#and he had the gall to be surprised when I asked him that directly. please stop following me to my classes

[friendzoned61]

The insinuation that there should be more women in stem not because of equality or presenting more opportunities to women but because he can’t get a girlfriend

[mightbeimpossiblenotto]

Show - Oct 30 - @rosekillermicrofic - 808 words - Warnings: none

“Will you please stop by Spellbinding Sound for me?” Pandora begged as soon as Evan picked up her call.

“‘Hello, Evan, my dearest brother,’” Evan said dryly. “I think you’re supposed to greet me at the very least before asking for a favor.”

Pandora sighed noisily. “I just need a new pack of reeds for my clarinet, and you know which ones to buy.”

Evan sighed back at her. “I suppose it is on the way home. I’ll drop by for you, if you make me dinner.”

“Deal,” Pandora said, hanging up immediately. Evan looked at his phone blankly, offended for a moment, before remembering she was probably in the middle of practicing when she called.

Spellbinding Sound was a small music supply shop that Pandora favored, and Evan had been sent there a few times on errands for her. He usually didn’t mind; the owner, an older man named Albus, was kind and patient. When Evan entered the store, though, he was already helping a customer.

“Would you like me to restring the instrument for you?” Albus was asking the man in front of him. The man was shorter than Evan, with dark, tousled hair and several face piercings: two on his lip, another on his eyebrow, another on his nose, too many to count on both ears. He was wearing a graphic band t-shirt over ripped-up jeans, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His bare arms were covered in tattoos, and they continued up his neck and down his hands. Evan found himself wondering where else the man was tattooed.

“No, thanks,” the man said in a smooth voice. “I like to do it myself.”

He picked up his strings, which Evan assumed were for some sort of guitar or bass for his punk band, based on the man’s appearance. The man nearly ran into Evan when he spun around and walked towards the door with a swift gait.

“My bad,” the man said, worrying one of the lip rings between his teeth for a moment. “I’m Barty.”

Confused as to why the man gave his name, Evan responded with his own. “Evan.”

Evan tried to step around Barty, but Barty stepped into his path again.

“You like music?” Barty asked, and before Evan could answer, he continued talking. “You should come to my show. Friday night at the Slytherin Stage. I hope I’ll see you there.”

Evan watched him walk out the door, raising both eyebrows at the man’s gall. Inviting him to a show was one thing, but leaving directly after the invite was just dramatic. Evan shook it off and stepped up to the counter and greeted Albus.

“Does Pandora need new reeds?” Albus asked knowingly, his eyes sparkling. Evan nodded. They chatted amicably while Albus grabbed the reeds for Evan, and processed the payment for them. Soon enough, Evan was on his way home to Pandora.

Evan didn’t even know why he was attending the concert. He wasn’t a punk music person — but something about Barty had made him want to learn more. Maybe it was his overconfidence or attractiveness, but Evan felt compelled to come to his show that evening. He was surprised that attendees were dressed so nicely, and he was glad that he had come directly after work, so he was still wearing his nice work slacks and a button-down shirt. As he took his seat in the audience, in a gorgeous emerald-green auditorium. He was starting to think he had greatly misread the man he’d spoken to, because there was no way he was about to see some sort of punk band performance.

Nerves flew in his stomach as he wondered what he had signed up for, just as the curtains pulled back and revealed an entire full symphony orchestra. Evan scanned the faces of every single person until he found Barty, sitting at the very front left. He was first chair violin, the goddamn concertmaster. Evan had him pegged completely wrong.

To make matters worse, Barty looked even more attractive in the emerald green suit and tie, with his instrument propped on his knee and his bow in his other hand. Evan had been so stupid to assume he played the guitar, when clearly Barty’s body had been made to hold the violin. The conductor raised his hands, and then lovely music filled the auditorium as the orchestra began.

Evan was entranced. He watched Barty throughout the entire performance, never taking his eyes off Barty’s graceful movements. He ended up lingering by the side stage, waiting for Barty after the show. When the man emerged, he looked surprised to see Evan there.

“You came,” he said softly, before seemingly shaking confidence back into himself. “You liked the show, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Evan said. “I really did.”

And then he stepped forward and kissed Barty.

[yuki-the-master-of-demons]

A request

An male mc fly kicking Diavolo in the face and making Diavolo fall backwards, because Satan said mc didn't have the guts. And in front of everyone.

I honestly wasn't sure how to tackle this at first. Randomly assaulting Diavolo would probably be considered an act of treason even if a weak human did it. So I sat on this for a hot second until I thought "What if Diavolo was in on it?" Idk if this is what you wanted, but this is the way it makes sense to me. Writing the reactions for the brothers

The Setup:

MC was always up for a challenge, especially if it completing it meant proving someone wrong. Now MC will admit they aren't a fan of Lucifer's lectures and punishments, so they try to keep a good rapport with the eldest. Though this doesn't mean they aren't invited into the Anti-Lucifer league, but it does mean Satan and Belphie give MC shit for it sometimes. That is, until Satan says something that activates something in MC. "You don't have the guts, do you?"

That's it. Time to prove Satan wrong, and pull the prank of the century. Still, they don't want to be strung up and dangling from the ceiling anytime soon. That's when MC remembered there's someone that Lucifer wouldn't dare punish, Lord Diavolo. Get him involved and Lucifer will at most give MC a slap on the wrist.

"Hey, Dia!" MC waves at the prince as they pass each other in one of RAD's hallway. "I have a favor to ask of you, but it's gonna be fun, so you better say yes."

"Oh?" Diavolo chuckles. "Well, you certainly have my attention."

That's when MC leans in and whispers the plan to Diavolo, and the demon lights up. This will definitely be entertaining. The Demon Brothers weren't all that pleased during the council meeting when Diavolo invited them to have dinner at his castle the next evening (though Lucifer was not showing it, and Beel was actually excited to eat Barbatos's cooking.) "At least MC was invited too." Many of the brothers thought.

Everything seems normal at first, Barbatos greeting them and then heading to the kitchen while Diavolo stayed with them to converse. That's until MC run right at Diavolo, leaps, and both of their feet hit directly on Diavolo's chest, sending the demon price flying backwards. All of the brothers stare silently in shock.

Lucifer:

It takes him longer to snap out of his shock than he'd like to admit. Once he takes in what just happened, he's in his demon form and glaring down at MC while the human looks back up at him with a sly smirk. He's thinking of exactly how he will punish MC as he grabs them by the collar of their shirt, lifting them off the ground. Lucifer is about to yell at them when he hears Diavolo laughing.

"You should have seen your face!" Diavolo gives a full hearted laugh. "I don't think I ever saw your eyes get so wide before!"

Once Lucifer realizes that it was a prank and that Diavolo was in on it, he'll set MC down with a deep sigh. He will be civil during dinner but he is still glaring at both MC and Diavalo. Diavolo may have ordered Lucifer to not punish MC, but Lucifer will make their life a bit harder for a time, giving more tasks and assigning more chores and the like.

Mammon:

His jaw is on the floor. The human just fucking LAUNCHED Diavolo across the room. How? FUCKING HOW?! He doesn't know if he should be impressed or terrified, but the look Lucifer is giving MC got Mammon ready to flee. When he hears Diavolo walk back over, laughing, as he explains he was on on it, Mammon tries not to burst into a fit of laughter. Only the human could get Diavolo to help them prank Lucifer and get away with it. A stern glare from Lucifer shuts Mammon up, but the second born is struggling to keep himself from giggling. He definitely asks for Levi's recording.

Levi:

MC got Levi to look up from his D.D.D. voluntarily. That is a feat in itself. As soon as he sees Diavolo flying, Levi is recording. It's already on DevilTube and it's spreading like wildfire and the number of views is climbing quickly. This reminds him of one of the anime he saw recently, and he's saying "LOL" as Lucifer realizes that it was a prank. Lucifer forces him to take down the video, but the video lives on because people took it and shared it for their own views. MC is famous and Levi is so down for recording whatever Yuki is planning next.

Satan:

When MC told him they were going to be the one prank Lucifer for once, this is was not what he was expecting. He will admit he is impressed though. Getting Lord Diavolo to assist in a prank? Satan definitely got some pictures of a surprised Lucifer he's saving for future pranks. MC was at first just an honorary member of the Anti-Lucifer League, but now they're a full fledged member. Not only did MC successfully prank Lucifer, they found a way to do it with a miminal punishment. Satan is impressed.

Asmo:

Gasps when he sees Diavolo flying. He pulls out his D.D.D. to record, but he's recording his reaction and commentary more than the event itself. He's livestreaming the entire time. He goes from him freaking out about seeing MC send Diavolo flying and then proceeds to giggle as he finds out the prank MC got Diavolo to assist with. Asmo did flip the camera at one point to get a good shot of Lucifer holding MC by the collar. Ot was quite the steamy image and Asmo wanted a reminder for later.

Beel:

Confused baby is confused, pausing mid chew. MC just sent a demon almost twice their size across the room. When did MC get so strong? What did Diavolo do to anger MC so much that MC would full on kick him in the chest? Beel is more worried than anything, especially when he sees Lucifer giving MC a death glare. When Diavolo comes back unharmed and reveals it was a prank, Beel sighs in relief and continues to stuff his face with snacks.

Belphie:

Belphie's eyes go wide when he sees Diavolo fly. He is cackling at the sight. A weak little human somehow sent the demon prince fucking flying across the room and Lucifer is in full WTF mode, which isn't a sight people often get to see. While he is a bit disappointed when Diavolo comes back admitting he's in in the prank, Belphie is also impressed that MC had the gall to get the prince to prank Lucifer.

[andypantsx3]

statistically significant | 7 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

One month later

The Hero Awards certainly did not disappoint the second time around.

Though you’d spent the last few months in the company of some of these heroes, you couldn’t help but linger on the sidelines as they stalked their way down the walkway, staring in awe. As before, they were decked out in their absolute best, glimmering in jewel toned dresses with daring cutouts, or carving dashing profiles in well-fitted suits. Reporters and fans swarmed the sides of the red carpet, roiling like a pot reaching an agitated boil.

Their excitement was so palpable it hung heavy in the air, absolutely contagious. Maybe it was the fact that you knew some of the heroes up for awards tonight personally, but the potential of the evening simmered under your skin, a soft but constant hum of frenetic energy.

Or maybe some of that was due to the fact that this year, you’d been able to convince your boss to shell out the extra cash for the full dinner option. No longer would you need to smuggle snacks into your dress--this evening, you were a solid professional.

Which was a good thing, really, as the dress in question was not altogether any more secure or supportive than your dress from last year. You’d tried to angle for a thicker fabric and a little more of a conservative design, but several people had aired opinions on your choices over the course of the last few weeks, and you’d ended up in a thin swathe of delicate fabric that was really quite pretty, if you did say so yourself, but would support a grand total of maybe two popcorn kernels.

“You’re looking awfully forlorn over here,” someone chirped by your ear.

You startled, whirling to find Mina behind you, looking rosy and radiant in a form-fitting dress only a few shades lighter than her skin tone. Tiny pearls and clusters of glittering pink diamonds were stitched carefully into the fabric, winking at you as she moved, as bright as the conspiratorial grin she wore. She looked absolutely fabulous--she was one of the people who’d bullied you into the snackless gown, and you could begrudgingly admit that the girl had taste.

“Is it because a certain hotheaded blonde isn’t here yet?” she asked, a pink eyebrow going up.

You flushed. “Mina--oh my god, no. Not everything is about him, you know.”

She idly inspected a nail, looking supremely unconvinced. “Someone should tell him that, then.”

You huffed a laugh. The last time you’d been at the Awards, you’d said as much to him yourself. But a year later, the message was still not exactly being received.

“I’m actually thinking about dinner. I’m literally starving,” you complained, trying to divert the subject.

Mina nodded sympathetically. “I have a six pack and I still had to suck in to fit into this shit.”

As if on cue, your stomach growled sympathetically. You weren’t proud of what it was going to be like when you were finally unleashed on that multi-course dinner, but god it was gonna be worth it.

Several shrieks went up in the crowd of fans behind you, and you looked over your shoulder in alarm. Your pulse relaxed slightly when you realized it was just another pro sauntering down the walkway, but then the lights flickered off ashy blonde locks, and your pulse jumped violently. You jerked in surprise.

Mina didn’t even try to suppress her snort as you turned around fully, eyes pulled like a magnet to Bakugou as he stalked down the red carpet. Even looking like he would rather be anywhere else, and moving briskly over the carpet like he was going in for a kill, he still looked better than he had any right to. The charcoal of his suit--stitched with deep ruby flowers so dark they were almost black--brought out the piercing scarlet of his eyes, and your heart leapt into your mouth when those eyes cut over to meet yours.

His expression didn’t change, and he kept moving, but you flushed all the way from your head to your toes at the intensity behind his look.

Mina made a disgusted noise. “You’re both like a dog with a bone.”

You glared at her accusingly. “We literally just looked at each other.”

She clicked her tongue. “Please, he all but just pissed on you to mark his territory.”

Before you could reply, she called out, catching sight of Kirishima, and seized you to drag you over to say hello.

You let Mina drag you around for the next half hour, making polite conversation with her high school friends, a couple of friends from other agencies, and one fashion journalist who Mina had converted into a weekly drinking buddy. Mina kept the conversation light and easy, and you enjoyed yourself for the most part, though you almost passed out when a very distinct head of green curls materialized over her shoulder and then Midoriya Izuku--better known as the number one hero Deku--was smiling at you eagerly.

Things got even weirder when he appeared to not only already know who you were, but knew a great deal about your work, enough to ask some very detailed questions about your training model software that was going into production a couple months from now. Mina had the gall to cut into the conversation to call you both huge nerds, though she’d directly benefited from the model herself.

The conversation was unfortunately cut short when a calloused hand flung itself in front of your face and a rough voice sounded from over your shoulder. “Stop sticking your nose in my fucking business, Deku.”

You whipped around to find Bakugou glaring over your head at his former classmate. His hand closed around your shoulder and dragged you closer to him.

“I was just asking about her model, Kacchan,” Midoriya said patiently. “It’ll be great to be able to compare my movements directly with some of the other heroes in almost real time! Ojirou’s been trying out some new fighting forms and I was thinking I should try to adapt them to work into my shoot style--”

“Just because you couch it in nerd shit doesn’t mean you’re not trying to spy on me, fuckstick,” Bakugou said. “Stop poking your nose into my relationship like the town fucking gossip.”

Midoriya flushed a little, looking slightly chastened when you turned back to him in question. He gave you an embarrassed little smile. “I did want to meet you for reasons other than your model. Kacchan’s been my friend since I was little, and I wondered what kind of person could interest him so much he wanted my perspective on your work--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou demanded, but he wasn’t fast enough.

You perked up in interest. “He asked you what?”

Bakugou bristled like a cat being dangled over a bath, but Midoriya was paying him no mind. “Right after the last Hero Awards, he’d done all this research and he asked me about whether your model results lined up with some of the personal analysis that I was doing--”

“Deku,” Bakugou’s fingers tightened on your arm, growing alarmingly warm. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now I’m going to punch all of your teeth straight down your throat and into your stomach.”

“Kacchan,” Midoriya protested, but he was interrupted by a call on the overhead for everyone to start taking their places in the theater interior for the awards to begin.

Bakugou used the distraction to pry you away from Midoriya. In the blink of an eye, he’d gotten you across the theater and was corralling you towards the Miruko agency tables, looking like he’d sucked on a lemon. You stifled a laugh. You’d wondered a couple months ago exactly how and when he’d figured out you were quirkless, and he’d once asked if you thought you were the only one who’d done their research.

If things were anything like you were starting to suspect, your demands that he do better at the Hero Awards had apparently aroused his interest in more ways than one.

You and Bakugou hadn’t exactly settled on formal terms for your relationship yet, and he still more often than not answered any of your interest with the assertion that you were the one with the crush on him. But this was more evidence--beyond the mysterious coffees that showed up at your workstation almost every morning--that your interest was more intensely reciprocated than he was willing to own up to.

By the time you’d settled at a table and been flanked by a grinning Mina and Kaminari, the awards were getting underway. They were thrilling to watch, something you’d had to miss out on last year when you needed to sneak out with a giant hole in the front of your dress. The heroes you’d worked with this year raked in an insane number of awards, and their elation was palpable, so thick you could almost taste it in the air. The pair of men with satyr horns were named the Best Rookie Duo, Miruko was awarded Takedown of the Year, and Kaminari clocked the Fastest Fight Win for a battle last month in which he’d rendered a villain with an aluminum quirk insensate only seconds into the fight.

A very unfortunate match up, you thought.

Mina nabbed an award for Fan Favorite, and in almost no time, it was the moment that you’d been nervously awaiting since nominations had gone out. You’d cheated, doing your own calculations behind everyone’s backs just to get a clearer picture of what his chances were, and you rather liked his odds, but there was always a chance it wouldn’t go how you thought. But this was the moment that Bakugou was up for Most Valuable Hero.

You barely heard any of the words the host was saying as he trotted out the names of the nominees, detailing some of their key accomplishments. He covered Bakugou's latest slew of assists and rescues, stats that made you feel kind of weirdly warm and proud, and then your ears strained for the syllables you’d hoped to hear.

And then:

“The winner is...our explosive number six, Ground Zero!”

It took everything in you not to leap out of your seat in joy, though something like a strangled squeal managed to escape you. Bakugou gave you an evaluating look as he got to his feet, stalking up on stage with his usual intensity.

As soon as he was up there, it struck you that allowing him time for an acceptance speech was maybe not a great idea. Graciousness was not exactly a strength of his.

“Obviously I’m the most valuable,” he growled into the mic. The stage lights glinted off his hair and teeth, making him look slightly more predatory than usual. “I didn’t need you fucks to tell me.”

A choking noise could be heard from Kirishima’s seat a couple tables over, and Mina put her head in her hands.

“What’s important is that I’m number six now and it only took me a month,” Bakugou’s head swiveled in the direction of Midoriya and you suppressed a groan. “Don’t get fucking comfortable. I’m gonna wipe the floor with every one of the top five, and next awards you’ll all be kissing my ass.”

He didn’t seem like he had much more he wanted to say, which was an incredible relief as both the host and nearby security looked about ready to wrestle him offstage.

He leapt neatly down from the stage, and when he made it back to the table, he didn’t take his seat again. Instead, he grabbed your arm, hauling you out of your seat, and then he was pulling you down the aisle and through the door to the reception area.

He pulled you past the snack table and you thought he was steering you towards the stairwell again, but at the last second he took a sudden turn, shoving you through a door into the women’s powder room. You didn’t even have enough time to formulate a question before he had you backed up against the wall, your shoulders hitting the cool stone at the same time his mouth hit yours.

His kiss was hot and demanding as always, and you lost yourself in it easily. He trailed a line of burning kisses down your neck and over your shoulder, making you shudder and shake when he lingered too long over any particular spot.

It was hard to think past the press of his body on yours, but you tried your best to formulate words.

“Katsuki--it’s--we’re in the women’s room,” you panted, embarrassed by the fact that even as you spoke, you were clutching him closer. “This is--what are you--? S-someone’s gonna come in.”

Bakugou broke apart from you just long enough to level a searching glance around the room and--spotting what he’d been looking for--hefting the trashcan in front of the door with a forceful kick to stop it shut.

“There, nerd. Now stop fucking complaining,” he rasped, immediately attaching his mouth back under your jaw. You shuddered.

“What the fuck has gotten into you,” you demanded, seizing a fistful of his blonde hair to pull him back from where he was leaving what felt like a very deep bruise over your collarbone.

He leveled you with a burning, red-eyed stare. “Like you don’t fucking know.”

You looked at him in question. “...I actually don’t.”

He tried to lean in again but you gripped his hair harder. “What? You can’t just keep throwing me up against walls, especially here. What is it with you and shoving me into weird places at the Hero Awards?”

Bakugou growled. “If you don’t shut the fuck up and let me do what I want, I’m gonna burn throught this dress too.”

You froze up, then glared at him accusingly. “I literally write the code that processes your rank. If you ever wanna come within sniffing distance of the top three, you won’t touch a single thread of this dress.”

The hands on you grew hot, but not hot enough to burn. Bakugou slid a calloused hand over the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“God, the fuckin’ attitude on you,” he said, almost reverently.

You felt your face warm under his scrutiny as he leaned closer. “You wanna know what's gotten into me? I wanted to melt that entire fucking thing off you last year. You were so fucking mouthy, such a little brat to me. Wanted to rip your dress off and fuck you right in the stairwell until you forgot you’d ever even heard of numbers.”

You shivered. Bakugou smirked, eyes darkening, leaning back in to bite under your jaw. You realized you’d lost your grip on him and willed your fingers to cooperate again.

“I fucking won that stupid award because I let you boss me around. I've waited an entire year. Now you’re gonna let me do whatever I want with you.”

Your legs went out from beneath you but Bakugou was already there, catching you under your thighs and hauling you up onto the countertop between the sinks. Your back brushed the mirror, glass cold under your shoulder blades.

“Y--you know, if you actually want to be number one, you can’t make speeches like you did,” you babbled nervously as he filled the space between your thighs. “Your public approval rating is part of your ranking, right? It’s weighted right below rescues…”

Bakugou paid you no mind, fingers already searching over your back to find the zipper to your dress. He yanked it down with little ceremony, seizing the front of your bodice to pull it off of you.

“I don’t need to be fucking nice if I’m the one saving the day,” he announced imperiously, leaning down to capture a nipple with his mouth.

Your hips jerked, and he pressed a hand to your thigh, holding you back down against the counter. Dimly, you registered that the words were familiar. “N--not--ah!--not this again.”

Bakugou didn’t deign to respond, instead doing something absolutely mind-bending with his tongue. You swore loudly, catching a fistful of his jacket. “Fuck, Katsuki!”

A hot palm slid up your thigh, gathering up the soft material of your skirt until he could slip a hand underneath. Calloused fingers trailed over your core with obvious intention. You inhaled sharply when he pressed them into you, leaning up to cover your mouth with his again.

Bakugou had you squirming wildly against him in barely a minute, snorting when you tried to get a hand on his zipper.

“Want me that bad, nerd?” he asked, pressing forehead to yours in an oddly tender move.

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up I’m gonna finish things myself,” you threatened, though Bakugou did not look at all as if he believed you.

He helped you get his zipper down, taking himself in hand, but he stopped just as he brushed your entrance, leaning forward to bite another kiss into your mouth.

“Now it’s time for you to make good on your end of the bet,” he growled, a smirk growing over his features. “You’ll tell me I’m the best and I was right all along.”

You stilled underneath him, disbelieving. “Are you--are you fucking serious.”

Bakugou pressed forward, just enough for you to feel the pressure of him on your clit. You fought down a noise like a whimper. Damn him.

“I jumped two ranks,” he said. “You’ll tell me I’m the best if you want me, nerd.”

“I am not gonna beg for you like this,” you announced, though it sounded a little more like a question than you had wanted it to.

Bakugou brushed his thumb over your clit again and little sparks danced over the corner of your vision. “Mmm, you’re gonna scream.”

You felt something like a tension snap inside you. Fuck it. He was so annoying but holy shit if he wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever encountered. If he needed his ego stroked, well it wasn’t nearly as much as you needed your own stroking.

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, fine--just--you’re the best, and you were right all along. Now will you please--”

You didn’t even get to finish before he was sinking into you, narrow hips fitting flush with your thighs. You swore at the feeling of fullness, and then he was moving, picking up into a frantic pace. He leaned forward, sealing his mouth over yours to swallow all the little noises you were making. It was mere minutes before you were shivering underneath him again, moving your hips to meet his, desperate for more, Katsuki, more.

“Ah fuck--so fucking good for me,” he grunted against your mouth, giving a particularly hard thrust, and that was all it took to unravel you.

You stifled a scream in the thick fabric of his jacket, arching up into him. He cursed and followed after you with a few more short thrusts, crushing you against the counter when he let his weight go slack.

You panted underneath him, catching your breath while your fingers slowly unclenched themselves from the hem of his suit jacket. Bakugou rubbed his face in the hollow of your shoulder, radiating smug satisfaction.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it, nerd?” he rasped, biting down lightly where he’d left the hickey earlier.

You pulled back, looking into his face again. He looked far too pleased with himself, but he was so handsome like this, all messy hair and a kiss darkened mouth. Your irritation with him fizzled out a little.

He flashed you a predatory grin. “You said it yourself--I'm the fucking best.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop your hand from coming up and tangling in his hair. “Shut the fuck up.”

Bakugou, predictably, did not look as if he was going to shut the fuck up at all. So you took matters into your own hands, and leaned in and kissed him again.

[theoraeken]

Just Add Water

For: @steodiscord's Steo Spooktober - Underwater

Rating: Mature

Category: M/M

Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)

Relationship: Theo Raeken/Stiles Stilinski

Tags: Background Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Background Lydia Martin, Background Sheriff Stilinski, Mildly Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Hot Tub Sex

AO3

There’s something really very wrong with Theo Raeken.

The chimera had come clean to Stiles letting him know the pack was in danger and how he had been the victim of the Dread Doctors as a child. Stiles thought that after they defeated the doctors that this suspicious feeling he had about Theo would go away. Yet, every time he looks at the chimera he loses his breath. On the surface Theo is all smiles at Stiles all the time, but there’s something hidden behind those eyes.

Stiles arrives at Lydia’s house a little late because he stops to drop off some lunch at the sheriff’s office before his dad can make up an excuse to order take out. He walks up the front walkway and then takes the trail that detours towards the back of Lydia’s house. He is expecting a chill get together around the pool at Lydia’s house, just the pack. What he walks into is definitely not that. It isn’t as packed as Lydia’s birthday party Sophomore year, but...

Stiles is pretty sure their pack hasn’t grown this much.

All of a sudden Stile feels a little underdressed and berates himself for walking in shirtless. He is about to make his way to look for Lydia when he is pulled up against someone in a backwards baseball cap. This person definitely works out and – who is this guy and why does he think he can just pull him along. Initially he doesn’t recognize the muscular teen, but when he turns to look at him he is surprised.

“Theo.” Stiles says

“Stiles.” Theo responds

Theo grins at him and then begins tugging him along again. Stiles can’t believe he is just allowing himself to be dragged along, but the feeling of being pulled tight to Theo’s body is muddling his brain. The possessive grip he has on Stiles’ waist feels too good. Stiles doesn’t let himself think too much about it, he is probably just grabbing him like that because Theo isn’t quite tall enough to hang his arm off his shoulders. That moment of reality or what Lydia calls negativity breaks the spell enough for Stiles to speak.

“Where are you taking me?” Stiles asks.

“Afraid I’m gonna kidnap you?” Theo counters.

Before Stiles can reply they arrive at the gazebo that is functioning as a VIP only area because the entire pack is there. There are quick greetings and then Theo starts pulling him along again. They get to the hot tub at the end of the trail where Lydia and Scott are already waiting. Theo releases Stiles, his hand drags along his back as he walks around to get into the hot tub facing Stiles directly.

Scott is all smiles and Stiles greets his best friend with a “Hey, Scotty” and then he bends down to place a light kiss on Lydia’s cheek. He lowers himself into the hot tube and lets the warm jets work the tension out of his back. The warmth completely distracts him from Theo and he just lets himself drift.

Stiles inhales deeply at the feel of hands exploring his chest and fingers tweaking his nipples. He looks up to see the look of self satisfaction on Theo’s face

“Where did Scott and Lydia go?” Stiles mutters.

“Brett got here, I’m sure they just went to greet them. You know, Alpha to Alpha.” Theo replies.

Stiles feels a little vulnerable all alone with the chimera.

Sure, Theo had abandoned the Dread Doctors for him. He said he’d come back for him. But safety wasn’t a feeling he really associated with Theo, there was always the edge of danger.

Stiles starts to lift himself out of the water.

“Well then I should be there –

And Stiles feels some powerful hands grab at his waist before they emerge from the waterline and firmly hold him down to his seat.

“What did you do?” Stiles accuses.

Theo has the gall to look offended before his dark grin appears.

“I haven’t done anything.” Theo mocks.

“Then how are you controlling the water?” Stiles pushes.

“Oh, is the water doing something Stiles? Please, tell me about it.”

“You did something and –

“I’m part kelpie, just one of the perks of being me.”

Stiles immediately has so many questions but that train of thought is cut off by the feeling of lips pressing up against the head of his cock and a tongue softly swirling around the head. Stiles feels the sensation of a tongue sliding around his dick like a spiral and he tries to focus his eyes up at the moon. He can’t give in. He refuses to let that cocky chimera win.

Fuck.

Stiles is immediately broken out of the haze when the feeling of the most wonderful blow job turns into a fist grabbing his dick really fucking hard. He shoots a look at Theo and – oh – he looks very unhappy..

“Don’t look away from me, don’t you dare hide a fucking thing.” Theo says with a glare that has never been pointed at Stiles before.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Stiles sputters.

“You heard me, all of this is mine!” Stiles knows he means business because his dick feels the invisible fist squeeze his dick tight to deliver Theo’s point. He gasps for air, that’s the moment when he becomes aware that he has been holding his breath. His labored breathing continues and Theo’s smirk grows wider as Stiles begins to feel the sensation of being swallowed down to the hilt. He is already so hot in the water and then there is the feeling of an ice tongue driving him over the edge.

How the fuck– I’m coming!

The combination of hot and cold milks him as rope after rope of cum shoots inside his swim suit.

Theo stands up and positions himself between Stiles’ outstretched legs. Stiles’ eyes focus on his pronounced bulge and then up his light treasure trail and past his massive pecs to his face. Theo definitely looks the part of an angel, but Stiles can see underneath his pretty looks, he is pure devil. Theo lowers himself a bit, lips lightly grazing his ear.

“If I could do this with my mind, imagine what else I can do.”

Theo slowly stands back up, the son of a bitch adjusts his package with a grin and then steps out of the hot tub. He tries not to look, but Stiles’ eyes are glued to Theo’s ass. The full globes bouncing with each step and half visible because of the weight of his wet trunks lowering the waistband.

Looks like Theo isn’t done killing, because Stiles is definitely going to die tonight, half submerged underwater.

[luna-ie-dreams]

Let’s do some realistic but kind writing for Y/N x Xiao.

I wanted to try this out, since I see a lot of soft content of xiao without a bit of build up to how he got to that bond. Because as we know Xiao is stricken with insecurities and a huge sense of responsibility.

TW: mentions of blood and injury

Now the way you two met is that Aether introduced you to him while you both were on a mission. Since he needed Xiao to be comfortable with you to proceed.

Now at the very beginning, he hardly even glanced at you besides to check if you were far enough. He hardly goes out of his way to chat with you, he in-fact gives information to Aether to share with you.

You quickly learn that this yaksha is focused on his lifelong solitude and fated duty. You had no idea and felt your heart sink, you didn’t want to let him be alone. But what could you do?

Well, let’s delve into that shall we?

Overtime you began slowly asking Xiao small questions, not tedious questions, you know it would only anger him. So you begin asking questions about the Archons and about the fatui. Which he was slightly surprised but complied.

Slowly from questions, to offering his favorite food, to light small talk, to now him accompanying you on patrols. He doesn’t trust the area quite yet.

From not being conscious of you, now he’s observant towards you and watching over you. You two still have a distance between each other but you don’t feel it to be uncomfortable

Anytime you encounter an old friend, Xiao stands in front of you quite angrily, unknowing of the person in front. Which you over and over have to reassure him. Aether would joke that he's your personal guard dog.

You didn't realize how true it was at the time until...

One day you were passing by Gadaupa Gorge, you weren't there for anything major, just a few insignias and ruin guard hunting. You were on this hunt because Aether had asked you since it was in correlation to Albedo's research.

While pushing some fallen debris out of the pathway, a skirmisher watches you from behind. Unbeknownst to you, he walks closer and fires his gun directly into your back. The sudden wave of pain and shearing burns into your back send you to the ground, your body unable to stop shaking from the shock.

Out of your view, you hear the skirmisher writhing in pain and curdling screams, as blood splatters to the ground next to you.

A snarling venomous voice spits out,

"I knew you fatui were bold, but to think you had the gall to mess with something dear to me is just moronic. You should be grateful I didn't sever you on sight."

Xiao. He came for you. How on earth did he know, regardless your eyes leaked with tears of relief as the burns trudged on even more intense.

You hear the skirmisher plead for his life, but another quick slice rings the atmosphere and the skirmisher goes silent. You weren't stupid as to know what he just did.

Before being able to choke out anything, Xiao picks you up in his arms and begins bringing you back to the hideout and have your wounds tended to. Xiao doesn't utter a word the entire way back.

You feel nervous but need to know what's wrong,

"Xiao? You've been silent, is something the matter?" You ask hesitantly.

While preparing the medicine and bandages, he turns to you with a pained but defeated expression.

"You couldn't have been more careful? What would've happened if I wasn't there for you [Y/N]?"

"That skirmisher could've killed you, and then what? I can't afford to lose you, so please try to watch your surroundings when I'm unable to be by your side. Call my name, and I promise to save you." He trails off.

Your heart clenched. You hadn't seen him this way, it wasn't your intention to worry him that way.

"Xiao.." You started.

But before you could apologize, he pulled in you in a gentle embrace, and you knew silently that he wasn't mad just was afraid.

"I promise I won't let my guard down, and I won't forget to call." You finished, leaning into him.

The cultivated bond between you and Xiao was now a hard one to break. As he is the type to not let go once he's held on. He cherishes you in a way you never felt before.

You're grateful for Aether introducing you to him 4 years ago, and forever will be.

[aurora-australis-tumbles]

Helllllooooo, my darling!

For your prompt ask, I have a list 😇

Hug 11, kisses 13, touching 24 - for Phrack, please 🙏😚😚

You got it, babe!

This is for Touching 24: whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin

-------

There were limits.

Limits to how much a man could take, how much he could endure. Genuine, physical limits. How much weight one could lift, how long one could stay under water, how much whisky could be consumed in a single sitting. And one could push them, of course — after all, that’s why weightlifting tournaments and swimming competitions and drinking contests existed. But still... limits. Eventually one dropped the barbell, came up for air, passed out on the floor.

Succumbed to Phryne Fisher.

And Jack… Jack was at his limit.

And the worst part, the most galling part, was she wasn’t even trying. In fact, what she was trying to do was be good… or Phryne Fisher’s version of good anyway. She was attempting not to disrupt the proceedings, trying to share her take on the testimony quietly, without drawing attention.

In other words, she was whispering in his ear.

And Jack was about to combust.

Every word, every syllable at this point was pure torture. Her breath was hot and her voice was silk and her damnable lips kept grazing the shell of his ear every time she formed a diphthong and fucking hell now even ‘diphthong’ sounded erotic and this was utter torment.

And her words. Her clever, clever words. She was doing a better job than the prosecution of tearing down the man’s lies and this hadn’t even been her case.

In a desperate attempt to address the situation, Jack crossed his legs. She leaned in closer. Nope nope, bad move. He uncrossed them. Did his times tables. Tried to remember the St Crispin's Day speech.

“Jack, are you even listening to me?”

Her tongue briefly kissed his skin as she said it.

We few, we few, we totally fucked few.

Jack gave up.

With considerable effort and some very adroit overcoat shifting, Jack stood and took a surprised Phryne by the arm, leading her directly out of the courtroom and down the hall. They were about halfway to the exit when Sergeant Smith, who Jack knew vaguely from various unpleasant meetings at Russell Street, stopped them.

“Inspector Robinson,” he greeted, ignoring Phryne entirely. “Here for the Mackenzie trial?” At Jack’s nod, he continued. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

Smith nodded, too used to Jack’s taciturn nature to realize the senior officer was actually trying to give him the brush off.

Smith rocked back on his heels. “If you ask me,” — Jack hadn’t — “what they need to focus on is the eyewitness.”

“Actually,” Phryne offered, “that would most likely be a mistake.”

Smith spared her a quick dismissive glance and an unctuous smile. “Is that so, Miss?” He turned back to Jack. “All this jabber by the coroner and the like. The jury needs to hear from the man who was there.”

“I’m sure the Crown Prosecutor has his reasons for devoting more time to the medical evidence,” Jack said diplomatically.

“Hmph. Well if you ask me,” — no one had — “the jury isn’t gonna listen to a female coroner anyway.”

Beside him, Jack felt Phryne bristle.

“And if he HAD asked me,” Smith continued. “I would have said as much.” The younger officer puffed out his chest a bit. “In fact, Inspector, if you ever have call for some extra insight, you should feel free to do the same. A bit more perspective, whenever you’re stumped, ya know?”

“Actually,” Jack began conversationally, which anyone who knew him would have known meant danger, “I think you’re right.”

“Really? I mean, yes, too right I am.”

“Mmmm. And when I’m, as you say, stumped, I always find it best to ask for help from the smartest person in the room.” He turned to the woman at his side. “Miss Fisher?”

Phryne beamed up at him, then cast a brutally blinding smile at Smith. “Actually, Sergeant, if you ask me,” — Jack had and always would — “the reason they’re not overly relying on the eyewitness is because he is nearsighted.”

“What?” Smith seemed confused.

“His vision is 20/50, Sergeant, which means what the average person can see 50 feet away, he needs to be 20. And he wasn’t. So while he is able to see what’s right in front of his face, unlike some people,” she added under her breath, “he’s not the most reliable of witnesses across a busy boulevard.”

Smith gaped.

“Perspective,” Phryne added sweetly, before waving goodbye to Smith and dragging Jack around a corner and straight into a broom closet.

Where she pounced.

“What,” Jack asked between frantic kisses, no less exciting for their long and intense buildup “is this for?”

Phryne pulled him flush and stretched up to whisper in his ear, his earlier issues returning in a rush as her lips caressed his skin.

“There are limits, Jack Robinson, to how much a woman can take.”

And somehow, after months of banter and flirting and unbelievable restraint, it was that quiet admission in a broom closest of all places which caused him to shed the last of his reserves. Perspective indeed.

Jack dropped the metaphorical barbell and kissed her back.

And, eventually, they both succumbed. ---

Touches Ask Game

[queenk00k]

red wine lips part 3 // rafe cameron

warnings: NSFW smutty smut smut. semi-public sex, fingering (female receiving).

word count: 1.9k

READ PART 1 HERE

READ PART 2 HERE

FINAL PART NOW UPLOADED

author’s note: please read parts 1 & 2 above so you know what’s going on. second attempt at writing smut! please let me know what you think, i thrive off reblogs/messages/asks. enjoy!

You and Rafe haven’t spoken since ‘the incident’ (and by incident you mean last weekend when you got drunk off overpriced merlot and he came inside you whilst he pressed you up against a bathroom sink), and you’re not sure how you are going to approach him again.

He’s your childhood best friend, fellow “partner in crime’ (literally, you got up to some shit that definitely wouldn’t go under the radar if it weren’t for your families), and now…what? Fuck buddy? Do you call him that if it’s only happened once? You’ve been trying to prepare yourself for the possibility that it truly was a one-time thing but somehow, deep down, you know you’d give anything to feel Rafe Cameron inside you again.

You can only hope he feels the same way.

___

Today you have plans with Rafe, Topper, and his new girlfriend Claire, that you made weeks ago and you have a weird feeling of nausea overcome you as your mum drives you through the front gates. The four of you were planning on playing a game or two of doubles and usually you’d be psyched to completely own Topper (he held golf over you but you know how to work a tennis court) but today you’re feeling incredibly anxious.

What if it’s weird? What if Rafe doesn’t want to talk to you? Oh God, you think. What if he thinks it was a mistake? What if-

You’re not given the opportunity to finish your train of thought as your car door opens, startling you in the process, and you’re whipping your long ponytail around to stare directly into those baby blues you’ve come to love so much.

Rafe smiles at you, a white cap pulled down tight on top of his head flattening his hair (you love it when he wears it like this, instead of slicking it back like some Wall Street tragic).

“M’lady,” he says as he holds the door open for you and waits for you to step out of your mum’s Range Rover. You stare at him for a second, mouth agape, before you blink and regain your composure. You barely hear your mum saying “please behave sweetie and try to order the virgin cocktails this time” as you jump down, your stark white tennis shoes hitting the gravel.

You smile up at Rafe, in his criminally adorable striped polo shirt, and loop your arm through his.

“Ready to kick some ass today, partner?” He asks you as he leads you down the path to the courts.

Hm, you think. I guess we’re not addressing the whole “we got blind drunk last weekend and fucked in a bathroom and oh yeah, you CAME INSIDE ME?”

“Absolutely I am”, you reply with a mischievous grin. Maybe you’ll get to talking later.

___

You’re halfway to victory (Claire’s lovely, bless her, but she can’t serve for shit), with you and Rafe up one set and about to take the second, when you get the crushing feeling that maybe you’re never going to talk about what happened.

Rafe has been acting like everything is completely normal the entire afternoon, like you two are back to best friends. He hasn’t even made any overtly sexual remarks or used one of his smooth come-ons. Was he just keeping up appearances in front of Topper? It’s not as if you’ve told your friends what you got up to that day. Was Rafe ashamed of you?

You’re lost in thought as Rafe slices his renowned backhand, winning you the match, and you barely register him coming towards you for a victory hug.

“Woo-hoo, we did it again Y/N! Smoked their asses!” Rafe yells, losing his grin when he notices you aren’t celebrating as vivaciously as you’re prone to.

“Hey, what’s up? That was a sick backhand I just did. You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, his brow furrowed in concern but his voice reflecting some defensiveness.  

You smile tightly and fidget with your racquet with your hands. “Uh, yeah, good job Rafe. I’m uh, gonna go inside for some iced tea,” you say, and you run up the stairs outside the courts, forcing yourself to get out of such an awkward situation.

Rafe stands there nonplussed for a second before dropping his racquet and bounding after you, leaving Topper and Claire to throw their hands up in confusion at both of your sudden exits.

You’re speed walking down the corridor, towards the café at the back where you’re hoping to get some iced tea and clear your head, before a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you into a door on your right.

“Rafe!” You sputter. “What are you doing?”

Rafe shuts the door to what you assume is the administration office, and pulls his cap off his head, tossing it aside and messing up his hair. He scoffs.

“What am I doing? What about what are you doing? You’ve been acting weird all day-”

“No, I haven’t,” you interject.

“Ah, yeah, you have. Your mind was barely in that game and you’re normally so excited to gloat about winning. What’s gotten into you?”

You can’t believe he has the gall to be asking you what’s going on.

“Um, hello? Rafe, we had sex last weekend. Hot, drunk, condomless, semi-public sex. Were you planning on talking about it at any point or were you just going to ignore it?”

This wasn’t what Rafe was expecting you to bring up, and he’s momentarily shocked.

“Y/N…” he trails off.

You will yourself to set your jaw steady. “Do you think it was a mistake? Do you regret fucking me?” you ask quietly. May as all get it all out in the open now.

Rafe is obviously taken aback, but he steps forward to close the gap between you and takes both of your hands regardless.

“Regret fucking you? God, Y/N, how could I ever regret that?”

You swallow the hard lump that was lodged in your throat, and you’re grateful you didn’t let yourself cry over a misunderstanding.

Rafe brings a hand around to rest on your waist and pushes you gently so the backs of your thighs are pressed against the desk. His gentle, but still dominant, confidence makes your clit throb.

Rafe continues as he slides his other hand up your tennis skirt, his deft fingers dancing their way to the edge of your lace underwear.

“How could I ever regret the sound of you cumming? How could I regret the feeling of finally being inside you?”

You moan quietly as he presses his soft lips to your neck, right underneath your ear, and Rafe takes that as an invitation to start slipping your panties down your legs. You step out of them as they make their way down to your ankles and you kick them aside.

Rafe takes his lips off your neck, where he’s been sucking and biting (you just know that’ll leave a hickey but for the first time in your adult life you don’t even mind), and rests his forehead against yours.

It’s sweet and intimate, and you almost forget you’re soaking wet in a tennis centre’s administration office.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask softly.

Rafe smiles and nods, and you take one of your hands to the back of his head and bring his lips to yours in a crashing kiss that threatens to knock the breath out of you.

Your lips move like that for a while, his tongue eventually slipping into your mouth like smooth velvet, and Rafe starts brushing his index and middle finger through your wet folds and onto your clit.

You hum into his mouth as you moan, bucking your hips up and chasing your release, frowning as he suddenly stops and pulls away from you.

“What are you doing?” You whine, craving his touch.

Rafe goes to move his head down underneath your skirt, ever the gentleman, but you pull him back up sharply.

“As much as I appreciate the gesture, we have two friends outside who are going to be wondering where the hell we are, and we’re standing in yet another public place,” you say.

Rafe chuckles. “Seems to be turning into a habit of ours.”

“I need you to fuck me, and I need you to do it quickly.”

Rafe’s eyes darken with lust and he bring his lips to yours in a chaste kiss before grabbing your waist and turning you around.

“Much obliged.”

You hear the sound of a zipper and turn your head to see Rafe’s pants coming down just enough for his cock to spring out. Your pussy is practically pulsating at the sight of Rafe pumping his cock with his hand, stroking the beads of pre-cum across the head with his thumb.

Rafe winks at you before he places his other hand on the back of your neck and forces you to bend over the desk. Your cheek presses against the cold wood and you feel your short skirt being lifted.

Rafe hums in appreciation at the sight of your ass laid bare in front of him, and he takes his hand off his cock to grab at your smooth skin. He slaps your ass cheek, making you yelp in surprise at the sudden sting.

Rafe leans down to whisper in your ear, “sorry, sorry, was that okay?”

“Yes, God yes, please just fuck me already,” you say, impatient and ready to feel him stretch you out once more.

Rafe wordlessly takes his dick and runs it down between your ass cheeks before finally reaching your entrance and pushing in.

You let out a guttural moan (Rafe shushes you) at the sudden feeling of being oh so full, and Rafe’s hands grip your waist as he starts moving slowly.

He pumps in and out of you like that for a while, before you get impatient and need more and you say “harder, please.”

In a weird dynamic switch, it seems you’re the one in charge as Rafe obeys and starts snapping his hips forward, pounding you faster. You move your body back in time with his, fucking yourself on his cock.

The room’s previous silence is broken by the sounds of your skin slapping against each other, and the occasional moan. Beads of sweat form on your brow and your chest, and you bite into your arm to stop yourself from crying out.

Rafe’s thrusts become erratic and poorly timed as he warns you breathlessly, “Y/N, I’m about to cum.”

“You know what to do,” you gasp. “Please cum inside me.”

As if your mere words sent him over the edge, Rafe thrusts for a final time and you feel his warm cum spill inside you. Rafe slips out and you feel it trickle down your thigh.

In a very unromantic fashion, you motion for him to get a tissue or a piece paper or oh God something, so you don’t drip cum on this poor lady’s desk. Rafe’s blue eyes dart around the office momentarily before he goes, “aha!” and passes you a tissue.

As you’re cleaning yourself up and putting your underwear back on (and adjusting your skirt so you uphold some dignity once you walk out of this room), you glance over at Rafe who’s standing there almost sheepishly.

You smile at him. “Can we not be weird now? I want to keep this up.”

Rafe nods and presses a kiss to your temple. “Me too.”

Rafe’s phone rings, interrupting the moment, and you both jump at the sound.

It’s Topper.

“We gotta go,” says Rafe, and he pulls you by your hand back out of the room, but not before he kisses you one last time.

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[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

That ask with the ice cubes was not only adorable/sexy as HECK, but also made me "aww" at Sooga wishing he could surprise Kohga with kinky fun too. So I guess this is an ask: what if there WAS something Sooga could think of to surprise his hubby in the same way, doing something kinky to Kohga? Honestly I think anything where Sooga takes charge would make Kohga swoon, especially if it's something public

I thought of just the fucking thing for you, anon!

"Vai! Settle down now, settle down!"

Sooga watched as the women hurried inside the building, damn near giddy. He couldn't believe he was doing this. But something...happened today, and it made him desperate. He snuck inside the bushes right by the doorway, peering into the class. The woman at the front cleared her throat, demanding attention.

"Alright, pay attention now! We have a new topic to dive into today; surprising your voe! Surprising your voe will keep a relationship fun, exciting even. Dina, let's assume you are already in a relationship with a voe. How do you surprise him?"

"Oh, what about new clothes? Something that compliments the frame?"

"Very simple, very nice! Good job, Dina."

Sooga scribbled what he could into his journal. Anything was helpful, and everything was worth noting.

"Let's see-Risa! Say you want to surprise your voe, give us something out of the blue."

"Choke him?"

"I...well I mean, TECHNICALLY you aren't wrong, but. You know what, I'm just gonna let you have that one."

That was more Sooga’s league, but it was still worth noting. He scribbled more, and listened on.

"Okay, Pasha. Pasha? PASHA!!"

Her yell scared not only the woman inside, but Sooga as well. He dropped his pencil, and watched helplessly as the pencil rolled away from him. He watched it until it came to a complete stop. He COULD reach it, if he was careful. He looked into the room, and seeing that they hadn't noticed anything, reacher for the pencil. Further, further...when his fingertips touched the pencil, there was a blade's end right at his face. He looked up, and mentally swore. Her blade was in his face, and two spears were pointed at him as well. As Kohga would say, 'I'm fucked'.

"A voe. A YIGA voe. Get up. Slowly."

Sooga obeyed, keeping his hands up in the air as he rose. The pink haired one stepped closer to him, nearly pressing her body against his.

"Why are you here? Attempting to kill us?"

"I say we cut off his dick and shove it down his throat, make him choke on it."

They all turned to look at Risa, even Sooga had to mentally go 'what the fuck'. She met their eyes, shrugging.

"Too much?"

"Yes, Risa, too much. But the thought was there."

"He has yet to answer us. Why WERE you in the bushes? You a pervert?"

"Without trying to be rude- ew. No, I wasn't doing any perverse thing with any of you. I...I wanted to attend your class."

They all looked taken aback. They turned to their teacher, who huffed, bringing her face closer to his. It was intimidating of a stance, and he would've been less terrified, had it been a man.

"You. Want to attend a class...where vai's try to date and marry voe's? But. YOU are a voe, are you not?"

"I am. But...my relationship with MY voe is...struggling. I want to please him, terribly. I heard of your class, and I was hoping, honestly, genuinely hoping I could learn something. Anything."

Risa cocked her head to the side.

"Wait. If you wanted to join, why didn't you just take the form of a fellow Gerudo?"

Sooga opened his mouth, only to shut it. Shit. That would've been a good idea.

"I...I wished I thought of that. This is...embarrassing."

Their teacher looked him up and down, before stepping back, and tucking her weapon away.

"We will help you."

"You will?!"

"We will?!"

"Yes. A voe who does something so stupid for the sake of another, is a voe truly in love. Grab your pen and come inside. You will get ONE class, so take in what you can."

"Yes-er, sorry, didn't catch your name."

"Ashai. Yours?"

"Sooga. It's a pleasure, and an honor."

They allowed him an empty seat as they walked in. They seemed uncomfortable with him, but that didn't matter. He needed to learn something, ANYTHING. Ashai wrote on the board, pointing to it.

"We will skip lessons one through three, given that you are already in a relationship. So, lesson four, 'how to attend to your voe's needs'."

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

"Anyone seen Sooga? I haven't heard from him, and he hasn't arrived when I called."

The other blade masters shrugged, not having seen the man since last night. He was about to ask Von, when his slate went off. A text from Sooga.

'I left you something in your room. On the nightstand.'

Weird. Kohga went anyway, and saw it when he walked into the room. A huge vase full of mighty thistles. How cute.

"Oh...you idiot."

He walked up to it, and looked at the tag that hung from the silken ribbon.

"'Boo'? The hell does-"

Suddenly Kohga was yanked backwards. His face was grabbed rather roughly, and lips were smashed onto his. Kohga was about to stomp on the assailants foot, when that all too familiar voice cooed against his lips.

"Did I scare you?"

"Fucking hell, Sooga- thought I was gonna have to beat your ass for a second. Yeah, you got me, you really did, big boy. This why I couldn't find you this morning?"

"I've been getting a surprise for you, yes. It's not just those flowers."

Kohga chuckled, lifting a hand up to pinch his cheek.

"Oh look at you. You look damn near smug. Is it poetry?"

"No. But there WILL be something that sounds just as sweet, my Master."

He kissed his hand, before grabbing it, and forcing them both behind his back. Kohga tried to move them, when he suddenly found them bound by rope. Tightly. Kohga looked confused for a second, before he chuckled.

"Sooga! You naughty dog you! What are you planning?"

"You'll see. Now walk."

Sooga was being plenty rude today, giving him a little shove to get him walking, and holy SHIT did Kohga find it hot. Big, stud man, shoving him around, tying him up, bossing him around. He led him to their bed, before gesturing to the other gift he got him; giant mirror. Kohga chuckled.

"Aw, you got me another present. It's nice. What next, chocolates?"

"On the bed."

Sooga was NOT in the mood for playing, he seemed. He obeyed, sitting down on the bed. Sooga crawled in behind him, and helped Kohga put his arms up.

"You know how beautiful I think you are? You don't truly understand. The way I look at you. The way I crave you. Now, thanks to your gift, you're going to SEE what I mean."

Kohga was about to ask what he meant, before his arms were lifted above his head, and his bound hands were tied to the wooden support beam above them. Kohga snickered, giving them a good tug, just to test the knot.

"Good tying on this, it's sturdy. But I thought you LIKED it when I used my hands."

"I do. I really, really do. But you’re mischievous with them,"

Sooga sat down behind him, letting his own hands caress his frame. Sooga's hands were slow, loving, and in a 'hurry the fuck up' kinda way, it was hot.

"Your hands make me forget what I'm doing. So, in order to show you what I can do, you're going to playing games under MY rules."

"Am I really THAT much for you, Sooga?"

"Yes and no. Yes, because your hands are unrivaled, but no, because we both know if you wanted to, you could escape from your confines at any time. You're just being nice. And that's another thing I like about you."

Kohga felt his breath hitch as Sooga grabbed his throat, forcing him to look at the mirror. Oh the LOOK Sooga was giving him. Was this what he looked like when he couldn’t see his face directly? He tried to keep his signature smirk, really he did, but holy shit was it...hard.

"I like many things about you. I like how you look in my arms. I like how your eyes soften when you see me. I like how you know you're the most attractive man I've ever known."

There was a small kiss to his jaw, before Sooga had to hold him still, given the sudden tight grip onto his ass.

"I like your body. I like your ass. It's full, it's perfect, and it is MINE."

His hand pulled at the yiga attire, not caring what ripped and tore. Kohga gasped at the absolute GALL in this man.

"Sooga my CLOTHES! You know those are-"

"I like the way you fucking whine,"

His grip was tighter on his throat, Sooga’s voice grew huskier.

"When you want to act like a brat. It's adorable. I like your stomach, it gives me so much for me to hold."

Kohga couldn’t believe he wasn’t saying shit as Sooga grabbed handfuls of his poochy tummy, playing with his fat in the same way one would a breast.

"We all think about it. But only I get to touch it. Only I get to fill it, full of food, of my love. Fucking hell, you drive me crazy."

Sooga forced his legs to part, before grabbing at his hard cock, slowly stroking it in his hand.

"Like your cock. God I love your cock. It's thick, it's gorgeous. It feels so good in my hand. I like how you squirm because you want me to go faster. You're SO impatient. You want what you want, and you want it when you want it. It's sexy, in a way, knowing you won't wait for what you deserve. I admire that about you."

Sooga held him still as he pumped his cock, slowly and firmly, enough to make Kohga squirm. Sooga was a bastard, KNOWING how he hated this stupid slow and sweet approach. He wanted it fast, hard, and raw. But Sooga was in charge right now, and that was hotter than anything. Sooga kept going; chin resting on his shoulder as he listened to his breaths, and until his hand was covered in a thick layer of precum. He pushed Kohga’s mask up, just enough to reveal his lips.

"I love your lips. The way you kiss, the way you eat, the way you talk. Anytime I see your mouth do anything...it makes me want jump over the table, and fuck you. How I keep my composure around you, I have no idea. Your lips are...so greedy. They take anything they are given."

Sooga proved it, shoving two fingers into his mouth, letting them slide back and forth across his tongue, back and forth, making drool dribble down his lips. He could taste his own precum on his fingers, and it was absolutely gross. Suffice to say, Kohga was fucking throbbing.

"That's it. Drool for me. Get that pretty mouth ready for me. I like feeling your precious mouth take what I want to give it, and do so oh so hungrily. You're so greedy. Never satisfied. Ever hungry. I adore that about you."

Sooga pulled his hand away, and even got out of bed, standing right next to Kohga. Kohga licked his lips, trying to look SOMEWHAT composed. Even behind locked doors, he had SOME reputation to uphold.

"Open."

Sooga grabbed onto his head, pushing it back as he shoved his cock right into his mouth. Kohga hated how good it felt, essentially being forced to suck on the slowly moving gerth in his mouth. Sooga hated it too, given the way he swore under his breath, the way his face softened once he looked up at him.

"You're going to like this, I know I will. Look at the mirror again."

Kohga looked at the mirror, and holy shit was he a sight. Torn clothes, cock leaking precum, and drool running down his chest as he savored the cock in his mouth. But that wasn't the good part. The good part was when Sooga suddenly shoved himself in fully, balls deep into him. Watching himself not only squirm, but watched as his throat bulged, full of Sooga’s cock.

"Aren't you magnificent? Aren't you wonderful? Aren't you just so cock hungry? Gag for me. I know you can."

Kohga was tempted not to, absolutely stubborn, but they both knew he couldn’t resist it. He liked gagging, he liked being at the mercy of a big, strong man, with his mouth stuffed to the brim with man meat. Sooga smacked his cheek a bit, correcting him as if he were an animal. Then he gagged (with a little bit of help from Sooga really pushing himself in), damn near making Sooga melt upon the feeling. He pulled himself out quickly, actually shaking a little bit.

Poor Sooga. Despite being a big bad dom, he was still the buff cutie who could cum oh too quickly. Kohga grinned, looking up at him.

"Oh come on, you were close! I don't deserve a little treat?"

"You will get the treat I intended for you. As tempting as it would be, you aren't the one in power here."

Kohga was about to say something smart, just to be an ass, when Sooga got behind him again, grabbed a hold of his meaty thighs, and slammed himself right into his ass. Oh the way it sent a shiver up his spine. Sooga grabbed a piece of his torn clothes, before balling it up, and shoving it right into Kohga's mouth.

"I don't want you to talk. I want you to sit here, and watch me fuck you. I want you to be helpless against me. I. Want. YOU."

And boy, Sooga wasn't kidding. He kept his grip on his thighs, slamming himself in and out of his ass. All while Kohga was forced to just sit there, and watched himself get railed. His cock was throbbing and leaking, drool was soaked up by the cloth and was spilling down his chin, and Sooga.

Oh Sooga.

He didn't move his face from his shoulder, letting him hear that quick breathing, his swears, even his animalistic snorts. He, even now, didn't stop meeting his gaze in the mirror. He wanted him to look him in his eyes. He wanted total and complete possession of him. And he could have him. Seeing how his cock pounded into him, seeing how precum slathered over him and only made this sound even wetter. It was gross, it was shameful, and it was driving Kohga CRAZY.

"Look at you. You LIKE it when I fuck you like this. You like taking control sometimes, we know this. But when you submit yourself to me, when you're letting me destroy this ass I love so much- I can tell you like letting me have you. Im going to stuff you full of you cum. Nod if you want that. Nod if you want me to hold you down while I FUCKING breed you."

If Kohga nodded any faster, he'd get a headache. That seemed to be enough for Sooga, who, with a loud swore, came. He didn't stop moving either, making his own orgasm more intense by still stimulating himself. Oh the way the cum was pushed into his ass, the way it soaked onto the sheets below. Sooga sounded exhausted behind him, even the grip on his thighs were shakey. But his voice didn't falter.

"Cum on my fucking cock. NOW."

Then Sooga, supporting him with only one hand, used his other to bring his hand swiftly across his ass. It hurt like a BITCH, and he already knew a bruise was gonna come from that big, open palm. And of course, it made Kohga cum. His cum spilled onto his stomach, his sheets- all while Sooga still slammed his hips against his.

It took a good damn minute for Sooga to finally stop plowing his ass, but when he did, Kohga saw them both panting like hell in the mirror, shining in sweat. Once Sooga seemed to hit that post nut clarity, he removed the gag from his mouth, watching in almost fascination as the drool came pouring from his mouth. Kohga didn't even bother trying to swallow any of his spit- letting it fall wherever it pleased. Kohga gave a light shake of his head.

"Holy....SHIT Sooga. The fuck was all of THAT about?"

"Did you...not like-"

"Ooh don't you start. That was hot as HELL! color me surprised, I didn't expect that from you~"

That was the word he seemed cling to. 'Surprise'. That was what he wanted, apparently, given the sigh of relief he had.

"I wanted nothing more than to surprise you, my Master."

He kissed his forehead, before starting to try to untie his hands.

"So where DID you pick up such a neat little trick?"

"I uhm...took a class."

"You took a CLASS?!"

Kohga had no idea why, but that was SO funny to him. He wanted to laugh, but he immediately say Sooga shrink a little. Guy was so self conscious in this relationship, even from the start. He leaned in to kiss his masked cheek.

"I'm flattered. Really. You did something new, for me. By Ganon you're a sweetie."

Oh the stupid blush on his stupid face. He cleared his throat, continuing to un do his hands.

"I...thank you, Master."

"Uh huh. Can you hurry it up big guy, I need to pee SO fucking bad."

"...I'm hearing 'keep you here'"

"Oh my god you fucking-you are not doing this right now."

"I mean. You're already here, I'm already going to have go clean these sheets ANYWAY-"

"SOOGA."

"Okay okay, I heard you. Had to TRY."

Kohga was stuck with an absolute fucking idiot. And he loved him so much.

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (1/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 8.3K and just a lot more than originally planned AN: It’s me. Incapable of writing a multi-chapter until starting a new job, and having other prompts to fill, and I really will fill those other prompts, so prepare yourselves for an onslaught of Christmas fic. Of which this is only kind of that. It takes place at Christmas. But also involves time travel, and way more canon divergence than I’ve ever written, and kissing. Because of who I am as a person. Blame @klynn-stormz​​ if you must. Or don’t, because she sent a very good prompt and is very nice and I hope she enjoys this mess of words. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam

————

She’s so goddamn hot. It’s absurd. And disgusting. But mostly absurd. 

Sweat pools at the base of Emma’s spine, drips down the sides of her cheeks and falls from the edge of her jaw. Makes her skin crawl, the kind of heat that’s far too oppressive and she’s already having enough trouble breathing, so all of this seems like overkill. Which is Neverland’s schtick, she imagines. 

Licking her lips doesn’t help. Moving is a lost cause before she’s even considered clamoring to her feet, and she’s genuinely not sure if she’d be able to unbend her knees anyway, crouched as she is in whatever foliage surrounds the mouth of the Echo Caves. 

It smells. 

The foliage — and Emma, she supposes. Most of her thoughts drift away from body odor rather quickly though, right back into that cave and she can’t figure out who made the cell Neal was in, but she also told Neal she wished he was actually dead while he was in that cell and she figures that makes her something of an asshole. 

Feeling clenches in her chest, quite possibly the physical manifestation of her anxiety and growing fear and every single second that passes is another second they haven’t used to find Henry and—

“Ah, shit,” Emma hisses, not able to get her sword out of its makeshift scabbard in time. Maybe she shouldn’t keep it on her back. 

Hook lifts his eyebrows. 

“Are you alright, love?” “Shut up. What are you doing out here? It’s not your turn to watch.” Scoffing, he lets his tongue trace across the front of his teeth, which is only vaguely obscene, and Emma’s far too warm to deal with this. In both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word. It’s ridiculous that he’s still wearing his jacket. “Aren’t you hot?” she asks, words tumbling out of her before she’s really considered them and she wishes that trend would stop. 

Quickly. Immediately, even. 

Not crying after her mother’s Echo Cave admission might be one of Emma’s great accomplishments to date. 

“Should all of your statements sound so much like insults?” Hook quips, his tongue continuing to torment Emma. Staring at his tongue is becoming something of a very real issue for her. 

Presumably because she’s now all too aware of what that tongue is capable of, and they’d been very good at kissing. Each other, specifically. Better than she thought, honestly. And she refuses to acknowledge how often she thought about it. 

She still hasn’t been able to get her sword out of its scabbard entirely. “I’m going to take your rather pointed silence as confirmation of the insults,” Hook continues. Rocking forward, the edges of his jacket threaten to brush Emma’s bent legs and she honestly has no idea what she’ll do if that happens, so leaning back seems like a reasonable response and not one that’s going to make his eyes do that thing. Where they dim ever so slightly, teasing disappearing and evolving into understanding she both hates and wants on some sort of fundamental level and—

“I’m sorry.”

On the nonexistent list of things Emma doesn’t expect, that might be numbers one through seven. Maybe even up to eight. 

“You don’t—” she shakes her head, hair sticking to her skin in the process, “Well, no that’s not actually true, because you probably shouldn’t have said anything about the making out—” “—I don’t believe I used that particular phrase.”

He actually has the gall to smirk when Emma glares at him, eyebrows twisted in the kind of unspoken challenge that regularly makes her stomach flip. Emma doesn’t have time for stomach flipping. She’s got to find her kid. Possibly get, like, twenty-four minutes of uninterrupted sleep. “Even so,” Hook adds, “it was…” There’s enough fabric on that monstrosity of a jacket that Emma can only imagine he’s got plenty of pocket options to stuff his hands into, but his thumb just finds his belt loop and the exhale he lets out is rife with emotion. The same kind she’s trying to avoid, in tandem with the stomach flipping. “Your father keeps glaring at me.”

Laughing is a patently absurd reaction to that. 

Her father is dying, apparently. Or tethered to this island, and that’s not much better, but it absolutely does not surprise Emma that he’s falling directly back into overprotective and if she’s going to be the asshole she absolutely is, then she should also probably admit how nice it was

to be hugged with that kind of determination before. 

That might not be the right word. 

Whatever, it’s the thought that counts. She thinks she might be able to fall asleep if her dad were here. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Emma lies, barely opening her mouth. Like even that can’t believe what she’s trying to claim. “Although I am sorry about my dad, I can—I mean I can say something if you want.” “No, no, that wasn’t what I was suggesting, at all. I’m sure the prince has better things to worry about than—” “You and me?”

Hook hums. Keeps his thumb where it is, and his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. 

Her stomach noticeably sinks. 

“Of course, not—no, I just…” Stammering Captain Hook catches Emma off guard, eyeing the toe of his boot as it digs a fairly impressive divot into the ground that is no doubt staining her jeans. And she’s about to do something, really she is. Say something almost positive, or reassuring, or maybe simply jump back to her feet, bent knees be damned, so she can grab the lapels of that nearly-offensive jacket and kiss the ever-loving daylights out of him. Again. But something snaps behind her, and every single inch of Kill—no, no, Hook, still Captain Hook. 

That’s more unimportant syntax. 

Because all of him tenses as immediately as Emma had been hoping for before, a soft noise on the wind that’s strong enough to ruffle those sweat-drenched strands of her hair. Her mouth goes dry, the laughter making her pulse sputter traitorously and Hook’s sword all but flies out of its scabbard. 

“Emma, you need to move,” he says, calm as anything. It’s an act. She knows — can tell even when it appears the jungle is getting darker, and the stars above them are going out, but then again, she’s always been able to tell with him, and it’s very disappointing that her rather dramatic swallow doesn’t do anything to help the state of her mouth. 

He used her name. 

Eventually that will feel very important. 

“What? Why, it’s—”

“Please, love,” Hook presses, “I need you to come with me. Right now. How long have you been out here?” Shrugging is harder than Emma expects it to be. As if the heat is actually a weight, pressing directly into her shoulders and rooting her exactly where she is. “We need to move, Swan. You shouldn’t be here.” “Well, that’s kind of rude.”

Widening his eyes makes it even more obvious how blue they are, and they are so ridiculously blue sometimes Emma wonders if she could simply drown in them. Sometimes that doesn’t seem like all that unappealing a prospect. 

God, he was good at kissing. 

“You told me to shut up earlier. Turnabout is fair play, darling.” “Running the gamut of nicknames, aren’t we? Is that a power move?” “Endearments, really. And no, it’s not. Disappointing that wasn’t clearer what with my intention to apologize and make sure you were alright.”

“Sounds suspiciously like playing knight in pirate armor.” “Can’t imagine armor would be very comfortable. Not much freedom of movement, you see.”

She laughs. Without thinking too much about the sound, mostly because the sound seems to bubble out of Emma and that’s not right. She doesn’t bubble. She stews, and sits and—

Something springs from the ground. Spring is generous, honestly. Cracks form under Emma’s splayed out fingers, tiny green vines that file up with a smell that make her vision swim and her senses fog, and she’s dimly aware of a hand on her shoulder. Tugging her forward, but Emma’s legs simply are not interested in functioning, and she’s so comfortable here. Standing seems even more unreasonable than before, especially when all of her inhales come with that scent. Reminding her of something she can’t quite understand, and it’s suspiciously similar to the tide coming in, and he’s still yelling. 

And swinging his sword. Light gleams off the blade, probably because whatever is pushing out of the ground is also glowing, and Emma’s mind can’t really cope with glowing plants right now. 

She squeezes her eyes closed. Burrows her face into the very solid chest she’s somehow level with, and Emma’s not entirely sure when that happened, but she also can’t bring herself to complain about it. Especially when it feels like his lips graze her temple. More than once. 

“Swan, c’mon love we’ve got to go.”

Groaning, Emma’s head doesn’t ache. Nothing does, actually. She’s oddly comfortably and her internal-body temperature appears to be biologically accurate, but she’s admittedly not totally confident about her knowledge of that second thing, and whatever is underneath her left cheek is also quite obviously not the very solid, slightly uncovered chest of a pirate captain she’d like to make out with again. 

Her stomach flies into her throat that time. So, there’s something to be said for a change of pace. 

Emma blinks. Swallows. More than once. Licks her lips, to absolutely no avail — but she can’t be bothered with that when it’s clear her heart is doing its damndest to beat its way out of her chest, and she’s not in Neverland anymore. 

For one thing, there’s a distinct lack of smells. Bad ones, at least. Wherever she is smells suspiciously liked baked goods and the forest, which makes sense as soon as Emma blinks open her eyes. There’s a rather large tree across from her. 

Covered in garland and lights that blink back at her, ornaments hang from nearly every branch, and there are enough presents underneath that she briefly wonders which bank they had to rob to buy all of that. Snow flurries dance outside windows that are frosted over, and there are a lot of windows in this room. 

Some of them look out towards an expansive backyard, while others make it clear just how close they are to the water, and Emma thinks she can almost smell the water, but that might be wishful thinking and—

“Holy shit,” she breathes, gaze finally landing on the voice in front of her and she knew the voice, even when she didn’t want to admit it. That’s something of a theme for her now. “What—what are you wearing?” Tilting his head in confusion, strands of hair threaten to fall into Hook’s eyes. The same blue as always, if not a little sharper because it’s obvious he doesn’t understand what’s going on, and Emma’s going to cling to that. So it feels like they’re on slightly more even footing. 

“Clothes,” he drawls, and that's the same too. Emma can’t move. Is having quite a lot of trouble breathing, and clothes is a vast understatement. 

Pants that are somehow tighter than any of the leather he’d previously sported make his legs look ridiculous, especially when there’s a noticeable lack of sword and Emma was kind of getting used to the sword. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, nothing covering the brace at the end of his arm, but she’s also admittedly preoccupied with the number of buttons he’s undone and the vest that’s hanging loosely from his shoulders, and this might actually be the first time she’s seen him without a jacket on. 

Her stomach will probably just stay in her throat, then. 

“You’ll do dangerous things to my ego, if you keep staring like that,” Hook warns, but any passably snarky response gets caught behind Emma’s increasingly problematic tongue and her brain still hasn’t caught up yet. 

To the glint of light reflecting from his hand. 

And one very specific finger. 

Mouth dropping and breath practically flying out of her, Emma nearly steps on both of his feet when she jumps to hers, trying without much success to stay upright. Her hands fly towards him of their own accord, or so she will argue forever, and that can’t possibly be her first mistake. 

Putting her goddamn scabbard on her back was, probably. 

As it is, whatever number she’s at is suddenly the only number that matters, because her flat palms make it undeniably clear that she’s got her own bit of jewelry on her own specific finger, and Killian’s hand keeps moving. Up and down her spine, like that’s something it’s allowed to do. There is not enough oxygen in the world to sigh as loudly as she’d like to. 

“Steady on, love,” Hook murmurs, and that about does it. Neck giving up and knees threatening to buckle underneath her, Emma’s fingers curl into this absolutely ridiculous shirt at the same time her forehead collides with his collarbone, and he doesn’t really flinch. 

Tenses, slightly — although she figures that’s because of the worry she can practically fele radiating off him, and his hand stills. So as to ensure that his arm can also tighten around her middle, while his lips brush across her temple and the top of her hair. 

Anywhere he can reach, it seems. 

“Nightmare?” he asks, pulling her closer. They fit very well together, Emma realizes. Like pieces of a puzzle, and that’s admittedly sentimental, but she’s also ninety-six percent certain she’s still dreaming. That’s the only reasonable explanation. 

She can’t be dead. Not from a plant attack in Neverland. And Kill—Hook, goddamnit, Hook, wouldn’t have let that happen. She’s sure of that, at least. 

“Um, yeah, yeah,” she stammers. “I—sorry, I don’t think I meant to fall asleep.” “Nothing to apologize for. You’ve been baking for a small army the last couple of days, only serves that’d be exhausting.”

“Have I?” Leaning back, he narrows his eyes, and that’s fair. None of this makes sense. Rings, and trees, and baking. She’s never baked in her life. If she had, it wouldn’t smell nearly this good. 

“Who, um—” Emma continues, eyes widening when the realization hits her. “Henry! Where’s Henry?” Running is not easy with the arm still around seemingly getting tighter by the second, but her fear has already evolved into the kind of maternal-based adrenaline they do scientific studies on. “Let go of me,” she sneers, and he does. Immediately. The sound of his hands hitting his jeans is far too loud. “Where’s my kid? Why isn’t he here?” The tongue thing. 

Swiping across the front of Hook’s teeth, the tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth and the inside of his cheek, jutting out with questions and the almost audible cranking of metaphorical gears in his head. “It’s not Christmas yet,” Hook explains, voice oddly similar to a few minutes before, but Emma’s starting to realize that was not a few minutes before and she’s starting to feel a little nauseous. 

“Yuh huh.” “Are you alright, love?” He says it soft enough that something flutters in the back of Emma’s brain, some long-forgotten hint of emotion that she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t have time for it. There’s baking to do, supposedly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m, uh—I’m fine,” Emma promises, only one side of Hook’s mouth tilting up. “Just...tired, I guess.” “Because of the nightmare.” “Say that again when it doesn’t sound quite so much like an accusation.” “No accusation,” he objects, but it rings as sincere as her promise and the light’s got to be messing with her now. Bouncing off his ring the way it is. “Haven’t had a nightmare in some time, but that’s neither here nor there.” “Wow, you suck at that.”

There goes the other side of his mouth. Emma might be staring at his mouth. “Occasionally,” Hook agrees. “What’d you dream about, then?” Lying is very appealing. Coming up with a story Emma knows he’ll only half believe, but she assumes she’s got plausible deniability too, and she can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s disappointing. 

“I was in Neverland.”

If nothing else, staring at his mouth — and the rest of his admittedly attractive face — makes it easy to tell the moment Hook’s jaw clenches. Nerves color his gaze, almost as if he’s trying to remember something he’s already forgotten, but Emma appears to be the only one having some sort of existential crisis and the hint of grey at his temples suggests its been some time since Neverland. Figuring out how much time exactly, will probably be a bit of a challenge. “And?” “And what?” “And there’s plenty of terrors to warrant nightmares in Neverland,” Hook says, stepping out of Emma’s space. Also disappointing. “What exactly was it?” Shaking her head slowly, Emma’s hair doesn’t move. She’s not nearly as sweaty as she was either, the blanket at her feet proof positive of that, although her skin feels almost clammy and the magic in her veins has started to buzz. If Killian doesn’t stop moving his tongue in his mouth, she’s going to scream. 

Ah, goddamn. 

“I don’t know,” she says, not the lie she still wants it to be, “just some weird plant thing and you wanted me to come with you, but that was probably now, right?” There’s no way he’s comfortable with his neck at that angle. “Maybe. Do you still want to go?” “To, uh—” “—Doc called this morning, said the paint was ready to pick up.” “Paint,” Emma echoes, another confusing string of words that threatens to knock her back on the couch. It was a comfortable couch though, so maybe that’s not the worst thing that could happen to her. Neither is waking up in a reality where Hook wears jeans like that and stares at her like she’s his—she drops back. Onto the comfortable couch. 

“Mmhm, the color we picked out last week? He claimed he had to order it, but your father claims he’s just nervous because he doesn’t want to offend me and—” “—Why would you get offended by a dwarf?” Dots of pink appear on his cheeks. The bits not covered with stubble, and there’s some grey in that as well. It works, honestly. “He mercilessly overcharges for her services,” Hook says, clearly not the first time this particular rant has been voiced, “and it’s because he’s the only hardware store in town. Which is why you wanted to go. Help small businesses and the economy of the realm, even when Regina claimed we could order it just as easily off Amazon. But that only led to your denouncement of Jeff Bezos, and I do love it when you openly flout capitalism, so—” He shrugs. Emma might be going into shock. “Here we are, with slightly delayed, if not well-mixed paint, enough baked goods to mask the smell, and your parents guarantee that there’s more than enough room for all of us on Christmas Eve.”

“We’re painting on Christmas Eve?” Concern continues to ripple around him, made all the more clear by the pinch between his eyebrows and how often he rocks forward before shaking his head. It’s four times. “No, we’re painting—well, whenever we have time really, but you did mention Friday evening, and that way Hope could stay at the farm. Naturally she’s thrilled at the prospect.” “Right, right, right, that’s....yeah, that’s right.” She’s so bad at lying. To Hook, specifically. Open book practically broadcasts itself from every twitch of his mouth, and Emma is still doing a God awful job of not staring at his mouth, but her head is spinning and she can’t understand any of this and she’s kind of curious about what paint color they picked. 

And who Hope is. 

She refuses to acknowledge the flicker of familiarity in the back corner of her brain. 

She’s got to get out of here. Away from the couch, and whatever color the paint might be, back to Neverland, which is not something she ever thought she’d want, but they haven’t found Henry yet and who knows what Pan is planning next and— “Where’s Henry?” Emma whispers, far too aware of the desperation in those two words. Hook’s lips thin. When he presses them together. “I know he’s not going to be here until Christmas, but is—he’s ok, right?” “Swan, are you—” “—Just tell me where my kid is, Hook!” Those words fly out of her, voice rising on every letter until it feels as if they’re cutting their way out of Emma’s soul, leaving lacerations behind and the blood that’s appeared on the tip of her tongue makes her recoil. She fully expects him to take another step back, not sure when she stood up again, only that her knees are knocking together now, so naturally that’s not what happens at all. 

Hook moves back into her space, made all the easier by the lack of weapons between them, hand finding her cheek as easily as it traced her spine, and Emma doesn’t want to lean into the touch, but he’s so ridiculously warm and she’s teetering on the edge of undeniable insanity, so she’s going to give herself this. For at least six seconds. 

“Visiting Ella’s stepsister, so while he’s probably not having the best time, Lu’s always been a rather large fan of that particular realm, and Drizella is a bit of a pushover. I’d imagine the little lass is going gangbusters on the present front.”

Emma’s breathing out of her mouth. 

That seems fair as well. Trying to piece together any of that information with the life she’s currently living is all but impossible, and it’s only a matter of time until her knees give up again. Honestly, not crying continues to be her greatest talent. 

“Maybe I should just go to the store,” Hook says, “and let you try and get some more rest.”

Even the thought of being left here alone makes Emma’s magic boil in the pit of her stomach — wherever it might be sitting now, and she’s already shaking her head. “No, no, I want to make sure it’s the right color.” “Yuh huh.” “Sounding less than agreeable, Captain.” It’s a mean trick. One she knows will work, and it does. Hook’s eyes flash, and his brows jump, the hand that returned to her hip at some point tightening ever so slightly. “Tell me that you’re alright, and I’ll consider it.” “I’m fine.” “You’re a woefully bad liar is what you are, Your Highness.” Scrunching her nose, Emma tries very hard to temper the fluttering between her ribs. Magic mixes with nerves and flirting that’s not necessarily easier than it’s been, but certainly more fine-tuned. As if it’s a dance both of them are used to. “You can’t pull your sword on Doc, you know that, right?” “That hasn’t happened in years.” “Hook either, that might honestly be worse.” “He’s got a stranglehold on the hardware economy in this town. It’s not right. Gives him leave to charge an arm and a leg.” “If I tell you I’m fine again, will that distract you from your questionable obsession with hardware-based economies?” “Probably not,” Hook grins, more teasing and fluttering and his eyebrows jump again. As soon as Emma licks her lips. 

“No challenging the dwarfs to a duel.” Saluting is only passably overwhelming, but that appears to be the way this is going, and Emma cannot come up with an appropriate adjective to describe whatever sound she makes. As soon as he kisses her cheek. Giggling is out of the realm of possibility. “Noted,” Hook says, “c’mon, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can pick up the little sea monster.”

At this point, Emma would almost welcome a battle with a sea monster. Get her blood flowing, provide an outlet for all her adrenaline and, she hopes at least, if she dies in this dream, she’ll wake up back in Neverland. 

This has to be a dream. 

So, it seems they live in a mansion. 

Stepping outside, Emma’s breath catches loudly as she stares at the wraparound porch and there are somehow more windows than she’d originally noticed, and a turret-type thing involved that’s only vaguely absurd. Almost as much as the way people greet them on Main Street, familiar faces mixing in with strangers, all of whom nod and smile and some who even reach a hand out to Hook like he’s not a pirate or only recently returned to Storybrooke with the one thing they needed to get to Neverland, but Emma also supposes that was years ago, even if the math is still admittedly kind of messing with her. 

That was never her strongest subject in school. 

And there’s no sword strapped to his hip when the bell over the hardware store door rings, but Hook’s called “Doc” still sounds appropriately threatening, the scuffle of shoes and slightly panted breaths making Emma almost smile in spite of herself and her mathematical failings. “Captain,” Doc exhales, shuffling behind the counter that spans the far wall of the store. Tools and cans of paint line the shelves above his head, a name tag pinned to his shirt that seems unnecessary, but Emma’s nearly charmed by that as well and wholly unprepared for Doc to glance her way, adding—“Your Highness, it’s so nice to see you. I’ve got your order all ready, if you’d like to…”

Whatever else he says disappears in a haze of buzzing magic and malfunctioning joints, Emma’s fingers fluttering at her side while it sounds like Killian does his best to argue the price. For the paint. That they’re going to use. In their mansion. 

She didn’t ask which room they were going to paint. 

That felt like a flashing-neon sign, announcing how little she belongs in this place and Emma’s fairly certain Hook can tell, but that’s also another sign she’s not entirely ready to deal with at the moment and Doc flinches when the literal hook drops onto the counter. 

Emma presses her lips together. 

So as not to laugh. Like a person nearing their psychotic breaking point. 

“But Captain,” Doc argues, “we did agree on that mark, and—” “—Aye, but that was before it took an extra three days to receive the color, and I think there should be some sort of fee reduction for that.” “There aren’t any fees, just—” “—The overall cost, then.”

Pain flutters at the back of her consciousness when her teeth continue to dig into her lips, but the feeling twits with amusement and that looming sense of insanity, and Hook hardly even moves when Emma does. So she can rest her hand on his shoulder. 

“Maybe it’s not that big of a deal,” she ventures. 

Hook gapes at her. “Traitor.” “Pirate,’ she counters. “But I think we can afford it. Y’know, just to help the—” “—Locals,” he finishes, “aye, it’s something I’ve heard several thousand times before, love. But it is the principle of the thing.” “The thing being what, exactly?” “Efficiency,” Hook replies, as cool as any vegetable Emma could come up with, and Doc’s eyes go comically wide behind his glasses. The whole thing is actually pretty impressive. Attractive, maybe. She doesn’t have time for that. She has to—

Get back home is not the right string of words at all. Home is some abstract concept that certainly does not exist in the reality Emma came from, and even less so in a place like Neverland, but she doesn’t belong here, with the jewelry and the house, and she can’t quite get over the way his face twisted. When she called him Hook. 

“Naturally,” Emma mutters. “Can we just get the paint, Doc? Then we’ll be out of your hair.” Doc hums, but he doesn’t move and Emma can’t believe he doesn’t move. She’s given him an out. A reason to scamper back to wherever he’s keeping their paint, away from Hook’s appraising stare and the hand that’s already inching back towards hers, and he’s somehow even more tactile than usual. 

It makes her mouth go dry again. 

“Of course, Your Highness. If your husband could just agree to the terms of price, then—” Hook rolls his whole head, hair shifting in the process, and that’s minimally distracting when Emma’s heart constricts in her chest. Because she knew. Has eyes, after all. And the notable ability to stare. But there’s something about hearing the word that makes it all the more real, and Hook’s argument doesn’t have anything to do with relationship monikers. 

She’s starting to have several assumptions as to who Hope is. One assumption, really. 

Pulling her hand away from Hook’s is easier when he’s so preoccupied, twisting the ring around her finger and staring at the stone and it’s—well, it’s gorgeous, honestly. Exactly what Emma would imagine if she’d ever let herself imagine such a thing, and that’s got to be another sign or something at least in the realm of positive, and it turns out they’re painting the dining room. Blue, and that’s something of a cliche, but anything Emma has to say about that gets stuck halfway out of her undeniably chapped lips when Killian ushers her out of the store, a smile tugging at the ends of his mouth because— “Color reminds me a bit of that gown of yours.”

She’s atrocious at this. Schooling her features, or acting like every word out of his mouth isn’t a punch to her literal gut. It’s a miracle she hasn’t just keeled over. In the middle of goddamn Main Street, where the guy who is very clearly her husband has stopped them. 

So as to stare at her incredulously. 

“You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” “Presumptuous.” “Not an answer, m’dear.” Maybe Emma will start keeping track of endearments. Just to give her mind something to latch onto. There appear to be more than she’s used to. “You wore a very blue gown to Elsa’s wedding, made some rather wonderful comments about how it matched my eyes that also made you blush rather severely, all of which I will admit to still thinking about with almost startling regularity.” She’s got no idea who the fuck Elsa is, or why they’d go to her wedding. Wearing a gown. And making sweepingly sentimental statements. 

Her smile is weak at best. “Sorry, just—that paint smell got to me, I think.” “Sure it did,” Hook says, clearly not convinced, “maybe we should go see Regina.” “Why would we do that?” Leveling her with a slightly different expression, Hook’s tongue shifts behind his closed mouth. Emma juts her chin out. In misplaced defiance, and inherent stubbornness. She’ll find Regina later. When she’s not at least partially thinking about kissing this version of Kill—

Hook, Hook, Hook, Ho—she wonders how he proposed. If he proposed. Maybe she did, what does Emma know? Nothing, apparently. “Do you remember what those plants looked like?” “What?” Emma asks. “Maybe you’re the one who got messed up by paint fumes.” “Absolutely scathing, Swan. Answer the question, please.” There’s an undercurrent of command in his voice — like she’s a member of his crew, and she doesn’t know if he has a crew anymore, but Emma bristles at the thought of being part of it all the same and the muscles in her neck do not appreciate being angled like this. “I told you, it was just a dream.” “Aye, you did. And as you would so lovingly put it, that particular lie sucked quite a bit. So once more, what were you dreaming about and where were you in the dream?” Opening her mouth, Emma’s sarcastic and inevitably snark-filled response evaporates as soon as she hears the clack of heels on the sidewalk next to them and the woman walking towards them has shockingly red hair. And a kid clinging to her side. Who immediately tries to launch herself at Hook. 

“Codfish heads,” the woman mumbles, Killian not able to hold back his chuckle or keep his arms at his side. The same ones that catch the kid and pull her close to his chest, peppering either one of her cheeks with kisses. 

Emma seriously considers dying right there. 

Dying will absolutely wake her up, she’s convinced. 

“Articulate as always,” Hook grins. The woman sticks her tongue out. “What are you doing here? I thought—ah,” he grunts, a knee slamming into his side, “control the limbs Mel, or I’m going to drop you and then your mom will be even more angry than she is.” The dexterity of this woman’s face is astounding. As is the width of Hook’s smile. “I’m not angry,” she objects, “and I’m here because you didn’t answer your phone. There’s some kind of disaster happening at the realm line.” “What kind of disaster?” “Something to do with magic, and it looks like some of Lancelot’s knights are exploring the forest here, looking for some kind of something because you know they have to have a quest.” “David can’t do anything about that?” “Was more than willing to if you actually decided to acknowledge him today. Hence the frustration over your phone issues.” “An insult roll,” Killian laughs, the sound almost more surprising than anything else Emma’s encountered today. She’s heard him laugh before. Of course she has. But it’s usually cynical, or occasionally even a little evil, and this guy can’t be evil. Not standing there, acting as a human jungle gym to a kid, and a woman Emma’s mind has also started to make assumptions about. The hair was a pretty good clue. No, this isn’t the first time she’s heard him laugh, but it’s certainly her favorite and if she plays the sound on loop in her head for at least several hours, then she hopes no one will ever be the wiser. 

Emma hardly notices that she’s referred to him as Killian. 

That’s probably for the best. 

“And,” he adds, “we finally finished with Doc, so we can go relieve the prince of his duties, even though he offered. Multiple times.” Ariel, Emma assumes this is the goddam Little Mermaid, throws her head back. “Oh Gods, did you terrify him? Is that why you’re being like this? Y’know the paint was back ordered, that’s why it took so long.” “There was no terrifying involved, and if that was the case, he should have made it known. All I heard was that he didn’t have it in stock, and it was going to take a few more days and—” 

He cuts himself off when Ariel waves an impatient hand in his face, turning towards Emma expectantly. “Did he terrify Doc?” Emma nods out of instinct, some dark and distant part of her wanting to be involved in this banter and this place, and this place isn’t real, so that’s a dangerous line of thinking, but she can’t seem to stop herself. In the same way Killian can’t seem to do anything except tug her against his side. And kiss the top of her hair. 

He really likes to do that. 

Especially impressive with the kid still hanging from him. 

“She’s a bloody traitor,” he announces, “but one of the other dwarfs is bringing the paint home, and, like I said, we were on our way to pick up the sea monster, so David can deal with the knights. They only listen to one of their own, anyway.” “No honor amongst thieves, huh?” Ariel asks knowingly. 

Killian scowls. It’s frustratingly adorable. 

“Fine, fine,” she shakes her head, “I retract any annoyance about your refusal to turn the sound on your phone on, if only because you gave my arms a break, and your dining room will look very good in that color.” “It’s a good color.” The arm around her shoulders is the only thing that keeps Emma from melting into the pavement beneath her boots. She had at least six pairs of boots in their hallway closet. Also absurd. And she hears the lilt in Killian’s voice, even if Ariel doesn’t — the soft intensity that sounds eerily similar to the way he promised he understood what it felt to lose hope, how quickly he agreed to her plan, demands, after the kiss and she imagines they kiss quite a lot in this reality. 

If her other assumptions are right. 

Ariel stares at them for a beat longer, one that Emma worries will end in a longer conversation and inevitable discussion of the awkward way she’s standing, but then the mermaid with legs is pulling her kid back and quieting the riot that causes, and Killian’s arm stays exactly where it is. “Send some pictures when you paint the first wall, ok?”

Killian nods. Stiffer than it should be, but Emma’s only barely managing to stay conscious at this point, and she doesn’t object when he directs her past Granny’s and down a road she’s never noticed before. 

His arm doesn’t move. 

In the days that will follow, Emma will never be entirely sure how she manages it. Tears sting her eyes almost as soon as the screen door slams behind her, more than one voice drifting down the hall, and there are pictures everywhere. Her own face smiles back at her from multiple times, eyes jumping from frame to frame and back again, a life that isn’t hers playing out despite her own misgivings, and if she’d thought the overall width of Killian’s smile was something ten minutes earlier, it’s got nothing on the several here. 

Wearing a tuxedo that does something unfamiliar to her heart, and gazing back from an ornate frame that also holds a grown-up face that’s still able to remind her of the boy she left in Neverland, and another with his arm around Emma’s shoulders again, exhaustion clear even from here, but there’s something cradled in her arms and a tiny hat that makes her whole soul ache and—

“Swan,” Hook breathes, and at least they’re back to that. In her head, where she's clearly going insane. “Emma love, I really need you to tell me what’s going on.”

That’s impossible. Not for any other reason than Emma’s vocal chords appear to have stopped working, and she never actually cries. 

It’s a Christmas miracle. 

Of the shittiest variety, because Hook’s hovering far too close to her and Emma wonders if he notices the magic coursing through her, or if this is just how he normally stands and none of it matters when two sets of feet sprint down the hallway. 

Frames rattle in their wake, both of them shouting and jumping before Emma’s even remotely prepared. She can’t imagine she ever would be. Maybe in a different lifetime. This one, possibly. 

Not hers. 

Not as is. 

And as it is, Hook ducks down before the blur rushing towards Emma’s shin can knock her over, hauling the giggling and smiling bundle over his shoulder. More kisses are dispensed, laughter ringing out around them and only slightly muted by the mess of dark curls that threatens to cover Hook’s face. 

He tries to blow it away, several times. 

“Emma,” another voice says, tugging at the end of her jacket and it’s a little overwhelming to see her father’s eyes staring up at her. From a kid. Who isn’t very old, but feels like a memory she can’t place, and if her mind doesn’t stop piecing things together Emma is going to scream. 

She doesn’t want to know. 

Absolutely cannot cope, honestly. 

“Emma,” he repeats, “if you and Killian are going to stay here for Christmas, can we make snowmen again? Because Henry said we could and Aunt Gina said she’d magic them so they wouldn’t melt and you’re way better at rolling than Mom is.” Someone huffs, Mary Margaret’s arms crossing over her chest and there’s an apron tied around her waist. Just to drive the domestic point home. “I resent that, and Dad is totally going to be better at rolling snowballs this year. He’s promised we’re going to win.” Emma’s mouth drops. In confusion, and several other adjectives. All of which Hook quite clearly recognizes, and that’s messing with her too. 

Reading her as well as he does should leave her feeling off-kilter. Reeling, even. It doesn’t. It’s like some sort of metaphorical anchor, and Emma finds herself constantly glancing over her shoulder, hoping for that one specific tilt of his lips and— “Let’s wait to go over rules until Henry gets here, alright mate? Don’t want to get into specifics when he’s going to have his own demands.”

Opening his mouth, the kid’s argument disappears once Mary Margaret makes another noise, adding a soft “Neal,” and only one of Emma’s knees bends. That’s lame. Very un-Savior like. 

And she doesn’t know how Killian manages it, either. She also does not care. Leaning into the hand that’s suddenly cemented to her back, Emma nods like someone has asked her a question, and there are more footsteps and smiles and she bites her tongue. David doesn’t disappear. He’s here. In this place he shouldn’t be, some sort of farm that had an almost kitschy mat outside that screen door and chickens lingering along the side of the front yard, and Killian’s voice is in her ear. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” “I’ll kick you,” Emma warns.

“I’d drop the sea monster that way.” She’s just about to ask the wholly unnecessary question of who the fuck is the sea monster when the beast in question tries very hard to stand on Hook's shoulders. All limbs and hair in desperate need of a cut, both Mary Margaret and David look overjoyed by her mere presence, warmth blooming of its own volition in Emma’s chest. “Mama,” she yells, resting her chin on top of Killian’s head, “are you going to magic the snowmen too?”

More than one pair of eyes flash towards Emma, suddenly frozen with a maelstrom of fear and words echoing between her ears and she’s got to talk. She can’t talk. Her tongue is growing in her mouth, no doubt a byproduct of that now occurring insanity, and her own eyes keep moving. Tracing over the lines of her daughter’s face, and the questionably cute clothes she’s wearing and her eyes are almost alarmingly blue. 

Tears fall on Emma’s cheeks. 

“Emma,” David mutters, but she barely hears him. Reaching out a hand that’s shaking much more than she’d like, her fingers graze Hope’s cheek and the skin there is soft and warm and obviously loved, like that’s something that’s possible. This new reality doesn’t have any rules, though. So maybe that works here. 

She must nod. Emma’s hair moves, so that’s got to mean something and she’s clinging to every victory she can get at this point. “I’ll try,” Emma says, not quite the promise she'd like it to be. Hook's fingers twist under the hem of her shirt, grazing across her actual spine and it’s disappointing when she tenses. 

Noticeably. 

David’s eyes turn appraising — but he doesn’t immediately look at Mary Margaret like Emma expects. He glances at Hook, a quick jerk of his shoulders that she only notices when they bump hers. “Did you hear about the knights, then?” “Ariel accosted us on our way here. What do they want, exactly?” “As far as I can tell, they’re just scouting, but who knows with those Camelot idiots.” Mary Margaret scoffs. David might actually blush. “I’m going to go out and talk to them now, and Snow sent a bird.” The hand at Emma’s back flattens. So as to keep her upright. 

“Lance usually responds quickly,” Mary Margaret says, “but you know the cross-realm travel, it’s always hit or miss. Especially with the weather. Hopefully we’ll know what they’re doing sooner rather than later.” Humming in what sounds like agreement, Hook shifts Hope and keeps Emma pulled against his side. His eyes dart back towards David, an unspoken conversation Emma doesn’t entirely want to hear. When it’s obviously about her. 

And her father doesn’t respond either, just crosses the space between them and kisses her cheek. “Everything’s going to be ok, kid.”

“Yuh huh,” she mumbles, but it sounds like a lie and Hope falls asleep with her head on Hook's shoulder while they walk home. 

It takes her about three seconds to realize she used that word as well. 

And then another fifteen to totally freak out about it. 

As silently as possible. 

To his credit, he doesn’t press the issue. He stares, without much subtlety — but Hook never comes out and accuses Emma of anything, or questions how little she knows about this life they’ve got, and she’s not entirely surprised when he doesn’t ask when she’s coming to bed. He just takes a deep breath, and kisses the top of her hair again, which is somewhere like the ninth time that’s happened, walking up the stairs and presumably waiting for Emma. 

In their bed. 

They share. Together. As people. Married people, with a very cute kid and Henry’s in some other version of the Enchanted Forest with his wife, which is only marginally screwing with Emma. That’s positive, she thinks. Marginally is better than totally. 

But it’s also not her life, and around twelve forty-seven she starts to wonder if she’s fucked with the Emma that’s supposed to be here by waking up on that couch, and she can’t get over how comfortable that couch was, and she starts walking. 

Aimlessly, really. 

Down halls and from room to room, opening doors that regularly make breathing a legitimate challenge. Henry’s old room clearly hasn’t been changed, and Hope’s hair covers her entire pillow, much like Emma’s regularly does, and they’ve got an actual sitting room and family room, a nautical theme that feels a little to on the nose, but is also somehow perfect and she knows he’s there before he says anything. 

“You’re lurking,” Emma accuses, jumping onto the edge of the kitchen counter now that she’s finished her patrol. 

“And you’re admittedly freaking me out just a bit.” Her laugh does that bubble thing again, something that Killian could probably claim ownership over if he wanted. She knows he won’t, though. Not this version. Not this guy, staring at her like he’s torn between terrified and terrorizing, like he’d challenge the timeline to a duel if needs be. 

“Where’s your sword?” “In the basement. Where it’s been for years.” “You don’t use your sword much?” Taking a step forward, the floor creaks under his sock-covered feet and the realization that he must have put socks back on at some point does what Emma can only imagine is irreparable damage to more than half a dozen internal organs. “Asking that adds to my growing pile of suspicions and worries.” “The freaked out ones?” “Aye,” he nods, hand and hook resting on her hips. Maybe there are magnets there. Maybe he’s just hardwired to touch her. Emma fists her hands. “Why are you surprised by that?” “If I ask you a question will you totally freak out more?” That time he shakes his head. Hair shifts in the process, and there have to be magnets involved. That’s the only reasonable explanation for how quickly Emma’s fingers find the strands, brushing them away and relishing the exact way Killian’s eyes flutter shut and—damn, she did it again. His hand tightens. 

Like he’s nervous she’s going to disappear otherwise. 

“Question for a question is breaking conversational rules,” he starts, “But—” “—You’re a pirate?” “Something that’s been well-documented. What do you want to know?” Everything seems unacceptably vast, and Emma’s not sure which question to pick when they’re all weighing down on her still too-large tongue, but Killian’s eyes don’t pull away from her and he turns his head into her palm. The one cupping his cheek. 

She’s an absolute disaster. Which is, she’ll argue the exact reason, she asks: “Are you in love with me?” He doesn’t laugh. More credit to him, although this credit comes with an asterisk for the exact way his expression shatters. In slow motion. For maxim effect. Muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, the tip of his tongue darting between barely-parted lips, and his next inhale has a distinct shuddering quality to it. 

“More than I knew I could be,” he whispers. “You want to tell me the truth now?” “About? 

Bending his neck, Killian’s exhale brushes Emma’s cheek and for one absolutely insane moment, that would make sense if they were actually married, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. He doesn’t. Figures. Lips graze the edge of hers, sending shockwaves that ripple up her spine and threaten to make magic explode from the tips of her fingers and she has to close her eyes. At the force of his voice, steady despite the emotion behind it. 

“Who are you, really?” The shockwaves disappear. Turn into fear, and something ice-cold and Emma has to blink.

“What?” He clicks his tongue. More than once, in obvious reproach, and she wonders if she’ll have to walk to the plank at some point, the tip of his hook threatening to dig into her skin. “I’ll ask you once more, darling. It’s very good magic, whatever you’re doing. I can feel it, but—” “—You can feel my magic?” “Stop talking,” he sneers, and the symmetry of it all feels like a slap. Several times over. “Now either you tell me the truth, or I’ll have to do something drastic. Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”

[r6shippingdelivery]

I saw someone on Twitter post about how they wanted to see jealous Glaz, and I was struck by inspiration 😄 This fic is mostly about Glaz's perception of his place in Rainbow after Kali joins, and the bit with Fuze can be read as friendship or budding romance, whatever your like better.

WARNING: While Glaz is an unreliable narrator here, and Kali is not outright demonized, I haven't been kind to her either. So if she's your favorite character, proceed with caution.

You can also read the story in AO3, as the latest chapter of the Discord Ficlets collection.

Hatred was a shallow emotion, one that lived at surface level and hid deeper and more complex feelings, ones that people found harder to confront or admit and thus resorted to hate.

Glaz experienced that during his stint in the South Ossetia War, when the hatred they all felt for the enemy was just a cover for their sense of helplessness at stopping so much unnecessary death. As always, art became a way to express and work out his emotions, and from what he saw it was far healthier than drowning his sorrows in alcohol like most of his fellow soldiers did.

Over the years, Glaz had acquired a reputation for being a pretty stable person, not letting his emotions rule him but not burying and ignoring them either. So it was a shock to realise he was letting his emotions rule his opinion of a certain person.

It would be unfair to say he hated Kali. The Nighthaven leader had done nothing directly unpleasant to him, in fact Glaz wasn’t even sure if they ever had a conversation. But fuck, seeing her smug face made his blood boil. Admitting he was jealous was a bitter pill to swallow.

Glaz felt sidelined since she arrived. At first it had been normal that Kali got so much action in training matches and different situations, Harry always did that to ensure new additions got properly integrated in the team. However, Kali stopped being the new one and she kept being requested more and more often. If someone devised a plan that required a sniper, it was always her that got the call, almost never Glaz.

Sure, she was an excellent shot, but so was he. So were the other operators who had marksman training. Yet the only requested sniper was Kali. Even for the strategies that relied heavily on stealth, which made no sense to Glaz since Kali’s rifle was extremely loud and she refused to use a silencer. She insisted it wasn’t compatible with her weapon, which was utter bullshit in Glaz’s opinion. Then there were the snippets of conversations he heard from her in the shooting range.

“Of course I don’t use a thermal scope, that’s a crutch, and those are for beginners, not professionals.”

“I don’t hide behind smoke curtains like a child clinging to their mother’s skirts.”

“I could give you some pointers, you’d benefit by learning from a real sniper, Dokka.”

The gall of that woman! Glaz had never wanted to wipe the floor with someone as much as he did then, but when he approached them to offer a friendly marksman competition, Dokkaebi happily accepted while Kali sniffed and declined. “I’m busy now, maybe another time.”

Glaz silently fumed for days. He didn’t give a damn about Kali’s opinions; he knew he was an excellent sniper and she could make as many snide comments as she wanted. Nothing would change the truth. However, Glaz also had the feeling she was trying to undermine him, and he didn’t like that. Most operators in Rainbow were competitive by nature, but except for a few rivalries, the trash talking had always remained upfront and somewhat respectful, never behind another operator’s back. Things remained as they were, somewhat tense but peaceful, for a long time. Until the Invitational rolled around.

When the teams were publicly announced, the Spetsnaz were collectively surprised some of them were chosen to participate, unlike the previous year. Glaz didn’t mind sitting among the public again, and privately he and Kapkan made a point of keeping an eye out during the event. The White Masks might have been mostly obliterated, but they weren’t the only terrorist group in the world, and a huge gathering like this would be a tempting objective for any group looking to make a name for themselves. So he was fine with not being selected, truly. However, what he wasn’t fine with was the way Harry said one particular thing:

“And to showcase Rainbow’s prowess in long distance combat, team Ash will have our resident sniper, Kali.”

Seriously? The resident sniper, as in the only one? Glaz grit his teeth so hard he was sure everyone in the room could hear it. He refused to say anything, though, he wouldn’t turn this briefing into a spectacle. However, that didn’t stop him from hoping Tachanka would teach her a lesson with his new fire grenades. That would certainly put a smile on Glaz’s face.

Alas, that was not meant to happen, even if it came pretty close to actually becoming a reality. In the end, Tachanka’s team was eliminated, same as Fuze’s, and the tournament went on. Glaz thought nothing else would happen, and aside from secretly hoping for team Mira to win, he largely lost interest in the competition. Yet the competition, or more accurately, Kali, didn’t lose interest in them.

When Fuze told them he’d been invited to train with Nighthaven, none of the Spetsnaz was particularly pleased, since they worked better as a team, but they didn’t voice any objections either. Glaz wanted to, he wanted to forbid Fuze from doing it, but he was a rational man and knew that was both unreasonable and a douchebag move. If Fuze wanted to train with others, he was free to do so, of course. Glaz kept repeating that to himself, even if deep down he was sure that Kali woman wanted to take everything that he had, from his position as a sniper to his friends.

Aware of how childish that sounded, Glaz grimaced at his own thoughts. He needed to calm his mind, and as always, he turned to art. Painting would surely grant him that state of inner peace he sorely needed while waiting for Fuze to come back from his session with Nighthaven. Losing himself in the process of creating something always helped Glaz exorcise his demons, and also lose track of the world around him. At least until Fuze came back.

Most people painted Fuze as unreadable, but he wasn’t to Glaz. The artist could see clear as day that Fuze was deep in thought. The curiosity and need to know was eating Glaz inside.

“How did it go?” He asked, aiming for a casual and carefree tone. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“Interesting.” As always, Fuze was succinct and straight to the point, going for the shortest message. However, Glaz knew that if one took the time to shut up and listen, Fuze would say more. “They’re an effective team, very competitive. It’s good to have them working with us and not against us, but I don’t think they feel part of Rainbow.”

It wasn’t the first time Glaz heard before some of those sentiments echoed around when it came to Nighthaven, but Fuze delivered with an admirable lack of judgement. The Uzbek relayed a blow by blow account of the training match, and Glaz wondered how Aruni felt at Kali’s call of her safety being expendable. It was just a game for now, but training built habits that one carried back to the battlefield. He was still pondering over what he heard when Fuze dropped a bombshell that shook him to the core.

“Kali offered me work in Nighthaven.”

Glaz saw red, and for a moment he couldn’t think. The looks in his eyes must have been a veritable maelstrom of repressed anger and jealousy, because Fuze looked taken aback. A burning sensation coiled in his chest, and Glaz clenched his fist hard to avoid unleashing a storm of swears, since Fuze wasn’t the target of his fury.

*crack*

The paint brush he’d been holding broke under the pressure of his clenched hand, but Glaz didn’t notice, and clenched his fist even tighter.

“Timur!”

It was Fuze calling out his name that finally brought Glaz down to earth, away from the dark spiral of what ifs where Fuze left the team, lured away by Kali. He opened his hands, revealing the brush he accidentally snapped in half, and how the jagged edge of the broken wood had sunk into his palm. Oh. He hadn’t even noticed that.

Glaz briefly mourned the loss of his favorite small brush, dropping the pieces aside and wiping the blood from his palm carelessly. “And? Did you accept?”

Fuze regarded him in silence for a few seconds, before shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe Glaz’s foolishness. “Of course not. I have my team. And I’m not going anywhere.” This assurance was a balm for Glaz’s turmoil, but then Fuze added with a smirk. “Besides, I know you always have my back and won’t put a bullet in me, not even a fake one.”

The laugh and lingering look they shared made Glaz feel that all was right in the world, at least for a little while. He knew he could always count on his team, on his friends, and having this belief reaffirmed soothed him like nothing else did. It had been foolish to think Fuze would leave him.

[livesincerely]

always yours, always mine

Also on Ao3. Rated E.

Disclaimer, this is another A/B/O fic, which I know isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so feel free to skip over this one if that’s not something you’re into <3

00000

“Okay,” Davey says after the third time one of the boys flinches away from him: Albert, this time, who lets out a panicked yelp and all but tucks and rolls, head over ass, in his attempt to keep Davey from touching him. Given that Davey had only gone to clap a friendly hand on his shoulder while they line up to get their papes, this seems like a drastic overreaction. “What aren’t you all telling me.”

They actually have the gall to look surprised—as though they’ve been anything even approaching subtle in the not-quite fifteen minutes that have passed since Davey arrived in the square—and their guilty, hang-dog expressions might’ve been comical if he wasn’t so annoyed.

“Well?” Davey says, arching an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over each of them in turn. “What is it?”

Race snatches Albert’s cap off his head and thwaps him with it. “Nice goin’ Albie, you done gave it away!”

“What was I s’pposed’ta do?” Albert says, disgruntled, rubbing his forehead. “Jus’ stand there?”

“No, but you were s’pposed’ta handle it discrete like, dumbass—”

“Oh, sure, ‘cause it’s just that easy—”

“None of you would know discrete if it socked you in the jaw,” Davey cuts in, his hands making their way to his hips as he stares down at them. “Now, what’s going on?”

There’s a long silence as the boys all glance at each other, shifting guiltily, but none of them willing to be the first to break.

Finally, Racetrack sighs. “This was a stupid idea anyway,” he mutters. He rolls his shoulders back and looks Davey straight on, opens his mouth to speak—

Henry elbows him in the side, hissing, “Race! Don’t tell him!”

“Albert already ruined it, we might as well come clean—”

“I didn’t ruin it!” Albert cries.

“You kinda did,” Finch says with a shrug. “You were really obvious, Al.”

"What was I s’pposed to do!”

“I say we just tell him,” Buttons chimes in over Albert’s protests. “Davey’s gonna figure it out eventually—”

“—and he’s gonna be more upset the longer we keep it from him.” Specs adds. Buttons points at him as if to say, yeah, see?

“You just don’t want Davey to be mad at’cha,” Romeo says, accusatory. 

“Do you want Davey to be mad at’cha?”

“....No.”

“I’m gonna tell him,” Race announces to the group at large.

Multiple voices interject all at once, shouts of disagreement and words of encouragement all jumbled together.

“Race, you can’t,”  Crutchie says with a shake of his head, his quieter tones just barely heard beneath the others’ bickering. “Yesterday was bad enough and you heard what Jack said! He doesn’t want to say anything—“

“Yeah, well maybe if Jack wasn’t such a moron, it wouldn’t’ve gotten so bad in the first place—”

“So, this is about Jack, then?” Davey asks, loudly, and the silence that falls is so sudden and absolute that it almost seems to echo.

The boys all look at each other, apprehensive. Then Racetrack blurts, “Jack’s in rut!”

“Jack’s… what?”  Davey says, startled, because out of all the possibilities he’d suspected, this wasn’t anywhere on the list. “I thought he was sick?”

“He didn’t want us to tell you,” Crutchie admits, apologetic. “He didn’t want’cha to know.”

“Jack’s in rut and he wasn’t going to tell me?” Davey says, confused and a little hurt. “But… why?”

“Because he’s an idiot?” Race offers, rolling his eyes. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with any typa explanation but he’s probably freaking out about some stupid alpha thing—”

“Hey,” Mush protests weakly. Sniper just shrugs as if to say fair enough. 

“—and he’s been all keyed up since Tuesday, stinking like frenzy and frustration—and not the fun kind,” Racer continues, wrinkling his nose at the memory. “Plus, he can smell you on all’a us when we get back to the Lodging House every evening; he nearly tore Buttons’ arm outta its socket yesterday when he caught your scent on his sleeve, just from wantin’ it so bad.” 

“He didn’t hurt me,” Buttons assures him when Davey looks his way, alarmed. “Nothing like that—you know Jack would never. But he’s driving himself crazy stayin’ away from ya, and havin’ your scent around without you there with it is only makin’ things harder on him.”

“But, why doesn’t he just…” Davey asks, trying to think of a delicate way to say fuck it out, even as something in his chest bares its teeth and snarls at the thought of Jack even considering a rut partner. 

“You’re kiddin’, right?” Race says flatly, thoroughly unimpressed. “Please tell me you’re kiddin’, because I can only deal with one of you bein’ stupid at a time and Jack’s already called dibs on this week.”

“So, what, he’s trying to just wait it out when he knows that I would—“ 

Davey stops himself, flushing. It’s no secret, how he and Jack have been circling each other—teetering on the brink of becoming  more,  just waiting for something to finally give—but he’s reluctant to talk about it too openly, the possibility of him and Jack still feeling oh so fragile where it’s tucked away in the deepest corner of his heart.

Because he’d thought that they were on the same page, thought that there was an unspoken understanding between them that one day, eventually… But if Jack didn’t want him to know about his rut, hadn’t asked Davey to keep him company through his cycle… Davey chews at his lower lip, stomach twisting up in knots.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to be stupid?” Racetrack asks—frowning, but with no real heat to his words—and Davey realizes that his scent has taken on a sour, anxious note as his thoughts spiralled. “You can’t possibly think that he’d want anyone but you riding this out with him.”

“Except, he doesn’t want me there,” Davey points out. “You just said that he didn’t want me to know—”

“Yeah, but not ‘cause he don’t want you,” Racetrack assures him, as though this is plainly obvious. “‘Cause he really, definitely does: he’s puttin’ up with the rest of us ‘cause he loves us and ‘cause he don’t gotta choice since we all live together, but he wants  you.  I think he wants you so bad that it scares him.”

Davey tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth as he considers Race’s words. But it’s not even a choice that needs contemplating, really, not when it’s Jack.

“I’ll go over and check on him,” Davey decides, a little voice in his head whispering yeshelpprotectfixsoothe. “See if I can convince him to let me help him.”

The boys all sag as one—it’s clear that they hadn’t wanted to go directly against Jack’s orders but are relieved that Davey’s going to step in.

“Thank fuck,” Elmer mutters. “I can’t take anymore of his goddamn pacing.”

“Felt like I was havin’ sympathy pains, watching him prowl around,” Mush agrees, rubbing a hand over his chest like he can feel an ache there. “Don’t know how he’s managed to hold out so long—I can’t imagine tryin’ to get through a cycle without Blink now that we’re together—”

“I’ll handle it,” Davey says, determined, the feeling in his chest crystalizing into something solid and certain and unshakable. 

“We’ll let your folks know where you are,” Crutchie tells him, clapping Davey on the shoulder. “Just go an’ take care of him—god knows he ain’t gonna take care of himself.”

“And don’t let him run you off,” Race advises. “You know how he gets.”

“I’ll handle it,” Davey repeats firmly.

00000

Davey smells Jack before he sees him: the air is heavy with his cedar and summertime scent, undercut with the smoky sweetness of his rut, so potent that Davey almost goes dizzy with it.

“Jack?” he calls out, announcing himself out of politeness rather than any real need—he’s positive that Jack smelt him the moment he arrived. “Jackie?”

The hair on the back of Davey’s neck stands on end, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and Davey turns just as Jack steps out of a side hallway, his face shadowed with tension.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Jack rumbles, watching Davey with dark, dark eyes. He’s only wearing a pair of thin sleep pants, his skin dewy with a sheen of sweat, and even from where he stands, Davey can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves.

“Oh?” Davey says, arching an eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Which one of ‘em squealed?” Jack asks with a growl of frustration, raking a hand through his hair. “No, don’t tell me, it was Racer, wasn’t it?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your rut was coming up?” Davey asks, getting right to the point. 

“I didn’t wanna put’cha in that position,” Jack says evasively, gaze falling to the floor.

“And what position would that be?” Davey questions, crossing his arms over his chest.

It takes Jack several seconds to answer. “Didn’t want’cha to feel… obligated or nothin’. Like you hafta be here, like you hafta help me with this, jus’ ‘cause we’re...”

“I don’t understand,” Davey says, watching him carefully, a spark of realization starting to dawn. “How is this any different than you helping me through my heat last month?”

Jack’s spine stiffens, tension thrumming through him like a live wire, but he lets it go just as quickly as it arrived. 

“Come on, Davey,” Jack says, voice heavy, his mouth pressed in a thin, unhappy line across his face. “You know what I mean. You know why it’s different.”

“Sweet, stubborn, overprotective alpha,” Davey murmurs with a sad sigh, shaking his head. “Jackie, you’re not going to lose control and go wild just because you’re in rut, it doesn’t actually work like that—”

“Are you sure?” Jack says darkly. “Are you absolutely positive? ‘Cause I’m feelin’ pretty fuckin’ outta control, here, Dave. Feels like I might bust outta my skin any second, my instincts are goin’ goddamn nuts, I can barely sleep, can barely keep my fuckin’ head on straight, and there’s this hollow, empty spot between my lungs that aches every time I breathe, and I can’t— I can’t—”

“Jack,” Davey says, low and soothing. “You have to stop fighting your instincts. I know you think you’re protecting me by holding yourself back, but I promise that there’s nothing to worry about. Let me help you, darling. Please?”

Jack wavers—not like he’s convinced, not like he’s found any sort of faith in himself, but like he no longer has the strength to keep arguing—and that more than anything has the alarm bells going off in the back of Davey’s mind.

“Jack,” Davey beckons, soft but firm. “Jackie, love, come here.”

Jack takes a stumbling, hesitant step forward. Davey meets him halfway and draws him into a tight embrace, one arm wrapped securely around Jack’s middle, the other guiding Jack’s head to rest against the curve of his throat. 

Jack’s hands settle cautiously against the small of his back, his nose tucked right against Davey’s scent gland. He takes in a single, shaky breath, then crumples like a puppet that’s had its strings cut, that salty, bitter note of distressed alpha finally fading from his scent.

“Dave,” Jack whines, snuffling desperately at his neck. “Davey.”

“I know, Jackie,” Davey murmurs, hugging him even tighter. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

They stand like that for several minutes, just holding each other—Davey pressing gentle kisses to the top of Jack’s head while Jack clings to him, relaxing more and more with every inhale. 

“Can you look at me for a second, love?” Davey asks, craning back as much as he can without letting go. Jack grumbles but obediently tilts his head back—now that they’re closer, Davey can see that his eyes are glassy with fever, his skin flushed beneath his tan. “When’s the last time you ate something? Or had anything to drink?”

“I dunno,” Jack says, shrugging. “A while, I guess. H’ven’t been keepin’ track.”

“Let’s get some food and water into you, okay?” Davey says. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

Davey leads Jack along the hallway and down a set of stairs into the basement, following the traces of Jack’s scent in the air to find wherever he’s been hunkered down for his rut. 

He quickly discovers what must be the Lodging House’s cycle room. It’s cold, cramped, and uncomfortable, not a hint of carpet or wood or  anything  to cover the wall-to-ceiling concrete that encloses the space, and Davey’s heart aches at the thought of Jack waiting out his cycle here, alone, for these last couple days.

He takes stock of the room: there's a wooden bed frame with a lumpy mattress pushed up against one of the walls, covered in a plastic mattress protector and made up with a cheap set of sheets that are stale with sweat, and a single threadbare blanket to go with it—no pillows. There’s a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter sitting on a table in the corner, a mostly full pitcher of water and a glass next to it, and there’s a stack of towels and linens tucked underneath the table with a wash basin.

“Think you can eat something?” Davey asks.

Jack shrugs again but doesn’t answer. Davey decides to interpret this as a  yes. 

“Sit down for me, darling,” he says, making quick work of fixing Jack a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water. 

Jack hovers close for a second, then finds a spot right on the floor, leaning with his back against the far wall. 

“Go ahead and eat this for me,” Davey instructs, handing over the food. Jack accepts it from him by route, but makes no move to actually take a bite. “Jackie, please. You need to eat something.”

“‘M not hungry,” he mutters.

“I know you aren’t, but that’s just the rut talking,” Davey says, running a hand gently along his arm. “You’ll feel differently once you’ve got some food in your stomach.”

Though he’s clearly not thrilled about it, Jack manages to choke down half of his sandwich and two glasses of water. Once that’s taken care of, Davey starts stripping the dirty sheets off the bed, piling them into the corner to be washed later, then remakes it with a fresh set.

“Do you want to try laying down for a while?” Davey asks as he finishes, smoothing away a wrinkle near one of the mattress corners. “You said you haven’t been sleeping well—”

“I think you need to leave,” Jack interrupts, the words coming out in a low, gravelly rasp. 

Davey goes very, very still, a sudden flare of heat prickling low in his stomach. 

He slowly turns around. Jack rises to his feet with all the grace and power of a jungle cat, his eyes shaded dark with hunger and his scent burning like a wildfire, staring at Davey like he might devour him whole, the air between them growing heated as the next wave of his rut kicks in. 

Davey barely resists a whimper, his own scent spiking sugar-sweet in response as desire pulses through him. He wants to rub himself all along Jack’s front, until that smoky-spicy-cedar scent is imprinted into his skin. Wants to lick the taste of it right out of Jack’s mouth.

“David,” Jack growls. His eyes are scorching. “You gotta go, sweetheart. You gotta leave right now.”

Davey swallows around a suddenly dry throat, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, but his voice is remarkably steady when he says, “What if I don’t want to leave?”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to stiffen. “Davey,” he says sharply. “I know you’re tryin’ to help, but trust me, this ain’t like your heats. You don’t wanna be here for this.”

“You haven’t actually asked me if I want to be here for this,” Davey points out, taking a single step forward. Jack’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “You’ve just assumed that I don’t.”

“Because you don’t understand how—” Jack’s jaw snaps shut as he cuts himself off, expression tight.

“Answer me this then,” Davey says when Jack doesn’t continue, stepping closer and closer until they’re standing toe to toe, chest to chest. Jack’s nostrils flare, the muscles in his arms tensing and flexing, and that mouth watering scent spikes even stronger. “Do you want me, Jackie?”

“Of course I want’cha,” Jack groans, and one of those big, hot hands finally curls around Davey’s waist—not pulling him any closer, really, but like Jack just can’t help himself. “What kinda question is that? This ain’t about not wantin’ ya.”

“Then why is it so hard for you to believe that I want you too?” Davey asks. “That I want you like this? That I want everything you’re willing to give me?”

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” Jack insists, stubborn. Davey would admire his dedication if it wasn’t so exasperating. “I’m— I can’t control myself as well when I’m in rut, I get rough, possessive—”

Davey rolls his eyes. 

“You’re my alpha, Jackie,” he says dryly. “Possessive kind of comes with the territory.”

Jack’s eyes go wide. Two seconds later, Davey realizes what he’s said: this is the first time either of them have openly acknowledged what they are to each other, and voicing it aloud, saying it so plainly… something in Davey’s chest thrums with energy, with  connection.

“You... “ Jack’s throat works for a moment. “You think of yourself as mine?”

“Jackie, I’ve always been yours,” Davey says, cupping his hands around Jack’s face, so true and so tender that he aches with it. “And, I think you’ve always been mine.”

Jack pulls one of Davey’s hands away from his face and curls his own around it, pressing a kiss to Davey’s knuckles, then to his palm, and then to the inside of his wrist, his gaze growing more heated with each one. 

“Mine,” Jack growls, a hint of teeth scraping against Davey’s pulse as he pulls away. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” Davey breathes. “All yours.”

Jack’s eyes flash red, then he’s drawing Davey in for a hard, demanding kiss, pressing a thigh between the hot space between Davey’s legs. Davey gasps at the first brush of Jack’s lips against his neck, the slide of Jack’s hands shifting down to palm at his ass, his fingers digging into the swell of Jack’s biceps for purchase. 

“Take these off,” Jack growls, yanking Davey’s shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. “Take them off before I tear them off you.”

Davey fumbles for the buttons on his shirt, liquid heat pooling low in his stomach. Jack’s hands trail greedily at every bit of his skin as he uncovers it, thoroughly distracting and too good to ignore, and after several minutes of scrabbling, interspersed with long, frenzied kisses, they eventually manage to get their clothes off. 

“Bed, cielito,” Jack says. “We need to— Bed.”

Davey hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t move, his face buried against Jack’s shoulder, biting at the skin there until it bruises.

“Dave,” Jack tries again.

“I’m busy,” Davey mumbles, mouthing at the sharp line of Jack’s collarbones.

“And I’m about two seconds away from pushing you down and fucking you right through the floor,” Jack says, voice laden with promise. “So get on the goddamn bed.”

“I really don’t see what the issue is,” Davey teases, still not moving an inch. “The floor is closer, isn’t it?”

Jack snarls, curling a hand around Davey’s nape and pulling him back up into another frenzied kiss.

“Mouthy— little— smartass—“ he pants, his teeth dragging along the tendon in Davey’s throat. “I’m gonna eat you out ‘til you cry.”

He wraps his hands under Davey’s thighs and hoists him up and back. Davey lands on the mattress with a soft bounce, barely given any time to situate himself before Jack is on top of him, pinning him down with rough hands and spreading him wide before following through with his threat, tongue lapping at Davey’s entrance in broad, greedy strokes.

“Ah,”  Davey gasps, fingers tight in Jack’s hair, scrabbling for some kind of anchor as Jack licks him open.

Jack lets out a low rumble of approval that vibrates right against where he’s most sensitive, his body growing even wetter, even slicker at the sound and feel of it. Jack swirls his tongue around his opening, making Davey’s toes curl against Jack’s sides, then presses in—Davey cries out, a harsh, desperate sound that tears out of him as he grinds up into the sensation.

“Jack,” he gasps, mindless, hips jerking uselessly in Jack’s unrelenting hold, body pulled taut and stretched loose at the same time, pleasure coiling in his belly. “Jack, I’m— I can’t—”

One particularly filthy swipe of Jack’s tongue has Davey’s breath hitching in his chest, head thrown back as the feelings swell and crest, and it only takes one more teasing flick before Davey’s coming with a broken moan.

“Jack,” he croaks when his lungs reinflate. “Holy shit.”

Jack’s mouth and chin are shiny with slick, his pupils blown wide and shaded with satisfaction. 

“Told you,” he says smugly. 

Davey tugs him down into another messy kiss, needing to lick that handsome smirk off his face. Then he rears up and flips them over so that he’s the one on top now, kneeling over Jack with his legs straddling Jack’s lap.

“My turn,” Davey murmurs, reaching down and taking Jack’s length—thick and hard and wet at the tip—in hand, lining it up at his entrance.

Then he takes a breath, leans back, and sinks down onto it in one slow, smooth downstroke. 

“Mmn,” Davey sighs, his eyes slipping shut as his body adjusts to the stinging stretch of finally being filled. He’s thrumming with tension, with heat, his thighs quivering where they’re spread wide around Jack’s hips, hands splayed against Jack’s chest for leverage, and it feels so good he could almost choke on the pleasure of it. 

Jack’s hands flex jerkily against Davey’s sides, then go wonderfully, bruisingly tight, thumbs pressing hard against the divots of his hips.

“Fuck, Davey,” he groans, staring up at Davey with dark eyes tinged with red, lovely and wanting. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. So fucking gorgeous and absolutely perfect for me.”

“For you,” Davey agrees, grinding down in a tight, deliberate circle, ass flush against the cradle of Jack pelvis, and Jack’s scent burns even brighter, smoky and sweet. “And you’re all mine, aren’t you darling?”

“Always,” Jack promises.

Davey rises up then drops back down, carefully at first but quickly finding his rhythm, rocking his hips in a  steady back and forth motion that sends liquid fire sparking up his spine. Every slip and drag of Jack’s dick inside of him feels like being shaken apart and pieced back together all at once, aching desire coursing through him with every slap of skin against skin.

“Davey,” Jack pants, his hips bucking up to meet Davey’s own as he rolls down again, and Davey moans through the bursts of bliss that explode behind his eyelids. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”

“Jack,” Davey gasps, leaning forward to tuck his nose against Jack’s neck, nipping at his pulse point as he grinds down in his lap, the scent of summer and cedar and mate, mate, mate anchoring him even as he goes a little scent drunk on how  right  it all is. “Jackie, I— oh, yes, just like that.”

Jack pulls him down into the next thrust, hard and fast, and Davey cries out, twisting his hip as he sinks into it. 

“Perfect,” Jack grunts, those hot, rough hands squeezing tight. “God, Davey, you look absolutely incredible. So fucking pretty, sweetheart, feel so good riding my cock.”

Davey works his hips that much faster at the praise, so much so that the bed starts rocking underneath them, the squeaky creak of the wooden frame echoing through the room in time with his own heaving breaths. He’s so wet now that he can hear Jack fucking him, hears the slick, dirty squelch of Jack’s knot pressing a little deeper inside of him every time they clash together, driving closer and closer to completion.

“Harder,” Davey pleads, his thighs burning from the effort of keeping up his pace but still needing more. “Jack, please—fuck, alpha, please—harder.”

Jack snarls—a low, rumbling, dangerously sexy sound—and his eyes bleed red, his scent washing over Davey like blazing fire. He leverages his legs up, bending them at the knee with his feet flat against the mattress, and when he thrusts up into Davey on the next roll of his hips, it feels so impossibly good that Davey’s mouth falls open around a broken, guttural little keen.

“O-oh,” Davey says, the word catching in his throat, barely able to think with how completely and utterly Jack is destroying him, his knot starting to thicken and swell against his rim as their bodies meet again and again. Davey arches his back, planting a hand against one of Jack’s bent knees for balance, chasing blindly after his pleasure, and Jack makes a noise like he’s going out of his damn mind, a possessive growl tearing its way out of his throat. “Oh fuck.”

“Say it again,” Jack orders, eyes on fire.

It falls out of Davey’s mouth, desperate and true: “Alpha, alpha, my alpha—”

“My omega,” Jack says, his voice low and gritty, rut and desire clouding his gaze. “Mine.”

They’re both teetering on the edge. Jack’s knot is catching on every thrust, fucking him open in torturous, delicious increments, and Davey wants, wants,  wants.

“Jack,” Davey’s head hangs heavy between his shoulders, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he pants and sighs. “Jackie, yes, give it to me, give it to me, please, yes—”

Jack’s hands slide lower, clench harder, and Davey has one second to delight in how much he loves the feel of those big hands curled around him before the world spins and he lands flat on his back again with Jack braced above him, his eyes wild and vivid red. He grabs the backs of Davey’s thighs and pushes his knees up towards his ears, hardly faltering at all before he’s driving back inside again, fast and hard and so, so deep, and Davey’s boiling, blistering from the feeling of Jack, always Jack, pulsing inside of him, etched right into the seams of his heart.

“Mine,” Jack growls again, nipping viciously at the base of Davey’s throat, tongue swirling over his scent gland like he’s already trying to taste his claim. Davey tilts his head back with a needy whine, unable to do anything except offer himself up to him, freely and wholly. “Mate. Mine.”

“Jack,” Davey whimpers. “Jack, I— I’m—”

“You’re going to come for me,” Jack orders, pistoning his hips even harder, and the new angle means that he’s tagging that sweet spot inside on every other thrust, fierce and relentless. 

“Yes,” Davey moans, sparks flying at the edges of his vision. “Yes, I’m— Don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t—”

Jack presses him down, snaps his hips forward, sharp, and his knot finally catches, swells, and locks inside of him. Heat thrums, then surges through him, white hot, at the searing stretch of it and Davey comes so hard he goes lightheaded, body rippling and writhing through wave after wave of pleasure. Jack manages a couple more filthy grinds of his hips before he’s tumbling over the edge right after him, capturing Davey’s mouth in a breathless, bruising kiss as his orgasm rocks through them both.

When he feels like he can move his limbs again, Davey lets his legs slip down to wrap around Jack’s waist, looping his arms loosely around Jack’s neck. He turns his face towards Jack’s temple and inhales, smiling softly when he catches the smoky, spicy, cooling-embers scent of a sated, happily exhausted alpha.

“How are you feeling, darling?” Davey murmurs, brushing Jack’s sweaty hair off his forehead with a gentle touch. “Alright?”

Jack mouths something unintelligible against his collarbone, a solid, grounding weight sprawled bonelessly on top of him. Davey cups his hand around the nape of Jack’s neck, then strokes soothingly down his back, his mind a wash of hazy contentment. 

“‘M good,” Jack grunts. “I’m… fuck, Dave.”

Davey huffs out a laugh, then presses a kiss to the high point of Jack’s cheek. “Fuck,” he echoes hoarsely, still recovering from his high.

“You?” Jack asks, nuzzling clumsily at the column of Davey’s throat. “Feelin’ okay?”

“Better than,” Davey decides, his body aching deliciously around the hot, hard knot pressed inside of him, stomach sticky with with own release, his thighs wet with slick and come, neck littered with marks, the air thick with their combined scents, spring and citrus and cedar and sweet  melded perfectly together, and he feels totally, entirely, completely— “Feel claimed.”

Jack’s body twitches, his knot throbbing as he spills another burst of pleasure deep inside of him. Davey hums, pleased, some base omega instinct purring with satisfaction at how wonderfully full he is.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Jack eventually gets out, voice rough and raspy and  wrecked.  “You can’t just— Have mercy on your poor alpha.”

“My alpha,” Davey agrees. “All mine.”

[joiedecombat]

💕 🎁

💕 favorite ship to write? 

Squall Leonhart and Rinoa Heartilly from Final Fantasy VIII, my original fandom OTP. I’ve probably written more about them than any other fic, and though it’s been a hot minute since I’ve written anything new for FFVIII, Squall and Rinoa and their relationship dynamic have left a permanent mark on my writing - especially Squall, who is eveything I love in a romantic hero.

By which mostly I mean “aloof, stoic professionalism on the outside, utter emotional garbage fire in need of rescue on the inside.”

🎁 have a quote from a WIP? 

I batted back and forth with myself for a while on how deep to dig into my files of unfinished fiction and whether to stick to fanfic or not, considering that how much any of my WIPs can really be said to be in progress is always pretty dubious.

Anyway, here’s two different and unrelated excerpts for you.

“Why make the suggestion in the first place if you’re so against it?”

Because I’m not strong enough.

The answer rested on the tip of his tongue, too bitter to swallow. As much as this whole situation galled him, fact remained fact: he lacked the influence, not to mention the manpower, that it would take to challenge Juliano directly.

He’d grit his teeth and send this woman into the trenches, knowing full well what he was sending her to, because like it or not he needed the opportunity she could give him.

But some things a man in his position couldn’t admit to out loud. Especially not to a woman with eyes like Elizabeth Colvin’s.

This one’s from “Reason or Rhyme,” the Gotham Memoirs Vittorio fic I swear I will get back to when I have the chance.

The other is from an older original piece that is still more conceptual than really planned, but which I still really want to do something with one of these days:

Keeping herself propped up suddenly seemed like far too much effort. As the car’s drivers side door swung open, Raine sank back down onto the corrugated surface of the truck bed and closed her eyes. From there she heard rather than saw him approach, steps light and measured, the long shadow he cast in the headlights flickering against her eyelids: the central figure of all the problems she’d tried to forget.

“Warden.” 

“Special Agent.” 

She’d hoped to sound as calm and dispassionate as he had, but to her own ears her voice just sounded petulant. Saying anything else seemed like a bad idea. Instead she kept her eyes shut, as though if she didn’t acknowledge him any further, he might  go away and leave her alone.

No such luck. 

“What the hell have you been drinking,” he said with a flatness in that rich voice that made it not so much a question as a demand for explanation.

“Two for one margaritas, mostly.” 

She opened one eye to find Alsandír standing at the side of the truck, looking down at her. In the stark backlight of the headlights, he was all sharp contrasts, silver and shadows like some kind of moody artistic photograph in a style there was probably a fancy name for. Chiaro… chiaroscuro. Something Italian like that.

He drew in a slow breath, the line of his jaw shifted fractionally as the corners of his mouth tightened. “With incredibly cheap tequila, by the smell of it. You are in no shape to drive.”

“A very astute observation,” Raine enunciated the words with great care to keep her mouth from stumbling over them like it wanted to. “That’d be why I’m not driving.”

He lifted an eyebrow. 

“So your solution is to spend the night out here?” he asked, a note of incredulity creeping into his tone. “Because that’s safe.”

“Oh, go away,” she muttered sourly, closing her eyes again and lifting a hand to flap it in his direction. “Nobody asked you.”

Her arm caught up short against his palm, and he closed his hand around her wrist -- not a tight grip, but trying to tug free of him proved fruitless. By the time Raine opened her eyes to frown at him, he was already moving around to the tailgate, pulling her up and along with him until her feet touched the ground and she was sitting nominally upright. 

“Hey,” she protested, but he gave no indication that he’d heard.

“Can you stand?”

Insulted, she hissed a breath out through her teeth. “I’m not that drunk.”

He said nothing to that. He just stood there, watching her with that too-steady gaze, inhumanly still except for the barest ruffle of the breeze over his hair. Expectant.

With a half-voiced grumble of capitulation, Raine braced her hand against the tailgate and pushed herself the rest of the way up so that she could sit on her own. It wasn’t standing, but it seemed to satisfy him, because he let go of her wrist and took a single, precise step back. 

“Where are your keys?” he asked her.

She patted her hand against the hip pocket of her jeans, not so much by way of an answer as to reassure herself that she hadn’t done something stupid like leave them in the ignition. The hard edges of the keyring pressed back against her palm, unyielding and familiar. She had just enough time to think that if he meant to take her keys from her, it was going to be a fight, before he said “Good,” and turned away.

Raine sat on the tailgate and watched as he went back to his car, moving around to the passengers’ side to open the door. Her mind felt thick and sluggish, like the summer humidity had crept into her head; when he turned back towards her and said, “Get in,” at first she only blinked.

“...No thanks,” she decided after a moment, and heard him breathe out a quiet sigh.

“I’m not leaving you out here like this.”

Something about the absoluteness in his voice, like he was saying something that had already been decided, had her bunching up her shoulders with rebellious tension. 

“Go to hell,” Raine shot back. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Dios mío, it’s not an order--” He broke off with a hiss, for once sounding as aggravated as she felt. 

Curling her arms around herself, she hunkered down to rest her forearms against her knees and looked down at the ground. Presently she heard his steps on the gravel again. The distorted length of his shadow split the flood of light from the headlights like a knife as he walked back toward her; even when he stood right in front of her, close enough that if she kicked out it would catch him right about in the kneecap, she kept her head bowed and glowered at the toes of his no-doubt-designer shoes.

“Raine. I am asking you. Please.” The word sounded awkward in his mouth, as though it were something he wasn’t accustomed to pronouncing. Surprise had her lifting her head to find those pale eyes fixed upon her, implacable. “Get in the fucking car.”

For a long, taut moment, neither of them moved. Raine was the one to finally break eye contact, uncurling herself with a little huff. 

“Fine,” she said, “if you’re going to make this much of a thing out of it.”

She gripped the end of the tailgate with both hands, but as she pushed herself off and onto her feet, the ground tilted dizzily underneath her. Off balance, she pitched forward with a very undignified sound, and would’ve planted her face right into his chest if he hadn’t caught her by the shoulders.

Catching the upward quirk of his eyebrow, Raine glared up at him. “Shut up.”

“Mm,” he said, and hitched a steadying arm around her by which to steer her towards his car.

[loversarcanas]

Midnight Romeo Ch. 1

Series: The Owl House Pairing: Beta!Luz/Beta!Amity

Luz Noceda finds herself frequenting night clubs to cope with her loneliness. She never expects to find anyone, really, until she’s forced to save a pretty girl from a nasty creep harassing her. Please support the original on Ao3! (trigger warnings for alcohol consumption and minor sexual harassment)

12:35am. The flashing lights and blaring dubstep over massive stereo systems was enough to overwhelm anyone, especially Luz Noceda. She wasn’t really even sure why she kept coming here. For drinks? People-watching? Moping, hoping for a stranger to reach out a hand to her and make a connection? Probably all of the above. Yet, despite how agonizingly crowded the place was and how much it reeked of Mary Jane and sweat, she sat alone at the bar, sipping on her second glass of whiskey and watching wasted hornballs grind on each other.     Luz was a pretty lonely person. She didn’t really have friends to spend time with, her mom worked hectic nights at the hospital to the point where they barely saw each other, and she had nothing but shitty breakups with shitty partners who left her feeling more and more closed up. Nobody could envy her right now. Any last shreds of hope that some gorgeous, charming person would approach her and suavely sweep her off her feet, were stomped on by her own cynicism. After all, who would want her ? Slumped over the bar in an unwashed army jacket, uncombed hair and beanie, probably reeking of booze. Hah, yeah. A real catch, huh.     Her self-deprecating thoughts were interrupted, however, when a shorter, punky looking girl ran up to her and wrapped arms around her. “Oh my god, hiii! I haven’t seen you in so long , babe!” came a peppy, raspy voice from the girl. Luz froze, completely shocked and incredibly confused at just what was happening right now. As well as a little bit flustered, because this girl was very pretty. Before she had a chance to speak, however, the mysterious girl whispered in her ear “ Just go with it, creepy guy behind me ”. Ah.     Luz’s demeanor changed in a heartbeat, cracking a smile and hugging the girl back. “Hey! What are you doing here? It’s been ages!” Pulling away from the hug, she looked passed the girl’s green-dyed hair to see a seething man walking directly towards them. “Hey Amity, who’s this girl? Some friend of yours?” He asked through a fake, gritted smile. Oh, Luz could feel the rotten vibes emanating from him. “Yeah, the name’s Luz. Amity here is one of my friends from college. May I ask who you are?”

The strange man crossed his arms, a smug grin crossing his face. “Yeah, I’m her man of the night. And we’ll be going now, actually.” Venom dripped from each of his words as he tried to grab at Amity’s wrist. The shorter girl struggled and mumbled “Let go” as she tried to pull away, and a new flame entered Luz’s gaze. She stood up and towered half a head over the man, staring at him with an intense anger, reaching into her jacket pocket for her switchblade.     “I don’t think she wants to go with you. Now let her go, or I’ll slice that hand clean off your wrist.” Luz scowled, flipping the blade open. The man visibly flinched, but stood his ground for a few moments more before finally letting go. “Whatever, fucking cunt. She’s an ugly bitch anyway.” He mumbled as he walked back into the crowd. Luz closed her switchblade and looked back down at the green haired girl, who was now rubbing the spot where her wrist had been so roughly grabbed.     Amity looked up at the taller girl in appreciation. “Thanks, uh.. You said your name was Luz? Thank you. I swear to god, men don’t know how to take fucking ‘no’ for an answer.” Luz sighed, and patted her shoulder. “Yeah, guys can be real creeps sometimes, especially at places like this. I’m just glad he didn’t do worse to you. Are you okay?” Amity grumbled, and hopped up on a bar chair next to the taller girl. “Well, not really. My friends bailed on me and I’ve been trying to ward off these dipshit guys all night. I don’t see how anyone enjoys these places.”     Luz stifled a chuckle. “Yeah, I hear ya. But if you hate it so much, why are you here?” Amity let out a heavy sigh. “I came because my friends asked me to. This isn’t usually my deal, but they were insistent. Then they had the gall to fucking leave me here alone. Assholes.” She mumbled, laying her head on the counter. “They don’t really sound like friends if they’re just gonna leave you here.” Luz offered. Amity noticeably shrank when she said that. “Yeah, well, they’re kinda my only option as far as friends go… And they were my ride here too, hah .” She laughed bitterly.     The two of them were silent for a few moments, only being enveloped in the sound of the music over loudspeakers. At one point, the bartender asked if Amity wanted a drink. She lifted her head and ordered a long island iced tea, much to Luz’s surprise. When asked if she wanted a refill on her whiskey, Luz declined, and turned back to Amity. “So, you don’t have a ride home then?” Amity shook her head. “It’s probably fine. I’ll just grab an Uber, or beg one of my siblings to pick me up, haha.” Her laugh was tired, and her eyes looked tired as well.

  While Amity silently drank, Luz watched her - taking in her appearance. Her eyes were sharp and golden, with thick, black, winged eyeliner and smokey eyeshadow. Her nose was long and pierced through the septum. Her lips were thin, covered in black lipstick and adorned with black metal snake bites. Her hair was messy, tousled and long, reaching halfway down her back. Her ears were covered in black piercings, and she wore a fitted band tee and a pink plaid miniskirt. Truly, this girl was stunning. Luz couldn’t help but wonder if this was the princess charming she had so long been wishing for-     ‘Ugh, don’t be stupid’ She thought to herself, and quickly stamped out the idea. Her main concern should be how to get this girl home, anyways. Her friends left her, she’s apparently been dealing with sexual harassment all night, and she’s probably going to be wasted on long island teas before she leaves. “So… Are you gonna text your sibs for a ride?” Amity finished the remains of her glass before slamming it back down on the table. “Yeah I guess I should, probably. They’ll probably make fun of me for getting so wasted, but it’s fine, whatever.” She took out her phone and started quickly typing a message with her thumbs, before setting it down on the bar. She called the bartender back over to order another tea, then slumped back on the counter. “Uh, you sure another one is a good idea chica ? Especially after the night you’ve had?”     The green-haired girl rolled her head to look at Luz, with a dead stare. “While I appreciate your concern, I kinda don’t care right now.” Her phone buzzed and she picked it up to look at the new text, before slapping it back down with a loud groan. “UGH, of COURSE they’re too busy to pick me up. Fuckin great.” Luz bit her lip, wondering what the next step should be. I mean, she barely met this girl, But after the night she’d had, she didn’t want to risk this Amity girl having another run off with a creepy guy. And she knew from experience that Ubers and Lyfts weren’t always the safest to ride in as a drunk girl.     “Hey… Uh, do you need me to give you a ride home then? I really don’t mind.” She waited in silence for a moment, while Amity turned to look at her. “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Just need to order an Uber, it’s fine..” She trailed off, pulling up the app on her phone. “Listen, I really don’t mind driving you. I’ve had some… not so fun experiences riding drunk in an Uber. They don’t do background checks on those guys, and especially since you’ve been through so much from creeps tonight...” Luz trailed off. Amity let out a huge sigh. “...Okay, fine. But you better not try anything weird either. I can and will fuck you up, or break your car window open.” Luz internally breathed a sigh of relief. She definitely understood not trusting a stranger to drive her home, but she didn’t want this girl to go through worse than she had already experienced tonight.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------     1:21am. They walked out of the bar, Luz had mostly sobered up, and supported the shorter girl so she didn’t stumble or trip on the way to her car. Luz’s car wasn’t anything special - it was an old 2002 Honda Accord, silver and a little beat up, but she was sure to keep it clean and in functioning shape. She opened the passenger door for amity with a polite gesture, and made sure she was all the way in before shutting the door and returning to the driver’s side.

  “Wow, your car is old.” Amity said bluntly. Luz laughed. “Yeah? Your point? I still keep her running like a dream. Why? Are you not used to old bangups?” Amity crossed her arms, embarrassed. “Well, my parents are all about having the newest thing. They all got brand new shit at home, fancy imported cars and that shit. They got me a brand new Maserati for my birthday this year. So yeah, I’m not used to ‘old bangups’ I guess.” She looked out the window while Luz started up the engine, and popped in a CD. The music started playing on low, Amity tuning in to the song that was playing.

‘You’re the beach on Christmas Eve,’

      ‘Wrong place, good time, consistently’

          ‘I feel like a walking love song’

      ‘When you do me like that, can you tell my brain turns off’ It seemed to fit the atmosphere pretty well, actually. Luz rolled down the window and let her arm hang out, bringing a much-needed cool breeze into the car. Amity could feel herself nodding off, despite trying to fight it. ‘This girl, Luz… can I really trust her? I mean, she seems really cool, and it’s nice of her to drive me home, but… ‘ Amity’s thoughts ran slowly through her head. She raised her head to look over at the girl in the driver’s seat. She really did have a cool aura about her. The army jacket and baggy cargo pants, while normally not Amity’s style, seemed to fit the girl. Her messy hair, red beanie, adorned with a pin Amity couldn’t see in the dark. She noticed Luz was singing along to the song under her breath. It was kind of cute, actually.     ‘From 7-11s to California Heavens’

      ‘I try to hide with my words, but you just find me clever’

            ‘I found a million places, you’d be worth the chases’

        ‘To go-oh-oh’

  Finally, they pull into a long driveway, protected by overbearing steel gates. Luz stopped the car, and looked up at the massive home behind them. “You live here , Amity? Damn, are you just rich as shit or something?” Amity sighed, clicked off her seatbelt and opened the door. “My family is rich as shit, yes. I try not to think about it.” Luz unblocked her seatbelt and rose to get out of the car, making sure Amity could get in alright. “Oh, wait! Here, hang on a second.” She said, running back to her car to grab something.

  Amity stood before the gates for only a few seconds, before Luz came back with a scrap of paper. “Listen, not that you’ll need it, but…” She looked embarrassed, rubbing the nape of her neck anxiously. “If your friends ever bail on you again or you need to get rid of any more creeps, here’s my number.” Luz handed the scrap to Amity, before shoving both hands in her jacket pockets. Amity looked down at the paper, then back up to Luz, with a smile. “Heh, thanks Luz… Maybe I’ll take you up on that. Amity brushed a piece of hair behind her ear, and turned toward the gates to her house. “Oh, and… Thank you for all your help tonight. Usually people aren’t so kind.” Those words were her last before opening the gates and walking inside.

Luz slumped back into her car, waiting until the girl was fully inside her house before buckling up and starting up the engine. ‘Well, that’s certainly not how I thought my night would go.’ She felt a buzz in her pocket, and pulled out her phone to find a new message from an unknown number. xxx-xxx-xxxx: Hey, this is Amity. Thanks again for tonight.     Luz smiled, and quickly registered the girl in her contacts. As she backed out of the manor driveway, she felt a lightness in her chest that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe going out to clubs wasn't all that bad.

[delimeful]

bright as the morning sun

Day 2: Deaf

from @hiddendreamer67‘s prompt list! for @ironwoman359 who i heard had a rough day... im totally late, and this au isnt exactly fluff (yet) but its analogical so i hope you enjoy anyhow!

warnings: blood, being trapped, injury, fear

-

For the last few hours, Virgil had thought more than once that being stuck in a barbed net, drifting helplessly along the seafloor, and probably leaving a bloody sharkbait trail behind him was the worst possible situation.

When the net he’d been caught in began to lift, reeled in by a human vessel, he was swiftly forced to re-evaluate his judgement.

He hissed sharply as the wires cut further into his scales, the water flushing pink around him. He could barely move, and he’d figured out early on that any thrashing he attempted only resulted in him suffering more. It was probably just a cruel stroke of luck that had prevented any of his more delicate frill fins from being shredded. Even so, it would be painful to swim if he got out of this alive.

That was looking less and less likely, as the pulley system finally triumphed against his weight and dragged him into the open air. The light nearly blinded him, but he could make out fuzzy silhouettes on the ship’s deck, faced towards him. He’d heard horror stories about how humans would muzzle syrens as soon as they were caught, drive nails into their throats so they could never utter another sound again. 

The net swung to the side, over wood instead of water, and Virgil’s airways finally adjusted to the change in environment as he spun gently in the suspended net. Human forms surrounded him, making his heart race with panic, and he decided staying alive wouldn’t be worth being taken like some trophy. 

He opened his mouth and screamed.

Where exposure to a syren’s song was enough to entrance any human, a syren’s wail was enough to drive them to madness. All around him, they began to drop to the deck, clutching at their ears and joining Virgil with a chorus of pained screams. 

The moment stretched on, his lungs straining to maintain the noise. As his volume lowered slightly, he became aware of sharp footsteps behind him, and his voice upped a pitch. 

The footsteps didn’t stop or even falter like all the others. In fact, they came closer and then came to a precise, measured halt. A gloved hand gripped one side of the net, ignoring Virgil’s hiss and tugging it so he would spin around to face the stranger. 

“I would kindly request that you stop tormenting my crew,” the man said, cold blue eyes meeting his without any room for refusal. “We aren’t intending to hurt you, so please stop hurting them.” 

Virgil was so surprised that he did end up stopping, blinking in surprise that quickly turned to offense at the gall of the man. “I’m already plenty hurt, if you haven’t noticed,” he growled harshly, gesturing with a twitch of his head to the net. 

The man didn’t even flinch, tracking his every move with a severe gaze. “I’m assuming that you’re referring to the state we have found you in. Rest assured, that was not our doing. We arrested the trappers that set these, and we’ve been methodically retrieving and dismantling all of the illegal harvesting nets they placed. However, this has been the first we’ve encountered that actually had a syren in it.” 

Virgil bared his teeth, sinking back as the man stepped closer. He didn’t believe it for a second. 

“Captain, are you alright?” Another sailor appeared at their side, one hand rubbing absently at his ear. This one was dressed in less formal human clothing, with a rounder face and lenses. As he spoke, his hands moved in gestures Virgil didn’t understand. 

“Quite alright, Patton,” the captain confirmed, moving his hands in much the same way “And you?”   

“It was rough waters for a moment, I’ll admit!” he offered Virgil a cheery smile, as though the syren hadn’t just tried to make their brains leak out their ears. “Your cotton safeguard paid off, though!” 

Virgil watched in astonishment as the sailor pulled tufts of white fluffy material from his ears. It had muffled his scream’s effects? How had he known?

The captain frowned. “Patton, it’s not safe to remove those yet. The syren doesn’t sign, I am unsure if he believes we aren’t malicious.” 

Patton waved the concern off, even though his eyes were still a bit squinty with pain, and turned to address Virgil directly. “Hi there! I’m Patton, and this is our esteemed Captain Logan! We’re here to get you out of that net. Is that okay?” 

“If I say no, are you going to throw me back into the ocean?” Virgil asked, dryly. 

To his surprise, Patton gestured again for a few moments and then Logan was the one to respond. “It is our responsibility to destroy the atrocious and cruel mechanisms that our fellow humans have created. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with us until we can remove the net, and then you are, of course, free to go. We also have space below deck for you to heal and recover first, if you so desire.” 

Virgil stared at him, brow furrowed. He couldn’t trust humans, no matter how honest they seemed. But the man seemed to be the only exception to his voice, and so if he could figure out that factor, he’d be able to make an escape when they inevitably turned on him and kept him as a specimen. “Why weren’t you affected?” 

Again, Logan looked to Patton, and Virgil wondered if the esteemed captain was just too good to pay attention to him. 

“Ah,” he finally said with a wry smile, and then tapped his ear. “I’m afraid I am immune to the effects of your voice because I cannot hear it at all. I am completely deaf.”

Oh. Well, now Virgil felt stupid. 

“Sorry about that,” he signed stiltedly as he spoke, but Logan and Patton only stared at him blankly. 

“I don’t recognize those signs,” Logan said, an intrigued light in his eyes as he leaned forwards. “Are they used by deaf syrens? Perhaps we can exchange notes on nonverbal languages while you’re here.” 

“Oh boy, you’re in for a treat if Lo’s going to teach you our sign! He’s a great teacher,” Patton said and signed, and then elbowed his captain. “But that will have to wait until after our guest isn’t bleeding all over the deck, right Lo?”

Logan coughed, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Of course. Syren, with your go-ahead, we will lower you to the deck so we can get rid of those wires.” He pulled out a metal tool that seemed too dull to serve as a knife, and then revealed it had a pinching jaw like a squid. 

Virgil looked at both of them for a long moment, before nodding shallowly. “Fine. Okay. But I will bite you if you try to pull anything.” He bared his fangs again in example. 

Logan nodded seriously. “Of course. Thank you for trusting us with such a task.” 

As he turned to direct a crew member to lower the net, Virgil watched his expression soften slightly with relief, making him look much younger. 

Huh. Maybe he wasn’t so cold after all. 

[salchat]

Angels is Green - a Stargate Atlantis short story

Of course, he had been there before, to that planet they called Earth.  He had been there before they returned to his galaxy, those brave few, unaware of the dangers they would wake.

The first time was when he was very young and the small ones had come across him in his time of testing, on the planet where his hive had left him, alone and feral and near the point of starvation, not having had the courage to hunt and to feed.  They had taken him to their ship and somehow nourished him and studied him in their detached yet compassionate manner, their huge, inscrutable black eyes blinking with impartial curiosity.

Perhaps they had regarded him as a pet, for he had run wild about their ship, and, perhaps also they had underestimated his intellect, because he had successfully manipulated their technology and managed to beam himself down to the surface of a planet.  He had spent a strange day communing with the odd inhabitants.  They were definitely human, their skins brown and soft and without the sheen of moisture that protected the skin of wraithkind, but their speech was crude and their manner of living primitive in the extreme.  He felt no urge to feed, presumably due to the small ones’ mysterious replenishing of his cells.  So he made himself known to the humans and they, having no knowledge that he might be dangerous, played with him happily enough; simple games involving running along the sands of their seaside home and splashing in the waves.

The small grey ones had found him, blinked and twittered at him amiably, behaved in a similarly indulgent manner toward the primitive humans, and taken him back to their ship.  They had eventually returned him to the planet where they had found him and at last his hunger had driven him to feed and he had taken his place as a full adult member of the hive.

The second time was much, much more recent, although still long before the lifetime of any of the humans who had repopulated Atlantis.

He had found an Ancient ship.  He had made it work.  He had travelled.  And, the ship’s hyperdrive having, at best, one or two journeys left in its decaying circuits, he had searched the database and found that far off planet of his youth.  That it was in a different galaxy had surprised him, but, not one to brook a challenge, he had directed the ship to take him there, had landed undetected, in a remote spot, and set out to explore.

The humans had advanced.  They had tainted the air with the bitter scent of fossil fuels, they had grown in number and clustered into cities of dark and dirty streets that reeked of poverty and disease.  They were no longer the simple, playful creatures that he had known, but separated themselves into those who worked long and hard and ate little and those who dressed well and ate much and apparently lived solely to be entertained.

The one that had, soon after joining the hive, been given the name ‘He who goes far’ or ‘He who finds a way’ or simply ‘Wayfarer,’ quickly realised that the overcrowded streets of a huge and often noisome and fog-bound city were excellent feeding grounds and, moreover, that he needed to do very little to blend into such pleasantly gloomy surroundings.  All he required was a suit of clothes; an elegant coat or a many-layered cape; a hat such as might be worn by a gentleman of the time, or one who aspired to be a gentleman; and perhaps a tall cane and a handkerchief to complete the ensemble.  These things were easily acquired in the usual course of a night’s feeding.  

Thus attired, Wayfarer found that he had no difficulty at all in passing for a normal human, because there was such a wonderful variety of what was regarded as normal in this place of transience.  There were constant arrivals of tall wooden ships, from which all manner of humans came forth, emanating through scent and taste and mind-sight their tantalising glimpses of desert-heat, ice-cold, jungle-rich, mountain-clear; so many impressions that, strolling among the wooden piers and stagings of the docks, Wayfarer nearly reeled from such life-rich promise.

And, though green skin, a spiracled countenance, pointed teeth and a feeding slit might have set him apart even amid such a myriad of individuals, the fact that disfiguring disease was rife also worked to his advantage.  It galled Wayfarer to be thought of as disfigured when his form, amongst his own kind, was considered decidedly pleasing, but expedience was everything in such a situation and he was, after all, glad to be able to hide in plain sight.  When glances or outright gasps of horror followed him down a filthy alley, he merely shrugged his shoulders in the manner of the locals and continued on his way.

The city and its great river teemed with life during the day and scarcely less so at night.  The humans swarmed the streets along with their animal or hand-drawn conveyances and swarmed the river in their little floating craft, and their business of buying and selling, gossiping and jeering, posturing and posing, living and dying took place in plenitude and abandon wherever and whenever they swarmed.  Wayfarer gloried in the abundance.

He loved best the narrow streets where houses overhung their boundaries and light was a rare commodity and he walked freely among them, becoming a familiar figure to the inhabitants, from the children who played amongst the filth to the watchman who tipped his hat warily in the blackest hours of the night.   

And Wayfarer observed that even in such poverty and deprivation there was often an undaunted spirit, a camaraderie of squalor, that led cross-shawled women to pass a shared bottle from gap-toothed mouth to wizened, grasping hand while calling out their raucous cries to tempt a passing stranger to the delights of their ravaged bodies.  Wayfarer would tip his hat at their earthy humour and greet their mock-refined responses with a hissing acknowledgement, leaving shrieks of alcohol-roughened laughter and broad winks and gestures in his wake.

The men brawling outside the public houses, the women scrubbing their doorsteps in a vain attempt to stave off the tide of dirt, all lived and laboured in common hardship, their solidarity as thick in the air as the blanketing fog.

But when that great, grey swathe slid up from the broad bends of the river and covered the city, sometimes for days at a time, there were dark deeds done in its choking miasma by those minds pushed too hard by the cruelties of life.  Wayfarer’s subtle stealth had no need of the fog’s heavy, grey cloak but he found himself venturing forth from his comfortable lodging more frequently than usual, prowling the alleys where hurried footsteps echoed over the damp cobbles, where yellow gas lamps barely penetrated the gloom.  Scents hung on the air, trailing behind tattered threads of mind-sight; scents of hunger and grief, lust and passion, fear and pursuit, and the sharp bitter tang of sudden, slashing violence.  He followed the dreadful spoor and rid the city of those who would prey on their own kind, those who would kill not for the gain of a few coins or trinkets that might feed themselves or their family, but for the bloody joy of the taking of life, the perverted ecstasy that hung in the air around their slain victims as thickly as the enveloping fog.  Such distorted figures of humanity found themselves the victims and were taken and given swift judgement.

It snowed and those without shelter died and the little barefooted children called out to Wayfarer in their hoarse voices, by turns false with bravado and then coaxing with a deep and true hunger.  Sometimes he would flick them a coin or two, because, he told himself, perhaps he would have need of their lives when his own hunger was great.

And once, strolling, cane in hand, down a dark, filthy alley, he was presented with an opportunity; an easy kill, a small morsel to stave off his growing need until nighttime presented greater opportunities.

The snow lay dirty and grey, the cobbles slick with grease and wet filth, and a scattered flock of bony, ragged children hurtled by, surrounding Wayfarer briefly, darting beneath his cane like silver fish.  One fell, but the others, swifter, had passed on and did not heed their fallen hive-mate.  The child picked himself up slowly, cursing like the man he would almost certainly never become; damning the snow and the cold and above all, condemning his own infirmity.  Wayfarer observed as the boy picked up a bent stick, padded at one end with a wrapping of rags.  He fitted it under his arm and leant heavily, his breath rasping in and out, releasing the vapour of his diseased lungs into the freezing air.  The child would surely not last the winter.  And yet his small life force might serve as a piquant appetizer to the night’s pleasure.

The boy raised red-rimmed eyes in a pale, gaunt face.  “Spare a penny guv’nor?”

Wayfarer rotated the cane in his long fingers, as if to screw it between the cobbles.  His feeding hand itched.

“Spare a ha’penny?  A farthing?  For Christmas, guv’nor?  For the little babby Jesus?”  The child’s voice was stronger than his emaciated frame, the curl of his lips a valiant attempt at winning humour.

“I will spare you what I have if you approach.”

The boy pulled himself up straight and contrived to fold his arms across his narrow chest while retaining a grip on the crutch.  “What’s your game, then, Mister?  I ain’t got nuffin for the likes o’ you to be a-thieving.”

“I am no thief.  I am merely curious and my sight is poor.  I would see the face of the one on whom I would bestow a gift.”  Fingers of fog crept up the alley, carrying with them the scent of the river and the stench of the tanneries.

The boy tipped his tattered cap further back on his head and looked directly into Wayfarer’s eyes.  “If you ask me, it’s a good thing you don’t see so well, with a phiz like that.  I bet you’d crack a mirror.”

Wayfarer added his hissing laugh to the boy’s rasping bray, not grudging the child his crude jest.  He held out his hand, his fingers crooked.  “Come.”  He let a faint imperative drift forth from his mind.

“Alright then, I ain’t afeard.”  The boy’s scent belied his words, but he thrust out his chest, took a firm grip on his crutch and hobbled boldly forward.

His cry, as Wayfarer’s fingers grasped the front of his ragged jacket, was easily stifled by a quick suppressing touch of the wraith’s mind.  Wayfarer tore the thin shirt open, adjusted his grip and applied his feeding hand over the bony ridge of the child’s sternum, enfolding the small, limp form within the wings of his cape.  It was, after all, daylight, even though it would be easy to stir ghosts within the fog to mislead any passers by.

The child began to struggle as the barbs penetrated his flesh, but his feeble attempts were no challenge, nor even a minor inconvenience to Wayfarer.  Then the struggles ceased.  The wraith sighed, a long, sibilant sigh of satisfaction.

He set the small body down on the cobbles, opened his cape wide, like a set of double doors and stepped back.

The child shuddered once all over and then was still.  

And then the boy’s wondering eyes travelled from his dirty, bare feet, planted squarely amid the grey slush, up over his two healthy legs, and his lungs expanded and contracted smoothly, without a whisper of a rasp.  His chin tipped back so that his round-cheeked, glowing face mirrored the wraith’s in a strange symmetry and his mouth fell open, the breaths in his newly-healed lungs coming quick and urgent.  

Would he speak?  Would he thank his saviour?  Would he scream in primitive incomprehension?

“I reckon the vicar got it wrong,” he said.

Wayfarer, who would later be called Todd, raised an eyebrow.

“All wrong,” whispered the child.

“How so?”

The boy swallowed, licked his lips and took a step back.  “‘Cos they ain’t white and shining with big fevvery wings.”  He shook his head, a smile slowly forming.  “Angels is green.”  

He spun around on his strong legs and jumped in the air, a young, wild human animal full of life and joy.  Then he ran, whooping and laughing, stumbling and righting himself, born a cripple and suddenly with a healthy unfamiliar body.

The fog swirled and the boy was gone.

  Wayfarer examined his thoughts.  Why had he spared the child?  Why did he take only those who made victims of their own kind?  Why, also, did he linger here, far, far from hive-mind and queen and home?  

Perhaps he would not stay much longer.  Perhaps he would return to that Ancient hulk, coax it to one more journey through the vast emptiness and then destroy it and all it contained.

And this place would remain, for these humans to grow and progress as they would, to fight amongst themselves with no great enemy from the stars, to develop and perhaps one day to strike out into the stars themselves.

The fog thickened and darkened and figures moved within, both real and phantom.  Footsteps and the tap of a cane echoed off the high walls and fluttered like shadows of sound, slowly diminishing into the gloom.  

And a few of those short human lifetimes later, as the sun’s rays touched the far side of that world they called Earth, Wayfarer was there again to see a sweeping bridge golden in the dawn light and a great bay lined with dwellings and industry.  He recalled the boy who had named him angel and his feeding hand itched to deal out summary judgement.  Because here, there were lives; many, many lives and some of those with black hearts whose minds declared their blackness to his questing tendrils of thought.  And perhaps there would be just a few, a very fortunate few, who would earn this green angel’s blessing.

Thanks for reading!  Find more of my stories on fanfiction.net or AO3.

https://m.fanfiction.net/u/11112812/Salchat

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat