#but there isn’t currently without going private or blocking people which i don’t want to do 😭😭

[larsnicklas]

i don’t deeply care about credit for my gifs personally — if i did i would watermark probably — but i get why others do care! it takes effort to make nice gifs!! and i do think it’s basic decency to ask a creator before using their gifs in any post, even when using the tumblr embedding feature that links back to the original post

[c0ckz0ut4f1am3daddy]

My, my, thank you for answering my questions, do you mind if I ask more? I just want to know more canon Hawks (nothing against fanon, but I'm a sucker for canon)

Aaaand, of course, it would be amazing if you share your thoughts about ruts! Honestly one of the things I love the most is Hawks making a nest, I don't know why, but that's so adorable? 😭

No Problem! I'm always happy to answer any asks! Feel free to ask more and if anyone else has any questions feel free to ask away too! (Though it may take a while as my computer is currently out of commission and I’m about to start a new semester Monday)

18+ below the cut. Minors Do Not Interact. Minors or those without ages in their bio will be blocked!

Ok, so, here are my ideas on Canon Hawks if he had a rut. (Obviously this is all just fanon speculation but I’m going to try to keep my speculation based as much on Keigo’s canon character as possible). I’m also basing a lot of this on the mating habits of actual hawks. Mostly red-tails but I’m not sticking to one specific species of hawks, as we aren’t even 100% hawks is actually based on a hawk, let alone the specific species.

First I think that the Commission had him suppress any and all signs of his rut from the second he first developed it to the second the Commission was destroyed. He was probably put on suppressants and discouraged from even doing something as simple and private as building a nest for himself.

Second, hawks mate for life, and while I don’t think Keigo is strictly saving himself for marriage or anything, I do think there is an emotional aspect to his rut that animal-based heteromorphs of other species don’t have. I don’t think he’d be quite as sex-crazed as the common rut depiction and would instead be both desperately horny (but still mostly rational) AND desperate for a romantic partner.

Also I imagine his rut lasts about three weeks but is only once a year, sometime between March 1st and May 31st

Now, how do I think Canon Hawks would act during his rut once free of the Commission?

Firstly, I doubt he would go off of his suppressants completely, not without a partner. Keigo is an incredibly work-oriented man and is also incredibly self-disciplined and structured as much as he presents the Hawks persona to be a laid back, chill guy who doesn’t give a shit. Instead I think he would lower his dose of suppressants for the sake of his long term health. Low enough for his hormones to fluctuate in a healthy pattern but high enough he can still function.

But being able to function doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel it. He would probably be really frustrated with feelings he would struggle or fail to suppress. Especially when those feelings are feelings of being extremely territorial, incredibly lonely, and desperately horny. Constantly getting turned on by anything even remotely attractive would drive him mad and he’d be worrying about hiding his ~excitement~ as that would be extremely unsightly and unprofessional for a hero to be spotted with and the paparazzi already probably hounds him for being the number 2. And the feelings of being territorial would make him have to make a conscious effort not to snap at people. Especially Tokoyami, as he’s another male ‘bird’, which he would feel horribly about. He’d probably send him away back to school early with assurances that he isn’t mad at him and that he did nothing wrong.

He would also probably consider upping his dose back up every time, because work comes first and his rut fucks with his ability to do his job as affectivly. However, as again, he lowered it for the sake of his prolonged health he never does. Instead during his ruts you will often find him in his office, the door locked, “handling himself” because being sexually frustrated is doing him no good. Plus, of the three major issues with his rut that slow him down and lower his productivity, being ridiculously horny has the easiest solution but is also the hardest to hide. He’s so worked up and sensitive due to his rut it doesn’t take long for him to masturbate himself back into a clear(er) mind for a while.

When he’s on patrol, he can’t help himself from showing off in the air a bit more often and flirting a bit more than he usually would, and actually meaning it sometimes rather than it all just being an act to keep up the Hawks persona. He has no actual intention of finding a mate while on patrol but his instincts drive him to try anyway. But again, as hawks mate for life and Keigo’s a hawk, he probably wouldn’t want to spend his rut with someone he didn’t have a strong emotional connection with.

Patrols and fights are also affected as his territorial instinct has him getting a lot angrier at villains and makes it harder to keep a cool, logical head during fights.

Back home during his ruts, he spends most of his time in his nest. Nests are something Keigo finds comforting year round as hawks do have nests year round, (although outside of having eggs to care for, even mated pairs have separate nests).

His nest during his heat is on his bed, near a window in his penthouse apartment as he feels more comfortable up high and there’s only so high he can get it off the floor of his apartment but the window makes it feel higher.

The nest itself is built up of as many pillows and blankets as possible and is larger than he would make it any other time of year. Unfortunately this makes it feel empty, which worsens his feeling of loneliness and longing for a romantic partner. His thoughts even drift to a truly full nest, with not only a mate but chicks too. However despite this feeling of loneliness and longing I’m not sure what, if anything Keigo would do about it. Keigo unfortunately has a long history of being terribly alone and is probably pretty used to it, even if his rut makes him a little more emotional. Especially because again, he priorities work above nearly all else and probably doesn’t think he has time for a relationship. Maybe he’d go with it if the opportunity presented itself, but I doubt he’d seek one out. At least not without working a lot of stuff out first.

And so he sits and endures that discomfort, with a few feathers patrolling his apartment and the sky outside as a territorial precaution, in between bouts of arousal. When that flairs up, he handles it. However, unlike at work where his masturbation is purely about allowing himself to go back to work with as clear of a head as possible, when he’s at home and off duty, he allows himself to indulge just a little bit.

I imagine he’s bought some toys for himself. Sex with another person feels like a huge commitment to him, but his hand alone starts to feel like not enough, especially during his rut. Besides, he’s got money. Why not indulge every once in a while. Especially when it helps with his mental and physical health? I wouldn’t even be surprised if he has a doll specifically for his rut. It feels a little sad when he’s in a clear head, but even a nice, high end flesh light doesn’t sate his urges to mate like the doll, which at least comes somewhat close to feeling like an actual person without the emotional commitment. Or the risk of pregnancy.

Though when he’s deep in the throes of his rut, his breeding kink (that I fully believe he has all the time even outside of his rut) is in full force and nothing, nothing sounds better to him than fucking someone he cares about full of his babies.

And so he spends every moment of his rut that he’s off of work alternating between being incredibly uncomfortable and sad, just trying to endure it all in the comfort of his too large nest, and indulging himself in working out his sexual frustrations, allowing himself to pretend that he has all his rut is demanding of him with the assistance of his toys until his rut is over.

[zen-garden-gnome]

Long post about whiteness

I’m seeing a lot of false-start questions based on a narrow understanding of whiteness. Whiteness (and recovery from whiteness) can be tricky to unpack because it has a lot of layers that have been added over the years. So you’ll run into a layer and may be tempted to stop there, but it goes deeper.

1) Racial identity was a vague belief before it was officially named, but it’s not as old as many think it is. Prior to European Expansionism, travelers and merchants and militaries alike have generally referred to people based on their place of origin or their language. The idea of vaguely lumping hundreds of ethnicities together based on a handful of physical attributes started to kick up when Portugal began capturing and enslaving huge numbers of sub-Saharan Africans in the mid-1400s. As slave traders and “explorers” brought shiploads of captured, multi-ethnic Africans to Portuguese auction blocks to be traded all over Europe, what set these enslaved people apart from anyone else there (including other enslaved people) was a) the fact that they were to some degree darker than the Portuguese despite displaying a wide range of skin tones, b) were from Africa at the time, and c) were enslaved. When Christian militant and royal biographer Gomes de Zurara was hired in 1453 to write about the life and “accomplishments” of Portugal’s most famous slave trader, Infante Henrique aka Prince Henry the Navigator, he officiated, in writing, the idea that all these newly enslaved people were their own class of people with no differentiation between them. Here, race is a burgeoning social narrative invented to praise European slave traders, and this racial concept is defined in relation to slavery, African origins, and skin tone. Racial concepts appeared in tandem with racist concepts, because races began to be envisioned in order to excuse the abuse of others. The ideas of whiteness and blackness were birthed simultaneously, specifically around slavery, and they became deeply entrenched beliefs before they were ever officially named.

2. “Negro” became the first major racial term before “white” was widely used, binding the development of racial concepts even more securely with the practice of European slavery. In fact, race and racism became encoded in colonial-American law in 1640, when African servant John Punch ran away from his European buyers along with two European servants. He was eventually recaptured, as were his Dutch and Scottish companions. However, the colonial judicial system sentenced Punch to a lifetime of slavery, while the two Europeans had an extra year added to their initial servitude. This marks the first record of a Euro/American legal precedence for lifetime sentencing of enslavement based openly on race. John Punch’s African lineage and the other servants’ European lineage were the differences between their sentencing. Here, European origin was what freed a person from being of the “negro race” and therefore severely reduced one’s likelihood to enslavement. It was also the requirement for incoming settlers who wanted to be able to buy land. Only white people were allowed to develop inter-generational wealth, at a time when this continent was being carved up by land speculators for massive profits.

3. The concept of whiteness was officially named by Carl Linnaeus in order to rank Europeans as superior among other conceptual categories of people. It involved grouping hundreds of ethnic groups together to form white, yellow, red, and black races in he text “System Naturale" (1735). While primarily an introduction to our current taxonomy system, it included these racial categories. It was highly regarded by Europeans eager to cast themselves as superior because it a) created a popular “scientific” framework for excusing the most obscene (and profitable) crimes against humanity, b) officially outlined/invented the white race and identified it with everything good and the black race as everything bad, and then c) clearly defined Europeans as the basis of whiteness, “Homo sapiens europaeus.” Here, whiteness is coined to describe European ancestry, particularly in relation to “grotesque” non-whites.

4. An individual’s personal ideas of whiteness fluctuates with time and circumstances. As governments, social institutions, literature, etc all work to redefine history and clean up their image, people have different/less information to work with, but the effects are the same. The popular spoken definition of whiteness is often simply a reference to a relatively pale skin tone caused by European ancestry. Obviously there are pale people in other places around the world who aren’t European and weren’t related to the slavery of European Expansionism, so pale skin isn’t enough. The relation to Europe’s capitalistic global expansion is key. But what about European countries who didn’t go expanding this way, or whose involvement is harder to pinpoint? After all, most of the trading of enslaved indigenous peoples from Africa and North & South America were carried out by the Portuguese, Genoese, Dutch, French, British, Spanish, and Americans. Well, the rapid enrichment and development of the rest of Europe for centuries to come was specifically made possible by all the labor, resources, and capital brought in by this period of the European slave trade. European ancestry links every white person to privileges and developments born on the backs of black and indigenous enslaved peoples. Furthermore, simply being white makes one safer from these kinds of exploits, and today it also makes one safer from the effects of generations of racial prejudices and resource extraction on the global scene. Which brings me to...

5. Whiteness tends to involve one’s relative freedom. Freedom of movement, both physical and social, without immediate threat of policing. Freedom to explore one’s ancestral history without being blocked by 500 years of forced removal, renaming, forced childbirth, etc. Freedom to exist without having to actually know or respond to one’s racial identity. This one’s really important. Whiteness involves not having to think about being white, usually in relation to living in a country/region whose laws and norms are defined and enforced almost exclusively by other white people. Since whiteness and blackness arose mutually around the European slave trade, blackness is inherently tied to a lack of rights/freedoms and whiteness is inherently tied to an abundance of them. That doesn’t mean that every white person experiences these equally, and there will always be exceptions to the rule. But the exceptions don’t make the rule, and after centuries of globalized white supremacy, whiteness has become a subconscious signifier of power for people all over the place.

The big take-away is this: whiteness is inherently toxic. There is nothing positive to defend in whiteness. It was born out of ugliness and it is ugly to its core. That’s why it feels so bad. It’s why “white pride” is always ugly. However, the solution is not to disconnect from our ancestry. All that does is leave us trapped here, in an ugly set of circumstances, with no concept of who we are except what we’re living in, now. The real work to be done is to connect with our ancestry before whiteness, with the ancestors who related to the land as a living entity, before the land was limited in social memory to a source of private capital, servitude, and empire-building. This land, this Earth, is the backdrop against which all our relativity is measured. From this place of relative security, understanding, and development of the spirit, we can withstand the reality of our more recent ancestors, and finally heal from the last 1000 to 2000 years of trauma.

I know I’ve said this before, but now that I have this huge post, I’ll repeat it: Dr. Daniel Foor’s Ancestral Medicine is a really helpful book and/or course for this whole process. It’s not the end-all be-all resource, but it’s a great start! I’m also always down to talk about this stuff. Hit me up. I need to be able to talk about it, too.

(I should add, while blackness was created by white people and therefore was born out of the racism of whiteness, blackness was forced on people, while whiteness was claimed by the takers. It’s no white person’s place to have an opinion about "black identity.” White people started race, so white people are responsible for deconstructing our own race--no one else’s. We cannot be “post-racial” while everyone else is still living the violent reality of racism.)

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 9

Helmetless + Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary:  You make a promise to Din before you leave to meet with your superiors, but will you be able to keep it?

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,976

Warnings: fluff, the angst is back people, protective and possessive Din, your superiors are assholes, overuse of italics, swearing, plot plot plot

Author Note: All the love to every single supporter out there! Don’t hate me too much for this segment please.

Links to Part 1 and Part 8 and Part 10

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

“I’m going with you, angel.”

In exactly one hour, you’re due to report back to headquarters. You’ve been loathing this meeting from the get-go, but now, after being matched with Din, the mere thought of leaving him is as painful as a physical blow. You wish you had more time to revel in his heated kisses, the touch of his hands against your skin, the low growls he elicits when you run your nails through his curls.

Deep down, you know as immortal beings you will have an eternity to experience all of these thrills together. But right now the bond you two share as soulmates doesn’t care about the future, only the present. In your mind, it resembles a sapling soaking up every ounce of affection it can from you and Din, craving more and more intimacy in order to become stronger. Just thinking about being separated from him, even for only a short while, makes your chest hurt something fierce, as if a bundle of thorns has become wrapped around your heart.

Din is not immune to the effects of the soulmate bond either. Since his return to Arvala-7 he has not let you out of his sight for longer than thirty seconds. Anyone else, you would have been annoyed by the incessant staring, but with Din you only feel desired and, as sappy as it sounds, cherished in a way you’ve never felt before.

Which makes it all the harder to meet his gaze right now, frowning as you shake your head at him.

“Din, you can’t,” you say quietly, praying your voice doesn’t break because you know it will trigger his overprotectiveness and then you’ll helplessly melt into a puddle of warm emotions. “Only Cupids are allowed at headquarters. No outsiders allowed, not even Death.”

His jaw clenches, displeased by your rebuttal, but his fingers are gentle as they trail across your cheeks. That’s another thing you’ve noticed since he’s reunited with you: his gloves have yet to make a reappearance. It’s like now that you and the universe have assured him of your requited feelings, his iron walls of self-control have crumbled to dust, revealing a lonely, touch-starved soul who has long been told he could never physically connect with someone without the risk of killing them and is now desperate to make up for the lost time.

With this in mind, each time he initiates contact, you always make sure to return the gesture with as much affection as you can muster, whether that be by deepening his kisses or by intertwining your fingers tightly with his when he reaches for your hand. Or, such as in this instance where the two of you are lying together and cuddling on Kuiil’s bed, you take advantage of him having removed his full suit of armor to curl closer against his chest, nuzzling your head beneath his chin.

The Ugnaught had taken Din’s return in stride when he and IG-11 had paused their farmwork outside to check up on you about twenty minutes ago. Upon seeing them, Din had started to untangle himself from you so he could stand to greet them. His lack of urgency to conceal his face surprised you initially, but then you recalled Kuiil already knew Din resembled a human male, meaning at some point during their friendship Din had become comfortable enough to not wear his helmet around him. Petty jealousy swirls inside of you, upset you’re not the only one who knows Death’s true face, but you squash the ridiculous emotion not even a second later. If anyone is worthy enough of seeing Din’s true self, it’s Kuiil.

Before Din could get to his feet, Kuiil had merely shaken his head, saying he didn’t want to interrupt your time together when he knew you had to leave soon. Which is what prompted Din to insist upon himself accompanying you to headquarters.

“I don’t want you anywhere near those bastards,” he mutters darkly, lines of frustration forming ridges along his forehead. He still hasn't forgiven Hess for causing you to have a panic attack.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, not with the intention of stopping his soothing ministrations, but instead grounding yourself in the moment using the skin-on-skin contact. Perhaps, you acknowledge privately to yourself, he’s not the only touch-starved soul in the room. I don’t want to be near them either, you want to tell him. Let’s fly away together on the Crest, somewhere far, far away...

Instead, you force yourself to say with the same carefully even tone, “The meeting should just be an hour or two, then they’ll make me take a reassessment test about Cupid regulations which I’ll pass easily.” You lift your head to peck the bridge of his prominent nose before holding up your pinky finger. “And by later this evening, I’ll be right back here in your arms. Pinky promise.”

Din stares at you for several heartbeats, stubbornness lingering in his gaze before at last he exhales a quiet sigh of surrender. He wraps his pinky around yours, squeezing tightly.

“I thought leaving you behind here was the hardest thing I’d ever have to do, but this—letting you go face them alone and knowing I can’t intervene—it’s a pain I’d only wish upon my worst enemies.”

You want to say something lighthearted, a teasing remark to ease the heavy tension in the room and make that stunning smile of his light up the space instead. Maybe, if you’re funny enough, you can make his precious and lone dimple appear in his cheek so you can press your lips to it. But your words get trapped in your throat, forming a lump that won’t go down no matter how hard you swallow.

You are equally as surprised as you are grateful when Din continues to speak.

“You’re my soulmate, angel, so when I swear these next words to you, I want you to have no doubt I mean them with absolute sincerity,” he says, a possessive and darkly seductive note creeping into his voice that has you instinctively biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning embarrassingly. “If anyone dares to keep you from me even a second longer than what is strictly necessary, I will stain the ground with their blood and reap their soul from their body so slowly they’ll weep for damnation.”

~~~

Headquarters is kriffing freezing.

That’s the first thing you notice when you step inside, goosebumps immediately rising along your arms and a shiver racks your spine as you navigate the maze of hallways towards the center of the building where the conference room is located. Every footstep reverberates off the black marble floors, but the sound isn’t loud enough to prevent you from overhearing the whispering voices of other Cupids watching you pass by, gossiping about your impending interrogation. You’d be angry at them, except that would make you a hypocrite since you’ve also spread a rumor or two about your coworkers in the past. You can feel an increase of anxiety rush through your bloodstream, making you stuff your hands into your pockets lest anyone sees them trembling and laughs.

Your three superiors are already seated and waiting in the conference room when you arrive. You make eye contact with each one, bowing your head as both a greeting and sign of respect. Lang, a dark-haired man who is known for shooting first and asking questions later, offers you a jaunty salute before lacing his hands behind his head as he balances his chair on its rear legs, the image of relaxation. Morgan Elsbeth, the only female of the trio, elects to ignore you in favor of boredly drumming her fingers on the glass tabletop, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the galaxy than here. Hess returns the nod with a leering grin, further convincing you he was half-womp rat in his mortal life.

You reach for the chair closest to you, planning to pull it out to sit, when Hess’ low, gravelly voice has you freezing mid-motion. “Cupid 1-1-7, you are to remain standing for the duration of this meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back.

Hess turns in his seat towards the holoprojector that is set up on the table. He presses several buttons and a holographic figure flickers into view, dressed in dark armor with a long black cape. You recognize the seraph immediately, never able to forget the first face you saw when you woke up as a Cupid. Moff Gideon is the supreme leader of all Cupids, imposing and sharp-witted with violent powers you’ve often heard described as barbarically ruthless. Everything about him terrifies you and you’ve done all you can to avoid being in his presence.

Only now there is no escaping him. You can’t even teleport to save yourself. When headquarters was initially built, Gideon infused his powers into its structure with the intent of protecting the building from being discovered or, worse, attacked. (Though who would want to battle a bunch of Cupids, you have no idea). However, to the detriment of all Cupids currently inside headquarters, Gideon’s enchantment also blocks any of you from using your abilities. According to him, it’s to prevent any power-sensitive beings from detecting your aura signatures and you’ve never wanted to risk being murdered to try and find a flaw with that logic.

To put it bluntly, you’re a regular human in every sense except you get to keep your immortal youthfulness. Which is literally the least helpful perk you could ask for right now.

“Cupid 1-1-7,” Gideon says, dark eyes peering at you with such focused intensity you feel sweat begin to form along your hairline. “You were granted forty-eight hours to determine your client’s soulmate. Tell us, were you successful in finding his match?”

“I—” you cut yourself off, noticing his use of a gender specific term.

He chuckles at your dumbfounded expression, a quiet huff of air that you quickly deem the scariest sound you’ve ever heard. “You may have been able to conceal Death’s identity as your client from my associates, but few incidents occur in the galaxy without my knowing about them.”

Your three superiors each display unique reactions to the reveal. Morgan’s drumming stops, attention now hooked by the present conversation and she gives you a once-over, clearly reconsidering her overall impression of you. Lang nearly falls backwards onto the floor, barely managing to correct the chair at the last second to balance himself. Hess props his chin on top of his interlocked fingers, observing you in a similar fashion as Morgan, but there is an eerie glint in his gaze you don’t like the look of.

You swallow thickly, feeling sick to your stomach. “What do you want from me, sir?”

“The full and honest truth.” There is a brief pause, increasing the tension in the room. “Were you successful in finding Death’s soulmate?”

You don’t understand why he’s asking you the same question twice when he’s admitted he’s practically omniscient. And the way he’d paused just now, makes you start to worry he’s baiting you into a trap, but you have no viable means of escaping to avoid giving him an answer.

Your voice comes out meeker sounding than you’ve ever heard it. “Yes, sir, I was successful.”

When it becomes apparent after a long beat of silence you are not going to admit any further information, Gideon levels you with a stern look. “I strongly urge you to reveal their identity to us, Cupid 1-1-7, so we may make note of them in our archives as is customary for all matched pairs.”

Well now that makes you definitely feel cornered. Your thoughts are a jumbled mess inside your head; half of you is convinced he already knows you are Din’s soulmate and is toying with you, while the other half believes he actually has no idea at all and is trying to scare you into revealing the truth.

Kriff. What do you do?

You stare over their heads at the far wall, uncomfortably aware of how the silence stretches on as they wait for a name. Your name. Maker, why do you keep ending up in these horrible scenarios? Who did you piss off in your mortal life?

“If your tongue has failed you,” Gideon says, tone deceptively light and airy. “Might I suggest that an alternative way of answering would be to show us your hands.”

He knows.

Kriff. Kriff. Kriff.

You continue your staring contest with the wall, refusing to let them see any indication your blood has turned to ice or that your lungs are on the verge of collapsing. Think, you rack your brain frantically. For Maker’s sake, think of something .

“You’re already in hot water, Cupid 1-1-7,” Lang says. His southern accent softens the words, but you still manage to detect the warning laced within them. “Don’t make it worse for yourself by being stubborn.”

As much as you loathe to admit it, Lang has a point. By continuing to resist, you’re only hurting yourself by increasing the time spent separated from Din. You don’t want to break your promise to him. Or, that little voice in the back of your mind chips in, cause Din to destroy Kuiil’s farm out of a panic-induced rage when you don’t show up tonight like you promised you would.

Inhaling a deep breath to steady your nerves, you hold out your marked hand, palm facing up to clearly display the soulmate marking. The little black heart almost seems to glow at being the center of attention.

“That is impossible,” Morgan murmurs, looking from your hand to her colleagues and back again. “No one can have two soulmates.”

“And yet here we have living proof contradicting that belief,” Gideon answers, gesturing towards you grandly with both arms. There is something in his voice—awe, you identify a second later—that has your body instinctively stiffening.

“That belief is the natural order of the universe.” Morgan’s voice is snappish, but outwardly she is her calm and collected self, not a single strand of hair out of place. “She is a deviation of the norm. A glitch.”

“If other Cupids find out about her,” Hess begins, pointing a finger at you like the others have no idea who he’s talking about. Like you’re not able to hear every word. “They’ll start thinking maybe there’s a second soulmate out there somewhere for them too, someone to replace the one who rejected them in their mortal life. They’ll start questioning the natural order, the foundation of our galactic society, and all those questions will only lead to one thing: unrestrained chaos.”

“In order to prevent that unfavorable outcome, I would like to encourage a moment of observation.” Gideon looks to someone out of range of the holoprojector, nodding his head once in confirmation. “Take one last long look for Cupid 1-1-7 is a unique anomaly you may never have the chance of seeing again.”

You blink, heart going still as the implication registers. “What?”

Before anyone can answer or scold you, a purple-skinned twi'lek Cupid you don’t recognize casually enters the conference room, like she isn’t guilty of intruding on a private meeting. Almost as if...someone had summoned her. Your gaze darts briefly to Gideon, suspicions confirmed when you see his smirking face, before looking back at the twi’lek drawing closer.

“It’s time for your reassessment test. I’m here to take you there,” she tells you, baring her fanged teeth in what you think is supposed to be a smile, but it lacks any warmth or friendliness. You can only stare back at her, every cell in your body screaming this isn’t right. You shouldn’t need an escort to the testing room.

“I can go by myself,” you protest, holding your ground.

She lunges forward with lightning-quick reflexes, seizing your elbow and leaning disturbingly close into your personal space. “Pity,” she says, feigning a pout. “I thought we could become friends.”

Something sharp pricks your arm. You first notice the mischievous gleam in her dark eyes, and then when you look down, you discover a needle being pulled out of you arm. The room starts to spin, fuzzy black spots appearing in the corners of your vision, and you sag against the wall, balance failing you.

Closing your eyes, you try to focus on your soulmate bond, calling out to Din as the numbing sensation spreads to your feet and you collapse onto the floor without an ounce of grace.

Then, distant and distorted, as if it is coming from somewhere underwater hundreds of miles away, you hear a responding cry, “Angel!”

Din. Oh, thank the Maker, you think hysterically. The delicate line between reality and imagination shifts and blurs, as if it also is succumbing to the drug’s influence. You feel his hands clutch at your face, then move to your shoulders, shaking you in an effort to force your eyes open. You want to see his beautiful face, even if it is merely an illusion, but your eyelids feel as if they suddenly weigh a hundred pounds each.

“Tell me where you are,” he demands, tightly gripping your arms to the point of pain. “I’ll come save you, just tell me where I can find you.”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue, only your mind starts to drift again, pulling you away from him towards unconsciousness. Your bond's strength wavers, unable to keep the connection stable across the lengthy distance separating you and him, and it begins to curl in on itself.

Din must notice this, too, screaming so loudly it verges on roaring, “Stay with me, angel! Please, just stay with—”

The last thing you think of before everything goes black is how much you hate breaking your pinky promise to him.

Tag List: @leilei-draws​, @theocatkov​, @vintagesaph​, @stardust-and-starlight​, @adrieunor​, @remmyswritings​, @gallowsjoker​, @rhiannon-russo​, @randomness501​, @sylphene​, @softly-sad​, @maytheglitter​, @melobee​, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives​, @eleinemk​, @captain-jebi​, @aerynwrites​, @promiscuoussatan​, @stilllivindue2spite​, @coaaster​, @lin-djarin​, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds

[aro-comics]

Jealousy (Part 3)

Part 3/4 - In which I Finally Explain why I feel jealous. The salt here is real 😔 I worry that the last few panels may not be too clear - to explain the guy there was the second person I ever had platonic feelings for, but he was also ... my (former) arch nemesis? 😭😖 yes that is not a healthy situation, and please know that I’m not trying to portray it as such. But to explain (the very complicated) situation briefly, we had started to become “friends” when we talked privately/online, but it was still very fragile. I knew that if I even showed an ounce of care or affection for him people would assume that I had a crush on him (even though if he were a girl, this wouldn’t be an issue)🙄 All I really wanted was to be able to pursue a friendship with him, but I ... didn’t really think it would be possible without “leading him on”. So when we talked in real life, I was careful to mirror how he treated me. Which was not kindly. So yeah, a big part of my jealousy is the way it’s so much easier for people who want and pursue romantic relationships to know they’ll (likely) have their needs met (of course, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, and racism are all still a thing 😰 and I’m not trying to pretend that it isn’t something that gets in the way of romantic fulfillment here). I guess I just wish that things could have been easier. I wish I knew what it was like to be able to just be myself comfortably, instead of ... this.

[Image Descriptions:

Slide 1: Celia, at her current age, is talking to the viewer again. She is looking down at her hands which are held together in front of her, as though holding some invisible object of her frustrations. “I always hold myself back, keep my mouth shut.”

Slide 2: “I watch my words and my actions -”

Younger celia, with her back to the viewer. Her blond friend has his arms out and says “want a hug?” She seems tense. 

Slide 3: Celia puts her hands up nervously, and she says “uh no it’s really okay, please don’t”. A little note scrawled above her head says “actually wanted the hug but was tired of people’s comments about being together”

Slide 4: “- but even then, it’s still not enough.”

The two are now sitting in a gymnasium. Her friend says “hey babe-” by accident, and Celia looks deeply uncomfortable. She wants to say something, but she can’t. 

Slide 5: Back to current Celia, who is talking to the viewer with eyes downcast, “Maybe that’s what I’m really jealous of”

Slide 6: A drawing of a couple, who are drawn a cloud of pink and teal pastel smoke and sparkles. “That they get to feel comfortable, happy, and loved so easily. Naturally.”

Slide 7: Another scene from Celia’s childhood. She is in eighth grade now, and she is standing in front of a desk of another chinese boy. She says “... are you gonna move?” to him (because he is blocking her path to his seat). He seems upset, and doesn’t look up at her as he says “Look, just - go sit down, okay? I don’t want to fucking fight you today.”

Slide 8: Shot of Celia, who looks uncomfortable with the situation. A thought bubble is drawn where she imagines herself trying to comfort him, thinking that she wishes she could do that but she believes he would take it the wrong way. Another note is drawn pointing to her, that says “concerned, wants to offer comfort but not sure how without giving the ‘wrong idea’”. 

Instead, she says: “Umm … okay then? I guess I’ll just sit down, now …”. 

Slide 9: “I never got to have that. I never got to be comfortable with expressing my feelings.” 

The scene is drawn zoomed out, where Celia is staring uncomfortably at the boy who is now putting his head down on the desk. He says “Okay, whatever.” She seems to want to say something, again, but isn’t sure what.]

[crescentsteel]

Keeping a Secret - Part 3

pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: sexual tension/crack/fluff/slow burn warnings: lots of swear words, tsukki being a a closet softie wc: 7.3k (Ill just stop apologizing for this long chapter updates at this point)

[a/n]

Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist uwu

AO3

Part 2 || Part 4 || masterlist

“Remind me again why are we here.” Tsukishima tells you as soon as he steps foot inside your room. 

He scans the room and immediately notices the mess that it is, particularly the top bunk of the bed which he doesn’t doubt must be your share of it.

On the wall on the left side of the room are posters of seascapes and sea animals of different varieties while the desk bolted under it are framed photos of Sendai Frogs. He recognizes them all;, one was taken from the first win of the team on the first year you joined as the manager. The second is a photo of the team at the gym with the new members that year, including Kyoutani who had just recently joined. The last one is a selfie of you on the bus doing a peace sign and winking at  the camera while everyone was sleeping.

He kinda feels bad for your roommate now. You’re practically hogging the whole room.

You put down your bag on the floor and shoot him a confused look. “To do our project?” 

When you told him to meet in your dorm, he agreed because he thought you meant the common area. After all, he had no reason to think you’d invite him to your room. You two may have disregarded the club incident, tucking it away as a sordid memory from a night of insanity, but that doesn’t mean it is forgotten. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case with you as you appear to genuinely find nothing wrong with the current situation. 

You seat yourself at your table, taking out your laptop and notes from the trip last time.

“Go sit, Tsukishima,” you say without even looking at him as you spread out your notes on the table’s surface as your laptop boots up. 

“We could’ve just done this in the library, or at least in the lobby,” he says as a matter-of-factly.

“True, but I also don’t see any problem with doing it here,” you answer passively, still occupied with arranging your papers. 

He was right. It really does not bother you at all. So, he shouldn’t be bothered with it either. This way, at least, no one would see you and him together. You’re a person he doesn’t want to be associated with hanging around with anyways. 

“Do you always invite your groupmates to your room?” He asks out of curiosity since it didn’t seem like anything for you to just invite him in, as if you didn’t care much about your privacy. 

“Hmm. Depends,” you answer. 

He takes out his own laptop, but still eyes you as he prods further. “On what?”

The curve of your lips tugs up slightly as you sit up straight and lift your gaze away from the notes you took out and finally turn your attention to him.

“I welcome those who won’t get handsy with me.”

“Even if you’re the one who’d get handsy with them?” he boldly counters.

You cock your head to the side with hints of amusement playing across your features, which vexes him. The question was supposed to tear your composure, not entertain you. 

“Alright, let’s get the fucking elephant out of the room since it bothers you so much,” you announce with levity. 

If you’re going to be honest, the kiss still finds its way to your mind sometimes. You just keep pushing it off so that you won’t get stressed out by it. What you find interesting is that he still keeps shoving that fact that you kissed him as if you wanted to do so.

Well, you literally did kiss him, but it’s not like you sought for it prior to the incident. 

It just … happened.

“I’ll come clean, good sir, if you’ll allow me,” you declare sarcastically before setting a more serious tone. “I admit it. It was one hell of a mistake to kiss you. But I didn’t mean to. As ridiculous as it sounds, I really didn’t. It was just one of those stupid, off-the-cuff things people do.” 

Your voice takes an accusatory note when you ask, “And why do you sound like I harassed you or something? Hmm? ‘Cause if I remember correctly.”

You cross your arms and look up, pretending to be deep in thought before facing him again with a fraudulent shock. “Oh right!” you exclaim exaggeratedly. “You kissed me back,” you add in almost a sing-song manner.

You put an elbow on the table and rest your cheek on your palm as you hold his glare with a snide grin. “How about that?” 

He continues shooting daggers at you but you don’t falter. Quite soon enough, he lets up and returns to the passive, apathetic face he usually wears, which signals your victory for the argument. “Like you said, it was one of those dumb on the spot whims.”

You nod agreeably. “Alright, great. Now that that has been established, let me reassure you. It’s never ever gonna happen again. Ever.”  

Your eyes are devoid of any humor while your words drip with firm resolve. Yet, he finds it off that you’re not asking him to do the same given that you both just agreed that you are equally accountable for that imprudent act. He is almost just as guilty. 

“Aren’t you going to ask the same from me?”

Your somber expression breaks into a humored one as a laugh rumbles from your throat. You shake your head in comical delight while you look at him. “No, I won’t. Actually...” you drift off as you scoot closer to him until you’re right beside him. “Give it your best shot.”

You close your eyes and tilt your chin up. Did you really just dare him to kiss you? Kiss those stupid lips and have a repeat of that appalling night? 

Should he?

He would do it just to erase the smug off your face, just to prove you wrong. But similar to that night, he can’t bring himself to do it. He hates the idea of instigating such a thing. 

Even more so now that he’s already had a taste of those lips. Those lips that felt too exquisite that it infuriated him. Those lips that took away his logical thinking. With you offering those lips to him so generously, you make him hate them even more. That pretty face and that playful smile of yours do nothing but add to his fury. 

“Can you get your face away from me?” 

You peek one eye open before bursting into laughter, making his displeasure towards you skyrocket. Why the fuck is he always your laughing stock?

“See? This is why I don’t mind you coming over, Tsukishima. I bet if I strip naked right now, you’d walk out in a heartbeat.”

His scowl deepens. The mental image of your unclad body is very much unwelcome and unappreciated. “Bring that up again and I really will leave,” he snaps. 

Even with your smile intact, your humored expression dissolves a bit and is replaced by a curious guise.

“You know, everyone likes me except you,” you say with no shred of diffidence.  

You really are full of yourself. You might be ‘likeable’ for a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean every single person you meet actually likes you. He’s certain there are people who you rub off the wrong way -- people like him. 

“Isn’t that a bit too conceited, even for you?”

You shrug your shoulders indifferently. “Maybe so. But you’re the only person who shoves your blatant dislike on my face.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it for the past three years,” he replies as he flips his laptop open and boots it up so he can turn his attention somewhere other than you. 

“I didn’t need to work with you like this for the past three years.”

He doesn’t know where you’re going with the conversation so he doesn’t respond anymore. He’s certain you know why he finds you a pain in the neck. You constantly get on his grill with every opportunity you get. Maybe if you didn’t, he could actually tolerate your topsy turvy persona. But it’s as if it’s your personal mission to aggravate him.

“I’m putting the deal I offered during the trip,” you announce.

“What deal?” he asks as he starts typing bullet points of what should be done today so he can go home already.

“Forget I’m the annoying manager when it’s just us two. And I won’t deliberately piss you off.”

He types the last bullet point before returning his attention on you. “Then what? I suddenly become nice to you?”

“Hell no! I’m not asking for a fucking miracle. It’s not like you’re ever nice to anybody. Geez!” you explain derisively. “I just want us to have a conversation where you’re not giving me death glares.”

You give him a smile, one that lacks your usual haughtiness. Still, he can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’ll actually manage to hold the deal you’re proposing. Truth be told, he wants it. He can’t handle you being your usual if you two have to meet beyond training hours and, even worse, in private. 

If this keeps up, he might end up cursing this subject by the end of the semester, which would be a waste because likes this subject way too much for you to taint it with your idiocy.

“Deliver your end of the bargain. Then you’ll have mine.”

Your eyes twinkle with glee at his semi-approval. “We have a deal then.” 

You go back to where you’re seated a while ago and proceed to start discussing at hand.

--

With the start of the game season, training has become more intense. Coach Mira had the team work on the weak points she identified with the help of  the data you tallied from last season’s games.

“Kyoutani! Do not lower those arms just yet. Keep those elbows up when you block,” Coach yells at him, as Kogane spiked from the other side of the court.

She looks over at the other players practicing their jump serves. She furrows her brows at something. Following her line of sight, you see that it falls on Tsukishima. 

On his next serve, the ball spins ferociously but is of low height that it hits the middle of the night. 

“Y/n,” Coach calls out. She didn’t have to say anything else as she cocks her head to Tsukishima’s direction with a telling expression on her face. She’s asking you to handle him, and you know exactly why. 

Before he can toss the ball for another jump serve, you yell out merrily which you know will definitely catch his ears, “ Tsukki!! ” and jog to where he is. His blank expression turns into a scowl when you reach him. 

“Can you stop calling me that?”

“You’re so mean. Aren’t we close enough for me to call you ‘ Tsukki ’?.” You ask with a dramatic pout and exaggerated false woes that he visibly cringes after hearing it. 

He doesn’t respond to your pretentious act. “Why are you here?”

You instantly lose the cheeky act and get to what Coach Mira wants to let him know. You’re just going to twist the words a bit to his ‘liking.’ 

This is the problem you noticed with Tsukishima, one worse than his rotten way of interacting with the team. He can be incredibly unmotivated at times, and when he is, he only gives the bare minimum amount of effort. 

It’s the one thing you can say you truly dislike about him because he’s a professional athlete for crying out loud. It doesn’t matter if he’s unmotivated, uninspired, or doesn’t feel like trying. He should be disciplined enough to push himself to put as much work as he usually does when training.

“You’re not going to get those serves in with that half-assed attitude of yours,” you say sternly while you eye him with a threatening stare. 

His face scrunches in utter displeasure. He’s well aware that he’s not feeling his best today and he’d rather do blocking drills for the whole raining than do ten consecutive jump serves. 

“Since enthusiasm is the answer to everything else, why don’t you try it?” He bites back, which you obviously weren’t expecting. He’s always irritated when you point out his mistakes, but thus far he has always stayed silent. 

Maybe the amount of time you’re spending together outside the gymnasium has made him reach the limit of his patience… which isn’t even a lot to begin with.

“Are you serious?” you ask incredulously.

Of course he wasn’t. You might have some sort of experience with volleyball (although he doesn’t know to which extent), but jump serves are difficult. The coordination of the toss and the run up to hit it at the right angle is aggravatingly hard to pull off, especially for him since jump serves need tons of practice.

He detests the practice for it; he needs to run, jump, and swing his arm over and over. It is boring and tiring for him because it is purely based on physical prowess, compared to practicing blocking where he’s actually thinking. 

He thought you’d leave him alone when you stepped away. Instead, you come back with a ball in your hand. You dribble it off the floor with unbendable focus as if you’re trying to recall something.

“Are you serious?” he’s the one who asks this time. He was just fucking around. He didn’t expect you’d actually respond to his provocation.

“Yep,” you answer with your full concentration on the ball in your hand as you spin it vertically. Some of the players notice what you’re up to and briefly stop what they’re doing to watch.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You bat them open with burning determination before you toss the ball. 

Instead of watching the ball, he watches your form. There’s no trace of awkwardness in your movements, almost like you’ve done this frequently before. The three-step approach is nearly perfect as you propel yourself up to jump. 

The sharp sound of the ball hitting your hand causes the rest of the gym to look at you. The ball spins ferociously at a height he’s not sure is sufficient to get over the other side of the court. He wishes it won’t. That would be the second worst thing you could ever do to him, the first one being that certain occurrence he’d rather not think about again. 

You falter on your feet when you descend from your leap but you immediately look up to see if your serve makes it. Everyone else, including him, is on the edge as they watch whether the ball will get in or not.

It roughly scrapes the edge of the net, effectively thwarting its velocity. Still, it bounces off and lands inside the opposing court, causing the rest of the team to cheer you on as the ball hits the floor.

You seem to forget for a short while that you did it to spite him as your face beams with inexplicable joy while his contorts with ire. 

Even if the momentum of the ball was broken, you still managed to get it over - the one thing he hadn’t been able to do from his last eight attempts. Meanwhile, you did it on your first. 

You definitely had a lot of experience in high school. No beginner can manage to do a jump serve like that, even if it was flawed.

‘Shit,’ he silently curses when you face him with a cocky grin disguised as a pleasant one. 

“Who knew that my experience being an outside hitter and captain of my high school team would still be useful as your manager?” you ask as you slowly walk towards him.

He doesn’ expect that your knowledge about the sport came from first-hand experience. He thought you’re manager of another team previously or just a crazy volleyball enthusiast.

You pick up another ball and softly push it against his rib as you look up to him with contempt. “Don’t tell me I can do better than you,” you spur him on with squinted eyes.

He snatches the ball away from your hands and steps back from the serving line. He spins the ball one time and tosses it high. Instead of a three-step approach, he makes it a four to increase his vertical jump. He tosses it high enough and channels all his rage for you at the ball. 

With how high he jumped, the ball easily goes over the net. Its trajectory curves when it crosses over and hits a spot a little bit just beyond the end line.

He clenches his fist at his another failed attempt despite exerting more than necessary effort for that shot. He avoids looking at you for he’d be put in an even worse mood if sees that taunting grin of yours. 

But of course you had to make yourself seen and intentionally go in front of him with an impressed look in your face instead of a condescending one. 

“That was great! Holy shit. It was just a smidge out. Wow.” You applaud him earnestly, and as much as he despises it, it makes him a little less bad about that missed shot. 

“Can you leave me alone now?” He drives you away to fend off the stupid feeling. He’d rather you just walk away and don’t say anything. “Not like that serve mattered,” he mutters in annoyance.

“What are you talking about? It was awesome!” you yell out with your eyes shining with flagrant admiration, which annoyingly strokes his ego. 

“Just a bit less and it would have been in a spot difficult to return,” you remark as you pat his shoulders approvingly before heeding his request to leave and go back to where Coach is. 

“Sorry, Coach. I distracted everyone else,” you scratch your head with an apologetic smile when you return. 

“I’d tell you off, but everyone seems more motivated now, so good work I guess,” she commends you with a satisfactory tone.

“He looks really pissed though,” Coach Mira adds as she glances at the blonde middle blocker.

“More than you know, Coach,” you reply with a wide smile as he serves another ball and gets it in this time. 

--

Prior to your meeting with Tsukishima today, you proposed to finish the project as soon as possible so you can both focus on other other uni subjects on top of training hours. He immediately agreed, which didn’t surprise you because even though it’s not game season, you’re pretty sure he can’t wait to stop having to see you.

The project’s deadline is in three months, but you believe you can finish it in less than two if you meet up at least twice a week to work on it.

It should be okay, given that you both agreed to have a truce of some sort from the usual dynamic of your relationship. You actually think that it’s not going to work out smoothly, but you still suggested it with the hopes of decreasing his animosity towards you. Yes, it’s fun and amusing most of the time, but outside the gym where you’re just a classmate and not his manager, it’s kinda draining to deal with it. 

“Won’t your roommate mind if there’s a stranger in your room?” he asks as he sits down and rummages through his bag. 

“Oh.” You thought he already figured it out because he didn’t ask about it on his first visit. “Didn’t I tell you before? I don’t have a roommate.” 

His eyes immediately go to your bunk bed that you didn’t bother getting replaced because it’s convenient when you’re too tired. You usually just mindlessly throw your stuff at the top bunk for a later clean-up.

“Wanted the whole room to myself,” you add.

“Spoiled, little rich brat, aren’t you?” He really doesn’t have much basis for his statement. He just wants to say something nasty and sneer at you because he wants to get back at how you called him out during training the other day.

When he meets your gaze, you raise an eyebrow at him, reminding him about your agreement while working on the project. He purses his lips to the side and returns to his passive expression without saying anything. You roll your eyes in response.

“Well if being a scholar while working as your manager is being a spoiled rich brat, then by all means. Do consider me one,” you answer before looking back on your screen. 

He would have never thought you were a university scholar. You don’t look like the type. You’re way too carefree and all over the place. He would’ve thought it was a joke, if not for the tiny offended glint he caught when he said you’re a spoiled brat.

That’s exactly the reaction he wants to get from you, yet it didn’t feel satisfactory. On the contrary, it’s making him feel like a prick. He is being one, but he doesn’t expect to feel like one, especially towards you who does nothing but get on his skin. 

Still, hell would freeze over before he apologizes. Instead, he prods on the topic.

“Why would you even work as a manager if you’re already a scholar?”

It doesn’t make sense to him. You don’t need the work if your university fees are already waived. It will just pile on to the academic requirements you will need to maintain. 

Your hand stops scrolling on your mouse as your eyes soften, still  remaining on your laptop. “Cause I love it,” you utter like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

The look in your eyes is instantly replaced by mockery when you lift them to meet his. 

“Someone’s being inquisitive today.”

He gets his headphones out and plugs it to his laptop. He really is curious why you chose you to be their manager, but you just had to be an obnoxious bitch and break the agreement you offered to him just the other day. 

He knows you’re too much of a chaos to actually pull it off, so instead of wasting his energy by being irritated by you for the day, he’d rather pretend you’re not there.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” you say loudly with a wide smile, yet he can see the sincerity of the apology through the slight panic in your orbs. You must have realized he’s had enough of your shit. “My bad. Old habits hard.” You laugh nervously. 

You speak again when he puts down his headphones on the table. “I may have quit the sport, but I still love it. I love taking care of players like you guys who have the same passion for it.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s worth it,” he comments with unheld honesty. You could have a lot of time off of your hands if you quit being their manager. You don’t even need the job.

You plant your hands on the floor and lean back as your gaze drifts to the photos of the team displayed on your desk.

“You might be right. A marine science student dedicating her time on sports even though she’s not an athlete? It does sound impractical. But,” you revert your eyes back to him as you continue on, “it makes me happy. That alone makes it worth it. Even if I don’t get paid, I’d still do it.”

Your face glows with pride and joy with your last statement, completely undeterred by his earlier cynicism. If anything, you look even more convinced that you’re doing the right thing. 

He can’t tell if he finds it admirable or disturbing. Probably the latter.

“There’s more to life than just sleep, study, and survive, don’t you think?” 

It was a rhetorical question that he would’ve still refuted if someone told him that years ago. Back in his freshman year in high school, he thought overzealous passion was stupid. Unless an individual is some sort of prodigy, it wouldn’t get them anywhere even if they keep trying to death.

Still, he put in a lot of work -- more than he should -- when he was playing in Karasuno. What was just a club became entirely something else for him, which, up until now, he still hasn’t put quite a finger on. 

When he graduated from Karasuno, he wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to continue playing, but there was a nagging feeling behind his head that he shouldn’t. He thought that that part of his life was already over and while it was good while it lasted, it was time to move one. 

Yet, when he was handed out an application form for the university’s college team, he found himself grabbing the sheet of paper. 

He didn’t have any reason to pursue it beyond high school. He knows he’s good, but he’s not that good. He was at university already. It was time to focus on his future and ignore the itch to hold the ball with five other players on his side of the court.

What’s even more absurd was the next day, he submitted the application form and tried out for the team. He said to himself it wouldn’t hurt to go on playing until he has finally had enough. He’d just ride it out until he got tired of it. 

In his sophomore year, he was scouted by Sendai Frogs and that’s when he knew that the unreasonable passion he has for volleyball is not going to go away. Even now in his graduating semester, he’s still not ready to give it up.

He won’t admit it in your face, but, in a way, he can agree with what you just said. Life is more than just getting by and surviving. That’s the only reason he can think of to justify his choice to continue volleyball: so that he wouldn’t have this constant dissonance that pursuing the sport is a vacuous path he’s treading on. 

“Anyways, back to work now, yeah?”

You smile briefly at him and return to the research you’re tasked to do. He puts his headphones back in his bag and gets back to his own task as well.

He thought all is well and you won’t pester him until you both finish what you’re supposed to accomplish for the day. Unfortunately, he thought wrong. 

You suddenly close your laptop and start whining. 

“Tsukki.”

As usual, he does his best to not acknowledge your existence. 

“Tsukkiii, ” you whine louder. 

For the love of God, you sound the most annoying when you use his nickname. Even though you’ve used it several times now, he’s still not used to it. In fact, he does not believe he will ever get used to it. Shimizu and Yachi not even once called him that, and they were more respectable managers than you are. Sort of. It doesn’t matter that you’re more active and hands on when managing the team.

“Tsuuuk -”

“What?!” You successfully manage to get his eyes off the screen.

“I’m bored,” you pout. 

He glares at you unbelievably. What are you, a five-year-old? 

“And that is my problem, how?” he asks with disdain. 

“Aren’t you getting tired?” you ask back, unfazed by his blatant irritation. But then again, you never are. 

He is getting tired too, but he’d rather drag his brains and eyes out than rest and extend the time he’s going to spend with you. 

“Let’s take a break, please, ” you cry out with pleading eyes. 

“I don’t care what you do. Just leave me out of it.” He puts his attention back on his laptop and looks for the journal article he found significant among the other tabs he opened. 

“I’ll feel guilty if I see you still at it while I goof around,” you admit. 

He really couldn’t care any less. None of what you’re blabbering about is any of his concern. If you keep at it, he’ll just take out his headphones again to drown out your childish whining. 

“I know!” You suddenly perk up. “Let’s review for our quiz,” you suggest eagerly. “We have one tomorrow, right?”

He almost smirks at your suggestion, but he manages to suppress it. He’d rather not let you see that he’s pleasantly amused with your suggestion. 

He didn’t expect that that was your idea of taking a break. He thought you were going to propose something completely absurd like watch stupid videos online because that’s something he could totally see you doing on your free time. 

But yeah, he can definitely use a review. It would be a productive break from the strenuous researching and writing you two have been doing. 

Even though he still hasn’t verbally agreed, you continue on. “To make it interesting, there’s a penalty for every wrong answer.”

He sits up straight, pushing his glasses closer to his face as you successfully gain his full attention. “What penalty?”

Your smile widens when you realize that he’s finally acknowledging your idea of taking a break. 

“Okay, okay.” You rub your hands together in excitement before you clasp them together. “For every wrong answer you get, you need to say something nice about me. And of course vice versa.”

He scowls at the idea. “I prefer the opposite. Get the answer wrong and you get insulted. That sounds more of a punishment.”

You shake your head with your lips pressed into a thin line from disapproval. “Nope. If I get even one wrong answer. I’m sure you’ll get into a litany of rude shit you piled up against me over the years. And I’ll just sit here uncaringly receiving your fury. Does that excite you?”

Hell no. It will infuriate him even more if he throws something at you and you just take it apathetically. But he still doesn’t agree with your initial mechanics. It’s not fair to him.

“No, it doesn’t. But the consequence of a wrong answer is too easy for you.”

You place a palm on your chest and gape at him. “Me? Too easy for me ?” 

You break into a boisterous laugh while still maintaining eye contact with him. He just stares back at you stupefied with no idea what you found so hilarious.

“Tsukishima,” you say after recovering from your disparaging hoots of laughter. “I can think of literally one nice thing about you. Maybe two if I tried hard enough,” you explain with your face still crinkled with the laughter you’re trying hard to contain. 

If you’re trying to provok him to take on your challenge, you definitely succeeding. “Fine,” he hisses. 

Your laughter is completely thwarted when your eyes widen with delight as he succumbs to your plan. 

“Great! Okay, two more rules. One, objective questions only. Two, we can’t say anything that involves Volleyball. For example, you can’t tell me that I’m a great manager, because I’m very much aware of that already, okay?”

His frown only deepens from your conceitedness, only to realize that that’s the only aspect of you he’d consider complimenting you about. 

“But there is nothing else nice about you other than that,” he says without any trace of sarcasm or ridicule, only stating what he considers the truth. 

But you don’t take any offense in his statement. You’re expecting as much. That’s why you added two more rules to push the both of you to take the review seriously.

“Better not get anything wrong then,” you counter easily because it’s as simple as that. It’s a review just for a quiz after all. He shouldn’t be that worried.

“Thirty minutes to review. Then let’s start the quiz?”

You take that he’s fine with it since he closes his laptop and gets his set of notes from his bag.

You get your phone and set a thirty minute timer. You do just as he does and focus on your own notes, skimming over the last two chapters covered during lectures. You concentrate on your learning materials but the alarm sets off after what seemed like ten minutes to you.

You frantically check your phone to see if you put the wrong time, but you didn’t. Thirty minute have indeed passed. 

When you glance at Tsukishima, he’s already looking at you with crossed arms and a self-satisfied smirk. He must have finished before the timer went off. He wouldn’t have that smug expression if not. 

Even though you haven’t fully gone over the last parts of the lesson covered, you can’t help but be enlivened at how competitive he is. He must really hate losing. 

You notice it too with the way he plays volleyball. He might look calm on the surface, but you know he wants to crush his opponents. And right now, that opponent is you. 

His muted excitement affects you. Even though you’re not totally prepared, you’re confident with your own wits. 

“Ladies first, so go ahead, Tsukishima.”

He clicks his tongue, his usual habit when he’s irked with something, but this one was forced to make it appear as if he didn’t like what you said. But you can tell that he doesn’t give a shit about that and he actually can’t wait to ask away just to so you can get it wrong.

Unfortunately for him though, you two are just exchanging questions when your mini game starts. He answers your questions without hesitation and you do just the same since most of his questions are in your own list that’s supposed to be for him.

“What’s the movable membrane found on the eyes of amphibians?” It’s his sixth question that has you racking your brain for the correct answer. When you don’t respond immediately, he sniggers like he’s already won. 

But you do know the answer, or at least the first letter of it. It's the letter N. N-something membrane.

“Nictaling membrane,” you answer unsurely. 

The spread of his wicked smile immediately tells you you’re wrong. “It’s nictating,” he corrects you. 

“Oh come on! I’m just one letter off,” you strongly reason out.

“Yeah, and that would still be marked wrong in the actual quiz,” he refutes.

Damn it. He’s right. That one letter makes a whole lot of difference your professor will definitely not let go.

He places one elbow on the table and rests his chin at the back of his hand, keeping his eyes trained on you as he silently anticipates for you to pay the price of your penalty.

You bite your lip disquietly when you realize the rule you set was a double-edged sword for you can’t also think of anything nice to say about him. There’s that terrible attitude of his which is usually your source of fun, but not exactly something you can call nice. 

You have something in your mind, but your pride won’t let you voice it out. 

He starts tapping the table with his fingers. “You’re wasting both our time, y/n.”

You accept your defeat and tell him anyway. “Fine. I think you’re smarter than me,” you confess. 

You expect him to agree unanimously, but instead he looks at you stupefied, blinking a few times without saying anything. 

“But you’re a scholar,” he remarks. You’re not sure if he just disagreed with you or he’s just putting that fact out in the open. 

“Well, yeah. But I’m just really good at studying and have good time management. You’re actually smart. You’re critical with stuff,” you explain. 

You cheated a bit with your answer since most of your basis is from volleyball games. Although your trip last time is also proof of that. He provided really good input on how you should go about with the project. 

“Okay! Moving on,” you proceed before he can comment further on what you just said and milk it to his benefit.

You ask another question, which he also knows that correct answer to. Originally, you just wanted a fun but effective way of reviewing, but now you kind of want him to get at least one question wrong so you can get even. 

“What do you call the structure the lower vertebrae of anurans is fused into?” he asks another difficult question. 

You rub your palms on your face, your frustration clouding your mind from recalling what it could possibly be. You push your hair back and sigh when you realize that you’re not getting this one either. 

“I don’t know,” you surrender. 

His current expression is the most lively one you’ve ever seen from him outside volleyball games, but it isn't a pleasant one. He looks like a villain whose evil master plan is coming to fruition. 

Maybe you should’ve just agreed with his earlier suggestion to get insulted when you get it incorrectly. You would’ve just sit it out and brush it off afterwards, not make your brain hurt even more from thinking about non-existent good traits from the guy across your table. 

You look around as you desperately try to think of something remotely nice about him.

“Oh,” your eyes meet his right the moment you recall that instance, and form a genuine smile as you remember it once more. 

“It was real nice of you to let me lean on you on the way back to Miyagi last week.”

He removes his elbow from the table and fixes his posture, losing the lax and confident aura he had two questions ago. 

“You would have woken up face down on the bus floor if I didn’t,” he says defensively as if what he did needs that explanation for it to be acceptable. 

You honestly thought he’d rather let you fall flat on the floor. You’re about to ask him back then if he was sure, but you just accepted his angry, yet generous offer which you didn’t expect to come from him.

“I know. I just didn’t think you’d let me rest on your shoulder, so thanks,” you say earnestly, not a trace of your usual cheekiness present. 

“It felt nice and comfortable” you add reservedly. You’ve been wanting to thank him but you didn’t know how to bring it up without being awkward for you’re only used to dealing with grouchy Tsukishima.

It’s only then you realize that despite his palpable dislike towards you, he’s not a complete asshole and still cared enough for your welfare that time.

He remains expressionless with his eyes drifting down to his notes, avoiding your gaze as he does so. “The answer is coccyx, also called urostyle,” he ushers back to the question you got wrong, dismissing what you just divulged, which you’re thankful for because you feel like fidgeting with what just dawned on you.

“My turn again then!” you said too loudly as you try to shake off the feeling and put your focus back on the review.

You read the only item left in your list, still hoping that he gets it wrong since this is the last. 

“What part of the amphibian nervous system regulates heart and respiratory rates?”

Unlike previous questions, he doesn’t answer off the bat this time.

“You’re wasting both our time, Tsukishima,” you repeat what he said to you earlier even though it's only been seconds after you uttered your question. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I know the answer,” he declares with reassured confidence. “It’s the cerebrum.”

You decide to hold his gaze for two second before you burst his bubble. “Fucking finally!” you rejoice in his defeat. 

“Close enough, Tsukishima. It’s the cerebellum,” you announce all too cheerfully.

He hurriedly gets his notes and cross checks if you’re actually telling the truth. You just watch him scramble with a very pleased smile on your face as he goes rigid. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He must have seen that you were telling the truth.

You start squirming in your seat. Oh man, you’re way too excited to hear what he has to say about you. You want to egg him on, to tell him to hurry up but that might affect what he’s going to say so you force yourself to shut up. 

He raises his gaze at you while you make sure you’re not smiling too wide to annoy him even though you’re reeling from anticipation. 

He still doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s thinking based on the way he’s studying your face. 

“You have a slightly above average face.”

You run that by again in your head, not understanding what he meant by it at first. 

Above average face? Did he just say you’re pretty if translated from a socially incapacitated person’s language? Is that why he was staring so hard at you?

Of all the things he could choose to say something about, he decides to compliment your appearance? You know that you're a bit good-looking, but you don’t think he notices it. He doesn’t seem to be the type to care about that stuff.

Even when you first met, he just looked at you with a vacant expression and greeted you blandly out of courtesy while the rest of the team ogled at you. His apathetic eyes eventually turned scornful over time because of how often you pick on him, and despite that, he does acknowledge that you are pretty.

You’re used to being showered with admiration because of your face so you’ve developed a natural response to it: a gleeful smile with a spritely ‘aww, thanks!’

But with Tsukishima, it doesn’t kick in. Instead, you avert your gaze away from the unwanted fluttering in your chest. You can’t even look him in the eye as you try to collect yourself and think how you’ll respond to that without looking flustered. 

What the heck is wrong with you? That could hardly be called a compliment. Now that you think about it, it actually sounded sort of like a product review with its lack of any fondness. 

With that in mind, you manage to regain some of your composure and offer him a faint. “Um, thanks.”  

Tsukishima looks at his two remaining questions he listed and even though he’s winning the game, he doesn’t feel victorious at all. Your confessions did nothing to make him feel good about himself. They were too sincere that they made him uneasy.

He also doesn’t like that he had to admit you’re pretty. He expected you’re gonna make a fuss about it. He actually would’ve preferred that than you being uncharacteristically embarrassed about it.

Something weird is definitely going on. You’re not acting like yourself and neither is he. There had been too many opportunities to badger you, but he just let them pass by. Same with you. You could have easily teased him about letting you know he finds you attractive.

“I’m out of questions,” he lies to end the damn review. 

“Me too, actually,” you say with an apprehensive laugh.

So it’s not just him. You also feel the change in the atmosphere between you two. Your smile is uncertain and you look like you don't know what to do to remedy the situation -- that is, if you even know what’s wrong with it because he sure as hell doesn’t. 

But even if he has no idea what’s going on, fortunately, he knows how to end it.

“I’m tired. I’m calling it a day,” he says as he starts packing up his stuff. 

You seem to agree since you don’t say anything and just watch him collect his things. You only react when he stands up. 

“Oh yeah. Sure!” You stand up as well.

“I can see my way out on my own,” he stops you when you start to head for the door.  

You freeze on the spot then nod timidly. “Okay.”

As soon as he steps out and closes the door, you plop yourself back to where you were sitting. You grasp the edges of your table as you softly bang your head against it, gasping a heavy breath of relief when the air becomes undoubtedly lighter after he is gone.

“What the fuck was that?” you mumble with your cheek against the wooden surface. 

Part 2 || Part 4 || masterlist

taglist (those crossed out can’t be tagged)

@ameliaxo @suikrem @akaashisslave @tsumurai  @babythotshq @loving-unicorns106 @flairlust @geektastic84 @anaiss97 @berna-dette @just4readingfics @suteorra @xxekitten69xx @simp4tsukkii @music-is-all-i-need @keshinslittlegirl @raspberrysunshinebby @iminlovewhaikyuu @pdiddy11 @lightyagamami @sailorscout1902 @lovershaikyuu  @expectonothinfromme @mitzuya @yamigoop​

[7ven-devils]

A really long overanlysis of minecraft servers.

This will be my only warning, this shit is really long.

I promised this to @ivi-prism 2 weeks ago (hi, i am Svetla) but university said no and then i feel my notes were incomplete so i have to do more research.

So let's talk about anarchism and capitalism. As a future political scientist, really bugs me how the fandom and some content creators (im looking at you techno) misinterpret both theories.

Yeah this will be a overanalysis about the political, social and economic system of two minecraft servers. Why? Cause i like analysis things like this and finally i can solved what is the system of hermitcraft and thats make me happy.

Things to consider:

First im not native english speaker and im lazy so im not often write or talk in english so my typos can make Doc really proud.

Second i don't watch Dsmp i only know things about the server by the animatics, the constant information wich pop up here on tumblr, the crossover fanfics and the tiny vods that youtube insist play when i have activate automatic reproduction.

Third i tried to simplified this much as i can because this analysis i maded talking with my friends (also political scientists) and a former professor, so it got quite technical while i was writing it.

And finally don't take this seriously, I'm not trying to insult anyone, I only started this because the hermitfandom started saying that hermitcraft was capitalist and then everyone started comparing the Dsmp with hermitcraft saying anarchism vs capitalism, that's why the dsmp entered into this analysis.

Guys, seriously chaos isn't anarchism and "sucefully economic" isn't capitalism, even paid with "money" (diamonds in this case) isnt necessary capitalism.

First, mini glossary:

I understand a server like a Society/State (country) with Mr Weber definition. In really vague words a State is anyone that has a territory and has legal control of violence (the laws, no the abuse of authority).

I understand the private property as the hermits bases and/or shops (i suppose only base in dsmp? Idk)

I understand the mass production as the farms and resources.

Capitalism is a economic, politic and social theory, wich it considers private property essential and tends to monopolize the resources 'cause this it also considered private property.

Anarchy means "without government" it has its origin in the Ancient Greece. And Anarchism theory is just a society free from any political authority, but respecting the liberties of the others.

A Failed State is which one lose control of the legal violence, and can't provide the peace, essential human rights and the basics for a normal lifestyle to its people.

I think thats all the bored shit (i hope so). Now the interesting shit.

Why hermitcraft isnt capitalist?

Short answer, their idea of private property is not the same as capitalism has.

Long answer, even if they have their own stuff, they had a really strong sense of community and dont really care if someone take things from them.

We can see this in the beginning of season when Iskall take some mini blocks from Etho and he didn't really care (yeah, iskall "paid" him, but later i will explain this) or the multiple times Grian "borrow" things from Iskall and Mumbo in season 6 or Scar in season 7, the team ZIT constantly take things from each other and i can go on and on with examples, but the point here is this couldn't happen if they had a capitalist society because this would break the "private" part of private property and mass production.

Basically their friendship made so strong their sense of community that they are basically inmune to capitalism, Uncle Marx would be proud of them (not really, but would be funny). So they are communist? Nope, communist don't believe in private property and the hermits does.

But you just said-? I said they dont has the SAME idea of private property as capitalism does. They still have their bases, farms and shops, but for them their private property isnt sacred like in a capitalism system would be.

They're respect each other things because they appreciated the effort and values the time the person puts on their buildings and not only because doesn't belongs to them (and obviously cause theyre frends, but shush, this is a overanalysis, the obvious things doesn't have place here) i mean even for the shenanigans they are really polite and try to cause the least damage possible not because is not of them but because they valued the person.

Basically the famous honor code of hermitcraft.

What about the economic system and the shopping district?

Lets talk about the elephant in the room.

If Hermitcraft isnt a capitalist system, why they have a economic system based in diamonds?

Well, despite the exchange based in money for resources or services is a principal characteristic of capitalism, it isnt exclusive of that theory.

The money is a social consensus, cause barter has becomes obsolete and gold isnt cheap or infinite to use as payment. And basically, this is why we use money on this days (if you want to know the history of money ask to your trusted historian or Wikipedia).

What does this remind us? Yep, diamonds and iou's are a consensus too. When the 1.16 came out some hermits tried to change to netherite as payment and didn't suit, so they ignored it and continued with their current payment system.

And as much as Mr Smith likes to say that this is how the free market (and his stupid invisible hand) works, capitalism needs the monopoly of resources and people who works to pay for those resources.

But in Hermitcraft nobody really controlled the resources, anyone can go and collect their materials or made a farm. They just decided don't do it and go and buy it, because they save the time to go and collect for themselves, in other words they paid for the time.

Various hermits say they saved so much time go and buy the materials instead to collect themself or trade with the villagers (cause theyre the worst and all of us know it) thats why the barge and lookie lookie at my bookie are so profitable.

The shopping district it wasn't a thing before season 4, i dont really sure how it worked before, because i started watch in season six and sadly i have a boring adult life to saw the old seasons, but i assume it works in the same way that the trades the hermits does between them to accord a discount or a collab, and speak directly with the interested hermit or directly take it and pays what's considered it was fair, like iskall did with etho.

Like i said all what's happen in hermitcraft is a consensus, even the shopping district.

So yeah, that isnt a thing that would happen in a capitalism system, probably you would be dead, because "how are you dare to entered to my property", or in the jail, "because thats not yours".

So, what is hermitcraft?

For the surprise from much of you, Hermitcraft has an anarchist system.

What?! But their server is so peaceful, they don't steal from each other, they doesn't griefing, hows that possible?!

Well, the anarchism isn't really a violent political theory, at least in its beginning, actually anarchism is one of the most peaceful theories i studied, thats why i dont really thing it will worked in our society, but work in a server of 24 friends. Its too idealist.

I don't really study all of the thoughts corrents of anarchism because they are a lot. But the one we are interested is one of original thought corrent, The Mutualism, this in contrast with their cousin Communism doesn't believes the private property was something bad and considered like one of the rights from the individual, but different as capitalism because like i said before it wasn't sacred and communal things will exist to help others to start or recover.

Proudhon, one of it intellectuals, considered not paid for the work of the other it was a form to violate their liberties and feel horrofied with Marx when he said we have to abolish the private property.

The mutualists believes that each person should possess a means of production, either individually or collectively, and the products obtained would be trade in the market for the amount equivalent of their work.

This sound familiar, isnt it? Hermitcraft works in this way.

The thing with anarchism is they don't believes in a government over the people. And the hermits doesn't have one, yeah there's Scar being the mayor, but he isnt have a power over the rest and only is in charge of the "cowmercial district" even aquatown isn't part of his jurisdiction, his function is more of organization, like when we put a friend in charge to organizing part of a roadtrip.

It's the same with Xisuma figure, we all put him in a position of the admin of hermitcraft, but the truth is he isnt the only one with admin commands (but apparently some or all of them losed their admin status, at least in one of the last tango's streams, he hasnt it anymore) and various hermits said that he is more like an ambassador of them in the legal things of the server.

The hermits take all of they decisions in group and in the majority of things all of them needs to be agreed with the decision or they simple doesn't do it. And this is a characteristic of the mutualism because for them anyone are over the other.

And if you aren't already bored at this point and you put attention to what i wrote of the concept of private property in the mutualism, you would see it is practically the way hermitcraft works. They make their bases and farms, recolect resources and sell what they don't will use, buy mostly to save time and paid for the price what they considered fair. Yeah i know sometimes they do some farm specifically for one shop, but this is more "yeah, this is my thing" (Tango and Iron; Ren and wood) or a division of activities "if you do that, i do this".

The perfect utopia.

What about the Dsmp?

If you do it to here, congratulations.

So what about the Dsmp, i entered here because i want to read of them and the only thing i read was about hermitcraft.

Well, the Dsmp only entered in the equation because much of you said they were an anarchist server, but i see it more like a "failed state" and when i was talked with an exprofessor he agreed with me.

I know the term of failed state is controversial and is almost obsolete, but is the best way to describe the server and stop said it is anarchist.

So why failed state and not an anarchist state? Because they have a government (or apparently multiples) a failed one, but is there, if it were an anarchist server wouldn't have one.

Usually the failed states are known for being violent and volatile places in which ones their governments can't provides the basics to their people to live, normally are places with ethnics conflicts, civil wars, authoritarian governments or states in wars. The most common examples are Haití, Somalia or Syria.

And i am sure you can see the similarities with the Dsmp, so yeah, theyre chaotic but not anarchist.

The wars ruined the stability from the server, have a multiple sides and a megalomaniac for admin, but the goverment still there and they are fighting for the power wich wouldn't happen if the server were anarchist because anarchism don't believe the power should be possess for someone.

The server simply is failed state wich struggles under a violent fight for power.

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

If you read this far, you're a hero and had my gratitude for read my useless thoughts. Maybe some day i do it other overanalysis of this servers. I hope you enjoyed and dont confused so much.

Thanks for read.

And if there are some angry economist with me for "misrepresent" the capitalist i am completely open to a debate, my only condition is it would be in chilean spanish ;)

[angeli-marco-writes]

Elizbeth Debicki - Reunion Revenge

A/N - I love Elizabeth with everything I am, I'm sure I've said this before. I don't know why there aren't more fics about her. As always, I do not know Elizabeth, nor do I claim to: this is a work of fiction and wholly my own. I mean no disrespect to any of the careers mentioned at some point in this, just bear with. This is a set at a high school reunion, but I went to a private secondary school in England, so my experience is obviously not everyone else's. Reader has a twin brother, have fun with that. I also based this on a Tumblr post I saw, and thought that would be a swell concept to work into a Liz piece of writing: ‘never understood the whole showing up at your high school reunion revenge fantasy cause, like, really? high school?? I don’t want anyone from that time in my life to have any idea where I am or what I’m doing. do not perceive me I am dead to you and you are dead to me.' 8k.

Warnings - a little angsty, mentions of bullying, smoking, mentions of homophobia and slurs, wlw explicit smut, fingering, sex toys (strap-on), bathroom wall sex in a semi-public place, the whole shebang (literally). 18+

Summary - At first, when your brother roped you into attending your high school reunion with your wife, you hated the idea. Now, all eyes are on you, all the focus on your career, and maybe this is the revenge you always needed, of course aided by Liz's quick thinking and hidden surprises.

AT THIS CURRENT POINT IN TIME, you would more than happily murder your brother for roping you into this. And for convincing Liz to come along, which is somehow worse than your own enforced attendance, as though your presence will make any difference to the people who made the seven ‘best’ years of your life a pure living hell.

Your brother did have your back through it all, and considering that he was supposed to be the best one to succeed, he needs you there for some moral support after his career took an unfortunate nosedive that everyone is undoubtedly going to be gawking over.

You never understood the whole ‘showing up at your secondary school reunion revenge fantasy,’ but that’s mostly just because they don’t deserve to know who you are anymore. They broke you continually, and you’re past it now: the only thing that could take you back to that mindset is being back in that great hall with the gossiping busybodies. It’s not your fault that you were a closeted gay for so many years. Well, that’s another cause of concern. Notorious homophobes, and you’re bringing your wife.

“Come on, honey, we have to go inside.” Liz tells you, her long fingers curling around yours affectionately.

She has a point. You’ve been in the car park for ten minutes now, your knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Her continual lavishes of kisses to your neck seem to be the only redeeming factor of your procrastination.

“Hmm, kiss me first.” you say.

She doesn’t disappoint, curling your hair behind your ear—wearing special diamond earrings she got you on your second anniversary—and catches your chin tenderly between her polished forefinger and thumb, tilting your face up to meet hers, her lips slanting over yours, melding together perfectly.

She’s the only good thing about this situation, about any situation: the only reason your brother was able to bribe you to come. Your main qualm about today is that you don’t want anyone from that period of your life to have any idea where you are or what you’re doing. You’ve been dead to them for years, and they to you. You don’t want them to perceive you whatsoever. But maybe, with Elizabeth on your arm and a brilliant career under your belt—everything you ever wanted—you can reap revenge. No one is in touch with you, so your arrival will be such a surprise, not that you exactly care about that, having blocked out and repressed a whole lot of that time period. You wouldn’t be able to even do this without Elizabeth, though.

“Liz,” you moan when she nibbles on your lower lip in that signature way she does. “We can stay here, we don’t have to go in.”

You shift your hand over the centre console to rub over her clothed thigh, your grip more than a little suggestive, prying further up…

“No baby,” she coos, “later, I promise. We’ll be late.”

You grumble, but only momentarily. She has a point, and a thing about being on time to everything. So you load out of the car, Liz coming around to the drivers side where she offers you her hand. She’s more chivalrous than any guy you ever pretended to date, an absolute gem of a person. You don’t even get jittery on the short walk inside, not with her thumb caressing your hand, your legs brushing together.

You can’t say you’re surprised when, at first, no one even turns to look at you, though relief floods your system, Liz bending down to kiss your forehead in a conciliatory manner.

“Oh my God, y/n, I’ve been here twenty minutes! Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I was busy,” you say to your overzealous brother who is suddenly hounding you, attaching to your side.

He bristles, visibly shaking off his discomfort, before he’s linking his arm through yours and is tugging you along, out from beneath the wooden balcony, tugging you away from the shadows.

The hall is the exact same as it was both when you came and left the school, oak panelling everywhere, great glass windows stretching to the ceiling with sills too high for anyone to climb onto, a stained glass shrine above the stage. Put-me-up tables are littered around, sheathed with white cloths and ribbons with your school emblem on them, decorated with drink dispensers, mugs, wine glasses and cheap biscuits. The whole… scene brings back that awful sense of dread you got when forced to sit here, in tacky red woollen chairs, frayed and bobbled, that itched your legs, every Monday and Friday for assembly. It’s a beautiful room, truly, with a reinforced floor beneath the original boards, slightly splintering beneath your low heels, and you know every nook and cranny, every escape route, but the bad memories tarnish the space.

Liz, darling as she is, senses your discomfort, and creates small talk with your brother as you’re steered between groups of people you scarcely recognise until you reach the apex of the room, where his old friends stand, hunched over in ill-fitting suits, brooding over their brandy, no doubt complaining about their dead end jobs and lack of girlfriends.

“Hey buddy…” one of them says, trailing off once he hears a woman's voice, his eyes darting up—first to Elizabeth, then down to you. “Your sister and your girlfriend? Dude, she’s hot.”

“Isn’t she just?” Liz teases, a malicious smirk creeping onto her lips.

You haven’t even noticed, but some subconscious part of you has tucked your joined hands behind you, covered by Liz’s long, flowing dress.

“How you doing, wait, I know, don’t tell me…”

“y/n.” you snap. “Fine, thanks.”

“Well that’s good, good, isn’t it? I was just gonna call you mini y/l/n—”

“Don’t, that isn’t my name anymore.”

His eyes dart down to your left hand not held by Elizabeth’s slender fingers, instantly noting the glistening silver princess-cut ring nestled above a platinum wedding band.

“Married? Nice. No wonder the guy didn’t come,” another one chimes. You’re not entirely sure what he means, though it’s undoubtedly a dig at the fact Elizabeth is far hotter than you are.

Your brother is slowly growing angrier and angrier, the cords of thick muscle in his shoulders tensing, his nostrils flaring, his thinned eyes conversing with Elizabeth’s blues over the top of your ducked head.

“Yes, well,” you play along, and desperately look to your brother to continue the conversation.

“What are you all doing for work now?”

Everyone gives a boring answer: salesman, accountant, finishing up law school, working in an office, with one trainee chef in the mix. These men have all just done what the school or their parents expected and wanted them to do, no one has any ambition. No wonder you were always the odd one out.

“What about you?” the chef asks your brother.

“Oh, I’m on a sabbatical at the moment,” he replies sheepishly, eyes suddenly training on the floor before turning quickly, fixing on you. “My sister’s done really well for herself.”

Their surprise is palpable, seeping off them, dripping onto the floor via the loose threads of their cheap blazers.

“Yeah, I’m a translator for political and legal proceedings, you know, with cabinet ministers from all over the world, those who speak the languages I do, at least.” you answer pridefully. Your talents always were overlooked when you were at school, apart from by one special teacher, whom you haven’t actually seen yet.

“She’s marvellous, really,” Liz says, and you can’t help but feel a hint of guilt from neglecting her for so long, so you squeeze her hand a little tighter, and rub your thumb over her wedding ring. “I’m gonna get us some drinks, babe. What do you want?”

“Red wine would be lovely. Unless you want me to drive home?”

She pecks your lips, “Of course not, enjoy yourself. You want anything, mate?” she turns to your brother.

“I’m good, thanks.” He mock-salutes.

“Don’t be long,” you warn her, swinging your hands out from their cover with a sudden flush of courage, and detaching them.

She looks down at you curiously, but her smile quirks into a smirk the second you pinch her hip and lean up on your tiptoes, capturing her pretty pink lips with yours, swallowing the small surprised gasp that escapes her. You can feel eyes on you all over the room, the situation genuinely feeling as though everyone besides your brother is staring upon you with disgust as her lithe arms wrap around your body, her one hand straying lower than you were prepared for, arching into her chest as she nibbles your lip again, your one hand cupping her flushing cheek.

A moment later, she’s releasing her hold and strutting away, all eyes then glued to the sensual sway of her hips, her long legs carrying her across the room faster than they thought possible. Then again, being 6-foot-3 as a beautiful woman is quite the surprise to people, they all expect her to be garish, uncoordinated, and though she’s clumsy at times, she’s certainly better at general levels of human functionality than you are.

“Dude, stop staring at my wife’s ass.” you hiss to the first man. If only they were worth your bother or time, you might have remembered their dreary names.

He splutters for a moment, bringing a ring-less left hand up to loosen his lilac tie. “Wife? What the fuck? How are you married to a woman before we are!”

What a mystery.

“You gay or something?” the trainee lawyer chimes in again.

“You got a problem with that?” your brother accuses, puffing up his chest pompously.

“Well, no… just surprised.”

“Astonished.” another pipes up.

“Isn’t that a big word.”

You showed the tell tale signs of being a lesbian for years, the popular girls all pretended you were preying on them in the changing room, calling you a d*ke for years until you reached the point of just changing in the bathroom to stop yourself from snapping at them. They must’ve always had a hunch, and why ever they thought Liz was your brother's girlfriend is beyond you. Men truly are more trouble than they’re worth.

“Yes, I’m gay. Yes, Elizabeth is my wife. I didn’t realise this would be earth shattering information.” You cast your eyes up to the ceiling, erected like a great old Church steeple, and shutter them for a moment, gathering your bearings. “I’m going to find Liz, little man. Told you I shouldn't have come.”

“Don’t call me little man!”

“I’m ten minutes older than you, I’ll call you what I like.” you tease, sticking your tongue out childishly, receiving a sarcastic sneer from your brother. Right now, all you want is Liz. “I wish I could say it was nice to see you all again, but then we’d all be liars. Goodbye.”

They gawk in a greatly uncouth and infantile manner as you stride away, pep in your step as you approach your stunning wife, wrapping your arm around her stomach as she waits for her tea—English Breakfast, naturally—to cool down.

“Hey beautiful,” you greet.

“Hey, you. What happened?” she asks, instantly noting the sallow bags that have swiftly formed beneath your eyes.

“They were being arseholes, c’mon, let’s just stand in the corner until it’s socially acceptable to leave this hellhole.”

“We can go now if you’re uncomfortable, baby.”

Ever the forward, sympathetically thinking wife.

“No, no. I came here, I’d better make it worth my while.”

She tangles her fingers with yours, “Okay darling. Say the word, we leave.”

There aren’t words for how safe you feel thanks to Elizabeth, even just with this fractional amount of contact from her. She’s the answer to all your prayers and more, the thing in life you'll never deserve. Her love for you is endless, her affections infinite, and every day, you fall more and more in love with her, especially when she’s as kind as she is now.

It barely takes five minutes, the two of you hugging, kissing, leaning against a broad oak pillar, half shadowed, for someone to approach. One of the girls you despised, costume jewellery on her wrists, a self aggrandised smirk painted onto her fake lips. Martha? Mabel? Maddie?

“I heard you were here,” she starts, placing her tackily manicured hand onto her hip, “it’s so good to see you! How are you?”

“Great, thanks.” you say blandly, keeping your attention on Elizabeth’s hand entwined with yours.

“This is your… friend? Why did you bring a friend to this?”

She laughs mirthlessly, such a fake sound—like this cow's boobs—it makes your primal instincts flare. Elizabeth holds you impossibly closer, her arm around your waist tightening as you seek solace in her.

“y/n and I are married, thank you. I don’t appreciate the homophobic, disrespectful insinuations.”

She stifles another laugh, “You’re punching above your weight a bit aren’t you, y/n.”

“Don’t rise to it,” Liz headily murmurs in your ear, sending pleasant, calming vibrations throughout your whole body.

You gulp down as much air as you can, curling tighter into Liz, before saying what you thought all those years ago, “I’d rather be ‘punching’ and married to a woman I love rather than be a Goddamn trophy wife going nowhere, leeching off daddy’s money. People like you will never change. I’m happy, and I have a good feeling that’s more than the likes of you and your sad old minions can say.”

“Sweetheart, come on.” Liz whispers, and her hold on you increases until it begins to pinch, not that you mind, and then she’s thankfully tugging you away.

You barely make it out the door, Liz leaning down to kiss you heartily, passionately, before people are clamouring over you, what’s-her-faces friends, people you used to be in fair acquaintance with, all speaking together, their voices overlapping in what you can only believe to be expressions of acceptance.

“Um, thank you, I’ll just be back in a moment.” you say to those who bother to listen. Next thing, you’re darting out the way you came, tugging Liz down the great stone steps in front of the behemoth building, and then are leaning against the old wall, almost crumbling with rubble on the exterior at least, not as well preserved as the inside.

She joins you not a moment later, ferreting around the pockets in her skirt for the spare cigarette and lighter she slipped in earlier. Liz doesn’t condone your smoking in any way whatsoever, and in fact she’s the main reason that you quit, but she knows that when your anxiety is high during times like these, one can’t hurt. She always comes prepared.

She is definitely the most consistent, reliable thing in your life by a long shot. Naturally, you two have your fair share of ups and downs, and on the occasion you get your periods at the same time, you’re a complete dichotomy of furious fights and condoling cuddles, while the rest of the time you find yourselves in sheer throes of passion. You may be a dependable couple bound to stay together forever, but that doesn’t mean that the flame of lust once born there has even momentarily flickered: it’s why you work so well. Men are awful in bed, from both of your experiences. Only a woman truly knows how to please another woman. And in the many ways that Liz is a home-body and sticks to the safe side of things, sex is not one of those areas, and you frequently wind up in another one of her barmy—though blissfully pleasurable—experiments. Her daring never goes amiss, and you can’t help but pray that she has something up her sleeve (besides the cigarette) to dull the ache of the day, and also the growing desire pooling between your legs upon seeing have such a naturally demanding power, and looking so Goddamn stunning in her maxi dress. And the lip nibble, God—

“Before you ask, I’m not shagging you out here.” she says, lighting your cigarette with steady hands.

You inhale the smoke, allowing it to form dark halos around your head once you puff it out through pursed lips, hoping it obscures your sheepish smile and averted eyes from Liz’s view.

“I wasn't thinking about that.”

“Yes you were. You forget how well I know you.”

You shoot her a sardonic smile and take another deep drag, the bitter taste pouring into your senses, filling your lungs, calming your mind before you let it go with one long, shaky breath. The smoke has a way of revealing the air, making an artistry of its swirls and flow, something you’ve always been able to appreciate. Ever the wise one, Liz just sees the poison it’s creating within your body, and will do anything to make you stop.

The sick, intrusive thought that you might be disappointing her by this simple act alone rises a cough to your throat with the next puff, but in reality she looks so nonchalant, her eyes closed, a simple smile playing on her perfect lips as she revels in the moment, in your presence, her pinky finger looped just over yours against the crumbling brick wall. Nonetheless, the uneasiness is enough for you to stub the cigarette out under your shoe before it’s even half-way smoked.

“Baby, you okay?” she asks sympathetically, turning to face you so that her shoulder is pressed to the wall, her spare arm flying around to brush against your upper arm, thumb caressing the flesh there through your clothes.

“Yeah, course. Can we stay out here a bit, though?”

You expect her to wholeheartedly agree, because you could tell by the subtle sensing of her limber body and the sudden snap attitude she had that she was just as uncomfortable in there as you were, perhaps more so. Her reflexes may as well be yours with how used you are to them. That’s exactly how you know that she’s going to refuse your request by the almost imperceptible crest of her nails into your supple skin.

“Your brother texted, he asked you to come back in: people won’t stop badgering him about you.” She pauses, but upon hearing you huff, hurriedly leaps back in. “I mean of course we don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, this is about you, not your brother…”

But it is about your brother. You agreed to come here today to be of help to him. And besides, Elizabeth has almost as much loyalty to your brother as she does to you, the two of them having been friends before he introduced you to her. That certainly didn’t have the outcome he was expecting, but you’ve all remained close nonetheless. Mentally, you give yourself a shakedown. How could you be so selfish? Today isn’t about you, not really. Sure you’d like to make peace with your past and your old tormentors one last time before leaving and never seeing them again, but the main reason is support.

“No, you’re right,” you say after a long moment of lamentation.

“That’s a first,” Liz snorts.

You smack her playfully, “Watch it, you.”

“Hey, who’s the pillow princess around here?”

Your cheeks instantly flush. “That was one time.”

“More like five,” she umms and ahhs, but grasps your hand a little tighter regardless.

It’s a fair comment on her part: Liz does wield the majority of the power in the relationship, and is definitely more of a top that you are, but you ensure that you pleasure her just as much as she does you, it’s only fair. Apart from those few times you decided to try something new… you got tired of that pretty quickly, though, since you couldn’t go too long without tasting her while you were in bed. No matter how many times you’ve had sex, no matter how many mind-blowing orgasms you receive, your desire for her is never quite quelled. Frankly, you hope it never is.

“Stop thinking about fucking me, babe,” she scolds, and pulls you up fully standing from your temporary reprieve against the wall. “Later, I promise. Not here.”

Embarrassment heats your cheeks at the fact she so easily deciphers your filthy thoughts, but then again, she always has. She leads you back inside, and all but hands you over to your brother, practically jumping with impatience at the door to the hall.

“Thank God you’re b—” he cuts himself off, moving closer to you, imperiously sniffing your clothes. “Did you smoke again?” You nod. “Fucking hell, well, there’s another conversation topic, we’ll talk about this later. Can you believe this lot didn’t know you were gay? What morons…”

“Hey, I’m not that obviously gay, am I?”

The dead silence that envelops you gives you the answer you weren’t too keen on receiving in the first place.

“But!” Liz helpfully adds in her most cheery tone. “If you hadn’t been so obviously gay, I probably never would’ve asked you out.”

She beams even as you roll our eyes, “So endearing, babe.”

“Hurry up, this lot are arseholes.”

“I know.” you deadpan. He sends you a snarky smile.

Following him through the small clans of people meandering and congregating amongst themselves, all with some sort of beverage in their hands, you feel your hand grow clammy in Liz’s. Your mind doesn’t get the chance to run away with itself or whirr on for too long, though, before you’re pulled into a group of people—all three of you—and are all welcomed with enthused hugs and professions of well wishes.

“Oh how are you? You look so well, I hope you’ve been doing good!”

Well, you think, if they cared enough they’d have contacted you. Half of them are your brothers Facebook friends and he’s often posting pictures of you hanging out, or childhood throwbacks, and tagging you in them in plain view. Thankfully, your page is private, and Elizabeth doesn’t even have social media. She’s smart.

You engage in conversation—well, they do, you just listen and hum when you’re supposed to, making surprised faces at the right parts—about one classmate who couldn’t be here because she married a mobster and isn’t allowed to discuss her lifestyle. She isn't. She got pregnant straight out of school and is going through her second divorce: your brother saw her recently. Who are you to deny them gossip when you really couldn’t care less?

In minutes they seem to have exhausted all possible fascinating subject matters, or at least make it appear that way as they turn all eyes on you.

“So, y/n, we hear you have a girlfriend!”

Not again.

“Wife; this is Liz.”

“How are you.” she says, more by way of greeting than having any regard for them.

“Oh my God,” one woman clamours, “are you Australian? My boyfriend is Australian! Maybe you know him?”

Liz’s face breaks into a wide smile, the first one of the event. Who cares that it’s at the expense of another person's intelligence, or lack thereof? You and your brother struggle to stifle your own laughter as you loll your head against his broad shoulder, too.

“Australia is more than seven and a half million square kilometres. In context, the UK is only two-forty-two thousand. We have a population of 25 million. I’d be more likely to meet the queen and the president.” she quips. Ever the fount of useless knowledge; as are you both.

“Oh,” says the woman, casting a sheepish gaze away.

“But, um, yeah, I am Australian.”

“You’re tall,” another blatantly observes, “you look Dutch.”

“Polish-Irish. Not far off.” she says again, fixing a smile of nonchalance.

People turn to you for something to say. You have nothing: nothing to say to these awful sycophants, so you’re half relieved and half angered further when your name is called from somewhere behind you.

“y/n y/l/n!”

Great, another bellend. Star of the football team. You settle yourself after a sudden wave of dizziness from spinning on your heel to see just who was calling you, and you’re not particularly surprised, but not glad either, when he’s excited to join the dull circle.

“Actually,” you correct, “it’s y/n Debicki.”

Silence cools around the circle. What, have these people been living under rocks for the past God knows how many years?

“Oh, why?” he asks.

“I got married and took my wife’s name.” you grit out just barely, balancing from foot to foot, the wooden floor creaking around you. Some more wine would be really good right about now, but instead you just settle for an intoxicating peck from Liz’s lips, the chiffon of her skirt shifting again to reveal your held hands and glistening wedding rings.

“Oh!”

The silence is agony. Why can’t the ground just swallow you up already? Your brother's getting angry, his fist clenching, picking at his nails, while everyone else in the group is exchanging anxious eye contact. Liz and her insanely long legs could probably give you a leg-up to one of the immensely tall windows as a quicker, though slightly more problematic escape route…

“By the way, that’s totally fine.”

“Yeah,” someone adds, you can’t be bothered to look who. “We totally accept it.”

“It’s like you’re not even gay, but straight, and normal. N—not that being gay isn’t normal, just that we don’t see you any differently.”

“You’re the same y/n you always were.” one smiles at last.

Your brother is going to lose it in three… two… one…

“Oh yeah? The y/n that you all relentlessly picked on and victimised for years? The same y/n who was forced to hide her identity and everything she wanted to be for years just because you back-thinking bastards didn’t want a lesbian in the class?” he shouts, flailing his arms madly about, hissing one of the broad, tree trunk pillars in the process. He doesn’t flinch. Turning to you, he starts in a softer voice, “I never should’ve asked you to come here, I’m so sorry y/n, I was so selfish to bring you back to this hellhole. It’s no wonder you didn’t want to come with these dipshits tossing around! And Liz, you don’t deserve this either. Please, do us all a favour, and take y/n home, never bringing her back here. You were right all these years, sweet, it’s the place nightmares are born. And you scummy lot should all be ashamed of yourselves!”

His breath is ragged once he’s done with his rant, his forehead glistening with sweat, his knuckles white with tension.

“Liz, could you get him some water, please?” you whisper into her ear.

She nods affirmatively, and breaks from your grasp, steering your hunched, tense, seething brother in the direction of the drinks table.

“Thanks, I guess,” you begin, kicking your heels into the splintering oak floor, your wine long forgotten, “like, for the acceptance and stuff. But I’ve always been this way, he’s right. It’s not some earth shattering revelation, I was just too shy to come out because you all tossed slurs around like it was okay.” You take a deep breath, and in that time, Liz has returned and stuck herself to your side, your brother happily alone in the corner with a cold glass of water as you cast a glance over your shoulder. You comb your fingers through Elizabeth’s coiffed blonde hair to relieve some anxiety, and are further reassured when she presses her lips to your earlobe, glistening with the diamonds she gifted you. “Besides, this shouldn’t be a thing you have to zealously profess to accept, it should be just as normal as one of you walking in with your heterosexual partner.” As some of them have done, and no one’s batted an eyelid.

A din of agreement sounds out from them, but you know they’re all more than a little meek after being scolded like schoolchildren by your big scary brother. He’s a teddy bear, really, but when he flips, he flips.

When you arise no cohesive response from anyone, you rest your head on Liz’s shoulder, and ask, “Did you see that article on the BBC yesterday morning?”

You have no idea what article you’re on about, but one leaps in with something about climate change, and one about a rise in violent crime in the area. Thank God you don’t live there anymore.

“I forgot about that one!” you gasp with feigned surprise.

Liz looks down on you warmly, chuckling at the mischievous glint in your eye. She knows exactly what you’re up to. But after today, you can walk away from this place, despite the stunning old architecture of the gorgeous building, the beautiful panelling on the walls and the window you spent so many hours gazing at while daydreaming wistfully through assemblies and exams, never to return. Frankly, after this shit show, you’d have it no other way. The teachers will be arriving soon, and in the hopes you see your favourite old teacher, Mrs Alleman, you decide it can’t hurt just to stick around a little bit longer, even if you don’t listen to anyone's conversation. It’s not like they want to involve you.

*

Before you know it, ten dreary minutes have passed, and as each second slips by, you’re losing the will to live. Even these people are bored to death by the sound of their own voices, unsurprisingly. You’ve just busied yourself the whole time by playing with Liz’s long, slender fingers and her glistening silver ring. She’s becoming more and more antsy, though, so you’re unsurprised when she moves to stand away, speaking only when there’s a brief intermission of silence.

“I’m heading to the loo, honey. Which way is it?” she asks politely.

“Out the door we came, but on the other side of the corridor is a closed door, down that corridor it’s the fourth on the right, up a couple of stairs.”

Her eyes widen, “This place is a maze.”

“I know,” you chuckle, and lean up to peck her lips. “They’re the staff ones, down a cohorted route in a forbidden corridor so we wouldn’t use them.”

“You,” she shakes her head, bending down to kiss you again from her standing position, though she does practically double down, and has to press a hand to her chest to prevent her dress from falling, “are so randomly knowledgeable.” It’s really more of an awkward stowed away memory, but you take it anyway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

As she draws away, she catches your lip in her teeth. Again. If it wouldn’t arouse suspicion, you’d be after her like a bullet, but, well… So you just sit there, counting the minutes, the seconds until she returns and you’re able to make a quick exit, barely making an agreeable sound or two when someone deigns to involve you in the deathly boring conversation they’re having about the FTSE or something, but she doesn’t return. It’s only after five minutes—you meticulously checked your watch—that you realise she’s probably gotten lost, your heart fluttering into your throat.

“I think Liz is lost, I’m gonna go find her,” you say, not that anyone exactly notes your absence or offers you as much as a nod, so you stand and stroll away, not caring about your knocked over glass as you stalk out of the great hall, breaking into a slight jog as soon as the doors are closed behind you.

You could swear you catch your brother winking across the room as they close, but you can’t be sure, not with how crazy you are after Liz did that thing she does every single time she instigates sex. You’ve been together for more than four marvellous years, and yet it still brings fire into your veins, butterflies into your stomach, and lust into your mind.

She’s not in the foyer, or down the ostentatious portrait corridor, so you burst into the pristine white and purple bathroom, only to find Liz leant against the wall, a slight bulge in her dress.

“God, I was wondering if you’d ever get the message, I’ve been waiting for ages.” she huffs, slamming her mouth onto yours impatiently.

You gasp, winding your arms around her neck, not complaining in the slightest when you hear the door lock and you’re lifted high against the wall. Your hand flies down on instinct, and you’re not disappointed when your hand wraps around something long, hard and thick.

The squeak of surprise that leaves your lips only spurs Liz on more. “You wore the strap.”

“I went and fetched it from the car, thought we could have some fun, make this worth your while.”

“I love you so much.” you breathe, no time for courtesy.

Crashing your lips down onto hers, you lick filthily into her mouth, your tongue skimming her teeth, but your control barely lasts a moment before she’s overpowering you, nipping at your lip as she busies herself otherwise with gaining access to your throbbing, drenched core.

“Liz…” you moan. When she skims her fingers over the lace edge of your panties.

“So wet already baby,” she taunts, her breath hot on your ear, “have I done all this? Such a dirty girl…”

Her voice holds a gravelly quality, down to lust you’d wager. Her accent becomes so much more pronounced during times of passion, too. Her voice alone sends another wave of wetness gushing through you, soaking Liz’s fingertips as she slides them under your panties and into your folds.

“Oh poor helpless baby,” she croons, biting down on your neck harshly. “I don’t even need to use lube today, do I?”

You can’t respond, can’t even try to. She’s so intoxicating you could cry. All that’d come out is senseless babble. You can barely muster a breath with her gaze of such intensity burning into your fucked-out face. In all fairness, she doesn’t usually have to, since she makes you gush with a single glance, but the sensual jibe does make you a little embarrassed.

You can’t think straight when she plunges a single, long digit deep within your velvety walls, stroking at a torturous pace.

“F— fuck, faster, please.” you stammer.

“Only because my baby asked so nicely.”

Her hand begins to move faster against you, the rustle of clothes nothing compared to the sounds of your wetness. She adds another digit daringly, and pumps within you faster, her technique impeccable. If she’s not careful, you’ll be falling apart around her fingers in little more than a moment. Over the years she’s learnt how to bring you to mind-shattering climax embarrassingly quickly.

“Lizzie…” you moan when she hits that special spongy spot that makes you see stars behind your eyes.

Quick thinking as ever, she clamps one elegant hand over your mouth, her pale fingers digging into your cheeks, the metal of her rings cool against your lips. You can’t help yourself, your tongue darting out to lick the band of her wedding ring, skilfully wrapping your wet muscle around her. She can never resist when you do that, and her own knees begin to buckle, but her pace speeds up.

“Baby, I’m close,” you hiss against her hand, words muffled.

Your shoulder presses painfully into a ridge of the wall, but you can’t care, not when her wrist is flicking so quickly, yet somehow each thrust is deeper and more pleasurable than the last, the pads of her fingers catching all the right places within our quivering walls, continually hitting that spot. The heel of her palm keeps hitting your clit with a voracious intensity, needing to bring you toppling over the edge.

You come unravelled with a cry of her name, your legs unable to even partially hold yourself up as she settles you down gently on the floor, forcing you to lean heavily against the countertop. Stars and fireworks erupt to create images of Liz behind your eyelids, in the front of your brain. And the noise you made… After that, you wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the hall knows what you’re up to, and somehow, that only fuels your need for Liz further.

“How do you get hotter every time you do that?” she husks.

Purple glittery potpourri on the window-sill prickles at your upper arm as you shuffle backwards, reaching out to Elizabeth with grabby hands. Her petite chest heaves with heavy breaths, her hair sticking up a little in cute blonde spikes.

“You wanna sit, babe?” you ask breathlessly.

Your own vision is a bit blurred from riding on cloud nine just moments ago, your juices running down your legs, glistening in the harsh bathroom light.

“You’ve always got a seat with me.” You wink, and wet your lips with your tongue. “Come sit.”

She chuckles at you, instead moving to kneel between your open legs on the edge of the counter, hovering over you

“Wait until we get home,” she teases, pressing the cold rings on her hand to your inner thigh, “I don’t trust myself, I’ll never leave if I sit now.”

Her lips lace with yours filthily, and you find yourself unable to stop your legs reflexively bolting out to wrap around her hips again, hand coming up to cup her cheek and neck with a bruising hold. Her hips rock against yours, and with your core already opened and revealed to her, all it takes is a slight fidget and a particularly harsh rut of her pelvis, and the priapic extension of Elizabeth—attached, thankfully, by a harness—is buried to the hilt within you. Your gasp is silent, your mouth opening in an inaudible ‘o’, a soundless plea for more. She’s prepped you well as always, and sought to open you up fully, which means that only a moment later you’re tapping her shoulder to signal for her to move.

The bulbous tip of the toy gains your attention rather swiftly as it grazes that heartily stimulated spot that Liz was so focussed on just minutes earlier. Her hips move with such grace even in such an ungainly act, her years of dance training aiding her elegance. God, she’s just so perfect in every way.

“Fuck, baby, I think I’m close—” she murmurs in your ear.

She begins to suck hickeys into your jawline, rendering you utterly speechless at the onslaught of pleasure you’re receiving all at once. Your boobs are bouncing as she pounds into you harder on the counter, the base of the strap now hitting your clit.

“Me too,” you eventually garner to choke out.

Your own pleasure can wait, take a damn backseat, because sweat is beading on Liz’s forehead as she wrecks her knees to fuck you more furiously, delivering you all of the pleasure you could ever want. But Elizabeth? She deserves it far more than you do after everything she’s done for you today.

She bites her lip, probably to keep a moan down the same way you are by biting your tongue, and she proceeds to hook her willowy arms around the crooks of your knees, thus tugging your legs up onto her shoulder, allowing her to hit an even deeper angle than before.

You can’t help the obscene whimper that escapes you, shrill and so pleasured, “Baby, keep— ohmygod please!”

Your head falls back against the hard porcelain rim of the sink, knocking some sense into you. This is your chance, while her eyes are still closed and the veins and ridges of the fake plastic cock are driving deep inside you, squeezed by your clenching walls. Slipping your own arm down her body and between the two of you, you find your way beneath the strap and onto her throbbing pearl.

“Shit!” she squeaks upon the first spark of contact, her body temporarily seizing, but she falls back into her previous pace within moments.

You rub circles on her voraciously, suddenly darting up to capture her lips in a sloppy kiss as a cry threatens to spill from her lips. But then you feel it coming, and your entire body tenses in anticipation, your eyes flying wide open to watch heaven crash right before your eyes.

First, her shoulders tense, followed by her eyelashes fluttering against her sharp cheekbone without her even being aware, then her legs try to involuntarily clench around your hand, her clit throbbing with anticipation as you speed up your movements. Her knees go next, then her arms, and she’s unable to hold herself up, but her hips don’t stop once. That’s when it happens.

“y/n, y/n, y/n.” she repeats like it’s her prayer of salvation.

Every muscle in her body quivers, her lips parting, her nose scrunching. Her teeth then catch your lip in the kiss you’re mixed up in, and her hips still. It doesn’t matter, since you’ve reached your own climax just from watching her fall apart at your very own mercy, your own legs falling from her shoulders, open wide on the counter as you chant her name in as quiet a whisper as you can muster.

Heavy breathing resonates through the small room, the stifling air now reeking of sex.

“C’mere,” you coax.

The counter is cold beneath you, the sink uncomfortable as you lie down flat, but when Liz crawls feebly into your arms, it matters a whole lot less. The comfort she provides is, and always has been, incomparable. Ethereal is the only way to describe her this way, too, blonde hair ruffled as she curls into your side, burying her nose into your shoulder, her arm slung over your waist.

“Do you think you got your revenge, babe?” she asks in a quiet voice, husky, laced with sex.

“Definitely. There’s no way they didn’t hear that.”

“Probably more than what most of those has-beens have got in years.”

You meet her twinkling eyes, and dissolve into a fit of giggles together, gripping her even tighter. It always was a secret fantasy of yours to do something like this, but you never imagined you’d be here nearly a decade later, fucking your wife in the staff bathroom. That’s just… beyond, but so hot.

“Ready to blow this place?”

“More than,” you answer, “but safety first.”

She gazes up at you, pouts and grumbles, but slips off you and into the left hand stall anyway, while you take the right. Once she emerges, the strap is safely stowed away in a discreet bag—one you purchased specifically should a chance like this ever arise since you’re not fans of handbags—and she turns the tap on. You wash your hands in a contented silence, and fix each other's clothes and hair the same way, until you’re at least half way presentable (though still more than mildly dishevelled) in order to just escape to the car and then hope at long merciful last.

“Should we text your brother?”

“I’ll do it when we reach the car,” you tell her, taking her hand as you unfasten the lock and pelt out into the corridor. “Wait, one minute.”

She watches you peculiarly as you pull out perfume from your pocket, spritzing it around the room, before re-entering fully and cranking the window open. At least this way the scent of sex is partially masked.

“Ever the resourceful one,” she chuckles, following your lead down the corridor, her long legs bounding beside you.

Your giggles carry around the high ceilinged building, bumping and bouncing off every wall so it seems, and once you're out into the foyer, she ensures to kiss you loudly, bending down to meet your height, just to test if your kisses have the same effect.

You don’t get to test that, however, before an all too familiar voice snaps you out of your trance, and suddenly, you’re fifteen and being told off for late homework again.

“y/n!”

You scurry to hide Liz behind you, as if that’s of any use whatsoever, and almost melt into tears when you see Mrs Alleman.

“Oh dear, how good to see you.” she professes, and before you quite know what to do with yourself, she’s standing right in front of you, wearing the same stylishly sensible shoes she always did.

“And you, Miss.”

“Who’s this?”

Glee forces a wide smile onto your face, standing aside to allow Elizabeth’s full beauty to be appreciated.

“This is my wife, Elizabeth,” you say, the proudest thing you’ve said all evening. “This is Mrs Alleman, my language teacher. She taught me everything I know.”

“Oh stop it,” she plays coy, but is gasping and gawking joyously beneath it. “Mr Smith owes me a tenner now. I predicted you’d come here with a female partner of some sort, he said you’d just come as an out and proud lesbian but single.”

Your jaw drops, and you can see Elizabeth’s chest rattling a little with swallowed laughter.

“I’m sorry, what? You had a bet on me being gay?”

“Oh yes, it first started when you were in year eleven and so helplessly queer, we couldn’t help but keep placing bets on how long you’d stay in the closet.” She places a gentle hand on your upper arm, noting the evident flush about you, and turns towards Liz. “Anyway, hi Elizabeth. You treat our girl well, she was a great student.”

“Always, Ma’am.” Liz answers dutifully, squeezing your hand even tighter in a silent promise. “She’s the most wonderful thing to have ever happened to me, and I’m glad she had an influence like you among all that lot of bogans.”

Mrs Alleman is impressed, you can tell since she’s wearing that same delighted expression she did when you told her you got into your top choice university with the results you aimed for, thanks to her teaching. “Tall, out, and Aussie? She really does have it all. And as much as I’d like to argue, you’re totally right, that year was a damn nuisance.”

“Somehow, no one has matured since we left?” you comment with feigned shock.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” It didn’t surprise you either. They were a fat lot of use, the whole lot of them. At least you and your brother were able to do good on your promise to get away from them all. “What are you doing now?”

“Oh, I work in translation for the home office and cabinet ministers.” Though your statement doesn’t hold as much pride as the one about Elizabeth being your wife did.

Her eyes grow wide, “That’s brilliant! I know you always wanted to do something like that.”

“I did, and I actually enjoy it.”

Mrs Alleman’s face softens, “I hoped you would. But promise me you’ll never become a teacher.”

You loose a chuckle, saying, “Never,” before stilling to a beat of easy silence.

“I love those earrings, by the way.”

“Oh!” You twist them subconsciously. “Anniversary present.”

“Y’know, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get inside and make a speech,” she grumbles. “Drop me an email, I’d love to catch up and properly see how you’re doing. Bring this tall drink of water if you’d like,” she adds with a wink.

“I’d really like that Miss, thank you.” you say, flushing a little.

Mrs Alleman was always one for affection, so you’re not entirely surprised when she approaches you with wide arms, her court shoes muffled on the foyer carpet. You accept the hug, and you’re surprised when Liz does the same. You say your goodbyes, agree to meet again, and let Elizabeth lead you back to the car, your fingers woven together.

“Was that worth being dragged out of the house for?” Liz asks.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Perhaps shoving that strap down my throat will make it a little more worthwhile,” you say with a smirk.

“I heard that!” Mrs Alleman shouts from the top of the stone steps, gazing at you disapprovingly despite the laughs tumbling from her.

You cling to Liz, pressing your lips into a thin line when you feel your phone buzz, your brother's name popping up on the screen.

‘Everyone knows what you were doing. Don’t come back.’

‘We weren’t planning on it,’ you type back. Not now you’ve reaped your revenge, at least. You shut your phone after adding to the message, ‘Drinks at ours tonight.’

These people from your past are insignificant, Liz is your future and your forever.

[bytheangell]

Truth Be Told

( @shadowhunterbingo​ square: Two-Person Love Triangle) (Read on AO3)

Magnus can pinpoint nearly every moment he made a decision that went entirely against what he’s supposed to be doing right now. He was aware of each of them as they happened, but he did them anyway, bringing himself closer and closer to the point of no return he faces now.

What he’s supposed to be doing is getting close to Alec Lightwood. Close enough to get him to slip up and share any information about his father, Robert, that might help Magnus and his team build a case for a formal indictment against him. Magnus made some social media accounts under the alias ‘Bane’ with the tried-and-true plan of bonding with Alec over some shared interests, then gently prodding for more personal info once they were ‘friends’. He meant to stay detached, uninvested in Alec outside of his usefulness in potentially taking down Robert. It was meant to be easy because Magnus couldn’t imagine there were many redeeming qualities about a doubtlessly repellant brat raised by the Lightwoods.

What Magnus should have done was pull himself the moment he noticed he was starting to develop feelings. Or the moment he started casually reading up on archery because Alec mentioned it was a hobby of his. Or the moment he stopped pushing Alec to talk about his dad because Alec was uncomfortable with the topic. Or the moment he realized the only person he’d been messaging daily for the past few months, more than his own family, or his boss, or even his best friends, was Alec.

What Magnus actually did was allow himself to fall for Alexander entirely, growing fonder with every conversation they had, becoming more endeared with every new detail he learned about Alec, like his volunteer hours at a local youth club, or his basic knowledge of medicine from helping his sister study for med school and how he gets a constant stream of caffeine from his brother’s coffee truck.

And what Magnus does now is take the empty seat next to Alec where he sits at the bar while his friends dance to some mediocre DJ. He says hi, and makes small talk, and flirts like he has no idea who Alec is - because as far as Alec knows this is the first time they’ve ever spoken.

“Sorry,” Alec says, making a face at the sip of Magnus’ whiskey he tries. “I’m just not a big drinker.”

There goes his plan of getting Alec drunk enough to spill the beans on his dad’s private dealings. Magnus should be disappointed but isn’t surprised to find that he’s not, not really. He can be honest enough with himself to admit the ‘plan’ was just an excuse to risk meeting Alec face-to-face: to hear the voice he only imagined for so many months and appreciate the occasional nervous stutters and the flush that creeps high on Alec’s cheekbones when Magnus compliments him.

Magnus grins. “Well, lucky for you I am, which means I know there’s something out there for everyone. We just need to find yours.”

The two of them have an immediate spark. It’s undeniable, and the conversation flows so easily that Magnus loses track of time entirely until Alec’s friends come back to see if he wants to leave, and he tells them to go without him. The conversation is wonderful but it’s the moments that Alec smiles, the ones where he laughs freely and lets go almost in spite of himself, that Magnus loves the most.

Everything seems to be going well until Magnus starts to notice Alec talking less and less as the night goes on. Finally, Alec sighs, and Magnus allows his current story to trail off at the sight of the frown on Alec’s face.

“Is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t… I shouldn’t be doing this. It isn’t fair to you,” Alec says suddenly.

Magnus raises an eyebrow at that. “What isn’t?”

Alec hesitates. “It’s going to sound stupid, but… there’s this guy I like. Someone I met online.”

Oh. Magnus shouldn’t feel the sinking, crushing disappointment he does at that moment. After all, this isn’t meant to be a real date. He shouldn’t even have the feelings he does for Alec. This should be good, it should mean he can just get whatever information he can on Robert and leave with no guilt. Because of course, Magnus isn’t the only person Alec’s friends with online. Of course, Alec’s meeting and flirting with other people.

“That doesn’t sound stupid. People meet online all the time,” Magnus says, trying to sound nonchalant. He doesn’t remember Alec ever mentioning anyone, but maybe they weren’t as close as Magnus let himself hope.

“Yeah, but you’re… well, I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous, and you’re here, and I should want to give that a chance. I’ve never even met Bane in person, and he probably doesn’t even like me back - we aren’t actually dating or anything, but-”

Oh. Magnus can practically feel the swoop in his chest at the realization that Alec can’t bring himself to get invested in him because… well, because he’s already invested in Magnus. He just doesn’t know it.

Magnus’ disappointment shifts suddenly to elation, and then just as quickly to guilt. He barely hears any of Alec’s continued rambling explanation, the words drowned out by his thoughts which now swirl with a panicked rush of possible responses to this unexpected turn of events. He should leave. He should take the easy out and leave. He should walk away before he says or does anything he’ll regret later. Hell, he should go home and delete the accounts and pretend that none of this ever happened.

There are a million and one things he should do… but none of them are the one thing he wants to do.

And he hasn’t done anything he should’ve since this all started, so why start now?

“-anyway, I’m sorry. But I’m sure you don’t deserve to try and date someone who’ll spend half their time hung up on someone else,” Alec finishes.

There’s only one thing he can do that leaves him any chance of ever seeing Alec again - and he very much wants to see Alec again.

The decision Magnus makes next is impulsive. Magnus pulls out his phone, brings up his Bane account, and looks over at Alec with what he hopes is a look of genuine remorse. “No, I’m sorry. And I’d really, really like it if you gave me a chance to explain, but I understand if you don’t want to.”

Magnus watches the confusion on Alec’s face shift to recognition, then surprise, then a flash of anger as tense hands push his phone back across the bar top to him, teeth clenched as he speaks.

“Glad you understand,” Alec says, his voice suddenly cold - and god does it hurt Magnus to hear that shift in tone, however deserved it is. Magnus can only sit and watch as Alec pushes his stool back to leave, then pauses and turns back to Magnus, the anger back in place. “No, you know what? I do want to know. I want to know what explanation you could possibly have for not telling me who you are when you knew... “ Alec’s words trail off as he takes a deep breath to collect himself, but doesn’t continue talking as he sits back down to wait for an explanation.

“I want to start off by saying that everything I ever said to you, I meant. All our conversations, everything I told you - from how terrible I am at playing string instruments to my fear of drowning - none of that was an act. But... when I started talking to you, it was because I was hoping to get information on your father.”

“My father,” Alec huffs out a laugh. “Of course. I should’ve known someone like you would never actually want to talk to me-”

“But that’s just it - I did! I do. I realized ages ago I wasn’t going to get anything out of you about Robert, but I didn’t care. I just liked talking to you, and getting to know you, and… you. I like you, Alexander.”

“Forgive me if I’m finding it difficult to take anything you say at face value right now,” Alec mutters.

“That’s fair,” Magnus says, sighing. Maybe he should let things sit for a day or two, and try messaging Alec to explain once the anger settles a bit. That’s if Alec doesn’t block him the first chance he gets. Either way, it’s obvious nothing he says now is going to matter. “I should leave.”

Magnus doesn’t wait for a response before he’s already standing up to go, his back turned to Alec when Alec speaks again.

“What information did you want about my dad?”

Magnus shakes his head, still not turning back around. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Alec insists. “Because if you haven’t figured it out yet, he and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. Or anything at all.”

Magnus winces. “Yeah, I gathered as much.”

Alec frowns. “You did, didn’t you?” Alec’s entire face scrunches up in concentration as he thinks back on something. “I told you I didn’t like talking about him weeks ago and you dropped it, and never brought him up again. Why would you do that?” Some of the harshness is gone from Alec’s tone again.

“Because I realized talking about your dad upset you, and I didn’t want to do that,” Magnus explains. Against his own better judgment Magnus latches on to the small bit of hope he feels from the subtle shift in mood.

“Because you like me,” Alec repeats, not quite a question, but the disbelief behind his words prompts Magnus to answer all the same.

“Yes,” he says, the single word pleading, willing Alec to believe him.

There’s a long stretch of silence and it takes all of Magnus’ self-control to not break it. Instead, he hovers where he still stands next to his chair.

“What if I help you?” Alec finally says. “What if I tell you whatever you need to know about my dad?”

Magnus sits back down abruptly, mostly out of shock. “What?”

“Robert isn’t a good person. He doesn’t tell me a lot, but I hear things. I’ve seen some stuff snooping around places I shouldn’t have. I’ll help, as much as I can,” Alec continues.

Magnus should be thrilled. It’s everything he could’ve hoped for when he started, even if it isn’t how he imagined getting it. But the idea of the information coming at the cost of the friendship and connection he’s made with Alec over the past few months leaves an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“But I need something from you in return,” Alec adds, causing Magnus’ gaze to turn up from where he’d been looking down at his hands to avoid looking into Alec’s eyes.

“What’s that?” Magnus asks, his curiosity piqued.

“There’s nothing between us until after I tell you what you want to know. Once you have what you need on Robert… if you’re lying and this is all just a ploy to get information from me, then you have to promise to leave without a word: delete your online accounts, and I never want to hear from you again.”

“And if I’m not lying?”

Alec takes a deep breath. “Then you promise to take me on a proper first date and we start over, with all the cards on the table.”

Magnus smiles. “That,” he agrees easily. “Is a promise I can absolutely make, darling.”

[kireilixie]

i. Bittersweet Vanilla | Bang Chan x Reader

° 𐐪𐑂 synopsis: Have you ever heard of the phrase, “Right person, wrong time?” You and Chan would have made such a perfect couple had your destinies and dreams not gotten in the way. With no assurance of what you each truly felt for one another you both struggle to keep each other grounded among the different obstacles you face.

° 𐐪𐑂 genre: idolverse, angst, childhood friends, pro swimmer! reader

° 𐐪𐑂 warning(s): mentions of abuse, trauma, insomnia, anxiety attacks, depression, death of a family member

° 𐐪𐑂 8k words

° 𐐪𐑂 author's note: Hello! I am extremely sorry that this was published late, but unfortunately, my other priorities in life came up so I had to push back the release and editing. As you know, bittersweet vanilla is a fic I released a year or so ago. This is a fic I hold dear to my heart, and I was a bit disappointed with how I had written it, especially with the multiple plot holes and gaps. This led me to rewrite and expound on the development of both reader and Chan, this fic will hold the same plot as the previous fic but will be much more detailed compared to the original one. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy and show this fic some love!

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Such a simple yet comforting flavor

A few blocks from school, two from your swimming club and one from the street you lived on, was an ice cream parlor. Winter’s Star was a place of comfort for both you and Chan, albeit not being that popular for its remote location. It had begun a small tradition and routine for you both.

Ice cream after swim training had become a norm for you both, despite the strict healthy diet your father had established for your growth as a swimmer. You would both intentionally opt not to take the bus and walk to the parlor as to walk off the calorie intake you’d get from the dessert as to get your father off your case.

Every time you’d visit, Chan would dash in, beaming over the glass in excitement at the variety of flavors, selecting a different flavor for every visit, a stark difference to your simple preference of classic vanilla.

And every visit, Chan would tilt his head and pout in confusion, asking why you’d get that every single visit. And each time you’d reply, “I’m paying, and I like it that’s why.” rolling your eyes as he sighs at your boring nature.

Though one evening, after practice had ended a bit later than usual, you can see him deadpan at the sight of the creamy white of your vanilla ice cream. And though he doesn’t ask, you decide to explain, “I’d simply not want to risk trying something new, and honestly I just like sticking with what I’m comfortable with.” You shrug, popping a spoon of the comforting flavor into your mouth.

Chan doesn’t ponder much at your explanation nor does he reply that day, too exhausted to think of one.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

This routine of yours had begun the summer before middle school. Moving a lot at a young age, Chan had found it difficult to get settled into the new atmosphere, with his distinct features, he barely fit in. Therefore he found himself once again in the corner of his new school’s swim club unsure of how to apply and whom to approach.

His eyes wandered around, observing the different children doing laps and warming up. Swimming was a sport he and his father enjoyed, and it had made his father extremely happy that he had taken enough interest in it to compete in the said sport.

“Oi, newbie, what are you doing here?” The smaller boy flinched at the loud voice, turning towards the source. He sighs, here we go again, the nine-year-old boy thought.

“I c-came t-to a-apply for the swim club.” The boy managed to softly stutter out, eyes downcast, feeling intimidated by the difference in height.

“And at your puny size, ya think ya can swim fast-”

“Oi, why don’t ya shut up Jacob? A big dumb bully like yourself can’t beat me and here you are trying to scare the newbie, being all talk. Why don’t you stop wasting your time picking on new people and spend it practicing and trying to improve your times.” Chan widened his eyes as he turned to the female voice that had interrupted the confrontation.

He was shocked to see a girl around his age, twirling her goggles around her fingers as she approached Jacob, as she had called him, and his crew that currently surrounded the smaller boy.

Jacob, quite flustered with the unknown girl’s statement, attempted to come up with a good comeback but failed to do so as he muttered, “Why’re you butting in L/n, don’t you usually mind your business?” Eyes avoiding yours in the process.

“And so, what if I decide to butt in? Does your ego inflate at hounding the new kid? If it isn’t going to make you swim faster, I suggest you get your butt moving.” The smaller girl scoffed, raising her eyebrow at them, daring them to cross her.” I suggest you all get moving before I call the coach and tell him you’re slacking, wouldn’t want to swim extra laps now?”

Before Chan could even blink, they’re all dashing off into their respective sides of the pool. The transferee chuckled at that, in awe at the confidence the girl carried. She introduced herself, (Y/N) (L/N) he had learned that day, specialized in free, though claimed to be preparing herself for Individual medley.

Chan introduces himself as well, mentioning that he specialized in butterfly. At the revelation, her eyes glowed in excitement as she tugged the smaller boy towards her father.

“Dad! He swims butterfly! He can complete the relay!” Chan observed, fascinated by the complete 180 in her vibe, wherein the confidence and intimidation she had carried earlier, now dissipating to something more suited for a fellow nine-year-old.

She bounces in excitement, tugging at the end of her father’s shirt, to garner his attention. “We can finally have a relay!”

Finishing his conversation on the phone, her father turned towards the pair, raising an eyebrow at her daughter’s excitement. Bending down to their height the older man asked for Chan’s name, to which he replied a soft ‘Christopher Bang’ at this the older man’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You’re that boy that broke the record for the 50 m freestyle swim! Your dad called me earlier to inform me that you had transferred here and wanted to join, fill this up, and (Y/n) here can show you your lockers and the shower rooms to change.”

“Really! What’s your time?! Ugh, I hope it’s not faster than mine.” You had frowned at him, enthusiasm and competitiveness lighting her e/c hues at the revelation of a broken record in her specialty. “Come on, you change, then we race. Loser has to buy ice cream.”

You raced five times and lost all five. It had frustrated you though at the same time had triggered a new type of excitement at the knowledge of someone who would no longer shy away from your competitiveness.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Since your first meeting, Chan had indeed become a huge influence and development in your already hectic life. It had shifted your dynamics and attitude towards the sport you had dedicated your life to since you could walk.

Before meeting Chan, you had little to no drive when it came to training and warmups, accustomed to the fact that no one could come close to you in your age range and category. Though now, with the Korean-Australian around, not only did it shift your energy towards the sport, but something had shifted in your relationship with your father along the road.

Your father was a loving man, dedicated to his daughter and bedridden wife, he had been applauded far and wide for raising such a talented daughter dedicated to a sport he too had once dedicated himself to.

It may have seemed that way to the public. However, during the early stages of your childhood, your mother had been in and out of the hospital, something that your five-year-old self couldn’t have understood nor questioned. Living comfortably with the income your father had as a coach and your mother’s family inheritance, your father had opted to hand you over to nannies and private chauffeurs to ensure that you were busy and occupied.

Among the multiple extracurriculars your father had enrolled you in, you had been six when your interest in swimming had peaked. At the discovery of your interest, it had only been then when your father had decided to become more attentive and present in your childhood.

In awe of how quickly you picked up the technique and the different styles, your father had enthusiastically enrolled you into more classes and going further as to fix your diet around the sport, proudly declaring he would raise an Olympian in his stead.

At the age of seven, he had entered you into your first tournament, there you had gotten gold, and honestly, that didn’t matter. What mattered was the warm embrace your father had given you.

Shortly after the tournament, you had arrived home, surprised to see that there had been more staff present as well as unfamiliar people dressed in pajama-looking attire and some donning a white coat.

Soon your nanny leads you into a room faintly smelling like medicine and cleaning materials, it made your nose sting. Though what caught your eye was the bedridden figure connected to multiple machines next to her, sunken eyes, and ghastly figure, you had not been able to recognize your mother.

Having little to no memories of the woman that had given birth to you, made you blink back tears as she called you, voice frail and raspy “Y/n? Is that you? My how big you’ve grown.”

You had slept in her room that night, the soft beeping of monitors and machines lulling you to sleep as you dreamed of picnics and beach trips had faith decided not to be so cruel.

It was then when you promised yourself to bring your mom more medals if it meant spending more time with her. Each tournament you’d finish, you would run in, carefully avoiding wires and the nurses, beaming in excitement about the race and how good you did.

“Are you happy?” She had said to you one day.

“Of course! I just wish you could come to see me swim.” You smile, understanding bits and pieces of her condition, you had never been that good in science.

“Do you have friends in school? Spend time with them, instead of here with me.” The statement confused you, remembering how your father had ensured that you were picked up from and to, preventing you from having playdates, with the statement that they would be mere distractions to your training.

“No not really, but I like being here with-”

“Y/n, you should be living your childhood alright, can you promise me that, love?” She raises her hand to your cheek, caressing it softly.

“Okay, I will, mom.”

A few days after that conversation, you had met Chan, a boy who would, later, be your north star.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Chan was never careless, especially when it came to things like equipment and his stuff in general, he was always so thorough when it came to packing, so it was rare to see him coming back to school to get something he had forgotten.

What he also hadn’t expected was to see you here as well, fully knowing that your father had a private pool in his residence used not only to train you but as well his private students.

“You had been getting too comfortable, look at your weight, look at your times.” Chan hears your father’s voice from the locker rooms, the Korean Australian hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but with how loud your father’s voice echoed it was hard not to do so. “Do you think your mother would be proud?”

“She said, I should make friends-”

“YOUR MOTHER IS SICK.” Chan flinches at your father’s loud voice as it echoes.

“She’s sick, just because she says something it doesn’t mean you should follow through.” Your father’s voice softens this time, exhaustion peeking through.

“Friends? You’d be distracted and before you even know it. You’d be toppled off that little podium of yours.” He pauses, scoffing. “Don’t make me regret allowing you to hang out with the Bang boy. Beat his times, don’t get too comfortable just cause you’re topping your bracket.”

Chan doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath till he hears both your footsteps as you exit the hall. What he’s heard has left him baffled, you weren’t exactly talkative when it came to your family affairs, you never seemed to be so bothered either.

The Korean-Australian remembers faintly the rumors that followed your persona. All about your reluctance when it came to making friends, never taking into consideration that perhaps your father had played a part in your icy exterior and reputation.

No wonder most of the kids in your academy had been so shocked to see you interact and talk with the transferee, knowing that you had never been the type to prefer company.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

It wasn’t like you to be so careless either, you were quite attentive when it came to maintaining your grades and health as an athlete.

So, the D on your most recent math test, as well as the onset symptoms of cold was something that had made your blood run cold. Your school followed a strict protocol that required athletes to maintain a good record, which included having Bs and upon all tests.

Anything less than that would mean a week of suspension when it came to training as well as being supplied a set of reviewers to “catch up”, which you were required to finish and submit by the end of the suspension.

Not only that but surprisingly, your father was quite sensitive when it came to your physical welfare, a result of your mother’s condition, honestly. Which meant that the man would not let you near any body of water until you would be in perfect health.

Dread seemed to settle into your system as you hand him your slip, which would signify your suspension. “You were coughing earlier, take time off, I’ll call the nutritionist to change your diet. I’ll call the tutor-”

“You’re getting a tutor?” Chan beams behind your father, “I can help you, I’m in advanced remember?”

Times like these the Korean- Australian baffled you with his audacity, as he continued to grow out of his shyness, and despite your dad having explicitly stated that he had preferred you not to spend any time with your fellow swimmer, he still respected the Korean Australian’s talent and dedication to the sport.

“You’re in advanced math classes Chris?” Chan nods at this in hopes that the coach would consider his offer. “Your times have gotten better, you could take a few days off, with her.”

What?

You’re both in the locker rooms packing your bags when you whisper, “How’d you do that?”

“What do you mean?” Chan hums, amused by your intrigued form.

“My dad, your coach, the F/n L/n, agreed with your suggestion. How did you do that?” You’re poking at his sides, determined to make him spill.

“Secret~” He pokes his tongue out, running out of the training hall.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

You had your chauffeur, drop you off in the Bang Residence, surprised to learn that you lived a street down. You’re warmly welcomed by Chan’s parents greeting and smiling at them through your mask.

“Looks like you didn’t my help nor a tutor, Y/n” Chan smiles seeing that you’re almost through seven worksheets, the swimmer knew you were smart and could keep up with your grades. Though for you to be this careless, he knew that something might’ve been bothering you.

“Come on, let’s go.” You’re shocked as he pulls you up to stand, making you drop your pen and papers, the boy barely gives you any room to argue before he’s pushing you out of the doorway.

“But- my work”

“Could be done within the week remember? Not in one go.”

Before you could even argue, you’re flabbergasted to find yourself seated on a bus, on the way to some location that Chan would not tell you anything about. “We could’ve taken the car, Chan.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” He grins dimple popping out.

“Just remember we have to be back at seven before my driver arrives-”

“Yada-yada, we’ll be fine now let’s have some fun, my style, and my treat!” Chan gestures to the mall you’ve arrived at, giggling at your stunned expression.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Honestly, you’ve never ridden a bus, nor have you been to a mall, or arcade. These are all things you’ve seen in films and movies, living such a secluded life, your father would bust a vein to find out that you were here.

Though there’s a first for everything. It’s also been a while since you’ve had this much fun, laughing, and giggling at every little thing. You’re thankful to have released a little bit of stress, even for just a moment.

Chan even manages to win you a small whale plushie from the arcade. Though you probably think he could’ve saved by just buying you one from the shop across. It amazes you to see teenagers and kids just your age, littered across the mall, you had never thought to come to a place like this.

“Thanks for today.” You nudge him with your elbow, the plushie safely tucked underneath your armpit, digging into the vanilla ice cream you had gotten on the way home.

“Sure, but you’re treating me next time.” You halt, raising an eyebrow at the older boy.

“What do you mean next time?”

“Y/nnnnnn..” He drags your name in a whine. “Fun things are supposed to be done again, you can’t just live your life just swimming and going to school. We’re kids! We’re supposed to have fun and live life and make memories! That’s what life’s supposed to be! Alright?”

You should be living your childhood. Your mother’s voice pierces through your head, at Chan’s words, had this been what she meant?

“Hey. are you crying? Ya! Don’t cry” You hear Chan say something inaudible perhaps in Korean, as he frets over your crying figure, you see him pat himself down, hearing a small “aha!” before he’s reaching over to dry your tears with a handkerchief.

Softly patting down your cheeks, he sighs. “You don’t have to tell me, what’s wrong, but I’m right here, and I will always be.” He’s pulling you into a hug, you feel your body stiffen from the contact, surprised at the display of intimacy.

You don’t question why, but it feels warm and safe. Just like a cup of vanilla ice cream after a nice swim on the beach.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

“Hey, wake up, we’re here” a soft nudge pushes at your side, you hum in response, finding the boy’s shoulder comfortable.

Chan sighs, smiling at how comfortable you were with your head on his shoulder, cooing at your initiation of intimacy. It had taken you a few years before you were comfortable with any form of affection at all, putting two and two together to realize it must’ve had something to do with your family.

The young swimmer was well aware he was never obliged to fix you nor your situation despite his young age, but seeing you glow and smile at the different yet simple aspects of life that had been prohibited by your situation made him feel warm.

Ever since your first hug, albeit its awkwardness, you had become more receptive to little bits of physical affection and verbal affirmation. Chan smiling as recalled the first time you had initiated a hug, mindlessly throwing your arms around your best friend after he had gotten you a present for your birthday. Needless to say, you had become quite flustered at the realization of your actions.

Over the past few years, your father’s complaints about your friendship with Chan had lessened, seeing your continuous development in terms of grades and dedication. And despite being friends, the competitive fire within you had never ceased, holding on to that desire to beat Chan’s record.

The sun has set. You realize as you open your eyes, blinking out remnants of your drowsiness as you yawn. You’re raising your head from Chan’s shoulder when you realize his hand was extremely close to your face.

You’re jolting up in embarrassment before muttering, “Have I been drooling?” Quickly patting and wiping your lips for saliva.

“Uh, maybe, but it’s f-”

“Don’t you dare say it’s fine Christopher! Augh! This is embarrassing you should’ve woken me up!” You’re storming out of the car, cheeks warm in your flustered form.

Chan chuckles, how cute.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Ever since hearing of your newly found friend, your mother had continuously asked for you to bring Chan over. And since their meeting, your mother had continuously asked for the return of your polite and talented friend.

It amused you how your mother stated he was like an angel with his voice and good nature, well she wasn’t entirely wrong. Your mother had never shared anything about her life before her sickness, you knew that she had been an only child like you, and from the number of books and records on the shelf in her room, as well as the violin and record player on the side, her interests must’ve been aligned with those.

So when Chan had asked, “What’s your mother like?” You didn’t really know how you could respond to the question and before you know it the line of liking music and books had been stumbling out of your mouth.

Chan’s eyes had lit up at the mention of music, proceeding to ask which artist, what genre. Though with observant eyes, Chan could see your aura dim, he decides to drop the topic, he asks you about the latest Pokemon game. That had been the first time, you’d taken note of Chan’s interest in music.

Though it still surprises you when the day he meets your mother, he arrives with a fresh fruit basket and a ukulele.

He had smiled at your mother that day before he began strumming a soft melody you didn’t recognize. It takes him a while before he states that he had made the melody on his own, struggling to find the lyrics to suit them.

You remember your mother’s words; “It should come from here, whatever you do in life, ensure that your heart will beat for it.” She had said.

Your mother at times was an enigma, speaking in poetry that you struggled to decipher. Some days, you were envious when you’d see her with Chan, seemingly sharing a secret they wouldn’t let you in on. Chan would always seem to understand the puzzling lines she’d say.

It’s another afternoon to which your mother had invited Chan over, you’re both stepping into her room when you find her immersed in one of her classics, a thick leather bounded book, you’d be too terrified to try and read, without busting a vein.

She doesn’t look up, when she hears you two enter, she never does, and you know better than to disturb her amidst her reading. Though you admit that there’s this aura about your mother when she’s immersed in a book, it’s as if she takes a step into the world she’s reading about, escaping whatever pain she currently faces in reality.

It’s only until you set the peeled apples on the table next to her when she looks up. “How has your day been, love? Your father hasn’t been overworking you too much?” She sets the book and her glasses on her bedside table.

“I’m fine mum, Chan brought you some apples, and look they’re cut like bunnies.” She smiles as you offer a slice into her mouth, carefully biting onto it.

“That’s good to hear, Chan dear, my you’ve grown look how tall you’ve grown since I last saw you.” Your mother reaches to ruffle his curls.

“Mom you saw him last week-”

“Have I? really auntie!” You roll your eyes at the overly enthusiastic reply at the mention of his height.

A knock halts your conversation, the door opens to reveal your father’s secretary, she calls your name, stating that your father had called you into his office. You take one last look at Chan and your mother, letting them know that you’d be right back.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

Perhaps it’s the thick atmosphere of your father’s office, but at the sight of the envelope with its infamous school colors, it’s as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out.

Your father passes you the envelope, “Everything’s been settled, we can get you a flat there, or perhaps you’d like to live in their dorms. You start next semester, you can move after your graduation.-”

“Does mom know?”

“She does.”

“When had this been sent in?”

“Just last week, you really don’t need to worry about anything dear, be sure you graduate and get a good result on next week’s tournament.” Right graduation.

With all the exams you had recently finished as well as training it had completely slipped your mind that you were entering high school in two months.

You faintly recall a conversation you and Chan had after finding out about his interest in music. “(Y/n), What are you going to be when you grow up?” He had asked you during one of your trips to the ice cream parlor, digging into his salted caramel ice cream.

The question caught you off guard. What did you want to do? Eyes downcast you began to finding interest in the vanilla ice cream, as you picked at it. “I’ll probably continue swimming, that’s what my dad wants.”

“Yeah, that's what your dad wants, but what do you want? Like I want to do something with music! I want to use it as a platform to spread messages, to help people find comfort in music the way I do.” He had looked so bright, so gleeful, like a star so far and out of reach.

“Oh, that’s amazing Chris. Though I don’t know what I want to do.” How you wish you were just as passionate as Chan, wishing you could break through your comfort zone to chase after the one thing you loved the most.

“Then I’ll help you find something, something you’ll come to love the way I do with music.”Maybe at that time, I had found something to love, maybe I just didn’t know it yet. “But if you love swimming, then you’ll be the greatest swimmer in the world, you’ll be an Olympic medalist!” He raises his ice cream cup as a toast, you clink yours with him, smiling at how happy he looked.

Chan was your north star, no matter which direction the universe spun, he remained unwavering, shining bright and leading you to home, him, your comfort.

Dazed, you don’t realize you’ve been standing in front of your mother’s room until Chan opens the door, he yelps in shock at the sight of your deadpanned eyes.

He says something in Korean, clutching his heart at the unintentional scare. “You scared me, why are you standing there like some zombie.”

“Oops, sorry just a bit occupied.” Quickly hiding the envelope behind your back, something his eyes don’t miss. “Let’s go, dinner’s ready.”

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

After dinner you decide to take a walk to have some ice cream at the familiar parlor you frequented ever since becoming friends and after you had lost to him the first time you met.

Sitting down you both order, asking for your usual vanilla-flavored ice cream, Chan picks the mint chocolate chip, a special for the week. He’s silent all of a sudden, fixing you with a serious gaze as he takes in a deep breath. It made you uneasy suddenly as if whatever he would say next would change your fate.

And it did.

“Y/n remember when I said I wanted to make music?” He asks, fiddling with the spoon, nervous which was a rare sight for the charismatic boy.

You hum in response allowing him to continue. “Well, my parents and I made a deal, they would allow me to live in South Korea as a trainee, as long as I got into a good company. And well I got in, you’re now looking at the latest Australian trainee of JYP Entertainment. I'm leaving after the tournament next week!” He points to himself with his thumb, smiling and giddy to hear your response.

Korea as in Korea within Asia? That's 6828 kilometers away!

“(Y/n), are you alright? You’re not saying anything, there is something wrong.” Without noticing you had turned your head down, allowing your hair to create a curtain between you two. He reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ears and is surprised to be met by your tear-stained cheeks. “You’re crying.” He says, unsure of what to say and what made you upset. “Are you not happy I got in?”

“No, I'm happy! You’re finally getting what you dreamed of! You’re going to be amazing Chris. I’m crying because of how happy I am for you.” I’m going to be all alone. You’re going to be living 6828 kilometers away, in a foreign country when we barely turned 14. I’m going to be all alone. I want to be happy for you but why does this hurt so much? I’m going to be all alone.

You might as well tell him. “I’m moving, I got into Griffith so I’m moving into the dorms as well.”

“That’s huge! That place is a breeding ground for Olympians! That’s amazing! We’re both chasing after our dreams, after all. Congratulations Y/n.” It honestly didn’t feel like something to be happy of.

All will be alright, with time. We’ll be alright.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

The next following day came faster than expected you both tried to pretend he wasn’t leaving in the next few days, you tried to pretend that you’d still be able to see one another in the next few years and maybe the next few days. A sense of normalcy in the upcoming days of uncertainty. Neither of you had any idea what fate had in store for you both and you could only hope.

And soon enough the day of the tournament finally rolls around. You’re buzzing with excitement as you entered the building. Chan, on the other hand, was nervous at this being his last swim meet, he hoped to make this as memorable as possible. And though you never say it, Chan knew that deep down you loved swimming, no matter how much you tried to make it out that you only did it for your dad.

He sees you glow the moment you step into the pool, he knew you’re meant for this, to be up there with the pro athletes he too had admired. And as much as it hurt him to leave you, he’s stunned and in awe of how much stronger you’ve become.

He loved the confidence that you had as you walked into the competition hall, ignoring the curious gazes, and turning heads at the mention of your name. You have been destined to reign the competitive world of swimming, and he knew he wasn’t as good as you were to reign alongside you. He had accepted that a long time ago.

He walks with you to the locker room to prepare and change, trailing a few steps after you. Observing the looks of both younger and older swimmers in awe at the sight of you, your reputation in the sport was indeed something to uphold.

You turn to him gripping your gym bag tightly, which he had offered to carry but had been rejected along the lines of saying that you were a woman that could carry your belongings or something like that. “Well, I’ll see you later, wish me luck.” You raise your fist to him, initiating your signature good luck handshake before every competition. The handshake brought you a lot of reassurance and strength, taking away any worries you’d have.

You grin at him one last time, turning at your heels to enter the room, but before you take another step, he pulls you in for a hug, squeezing you tightly, your hands awkward by your sides, unsure of whether to hug him back. “You don’t need luck, go wreck them.”

You scoff at his words, finally deciding to wrap your arms around his shoulder. “Of course, see ya later Bangaroo.”

Up in the stands Chan observes you as you take your positions on the starting block, he smiles to himself as he sees you wearing the goggles and swim cap, he had given you during your last birthday. He had saved for it the whole year to surprise you with your favorite swimming brand. You had teared up at the gift, before smacking him for the times he had complained every time you invited him to the parlor.

He had never seen you wear the cap and goggles at practice, you had told him you had to save the luck for competitions. He had asked you to explain though you brushed off the statement by pushing him into the pool.

“It’s nice to see you here, isn’t this your last swim meet?” Chan blinks in surprise as the older man takes a seat beside him joining him to observe his daughter.

“Coach (L/n)..” Chan greets, unsure of what to say. Since, the knowledge of his rough treatment of his best friend, he had preferred not to stay too close to the older man, aware of his dislike for him.

“She’s still as amazing as ever.” Your father whispers in awe more to himself rather than Chan. “I was surprised you know, at her growth and development since your arrival. You’ve been an amazing push to her capabilities as a swimmer, that I have to admit.”

The older man stands up all of a patting him on the shoulder, “Well good luck, and thank you for giving her that push. Hug her for me later.” Chan’s surprised by the time your father leaves is just in time you finish the swim, realizing you had already won.

28.08 He gasps as he sees the scoreboard alongside your name. 28.08 You had broken his 50M Free record by a second, after years of competing and ice cream trips, you’ve finally done it. He sees you shocked as well, he meets your eyes, throwing you a thumbs up from the stands, grin highlighted by his dimples.

You looked radiant, a small voice in his head reassures him that he made the right choice., that you’d be alright. He starts heading toward the locker rooms to prepare. He’s stunned by your father’s words, he knows in his heart he made the right decision, and he knows he shouldn’t let this bother him, especially when he’s about to compete.

He steps into the starting block, slipping on his goggles, snapping them against the back of his head to erase any of his worries. Lastly, he’s putting on his swim cap. Taking deep even breaths, it’s his last swim. Chan wants to make this as memorable as possible.

He closes his palm clenching it, testing to see how shaky and nervous he was, only to see that it wasn’t that bad. His heart rate isn’t so accelerated either. They’re given the signals to take their positions. And Chan is surprised there are no unpleasant jitters in his stomach.

Chan reacts with the beep, kicking off the starting block and then diving into the waters, he feels the pull of gravity just as he surfaces to take his first breath. Rotating from his shoulders, he paces his breathing for the first lap to maintain his stamina. Though once he approaches the end, he gives a powerful kick to the touchpad turning as he accelerates. In the last lap, he pushes himself to go faster, erasing all thoughts and worries. He reminds himself that this is his specialty, the one style in swimming you couldn’t beat him at. He’s slipping his goggles and swim cap before he even realizes he won.

Chris places gold. And it feels exhilarating, he feels so happy he could cry. He sees you in the stands, grinning and he’s sure he mirrors your grin.

You’re taking a few pictures, not missing the chance to take matching iconic pics biting gold medals. A small voice at the back of your head asks what the odds of would be you two doing these pictures at a larger scale.

After dinner, which his parents had invited you to, you’re both walking to that ice cream parlor two blocks from his house. You’re chuckling as Chan waves his wallet, a show that he would be paying for the first time.

You smile as he hands you, your usual cup of vanilla-flavored ice cream. You’re now walking back to his house, soaking up the comfortable atmosphere trying to let the events that happened today sink in. Chan would be leaving tomorrow morning, and you’d be leaving in a few weeks as well.

“So, mister idol, are you excited?” Deciding to break the silence, nudging at him as his ears turn pink.

“A bit, it’s a huge leap, you know, absolutely knowing no one, I still have an accent when I speak in Korean it might sound weird, gosh I have to make friends and all that. But oh god, what if I can’t make any? What if I don’t debut? What if I just don’t cut it? Oh god, you’re not going to be there to treat me to ice cream, to binge on anime, treat me to food and ice cream. I just-” Chan pauses as his voice cracks, footsteps coming to a halt, “I’m just going to miss Australia so so much.”

You find yourself gaping, as you see the taller boy crumble. Between the two of you, it had always been you to be the emotional one, the crybaby, on the other hand, Chan had always been your rock and your shoulder to cry on no matter the situation. Seeing him cry pulled at your heartstrings, soon enough you’re throwing your arms around him, rubbing circles into his back.

“You’re going to be fine, Chris, you’ll be amazing, and if any of them starts anything with you, I’m booking a flight to kick their arse.” Pulling away from the hug, you cup his cheeks, wiping his tears for the first time in your friendship.

Knowing how worried he was with all the changes, it was your turn to be his rock, after all the times he had been yours. Chris was amazing no matter what he was doing, whether it was sitting in class paying attention to a math problem, or asking for your opinion on his swimming, or just talking to you. He was meant to be amazing.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring at him until. “Are you going to miss me?”

You sigh at his red-rimmed eyes, endeared at his sniffles. “Of course, I am, I care about you a lot, what makes you think I wouldn’t, you better not forget me when you’re all famous. I’m just a bit disappointed we’re going our separate ways, we’ve been through a lot, you’ve been there for me no matter what, I’m grateful for meeting you, Chris.” It takes you a while to realize that you’re tearing up.

“I’m really really going to miss you, Chris. It’s going to be different not swimming with you anymore, not going to the parlor to get ice cream, teasing you for how much you eat, letting me win video games, who’s going to teach me math!? If I weren’t good at swimming the teachers wouldn’t be so patient with me!” You struggle to hold back your tears, deciding to reach up and hide your face in the crevice of his neck and shoulder, squeezing him in reassurance.

Chan fixes his arms around your waist, returning the hug, “We’re going to be fine, so long as that no matter what you do, make sure it comes from here, you’ll be alright, we’ll be alright, you’re stronger than ever. Don’t you ever let anyone take that from you, okay? I have something for you. Can you close your eyes?”

With your eyes shut, you can feel Chan’s hands around your neck, you can feel his soft breathing, and the soft click of a clasp. “You can open them.” You gasp at the sight of the pretty mermaid tail that sat on the crevice of your collar bones.

“You were meant for this Y/n. You radiate and glow when you swim, you’re going to do amazing.” Chan presses a soft kiss into your forehead, a reminder of how much taller he’s grown. “I have something else for you tomorrow, but that’s a surprise for you tomorrow, I’ll give it to you at the airport tomorrow, okay?” He presses another kiss into your cheek, wiping the few tears that had escaped.

Soon enough, you’re on your way back home, the previously comforting silence disrupted by distant yet ear-splitting sirens, you pay it no mind until you notice how it sounds closer as you near your house.

You’re gasping at the sight of the bright blue and red lights, frozen still as you see paramedics roll your mother out of the house. Everything blurs as you’re pushed and ushered here and there, calls of your name passing through the other ear.

As everything goes dark.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

“I’m sure it was just fatigue.” In and out of consciousness, you found it difficult to determine which parts of it were real, and which weren’t.

“Mom?” Fluttering your eyes open, you were surprised to see a bright white interior, contrasting the blue hues of your room in your house.

“Y/n?” Turning towards the voice, you’re met by your nanny’s worried eyes, as she hovers a damp towel to your forehead. “You’re in the hospital dear, you passed out after we fetched you last night, your mother I’m afraid, she doesn’t have much time left.”

“Where is she-” You’re rushing to stand, wincing in pain when you realize that you have an IV attached to you. “Bring me to her.”

The nanny struggles to aid you in your haste, pushing the IV behind your quick steps. Luckily your mother had been in the room next to you, had it been any further your legs would have given up.

The soft hum and consistent beeps of machines echoed throughout your mother’s room; the sharp scent of antiseptics clouded your thinking. Your father stands from the side of her bed, you’re surprised when he meets you at the door, softly telling the nanny to leave as he takes your hand in his, guiding your IV in the process.

He quietly helps you up into your mother’s bed, who’s surprisingly awake, and smiles at the sight of you. You can feel tears well up, your heart heavy as you take in her figure, engraving it to your heart. She still wears the blue and white scarf atop her head, something you had given her after receiving your first allowance as an athlete.

You don’t realize you’re shaking as you reach to caress her cheek, carefully avoiding the wires attached to her. She holds your hand to her cheek, appreciating the warmth you brought. “Hello love, I heard you passed out, are you doing alright?”

You could only nod in response, your chest heavy as tears began to drip into the white sheets of her bed. “Now listen to me love, you are the sun, you are my sun, and I know I haven’t been there that much to show you all the love you deserve, but I do love you. You are the sun that brought me warmth in that cold room of mine, you are the light that beams when you step into the room. Don’t you ever let anyone dim your light.”

She carefully pulls you into her chest, rubbing small patterns into your back, in an attempt to soothe the shaking of your chest. “You’re going to be alright, love, live the life you love, and everything will be alright. Mom loves you so much, you're so amazing you should know that. I might not be a part of your bigger achievements, your ups and downs in life, falling in love, and all that. Though I do hope you find someone, who’d be there until the end, someone to hold your hand in this dark and empty world. Though I want you to remember that you are beyond your medals, I will still love you no matter what you choose to do in life, alright? I will forever be proud to be your mother-” Her voice dwindles as she trails off, her arm dropping from behind your back, as her breath stills in the process.

The room goes up in flames as everything begins to beep loudly, you could do nothing but sob harder as you cling to your dying mother. The next few minutes are a blur, in the chaos, you feel someone pull you from your mother’s chest as the room floods with medical personnel.

It takes you a while to realize that it’s your father who holds you, turning you away from your mother’s figure as you continue to sob, unable to say anything but cry. The word I love you lingers on the tip of your tongue, regret weighing heavily on your chest.

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

You hadn’t realized you had passed out once more, eyes adjusting to bright hospital lights as everything feels numb. You’re surprised to see your father passed out on the chair next to your bed, eyes swollen and sunken with everything that had happened.

Feeling a bit parched, you reach for the water bottle that had supposedly been there, but instead, you find a small iPod and some earphones. Chan’s unique penmanship on the iPod catches your eye, intrigued, you reach for it.

Another strike of guilt threatens to pull at your heartstrings, of the realization that you had missed his flight. “The Bangs came by the house to drop that off, they mentioned that Chris had wanted to give you this before his flight.” Your father blinks sleep out of his eyes, stretching before he leaves the room.

It takes you a while to untangle the earphones before you plug them in the iPod with a soft click before you wear them. The small square weighs heavy on your hand as you press play.

“Hello, Y/n!” You jump a bit at the loudness of Chan’s voice quickly adjusting the volume.

“Since that fateful day where you saved me from the bullies, I have forever been in your debt. Kidding! “You roll your eyes amused as he continues talking.

“Well not really, but honestly Y/n you have played a huge role not only in my development as a swimmer but as well as a friend. You had been someone I wanted to protect from all the cruel things in this world, had I not met you I wonder if I would’ve had any friends here.” Says the social butterfly, yeah right Christopher.

“I really wished it hadn’t been this way,” I wish it hadn’t been this way either.

“We had a good run Y/n, I am forever grateful to have met you. Now I don’t have much to say, but in a few minutes, a song will play. It’s a song I made. It's something your mom helped put together. I do hope you enjoy this little gift from us, and please do give her a hug in my stead. I do hope you like this song, and may you continue to shine as you take on the professional world of swimming! With love, Your Bangaroo” With everything that has happened, you don’t really feel disappointed or sad with your best friend’s decision, maybe a bit of regret from the lack of time, but all you could do is hope that time and faith would not be so cruel once more.

Chan’s voice fades out as a soft melody of piano notes begins to play, your heart warms as Chan’s voice begins to sing.

“And take, take her to the moon for me

Take her like you promised me

Say you love her every time like how you told me the last time”

You could understand why your mother had told you that Chan was like your guardian angel. Albeit a bit of an exaggeration for a boy your age, but his soft and giving nature had been your source of comfort and happiness throughout middle school and for that, you will forever be grateful.

“Someday I know we'll meet again

In heaven by the rainbow's end

And I only wish you happiness

Until we meet again”

𐐪𐑂 ₒ 𐐪𐑂

next

[apiratewhopines]

In the Offing

Summary: AU - Storybrooke - Emma Swan is drafted to help Liam Jones clear his brother’s name in the disappearance of a former flame. As she digs deeper into the rash of missing person cases, she risks losing more than just her heart as she uncovers the truth.

Chapter One - Pilot

Summary: In which our heroine embarks on an adventure

“Let the exits pass, all the tar and glass

Til the road and sky align”

-Angela, The Lumineers

If asked, Emma Swan would land firmly in the ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ camp rather than the ‘Once Upon a Time’ one.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in happiness and true love and good triumphing over evil. She did. Or at least she tried to believe in them, which was nearly the same thing.

It was just that in her experience, relationships were more likely to end in indifference and divergent roads at best or disappointment, deceit and violence at their worst. It rarely ended in laughter over the dinner table, surrounded by the people you loved and admired. In fact, it never ended that way for her. And she was fine with that. Or at least she tried to believe she was, which was not nearly the same thing.

So it was without the slightest bit of surprise that she made her way back to her office from yet another honey trap date, her third this week if anyone was keeping track. She didn’t anymore, had stopped wondering years ago how there were so many cheating spouses and deadbeat dads and none too bright criminals in one city. Nor did she have the energy to wonder why she found her doorway blocked by the broad form of her sometimes collaborator, sometimes competitor, always annoying quasi-neighbor.

“What do you want, Liam? I’m not staying. I’m only dropping off paperwork so I can go home and mourn the loss of human decency uninterrupted.”

“Perhaps a bath would be more helpful, lass. You smell like a walking distillery,” he replied, not bothered by her unfriendly tone and refusal to meet his eyes as she elbowed him out of the way and unlocked the door. “Were you drowning your sorrows or were they drowning you?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I caught the guy who did this and he smells like jail now so I would say I won,” she muttered, bristling only a little bit when he followed her inside. She would like to say that she and Liam had a complicated relationship but the truth was they tolerated each other when they had to and avoided each other when they didn’t. She could count on him to be professional, which unfortunately was not a given in their line of work, and his complete disinterest in her as a person was a quality she appreciated, having never been someone who craved attention or willingly engaged in small talk.

Now that she thought about it, he was probably one of the better connections she had made in Boston. If his self-righteous, holier-than-thou attitude chafed at times...well, no one was perfect. She had met him when her boss moved their bail bonds office operations to their current location and with his private investigation business occupying the suite next door, they would throw work each other’s way when it made sense. Despite knowing him for nearly two years, she would be hard-pressed to recall a single interaction after hours or off the job so even though she was tired and her feet were killing her from running down tonight’s skip in stiletto heels, she was a little curious about why he was there. “Barry isn’t here.”

“If I was looking for Barry, this is the last place I would be.”

She snorted as she dropped off a packet of reports on the nearest desk. The truth was that her boss, who also happened to own the business, was probably cruising off the coast of Florida at that very moment and hadn’t stepped foot in the office since they moved. But she considered absenteeism a great quality in a boss so she wasn’t complaining.

Sighing, she turned around to face him. She leaned against the desk behind her and hoped he didn’t notice her flexing her feet in an attempt to keep them from cramping. “As nice as it is to catch up, I’ve had a long night. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

“Henry mentioned that he was going to spend the summer with his father when he came by last week,” Liam stated as if that explained everything. Henry’s capacity to make friends never ceased to astound her and was definitely a characteristic he inherited from Neal. Even curmudgeonly Liam Jones had fallen victim to her kid’s ability to engage with anyone. Little did her visitor suspect that reminding her that she had nearly eight weeks of going home to an empty apartment was not the best way for him to start a conversation.

It had been with great trepidation that she had agreed to the trip at all. After years of fielding her son’s questions about his father, she used her considerable tracking skills to finally run her ex to ground about eighteen months ago. Enough time had passed for her to forgive him, although she doubted she would ever forget, but she felt she owed Henry the chance to at least meet his father. And of course, they had hit it off as she had both hoped for and feared.

She had worried, apparently needlessly so, that Neal would quickly lose interest in the son he hadn’t know existed and was inconveniently located in a different state. However, the man who had no issues with abandoning her a decade ago had surprised her. He called Henry every day and made the trip at least once a month to visit. He had shown up and supported Henry in ways she hadn’t expected and it reminded her that not all the times had been bad and maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a villain. When Neal had approached her about a long distance trip that spanned their son’s entire summer break, her first reaction was to forbid it but she knew Henry needed it. Although she would never admit it to Neal, she had also appreciated that he had brought it up with her first rather than sending Henry to talk her into it.

Still, it had physically hurt her to see them walking away together at the airport yesterday, similar gaits and probably with matching, wide smiles on their faces.

Now her interaction with her son would be reduced to a couple of texts a day and FaceTime calls a few times a week while Henry had the time of his life gallivanting around California with his father and future stepmother. In a flash, she went from tired and curious to tired and pissed. “Right. Glad you reminded me before I made it home and called the police about a kidnapping. Did you need something, Liam, or are you just trying to bother me?”

“Both. Obviously,” he said dryly.

“Great, he’s got jokes,” she groaned as she threw her head back in frustration. “I should warn you that I’ve already punched one jerk tonight. I’m hungry and exhausted and if you don’t get on with it, I’m not afraid to add another one to the list.”

He sighed and for the first time she noticed the tenseness in the way he was holding himself. Whatever the reason for his visit, it obviously had him wound up pretty tightly. Against her better judgement, she felt her curiosity stirring again.

“Fine, since you’re obviously not fit to be out in public,” he said with a vague gesture toward her whiskey-flavored dress, “order some delivery and let’s talk.”

—

The smell of cheese did a lot to restore her good humor. She watched him from under her lashes as he looked at the meat-lovers pizza with what approached horror in his expression. She never pegged him as a health food nut, although she could tell he took care of himself, so maybe what offended him was the grease that had soaked through the box to the papers that were stacked neatly on his desk. Tearing off a large slice, she hummed happily while she took the first scorching bite.

“I need a favor,” he stated without preamble before he too took a bite and glanced at her with a pained look in his eye.

She was pretty sure that this was the first time he had ever uttered those words in his life and that was probably the source of his discomfort rather than the molten lava cheese he just swallowed. She tried not to show any interest even though hundreds of questions wanted to escape her mouth. She wanted to ask when they started doing favors for each other and why he was acting like a caged animal. Instead, she settled for something that he would probably find a bit more in character considering their past interactions. “Would this be the type of favor that involved payment of some sort?”

“It will, if that gets the job done quicker,” Liam answered, staring intently at his half eaten slice.

“Well, that would depend on if we’re talking about an hourly rate or a flat fee,” she joked. “I have typically found that payment is the best way to insure a job gets done.”

Something was definitely bothering him and damn if that didn’t make the hair on the back of her neck stand up and chase a shiver down her spine. With a hint of disgust she threw her uneaten crust down on her plate. She already knew that whatever he was about to ask, she was going to agree to so she continued, “Might as well spit it out, I would like to go home and get some sleep sometime this century. What kind of favor do you need?

“The kind of favor that involves going away for a couple of weeks and solving a cold case.”

Of all the things she thought he was going to ask, actual work didn’t even make the top ten list so she was a little letdown. His discomfort had her prepared for anything from being a date to an ex’s wedding to a surprise twist of being asked to babysit his previously unknown kids. Even a mundane request to water his plants while he was on vacation would have been more interesting. She wasn’t entirely sure Liam was human and it would have been fascinating to see the lair he crawled back to when he wasn’t in the office.

“Why the cloak and dagger routine? You made me think something was horribly wrong,” she huffed. Picking up another slice, she thoughtfully examined his face. There was more to this request but she was afraid she was going to have to drag it out of him based on his body language. His eyes were shuttered, shoulders hunched in on himself, body twisted slightly to the side as if he had decided this was a mistake and he was on the verge of running out of the room. While she would dearly love to see Liam Jones run away from his problems like a mere mortal, she was clearly already too invested to let that happen. Quickly swiping her fingers across a napkin to rid them of the worst of the grease, she gently laid her hand on his forearm to hold him in place. “Whatever you need to say, it will go no further.”

Apparently those were the magic words to unlock whatever secret he thought he needed to keep because with a sharp intake of breath, he started his tale. “There is a town in Maine...”

—

Hours later, he was dropping her off at the entrance to her building with a promise to pick her up at six o’clock the following evening. She wasn’t crazy about starting out that late or the fact that they would hit the tail end of rush hour traffic but her mind was swimming with too many details to make her normal fuss. Honestly, she would need all the time she could get to go through the files stuffed in the briefcase he passed off to her as she emerged from the car.

Without registering the journey upstairs, she found herself opening the door to her apartment and immediately kicked off her heels with a moan while her toes curled a little to celebrate their freedom. Her dress had climbed up her thighs a bit during the car ride but she had a feeling she was the only one who noticed. She was pretty sure she could have been naked and Liam wouldn’t have paid any attention. He was just that kind of guy. Considering they were about to embark on a trip to his former hometown where they may end up having to give the impression of a relationship, she should probably be grateful that his only attraction to her seemed to be limited to her ability to find people and her reputation for being a spookily accurate human lie detector. For her part, all she wanted from him was a couple weeks of distraction from what was surely going to turn out to be a lonely summer. If she was getting paid for it, all the better.

Leaving her shoes where they fell in the entranceway, she grabbed a hair band from the narrow table that she privately thought of as their crap collector. She had never been the neatest person and she had passed that trait on to Henry so you could never predict what random stuff would be found on the table that served no other purpose than to be a catch all for the things they discarded when they arrived home.

Styling her long blonde hair into a messy bun, she pulled her ruined dress over her head and casually threw it in the direction of the laundry basket. Taking advantage of the fact that there wasn’t a ten-year-old at home that would be traumatized by her behavior, she lugged the briefcase to the kitchen island and spread the files across the countertop before walking back to her closet to slip into a pair of black yoga pants and a Red Sox tank top, not wanting to take the time to shower at the moment. Besides, she was the only one home to know how bad the smell of whiskey and sweat was after sitting for hours in a small office, stuffing her face with the unhealthiest pizza on the planet and getting drawn into the web of mystery that had made the always serious Mr. Jones even more somber.

Pouring a glass of wine, she climbed up on one of stools that formed a line that ran the length of the counter and pulled the top file to her. The photo paper-clipped to the inside showed a rundown pawn shop that might as well have had a neon sign flashing ‘Shady Place of Business.’ Below it was a list of names from various missing persons cases spanning thirty years.

Taking the first sip of wine, she murmured, “What have you gotten me into, Liam?”

She spent the next several hours combing through the files until her back hurt and her contacts felt scratchy in her eyes. It seemed like Jones Investigation had a file for everyone that lived in the town at the time of the burglary as well as newspaper clipping from the various investigations into the suspicious disappearance of citizens.

It was too much information to take in during the course of one night but Liam had been insistent that the files remain in Boston. He didn’t want to risk tipping off any suspects to the real reason for their trip should the paperwork be discovered. So, under direct orders from the former British Naval officer to memorize the facts, when she reached the end of the files, she would start over again. She sorted and resorted the files into stacks based on a variety of factors from chronological order to some distinguishing characteristic like age, proximity to crime, or possible motive.

If her attention kept wondering back to the grainy photo of one Killian Jones, brother of her dour compatriot, she blamed the wine and lack of sleep. Even the low quality of the picture couldn’t conceal that the younger Jones brother was an incredibly attractive man. However, he looked enough like Liam to make her interest unsettling and that was what finally pulled her away from her research and drove her to bed where she dreamed of blue eyes and a wicked smile.

—

For most of the trip, the only sound was of the sports commentators who nearly shouted out a play-by-play of a soccer match Liam had politely asked to listen to as they pulled out of her parking garage. The only other break in their silent commute was the subtle hum and thump of road noise occasionally making its way into the cabin. He had been unimpressed with her offer to take her car, not even bothering to acknowledge her when she suggested it and simply opening the lift gate to the large, dark colored Honda Pilot he had rented. If he noticed her surprise at finding several bags already in the truck and heard her sarcastic observation about packing light as she had to reposition some of his luggage to find a spot for her single gym sized duffel bag, he didn’t show it.

As she had predicted, they spent an hour stuck in traffic before getting beyond the city limits where the cars spread out and their follow drivers seemed to think that allowed them to indulge in NASCAR fantasies. She used the quiet to mentally go over the particulars of the case before them, secure in the knowledge that unless she magically sprouted another head Liam was unlikely to start up a conversation at this point in the trip.

Fact One: Leo and Ava Blanchard left for a date night and never returned home to their young daughter. There car was found broken down on the side of the road about a mile from their home. No sign of foul play, no trace of their whereabouts.

Fact Two: Shortly thereafter, there was a burglary at Gold’s Pawnshop on Main Street. No sign of forced entry and the owner claimed nothing had been stolen, but the alarm had been tripped from the inside. Having nothing to go on and with no stolen items to track down, the local law enforcement devoted a total of five minutes to the case. Basically as soon as the report was filed, the case was closed and life moved on.

Fact Three: Robert Nolan had a few too many at a bar one night, which apparently was a reoccurring circumstance, and never found his way back to his family. He was rumored to be involved in some illicit activities but no proof of a crime was ever found.

Fact Four: There appeared to be a bit of a lull for more than a decade and then a rapid secession of missing person reports: Regina Mills, Peter Wolfe, and finally Milah Gold.

It was the last one that seemed to drive Liam’s interest in the cases. Although he and his brother hadn’t relocated to the US until the early 2000s, it seemed his little brother quickly formed an attachment, which Emma read between the lines to mean had an affair, with the older wife of the town’s local businessman. After his wife vanished into thin air, Mr. Gold and the local police tried their best to pin her disappearance on Killian but could never come up with enough evidence to press charges.

The final piece came through sources Liam was disinclined to name. He had recently found out that a newly arrived visitor had been asking questions around town and according to his source, the visitor was a best-selling true crime author named August Booth who happened to be weeks away from publishing a tell-all book about the sordid history of the town.

Going into full protective mode, Liam had decided the best course of action was to return to the small town and solve the mystery, or potentially multiple mysteries if they were as interconnected as he thought, thereby clearing his brother’s name beyond all doubt.

If it had been anyone else who had asked for her help, she would have been flattered but she knew Liam to be practical above all else. He valued her skills but it was probably Henry’s absence that was the catalyst for this particular partnership. He needed an extra set of eyes and ears and she was a known element who was conveniently available for a long term undercover assignment. Still, he had trusted her with the family secrets, or at least his brother’s secrets, so she was trying to be mindful this wasn’t simply another case for him.

She wasn’t convinced the non-burglary and series of disappearances he seemed to think connected would turn out to be anything but she knew better than to discard possibilities this early on. She also wasn’t convinced that parading in front of his family and friends as a girlfriend was a good game plan.

“I think we need to revisit this cover story,” she said as he pulled off the highway and into the lot of a gas station.

“If you can find a more convincing reason for me to show up with a strange woman, I will gladly listen to it,” he replied before exiting the car and fading away into the dark night.

“No, I wouldn’t like anything from the store, thanks for asking,”she called out to his back, wanting to nettle him in retaliation for his rudeness although she doubted he heard her. According to the GPS, they were only about forty-five minutes from their destination, a place called Granny’s Diner. She tried to research the town, including restaurants, venues, and things to do but it was as if Storybrooke existed out of the modern age. While you could find it on maps, there wasn’t an internet presence at all. There were no tourism sites, despite the fact that most little towns that dot the Atlantic coast were in peak season for welcoming travelers. It appeared that chains and national franchises had no interest in the sleepy town either. There were no notable residents making their marks on the world at large, no complaints on business sites, no reviews of the natural beauty to be found in its forests and parks.

The sound of Liam returning to the vehicle and pumping gas broke her train of thought. Hearing the gentle chime of her phone, she took the opportunity to check her texts before they got back on the road. Smiling a little at seeing Henry’s name on her notifications, she clicked the message and was rewarded with a silly photo of him pretending to be eaten by a shark at one of the selfie stations located on a pier in whatever seaside town they were currently visiting. She text him back a thumb’s up, following it quickly with a good night and reminder that she would send him the details of where she was staying in the morning.

Running her finger gently over her son’s happy grin in the photo, she didn’t greet Liam as he climbed back into the car.

“That’s a nice picture,” he mumbled, clicking his seatbelt in place before pulling out and rejoining the dwindling line of cars heading north. “Is he having a good time?”

“Looks like it,” she answered, turning her head away somewhat embarrassed to feel the prick of tears in her eyes. She wasn’t an emotional person but she missed the kid something fierce.

Either he was being exceptionally sensitive to her distress or he didn’t notice it because they lapsed back into silence until they were about fifteen minutes from the town line. Deciding next to the last minute was as a good a time to broach the topic again as any, she picked up on her earlier comment as if it hadn’t been over half an hour ago. “Listen, I’m not saying I have a better cover but maybe we could not volunteer the girlfriend story. You know, keep our options open unless someone asks us directly. Or maybe actually tell them we are there to investigate.”

Hope for a rational debate on the merits of her suggestions was immediately crushed when he actually started to laugh. “You’ve never lived in a small town, have you?”

“No, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Emma, I left five years ago under some difficult circumstances—“

“What circumstances? How difficult?”

“That’s need to know, lass,” he interrupted in a tone that cautioned against any further questions. “If it had anything to do with our case, I would have already told you. Let me assure you that everyone will know of our arrival within minutes of the car entering town. There will be a description of you circulating before you wake up tomorrow morning. There is no way people aren’t going to ask us directly and repeatedly the nature of our visit and relationship.”

She was about to interrupt again so he held up a hand to stall her and added, “And if we decline to provide details, they will make them up. Trust me, it’s better to control the story than to have eyes following us everywhere trying figure it out for themselves. As far as openly investigating a crime, you’re daft if you think they won’t clam up the second you start asking questions. In my experience people are more comfortable being a gossip than a snitch. If we are simply a couple enjoying a trip down memory lane, we will be able to move much more freely.”

“But your brother,” she countered weakly because she had to admit he had a point. “How can you lie to him? Surely he can be trusted with the truth. Not to mention that if we are staying with him, he’s going to notice that we don’t like each other.”

“What are you talking about? I’m quite fond of you. You’re one of my best friends,” he said in indignation.

Her jaw went slack with shock as she tried to process how she had slipped into some bizarro alternate reality. What in their past could possibly have given him the idea that they were friends, besties even. “I don’t know what—“ she sputtered. “Is this some weird British thing?”

He barked out a laugh that was so unlike him that she doubled down on her alternate reality theory. “Calm down, Emma. It was a joke. We aren’t friends exactly but I don’t dislike you. It will be fine. Pretend I’m one of your fake dates for a couple of weeks. Lucky for you, I’m an old-fashioned guy. Killian won’t think anything of us bunking separately.”

“There is old-fashioned and then there is being a monk, Liam. But whatever. I still think you should trust your brother. Especially since it’s his neck we’re trying to save.”

“I would trust him with my life. What I can’t trust is that he won’t go off half-cocked and muck up the investigation. He’ll understand why I did this as long as we get results.”

She believed that he believed what he was saying. She also believed he was wrong. As a person who always preferred the truth, no matter how painful, her gut told her that it would be a mistake to keep the younger Jones in the dark about the true purpose of their trip. However, besties or not, she knew the mulish tilt to Liam’s mouth indicated that for him the discussion was over.

At that moment, the high beams illuminated the Welcome to Storybrooke sign. She felt an ominous dread settle over her as they approached, turning in her seat to look at the sign as they passed.

It was the last thing she saw before the world exploded in glass shards, twisted metal, and smoke.

[no-other-words]

Just a Bit Closer

Synopsis: Xie Lian suggests taking a relaxing dip in the pond. Hua Cheng slightly freaks out. Rated T | 3400w | canon-divergent, fluff, domestic, slight angst [ Read on AO3 ]

Never again will he be so bold. His Highness follows a path of virtue. His Highness is to be untouched. His Highness—

“San Lang?”

Hua Cheng snaps his head up. Xie Lian’s attention is fully on him, his face half-curious half-amused. He hasn’t been aware that his hands were rolled into fists until now.

“It’s only a bath.”

His Highness is requesting him to bathe with him.

Hua Cheng gulps. He may be a ghost king, but he is not equipped to face this challenge.

---

Hua Cheng has endured much throughout his life.

As a child, love was an alien concept and no friend of his when endless beatings and hate had accompanied him. He’s worn battle scars that no young man’s body should ever had to receive. Wars had been waged against godly figures from the depths of Mount Tonglu to the skies of the Heavenly Court. His soul has died again and again for the anguish that had ceaselessly pierced his one person—yet it is also his soul that lives again and again and refuses to fade.

Hua Cheng is a Devastation, a ghost king, one of the Four Calamities, if not the strongest. His very name demands unwavering respect and brings even the strongest of martial gods to their trembling knees. He’s been through a lot but not one of his past challenges can come close to this.

In just a thin layer of white robe, Xie Lian stands in the middle of the pond. He’s pouring another bucket load of water over his head, completely unaware of the silver allure cast upon him by the soft of the moonlight. His under-robe does nothing to hide the rosy peaks of his hardened nipples, peeking from underneath.

It goads Hua Cheng for a little contact, a little taste.

Long locks of wet hair stick to his skin, drawing out the slender curves down his neck and bony ridges of his collarbones. A few stray strands wound up over Xie Lian’s lips and it reminds Hua Cheng of their kiss in the lake. Their first and most likely the only kiss. The one he bravely stole in the heat of the moment when all he’d meant to do is give Xie Lian a little help.

Necessary on Xie Lian’s part, completely out of line on Hua Cheng’s. He’d let his worst part get to him at the expense of His Highness’ comfort. It’s obvious from Xie Lian’s reaction—a boundary had been crossed that left the martial god catatonic to the point where he had to lie to get away from the situation. The only redeeming hope had been from within Qiandeng Temple, where Xie Lian had thankfully taken to its charm.

His eyebrows pinch and he looks away.

Never again will he be so bold. His Highness follows a path of virtue. His Highness is to be untouched. His Highness—

“San Lang?”

Hua Cheng snaps his head up. Xie Lian’s attention is fully on him, his face half-curious half-amused. He hasn’t been aware that his hands were rolled into fists until now.

“It’s only a bath.”

His Highness is requesting him to bathe with him.

Xie Lian moves to the bank. The closer he gets, the lower the water level around his body becomes and reveals a shapely waist perfect for grabbing onto. Once again, that good-for-nothing under-robe does the opposite of what it’s meant to do and only serves to feed Hua Cheng’s tainted, invasive mind. The translucent material, wet to the core, plasters nicely against Xie Lian’s skin, emitting a pale pink hue.

Hua Cheng gulps.

He may be a ghost king, but he is not equipped to face this challenge.

It had started with a simple question.

“Do ghost kings not take baths?”

Hua Cheng paused mid-sweep and looked back at Xie Lian curiously. They’d been fixing up Puqi Shrine and cleaning the grounds, after leaving it unattended for several days when they went off to catch a runaway fetus spirit. Things were winding down for the day, with Lang Ying washing dishes after a not-so-successful meal and Guzi put to sleep.

“N-not that I mean anything by it! I was just thinking, how we ran around all over the land recently and we just spent a whole day cleaning the shrine, and I haven’t seen you gone washing since.” Xie Lian stopped to reflect. “I suppose there aren’t suitable places around here to properly do so.”

Hua Cheng pulled a small smile and continued to sweep away the last of leaves into a corner. “Gege needn’t worry to justify his questions. Any curious thoughts arise, this San Lang will gladly answer. I don’t know about the other ones and I don’t care to, but this one does well to remember to be clean. It would be an offence not to.”

He faltered and quickly added, “Does gege think this San Lang is filthy? I will—”

“Ah no! Like you said, it was just a curious thought” Xie Lian says. His eyes then sparkled, caught bright under the gleam of moonlight. “How about we take a dip in the pond nearby? It’s a nice little spot I found not so long ago, with a waterfall. The night is still early. I’m sure it’ll help expel the last of the adrenaline from our recent voyage.”

Which is how Crimson Rain Sought Flower has found himself in this current predicament.

Much to Hua Cheng’s dismay, it doesn’t really expel much. If anything, it invites more adrenaline and that is not what he needs right now. To be so close, in the intimate space of such private practices—Hua Cheng calls upon the 800 years of learned patience and discipline.

Xie Lian is still waiting for him. “Something the matter? I promise, this time there are no demon babies in the water.”

“…I’m dirty.”

“That’s the point, San Lang.”

That unassuming smile graces his face, as ethereal under the night sky as the time when Hua Cheng pulled him out of the lake in rescue.

How can he say no to his god?

He feels an excited trembling at his side and Hua Cheng looks down to see E’Ming wiggling to get out. A soft chuckle runs through the air.

“See? Even E’Ming wants a wash.”

Hua Cheng slaps his weapon in annoyance. “Ignore it, gege. This thing just wants to play.”

As if Hua Cheng had said a magic word, the silk band around Xie Lian’s wrist slithers itself free and gently glides towards him. Without warning, Ruoye grabs him by the waist and tugs him into the pond. Hua Cheng surfaces just in time to hear Xie Lian laugh. It’s music in the making and he hopes to hear more of it for the rest of his time.

“Looks like Ruoye wants to play too,” Xie Lian teases.

E’Ming responds by unsheathing itself and splashing water towards the white ribbon. The two sentient weapons go at it nearby, chasing frantically at each other in an almost comic-like scene. It comes to a quick pause when E’Ming casts a rather large wave of water right in Xie Lian’s direction and Hua Cheng blocks the attack with his arm.

The demon lord shoots his weapon a cold killing look. Xie Lian meanwhile tugs on an assailing Ruoye and reminds all three of them, “gentle”.

Reprimanded, E’Ming and Ruoye calm down and go off to find other ways to play. Xie Lian then turns his attention back to Hua Cheng. “San Lang, will you hand me your robe? It’s gotten dirtied from all the chores today. I’ll wash it together with mine.”

If Hua Cheng still had a beating heart, it’d be skipping out from his chest. But he doesn’t and it’s a momentary reminder of the many boundaries he mustn’t cross over. He stands unmoving, a good distance from Xie Lian.

“Is Your Highness suggesting that he wishes to see this San Lang strip? That is quite a bold request.”

“Your outer robes, San Lang! No teasing, please.”

“This one wouldn’t dare.”

Nevertheless, Hua Cheng takes pride in observing the red flush on Xie Lian’s cheeks. Rosy and heated, it’s a gorgeous contrast to his pale white skin. He often wonders what other things can make Xie Lian blush like that. A simple touch on his neck, a nip at his ear, perhaps a kiss on his—

He stops. Stop stop stop. His Highness would not appreciate these inappropriate thoughts.

His Highness, who is currently scrubbing his clothes, as if it’s not a baseless and undeserving task for a martial god to do. He does it so earnestly, as he does with everything else. Xie Lian’s eyebrows scrunch with concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out from habit. Hua Cheng quietly watches, peeking under his arms as he lathers soap into his hair. This is a treasured moment not to be missed.

“It’s not the grand bathhouse I’m sure San Lang has in his manor, but I find this spot to be very relaxing,” Xie Lian says in a soft tone. “Hidden astray from the main road, not a lot of villagers know of its location. Nature is untouched here and it helps me ground myself.”

“My bathhouse is nothing compared to this. If gege wishes, I can build a fence around the area. Prevent outsiders from trespassing.”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian chortles, “if people pass by, they pass by. If they don’t, they don’t. This place isn’t mine. None of it is, even Puqi Shrine. I’m merely borrowing the land from which the earth has gifted me.”

Hua Cheng sneaks a loving smile. He’s always admired this side of him.

After one final dunk in the water, Xie Lian wrings both their now-cleaned robes dry and drapes them over a low-hanging branch. He gives the red robe a long look, contemplation washing over.

“San Lang, if I may brazenly ask…”

Hua Cheng halts his scrubbing to give the man his full attention.

“Earlier when you said…it would be an offence…to whom would it be an offence?”

It takes several words out before Xie Lian flutters his gaze up to Hua Cheng, already bashful from making such an inquiry. But once Hua Cheng catches his eyes, he does all he can to hold them. He wills them not to look away, yearning to convey all the feelings locked inside. The fires, the bliss, the ten thousand words he’s thought up to say in the past eight hundred years. All the little tingles of emotions bottled up and will continue to be so for he has a beloved and that beloved cannot know.

Hua Cheng tilts his head slightly forward and softens his gaze. “Someone very important.”

A short moment of silence pass before Xie Lian hums in understanding. He grabs hold of the wooden bucket, floating forgotten nearby, and returns to his own washing.

“San Lang is a very earnest person.”

Only for his one god.

“Gege is not going to question further?”

“Whatever San Lang is willing to tell me, I will listen with gratitude. I trust you have your reasons.”

Hua Cheng purses his lips, not knowing what to do with this level of trust. So he dunks his head underwater and scrubs harshly at his hair. He’s determined to get all the dirt out. All that filth that sticks to him like a parasite, refusing to leave this place that Xie Lian considers his haven.

Get out. Get out get out get out. His Highness, in all his lack of self-preservation, has invited a Devastation for a private bath and all he wants to do is touch and feel and be close, so so close with him. Patience is his forte – it’s something he’s nurtured in the past centuries but there are moments of weakness. Moments like this when he cannot contain himself and wish he can kiss gege again.

Be a thief and steal another piece of bliss.

Hua Cheng lifts his head out, a thick curtain of black hair fall around his face. He’s done now, all necessary washing complete. He should get out of the pond and wait by the sidelines.

A warm hand places on his shoulder. Hua Cheng startles at Xie Lian’s sudden closeness.

“San Lang, that is not how you wash your hair,” Xie Lian chides, a slight pout to his displeased face. “You must treat it gently else you can get knots like that. Here, let me.”

Xie Lian pulls him towards the small waterfall in the corner, leading a winding path so they stay on a shallow path. Hua Cheng lets himself be turned around and a second later, feels gentle combing down his hair. He lowers himself to a kneeling position so Xie Lian doesn’t have to tip toe.

Somewhere in the depths of his chest, a ghost heart beats.

Here, under the lull of the waterfall and vigil of the moon, a god washes his follower’s hair. The consistent rhythm of Xie Lian’s fingers massaging soap on top of his scalp and combing through his hair length brings a soothing pleasure. It is here that Hua Cheng braves to think that once again, Xie Lian is okay with his touch.

“My mother used to brush my hair while I bathed.”

Somehow, Hua Cheng can imagine an overindulged young prince melting under his Empress Mother’s loving attention, just as he’s so lucky to be experiencing the same.

“Am I currently as well-behaved as gege was back then?”

Xie Lian answers with a light chuckle, “very. In fact, I was more of a troublemaker. I’d often want to go swimming and try to wiggle out of her grasps. Mother was always too lenient.”

“With good reason, I’m sure. Gege was a beloved son—” Hua Cheng stops, not wanting to bring up unsavoury memories, and quickly corrects himself. “And must have been very adorable in his mother’s eyes.”

His hair is tugged playfully. “Cheeky San Lang.”

Fingers run along his hairline, gently pulling back to catch every strand. When the same hand moves down to his ears and brushes against the outer skin, Hua Cheng shivers in delight. It feels like something forbidden, one he gladly welcomes. No one has ever come this close in contact and Hua Cheng resolves from here on out that only Xie Lian will have the privilege.

Washing turns to a pleasant session of grooming. Hua Cheng’s sure his hair is more than clean but he stays quiet in favour of Xie Lian’s touch. His eyes drift to a lazy close, the peace creeping up on him so sneakily that he almost misses Xie Lian’s murmurs.

“I don’t…I rarely reminisce on old memories, especially ones involving my parents. They were from so long ago.”

An image of the Xianle Empress flashes in Hua Cheng’s mind. She’d been looking worryingly over him, from that time when he’d been rescued from Xie Lian’s bastard cousin.

“Then San Lang is very happy that gege is sharing a piece of his memory with him.”

He’s rewarded with a final stroke of his hair before he’s pulled towards the waterfall.

“Come, rinse. Stand under here, the water is not that heavy.”

Hua Cheng dutifully complies, happy under Xie Lian’s full attention and care. When the waterfall hits him, he tips his head slightly back and feels the suds slide down his hair. He hums in pleasure.

“Gege is right, this is very relaxing.”

Hearing no response, Hua Cheng opens his eyes. Xie Lian is wearing a dazed look, his eyes round and staring at him almost in a trancelike state. Lips slightly parted, as if in shock after discovering something unexpected.

“Your Highness?”

That seems to shake Xie Lian out of his stupor. He swiftly looks away, a nervous smile slapped on to hide the quiver in his voice.

“Ah—sorry. You’re done. Clean now…I’ll leave you. Give you priva—ah!”

Xie Lian slips on a rock in an attempt to quickly turn away. Instincts take over and Hua Cheng moves to catch him by the waist, his arm holding firm.

“S-San Lang…”

Only when Hua Cheng registers that Xie Lian is safe and away from immediate harm that he notices their close proximity. Senses become hyperaware towards the man in his embrace—the heat emitting from Xie Lian’s stuttered breathes, the pounding of his very alive heart, the skin…

Oh the warm hot skin that sends tingles through every cell currently in contact with Hua Cheng. Only a mere thin material stands between them and it’s oddly erotic to feel the cold wetness. Hua Cheng flexes his arm and watches in satisfaction the way Xie Lian jumps. His muscles feel both hard and soft under his hold and Hua Cheng would like nothing but to memorize the ridges and curves.

“San Lang, I’m—I’m cold.”

This time, he’s barely whispering.

Hua Cheng takes mercy and slowly unwraps his arm around Xie Lian and steadies the man. “Gege, be careful.”

He receives no response but he doesn’t need to. That bright red blush on his face is enough to lift the heavy weight off his chest and unchain the shackles that has settled over ever since the time when Xie Lian scrambled away their kiss. Perhaps this is different.

Hua Cheng finishes rinsing himself under the waterfall, glancing over at Xie Lian from time to time making sure he’s alright. The god seems to be back to a normal state, no longer moving in jerky ways. They’re alright. It’s going to be okay.

He can stay by His Highness’ side for just a bit longer.

When time comes for them to wrap up, Hua Cheng grabs both of their outer robes from the branch. It’s still rather damp but better than having no covering on. Which…would be quite a problem because Xie Lian’s slowly getting out of the water, not even at all mindful of the obscene display he’s putting on.

Hua Cheng blames that under-robe once again. It molds perfectly to Xie Lian’s wet skin and paints a pretty pink picture of his naked body underneath. Hua Cheng accidentally catches sight of a rather perfectly-round bottom before looking away. Thick clouds roll over the moon, dampening any source of light. At least there is some protection to Xie Lian’s virtue by the night’s shadows.

But imagination doesn’t discriminate, not to a ghost king’s mind and definitely not to a cursed weapon with a cursed eye.

E’Ming jumps at the sight of Xie Lian, joyous to see its master’s beloved come up to the shore and even more so to see him…in that state. It does a shuddering whirl before launching itself at the man.

Hua Cheng makes a displeased sound and is about to snap his fingers when Ruoye whips around E’Ming and covers its red eye. The two weapons wrestle a short while before the scimitar gives and compliantly calms.

Hua Cheng huffs. Damn thing will have a beating later as punishment for even thinking of peeking.

Their walk back to Puqi Shrine is short but sweet. Now without the bright moon, there isn’t much light for Xie Lian to see. Luckily, Hua Cheng’s silver butterflies illuminate their path and the two take to an extra slow pace.

“They’re so lovely,” Xie Lian comments with a soft smile, a warm husk to his tone. He lifts a finger that a bold butterfly has landed on and watches its wings open and close. “I’ve seen them in action, but they’re so gentle and beautiful and—and…enchanting!”

Hua Cheng gives a teasing voice. “Gege, stop. San Lang can only take so many compliments in a day.”

“The butterflies, San Lang.”

“Oh? I guess I am none of these words that gege commends on.”

Xie Lian pauses and turns his attention on him. “That’s not what I mean! I said—well…San Lang is also gentle. And lovely.”

The smile on the ghost king’s face is ever-growing.

“Anyways! That was quite refreshing, right? I can already feel my muscles relax.”

He, too, can feel Xie Lian’s muscles. Hua Cheng’s fingers wiggle on impulse and he quickly brings his hands behind his back.

“Gege’s suggestions are always the best. I am at my cleanest state.”

Xie Lian laughs and the butterflies flutter to the musical cadence. One floats near Hua Cheng and he reaches to gently play with it. His hand grazes Hua Cheng’s shoulder and the latter promptly looks at Xie Lian, searching for any signs of discomfort.

None. Xie Lian is unaffected.

The butterflies grow more daring by the second and surround the god in an illuminating circle. He in turn gives every butterfly a chance of contact with his hands and hums in delight.

Hua Cheng relishes in the sight before him.

Perhaps it’s okay to be this close. Perhaps even in a way Hua Cheng hasn’t dared to think of before. And someday…maybe someday he can show His Highness just how close he desires to be.

---

a/n: somewhere between these paragraphs, dianxia drops the soap. cue shower-sex scene.

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #29 - The One Where Everyone Gets Super Shiny

Our issue opens up with Swerve laying down the Story So Far in the Exposition Dimension.

Fantastic, you funky little man.

If Swerve looks like he’s been tossed through the car wash a few dozen times, it’s because this is where our new colorist comes in! Everyone, please say hello to Joana Lafuente- known for her love of gradients and attention to light sources, this actually isn’t the first time we’ve run into her. Lafuente worked on colors for several issues of The Transformers (2009), Last Stand of the Wreckers #3, and a few issues of MTMTE Season 1. However, she was matching the styles of her co-colorists on a majority of these, so we haven’t seen her style properly until now.

Getting into the story proper, Cyclonus is busying himself with staring out the window at a PNG of space, as he is wont to do, when he hears the tell-tale sound of tires squealing down the hall towards his room. Oh, goodness, whoever could that be?

Nearly forgot about him, didn’t you? Yeah, it’s a little difficult to follow up on things like a character’s recovery from a horrific disease when you’ve got comic event contract obligations to deal with.

After getting tackled by Tailgate, who reminds us all about the time he stuck his dirty little fingers into a dude’s brain meat, Cyclonus takes the little nerd on a walk through the ship.

You’re not going to convince me to reread “Dark Cybertron”. I don’t care how much of a marshmallow you are, it’s not happening.

They’re passed by Megatron and a bunch of crew members carrying that coffin we saw at the end of last issue down the corridor, Tailgate has a moment, and we get a taste of Cyclonus’ distaste for the Autobots as a whole. Tailgate is mildly offended by this, as he gropes his chest in distain, showing off his shiny new Autobot badge- a gift for not dying a terrible, gruesome death.

Good job, Tailgate. Proud of you.

They’re also passed by an absolutely blitzed Jackpot and Mainframe, the former singing Tailgate’s Tyrest-stopping praises as the latter carts him over to the Medibay to deal with the almost alcohol poisoning he’s got going on. Cyclonus remarks that Tailgate was missed, though Tailgate can’t help but wonder if that’s really true.

Y’all like slowburn romance, right? Because these two dumbasses have been roommates for two years, and we’ve just gotten to the point where physical contact can happen without one of them needing to be dying.

Anyway, it’s been a good day for Tailgate so far. Let’s hope it stays that way for the little dude.

...And that’s a series wrap on Tailgate! Let’s give him a hand, folks!

Hopping back in time to Megatron’s trial, things get underway, as Optimus Prime takes a nap in the judge’s bench as Gripper- whose name you don’t need to remember, as he’s not actually important- tells everyone about how brutal the Decepticon Justice Division is, even to Autobots. Which isn’t really supposed to be their deal, given their, y’know, name, but I suppose nobody’s perfect.

Up in the stands, in an… opera box, I guess? Rodimus is watching the proceedings, when Atomizer walks in. Which I guess you can just do in a Cybertronian court case. Sure.

Atomizer, in case you forgot, is the dude who has a bow and arrow, and used to be an interior designer.

Say, didn’t Whirl has a bow and arrow in the last issue when he attacked Megatron? Mighty curious, that.

Rodimus and Atomizer briefly reflect on the DJD, recalling the horror that was Vos- not that Vos, the other one. Rodimus would really just rather this all be over with so the Lost Light can get back to finding the Knights of Cybertron, and it’s at this point that Atomizer breaks out a thing he really ought not have- the count for the vote on whether or not Rodimus should stay on as captain. Rodimus doesn’t want to look at it, because it was supposed to be anonymous for a reason, and tells Atomizer to destroy the list entirely.

Hm, that’s not a terribly determined face there, Rodimus.

Back in the present, specifically in Swerve’s, Groove is threatening to break Streetwise’s arm, as we get the downlow on just what exactly our Legislator buddy’s deal is. Turn’s out, Swerve got one of the things reprogrammed, so that he follows not the Autobot Code, but something else entirely.

Hey, Swerve?

I don’t expect you to know this, because I don’t think you were present when they revealed this information to the readers, but… your new bouncer is made of people. He’s a dude made of other dudes, namely the Circle of Light. There’s a chance that you reprogrammed a sentient being, my good bitch.

Anyway, Swerve’s in a fucking mood because his shoulder hurts, someone’s stealing his shit, and Megatron has joined the narrative. Over at a nearby table, Skids, Nautica, and Riptide take a gander at the tabloids. Trailcutter, who is positively smashed, to the point where he’s just leaking booze out of his face like it’s his job, isn’t terribly interested in that, however.

What an astute observation, Riptide. And people say you’re stupid!

Trailcutter wants to drink some more, because it’s very likely he’s got a problem, but the mention of “Megatron’s super fuel” makes him feel like it’s time to stop hounding Swerve and start performing crimes.

Back during the trial, we get to Starscream’s testimony. He’s wearing his crown. He’s acting like a self-righteous asshole, as he defends Megatron.

Well, “defend” in the technical, legal sense, I suppose.

But really it’s more about him insulting Megatron’s intelligence, strength, and courage, in front of a LOT of people, while also trying to make himself look better in the war crime department. Megatron doesn’t appreciate this very much, if his murder-face is anything to go by.

Megatron lets Ultra Magnus (his defender, if you’ll recall) know that he wants a private word, and court goes into a brief recess.

Back in the present, Nightbeat’s busy looking at a pin-up of Rung’s alt-mode, when someone knocks on his door. That someone is Chromedome, who’s trying to solve the mystery of The Missing Declaration of Love. Not that he says that specifically out loud.

You two were married, why- okay. No point in yelling at this digital copy of a comic book.

Anyway.

So, the whole screaming thing only happened the one time, and everything was back to normal on subsequent plays of Rewind’s message. Nightbeat seems to be leaning towards the depressive isolating getting to Chromedome, which Chromedome responds to by telling him to get the fuck out. Alas, someone’s blocking the door!

YO WHAT THE FUCK-

Back with Trailcutter’s subplot, our drunken friend is in the middle of breaking into the Medibay. Our trio of cool-colored pals watch him from back at the bar, by way of a laptop that looks like it was built the same year I was born.

As Trailcutter attempts to commit a crime, Megatron, Ultra Magnus, and Ratchet pass by, trying to figure out how to handle the whole coffin situation. Trailcutter’s about to punch the locks off a door, and Nautica decides that this is where she’s going to draw the line today, leaving the gaggle of fools to their shenanigans. Then Tailgate glomps Skids, throwing the computer to the ground and breaking it, as Trailcutter finds the door to the Medibay magically open.

If you don’t know what glomping is, there’s a 60% chance that you’re not old enough to vote in the US.

Trailcutter sneaks into the Medibay, we get a reminder that Ambulon is super dead, and Trailcutter commits theft from a food bank. What a guy.

This is the point where security shows up, armed with a great deal of guns, one of which is Megatron himself. Trailcutter, instead of feeling super powerful, actually feels positively awful after consuming Megatron’s rations of “super fuel”. Because he, as an Autobot, doesn’t want to be within 50 yards of Megatron, Trailcutter breaks out the forcefields the moment the guy approaches him. And oh, what a doozy this one is.

Trailcutter’s gotten himself a fancy new trick- this forcefield he’s broken out lasts for a solid half-hour, and he can’t turn it off. I’m sure that won’t bite him in the ass at any point in the near future, no-siree!

Back in the past, Rattrap is commending Starscream on playing the field and getting the public slightly more on his side, but Starscream’s too busy patting himself on the back to really pay attention. He knew damn well that Megatron wouldn’t like what he had to say on the stand, and now things are finally looking up for ol’ Screamer.

Over with Optimus Prime, Slamdance is showing off how the general public is really into this whole “folks being held accountable for their actions” thing.

In the present, Chromedome and Nightbeat seem to have remembered they have alt-modes and are driving down the hall back to Nightbeat’s room- wonder what the speed limit for the Lost Light is?- and discuss just what the hell happened. The current theory is that the Rewind they saw was a Data Ghost- a collection of information so dense, it had a not-quite-physical presence that wasn’t 100% removed when he died.

Which is a little fucked up, but let’s see where this goes.

Nightbeat undoes the 40,000 locks on his door while Chromedome bleeds guilt all over the shag carpet over the fact that he hasn’t been looking for Dominus Ambus like he said he would.

C’mon James, gimme that Chromedominus endgame.

Nightbeat finally opens the door to find a small problem.

Hm. That’s… not normal.

Over in the Medibay, Trailcutter’s bubble has burst, allowing Megatron to slap him in the back of the head. This head-slapping induces his FIM chip permanently, making it so that he can never get drunk again.

Weird party trick, Megatron. Kinda shitty, really.

Megatron then gives Trailcutter the job of director of security, because he needs direction in his life. Trailcutter just sort of takes what he’s given, because I suppose you can’t really argue with a guy who can literally slap you sober, and also threatens to destroy you if you fuck up even once. Nice, Megs. Nice.

MEGATRON THAT’S BEEN SITTING LIKE THAT FOR OVER HALF AN HOUR YOU FUCKING WET NOODLE

So, since there’s mystery juice all over the floor and no one’s died, Megatron assumes that the coffin ought to be fine to crack open.

Please note that Megatron is not a medical professional, and his views are now peer reviewed by medical professionals. Megatron is in no way endorsed by the WHO.

Anyway, Rodimus is in there.

Pretty fucked up.

Back in the past, recess is over, and Ultra Magnus comes bearing bad news- Megatron wants to change his plea to “innocent.” This gets about the reaction one would expect from just about anyone.

Well, except Rodimus, who’s too busy reading that list that he wanted destroyed. He’s very sad about it.

I know, what a bummer!

[strange-changes-ln]

“Strange Changes.”

Chapter 6: “A Talk.”

…

The Janitor sat, within the tension between himself, and the Governess. She had decided to take this to the Library inside of the Residence, using two chairs she had managed to find. Her stare seemed blank. Well, clearly, with the mask on, it was gonna look that way, but under it, it was… firm.

A strong silence followed on. While the Lady sat firmly, with professionalism and elegance, Roger, on the other hand, was shuffling and shifting constantly, seeing no way to make this feel less… like this. Like he’s currently facing something… almost… dangerous. Not like he hasn’t before.

And like those times, he was never ready.

Silence, still. It was never-ending, it seemed, as the two collected their thoughts, and a way to begin the conversation.

.

.

.

” What has been going on. “ The Lady finally took initiative, considering the notion that the Janitor was not, and started the conversation. Roger perked up, blinking. Oh.

” ..uh.. well.. um.. “ He considered leaving the whole shadow invader thing out of the conversation entirely. It would make things easier, right?

But, at the same time..-

It’s a terrible idea. Lying doesn’t do anyone any good.

“ ..not..much..? “ ..that works..??

The Lady simply hummed.

Behind the mask, however, she frowned, as she was not pleased. She could tell the man was lying. It was in his tone, he was questioning his own wording.

” ..Roger. “

“ ..yes..? “

“ …You know very well, that something has been arising. It has been throwing your duties off track, as well as the Chef’s’. “ She leaned forward, looming over him, even in a sitting position.

" ..H-- "

" You know how, Janitor. "

Roger shrunk, shifting in the chair for the 30th time. His arms hung off the sides, given their length. His hands tensed. Squinting at the ground for a minute.

” We cannot be losing order here in the Maw, for it is the only place in this god forsaken world that makes sense anymore. So whatever the trouble may be rising, I suggest you say it now. It is best that you put an end to the- problem.. as soon as…… “

She stopped. Is he just- spacing out right now? Is this not important to him? After all she’s given him, this doesn’t concern him at ALL?

Indeed, he was lightly rocking back and forth, staring at the ground, not exactly obtaining anything the Lady was saying to him.

..Slowly, shadows began to whirl around the Governess, as she sat straight up, her posture tense. “ Roger. “

That got his attention. Eyeing back up at—

her. And the shadows. Oh. Oh no.

“ Pay attention. Does this not mean anything to you? Whatever is going on, I insist you explain NOW. That, is an ORDER. “ The shadows grew with intensity, swirling around her, menacingly. She looked… much more threatening like this. If she hadn’t been already, that is.

He flinched, expecting a sort of- physical contact to occur if he didn’t start talking. After all, he was simply a little, slightly shaking leaf, within the breeze of the one in control of this vessel. “ ..Y-Yes, Miss.. “ He nodded, with haste, so he could just get to the point.

“ ..There’s this.. I- I don’t really know what it is. It was like- like a shadow? A big, humanoid shadow. “ That was the simplest way to explain. She maintained her exterior, staring down at him through her mask.

" ..Shadow. " Her body just barely relaxed. " ..Do they have a name. "

" That's the thing. They don't-- we don't know their name. They keep it a secret. I don't- know why. "

" ...Hmm. " She leaned back into her chair. " This is.. unfortunate. Distracting. "

" ..Mhm. " Roger slowly reached up to adjust his hat a little bit. " Is- there anything you-- or- we, could do? " Asking, slowly beginning to relax himself. The Lady hummed.

" ..I will- see what I can do. " She nodded, the shadows ceasing from the air. " But for now, you and the Chef's can attempt to stall the... thing. "

Oh thank god. " Oh- that's-.. al-alright, uhh.. alright. "

. . .

Silence. Again. This is so awkward, good lord.

The Lady stood up, slowly. " I think we are done here. You may exit. "

" -Oh-- uh.. wh-what about the chairs? " Roger blinked.

" I will tidy that up on my own time. What I need you to do, is go. Do I make myself clear..? "

" ..yes, my Lady. "

She then vanished. He.. always wondered how she did that. How she attained that- shadow magic of hers. It's strange. To him, at least. But, without another word, he made his way to the exit of the Residence.

...

Okay. Okay. This is fine. Everything is fine. You aren't dead. Everything, is okay.

Roger took in a deep breath. Yep!! Everything is cool. Everything... is cool.

He needs something to drink. He just casually shuffles his way to the Kitchen.

.

.

.

" So! The talk went well? That's good, isn't it? " Thomas spoke up, trying to sound supportive- for one reason or another- while serving the Janitor a glass of water. He handed the glass cup to the short man. " So, what did she say? "

" Well.. uhh.. " Roger took the cup, and took a quick sip. " ..Mm- she said she'd see what she could do. But I don't know exactly what she will do, or when she'll do it. "

" Pehh. She might brush us off. Like always. " Marcus huffed, pouring himself a glass of wine. Though, he did glance to Roger for a moment. " Want some? "

" Nah. I'm not feeling it. "

" Oh, c'mon! Everyone needs a bit of wine every so often. 'Sides, you're looking terrible. You could use it. " Marcus commented. He's not wrong. Roger looks.. tired. And just unfresh. The Janitor deadpanned him for a moment.

" ...Really. "

" Seriously! I'm serious! I'm right, aren't I, bro?? Tell me he doesn't look terrible. "

" W-Well, I mean- " Thomas honestly didn't know how to respond. " ..I- uhhh.. "

" Exactly! "

" Alright, alright, calm down. No need to--- to keep--- wineing about it. "

.

.

.

" That was so bad, Roger, you know that- "

The Janitor just broke into a cackle. To him, that was- the funniest thing. Why? His sense of humor is broken, most likely. Thomas tried to find it at least somewhat funny. It wasn’t really there though. But Roger seemed happy with it.

“ C-Come on, it was funny- “ The Janitor held his hand straight up, pointing it towards Marcus.

“ No, it wasn’t, Roger. That was horrible. “ Marcus cringed, which only seemed to make it better for Roger, who was still laughing, smiling from ear-to-ear.

“ Kehehehe..heheh.. okay, okay. Now, uh.. I think I should- get going. “ He tilts his head towards the exit of the Kitchen, and back into the lower parts of the Maw. He eyed the cup of water he was still holding. He- kinda spilled some on the ground from the laughing. Oops. “ ..Sorry. “

” Oh- it’s okay. “ Thomas pats his shoulder gently. “ …Can I ask you something? “

” Huh? Sure, shoot. “

” Umm.. how many fingers am I holding up? “ The Chef proceeds to hold up four of his fingers. Roger simply blinked.

” ..Four. Why— “ oh wait.

“ -Y— You can tell?? You didn’t even have t— you can see now?? “ He looked confused, and surprised at the same time. Ohgeezohmanohokay—

“ ..I- I guess?- “

“ Wait- what? I thought you were just- “ Marcus squinted. “ ..Why didn’t you say you could- “

“ oH MAN- WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME?? I REALLY GOTTA GO, I’M- “ He coughs in between the words. “ I gotta- I GOTTA- Go— do my job!! Really would like to talk some more, I REALLY would, but I shouldn’t be holding up my work, sowiththatbeingsaid, I’mgonnaleave- goodbye- bye- seeya- bye- “ Roger then ushers himself out and away from the Chefs.

He just left them in silence. A short period of silence.

” … “

” … “

“ Roger can see..? “

” Yeah, it’s weird, right?? “

” ..If- he can see, why do his eyes look so.. “

” Oh- I think that’s because.. uhh.. here, I’ll just explain it to you. “

…

Oh my god.

Why? Why did you do that? You’re so brain-dead. A moron. An idiot.

Why can’t you just talk to people correctly?

Roger groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Once he opened them back up, his arm fell to his side, and he just- begun to shuffle forward. He needs to check on those kids. Make sure none of them went up and tried escaping while he was gone. For the while, he just thinks to himself.

The Lady. She’s very.. beautiful. But- at the same time, she’s kind of scary. And mysterious. Sort of in a sense, of- why does she wear the mask? Was it just an outfit choice, or is she hiding.. something? Where did she get that shadow thing from? It’s- sort of- confusing.

He squints. What’s gonna be done about the- the shadow person? Maybe she’ll take care of it privately? Probably, probably not.

Y’know what? Okay- stop thinking. Just keep going. Keep descending. Go check on the kids.

…

What’s their name? Why can’t they say? Is it- a sort of.. a sort of-

N-No. Stop. The last thing you need to focus on right now, is that- guy. Gal? Wait-

Stop. Just stop.

…

Roger rubs at his eyes. Tired. Need sleep. But you can’t. You gotta work first.

..you feel dirty. When was the last time you took a shower..? Washed your clothes…? Oh my god-

No- work first. Self-care second. Why is this so hard to understand right now, just do your stupid job.

He grips his head with one hand, and his face with his other, still walking, lowly groaning, and slightly humming, just trying to distract himself. Maybe-

NO. You’ve- you’ve been inconsistent enough, go do your job. The Governess didn’t let you stay here for nothing.

The hand holding his face, moves up to his hat. At least he’s not blocking his own view. You seriously need to chill. Nothing should make you do this. Focus. Focus.

..He blinks, staring at the ground, at his shoes. It’s.. kinda.. kinda blurry. He glances up ahead. Yeah.. yeah, it’s.. kinda blurry. Nothing looks right. It’s all.. it’s all.. really hard to see, right now, wait-

His arms fall to his side, his head tilts to the side, confused, rather lost, he doesn’t- understand what’s happening. He’s still walking. Does- does he even know where he’s going?? No, no, you don’t, cut it out and FOCUS. Why is that SO HARD?? You aren’t that tired, just-

He stops, scratching at his eye sockets, emitting garbled, agitated noises from his throat. Stop, stop, stop. Deep breath. In and out. In and out. You’re fine. You’re just.. tricking yourself..! Yeah.. you’re fine. You’re okay.

His vision isn’t blurry much anymore, but.. he can’t.. recognize where he is. Wait.. what?? He takes a step forward—

and he falls.

[aesthbaby]

You’re Not Alone

Summary: Angst story where Reader and Emily make a discovery after getting into an argument

Pairings: Emily Prentiss x reader (no gender is identified but it is stated that the reader is lgbtq+ and with Emily)

Request: @millipop18 this one

Warnings: Cursing | Arguments | Talk of homophobia

Wordcount: 1.5K

Masterlist

64. “Yell, scream, cry, please, just say something, anything.

67. “If you don’t want to talk about it then say so. Don’t lie and pretend to be fine when you clearly aren’t.”

“No, I don’t think that.” You’re defensive, and rightfully so. You fucked up and the evidence is written all over Emily’s face, you didn’t mean to hurt her. She damn near snapped on the spot right after you said it. You tried to defend yourself but of course Emily has a point, she always has a point.

“Why did you say that?” She doesn’t sound angry, she kind of sounds hurt.

“I said it without thinking, I didn’t mean it like that.” You and Em randomly decided you wanted to get tacos from the new place down the block after work. Everything was going fine until you ran into Matt Simmons and one of his kids. No idea which one it was, he has a shit ton.

“Well,” She trails quietly. “Did you mean it?” She stops what she’s doing and turns around to face you. Her dark eyes are pouring into your soul and its actually really intimidating to see. “Did you?” She repeats when you don’t answer.

“Did I what?” You’re distracted, you knew you shouldn’t have said that in front of her. Or at all for that matter of fact because it was so unlike you.

She puts down her phone and stiffens her expression. “Did you mean what you said?” Your mouth opens and closes without anything coming out. She scuffs and brushes past you; hitting your shoulder in the process. Shit y/n think! You stand there for a second, fidgeting with your fingers, and trying to find the right words. “Its a simple question, really.” She’s wearing her monotone voice and clenching her jaw.

“No...” You whisper like you’re afraid of your own voice.

Your girlfriend sits on the bench and moves to take her shoes off. “Y/n,” She spits your name out like gum, effectively getting your attention. “When Matt asked me who you were, you interrupted me and said...” She looks to you to finish her sentence but you stay quiet. “Of course.” She mumbles. “You told him, and I quote, “I’m just an old friend visiting the city.” Emily never really “yells” at you but its pretty obvious when she wants to. “What was that?” Her voice is rising. “Friend?!” Her eyes lock on you like prey and this is when you notice her anger is replaced by glistening tears. They’re barely there and Emily wouldn’t dare let them fall. As quick as you notice them, they’re gone again. Emily Prentiss does not cry.

“Em...I-” You’re anxiously clinching the collar of your shirt while trying to get the words out.

“You told him you were my friend...” She looks back down in defeat and it breaks your heart a little. You hear her sniffle and it just adds to the sadness building in your heart. When she looks at you again, her eyes are clear and her face is basically emotionless.

“Emily, baby, I am so sorry.” You sit beside her and gently lay your hand on hers.

She turns to you and asks, “Why?” That’s all she says.

Excuse me? Is what you wanted to say out of sheer shock. Obviously you said this instead: “I don’t know, Em. It just came out.”

“Right,” She nods to herself and then stands in front of you. “Y/n you and I both know this is very unlike you. I mean you’ve hesitated before when it came to telling people we’re dating but I-”

“Woah, when have I ever hesitated to tell people we were dating?” That one really threw you for a loop.

And she looks surprised that you even said anything. “Point being, I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”

The word “huh” was on the tip of your lips but you pushed it back. “Em, I’m okay.” You place your hand over your heart while speaking. “You’re the one who...” Your through suddenly feels dry.

“The one who’s...what? Upset?” You almost want to nod at that but decide against it. “But I’m not the one who said we were just friends.” Why is she talking to me like a unit chief? “And despite my current feelings, I know you.”

You swallow that information like a lump in your throat. “I’m okay.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “No, you are not and I’d like to know why?” Is this what Reid feels like when the team talks to him? I feel like a child during a negotiation. Confused. You were just about to defend yourself when she spoke again. “Is this about your family?” As your expression, she moves on. “Do you not like Matt? Would you prefer it if our relationship was more private?” She pauses before asking the next one. “Is this about me?”

“What? No! Jesus Em I have nothing against you or us.” Its like the more emotional you get, the more neutral her face becomes.

“Then what is it y/n/n?” She takes your hands in hers. “What. Is. It?”

“I fucked up, I realized that as soon as I said it.”

She lets out another puff of air. “God what is up with you today? You never keep stuff from me. You’re the one who made this stupid rule about always telling the truth even if its undesirable and boring.” Gezz I didn’t think it was that bad of a rule. “If you don’t want to talk about it then say so. Don’t lie and pretend to be fine when you clearly aren’t.”

“Oh here we go again with the bullshit. Don’t fucking profile me, Emily.” You stand and head to the kitchen. “Don’t open that box.” As you reach towards the refrigerator handle, her hand stops you.

“What happened?” She’s practically begging you to answer her.

You give in. “I got a call yesterday. I thought I recognized the number but when I picked up the phone the voice sounded fake. Like it was run through an app. They said I should be more careful about flaunting my sexuality.” The words spilled out so quickly you didn’t know how to stop them.

She was stunned, mouth ajar.“I had no idea. When did this happen?”

“Last night. I didn’t really care at first because I thought it was one of my old friends, exes, or something like that. It wasn’t until we were out that it felt like we were being followed. So when we saw Matt I panicked.” The apartment is filled with complete and suffocating silence. Em is looking at you like she suddenly has no idea who you are. “Em...” You take a step to her while she takes one back. “Baby...come on.” She don’t respond, or move, speak, nothing. “Talk to me Em, please.” Nothing. “Yell, scream, cry, please, just say something, anything.”

You haven’t seen her look this concerned since the time you ran smack dead into a wall in the middle of the night. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is so quiet. 

“Because I can handle myself, I was fine up until a few hours ago. It freaked me out. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You step to her and wrap your arms around her waist. “I just couldn’t tell you.” 

“Yes, you could have. You’re not alone anymore y/n/n. You have to tell me about this stuff. You’re not the only one affected by it.”

“Shit. Babe I’m sorry I didn’t think about it like that.”

She strokes a piece of your hair near your forehead. “Its okay. I’m more upset with myself for not noticing sooner. I do this kind of stuff as a living, you’d think it come natural.”

You pull her flush against you. “I really fucked up this time.”

She laughs at that. “You did, but don’t worry. Tomorrow you will come to work with me and I’ll have my team look into it. For now,” she kisses the top of your head. “You should eat and then tap out for the night. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

You give her a confused expression. “What do you mean?”

“First we’ll have to go over that call with Garcia, consult with Reid on the wording, hire Derek as a body guard, come out to the entire team about our relationship, and of course we’ll have to get a dog.”

“I like the dog part.” As if on queue Sergio comes out of the bedroom and sits at your feet. “Sergio’s kind of boring.” Despite whispering the last part, Sergio still meows at it.

Em untangles herself from you to pick up her cat. “Y/n doesn’t mean it Serg.”

You lean in to the cat’s small ear. “Yeah I do.”

“Come on babe, lets double check the locks.” The brunette and her cat leave the kitchen to cover your ass.

When she comes back, she’s empty handed. “Where’s the feline?”

“My arms are only for you.” She opens her arms for you.

You walk into the embrace and god does it feel good. After a moment of pure bless you speak. “I’m scared, E.”

“We’re gonna be okay.” She pulls you even closer. “You’re gonna be okay.”

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･**･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*˚✧₊⁎ ⁎⁺˳✧༚ ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟ･*:.｡.｡.:*･'･*:.｡.

Taglist  (Like my Emily taglist to be added, or you can send me an Ask located in the top right corner of my profile. You can also ask to be removed if you’d like)

@iamyouknow-yours @mortallythoughtfulgurl @spencerreidistoocute @andreaxxg13 (sorry this tag isn’t working for some reason) @vivianabakshani @garcias-batcave @davidrossiismydad @ssacandi-ass-prentiss @criminalmindsmoodrn @miidguardian-exe @thestrawberrygirl @lisztomaniacalice @aaron-hotchner187 @fanfictionfangirl04 @mys2425 @afuckingshituniverse @nomit16 @rabid-wild-misfits​ @justaghostmonument

[let-it-raines]

Walking the Baseline (Year: 2015)

Summary: This should be the happiest he’s been in years, but it’s not. He and Emma already had wildly different schedules, but now that she’s no longer on tour, it feels like they barely see each other. When they do, it’s for a day here, a week there, two if they’re lucky. That’s no way to live when his girlfriend is carrying their baby and freaking out about it more than he is.

If only he could have a bloody break from tennis to focus on his personal life for once.  

He’s got to be careful what he asks for.

Rating: Teen +

a/n: Hello again! I know these have been slow going, but I’m here with another installment! This may or may not be the last one. I haven’t decided on that yet, so we’ll see what happens there as I know there are many more things that could be told in this universe but don’t know how much motivation I have to write them 😘

ao3: 2012 | 2013 | 2014 | 2015 (CURRENT) | 2016 (original one-shot) |

Tumblr: 2012 | 2013 | 2014 | 2015 (CURRENT) | 2016 (original one-shot) |

-/-

November 2014.

Shit.

“This is bad,” Rob says from across the room, as if that isn’t the most obvious bit of information on the planet right now. “What are you going to do, mate?”

He wants to do a myriad of things, but he can’t right now.

“Play my match and then call Emma and make sure she’s okay.” Killian shrugs and bends down at the knees to squat against the wall. He hits the timer on his phone for a minute, and he tries to focus on that instead of the news Ariel just texted him.

He’s not doing great at that. All these years of being able to block life out before a match have suddenly deteriorated.

“Do you want to call her now?” Robin prods.

“She won’t answer if I call now. Watch.” Killian exits out of the timer and hits Emma’s number on his phone. It rings and rings and rings, and she never answers. He stands from his squat and tries again. Still, no answer. “Emma, darling,” he speaks into the phone, “I’m about to play, so I can’t talk to you anytime soon. I love you. Everything is alright, yeah? We knew this was going to happen at some point, but I’m sorry it happened this way. I’ll call you as soon as I can. You and the babe stay safe, alright?”

“Do you think that’s going to do any good?”

“No,” Killian answers honestly, “it’s not. She’s going to be freaking the hell out, and nothing is going to calm her down, certainly not me.”

He thumbs through his phone once more, looking through his texts and clicking on the links Ariel sent him. It’s pictures of Emma in her neighborhood, which is supposed to be private. That is a lie, though, because someone managed to take pictures of Emma walking to get her mail, her clothes tight enough that the roundness of her stomach is obvious, especially compared to how she usually looks.

It’s not good. Not good at all.

After the US Open, Emma stopped playing, telling the WTA she was out for the rest of the season on injury. A few people know because of how often Emma has to get drug tested, but it’s all been a well-kept secret.

That is no longer true.

Bloody hell.

“Mr. Jones,” the tournament director says when he pokes his head in the warm-up room, “it’s time to go.”

“Aye, I’ll be right there.” He stands from his squat and stretches out his legs, jumping up and down a few times before grabbing his racket bag from the floor. “Rob, get Ariel to try calling Emma while I’m playing. She’s more likely to talk to her than any of us.”

“I’ll try.” Rob nods and claps his hand over Killian’s back. “Good luck in your match. I know it’s a rubber, but don’t be a loser.”

Killian blows air out of his nose with his laugh. “I’ll try not to be a loser. My fucking motto for life.”

-/-

Killian isn’t a loser that day, but he is out of the tournament. He hates the season-ending final, how it’s a round robin event. He lost the same amount of matches as the man who got to advance to the semi-finals but because he lost three more games, he’s packing his bags to go home.

(Though, he didn’t hate it when he won it years ago, but now is not the time to think of his own hypocrisy.)

To his home here in London, half an hour away from the tournament, instead of back in America with Emma. It’s been odd staying here for the past two weeks. For so long, he was used to living here alone. Sure, Ariel and Rob would pop in, especially after Milah, but it was his home. It was a place to sleep and shower and watch television between having to constantly be on the road and in the air. Then Emma came along and though she’s here less frequently, she’s made her mark.

Some of her clothes litter his closet, her mugs fill his cabinets, blankets she has bought are in the baskets in his den. She hasn’t been here since mid-September when they needed to get away for a little while, but she’s still everywhere. Killian has been finding her bobby pins in his carpet the entire time he’s been here.

The only thing of Emma’s that isn’t here is Emma.

The sun has set outside, darkness taking over, and though it’s past midnight in America, Killian presses Emma’s name on his phone as he sets the timer on the oven for his dinner.

“Hello?”

“Now, tell me why you’ll answer your phone at one in the morning but not during daylight hours?”

“Because I’m a stubborn ass with no real sense of time.”

Killian huffs and moves to his living room, plopping down on the couch. “Now, I thought that was me.”

“It is. We both are. It’s why we’re dating.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well, I could say other things, but I’m trying to work on my dirty jokes, trying to say fewer of them.”

“Oh, you should never do that. I like when you’re dirty.” Emma’s silent on the other end of the line, and Killian waits for her to speak, to make another joke, to ask him if he could litter this conversation with innuendos. When she doesn’t, he decides it’s better to bite the bullet now than to drag it out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I want to change what I was wearing to get the mail this morning,” Emma says through gritted teeth. “I don’t know how I could have been so damn stupid.”

“It’s a private area. You thought you were safe. It’s understandable, love. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You were going to have to tell everyone eventually.”

“Eventually being the key word.” She whistles, and if he had to guess, she’s sitting in bed with a tub of icing in her lap and one of her favorite shows on the television. She’ll beat herself up about the icing tomorrow even if she shouldn’t. “Mary Margaret took my phone for a little while so I couldn’t check anything online. That’s why I didn’t answer you when you called earlier. It’s been…a day. I’m sorry you didn’t make it to the semi-finals.”

“Yeah, me too,” he tells her, allowing himself to wallow for a moment. “I get to come home to you sooner, though.”

“I’ve saved the tree for you to help me put up. And Mary Margaret has started on the sides for Thanksgiving. There’s going to be so much food for you to pig out on before off-season training starts.”

He can hear the smile now. Good.

“There’s nothing I’m looking forward to more. I’ve heard there’s such a thing as a dad bod, and I fully intend on getting one this holiday season.”

Emma blows air out her nose. “You and I both know that’s not true. You’re too vain for that.”

“I am devilishly handsome, aren’t I?”

“I’ll let you keep thinking that. Killian?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I’ll be fine. This entire…situation has sucked, but I’m slowly coming around to it. What happens, happens, and I’ll deal with it. If I can get through half the things I’ve gotten through, I can get through a human being growing inside of me and the world knowing about it. I think the hardest part is how bored I am. Do you have any idea what it’s like to constantly be on the move and then for it to suddenly stop?”

“No, I don’t.” He pulls a blanket over his lap to warm him. “I hope I never find out.”

“I hope you don’t either.” Emma yawns, and the corners of Killian’s lips tug up. Maybe this means she’ll try to sleep instead of staying up worrying all night. “I think I’m going to go to sleep. Or at least try.”

“Goodnight, Swan. I love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

-/-

Killian gets two weeks off in Florida for Thanksgiving and to have a break from training. It’s lovely to do nothing if only for a moment (he would be horrible having to take the extended break like Emma) and to spend it with Emma and her family, but then it’s back to practice and tweaking his game during the off-season.

Rob and Nemo work him harder than they ever have, bemoaning him about his slow legs and his age – he’s nearly twenty-nine, which was once considered ancient in his sport – but he keeps pushing through. Hours are spent on the court and in the gym, and the rest of his days are spent with Emma, going on walks and watching TV in their house. She’s still practicing and going to the gym, even if those are modified to how they were before, and if Killian closes his eyes, it’s almost like normal.

But then, slowly, December passes, Christmas lights everywhere fading a little every day, and Killian is packing several suitcases for the month he’s going to spend in Australia. Three years ago, Australia is where it all began for them, and it’s odd to be going without Emma.

She’s made a rule that most of their conversations have to be about things other than the baby. Part of it is because Mary Margaret overloaded Emma with baby talk. It was constantly about names and clothing and what color the nursery should be painted. If it wasn’t that, it was book after book about pregnancy, hormone changes, and the many processes that happen when giving birth.

Even for Killian, who isn’t particular about medical procedures, that was too much. He loves Mary Margaret as much as Emma does, and while she’s great most of the time, it all has been a little much.

The media attention has been too.

Thus, Emma’s rules. Their lives are supposed to go on as normal with the occasional conversation about the baby, usually when it’s absolutely necessary or when it’s late at night and they’re in bed or lounging on the couch watching TV and Killian’s hand finds Emma’s ever-growing stomach.

He thinks that’s what’s so bloody difficult for him as he zips up his suitcase. He’s going to be gone for a month, and in that month, everything can and will change.

Killian is missing seeing his child grow and missing being with his girlfriend, and as much as he loves what he does, as passionate as he is about having the fucking best job in the world, he would trade it all to not have to give up so much of their lives.

Emma would never let him.

She’d slap him if she knew he was even having these thoughts.

“Do you like this jacket?” Emma asks as she shuffles through their closet next to him. “I mean, I like that it’s red, but do you think it’s too bold?”

Killian turns and looks, glancing up and down at Emma. “I like the red leather.”

Emma nods and smiles, looking at herself in the mirror and tugging the coat over her stomach. “One day again, it’ll zip up.” She rolls her eyes and then begins to take it off, but Killian stops and walks toward her, running his fingers over the lapels until she’s flush against him.

“One day,” he echoes before dipping his head to her neck and running his lips across her jaw, “but for now, I think it’s fine to not have you covered up.”

Emma cranes her neck and makes a nose he’s going to memorize and take with him all the way to Australia. “That was a horrible line. You need to be a better flirt. This isn’t working for me at all.”

His hand falls from her shoulder and slowly makes its way to her ass before he has a firm grip. She makes that noise again, and Killian smirks against her neck.

“Well,” he drawls, making his accent as thick as he can as he nibbles at her ear, “I have forty-five minutes before I have to go. What do you say I use about fifteen of those focusing on you?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh, absolutely. I want to take in as much of you as I can while I can.”

“Dirty,” he whispers in her ear before kissing her and walking her out of the closet and back to the bedroom.

-/-

January 2015.

ES: Good luck today, babe! Or tomorrow. I’m not really sure what time it is in Australia, but I do know I will not be awake for your match.

Killian laughs at his phone. He’s been here three weeks, and Emma still hasn’t gotten the time difference down. He figured she wouldn’t be too bad with it since she makes this trip every year, but according to David, he changed all of Emma’s clocks and she never really knows the difference after the first two days.

It’s technically yesterday afternoon back home, or at least it was when she sent this, and he texts her back, thanking her and promising to call after his practice.

He’s got the first night session match in RLA tonight for his quarterfinal match, and if that weren’t three in the morning back home, he knows Emma would be up for it.

He wouldn’t ask anyone to be awake at that ungodly hour for him.

“Have you finished your hair yet?” Ariel asks.

She’s sitting on his bed in his hotel room, has been for an hour even though he definitely did not invite her over, and he’s had to listen to her rambling about sponsorship pitches and contract negotiations and all the things he hates the entire time. So he’s spending a little extra time messing with his hair and shaving his beard. She’s used to this, of course, and probably knows the exact amount of time it’ll take him to get ready better than he does.

“Not quite, love.”

“You know you’re going to put it under a hat and get it all sweaty, right? It doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

Killian shakes his head and puts his razor down before walking out of the bathroom to peek his head over at Ariel. “Are you really that bored that you can’t find something else to do other than bother me?”

She sits up and props herself on her elbows, her red hair flowing down her back, but a small bit gets stuck in her eye. She quickly blows it off. “It’s a big match day, and you’re nervous. I’ve been sent here to keep you occupied so you can’t think about how nervous you are or how much you miss Emma or how much you want to write an entire book of poetry about how much you love her.”

“I have never said that last part,” he counters.

“But you’ve thought it, Mr. Darcy. You and your big ole heart and your obsession with your girlfriend and your baby.”

Killian chuckles and leans against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and arches a brow. “Am I not supposed to be in love with my girlfriend and our child?”

Ariel shrugs. “I just think that for someone who loves a woman that much, there might be a ring and a question rattling around somewhere.”

His eyes roll, and outwardly, he deals with the question with annoyance. Inwardly, his heart quickens and he thinks some things he’s been trying not to.

Some things that, well, shake him to his core and make his breathing a little more difficult than normal.

He and Emma have talked about marriage, but it’s always been brief, seemingly inconsequential. It’s something they’d consider a long way down the road, maybe when their lives are normal, when they can profess their love to each other without any professional blowbacks.

With how the game is progressing and how long players are starting to play now, and more than just the top guys, he doesn’t know when that’ll be.

Killian loves Emma. Emma loves him. They’ve both made each other better people and committed to each other and to their unborn daughter, and Killian doesn’t see that ever changing, marriage license or not.

“A,” he whispers, his fingers tapping over his bicep, “Whatever happens with us is as much up to Emma as it is to me. We like how things are now, and I can write a book of poetry on our love no matter if she is my wife or not.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just want to go to that wedding. I feel like it would be the party of a lifetime.”

“Tell you what, I’ll take you to the party of a lifetime when I win this damn tournament. We’ll go clubbing like we both don’t go to bed for ten when we can.”

Ariel winks. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Now, come on, we’ve got things to do, and you’re making us late with all your unnecessary primping.”

“Because I’m that damn good-looking and should accentuate it when I can.”

Ariel rises from the bed wand comes over to pat his shoulder. “Whatever you tell yourself to sleep that night.”

-/-

Killian runs through his practice with ease, and he feels good. He’s seeing the ball clearly, doesn’t feel any aches in his body, and though his opponent has handed Killian’s ass to him on a silver platter many times, he’s feeling good about tonight.

Until he isn’t.

It’s the second set when it happens.

Killian is up a set and has two break points to solidify a lead when he’s running down a forehand and loses his footing on the court. His ankle is the first thing to twist, and before he can think, he’s propelling forward toward the ground.

For the entirety of his life, Killian has been told not to fall on his wrists. It’s the first thing any athlete learns. Hell, it’s the first thing anyone learns, but instinct takes over him in that moment. He’s trying to keep from landing flat on his face, and so he lands on his left wrist.

His fucking left wrist, which has caused him trouble his entire career.

Now, though, as he sits on his courtside chair and the tournament medical examiner touches him, he knows this is worse than any injury he’s had in the past.

Fucking hell, he has to pull out of the tournament.

He doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to play for the rest of the season.

Shit.  

Should have fallen on his face and knocked out his teeth. He could still play with no teeth.

-/-

“It’s a fracture,” a doctor tells him that night as he sits in a hospital bed in nothing but one of those awful paper gowns. “You’ll want to consult with your physicians back in Britain, but I’d say a ten-week recovery at the least, six months at most.”

“That’s not exactly a short time span,” Killian grumbles. “You can’t give me something more exact?”

He shrugs. “I think it’ll most likely be about three months for you, but you won’t know until you start playing again. It’s more the rehab than the recovery that I would worry about.”

“Thank you, Dr. Weissman,” Rob tells the doc, dismissing him before Killian can take the piss out of the man for doing his job. Dr. Weissman nods and leaves the room, and all that’s left are Killian, Rob, and Ariel. Nemo is back at the hotel, probably watching the video of Killian ruining their season over and over again. “How are you feeling, Jones?”

“Just peachy,” he lies, flashing them his brightest smile before it falls. He pushes his hair back and yanks at the strands, pulling hard enough for it to hurt. “Fuck.”

What has he done to himself?

People are playing longer now, but what if he isn’t one of those? What if this is the injury that begins the slow deterioration of his career? The one that whittles him away from a great player to a star trying too hard to hang onto his shine?

He hates himself for even thinking that because it’s conceited and self-loathing and all the other things he’s tried not to be lately. He was the one who had to talk Emma through something similar, to tell her that the pregnancy wouldn’t be the end of her career, that one day she’d be standing at the top of the podium again with a shiny trophy in hand.

It all felt so convincing when he was telling her that.

But he’s also an asshole who can seldom take his own advice.

And what Emma is going through is much harder than what he is, so how dare he even compare the two situations?

Seriously.

Fuck.

-/-

February 2015. 

David picks him up at the airport in Florida, but it could have been a stranger and Killian wouldn’t know the difference. He’s been moping on a plane for twenty-four hours and doesn’t notice much of anything.

That is until he walks in the front door of his home and is wrapped in the tightest embrace he’s ever felt. Emma, like always, smells of vanilla and flowers, and he inhales her scent. It’s been a month without it, and he never wants to lose it again. Her hand comes into his hair, scratching down to his skull, and she pulls him as close as possible, her stomach pressed between them. She’s seven months along now, was six when he left, and the difference feels almost impossible to describe.

He tries not to think of all he’s missed, not when he’s back in her arms once more.

What a beautiful place to be.

He’s thought that his world was falling apart, that he had no control over anything, and it was one disaster after another.

As his uninjured arm run up and down Emma’s back and he continues to breathe in her scent and her warmth, he’s reminded that his world, the most important one, is more solid than it’s been since he lost Liam.

If his brother could see him in this moment, even when his mind and body are at low points, Killian would hope that Liam would be proud of Killian’s accomplishments instead of disappointed in Killian’s failures.

“I missed you,” Emma whispers against his cheek.

“I missed you, too, Swan. You have no idea how much.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.” His hand comes to rest in her ponytail. “I promise I will be.”

-/-

The world seems to stop for the both of them, and it’s not just because Killian spends his first week at home moping in bed, watching more TV than he has in years. Emma joins him, lounging with her legs crossed over his, basically using his body to make herself comfortable when her back is sore, and if it weren’t for food delivery services, they likely wouldn’t eat. Well, at the very least, they wouldn’t eat any proper meals. Emma’s doctor wouldn’t like that.

Killian’s doctor, on the other hand, has encouraged him to stay active but to rest his wrist. He’s not supposed to pick up a racket except to lightly hit a few forehands, and he definitely isn’t supposed to do any weight work in the gym lest he wants his arms to become horribly unbalanced.

It’s a change in lifestyle, and Killian hates it.

He obviously still hates himself because he spends a hell of a lot of time online looking at articles and tweets about the Australian Open. Half of them are about him, half are about the eventually winners, and a small sprinkling are about how Emma couldn’t defend her title because of her pregnancy.

That sends him into another spiral, and in the darkness of their bedroom, he reads article after article about how Emma Swan will never come back to the game, about how she’s ruined her career, about how if she does come back, she shouldn’t have a protected ranking because pregnancy is not an injury and does not merit any help in building back a ranking.

Absolute bullshit.

How is the WTA the largest sports organization for women and yet it has no pregnancy protections for its players?

That sets him off more than anything else, and as Killian reads article after article and tweet after tweet, and he hopes to God that Emma hasn’t spent her nights reading this like he has.

What kind of darkness has he stumbled into, and how does he get out of it?

“Get up.”

Killian groans and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow and trying to go back to the sleep he didn’t know he’d fallen into. His head is screaming at him.

“KJ, get up.” He feels Emma’s hands on him, shaking his shoulders, but he ignores her. The last thing he wants to do is open his eyes and get out of bed. “My water broke.”

He immediately flips over and sits up, staring at Emma who is standing over the bed with her arms crossed over her chest. “Are you serious? What are you doing just standing there? Have you called your doctor? It’s too soon for your water to have broken.”

Her eyes roll. “My water did not break. It’s noon, and you’re still in bed. Get up.”

“Now, that’s just cruel. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I didn’t expect for you to be coherent enough to really listen.” Emma sits down on the edge of the bed and leans in to kiss his cheek and brush his hair back. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“Now I’m never going to believe you if you tell me your water has broken.”

Emma shrugs. “Next time I say it, I promise I will mean it.” Her hands wander down his side, moving over his collarbones and through tufts of hair on his chest. She’s always fond of doing that. “Look, I get the moping and the internet doom scrolling. I’ve been through that, and I support you doing whatever you need to do.”

“I feel like there’s a but coming.”

“But,” Emma continues, “this baby girl is coming in two months, possibly less, and I don’t know if you’ve looked in the nursery since you got home, but it’s all boxes and disassembled furniture.”

“You didn’t get to all that while I was gone?” She yanks on his hair, and he grits his teeth to keep from yelping. “Only teasing, love.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get to it. All of this baby stuff freaks me out and after putting together one railing for the crib and having a hormonal meltdown because I didn’t want it to be my fault if the crib fell apart while she was sleeping in it, I stopped. Figured it’d be better if you were here.”

“So that it’d be my fault if the crib fell apart?”

“Exactly.” She tilts her head toward the bedroom door. “I made you coffee, so get your ass out of bed and lend me a hand.”

He raises his broken, wrapped up wrist. “Was that pun intended?”

“Believe it or not, no.” She leans in to kiss his cheek once more. “I’m not going to kick you while you’re down.”

“You’re just going to kick me out of bed.”

“Exactly.”

His legs slowly drag him out of bed and to the kitchen, where he takes the pain medication he’s allowed to take, downs some water, and drinks his coffee. It’ll be awhile before the caffeine and medication kick in, so he tries to blink himself awake to get rid of the sleepiness and the pain.

It doesn’t work.

He does, however.

Emma’s been up for awhile and has moved all the boxes in the nursery into their own sections. It’s just as chaotic as it was before, but it at least looks a little more put together. Killian settles down in front of the crib, reads through the instructions, and he starts piecing things together while Emma works on the dresser. She flits around the room, helping him when he needs it, and as much as he’d like to say they finish quickly, they don’t. It takes them all morning just to do those two pieces of furniture and for him to fix the roller on the glider, and he’s exhausted.

Maybe he can convince Emma to take a nap with him later.

After he exercises. He has to move a little today. His body hasn’t been this stiff on a non-tournament day in ages.

Okay, so maybe nap first, then exercise. That sounds like a better plan.

“What the bloody hell is this doing in here?” Killian asks. He bends down and picks up Emma’s gold medal, dangling it on his arm, which is a much safer space than the floor under a stack of books where it was.

“Oh, yeah,” Emma hums, “Mary Margaret wanted me to display that in here.”

“Why?”

“Well, she wanted me to put some of my trophies in here, but I said that was weird and probably a little dangerous. But then she suggested we do, like, this little wall collage of some things about us for her. That’s the achievement I’m proudest of, at least professionally, and I figured it would be kind of badass for my kid to know her mom was an Olympian.”

“Is,” Killian corrects while he walks toward Emma and tucks some strands of hair behind her ear. “Her mom is an Olympian. Present tense.”

Emma shakes her head and looks away, eyelids covering those beautiful green eyes of hers. “Was. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to competition, Killian. I’ve been reading what exactly my body is going to go through, which, big mistake by the way, and I don’t know how I’m going to get back into competition shape to work my way back up to the top. I spent most of my life conditioning my body to be an athlete. I don’t think it knows how to be a mom and an athlete.”

“You’re always going to be an Olympian and an athlete,” he promises, meaning every word, “and it’s not going to be easy getting back. The cards are fucking stacked against you. But if there’s anyone who can persevere through hardship, it’s you. And me and the babe will be right here with you.”

“Except you’ll probably be back on tour traveling again. Hopefully your wrist will be healed soon, way before she comes.”

Killian leans forward and dips his head down to rest his forehead against Emma’s. “I’m staying with the two of you for as long as I can. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Swan. You’re stuck with me for life.”

“That isn’t as appealing sounding as you think it is.”

Killian tilts his head back with laughter before kissing Emma’s temple. He still hasn’t brushed his teeth this morning and has some major coffee breath. He’s surprised she hasn’t kicked him out of the house yet. She surely will if he attempts to kiss her.

“Let’s install these shelves and then go take a nap, yeah? Get rid of all our fears for a little while with sleeping. Maybe we’ll even go for a walk tonight since the neighborhood is now extra secure.”

“Sounds like a plan, KJ. Oh,” Emma gasps, moving away from him and reaching into a basket to pull out an old book. “I meant to tell you this, but I was shopping for books online and I found one from when I was a kid. I used to read it in the foster system, and I don’t know, it would bring me comfort. I thought maybe it would be a good name for her.”

She hands him the book, and he looks over the cover, reading the words written in large print.

“Olivia,” he whispers, sounding out the name on his tongue. “Olivia Swan-Jones.”

He can’t wait to meet her.

And he can’t wait for her to see what a badass her mom is, and how Emma is definitely going to stand at the top of that podium again.

Hopefully he is too.

-/-

-/-

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