, and step away from him to unwind your scarf and drape it over one of the two chairs in the room that sit in front of the fireplace and little coffee table; they’re actually sort of soft-looking, maybe you really could just sleep in that. You aren’t six-foot-whatever like he is, you have a much better chance at fitting into it in a comfortable sleeping position in one of them.

He absolutely isn’t going to out-nice you. No way.

Chair-bed or bust.

“This chair looks nice, look, the pillows are soft too,” you press your hand onto the cushion, it’s not as soft as you hoped but the pillow fairs better; it’s soft and there’s a nice little decoration of holly and ivy, too; the words Merry Christmas stitched in a looping cursive in the middle of it.

“You’re not sleeping on the bloody chair,” he huffs behind you.

“Well,” you start, floundering for something to say, unzipping your jacket and turning to look at him to buy time. “That’s your opinion.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but you think it was a very close call. “Listen,” he starts and pulls in a breath. “There’s no way I’m sleeping in that bed with you sleeping anywhere else. I promise I can sleep anywhere, benefit of having a big family an’ all.”

You shrug off your jacket, stealing a moment to gather your thoughts, moving back towards the door to toe-off your boots, thankful they were dry from the amount of time you spent lingering downstairs and then in the hallway before finding the nerve to even knock.

“And I promise I really don’t care about where I sleep. The tent? Totally could do it. It’s just the ground—”

“Is frozen, yeah,” he finishes for you. “I got that bit.”

You meet his eyes, it’s mostly an accident, you weren’t avoiding it, exactly, you were just… lowering the probability of eye-contact with him by avoiding his general upper face-area.

“Please take the bed.” His face does this… this honest thing that does something to your insides and you think, damn, he might out-nice you after all.

But screw that.

“Is this you trying to be a gentleman?”

He blinks and then grins, standing a little straighter. “I am a gentleman.”

You burst out a laugh and then cover your mouth to catch the pitch of it, grinning behind your hand. “Sorry,” you snort and shake your head. “I mean, okay. Sure.”

“I am. Private school, got all the lessons. Pulling out chairs. Door-opening. Arm-offering. Know all the proper forks and everything,” he teases and you can’t help but laugh as he grins at you. “My mum would literally kill me if she ever found out I took the bed and made a girl sleep on the floor.”

“Ah, so it’s a sexist thing?” you tease back, trying to kill your smile with a tsk. “That’s not very gentlemanly.”

“What? No,” he blinks and frowns. “That’s not— that’s not what I meant—”

You try to bite back a smile, but he must see it flickering on your mouth and huffs at you. “Very funny.”

“I thought so,” you say with a grin and step around him to look for your bag, which you find by the bed, of course. Because he’s a gentleman, apparently.

You lift it up and over your shoulder, following where Henry points out the side tables with drawers and the closet near the door.

You set your bag on the bed, pulling out your toiletry bag and trying to ignore the feeling of him looking at you.

He pushes out a breath. “We could also just… be adults about this and share the bed?” he hedges, crossing his arms again and looking at you like he’s gauging you for something. You meet his eyes for a too-long moment where something prickles warmly inside your stomach before he shifts again, his lips quirking.  “Then my gentlemanly ways would remain intact and neither of us will end up on the floor— or a chair—with a sore back.”

You hesitate, eyes flicking to the bed and then back to him.

“I snore,” you lie because the bed— any bed with him in it, is still a big, fat nope. “And I’m a cover-hog.”

He snorts, scrubbing a hand over his face and shaking his head. “Impossible is what you are.”

“It’s a character flaw.”

Henry huffs a laugh, pushing his hand through his hair and shaking his head. “How about we just wait to see if I can get a cot from another hotel? If I can get one, then this is all rather moot, isn’t it?”

Moot, you think. Probably.

Just like any and all attraction to him. That’s moot. Pointless. He’s probably so used to people looking at him like that, that he doesn’t even register it.

It makes you feel a bit better, honestly.

You shrug because you don’t want to keep arguing with him when ignoring him generally works so much better for you.

It’s a tried-and-true solution to the Henry-Problem.

“Sure. You think you’ll get one?”

He shrugs, tugging a hand through his hair; you like it, you think, the loose, slightly curling bits you haven’t seen before. He’d had his hair different last time, a bit shorter, a bit straighter.

“I promise I’m doing my best?” he offers with a half-wince.

That, and the lift in his voice carries enough meaning.

Not sure at all, then.

Well. He still isn’t going to out-nice you.

You’re Samwise fucking Gamgee.

   .

                  The bathroom is nice, a bit small, but nice. You plop your toiletry bag on the vanity and glance at Henry’s stuff, already neatly set on one side of the sink. You touch the edge of a cologne bottle, resisting the urge to pick it up to smell it.

Yes, your brain supplies. Absolutely.

That would be creepy, wouldn’t it?

The bathroom already kind of smells like him, anyway; it’s distracting and you let your finger slide off the cool glass of the cologne and look at yourself in the mirror, instead.

There’s nothing going on tonight, no real distractions until tomorrow— you and Clara had planned it that way. It seemed like such a good idea at first, hadn’t it?

Arrive, unpack, relax. Explore a bit. Give into the comfort and mood of the holiday season at the inn while watching the snowfall from a safe, warm distance.

Have a bath. Read a book.

You stare at the shower accusingly.

You’re sure your room had a bathtub.

You mourn a little for the lost opportunity of your quiet room and your e-reader with a hot chocolate or a bit of wine and a bubble bath, before pulling in a breath and righting yourself, fixing your clothes before reaching for the door.

Back out in the room, Henry’s sitting in one the chairs by the fireplace, looking mostly relaxed, watching the fake-glow of the flames, his knees spread in that manspreading slouch so many guys do. You want to hate it on principle, but his thighs are—

Thighs, you think. They’re thighs, get a grip.

Henry looks at you, you look at him. The moment stretches out.

His eyes are… your belly does a little flop and you take a step backwards.

“I’m going to check on Clara and Sam,” you say and take another step back towards the door.

“Already did,” he says from the chair, a little frown between his brows as he sits up. “I thought maybe we—”

“Yeah, but I’m the Maid of Honour,” you interrupt and force a smile as you slip towards freedom. The room is way too small and warm, isn’t it? Unbearable, almost. “It’s like, my job.”

(You know the room isn’t that small. The whole place is rather decently sized. It’s why it won out, after all. The reigning champ of all the hotels and inns and lodges that had been potential venues over the months of planning.)

But it still feels too small. And he’s all you can smell.

You’re definitely not running but you ignore his countering: I’m the Best Man! that follows you out the door— because it just doesn’t suit the narrative of your excuse.

If he noticed your e-reader in your hands, he was nice enough not to say anything.

Ugh, you think as the door shuts behind you lean against the door for a stretch of a moment, standing in the quiet hall and hoping no one comes out of their rooms to see you standing there.

Thankfully, you’re granted that moment of quiet before you push off the door and head down the stairs and towards the main sitting area.

The stair railings are covered in garland, set with twinkling lights and you let yourself relax the further you get from the room and the problem you left in it.

See, you think, ignoring a problem always works.

Downstairs in the main lounge area, there’s a little area set up with carafes of coffee and hot water and hot chocolate.  

You pour yourself a mug, slip into one of the over-large sofas in front of the burning, crackling, stone fireplace and wiggle your sock-covered toes towards the fire.

I can totally do this, you tell yourself, and pretend, for a moment, that you’re way more sure than you feel.

.

.

[expectingtofly]

Fuck Mistletoe

2k

post 15x20, human castiel, established dean/cas, fluff

also on ao3

Day 8 of @bend-me-shape-me‘s SPN Advent Calendar 2020 prompts

Dean didn’t want to admit it, but yes, he’d hung mistletoe in the bunker.

He’d found a sprig tied with a red bow while helping Jack go through the boxes of Christmas decorations Mrs. Butters had left behind. It’d been more of a gag than anything to hang the bright green plant over one of the doors leading into the War Room, and when he’d explained the tradition to Jack, he’d made sure to emphasize that it was a sappy, Hallmark-y tradition. Jack seemed unbothered by that fact and chased down Miracle every time the dog padded under the mistletoe to give him a kiss on the nose. And it shouldn’t have been a surprise when, later that day, Dean needed to make a hasty retreat from the room when he walked in and spotted Sam and Eileen under the mistletoe.

It was great that everyone else was getting some mileage out of it, and he was happy for them and totally not moping around the bunker because he hadn’t seen Castiel all day. At the moment, Jack was wrapping presents, Sam and Eileen were nowhere to be found—not that Dean wanted to find them—Miracle was occupied with a Christmas tree-shaped chew toy, and Castiel was out Christmas shopping. Dean had not been invited because apparently Castiel was shopping for him—which was a little bit concerning because Dean wasn’t sure what types of gifts he’d end up receiving. All he did know was that he was currently bored out of his mind, occupying himself by wandering around the bunker. 

He was flicking the switch on and off for a dancing, singing snowman figurine (Jack found it endlessly amusing and Dean knew Sam would end up taking the batteries out soon enough), when the bunker door creaked and he looked up to see Castiel coming down the stairs with bags hanging from his arms. 

“Hey Cas!” he called. He started forward, then stopped awkwardly and watched Castiel come down the stairs. He and Castiel hadn’t been dating long and, to tell the truth, Dean often got tripped up over how to act around him. Did he kiss him when Castiel returned from a day-long shopping trip? Did he hug him? None of the above?

Thankfully, Castiel saved them both from some awkwardness by clutching the bags tighter to his chest. “You can’t look,” he said, and Dean held a hand up over his eyes.

“I won’t.” He peeked at him through his fingers. Castiel was wearing an oversized red and white striped sweater with a reindeer across the front. Once he’d discovered Christmas sweaters, there was no going back. If when Dean was younger, anyone had told him he’d find himself dating a former angel with the strangest wardrobe… “You buy me tons of gifts?”

“Tons,” Castiel deadpanned and looked around the room. “Did you guys decorate more?” 

“Yeah, uh, we added a few things.” He followed as Castiel headed to the mistletoe door—not that it mattered that there was mistletoe over it; the whole thing was a weird idea anyway. Why some leafy plant with the word "toe" in its name? Why any plant? Who started this absurd tradition in the first place?

“You have to see what I bought for Jack,” Castiel told him over his shoulder. “Just let me hide your gifts first.” Then he stopped in his tracks a foot away from the mistletoe and turned. “Oh, wait, I bought more cookie mix, I have to bring it into the kitchen.” He passed Dean to go through the other door and Dean stared at the mistletoe before sighing and following him. 

No big deal, he could kiss Castiel under the mistletoe later. Not that he really cared; no, not at all. This was only his and Castiel’s first Christmas as a couple, which only made everything more nerve wracking because he didn’t know what to do with himself. Was Castiel a kiss-under-the-mistletoe type of person, or would he be confused by the tradition? A few years ago, probably the latter, but this year, ever since becoming human, Castiel had wholeheartedly accepted every holiday tradition, researching them to know the history of their creation. Dean grinned despite himself watching Castiel tuck the bag of cookie mix onto a cabinet shelf. Such a dorky little guy. He really loved him. 

Leaving the kitchen, Castiel ducked into one of the extra bedrooms and, after a few moments, emerged with only a small, white bag. “Jack will love this,” he said, and, looking conspiratorially around, pulled out a knitted beanie. Bright green, with white pom-pom snowmen and one big, fluffy, white pom-pom crowning the top.

Dean blinked at it and Castiel beamed at him. “Isn’t it nice? Touch it, it’s got pom-poms.”

“Yeah, that’s um...” Castiel held the hat out and Dean dutifully touched the pom-poms. “Very bright. Festive.”

“Very festive,” Castiel agreed, studying the hat with a smile. “I don’t want to wait, I want to give it to Jack now.”

“Cas, you can’t just give everyone their presents early. What’s the point of Christmas morning then?”

“But it’s cold outside! He might need it before then.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright, give it to him early.” He followed Castiel down the hallway. “You have any gifts you want to give me now?” Fingers crossed it wasn’t a similarly ridiculous hat.

"You are gonna have to wait until the 25th. Where is Jack?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe check in the War Room, or the Library?” He winced hearing the words come out of his mouth. God, he was pathetic. These things were supposed to happen organically, not by tricking Castiel to go through the mistletoe-decorated doorway.

“Dean, we just came from there.” Castiel paused, then turned down the corner. “I think music’s coming from Jack’s room. He must be in there.” 

Dean followed and, hating himself, tried again, “You should check out the decorations Jack and I put up, though. He's really excited about them.”

“Is he?” Castiel asked, not pausing. “I’ll go look at them after I give him this.” He smiled at Dean over his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re getting into the holiday spirit, Dean.”

“Hmm.” Not that it was working out very well for him so far.

And he didn’t have any more luck the rest of the night, either. Jack loved the hat, of course, and even proceeded to wear it through dinner. Sam and Eileen were disgustingly cute as they washed dishes together. And Castiel successfully avoided the mistletoe like the plague.

Dean didn’t know why he was letting it get to him. Alright, maybe he knew why. Sure, he and Castiel were “dating” now and sleeping together, but everything was still new. After years of stepping around his feelings for Castiel (not to mention being woefully unpracticed in the art of romantic relationships), officially becoming a couple felt strange, unfamiliar. Sam and Eileen, they were the perfect couple who had it all figured out. Whereas, half of the time, Dean didn’t even know how to act around Castiel. He alternated being between too handsy and too friggin’ bashful. 

Not to mention it was the holiday season, which meant a hundred and one traditions centered around romance. Was he the kind of boyfriend who’d take Castiel ice skating as a date? Wear matching Christmas sweaters? (Okay, he knew the answer to that one—hell no). Maybe go for a drive and look at Christmas lights? Who knew? Maybe he did want to be that boyfriend. But, seeing as how he couldn’t even manage to kiss Castiel under some damn mistletoe, he wasn’t sure he was cut out for any of that romance shit.

The mistletoe hung cheerfully over the War Room doorway, mocking him, when he entered in search of a drink. Pouring a glass and sitting down, he beckoned for Miracle to join him. Obediently, Miracle came over and Dean reached down to rub his fur. 

“You wanna be my Christmas romance?” he asked him. Miracle stared up at him, one ear askew, then flounced away to play with his new favorite tree toy. 

Alrighty, then. Straightening, Dean eyed the mistletoe. Dammit, he really was shit at these romantic gestures. Who did he think he was? Did he think he was in some damn Hallmark movie? This was ridiculous. Making up his mind, he strode over determinedly, reached up, and tore the mistletoe from the doorframe. 

“What’s that?”

Startling, Dean turned to see Castiel watching him, his head tilted to one side, his arms full with several wrapping paper tubes. “Oh, uh.” Dean looked down at the plant in his hand. “It’s mistletoe.” He felt stupid even saying it aloud.

“Why are you taking it down?”

“Um, I wasn’t—I was just, uh, adjusting it.”

"That’s one of the decorations you hung up earlier?”

Dean felt his face flush. “Uh, yeah. It’s stupid—”

“No, it’s a very nice touch.” Castiel walked over. “I’m going to help Jack wrap presents. I would ask you to join us, but we’re wrapping your presents.” He smiled at Dean and walked out of the room, through the doorway which Dean had just torn the mistletoe down from. 

Dean stared after him, then back down at the mistletoe in his hand. Shit.

After all that, he was tempted to throw the mistletoe in the trash and give up, but his pride demanded he try again. He had not worked up the courage to tell Castiel he loved him after years of denying it to himself and others, just to lose his nerve over an absurd holiday tradition. He’d be damned before he let a fucking plant get the better of him.

So he changed tactics and hung the mistletoe over a doorway he knew Castiel would have to walk through eventually, and he waited.

And that night, when Castiel opened the door to their bedroom, Dean tossed aside the book he’d been trying to occupy himself with, scrambled off the bed, grabbed the absurd Christmas sweater Castiel had taken to wearing, and kissed him soundly. 

Castiel let out a surprised noise and, letting go of him, Dean exclaimed, “Finally!” He pointed at the mistletoe. “You know you’ve been avoiding this crap like you’re allergic to it?” He was aware that ambushing Castiel under the mistletoe wasn’t the most romantic act, but screw that. He’d done it; romantic Christmas tradition accomplished. Put “good boyfriend” under his list of accomplishments.

Castiel stared at him, then up at the mistletoe, then back at him. “I didn’t realize… Have you been waiting all day to do that?”

“Um, no,” Dean faltered.

Castiel slowly smiled. “You know there’s no need for mistletoe, right? You can just kiss me whenever?" 

Shit, when Castiel put it that way. “I mean, yeah, but—” Castiel grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him again, successfully shutting him up for a moment. But he’d endured too much to let his efforts go ignored, so he broke away to finish, “....but it was super romantic and I think I should get boyfriend points for this.” He was half-joking, but of course Castiel grew serious. 

“Dean,” he said, “you know I don’t need any dramatic gestures to know you love me.”

“Yeah, but you’re the poster child for dramatic gestures,” Dean pointed out. “You confessed your love in a three minute monologue right before dying on me.”

Castiel looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s true. Perhaps we are both a tad dramatic. And I do appreciate the gesture, really.” Then he smiled. “As it happens, I have a surprise for you too.” 

No, fuck, please, no, Dean thought desperately, but, sure enough, Castiel produced a beanie from behind his back. Similar to the one he had bought for Jack, though this one was blue, decorated with reindeer and tiny red pom-pom noses. “I couldn’t wait.”

Dean stared at the hat. The universe was testing him today, that was for sure. But then he smiled and took it from Castiel. “I love it.” If dating Castiel meant corny holiday traditions and putting up with his absurd fashion choices, so be it. They were figuring out what being a couple meant for them, and he was happy with what they had together.

(And if the hat disappeared under mysterious circumstances, that wasn’t his fault.)

Castiel beamed at him, then glanced up at the mistletoe. “Now do I have to hang this over our bed to keep kissing you or—?”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing Castiel’s sleeve, Dean dragged him into the bedroom, kissing him as he shut the door behind them, pausing only to tear down the mistletoe and toss it across the room. Because fuck mistletoe.

Tag List

@becky-srs @xojo @marvelnaturalock @aelysianmuse @prayedtoyou @letsjustdieeveryone @good-things-do-happen-dean @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @theninthdutchessofhell @madronasky @famouspsychicpizzabandit @multifandomdisorder @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you @arcticfox007 @gmos-winter-wonderland @celestialcastiel @improvedpeanut

Let me know (message, ask, comment) if you’d like to be tagged in my other destiel fics or removed from the list :)

[ramblinganthropologist]

MER Week Day 3 - Missed Opportunities

Summary: Nothing like dark biotic lunch to let you reflect on how shitty your love life is. Alistair’s got plenty to reflect on as he broods away with his jar of sour sugar - correction, homemade pixie sticks. Unfortunately for him, he’s about to add another one to his lack-of-body count. Man just can’t catch a break...

(Setting: Pre ME1)

---

02:00 Space time. It was the perfect time for stuffing your face with much needed carbs to keep the biotic system functioning.

“Don’t even think of turning that light on, my eyes are killing me.”

Alistair’s hand moved away from the switch and back to his favorite form of shoving carbs into his system – a mix of sugar, citric acid, and green food coloring that made up his version of pixie sticks. It was all the flavor, without having to deal with the stupid paper wrapper that got everywhere. Next to him, his sister was punching the buttons on the microwave. Inside, the family sized bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets was waiting to get spun around and nuked to edible temperatures.

“I wasn’t going to; my head hurts too.” He massaged the back of his neck, fingers brushing against his still-warm amp. He had used it a bit too much the day before, but at least it had cooled some. Hours earlier, it had been burning hot. Maybe the headache was the result of that, or maybe it was the ship’s pressurization. Either way, no lights were fine by him.

Besides, lights might have made someone else on the Normandy realize they were there. The last thing he needed was to talk to someone other than Bo right then.

“Good. If I have to deal with Jenkins asking me to test my biotics on him again, I’m going to scream. He should just go bother Alenko for that…” Bo trailed off, one red eye meeting him across the kitchen. “Unless you’re interested in giving it a shot.”

The thought caused him to snort as he dug in the drawer for a suitable spoon. Most people liked tablespoons, but they usually had bigger mouths than him. It would take a little longer, but a teaspoon fit his smaller hands perfectly. Maybe someone in the crew would joke about that, but they were smart enough not to do it to his face. What they did behind his back, he didn’t care. He didn’t have to hear it, and that was good enough for him.

“Already tried that, actually. He doesn’t like how I do it.” A spoonful of sugar soon found its way into his mouth and the sour taste did wonders for his headache. “You should’ve heard him complain when I didn’t toss him full force. I swear, Jenkins has a death wish or something.”

Bo snorted as she watched her nuggets go for a ride in the radiation machine. “He’d get it with me, there are no safety stops on the murder machine. Maybe it’s for the best if he gets his ride from Alenko. After he breaks something, he can go to you or Chakwas to get it fixed. Maybe you should just standby, it’ll give you plenty of chances to talk to him.”

The thought made Alistair cringe as he looked down at his jar of sugar. “Yeah… about that… maybe it’s for the best if I don’t go around Kaidan for a while.”

Memories from the prior week still played in his mind whenever he got the chance to close his eyes – it was like the universe wanted to remind him how stupid it had been. He could still see the look on his fellow biotic’s face and see the change in his eyes. It had just been a simple request – to hang out on their next shore leave, maybe grab dinner.

The dinner idea had made the man ask if he was asking him out. Naturally, Alistair was shit at lying, so he’d had to come out with the truth. Yes, it had been a soft way of asking Kaidan out on a date. And… well, it hadn’t ended well. Kaidan had been nice about it, and he appreciated that, but in the end, it was a politely given no. The offer was still up to hang out as friends, but… honestly, he wasn’t sure if he could do it right then. Just looking at the man made him embarrassed now, even if he respected that no.

He should’ve been used to being turned down, but it still hurt a little. He’d probably be over it in a few weeks, maybe less if they got busy with the next location they were heading towards. Alistair just had to hang in until then.

“Oh, so I don’t have to be nice to him anymore. Great. He’s been annoying the hell out of me.” The microwave dinged and the sound of plastic tearing signified the beginning of the carnage of all breaded dinosaur kind. “Fuck him.”

Alistair chuckled softly as he went for another mouthful of sugar. “He has a right to say no, Bo.”

“And I have the right to judge his shitty taste.” A tyrannosaurus lost its head to Bo’s incisors as she took her bag to the table. At least she was sitting down this time. Since she was, he joined her with his jar of what was basically sour sugar, spoon still in hand.

Well, he couldn’t talk her out of that. He knew better. Hopefully, it would be a quick couple of weeks.

For a few moments, they ate in silence. With every spoonful of sugar, Alistair felt his headache ache a little less. It was probably just a placebo effect to bootleg pixie sticks, but he was going to take anything he could get right then. Another spoonful it was – at least his CGM would be happy for once.

Thanks to that, he could hear the sounds of the Normandy around him. They were still settling into the new ship, so he was getting used to all the noises it made. Right now, they were shooting through FTL, so the engines hummed along as they kept everything steady. It was a low rhythm he found himself sinking into as he took another spoon of his snack. He might not have been on the ship for long, but he got the feeling he’d like it.

How could he not? The Normandy was kind of sexy…

“I can hear you sexualizing the ship from here, Al.”

Bo snickered as he turned away, cheeks growing warm in the dark. Instead of saying anything, he just took another mouthful of sugar. That was a point lost to him in the endless game they played. He was behind, and probably always would be. She was just too good at getting to him. Really, she was the best example of a little sister anyone could think of. It was honestly scary sometimes.

You think being a former younger sister he’d have the same power, but apparently not. Fuck that.

“You and your ship fetish. Better get in line, I think Joker’s in first place.” The next victim was a triceratops, missing its tail due to the company’s processing blades. Oh well, it was missing other things soon enough. “Well, either him or that weird turian who’s been skulking around. What’s his name again? He’s been all over the lower decks lately, I think it’s pissing engineering off.”

Nilhus. Nilhus Kryik.

Just thinking about him made Alistair’s face feel hot. He sought comfort in his sugar, trying not to think too hard about the man. They hadn’t really talked much, but from what he saw… well, would it be too much to say he liked what he was seeing?

Probably… shit. He was no good at this crush thing.

“I think he’s just… checking things out. I don’t know, it’s weird having a Spectre onboard. I’m not even sure where he’s sleeping…” He licked his spoon thoughtfully. “I mean, the Normandy was also designed by turians, so there has to be a spot somewhere comfortable for them. I would need to check the specs…”

Bo was giving him that look again as she dug for more dinosaurs. “Trying to find a good makeout spot, huh? You’re not subtle, Al.”

No… no he wasn’t. And that’s what got him in trouble.

What also got him in trouble was sitting in the dark apparently. All too suddenly, the lights flicked on, temporarily blinding him as pain rushed to the front of his head. Alistair hissed and dropped his spoon, hearing it clatter to the floor below. Next to him, he could hear Bo doing the same thing, only she didn’t drop her nuggets. Only a direct enemy attack could cause that to happen.

“Damn it, turn the fucking light off!”

“I didn’t know anyone was in here.” The light flicked off, returning them to darkness. “I thought humans ate with the lights on.”

The smooth, translated voice made Alistair sit up a little straighter. A dull panic wormed its way into his stomach as he managed to open his eyes and look over his shoulder. There was a turian standing in the entrance to the kitchen, talons still on the light switch.

Wasn’t it just his luck that Nihlus was a night person?

“Dark biotic lunch runs by different rules.” Bo’s tone was just asking for a fight as she reached down to grab his spoon. “Doubt there’s anything in here you can eat anyway.”

Nilhus moved towards the fridge, the very picture of a man on a mission. “I stored some energy rations in here when I arrived on ship.”

He met Alistair’s gaze, then those eyes moved towards the jar on the table. “Is… that a jar of sugar?”

Well… if you wanted to get technical…

Alistair got up from the table in order to wash his spoon, avoiding Nihlus’ gaze. “It’s my recipe for pixie sticks… there’s not enough in the little tubes for me and it saves on packaging.”

“Pixie… sticks.”

Yep, that was a tone that told him to forget any sort of crush he’d had on the man – he was officially in the fucking weird category for life. All he could hope for was that it didn’t affect their working relationship, whatever the turian was doing on their ship.

What was he doing there anyway? Nobody was exactly clear about that…

“I’d say don’t knock it until you try it, but I don’t think there’s a dextro safe version.” Clean spoon in hand, Alistair returned to the table. “Er… enjoy your energy rations? Don’t exactly think that’s possible though…”

His voice trailed off as Nihlus left with his snack without another word. As soon as he was gone, his forehead found the table with a light thump. That was not going to do wonders for his headache to say the least, but he didn’t care then.

Strike three, you’re out.

“Don’t sweat it, you’re too good for him. What kind of asshole looks down his… shit, he doesn’t have a nose does he…” Bo was lost in thought for a moment as she munched on her nuggets. “Anyway, fuck him.”

Well, he wasn’t going to be doing that…

“The correct term would probably be face plates, but it doesn’t sound as good.”

“Damn aliens and their lack of anatomy we can use for insults.” His sister nudged his jar closer. “Best way to get over a shitty crush is food, so you might as well eat up.”

That it was. Alistair sighed as he sat up, taking advantage of his clean spoon in order to get another mouthful. At this rate, he was just going to be single until he died. Maybe that was for the best – it helped keep him focused on missions.

But damn, did the universe have to keep teasing him with hot guys he had no chance with?

Oh well, at least he had his jar of homemade pixie stick formula for those long nights when he was up brooding over his lack of a love life. At least that would never let him down. So, another mouthful it was, there in the dark of the kitchen with his sister.

On the bright side, at least Eden Prime should be a nice place to go… it sounded decent enough. Maybe it would take his mind off things.

[poliel]

Surprise Egg 3/13: Surprise Labor

Heads up, for kinda graphic labor in this chapter. It's an egg though so it's not as bloody and stuff as a live birth would be. But it's still something that I feel I should give a warning about in case anyone needs/wants one.

I bet this chapter came a lot sooner than y'all were expecting. It happened this way because A. Buddy doesn't know and it's important to the story they don't know until after they birth the egg for reasons y'all will see later and B. the immediate aftermath of them laying the egg took a lot longer than I expected and the following consequences of how bad this pregnancy and birth was for their body while being malnourished also come up because it wouldn't have felt complete if I didn't cover that aspect of it in the fic. So basically what I'm saying is this was supposed to happen towards the end of the fic but then I discovery wrote my way into that not being the case.

~

Convincing Shelda to go back to town hadn’t been difficult on a technical level but her requests had been particularly aggravating. Normally Buddy were good at keeping their cool but they were tired, hungry, and felt awful, even more than had become usual, making them tempted to growl at her every time she spouted nonsense. They’d resisted though, remaining mostly polite throughout. And now she was finally gone and they could rest for a bit. …

Except they didn’t have time to. While they were here, they should catch that buffalocust for Cromdo and a picantis for Gramble. Also, they had their self-imposed task of catching every bugsnax and there were several others here that hadn’t caught yet. Not to mention the whole being expected them to bring back enough bugsnax to feed everyone in town. Ugh! If only they’d given in to Filbo’s insistence they stay and rest, take today off. But… they really couldn’t afford to no matter how awful they felt. So they allowed themself no more than ten minutes resting in the shade of Shelda’s lean-to before forcing themself back up to their feet and gathering up their equipment to start hunting.

It started as just a small twinge in their abdomen every now and then, little more than an annoying distraction as they stalked their prey. But then it started getting worse; more painful and more frequent. Until eventually one rolled through them so bad it had them doubling over and clutching at their middle. It lasted for several seconds, leaving them panting once it finally passed.

What even was that? And how concerned should they be? Probably a lot, right? No way anything that hurt that bad could be…

Something sharp stung their shoulder, making them jump. That dang scorpepper! They turned to growl at it but quickly gave that up because their fur had caught fire again. Sending them rushing over to submerge themself in the thankfully nearby water instead.

Dripping wet now, they stepped out to sit on the shore. They then twisted their head to inspect the spot as best they could, fighting back the urge to gag at the smell of burnt fur. The fire hadn’t spread far and they’d taken care of it fast enough that the flesh underneath hadn’t suffered much damage. It was just one more minor burn to add to the rather large collection they had on their body now, some of which were from that same exact Scorpepper earlier today.

Standing up, they turned to face it with a growl. From this distance it was completely invisible on its dumb rock face. They lifted a paw to flip it off anyway. They were going to catch it and they were going to enjoy feeding to someone because it was an asshole.

They took two steps towards it before another wave of pain washed through them, doubling them over around their midsection again. It brought them all the way to their knees this time. They growled to themself as it passed. Vengeance would have to wait, they needed to deal with whatever this was first.

Now, should they try to get back to for help town or wait this out and hope it got better? On one hand it was clearly something serious on the other though, the thought of dragging themself and their equipment all the way back to Snaxburg while doubling over in pain every few minutes was not appealing. Especially with all the many aggressive bugsnax between here and there. The last thing they needed while dealing with this was to also have to deal with being rammed by angry spuddys or set on fire by the various snax that hated them and could do such. So… waiting it out was their only real option, huh?

With a groan, they dragged themself back over to the lean-to. They’d just finished putting aside their backpack and sitting down before another wave rolled through them. They were definitely getting closer together. Was that a good or bad sign though?

After it passed, they put a paw on their belly, pressing down lightly and then a little harder because it felt weird. Kind of like there was something hard was inside them? … And they were certain it wasn’t Sprout’s buggy ball either so what the fuck?

It would’ve been nice to think on that mystery more and solve it but they were exhausted and their body was already tensing in preparation for the next wave of pain. They lay down on their side on the thin sleeping bag. Ready for it this time, they gritted their teeth when it rolled through them. As it passed, they were left panting again but they had high pain tolerance so they’d get through whatever this was and then go back to Snaxburg and sleep cuddled up with Filbo for however long they could. And maybe they’d even finally do as he’d been asking them to for a while now and take tomorrow off. And then everything would be fine again.

Sometime later

Nope! They weren’t going to make it through this. They were going to die for sure. Out here in middle of the wretchedly hot desert they were going to die alone and a failure, their big story untold and their only legacy being one of disappointment after disappointment.

They whimpered and rolled, trying unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position, ultimately just ending up back on their side, curled around their middle. Clawing uselessly at the sand, they desperately tried again to purr to feel better, only managing a broken stutter.

More than anything they wanted Filbo with them. They’d be willing to do almost anything to be held by him right now. The fact that he wasn’t here and wouldn’t be coming brought tears to their eyes that they didn’t even bother trying to hold back as another pain rolled through the middle. The screamed as everything inside them tightened again.

How could their insides possibly hurt so much without whatever it was killing them on the spot? How much longer could it even go on for? The gaps between the pain and tightening that came with it now were only a few seconds apart now. Surely something had to give eventually!

With another wave of pain, pulling another scream out of them as their whole body tightened again, something suddenly did give way as they quite literally pushed something out of their body. The tension gone from their body, they started shaking as they panted lying limp on the ground.

It was… over? … Finally? Really? … They waited, prepared and dreading another wave of pain but… it didn’t come. … It was really over.

Their eyes welled with tears again, this time tears of relief. After they’d caught their breath a bit more, they carefully pushed themself up to examine the… egg between their legs? Huh? It was much too big to be an eggler and the faded burnt orange and light blue splotches on it made that even more clear because that meant it was a grumpus egg. What the fuck?

Sex-ed was forever and a day ago now but they were pretty sure the colours weren’t random; they came from the parents, right? So meant… they’d been carrying Filbo’s egg for… probably since after their heat, huh? That… certainly explained some things. They’d had no idea though. … Whoops.

What now? … Back to town. They’d take it back to town and show Filbo and then rest and then they’d figure out what to do about it. Because right now they could barely even think let alone make any kind of important decision about this.

Shaking even more now, they sat all the way up and reached into their pouch to pull out Sprout’s buggy ball. “Sorry little guy, you’re going back into the pack for a bit.” They pulled the pack over and put him inside, being sure to zip it up so he couldn’t escape. Then they turned to look at the egg again; their and Filbo’s egg… ugh. Carefully they picked it up and pushed into their pouch. Despite being a bit bigger and a different shape, it felt and looked an awful lot like how Sprout’s buggy ball had being in there had. Well, that’d make ensuring Filbo was the first one to know easy.

Taking a deep breath, they pulled the backpack on. Lucky for them, they’d left all their hunting equipment attached to it so they didn’t have to worry about that right now. Except for the fact that it made it heavy, normally not an issue but now… eh, it’d be fine. They were used to it and thanks to the whole surprise labor thing the only bugsnax they’d successfully caught today was the black razzby so it certainly could’ve been a lot heavier.

They stood up. Or tried to, anyway. Blackness ate at their vision before they were even all the way upright, sending them to their knees and then…

~

They woke to the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground. Whatever it was, they were lying on it on their back, judging based off the way the sound seemed to come from all around and matching the sensation of movement they felt. With a groan they opened their eyes to see clear blue sky high above high above them, framed on either side by the familiar canyon walls of the Scorched Gorge.

Underneath them was their backpack and… turning their head a little… they were lying on a wooden platform that looked an awful lot like it used to be part of Shelda’s lean-to. But who was pulling…

A monster was pulling the platform by the pole that had once kept the lean-to upright. Or not a monster but a grumpus shape thing made of food. A bugsnax?

Their heart skipped a beat as their fur prickled with excitement and a drop of fear. They snatched up their camera for where it hung around their neck and took a photo. Probably not a good one though so they took another and another. And then, annoyed with the angle, they sat up to snap another.

It glanced back at them with big empty googly eyes, of which they took a pic of, of course. Yes, definitely a bugsnax! A giant one. Intelligent too based off the way it was clearly intentionally dragging them somewhere. How intelligent though? And where was it taking them?

With a well-practiced quick motion, they pulled their journal, pencil, and recorder out of their pack’s side pocket. They flipped open to a new page and pressed the record button.

“Hello. Can you understand me?”

No response.

Holding the journal and recorder with one paw, they snapped a few more photos with the other, just to be sure. “I’m a journalist and I’m here to study bugsnax. If you can understand me, I’d like a…”

It growled. Wet and menacing, it sent a chill down Buddy’s spine and brought an excited smile to their face. That was the same sound they’d heard that night a while ago now when everyone had gathered around the campfire to tell ghost stories! Probably this was also the thing Gramble and Beffica saw that other night. So this thing had been lurking around town for who even knows how long. Why though? Buddy intended to find out.

“Growling works. How about a long growl for ‘no’ and short a one for ‘yes’?

It growled again before stopping and melting into the ground.

“Wait, wait, come back!” Their paws being full made getting up to their feet hard but they were nothing if not determined and managed anyway. “I wasn’t done talking to you.”

But alas, it was gone. Nothing remained of where it had just been standing mere moments ago. Dammit! … Well at least they had some pics and some recorded audio. That was a hell of a lot better than nothing.

After letting the camera hang around their neck again, they stopped the recording and put it and the notebook and pencil back in the side pocket. Then they looked around to ascertain their location… just outside Snaxburg. The… Snaxsquatch – Yes! That’s what they were going to call it! – had brought them back from the desert. So it was friendly too. … They simply had to go tell Filbo about it and then probably everyone else too.

[imonthinice]

The Criminal Psychology Majors, Jason Todd x Fem!Reader Part 11/?

Word Count: 2.5k

Author's Note:  Y/N- your Name.

Warnings: Description of Injury, Description of the court system, gets fucking heated again, Swearing, no beta bitch we die like Jason Todd

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18) (Part 19) (Part 20)

Monday morning came and she knew that Jason wasn’t going to go to class and she had to go meet up with him after school to give him notes. She started to dress a lot nicer today, since she was probably going to unintentionally meet some of Jason’s family today. 

Here’s another outfit because I do what I want<3

I really like being in control here lmao also just imagine it’s paired with black or beige heels because why the fuck not, right? Fashion.

This class, they discussed how circumstantial evidence affected the psychological profile of the attackers. For example, circumstantial evidence is when the entire amount of circumstances are stacked towards each other and it becomes less likely that it’s all a coincidence. The Professor had said, So when the case is circumstantial, it’s likely a crime of passion and having a criminal profile for the attacker is unlikely. He continued.

It was fascinating. She assumed it was a case that forensics would be heavily involved in and that the criminal psych crew wouldn’t handle. She was right. More likely than not, they wouldn’t handle a circumstantial case because of the fact that it’s not calculated, for the most of the time.

Her notes were a mess again. Barely legible, she’d have to use Jason’s computer to print and get them to be able to be read, which was fine. She was expecting to have to do that either way, legible or not, because he needs a copy and she does too.

The things I’ll do for the weird pretty boy in my criminal psych class, she thought, worth it. 

She would end up texting Jason once class ended, they had already been texting most of the morning, anyway. 

Hey, just finished class, are you busy?

Nope, siblings are at work. Dad’s still in Metropolis.

And your grandfather?

Do not know. He’s nice, I swear.

Be there soon x.

That was the first time that she had even sent him an x, which is a kiss, but she felt like it was right, so she did it. What a flirt I am, she joked with herself, It’s a fucking x, I need to shut up. She laughed at herself.

She got into the car and drove the way to Wayne Manor, a trip she knew all-too-well at this point, however, the press was bombarding the entrance, so she couldn’t pull into the driveway and had to pay for parking at the nearby park. She paid for a day’s worth of parking and began to walk to the Manor. With her bag in tow.

Of course, the press noticed her. Why wouldn’t they? And they were down her throat.

“Why are you out here if you don’t speak English and are known to be close to the family?” one said in a downplaying tone to her, she tried to sneak past, knowing she was live on national TV and not exactly feeling like starting a fight.

“Hello? We’re talking to you, Ma’am!” one yelled at her, she started shielding her face from the flashing lights and the cameras.

She would make it 2, maybe 3 steps before a camera was shoved in her face. Then, she started running. She was quick, and she would dodge between them all before the security snatched her into the gates of the Manor. She breathed a quick sigh of relief once she was in. 

The press didn’t like this, and they would keep yelling at her as she stood in the driveway, trying to catch her breath from her escapade of running through the vultures.

“Just tell us your name!” one yelled.

“Tell us what you like doing on the weekends!” another yelled, and she got an idea, before someone could answer she screamed,

“I like doing your mum on the weekends, bitch!” before flipping off the press and running to the door while the press started talking about her.

She really had to catch her breath this time, she was so out of shape and the fact that she was lugging her notes around made it worse. When a friendly looking English butler came out onto the step with her, hand outstretched to shake hers, “Hello there, Y/N, I’m Alfred, Jason’s grandfather.”

She was taken aback by this and slightly jumped when he greeted her, but she took his hand and shook it, “Hi Alfred, please tell me you didn’t hear that,” she laughed.

“I heard that, that’s how I knew you were here. Jason was right, you’re as crazy as he is,” he said.

“Oh lord, I’m sorry,” she laughed again, “I swear I didn’t mean for you to hear me and my childish insults.”

“Child listen, I’ve been dealing with the press for years, I promise you, they deserve the insults, childish or not,” Alfred reassured her, “Do you wish to come inside, or are you still out of breath, Y/N?” he asked.

“I’ll come inside. I’ve given the press enough content for one day,” she joked/

“It’s been nice, Y/N, really. Thank you for the entertainment, but I have work to do.”

“Anytime, Alfred.”

And they parted ways, Y/N went to Jason’s room, knocking. When he groaned, she cracked the door open and stuck her head in,

“You dead?”

“No.”

“Good. Hi,” she said as she entered his room and walked to his desk to drop her bag and pull out his desk chair to put it beside his bed again, “How are you, still in pain?” she asked when she sat down.

“Hi,” he whined.

“Hi,” she repeated to him.

“Hi.”

She leant in to his face and rested her forehead against his, she didn’t know if this was the comfort he needed, but she did it anyway, when he wrapped his arms around her back, though, she knew she was doing something right.

“Hi, Jason.”

“Mhm,” he whispered.

She stopped leaning against his forehead, much to his dismay, as he groaned at her moving, but she had other ideas.

She leant and moved in closer to his lips, putting her hand on his cheek, and then leaning in for a kiss. It was a lot like their first kiss, small and passionate, but enough to prove that she was just trying to make sure he was okay. When she pulled away again, he groaned again.

“Now, will you tell me how you are, sir?”

“In pain,” he managed to say.

“Have you been walking around? You should.”

“You told... me to rest,” his speech wasn’t slurred, but it was slower than normal.

“You still need to move your joints, Jay. Just sparingly so you don’t hurt yourself. too much time off of your feet will make walking again harder on you,” she said.

“Mhm,” he groaned.

“Okay fine, but when you need more physical therapy don’t come crying to me, Jay.”

“Is this... our first... fight?”

“No, you goon. I’m giving you medical advice and you’re being stubborn, it’s advice and I can’t force you.”

“Remember... that... when I get... hurt fighting.”

“Is this an often occurrence?”

“Not... often.”

“Well I can live with it being a once-in-a-blue moon event, since you clearly have security.”

“Special... edition because... of my... injuries,” he groaned.

“Damn. Still, better than nothing. Anyway, I have notes to write, so I’m going to move you laptop over here, alright?” she asked.

“Mhm,” he said, very sleepy-sounding.

“You can sleep, Jay,” she said as she unplugged his laptop and walked back to her chair, she put it on the chair and moved her bag to beside the chair, sat down, opened the laptop, and began typing. Jason would put one of his hands on one of her knees.

“Do you need something, Jay?”

“You,” he whispered out.

“Jay, I need to write these notes, you need them,” she said.

He groaned and moved to try to turn his back to her, forgetting he was injured and taking a massive breath in when he tried to.

“God, don’t move, Jason,” she said, placing a hand on his abdomen, “You can be upset that I’m not in the bed holding you, but you shouldn’t turn around, baby.”

He stared at her when she called him ‘baby’, which prompted her to blush a lot, but she tried to ignore him to pretend that he wasn’t piercing her soul with his staring to get her to cuddle with him. She kept trying to type out the notes, the class was the same amount of length as it should have been, so there was a lot of notes.

She wanted to cuddle with him, she knew she did. But she told him she’d get him the notes he wanted for class, and that was something she promised she’d do. But then she remembered something.

“Oh, I’ve been forgetting to ask, how’s your best friend?”

“Will? He’s... he’s okay... why?”

“Because he got injured too, remember?”

“Oh... yeah he... did.”

“Mhm! So I asked if you knew anything, Jay. Are you forgetting stuff because of the pain or something?” she asked.

“Just... drowsy.”

“Yeah? Well good thing I’m almost done.”

“Hurry... up” he laughed, his laugh was pained, but he did laugh.

She knew him forgetting his best friend was injured was weird, but she didn’t think anything of it. She just kept typing the notes out till she was done, at which point, she hooked the laptop up to his printer on the other side of his room, much to his dismay that she had to leave him, and printed the notes.

She put them in order on top of his desk, plugged his laptop back in, put his chair back and put her notes back in her bag before taking off her jacket and slinging it on the chair she had been sitting on.

He groaned as he watched her walk around his room, he was in pain, it had been two days since the incident and he was still struggling. Dick told him that he’d be in a lot less pain the closer it got to his stitches being taken out. He hoped it was true.

When she went and sat on his bedside, leaning her forehead to his and cupping his face with her hands. She kissed him again. He kissed her back, wrapping his hands along her lower back and gently adding pressure as she sat with her legs off the bed. 

He parted his lips and she did the same as they danced with their tongues. Not assertion of dominance, but trying to be on top on the other when her hands found their way into his hair. She ended up on top of him, with one of her hands used to stabilize herself as they made out. He was able to put a hand on her ass and just grab it. There was some movement, because there had to be, but the only touching was his hand and her hand. 

Because they couldn’t go further. The two of them were cock-blocked to touch closer by his injuries. When they broke lips, she sighed because she couldn’t get closer to him. 

But she laid to his left like they had done the night before, and she cuddled on him when he would bury his face into her hair.

Again, the moments they shared were always the slowest and calmest moments that they adored. She wanted to go back on dates with him like they did before the events of his injuries. She wanted to have the adventure of running away from the press, not just running into his house. 

She didn’t know when he was going to heal from his injuries, but she swore she would take him on a crazy and worthwhile date when he got better. She didn’t know when that was going to be, but it was going to be.

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

They ended up falling asleep until the next morning. And Y/N’s car? It got towed. Y/N had class? Yeah, she did. Was all of his siblings home? Yes, yes they were. So, how was she going to make it out of the house before they noticed? Well, it was 4am. She and Jason awoke when she realized the time, freaked out, and kissed him ‘bye’. At least she thought it was bye, he clearly had a way to pull her into conversation whenever he wanted.

“Don’t go,” he said, his speech seeming to have recovered.

“Jay! I have to go, you know this, I have class, I have notes to write, I’m wearing the exact same clothes that I did yesterday,” she said, panicked.

“Can I see you tonight?”

“Tonight? Yeah of course. Why? Will you miss me?”

“What if I do?”

“You have my number, Jay,” she said.

“What if that’s not enough?” he asked.

“Then you’ll see me tonight, but I have to warn you, I have another class tomorrow so we can’t spend all day in your bed.”

“That’s a shame. I think it’s been like 3 days since I got injured though, so if all goes well,” he winked, while propping himself in a sitting position for the first time since he got injured and grabbed her waist to pull her on him, she was sitting in his lap, “If all goes well,” he whispered, “Maybe we won’t have to stop,” he spoke in her ear as if he was begging her to stay until he could move again.

“We aren’t supposed to speed run our way into a relationship, Jason,” she purred.

“No one needs to know how serious we are but us,” he said. He was captivating her in every was possible, blowing on her neck with every word he said.

If they hadn’t had their own lives they needed to attend to, lord knows what the two of them would be doing.

She tried to fix her appearance to the best of her abilities before she had to go outside and see the world, she didn’t exactly want the rest of them to think she was blowing Jason in his room after he had been stabbed in an attack.

But if the tabloids ran their mouths, lord knows what she’d say to fight back against them.

She checked her appearance one last time before going over to Jason and kissing him bye and see you later. She wanted to kiss him for a longer period of time, but before she knew it she was running out of the house and down the streets, she was going to have to walk home that night.

Had Jason known that she was going to walk home, he wouldn’t have let her go that day. but it was around 4am, the sun was going to rise and she’d be in broad daylight, she thought she was going to be fine and to be fair, she didn’t have reason to think she wouldn’t be okay. She always ended up okay in Metropolis, so why wouldn’t it b the same in Gotham. Gotham had many more heroes compared to Metropolis anyway.

  I mean, what’s the worst that could happen, she thought, Wait no, don’t say that.

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, part 4 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

 July twelfth dawns like any other day, Annabeth wrapped up in Percy’s sheets. She’s spent significantly more nights in his bed than she’s spent in her own apartment over the last two months, but who could blame her? This bed is literally to die for. Therapeutic mattress for the fucking win.

 Percy, to her greatest confusion and chagrin, is a morning person. Well, actually, what he is is someone who runs on very little sleep for three weeks at a time, before crashing headfirst into his bed for thirteen hours. It is a decidedly unhealthy way to live, but it means that Annabeth is used to waking up alone. The nights where she gets to wake up with Percy are the nicer ones, sure, but his presence is suffused in every corner of the room, his smell wafting from every piece of sweaty clothing tossed haphazardly about the floor, so much so that she never feels like she is truly waking up alone.

 Gross? A little. But the smell is oddly sexy, too, especially after he’s just come home from a run, all wet and glistening and flushed, panting hard--

 Ahem.

 The point is, when Annabeth rolls out of bed in one of Percy’s shirts (the one that says “Do You Even Lift, Bro?” with an image of a male dancer raising his partner, courtesy of one Jason Grace) and stumbles into the kitchen for one of Percy’s patented brunch specials, it’s a pretty normal morning. What catches her off guard is the spread: eggs and bacon, obviously, with fruit and granola and yogurt, but also an enormous tray of delicious, flaky croissants, perfectly crescent shaped, with little bowls of every condiment imaginable, multiple flavors of jams and preserves and Nutellas.

 “Bounjour, mademoiselle!” Percy says cheerfully from the oven, perfectly accented, bending over to take out a tray. “Ça va bien?”

 “Um… bonjour…” She pokes a croissant experimentally, and is equally delighted and dismayed to find that it is just as flaky as advertised.

 “Take a seat, these ones just need to cool for a bit and then we can get started.”

 Spring in his step, he opens the refrigerator, taking out the most beautiful cake Annabeth has ever seen in her entire life. Perfectly round, paper white, with little blue borders piped around the edge, but it’s got Annabeth feeling like she’s just been doused in cold water. “How the hell did you know it was my birthday?”

 Immediately, she knows it was the exact wrong thing to say. His eyes go wide as the saucers on the table, mouth open in shock. “It’s your birthday?”

 Goddammit. “Um.”

 “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 Because birthdays were inherently a dumb concept? Because her father had to be reminded of her birthday more often than not? Because her mother had stopped sending her birthday cards after she turned thirteen, calling them a waste of money and resources? “I don’t know,” she shrugs, dipping her finger into the strawberry jam. “I guess I just didn’t think it was a big deal. Ooh, does this have rosemary in it?”

 “Annabeeeeth,” he whines, plopping the cake onto the kitchen island. “I can’t believe you! I love birthdays.”

 “Well,” she flounders, attempting to duck his sudden attention, “what were you originally celebrating? I don’t usually think of cake as a brunch option.”

 He raises an eyebrow, not at all impressed with her attempts to change the topic, but he answers dutifully, “Originally, we were celebrating me being one month cig-free--”

 “Percy!” Annabeth gasps, clapping her hands delightedly, and a little exaggeratedly. “That’s great!”

 “But,” he continues, “now we’re definitely celebrating your birthday instead.”

 “Oh, come on!”

 “Nuh uh,” he chides, grabbing his phone and beginning to type something, “I am asking Nico to pick you up a birthday card as we speak.”

 Oh. “Nico’s coming?”

 “Well, this is his apartment. Part of the deal is that I make him breakfast. I think he’s bringing his boyfriend.”

 “Is… anyone else coming?”

 “Just a couple of people, my friends Frank, Grover, Rachel… I invited Hazel and Thalia, too, but I think Hazel told me she was busy, and you know Thalia. If it’s not at a crappy dive bar then the odds of her showing up are virtually none.” Percy pauses in his text, fixing her with an odd look. “You really don’t want anyone to know, do you?”

 How easily he reads her is a little disconcerting, and also a thought that she just can’t handle right now. “I just don’t like people making a big deal out of it. You know, it’s just another day. I’d much rather celebrate you quitting.”

 He holds her gaze for a beat, before smiling, finishing typing out whatever he was doing on his phone. “Yes, I am officially quitting. Cigarettes are terrible for you, and I do not have the money to keep up the habit. So, I swear,” he holds up a hand, “No cigarettes, no weed, no vaping. Not that I ever vaped before.”

 “Oh, never?” Annabeth teases.

 “Not ever.” He leans in, grinning that devastating grin that is seriously detrimental to her health. “You could not pay me enough.”

 “Good.” She goes to meet him, pressing her mouth to his, sweetly and chastely, but swiftly turning deeper, almost against their higher brain functions, like they only exist to be here in this moment, lips against lips, tongue and tongue. She’s always hated the taste of cigarettes, she prefers edibles to blunts, and anyone who vapes is automatically dropped from her list of potential partners… but she’s never minded the taste of ash on Percy’s tongue. It was just another part of him, another facet of the whole sexy package.

 Now, though, she has the full taste of him, unfettered and unfiltered, his morning coffee and his morning breath. It is disgusting, but again, oddly thrilling. This is Percy, stripped down and divested of all the trappings of blue lipstick and tight pants. She wonders what he thinks when he sees her like this, messy haired, face and ears empty of metal, last night’s mascara smudged all around her eyes. Given the way that he deliberately threads her hair through his fingers, winding the frizzy curls around him, pulling her close enough that the pristine cake is in danger from some serious smushing, she thinks he likes it just as much.

 Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on which perspective, either Percy’s, Annabeth’s, Nico’s, or the cake’s, their little impromptu makeout session has cold water dumped on it before they can end up doing it on the kitchen island. The sound of someone unlocking the front door is almost comically loud, and they break apart, equally red and flushing.

 “Gross,” says Nico di Angelo. “No heterosexuality allowed in my kitchen.”

 “Take that back, you biphobic ass,” Percy says. “I have never been heterosexual in my life.”

 “I’m not biphobic, I just don’t want to see you getting it on on my marble countertops.”

 “Speak for yourself,” chimes in Will, setting down a grocery bag right on the spot which would have been ground zero. “Hi, Annabeth.”

 “Hey, Will.”

 “Nice of you to join us today,” he says, as though he doesn’t see her here all the time.

 She offers her assistance in cooking or setting up, knowing full well that she will be firmly rebuffed--domestics are not her strong suit, by any stretch of the imagination--and is sent away with an iced coffee that Will has so thoughtfully bought for her instead of the birthday card she was dreading.

 Soon after, the party is in full swing.

 Well, she uses the term party loosely. It is fairly intimate, even with Nico’s enormous apartment making everything smaller. They have assembled an odd amalgamation of people: “You already know Nico,” Percy says, indicating the goth prince next to, “and Will,” his boyfriend, the perpetually cheery med student, next to, “and this is Frank,” a large, physically imposing man with a shy smile, next to, “Rachel,” a red-headed girl who looked like she just walked out of a paint shower, all making space for, “and my buddy Grover,” the guy in crutches who had immediately dropped into the single, out-of-decor, but extremely comfortable-looking loveseat Nico had placed nearest to the bathroom. All told, they look like the brochure for a community college who really, really wants to publicize how diverse their student body is, but with a kind of natural chemistry and camaraderie that those kids on that brochure could only dream of. “Everyone, this is Annabeth.”

 They greet her, each giving a limp wave.

 Then Percy leaves to attend to his brunch spread, but not before giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She can feel all eyes on them, hot and burning.

 Silence.

 “So,” Annabeth says, as awkward as a freshman in an orientation mixer. “What’s up?”

 “Your hair is amazing,” says Rachel.

 Hers is crusted with paint, a deep red that turns pink against the orange in the light, a close cousin to Annabeth’s, which is in dire need of a touchup, curls thrown in disarray by Percy’s grasping fingers. “Thanks, I--”

 “So how do you two know each other?”

 Annabeth blinks. “Friend of Thalia’s,” she says. “You?”

 “Used to do ballet together,” Rachel says, brusque, efficient. “Frank, too.”

 Frank waves again.

 A beat passes.

 Annabeth looks to Grover, who watches, bemused. “You, too, I take it?”

 Another second. Then he laughs, weird, but hearty, a joyful bleat. “Oh, sure,” he says. “I’m a regular Baryshnikov.”

 She can almost feel the room relaxing, heaving a sigh after holding its breath.

 “Are you with NYCB, too?” she turns to Frank, shoving her hands in her pockets, fingers curling around the fabric there.

 Shaking his head, he swallows his orange juice. “I mostly do modern and hip hop, now, music videos and stuff.”

 Objectively, she knows that you don’t have to be skinny as a rake or bodybuilding champion to dance, but Frank is neither of these, a huge, sweet-faced guy with a healthy layer of fat around his face and torso--a strict counterpart to Percy, who could give the Belvedere Apollo a run for its money. “Have I seen you in anything?” Not that she really watches music videos, but she figures it’s the polite thing to ask.

 “Um, maybe,” he shrugs, embarrassed. “I’ve been lucky enough to work with some really big people.” Though he offers no further details.

 “Working on anything cool?” She asks, doing her best not to cajole.

 He nods. “Percy and I have a thing coming out probably in the next month or so, with--ah, well. Can’t say.”

 “Tease,” Rachel grumbles, tossing back her mimosa. “I’ve been trying to get the secret out of him for months.”

 Frank smiles, secretive and a little smug. “Sorry. You’ll find out along with everyone else.”

 “Do you work together a lot?” Annabeth asks. She had thought that Percy was strictly ballet--though, she supposes dancers do crossover work more often these days, if only for the money.

 “Not as much as we used to, sadly,” he replies. “We actually lived together in Paris for a few years while he was contracted with the opera before I decided to come back home. Vancouver,” he adds at her unspoken question.

 “Bit of a hike, from Vancouver to New York,” says Grover.

 Frank shrugs. “I was in town anyway, and I haven’t seen Percy in about a year.”

 Annabeth frowns, doing some mental math. If Frank hadn’t seen him in two years, then that meant… that Percy had been alone in Paris all that time. The man thrives off of friendship and social interaction; no wonder he was jonesing to come back to America.

 “Remind me again how long you two were together?” Rachel asks, red hair bouncing as she cocks her head. A jolt goes down Annabeth’s spine, appraising Frank in an entirely new light.

 “On and off for about two years,” says Frank, thoughtful. “But I just lived with him to save money. The rent in Paris sucks.”

 “And you were the best roommate I ever had,” Percy says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Clean, good cook, better kisser--”

 Frank shoves him away.

 “You’ve only ever had one other roommate, other than Nico or your mom,” Grover points out. “That one guy when you first moved overseas--Frodo? Fedora?”

 “Fyodor,” Percy corrects. “He was terrible. I didn’t know any Russian, he didn’t know any English, and our French wasn’t good enough to actually hash it out, so he just gave me a permanent cold shoulder.”

 “Kind of a low bar, don’t you think?”

 “And there was my roommate in Boston.”

 Sharply, she turns her head. “You lived in Boston?”

 “Yeah, for like a year. I told you I was with Boston Ballet for a little bit, didn’t I?”

 Pretty sure he didn’t. She almost opens her mouth to retort, to ask when and compare notes, to mention that she lived in Boston, too, before remembering who she is with, swallowing her words.

 “Fyodor hated you,” Frank hums, reentering the circle. He’d wandered away and returned with a croissant, dipped in chocolate.

 “Trust, me, the feeling was mutual.”

 “It must have been,” Frank says, “because I saw your new apartment after he kicked you out--that place made a shoebox look luxurious.”

 Something in Percy’s face almost falls when Frank says that. Annabeth is sure there is a story there.

 But Rachel laughs. “Annabeth, you have no idea. It was a      Chambre de bonne    ,” she says, exaggerating the accent, “which might sound super fancy and French and cool, but trust me, it wasn’t at all. It was this size.” She slaps the kitchen island, a little too hard, her third mimosa making her loose-limbed and loud. “When I visited for Thanksgiving that year      I     had to pay for the heating bill, because Percy basically refused.”

 “It was cozy,” Percy mutters, suddenly very preoccupied with the half a croissant on his plate.

 “It was not.” Rachel says. “It was sad and cold and small.”

 Nico looks interested, but not nearly as boisterous as Rachel or Frank, “Was that the place…”

 “Ye,” Percy cuts him off, “Yes it was.” He smiles, Stepford-strained. “But, then Frank came to town, and so did his grandmother’s money.” He slaps Frank on the back. “And I got a bathtub.”

 “I still can’t believe that a ballet dancer lived anywhere for two years without a place to soak,” Frank says, shuddering.

 “I can’t believe you waited until Frank got to Paris to get yourself a sugar daddy,” Grover quips. Percy throws a grape at him. Grover, to her immense surprise, manages to catch it in his mouth.

 Annabeth can’t really be impressed. This is the second time someone has brought up Percy and Frank having a history. Something hot and angry curls in her stomach. But Percy is laughing.

 Rachel laughs too. “Oh, he didn’t wait,” she says. “He had a bevy of sugar mommies for trips to Ibiza and Moscow and Beijing.”

 “It was Tokyo,” Percy says, “and they weren’t my Sugar Mamas.” He turns to Annabeth, sheepish, but not actually shameful. “They weren’t. Honestly.”

 “Uh huh.”

 “They were mostly Kym’s friends, and sometimes we’d go out when they were in town, and if we had fun, they’d invite me wherever they were going next. And if I didn’t have to work, I’d go with.”

 “I have heard rumors,” Will says, popping his head in, Nico attached to his hip, “of Percy Jackson, boy toy of the rich and famous of Europe. Is it true?”

 “Yes,” Grover and Rachel say at once.

 “Do you want to hear about that, Will?” Percy asks, “Or would you rather hear about the summer Nico came to stay with me and Frank before he started college, and slept with every single dancer in Europe except Frank?”

 Nico waves him off. “Only because you were already sleeping with him, cause he was your sugar daddy. Not like I needed the money.”

 “It wasn’t like that.” Frank says.

 “And now that we’ve aired all of my dirty laundry,” says Percy, “I need to borrow Annabeth for a second.” Gently, but with force, he tugs her arm, his other hand around her waist, directing her where to go like she’s one of his dance partners. Usually, she minds--a lot. She’s not about to let anyone, let alone a man, tell her where to go--but, you know, it’s Percy. Alone time with him is never a bad thing.

 He pulls her into the hallway, shoving his hand into his pocket. “What’s up?” she asks.

 “So.” Mouth open, he pauses for a moment, just… looking at her. His eyes are soft, warm like the first day of spring.

 “What?”

 “Uh, nothing,” he shakes himself a little, pulling his hand out. “Sorry, I just--I know you said you didn’t want anyone making a big deal out of your birthday…”

 Oh, no. She braces herself for the worst.

 Uncurling his fingers, he reveals his present for her.

 “It’s… a pin?”

 “Yeah,” he smiles. “Remember when I took my sister to the Met a few weeks ago? They were having that thing on Egyptian jewelry? Well, of course we had to stop in the gift shop, and I saw this and just--you know, thought of you.”

 It is a pin--one of those lapel pins that more often than not are added to a collection usually displayed on a backpack. This pin is a silhouette she recognizes instantly: the Parthenon, its columns and angles rendered in sterling silver, little grooves dug into the metal in an approximation of the fluting.

 “Wow,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

 “It was nothing.” His ears are pink. “Happy birthday.”

 And then he hugs her.

 After a moment, she hugs him back.

 It’s amazing how she can have had sex with someone so many times, but feel so awkward giving them a hug.

 “I didn’t, um, tell anyone else,” he says, pulling back. His hands linger on her shoulders, thumb tapping at the base of her neck. “But, I kept meaning to give this to you, so, you know, now was as good a time as any, yeah?”

 “I love it,” she says, honestly. Which surprises her. “Thank you.”

 She slips it into her own pocket, not even minding the sharp corners.

 When they return, Nico has already cut into the cake. “You were taking too long,” he snips.

 It really is delicious. Much, much later, Percy sends her home with a sweet, soft kiss, and one of the last remaining slices, rather than staying for dinner.

 Percy is the kind of boy who goes to his mother’s for dinner every week. She had been invited, but also threatened with the promise of another cake, and his ten year old sister, who would “love to make you a present.”

 It sounded nice, but Annabeth knew when she wasn’t really wanted, and so she demurred, citing a need for some solo downtime.

 She hasn’t heard from Thalia in, like, four days, which meant she had probably gotten a short-term gig. (“You’re lucky, she’s had Jason paying for her phone the whole time you’ve known her. Before that, she was almost impossible to get ahold of.”) Piper would take her out to dinner tomorrow, “just because.” But they would both know it wasn’t true.

 So, to refresh and relax after a long, harrowing day of socializing, Annabeth goes home.

 Or at least to her apartment.

 It doesn’t have a doorman, or the views, or the room, like Nico’s place. Nor does it have any of the people, the energy, the joy. Her furniture doesn’t fill it up. The most appetizing thing in her kitchen are the granola bars Percy had made the week before, or maybe the brownies he made four days ago. She sets her to-go bag of cake and croissants down next to them, a smorgasboard of Percy’s culinary prowess.

 Despite the long hours, her clothes still smell a little like last night’s bar, and her skin has a faint patina of dried sex sweat, and smudged makeup.

 She doesn’t want to start leaving things at Percy’s place--don’t want him to get the wrong idea--but she also occasionally needs to be able to touch up her eyeliner. She’s either going to have to find a bag that isn’t embarrassing to carry, or surreptitiously shove some eyeliner and lipstick next to the condoms in Percy’s nightstand next time they have a sleepover. Or raid Nico’s bathroom.

 Regardless, she needs a wash something bad.

 As she scrubs down, she does her best to focus on the lemon scent of her body wash, and not Percy’s perfect form, dripping with water. She tries to visualize her last trip to Sephora, not blowing him under the hot water.

 It doesn’t really work, so she gets herself clean and gets herself off and considers just spending the rest of the day naked, in case the mood strikes her again. But it's only 5PM, and she doesn’t have Percy to cook her some dinner tonight, so she sucks it up and puts on some pants.

 When she had visited Boston for work a couple of months back, Alex had insisted on taking her shopping, complaining that her sister and her friend Mallory didn’t understand Versace quite like Annabeth did, and that Blitz sucked all the fun out of fashion, anyway. Then, she had bullied Annabeth into buying a set of sweats, claiming it was because of the Grecian patterns, but probably because she thought Annabeth in that much purple would be funny.

 But eventually, she had wheedled, cajoled, and threatened Annabeth into buying a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. After deciding to forgo a bra, because that is just one more area she has always fallen short in, she shoves on a School of Architecture underneath them. The crimson clashes terribly with the lavender and seafoam, but she kind of likes it. Piper would call it “artfully nauseating,” or something.

 Besides, no one is going to see her but her delivery guy. And if someone did see her, someone like Thalia or Percy, well, the clashing colors would be the least of her worries.

 She is folded into her couch, wedged into the corner, very much      not     looking up Paris Ballet clips from the past few years, trying to spot Percy in the background, when there is a knock on her door.

 Not for the first time, she curses her lack of doorman--and then frowns. Who even knows where she lives?

 Piper and Leo? Magnus and Alex?

 Has she already ordered food and just forgotten?

 Is memory loss a side effect of a SK-II mask no one had warned her about?

 Tentatively, she creeps towards the door, opening it slowly. If this were a horror movie, the door would creak open, revealing the villain cast in the shadows of the hallway, holding his weapon of choice.

 She sighs.

 The man is only a few inches taller than her, and dressed impeccably in a t-shirt and jeans that probably cost half a year of her rent-- a big critique coming from her, since she wears a month of her own rent as sweats. His blond hair is impeccably combed, his tennis shoes impeccably white, and his smile the most charming thing you can find this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

 “Happy birthday, girly,” he says, giving her an awkward, one-armed hug, trying to avoid getting any of her facemask on his shirt.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “It's your birthday,” he reminds her, holding up the bag. “I told you I’d stop by last week.”

 Had he? Maybe, and she’d just been too drunk or hung over to really process it. But maybe he’d also meant to, and then failed to follow through. Luke has a bit of a nasty habit of treating his intentions as the same as his actions. His intentions are good, usually, but it means that he often ignored the actual actions. Like how his intention was to support his mother in the best nursing home in the northeast, but his action was to work with Saturn, a very shady hedge fund, to facilitate it. Or how his intention was to have someone at a stuffy party to talk to, but his action was dressing up Annabeth as his arm candy because none of Piper’s models would call him back anymore. He hasn’t asked her to do that since, like, February though, thankfully.

 “Sorry,” Annabeth says. “I just… you know I don’t like my birthday.”

 He also has a bit of a habit of ignoring her distaste in a really blatant way.

 He’s a little like Percy that way, actually.

 She’d only ever told Luke about her birthday back in those embarrassing freshman days, when she’d thought he looked as good on paper as any Harvard MBA student possibly could, with a devastating smile to match. She’d been so convinced that he would be the right boyfriend that might finally get her mother’s approval, and she figured that her future husband should know her birthday.

 “Come in,” she says, reaching for the bag, but he shakes his head and brushes past her, dumping his black back on the coffee table. Graciously, he doesn’t look at her as he starts to empty out its contents, giving her an opportunity to dart back to her bathroom and peel off her facemask. Luke would forgive designer sweats, but they aren't at the “just chilling in a facemask” level of a relationship.

 When she returns, there is a small assembly line arranged on her coffee table: a stack of paper plates, a carton of Haagen Daas, forks and spoons, and a Milk Bar cake, all wrapped in its box.

 “Is Milk Bar still the ‘it’ thing?” she asks. “With locations all over the country, I figured it would be passé by now.”

 “I know it’s your favorite,” Luke says. “I don’t always have to choose the most popular thing.”

 Milk Bar had been her favorite, that is true, right up until she’d started fucking Percy Jackson, and eating his food.

 “Thanks,” she says, cutting herself a slice, and scooping herself some ice cream.

 “That’s all you’re going to get?” he asks, cutting himself a sliver.

 “I have had so much cake today,” she says. Milk Bar really isn’t as good as Percy's, but it reminds her of birthdays in high school, waiting for her mother to visit, sneaking out when she inevitably didn’t, convincing the local bad boy to buy her some alcohol. She eats it, eagerly.

 Luke’s jaw drops. “You had a birthday cake? By choice? On your birthday?”

 She shakes her head, swallowing. “No, I was at a party with some friends. They didn’t even know it was my birthday,” Until she had stupidly revealed it. Whatever. She just has to make sure he’s been excised from her life by this time next year. And maybe freeze some of his baked goods beforehand.

 Luke doesn’t let her go through with her evening plans, which consisted basically of watching      Legally Blonde     for the gazillionth time while she slurped down some pierogies, but he capitulates to      Roman Holiday    , helping her put away the leftover cake and ice cream. “Thanks,” she says, when the movie was done. “I’m glad you came over. “

 No one ever comes over. Thalia is her best friend, but Thalia would have questions about how she could afford the place, Piper never understood why she’d moved out here at all, and Percy… Percy was irrelevant. There is no reason for him to come here.

 “I always like to see my best girl.” He smiles at her, charming and rogueish.

 “If all those models you keep trying to date know that your best girl is an architect who lives in Brooklyn who you actually feed, that’s probably why they don’t want to date you back.”

 Luke laughs, leaning over and knocking his shoulder against her own. “None of those girls could hold a candle to you.”

 “God, you must be a terrible boyfriend.”

 “Probably,” he agrees, sitting up and stretching, before reaching back to the bag he brought the cake in. “After all, you are the one I bring all the nice presents. But I think I’m a pretty good friend.”

 He takes out a box, burnt orange, a black ribbon wrapped around it, because Luke is nothing if not predictable.

 Annabeth sighs internally, quietly reminding herself that money is how Luke shows his love. And that she is wearing Versace sweats.

 “Herm  é  s,” she says, pulling off the ribbon. “This box looks too small for a Birkin.”

 “Do you want a Birkin?” he asks. “I can get you a Birkin.”

 “I probably don’t need a Birkin,” she admits. Though maybe it would be nice to have one in her closet, if her mom ever calls her up for lunch again. She could show up with a Birkin and an eyebrow ring. Sweet revenge.

 Luke waves a hand. “It doesn't matter if you need one, just if you want one.”

 Inside the box is a scarf, the silk soft and smooth between her fingers, a pleasing gradient of oranges and reds and pinks and corals. When she unfolds it, laying it out before her, she finds a sharp, geometric design, columns stacked together like skyscrapers. Luke obviously had her in mind when he picked it out.

 “Thanks,” she says. It’s pretty--perfect for an ambitious young architect with two degrees from Harvard who had moved to New York City with an offer from one of the best architecture firms in the world. And Annabeth has no idea where she could possibly want or need to wear it.

 “Hey,” Luke says, suddenly soft, “don’t cry.”

 Shocked, she reaches her hand up to her face. It’s wet.

 Luke is probably the only person she will let herself cry in front of. She’d spent three years doing that in college. He’d seen her through heartbreak and hangovers, guiding her through it all like an aloof big brother.

 “I’m okay,” she hiccups, wiping her nose.

 He hands her a napkin.

 Annabeth blows her nose, wet and gross. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m alright.”

 “You sure?” He sounds sincere, but she catches him glancing down at his wrist.

 “Do you have a date?”

 “I…” At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “Just some guys at work. You can come, if you want.”

 It could be fun. Hanging out with Luke can be fun. Get a little lit, take a business bro home, screw his brains out, send him on his way. But there’s an unspoken dress code to these things, and Annabeth just doesn’t wear Louboutins anymore. And the idea of fucking a business bro just… doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

 “No thanks,” she nods, using the clean edge of the napkin to wipe her eyes. “I am going to watch      The Search For Elle Woods    , and you're going to strike out with some models, and everyone is going to be happy.”

 “You really are so mean to me.” Luke complains, as she walks him to the door, before giving her another hug. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

 “I am.” She is different and new, but Luke is still her friend. She had survived. It would be okay.

 “Well, call me if you need something.” He kisses her cheek, sweetly, without any heat. Perfectly platonic. “I love you very much. Happy birthday.”

 “Thanks,” she says, “I’ll see you around.”

 “Always.” And he is gone.

 She folds the scarf, going to put it in the dresser in her room, shoving it among a handful of accessories, gathering dust. She realizes, with a start, that she’s left a week’s worth of clothes all over her room on the way to the shower, and, with a sigh of adulthood, and the knowledge that if she doesn’t follow the ADHD gods and pick them up now, they’ll be there for weeks, languishing on her floor and stinking up the place, she goes to at least move them into her hamper. She rifles through ripped jeans and band t-shirts and black socks as she goes, checking each for anything like discarded change or a bus pass she doesn’t want to wash.

 She shakes out the pants she’d worn out the night before, and therefore the entire day until she’d gotten home. There is a rather unfortunate stain on the knee that she can’t quite parse--ketchup? Chocolate?

 Then she reaches into the pockets, touching metal, and she suddenly remembers her other birthday present for the day.

 Pulling out the pin, she feels strange, hot in the face, funny in the belly, tossing the jeans haphazardly in with the dirty laundry. It's small and shiny, cheap metal for mass market production, and yet, she walks it over to the dresser, laying it down on the silk scarf like it's the diamond broach her aunt gave her for her sixteenth birthday.

 She really is beyond Hermès scarves now. But that pin? Well, you never really can get more Annabeth--the middle school know-it-all, teenage debutante, college perfectionist, New York yuppy, or barfly and punk princess--than one of the greatest architectural achievements in human history.

 She is still a little shocked by how much she loves it. How much it means to her that Percy saw that it was perfect for her.

 And like so many times when she is confronted with an emotion she doesn’t like, she slams the door closed, and goes and watches a favorite movie from high school.

 She does order dinner, eventually, setting out her meal in between texting Piper about brunch tomorrow. It's a whole thing, pretending that they’re not going out for her birthday, but eventually they agree on a time and a place, and she can eat her sausage and watch everyone practice the Bend and Snap in peace.  

 So she is very annoyed when her phone buzzes again.

 Maybe the reservation fell through. Or maybe she doesn’t want Annabeth to show up in ripped fishnets, even though that only happened once.

 Her stomach sinks when she checks her phone. It isn’t Piper.

Hello Dear, Happy Birthday. We miss you. Please call anytime. Love Dad, Mary, and the boys.  

 Below the text is a link, leading to a gift certificate for $200 to Sephora, which has Mary’s name written all over it. Aunt Natalie would have suggested Bergdorf Goodman.

 Her hand clenches, momentarily overcome with the urge to hurl her phone against the wall. But there is no one around, so there wouldn’t be any point to it.

 She stabs at a pierogi with a chopstick, and watches the girls dance on screen, humming along.

 She passes out on the couch after midnight.

 Her mother never called.