#fun fact: this is why old books had clasps or chains on them. so they could keep it closed tightly and limit moisture getting in

[j-esbian]

one of my biggest pet peeves and my smallest hill to die on is when people act like parchment is just The Old Fashioned Paper, or worse, use those terms interchangeably. it’s especially egregious in the fantasy genre, of course.

and i can kind of see how they got there: a lot of surviving texts from medieval europe are on parchment and that influences the way people perceive things; because ofc western fantasy draws a LOT of things from medieval times, that just gets exported along with the ideas that thatched houses are constantly falling apart and gothic churches come pre-blackened with soot

there’s a lot of ground to cover with the history of the written word, but the thing about paper is that it really took off because the gutenberg press made it fast and cheap to make books and paper was CHEAP and much easier to produce. parchment is expensive and, quite frankly, a much more limited resource (and it also didn’t disappear after the printing press took off. i’ve seen books printed on vellum, but by that point it was for the novelty/explicitly because it was so expensive). but it does have significant longevity vs paper, so of course it was usually reserved for important cultural items. people wouldn’t be using parchment to make a flyer for the county fair or to advertise a job, and probably only used it for correspondence if they’re very rich. granted, before the printing boom galvanized literacy levels (because it made reading material cheaper and more accessible), generally only rich people were literate and would have a need for something to read and write on, but there have been pamphlets forever

paper existed before the 13th century and honestly, whether it was anachronistic in real life shouldn’t bother you in a made up setting and anyway PLEASE remember that paper and parchment are not the same thing

[beelsnack]

I Put A Spell On You - Obey Me Boys and A Witch MC

I may have mentioned it in an ask or something before, but I'm actually a practicing witch. (Sorry, Mammon.) So, in honor of spooky season, I bring you witch MC!

----

Lucifer: "Can I ask you something?"

Lucifer looked up from the report he had been working on. In the House of Lamentation, hearing that question was very rarely followed by anything but disaster. He bit back the urge to sigh and turned to look at the human. "You may."

"Have you ever been summoned by a witch?" the human set down their pen. They had taken refuge in Lucifer's room in an attempt to actually get their homework done, and had been working diligently up until this point. "Like, successfully."

He raised an eyebrow. "No, I haven't. I doubt any mortal witch would have the power to actually summon me."

"That's what I thought," they leaned back in their chair, stretching.

"What brought this on?"

"A witch I know up in the Human Realm swore up and down that he had, quote unquote, ‘summoned Lucifer himself.’ No one believed him anyway, but I figured I would ask just to confirm my suspicions.”

“No, it is highly unlikely that a mortal witch would have the magical power to summon me,” Lucifer chuckled darkly. “Although many have tried.”

“What happens to them when they do?” they asked, completely abandoning their work at this point. Part of Lucifer wanted to reprimand them for getting distracted, but he couldn’t deny that he liked having their attention on him. “Do you curse them or something?”

“I do nothing,” he smirked as they got up to lean against his desk. Perhaps he could stand to take a break as well. “The minor demons they actually summon, however, often have their fun with those foolish enough to try.”

“Oh, I’ll bet the Little Ds have a blast with them, huh?” the human grinned.

“Ask Number Two about the time he possessed a ouija board and convinced a human they would die if they ever wore the color blue again.”

Laughing, the human moved to return to their spot at his coffee table where they had spread out all of their study materials. Lucifer, however, had different plans.

“Oof!”

In one quick, fluid motion, he had grasped the human around the waist and tugged them into his lap. The movement had mussed up their hair, and he affectionately moved a few strands out of their face to see their adorable pout.

“You know, my dear, you are the only human witch able to summon me. You should wear that fact like a badge of honor.”

Mammon: “Now that’s just playin’ dirty!”

The human had to make a concentrated effort not to laugh at Mammon. “Yeah, they really didn’t have to go that far. They already have you by the balls.”

“They do not!” Mammon growled, crossing his arms. “Nobody has control over The Great Mammon!”

“Except for the multitude of humans who you made pacts with because they promised you a few bucks.”

“Wow, okay.”

Shaking their head, they gently plucked the doll out of Mammon’s palm. It was a standard poppet, made out of cloth. “Why don’t you just have Lucifer or Satan undo the curses?”

“Because,” Mammon huffed. “Human magic is different from demon magic. None of us know the first thing about it.”

“You just don’t want to admit to anyone that the witches pulled one over on you again.”

“Can you fix it or not?”

Smothering another laugh, they brought the poppet closer to examine it. Aside from the basic filling, it felt like there were some stones in there, and they thought they smelled some herbs.

“So, basically all you need to do is remove whatever link they used to bind the doll to you,” they muttered, more to themself than anything. “Usually it’s hair, nail, a drop of blood if they’re feeling particularly nasty…”

“That’s what they were doin’?”

The human looked up, tilting their head. “What?”

“One of the witches was bein’ real nice to me,” Mammon sighed. “Patting me on the head when I dropped off some money for them. Shoulda known she was trying something fishy!”

“Okay, that answers that.” they made their way over to their desk, plopping down in the chair. “So she probably pulled out some of your hair and put it inside the doll. So all we have to do it get it out, this thing becomes a regular old doll, and voila, curse broken.”

“How do we do that?” Mammon asked, peering over their shoulder as they reached into their drawer. His blue eyes widened when they pulled out a pair of scissors. “Whaddaya plan on doin’ with those?”

“Mammon, this is going to hurt like a bitch.”

“Wha - ack!”

Mammon doubled over in pain at the same time the human cut open a slice on the doll’s belly. There, right in the center of the stuffing and stones - and there were herbs in there, they had been right! - was a little bundle of white hair, tied with a piece of twine.

“Ah-ha!” they plucked the bunch out of the doll, and Mammon just barely managed to catch himself on the corner of the desk before he went crashing to the floor.

“Holy shit, human, I’m gonna fuckin’ hurl.”

“Do it somewhere that isn’t my room, please.”

Leviathan: “Levi, I don’t know how to tell you this, but ‘witch’ and ‘magical girl’ aren’t the same thing.”

Ever since they let it slip that they practiced witchcraft, Levi had obsessively forced them to watch every magical girl anime he could think of. It was his way of relating to them, they were sure, but it was starting to get a little out of hand. There were only so many variations of the magical girl trope in existence.

Levi frowned at them. “It’s not?”

“Well, for one, I don’t own a super cute lolita dress.”

“Do you want me to make you one?”

The human laughed. “Somehow I don’t think showing up to a coven meeting wearing a pink loli dress will make the others take me very seriously.”

“What about blue?”

“Leviathan.”

“Fine, fine,” he huffed. “So if it’s not like in the anime, what is human magic like?”

“A lot more boring than demon magic, honestly.” the human shrugged, turning back to the monitor. Since they had put their foot down against watching Madoka, the two of them were rewatching Sailor Moon. “A lot of using herbs and crystals and energy. Really symbolic.”

“That is boring,” Levi scowled. “You don’t even get a transformation sequence.”

“I’m just as mad about it as you are, dude.”

Satan: “Holy shit, Satan, that is a ton of books.”

THe demon had no reason to look as proud as he did as he sat the stack of books on the table in front of him. “This isn’t even all of them. Some of them are cursed, so I let them be for now.”

“That’s...both impressive and concerning.” the human picked up a book off the top of the pile. “Whoa, it’s even handwritten!”

“I’ve collected my fair share of grimoires over the millennia.” Satan took a seat across from them, watching as they turned each page with reverence. “I believe that one is from a Scottish witch from the 16th century.”

“Should I be wearing gloves or something?” they cradled the book like it was made of glass. “This is historic, Satan.”

“I’ve cast the appropriate spells on them to prevent them from decaying, don’t worry.” Satan laughed. “Although your concern is appreciated.”

“I could learn so much about the craft from these,” their voice was barely above a whisper, eyes wide as they scanned each page like it contained the secret to eternal life. “This is...wow…”

The look of utter rapture that the human had on their face was endearing, and Satan couldn’t help but smile softly at them. “Feel free to peruse them whenever you like. They deserve to be appreciated.”

“You mean it?” they looked up with hope sparkling in their eyes. “Thank you so much, Satan!”

“Of course,” he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind their ear. “That look on your face is worth any price.”

Asmodeus: “I have a gift for you!”

Asmo poked his head up from where he had buried it in his D.D.D. The human stood next to the couch, arms clasped behind their back and a giddy smile stretching across their face. Asmo could practically feel them vibrating from excitement.

“Ooh, for me? Darling, you shouldn’t have!” He pocketed his phone and gave them his full attention. “What is it?”

They held out their hands, revealing the treasure they had been hiding. “Ta-da!”

Asmo carefully picked up the chain from their palms. Dangling from the end of it was a small bottle, wrapped carefully in wire and turned into a pendant. Tiny, translucent pink stones sat inside, nestled in a layer of salt and herbs. The magic surrounding it was faint, as most human witchery was, but it was so uniquely them that Asmo could just about cry.

“Oh, darling, you made me a love charm!” he exclaimed, immediately slipping the necklace on. “It’s so cute! I love it, thank you so much!”

The human smiled. “I’m glad! I wasn’t sure what to do with the rose quartz, but I knew you would love them, so I figured I would make you something! Not that I really think a love charm would work on you, but I figured you would appreciate the aesthetic.”

Asmo laughed, reaching forward to cup the side of their face gently. “You don’t need to use a love charm on me, darling. I’m already captivated by you.” His other hand came up to touch the pendent resting against his collarbone. “This will just serve as a reminder of how spellbound you’ve made me.”

Beelzebub: When they had first described themself as a “kitchen witch,” Beel had thought that they meant they were a really good cook.

And while that was true, they also were literally a kitchen witch.

“Basil for protection...oregano to ward off negative magic...there, that should do it.”

To Beel, it just looked like they were making pasta. Which was never a bad thing. But they chose which herbs to season it with such intention and purpose, Beel knew it was more than that.

“Do herbs really have magic?” he asked, leaning on the counter next to the stove while the human worked on magic dinner. “I’ve never thought of them as particularly magical.”

“It’s more of a human thing,” they said, sprinkling the last of the oregano over the pot of sauce. “We don’t get the flashy sparks and all that, so we had to develop our own magic.”

“Hm…” Beel regarded the pot with curiosity. “Is that why your cooking is so good?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.” they laughed, swatting at his hand as he slowly approached the pot. “You aren’t sneaky, Beel.”

“Can I just have a taste?”

“Your ‘taste’ is drinking the whole pot like it’s soup.” they rolled their eyes. “I haven’t even started cooking it yet! It’s cold!”

Beel pouted, looking every bit the kicked puppy. “But I want to taste your magic.”

“You can taste my magic when dinner’s ready.”

Belphegor: On nights when he couldn’t sleep, Belphie usually ended up with the human.

Sometimes it was just him wiggling his way into their bed and cuddling with them until he felt sleepy. But tonight, it looks like they were sharing a case of insomnia.

So that was how he ended up sitting on the human’s floor with his hand in their lap as they studied it like it was a textbook.

“So? What do the squiggly lines of destiny tell you about me?”

“That you’re a little bitch.” they shot back, running their thumb over the center of his palm. “You have a lot of crosses on your heart line.”

“Which means?”

“You’re emotionally fucked up.”

Belphie snorted. “I could have told you that one.”

“You’re the one who came in here and wanted to see some human magic, I don’t want to hear any complaining.” they let go of his hand. “The only reason I’m breaking out the salt and candles is to banish your demonic ass from my room.”

“You know that only works on lesser demons.”

“Anything will work as banishment if I throw it hard enough.”

Diavolo: This...felt kind of pointless, honestly.

They knew it was mainly because of Diavolo’s obsession with human culture. But doing a Tarot reading for the Crown Prince of Hell seemed like a waste of everyone’s time.

Well, regardless, a summons from Diavolo was not to be ignored, so they had dutifully gathered up their cards and made their way to the Demon Lord’s Castle.

“You know,” they began hesitantly. “If you want to know the future, you have a time-manipulating butler right there.”

Barbatos, ever watchfully, chuckled and inclined his head. “My Lord is fascinated by human methods of divination.”

“It’s true,” Diavolo nodded. “Tarot especially has always piqued my interest, but very rarely do I have time to indulge with the other witches who visit the Devildom.”

....Oh, they really couldn’t say no to the hopeful gleam in his eye. A man that large had no right to look that cute.

“Alright,” they handed him the deck of cards. It looked hilariously small in his hands. “Go ahead and shuffle them.”

“Oh, I get to do it?”

“If you want,” they shrugged. “I usually have whoever is being read for do the shuffling, so the deck can get a feel for their energy. Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

“No, this is exciting!” He really did look like he was having fun. “How many should I draw?”

“Just one, and we can go from there.”

With a focus that might have been a bit too intense, Diavolo began shuffling. He handled the deck carefully, which made them happy. So many people were rough with the cards, and they were always worried they were going to get ruined.

“Alright.” Diavolo laid a card face down on the table between them. “Would you like to do the honors?”

He was being dramatic, but they couldn’t help but play along. What was the harm in a little bit of fun? They flipped the card face up and let out a startled chuckle.

The Devil.

“Did you do that on purpose?” they asked, laughter dripping from their voice.

“No, honest!” Diavolo was laughing too. “What does the Devil card mean?”

“It means my deck has a sense of humor.”

[we-dragons]

I'm from a different dimension actually Chapter 4 Damian x reader

Pulled away to another world, Y/N uses magic science and a Little bird to help her get back home and possibly be rid of an apocalyptic event. "So, will you succumb to your doubts completely or step into the sun of this new world?"

We didn't stay in the library very long, in fact as soon as I stepped foot in the space I was dragged back out by the back of my collar by my science partner. And despite showing my protest was thrown into the back of a black car with a surprised boy on the other side of it. Other than the look of shock on his face, his black hair was styled to part down the middle and wide tired-looking blue eyes. He regained his composure and displays a nervous grin on his face his eyes twitching as Damian slid in beside me.

"Damian who's our guest, and why is she here?" There was a hit of displeasure in his voice but not necessarily aimed at me.

"This is my project partner since father made it very clear I was grounded," Damian replies coldly, glaring at the male in front of him. The air was deathly still and I could feel a cold chill travel between them.

"Master Damian, Master Tim are we ready to leave?" an old man peers back at us from the driver's seat, his eyes land on me and he smiles slightly. "You must be Ms. (y/n), master Damian said you we coming over to work on a school assignment on scientific devices."

"Y-yes, sir!" He nods turning back to the wheel, we leave the parking lot, and out the window, I spot Molly waving in my direction as the school pulls out of view.

The ride was short, to say the least, and filled with air so thick you could make egg drop soup with it. Tension only seemed to rise as Tim tried to talk to me he was immediately shut down by Damian growling or glaring at him. For me this ride felt like an eternity in reality it was about ten minutes, and my stomach dropped when we pulled up to the building. The building fits perfectly to the name of the city towering behind spiked gates that creaked as it opened, the odd feeling of the place increased recalling the last time I was in a similar place, and I swallow the feeling pushing it back. The car pulled to the doors letting me leave the confined space of the car, being pulled out of it of course by Damian who marches on faster than I can keep up and he doesn't stop till he gets inside the door where he is tackled by a Great Dane. I pull my wrist to my chest rubbing the now sensitive skin, a laugh erupts from beside me, Tim stares down at Damian as if he won something.

"You should be more careful about your pets Damian, it seems this one got the better of you." He says attempting not to smile too widely, the boy on the floor however was not impressed pushing the dog off of him.

"Screw you, Drake." He grumbles getting up and points the dog out the door, the Dane happily obliged leaping out just as Alfred move out of the way.

"Master Richard must be home, shall I call him for you?" The boys both winced at the name, the looked over at me then back at Alfred.

"No!" they said in unison then peered at each other in disgust.

"Umm" I start gathering their attention. "listen I need to get home by 6 so I can feed my cat It's already 3:10 so.." I clap my hands together tilting my head slightly. "are we ready to get this show on the road?"

_____________________________________________________________

Even after we had gotten upstairs to their enormous library we found nothing about the Astrolabe anywhere not even in Islamic art or Greek sciences. So I used my knowledge on the subject there was plenty on the subject so I pull out my notebook and start writing.

"What are you doing?" a gruff voice says. I look up and see Damian glaring down at my notebook.

"Writing down what I know starting from Greece," I pull my finger down the outline I made, " to Mariam Al-Astrolabiya, and sailors. Ending with mathematic importance and finishing with overall importance." He looks at me a little surprised but his face pulls back into his regular scowl.

"How do you know any of that already?"

"Well from many sources really, I had books on the Islamic golden era and Greece's people of importance, the Minnesota renaissance festival, and my mom," I said quite proudly reminiscing the times my family would spend there, well my dad was only in it for chain mail, we would learn about the past, see the fire shows, we would always have so much fun, especially when we were with mom.

"Was your mother a historian?" He moved over and took my notebook to read over what I had.

"Not really she was an archeologist by trade, but I guess, she did teach Islamic golden age and Mid-evil centuries of Europe."

"Was your mother professor Astrid Hopperfeild?" My heart didn't beat, I stare at him, disbelief filling my core as that pit built up some more.

I smile in hopes that I cover up any nervousness, "Yes that's my mother, did you know her at all." He gives me another off look and gets up. He goes to a chest on the far left of the library and opens it he taking out a large file box and sets it in front of me. "I don't know her personally but," he takes out a book from the box and hands it to me. "she left very detailed journals about her findings." The book was a light purple and leather-bound with an old fashioned clasp in the front, I didn't believe it at first, then open the book examining the ink and I smell the pages.

"These are differently her's only, my mother was the only one I know who would write with Lilac scented ink and a classic dip pen." My eyes start to water and I close the book so I don't get any of the pages wet. "How did you get this by grandma said they were stolen." He scoffs.

"They were sold two years ago at an auction in South Dakota, my father bought every last copy"

"I knew it.....they were too greedy to look past the fortune they would bring." I look up at Damian. "How did you know? Why show me these? I could have gone my whole life without needing to know they were still around."

"Your handwriting is very similar and It was convenient," he shifts putting the box on the floor so he could see me better, "I was going to ask you myself later but being paired with you on this project was just perfect. I wanted to know the disappearance of the (L/N) family and Astrid Hopperfeild, along with the last three of her books."

I push myself out of my chair making it leave a loud clattering noise, I quickly gather my things and put my mother's book in his hands. " Thank you for your hospitality and your time, I will be leaving now. I will finish this report at my house and we can decide on a project later at school." I run as fast as I can to the door taking my jacket from the coat rack and rush out, running as fast as I could from this place. I hear a thunderclap and before I feel the rain, I pull my hood up and hide my skin the best I could. I run for ten minutes before I reach my apartment, my body soaking wet and my skin burning. I rip the wet clothing from my skin and rush to the mirror to see the damage. I wasn't going to school tomorrow or even the next, my body was covered in scales that are going to need to be removed I was going to be ill when I wake up the next morning, I knew that this wasn't the first time anyway. I just needed to call the school tomorrow. I sigh giving Nightmare his food and heading once again to my closet pulling out three books bound together by brown twine that are dear to me. A note was attached to it, Lilac ink wafting the air as I reread my favorite line from it, over and over again.

It was 8 when I decided I needed to go to bed the weight of today's experiences sinking into me. People here still know about the books, they aren't safe, and neither am I. My mother's last note to me played to me in my mind and I feel the tears run down my cheeks.

Just remember I love you my little one, and this secret is only ours.

[angryschnauzer]

Superior Specimen - Chapter 6

Summary: One night when you are following the Archaeology tag on instagram you stumbled across a fun looking dig… and an even more interesting Paleontologist who soon follows you back. Over the following weeks you start chatting and a friendship soon grows.

Relationship: AU Henry Cavill x Female Reader (No race or body shape mentioned)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Warnings: Slow Burn, NSFW, 18+, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Drunken Piggy Back Rides, Oral Sex (Female Recieving), Drama, Theft, Amateur Heroics, Hospital Visit, Shower Sex, Oral Sex (Male Receiving), Blow Job, Fingering, Lavish lifestyle, Henry is loaded, The Shard, Expensive Gifts, Sixty nine, Unprotected Sex

I do not operate a tag list, but please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications, as you will then be notified whenever i post something new.

I don’t have a masterlist, but all my works are on AO3, link here. Usually i post oneshots to Tumblr and AO3, and multichapters exclusively to AO3, but as this is my first henry story and its going to be a short series, i’ll post to both places.

Chapter 6

 Henry left soon after, grabbing a slice of toast as you’d stood in the kitchen in just your dressing gown, apologising for not being able to spend the day with you but he had meetings for work and for future dig’s planned for the southern hemisphere in the winter. You’d stood in the kitchen sipping your coffee for a long while after he’d left, thinking over what he’d casually dropped into conversation; was this a fling?, Was the fact that he would spend months at a time out of the country the reason why such a catch was still single? Or was this something he did; find a girl, romance them, and then leave them on ‘business’ once things got boring? You shook your head to rid yourself of those thought and immediately regretted it, your head hurting from your wound. You gingerly touched it and brought your fingers in front of your face, letting out a sigh of relief when you saw there was no blood, but you realised you’d need to be careful for the next couple of days. 

 As you continued to sip your coffee you read over your emails again, re-reading the one from your boss and frowning; it seemed very short and curt, but he was probably just annoyed that one of his staff was due time off in their busiest season due to what was essentially a workplace injury.

 You decided you were going to head to yoga, even without the joke earlier about needing to limber up, it would help you focus and recharge your mind as well as your body.

 -

 By the time Friday afternoon had arrived your week off was surprisingly busy; finally finding time to do all those small chores that you had put off for weeks, but also you’d taken the chance to go shopping for a dress for your date.

 Rather than hit the chaos of Oxford Street or Westfield, instead you’d sought out a couple of vintage and secondhand dress agencies. Your morning had been fun, searching through unique pieces until you’d found it, the dress that was perfect. The woman that ran the vintage shop had guessed it had been a custom piece made in the 80’s, the midnight blue velvet piece fitting you like a glove. It had a thigh high split on one side and was patterned with silver sequins hand sewn on sporadically to make it resemble the night sky. It was strapless but had little hooks along the scalloped bust line that could hook over the cups of a strapless bra for extra security. You had a pair of silver heels in your wardrobe at home that would work perfectly with it, and with a bargain clutch from Primark you were sorted. 

 As you primped and preened that afternoon, fixing your hair and makeup, you smiled at your reflection as you pulled the dress on just a few minutes before Henry was due to pick you up. You were checking the contents of your clutch when the doorbell rang, frowning as you answered it and saw Henry on the small intercom screen;

 “Henry? You know the code”

 He grinned at the camera;

 “Yes, but I’m being gentlemanly… this time I don’t already have you drunk or drugged in my arms…”

 You pressed the buzzer to let him in, flicking the latch on the door as you went to fasten the straps on your heels, looking up just as he peered around the open doorway and stopped dead on his feet;

 “Wow…”

 He looked you up and down, his eyes wide as he took in your curves in the vintage dress, his gaze pausing at your chest on his way down and then on his way back up again. 

 You had a similar reaction when you saw how he was dressed; navy suit and kingfisher blue shirt, the top few buttons undone where it fitted his chest like a glove. He crossed the room slowly, like a predator stalking his prey, resting his hands on your hips and ducking his head to kiss you before pulling back to admire your cleavage close up;

 “I must say, I am a big fan of this dress” He ran a fingernail over the top of your breast, your skin prickling in Goosebumps at his touch before he opened his jacket and pulled a flat velvet box from the inside pocket and handed it to you; 

 “You remember when we first started talking properly, that I said I’d brought you something back from Siberia?”

 Your eyes went wide;

 “Henry… what is this?”

 “Open it and see”

 In disbelief you pulled the box open and let out a small gasp; nestled within the box was a delicate necklace, a raw amethyst gemstone set into a delicate silver chain. As you held the box he lifted the chain, walking behind you so he could bring it over your head, his fingers nimbly fastening it before he traced his fingertips over your bare shoulders and pressed a kiss to your neck;

 “You look stunning… the platinum looks beautiful on you”

 You spun around, your hand resting on the necklace;

 “Platinum?! I thought it was silver! Henry, this is too much… I can’t take this, not when it’s only our first date…”

 He brought his hands to yours and gently clasped them, pressing a kiss to your fingers before he smiled kindly;

 “It’s not really our first date though, is it? We’ve had drinks, I’ve spent the night… And please, let me give you this…”

 “But it’s too expensive!”

 “Not to me it isn’t… I’m lucky enough to me more than comfortable financially, let me share it with you” He closed his hands gently around yours as they held the necklace, pressing a kiss to your knuckles; “It suits you… and I can’t exactly keep it, the chain would get caught on my chest hair”

 You laughed and pressed a kiss to his lips;

 “Thank you”

 -

 Henry had driven you through the early evening London streets with ease, confident and calm even when cabs would cut in front of him or Uber Eats bicycles would whizz past your door at traffic lights. As much as you’d asked him where you were going, he just smiled and replied ‘you’ll see’ before returning his attention back to the road. 

 Finally you recognised some familiar sights as you passed the entrance to Borough Market, before he swung a left and your eyes went wide;

 “We’re going to The Shard?”

 He grinned as he steered the car into the space outside the entrance, the valet opening your door was Henry strode around the car and took your hand whilst handing his keys to the valet. The ride up through the building in the silent elevator gave you butterflies, before he took your hand as the doors chimed. Henry offered you his arm and you tucked your own through it, your stomach flipping nervously as he walked with confidence up to the maitre’d;

 “Good Evening Dr Cavill”

 You had to try and keep your face neutral that the staff knew who he was, and Henry greeted him in return as if he was an old friend;

 “How are you Michael? Family good?”

 “Yes, thank you Sir. My daughter will be starting Oxford university in September, thank you for your letter of endorsement”

 “Wonderful, great to hear. Are we ok to have some drinks and take in the view before we sit down for dinner?”

 “Of course, Sir. I can prepare your table for whenever you need it. You’re booked into the Westminster Suite tonight?”

 “Yes, that’s the one”

 The man smiled as he led you and Henry to a small bar table near the window, and as soon as you’d rested your small clutch bag on it a waiter appeared;

 “Can I get you some drinks tonight?”

 Henry glanced at you;

 “Champers?” You nodded as he continued; “We’ll have a bottle of the Krug 1996”

 The waiter nodded once and walked away, and it was only when Henry lightly touched your arm and made you jump did you realise you’d zoned out a little;

 “Princess?”

 “Sorry, just trying to process this is all real” you laughed quietly

 “Very real” he took your hand and was about to say something when the waiter returned, setting the small tray with two champagne flutes and a small bowl of strawberries onto the table, before quietly opening the expensive bottle in front of you. Pouring two glasses he set the bottle onto the table and left without another word, letting you return your attention to Henry;

 “What’s on your mind? You were quiet in the car the whole way over. Is this too much?”

 You smiled;

 “No, it’s wonderful. Obviously it’s not a standard night out for me, but you know…”

 “What else is bothering you?”

 You took a deep breath and smiled, pointing to your glass of champagne;

 “Ok firstly, this; I’m not taking a sip until I tell you that I one hundred percent want to sleep with you”

 “Ok, that’s good to hear” he grinned

 “You are so kind and caring, specifically waiting until I was sober before we would sleep together, and now obviously you have thought tonight through, you’ve got a suite here - that was a bit of a surprise I’ll add, but a pleasant one - so I want to get this completely agreed to before you waste all this money and then not asking for consent…”

 He nodded and sipped his glass, smiling and a kind look on his face as you continued;

 “Also, my safe word is Nerd”

 “Nerd?”

 “Yes. In case of later…”

 “Gotcha” he paused for a moment before nodding to your glass; “Do you want a drink now?”

 “God yes” You tipped the glass and sipped at the bubbles, feeling them burst over your tongue, and as you were setting the glass down and reaching for a strawberry Henry rested a hand on your hip;

 “Is there anything else?”

 “You said you were organising digs in the Southern Hemisphere for the winter… where would that leave us, you and me? Would this between us just be a summer fling? I just kind of want to know where I stand before you break my heart”

 “So firstly, I do not see this as just a summer fling. I feel like I’ve known you for years, and remember we were talking on Instagram for months before I finally worked up enough courage to say more than just asking if your day was ok… But the winter digs, it’s what I do. Obviously I’m attached to the museum, but I’m also linked to several others all around the world. I can be away for a month or six months at a time, it’s all dependant on the weather and permits, local politics, but I’d fly back whenever I could, and fly you out when you could take time off work”

 “You would do that? You would wait for me?”

 He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you gently to his chest as he ran a finger gently down your cheek;

 “Of course I’d wait for you. I have always waited… I have found people don’t wait for me”

 “What?! But… but you’re a catch! You’re kind and caring… you know how to treat a partner in every way!”

 He shrugged, looking a little pensive;

 “I don’t know what to say… but the last couple of girlfriends presumed I would cheat so ended things ‘before I broke their heart’... which I would never do…”

 He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before a quiet cough sounded behind you, the pair of you turning to see the waiter;

 “Would you like your table now or would you like to continue with drinks here?”

 Henry smiled at you;

 “I could eat, you?”

 “Yes, please”

 The waiter nodded and loading your drinks onto a tray before you followed him, Henry leaning to whisper in your ear;

 “I look forward to eating you later too”

 -

 Dinner was fabulous, each dish seemingly better than the last, flavours dancing on your tongue and you had to struggle not to make obscene moaning sounds, but when the occasional one did escape Henry’s smile would spread further across his face until you laughed as well. By the time the dessert menu was brought over you declined;

 “Are you sure?” Henry pushed; “Really, you can have anything you like, this whole night is on me”

 You laughed quietly;

 “I’m not looking at the prices…” you leant back and rested a hand on your stomach; “But I am *just* the right amount of full at the moment to be happy to do any other activities tonight… if I eat dessert I wouldn’t”

 Henry nodded and gave a nod to the waiter, quietly speaking to him before turning his attention back to you;

 “Princess, shall we retire back to our suite? A nightcap whilst we take in the view; there’s a telescope in the room”

 Nodding you sipped on the last of your drink as Henry signed the bill, slipping a stack of notes into the clip before closing the small black file and handing it back. He stood and quickly circled the table, helping to pull your chair out before offering you his arm. 

 The ride in the lift to the luxury suites was quiet, the atmosphere almost sparking with the energy the pair of you were giving off from the sexual tension. Henry walked you to the door and you were ready to rip his clothing from his body, but as he pushed the door open he smiled and pressed a finger to his lips before speaking, and not to you;

 “Michael, thank you, but we won’t be requiring the butler service tonight”

 The man you recognised from the restaurant emerged from what you could see what the small kitchenette area, wiping his hands on a pristine tea towel;

 “Understood Dr Cavill. I hope you have an enjoyable stay. Your request from the restaurant has been stored safely in the refrigerator”

 “Thank you, Michael,”

 As the man passed you saw Henry slip him a £50 note as he quickly shook his hand, before taking the Do Not Disturb sign and slipping it over the gold hook on the outside of the door and quietly closing it.

 You watched as he shrugged his jacket off and slowly stalked across the room, wrapping his arm around your back, his other hand gently tilting your chin towards his lips as he kissed you, the press of his hot hard body against your own. The kiss was soft, yet he managed to completely dominate you, his tongue pushing against your own and you could taste the whiskey he’d finished his meal with just a few moments before. Your fingers clawed at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and yet as you managed to get one unfastened he pulled away, slipping his hand into yours;

 “Come on, let me show you the view”

 The noise that escaped your lips was a cross between a laugh and a toddlers disgruntled moan;

 “Henry…” you whined; “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but please, I’m so fucking horny right now, I need you to fuck me into the mattress”

 He turned and walked backwards, tugging you to the panoramic windows and the telescope that sat on the full-length tripod, a quiet laugh filling the void between the two of you;

 “Princess, I promise you will get that… we have all night, all weekend! I just have one thing I want to show you…”

 He peered through the telescope before stepping back and nodding to you, gently guiding you until he was standing behind you, his hands on your hips. You looked through the  eyepiece and let out a gasp; on the roof of a building in Canary Wharf was a light display… and yet it wasn’t just lasers, there was light patterns of dinosaurs; Diplodocus reaching for high leaves, T-rex stalking in the bushes, a group of Raptors running across the building.

 “Oh Henry… how did you?”

 “I have some friends in the city… and some more friends that run outdoor events… just called in a couple of favours”

 You watched through the scope and smiled as you felt Henry wrap his arms around your waist, pressing his hard body flush with your own and started to caress your neck with soft kisses. One hand slipped to your thigh and gently started to tug your dress up until it was high enough for him to slip his hand into the thigh high slit and curl around to seek out your pussy. He was still firmly holding you in place, letting you watch the light show in the relative darkness of the luxury suite, but as his fingers dipped beneath the thin elastic of your lacy thong he let out an appreciative groan as he found you already dripping wet;

 “You really are horny, aren’t you?”

 He found your clit and started to tease it with tight circles, at the same time grinding into the crease of your ass with the hardness still confined to his smart trousers. Under his expert ministrations you soon found yourself swaying your hips, working between pushing harder against his hand then pushing back to feel that delicious friction from behind. Your head fell back against his shoulder and he let out a feral growl against your neck, his teeth grazing against your smooth flesh before gently biting, causing a shudder to run the length of your spine;

 “Ok, Dinosaurs are great, but I need a different bone…” 

 Your words were breathless and were greeted with a low chuckle. Henry withdrew his fingers and you watched as he brought them to his mouth, tasting your juices from the glistening digits, before he moved them to the zip of your dress and slowly started to unzip you. The dress fell to the floor and he let out an appreciative moan;

 “No bra?”

 “You complaining?”

 “Absolutely not”

 Your fingers started quick work of his shirt buttons, unfastening them all before pushing the fabric over his massive shoulders. As he cast the garment aside you unbuttoned his trousers, lowering the zip and palming the massive bulge his boxers could barely contain, Henry’s hips pushing against your palm involuntarily as you felt the heat of his skin though the fabric. Your tongue painted patterns against his chest and his voice stuttered;

 “I want you to sit on my face, ride my tongue Princess, let me make you cum”

 He dropped to his knees and pulled your lace thong down your legs, before unfastening the tiny straps of your heels, running the tips of his fingers up the length of your body as he stood and rid himself of his own clothing, pulling you to the bed.

 He lay on the soft covers, pulling you up his body until your knees were either side of his head, his strong hands gripping onto your thighs as his tongue darted out and parted your folds. His eyes glinted with mischief and you could feel yourself shaking with anticipation as he spoke;

 “Turn around”

 Taking a couple of moments to shift 180º, you rested your hands on his broad chest as he pulled you down to his mouth. At the first touch of his tongue swiping through your folds again you groaned and curled your fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, shuddering at his expert touch. With each pass of the strong muscle you could feel your body rapidly heading towards orgasm already, but when you felt a wide hand flat on your back, pushing you forwards it was heaven as his lips latched onto your clit and he slid two fingers of his other hand into your soaked channel.

 Resting your chest against his abdomen you were face to face with his dick, hard and thick as it rested against his stomach, reaching up to his navel where it wept precum. Wrapping your hand around it you smoothed your thumb over the clear liquid, wishing you could reach it with your mouth, but instead spitting on your other hand to work the hot hard flesh. The groan that was muffled from between your thighs told you he was enjoying it, and in return he slid a finger into you, stretching you, and you knew you were done for. 

 Your attention waived from him as he worked you closer and closer towards your orgasm, before he managed to curl his fingers just right and you were cumming over his face, his strong arm holding you to his mouth as you shook with pleasure. 

 Finally he carefully withdrew his fingers from you, lifting you so he could lay you head to foot on the bed beside him before resting one massive hand on your soft stomach as your breath came out in rapid pants, your heart racing. You felt the bed shift and the welcome touch of his warm hands parting your legs so he could crawl up your body, pressing open mouthed kisses to every spot he crossed. Eventually he reached your own lips, kissing you deeply, his tongue wide and strong and you could taste yourself as your own tongue danced with his. You could feel his hardness nestled against your folds, slipping against you as your bodies writhed together before he finally pushed himself up on his powerful arms;

 “Are you ready?”

 “Yes… please Henry…”

 Reaching down he took hold of himself and slid the tip up and down through your folds until you felt that delicious notch of his swollen crown resting at your entrance, he looked back to you;

 “I’ll go slow… just relax…”

 He started to push forwards, your velvet walls slowly parting as he filled you inch by delicious inch, your eyes going wider with each push. He tilted his hips and immediately found your g-spot, your eyes rolling back in their sockets and you let out a groan that would have rattled the glass in the windows had the building not been fitted with hurricane proof panes. You felt Henry’s soft lips press a kiss to your neck, his mouth moving gently over your skin as he spoke;

 “You feel like heaven Princess, taking me so well”

 “H-Henry… please…”

 “What Princess? Is it too much?”

 “NO! No, oh my god, please… please move… fuck me… fuck me like you mean it…”

 “Princess…” he warned

 “I can take it… I want it…”

 You looked into his eyes and saw a glint of concern, before a wide smile spread across his face;

 “You can, you’re a good girl…”

Pulling his hips back he pushed back in, parting your walls further and the feeling of being so full was almost indescribable. Sure, you’d had partners with big dicks in the past. Some with small dicks. But no-one that had ever been both long and as wide as Henry was. He wasn’t obscenely long, so there wasn’t the uncomfortable stabbing in the cervix, but every inch of his was thick and meaty, and you could feel him completely. Each thrust was becoming harder and faster, and soon he was wrapping one arm around your thigh to pull your legs open wider, tilting his hips so he could change the angle as he fucking railed you into the mattress, your fingers clawing at his back as you begged him for more and more. 

 The room faded around you, it was just you and Henry, the pleasure each other’s bodies were sharing with the other, feral grunts and moans as you felt pleasure like never before. You fitted together like two pristine pieces of a jigsaw, working together in unity. The rough brush of his chest hair against your hypersensitive nipples was yet another added stimulation, and with each rapid push and thrust your bodies rubbed together to bring you closer to your peak. You were trembling around him, your legs shaking where you were so close to orgasm. 

 He let go of your leg, now resting both hands either side of your body as he moved quicker, each thrust more powerful than the last, and with each push you had slid a little more along the bed, your head now hanging over the end and resting on the chaise lounge that sat there, the blood rushing to your brain giving you a head rush. You wrapped your legs around Henry’s waist, hooking one foot over another as you pressed them against his ripe ass. Your bodies were slick with sweat, and when you felt that tell-tale sign that your orgasm was starting a guttural moan emerged slowly through your throat.

 Your body shook with intense pleasure, you could feel for the very first time your internal muscles squeezing and massaging Henry’s massive girth within you, realising that you had never felt so complete.

As you rode out your orgasm Henry evened his thrusts out, and as your own pleasure was starting to ebb away it set off his own, his thick seed filling you as you felt him twitch and buck within you. You watched as he threw his head back and moaned your name, the smooth expanse of his neck aching for you to touch, and with the last ounce of strength you had you did just that and pressed an open mouthed kiss to his Adams Apple.

 With one final grunt you felt him twitch for the last time before his body relaxed, and those steel blue eyes met yours in the twilight of the room, your bodies only illuminated by the bright lights of the London night skyline. He shifted, moving one hand behind your head to support and cup it in his massive palm, the other resting on his elbow so your bodies were pressed together yet he wasn’t resting his entire weight atop of you. There were no words, the smiles on your faces told the other all the words your mouths couldn’t articulate. 

 The passing of time didn’t register in your mind, and it was only when Henry’s entire body did an involuntary shudder did you both come back to reality. Steadying himself on his arms he slowly pulled out of you, letting out a string of gentle ‘hoo-ha’s as the pull of your body against his over sensitive flesh was almost overwhelming for him. Kneeling on the bed he ran his hands over your thighs, warm against the now goose bumped skin and he pulled your legs apart slightly;

 “Wanna watch my cum drip out of you Princess”

 His hands rested on your inner thighs at the apex, his thumbs pulling apart your lips and you watched as he watched his thick seed slowly pool at your entrance. With one thumb he swiped it through the cum before spreading it over your swollen folds. He let out a grunt and moved, sliding an arm behind your back and helped you sit up, pressing his thumb to your lips which you eagerly took into your mouth, sucking on the thick pad as you tasted your combined essence on his salty skin. 

 “Let’s rest for a while before the next round” he muttered before kissing your cheek. 

 You nodded, muttering about needing to pee, and on wobbly legs you staggered to the bathroom like a new-born fawn.

Chapter 7 >>>

Chapter 6 notes:

In case you wanted to be nosey and see just how much Henry spent on their date:

Champagne:

https://thechampagnecompany.com/krug-1996-vintage-champagne-75cl-gift-box Restaurant at the Shard: https://www.the-shard.com/restaurants/aquashard/ Room at the Shard: https://www.shangri-la.com/london/shangrila/rooms-suites/suites/westminster-suite/

[cno-inbminor]

a/n: drabble dump time aka random stuff i just felt like writing! ft. spy!au, iwaizumi x fem!reader. all characters are aged up. 

warnings: description of an explosion, presumed reader death, unedited. mainly angst

It’s not often that Iwaizumi wakes up like this, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, and lungs screaming desperately for oxygen. Anyone can agree that it’s never fun to wake up to a damp pillowcase and sheets that stick to skin, yet here he was, experiencing just that. What pisses him off more than anything is the fact that he knows the exact reason why he’s been acting this way. He knows the reason and yet, he’s unable to do anything about it.

When he shuts his eyes again, the vivid nightmare plays on his eyelids like the screen of a movie theatre. His vision fights to discern details through the smoke and dust, his ears are ringing from the blast, his feet stumble over broken concrete and cobblestone, his hands tremble in their hold on his spare pistol; he’s searching, pleading to an unknown force, that you’re around here somewhere.

He brings on hand up to use the collar of his shirt as a temporary dust filter. His choice of weaponry has never felt so heavy before, but he was trained to fight against the strain and the odds. You always stand back up. When you have no choice but to run, run. This was one of those moments where he’d be advised to run.

“Damn it, where the fuck are you?” Iwaizumi curses to himself, trudging through the half-collapsed building to find any sign of you. You had been too many meters away from him and out of his sight when the blast happened. There was no way for him to determine just exactly where it had come from, especially when the licks of flames behind were only growing higher and higher towards the skies. He was on a countdown to find you and get you safely to the rendezvous point, something he never thought he’d have to worry about.

He decides to take his chances and yells out your name, his voice cracking and breaking as the dust scratches at his throat like nails on a chalkboard. Gritting through the pain, he calls out again, looking in every possible direction. The earpiece in his right ear comes alive, static crackling before a familiar voice comes through.

“—jime, can you hear me? Hajime?”

“Fuck, yeah, I’m here, Kenma,” he bites, eyes still flitting everywhere.

“Are you okay? Where’s (y/n)?”

“Really fucking beat up, and trying to find her right now. I can’t see shit though.”

“Tooru’s coming around to the rendezvous point in three minutes and you need to be there. Local police and firemen are already on their way, we have to get you out.”

“Can you locate her?”

“Signal’s lost. She was last seen on the north side of the building.”

“Well fuck,” Iwaizumi groans as he recalls the layout of the building in his mind. “That side’s entirely in flames, do you think…”

“She wouldn’t go down that easy. Two and a half minutes.”

“She has to be here somewhere,” Iwaizumi argues, tone becoming frantic. There’s nothing he can do but turn back towards the fire, desperate for any sort of clue. “(Y/n)! Are you there?”

He stumbles on the path once traveled, scouring the floor and in the rubble. Then his eyes catch a flash of rose gold, buried underneath fragments of brick and stone. His fingers and knees protest when he kneels down to push all of it aside, reaching to pick up the dust-covered chain. His heart sinks past his feet and into the earth beneath him when he gets a good look at the design.

In his hands is the very necklace he had gifted you months ago, one that you never took off, one that he had eyed and seen in many nights of passion, one that he had personally clasped underneath your hair. A thin rose gold chain holding a circular pendant of the same material, no larger than the size of your fingernail, with a small diamond suspended in the middle.

It can’t be.

“Hajime, ninety seconds. You need to get out of there.”

“But—”

“We’ll find her. You have to go.”

Iwaizumi takes one more look at the fires just a foot in front of him before standing back up and heading for the nearest exit. When he stumbles out, a sleek black vehicle pulls up and he wrenches open the passenger door. Not a second longer after his bottom hits the seat, Oikawa steps on the gas, the force aiding Iwaizumi in shutting the door. With deft skills and hands, his longtime friend secures an inconspicuous escape, merging onto the highway in the direction of their headquarter facilities.

Both ignore the incessant beeping from the car, the vehicle protesting the fact that Iwaizumi isn’t wearing his seatbelt. Oikawa only needs to take one look at the chain hanging from Iwaizumi’s fist to understand the situation, quickly letting Kenma know that the retrieval was a success and they were on their way back. His eyes take a glance in the rearview mirror to ensure no one is following them before addressing the elephant in the room.

“She probably made it out and went into hiding,” Tooru hypothesizes. “Maybe she left the necklace as a sign.”

“She better fucking have or she’ll never hear the end of it from me.”

“Must you be so harsh on your girlfriend, Iwa-chan?” He attempts to tease, but it falls flat. Iwaizumi lets out a staggered sigh and leans back against the seat, staring out the tinted window. His heart beats heavily against his ribcage, hoping that in the next few hours, you’ll securely contact them and let them know you’re safe and sound.

But night comes around and there’s no word from you. Iwaizumi can’t sleep, not when the other side of his bed is empty and cold. The morning sun peeks above the horizon as Iwaizumi downs his second cup of coffee, his phone out on the dining table, sitting silent and motionless. Even when Sugawara hands him a bowl of rice, miso soup and natto on the side, Iwaizumi only eats a few grains at a time. He skips his workout routine for the day, instead taking a seat silently by Kenma and scourges through the footage of the previous day’s events.

The hours turn into days, and the days turn into weeks. The agency begins to lose hope and when the two-month mark hits, Iwaizumi watches in despair as your photo in the database gets slapped with an ‘M.I.A.” stamp on it. Oikawa tries to convey his comfort and own pain through the hand placed on his friend’s shoulder. For the rest of the day, everyone who passes by Iwaizumi gives him their best apologetic look. He can only nod and train his gaze to the floor to avoid the pity. Losing a partner is never easy, and even more so when you’re romantically attached to them.

Yet inside his gut, he doesn’t believe it. Kenma had shown him the crime scene report as well as the autopsy results – all bodies found were accounted for and none of the samples matched to any characteristics describing you. There were no Jane Does, nothing that indicated you were there besides the necklace. Whether you had hacked into the database yourself before Kenma got to it or you had just simply disappeared into the flames, you were simply…gone. It just didn’t make sense and Iwaizumi needed to get down to the bottom of all of this. You were alive – he could feel it.

The head of the agency gives him fewer missions and often pairs him with Oikawa, the best person to keep him on his toes. Iwaizumi shuts off his emotions during these times, completely zoned in on the objectives and goals, senses on high alert. He trains and trains until his abs hurt and his arms are jelly, causing Daichi to forcibly lock him out of the gym and demand that he takes a day off. This happens more times than Iwaizumi can count on his fingers and toes, so he spends his free time searching for clues. Sometimes, even Kiyoko and Yachi come by to help.

He’ll find you. He has to.

-

Four months after the incident, Iwaizumi takes a train into a small town in Germany. Thankfully, there are very few people in his cart, and he looks like the odd visiting businessman. He’s got a messenger bag leaning against his body with a worn journal in his lap, one that he had found under the floorboards of your apartment. This was the third place your journal had strung him along to, and he was really hoping you would be here.

“You have two months,” the head told him. “If you don’t find her…”

You’ll need to give up.

The unspoken words had left a bad taste in Iwaizumi’s mouth. He was a month in and beginning to lose his sanity. Reading your journal made him realize how there was so much he hadn’t learned about you, yet you knew so much about him. Had he given over his heart too easily? Were you toying with him? Did you even want to be found?

The train comes to a stop, ripping him away from his thoughts. He steps off and looks around before spotting the street he wanted. Down that road would lead him to the main plaza of the town, the one that had been vaguely mentioned in your writings. Iwaizumi begins setting himself up for disappointment so the pain would be more bearable if he doesn’t find you here in the next few days.

It’s about a 15 minute walk – cream-colored houses in an old European style tower over him as he ambles down the curvy street. He passes by bikers and crepe stands, sometimes the occasional antique store. The ambient noise of nature begins to melt into sounds of spoken word, Iwaizumi’s first sign that he’s nearing the plaza. Eventually, the street opens up into a large square. He’s greeted by restaurants and gelato shops, many people enjoying the fresh air in the outdoor seating. Children run around playing with balloons and each other, no care in the world except for their current enjoyment. Iwaizumi looks around and freezes.

There you are, sitting at a shaded table by a café, sipping on what he presumes to be a latte. A book is spread open on the metal surface and you haven’t noticed him yet. He drinks in all your features, noticing your hair color has changed and your face thinner than before. But despite these concerning changes, you still look as beautiful as ever to him.

He can’t believe it. He finally found you.

As though you felt his eyes, you look up from your book in his direction. They bore right into yours and you process all the emotions running through him. There’s confusion, pain, determination, exhaustion, but most of all, there’s love. Your heart aches at the sight of him – with no doubt in the world, there was nothing, no one you missed more than Iwaizumi Hajime, the love of your life. But it’s too early for him to find you. There was something that you needed to do, and you had to do it alone. For him.

Iwaizumi watches you warily stand from your chair. Your body is tense and ready to act, and he recognizes that stance all too well. No, don’t – !

You run.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t chase after you.

[hystericalcherries]

aeon (6/6)

Pairing: Keith/Lance Words: 10.5k Rating: M Warnings: mild violence Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough... the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 

Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn't put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

READ IT ON AO3

The day of the Alliance Feast comes and Keith finds himself sulking in a corner as he watches an alien chat Lance up.

Allura had stuffed them all in Altean formal wear, color-coded and high-collared, capes draped tastefully across their shoulders. The material of the suits are surprisingly breathable despite all its excess, stretching and bunching up in just the right places to cut them all into impressive figures. The princess had been very particular in how she wanted them all to look and had forced herself into more than one fitting room back at the Garrison; Shiro’s hair is slicked back, Hunk’s headband folded into the pocket of his jacket, Keith’s loose ponytail tied with a red ribbon, Lance’s waist adorned by a silver chain and Pidge’s glasses exchanged for a sleeker pair. If the star-eyed looks they’ve been receiving ever since they landed on New Altea is anything to go by then she must have succeeded.

Lance, Keith must admit, looks particularly dashing. His suit makes his shoulders look broader and it’s a problem. More so because it’s obvious that the red paladin isn’t the only one to take notice, more than one individual coming forward to introduce themselves to the friendliest member of Voltron.

Keith glares.

The alien doesn't take the hint and keeps talking, going so far as to place one of their four hands on the blue paladin’s upper arm when they laugh. Lance looks pleased.

“You should go talk to him.”

A crick forms in his neck when he jerks to attention at Allura’s voice. She fills up the once empty space next to him, having somehow snuck up on him, wearing low heels and a pale pink dress; she looks the epitome of aristocratic, with jewels dripping across her collarbone and dangling from her ears. His heart jumps at her words when they finally register, unable to help the quick glance he sends to the tables. “No,” he says immediately, turning away when he catches the unilu delegate peering at him from over the blue paladin’s shoulder. “He looks fine where he is. I don’t want to butt in.”

The princess frowns, obviously displeased at his reluctance. She crosses her arms and juts out a hip in a move that’s far too Keith-ish in nature for his liking. “You know, Lance loves to dance and—”

“Awesome,” Keith grouses.

Allura glares. “—and I’m sure he would say yes to one if someone asked.”

There’s no denying that the blue paladin has had no shortage of dance partners; ever since the band had started playing the boy had been on and off the dancefloor, spinning past him with someone new every few minutes. Some bitterness sneaks into his tone when he says, “I’ve noticed.”

“Now that’s not fair. You’ve had all evening to make your move. Don’t be upset that others are doing what you can’t.”

The words sting and Keith isn’t quick enough to hide it.

Allura’s expressions soften and he bristles a bit, less at the thought of being the recipient of someone’s pity and more knowing that he’s actively doing everything to deserve it. “Keith,” she says, and it’s soft and encouraging. “You are one of the most courageous people I know and you’ve faced things far more imposing than this.” She ducks her head to look him in the face. “It’s just Lance.”

“I know,” he says eventually, making a visible effort to relax. He sighs. “I know. It’s just… I don’t want to mess it up.”

“There’s nothing to mess up,” she assures, touching his arm. “Lance is a fellow paladin and, more importantly, your friend. You’ve been through much together and nothing could break the bond you have because of it.” She pauses, carefully manicured hands digging into his sleeve. “And if he’s the one from those visions of yours then talking to him would be the first step towards the rest of your life.”

He really regrets telling her about the flashes.

“It’s him, isn’t it.” It’s more of a fact than a question and Keith can’t even conjure up the energy to deny it.

Lance laughs again.

At his silence, Allura gasps. “I knew it! Oh! How romantic! It’s just like those books Hunk recommended to me, but better because—well, this is real, isn’t it?” Her hands clap together excitedly. “To think, the history you share is just a precursor of what is to come. It must be destiny!”

“Allura,” he warns.

“If he is from the visions, then you mustn’t just talk to him. You have to dance with Lance too! Keith, you absolutely must!”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“And why not?”

“Because, well, we’re not… it’s complicated. Plus, I don’t really dance.”

Allura tuts at him, booping him on the nose as she takes on a tone of one talking to an ignorant toddler. “Not with that attitude, you don’t. Come on. It will be fun.”

“And what if I don’t wanna have fun?”

The princess purses her lips and she tugs at his sleeve impatiently. He resists when she makes a move to drag him away from his corner, twisting away from her with a scowl. Knowing of her strength and how it outmatches his by miles, he karate chops her other hand when it reaches out for him. She gasps, offended at his defiance, and then redoubles her efforts.

“Why must you be so difficult?” she growls, circlet slipping over one pointed ear as she shoves herself in his space. Her elbow digs uncomfortably in his gut as her other hand fumbles for the wrist of his hand. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Allura, I swear—”

“Well, don’t you two look cozy.”

The two freeze and it’s almost comical, getting caught like this—the red paladin and the altean princess, important figures in their own right, mid-scuffle and cursing at each other—yet Keith doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t laugh because while they had been arguing, a figure had snuck up on them. A figure with very broad shoulders.

Allura recovers first. “Lance!”

The boy belonging to the name smiles. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Of course!” Allura gushes, letting go of Keith and all but pushing him at the blue paladin regardless of the fact that he hadn’t specified who he wanted to dance with. She takes a moment to fix her appearance, smoothing down hair and adjusting her dress, looking haughty. “I’ve gotta find Coran and make sure he’s not overdoing it on the nunvill, so you boys enjoy yourselves.”

And with that, she leaves. Leaves Keith in the middle of a party with his bonafide first and only crush.

He looks up and meets Lance’s eyes. It’s been months since he came back from the abyss and the half inch he had over the other boy is gone now, making them eye level. He knows neither of them are done growing and their heights will continue to change but Keith finds that he likes it this way for now.

“So,” Lance starts, biting his lip. “Dance?”

A quick look across the hall and his stomach flutters nervously. “I’ve never really…”

But Lance is already moving right along, grabbing his hand and tugging him in the direction of the dancefloor. Dazed, Keith lets it happen, focus torn between their clasped hands and the back of the other’s head. The crowd parts easily for them, curious looks and whispers following at their heels only to be hastily hidden when he glances away from the pinking ears of his partner. Lance must be determined to ignore their audience, expertly spinning Keith around to face him and guiding their bodies in a starting position.

The music is already in full swing and Lance takes a step to match that of the other dancers, gently tugging Keith along in a strange mix of a waltz and shuffle, confident where he is stiff.

After maybe a half a minute where they steadily avoided each other’s eye, Keith speaks up. “Is this something we do now? Dance.”

Blue eyes flicker past his face and he doesn't have to imagine the silent conversation that's happening over his shoulder. Lightning quick he looks behind him, but, much to his chagrin, Hunk has already schooled his expression from where he sits at one of the many tables and is staring back at him with all too innocent eyes.

Lance clears his throat and Keith turns back to a nervous smile. “Yeah, I thought we could try it out… See how you—er, we feel about it.”

There must have been something in the drink he had earlier of his because Keith can feel himself melting.

“It’s nice,” he says, watching as the other boy’s smile turns into something more lighthearted. “I’m not very good but, yeah, it’s… it’s nice.”

Eyes twinkle in the warm light. “I think it’s nice too.”

There’s a bit of a hitch in the music and Keith spies a few of the musicians being switched out, exchanging string instruments for ones that look like a cross between trumpets and accordions. It must be getting later in the evening because some of the dancers leave, replaced by a much younger crowd. He spots a few familiar faces, both humans—Atlas technicians, old classmates, Garrison faculty—and aliens—bounty hunters, altean colonists, royal dignitaries—all unabashedly shedding their professional appearance in exchange for a good time. The energy pulses upwards, pushing them closer together and causing the weird rumbling in Keith’s chest to give way to butterflies, transparent wings brushing along the inside of his ribs in a way that has his heart thumping madly.

When the song increases in tempo Keith accidentally steps on Lance’s foot. He cringes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lance assures. ”Just lighten your steps and pretend it’s a training session. Move with me, not against me.”

Keith tries the step again and nearly trips over his own feet when he miscalculates how many times his partner would step back, causing a table of girls nearby to twitter with amusement at the sight of him. Lance doesn’t mock him for his clumsiness, just adjusts his hand so it presses a bit lower on his back; Keith feels the touch like a brand, barely catching onto the way his palm shifts in accordance to the next step.

It gives Keith something to focus on and, eventually, he falls in line with the steps.

“See? You’re a natural.”

Keith snorts and Lance grins, proud. “Not really—not like you anyway. How did you get to be so good?”

“I'm Cuban,” he says as a means of explanation, swinging his hips leisurely with the beat a drummer starts playing, obviously enjoying himself. It’s… distracting. Especially when the song changes to something with more bass and he lines their bodies together, starting up a heavy sway that Keith falls into after the initial jerk of surprise. Then there’s a thigh fitting between his legs and Lance is letting go of one hip to guide his gloved hand to the small of his back, casual as can be as the boy rolls back into the touch.

“This is, um.” Keith takes in a shaky breath. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, I don’t think there are many opportunities for this out in the desert. You really missed out—the Garrison dances always ended up this way. Didn’t matter how many chaperones they assigned.” Lance’s voice is level with his ear, their cheeks brushing as they move to the music, causing goosebumps when he feels the contradictory smooth-roughness of the other’s freshly shaved skin. “But we’ll count this as making up for all the ones you missed. Better late than never, right?”

Breathing is difficult but Keith manages it, if only just. “Right.”

Lance makes a noncommittal hum, pressing closer to let a couple trip pass them. Keith watches them go from his view over Lance’s shoulder, only slightly scandalized when the shorter alien unabashedly slips a hand over their date’s backside. It causes his hand to twitch, the pad of his thumb finding the indent of his partner’s lower back through his suit. With a startling clarity, Keith realizes how far his hand has fallen and tenses, waiting for Lance to notice and take offense.

But nothing happens. No one comments on how close the two paladins have gotten, probably because they aren’t the only ones to do so. The dancefloor is a mesh of bodies, all moving to whatever dance they know and hiding them from the view of the spectators sitting at the tables. He’s not pushed away in disgust, nor is he laughed at. Instead, Lance drapes his free arm over Keith’s shoulder, smoothing down the baby hairs at the back of his neck.

It gives Keith the courage to glance over; he spies half-lidded eyes and a warm flush under golden skin. Enticed by the fluttery feeling low in his gut, he settles his remaining arm over the other’s bicep, just above the edge of his elbow-length gloves. A slow inhale, followed by an even slower exhale, and the pulse under his fingers jumps.

He’s never been held like this before, as if he was the beginning of an addictive end.

The song—the fifth they had danced to and Keith deliriously wonders where the time had gone—starts to come to a climax, and Lance stirs. He looks at the band, then the other dancers and then Keith. There’s something in his eyes and it’s like taking a deep breath before diving under, adrenaline-inducing, willing to be pulled wherever the current takes him. The moment builds like a cresting wave—higher and higher, curling with seafoam and impending desire—until Keith is sure that they're going to crash together, that he’s going to lean in closer and kiss him. Involuntarily, he slips his eyes closed.

“And now, the big finish!”

His eyes fly back open. "What—"

But Lance is already twisting them around and throwing himself backwards. And Keith has no choice but to hastily lean with him, biceps flexing as he tightens his grip around Lance’s waist and hastily puts pressure between his shoulder blades. The top of his head barely misses cracking against the floor. Still, Lance cackles like it’s great fun.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Lance says too loudly when they’re back to standing normally, clapping with the rest of the crowd as the band announces their fifteen minute break. The moment officially over. “I usually drop my partners when I try to dip them.”

“That was embarrassing.”

“Eh, you liked it.”

A little called out, Keith hunches his shoulders and scowls. “I did not.”

But Lance goes on like he didn’t say anything, giving him a million-watt smile. “We did pretty well, all things considered. Probably cause we make such a good team.”

And how is Keith supposed to keep things together when he goes and says things like that? All sincere and butterfly-inducing. “Yeah,” he tells the boy, feeling brave and scared and more than himself, making it so that the back of their hands brush. “We really are.”

After that the party winds down.

The crowds thin and people start saying their goodbyes, respectful salutes paving way for hearty handshakes and more than one inebriated embrace. There seems to be a line forming in front of Allura, everyone wanting a final word with the princess before the night is officially over; Keith merely gives a wave as he and Lance pass her by towards where Hunk and Pidge dally around the buffet table, thinking nothing of the quick smile she gives in return before looking at the diplomat talking to her, knowing that he’ll see her tomorrow at their usual movie night.

Hunk is polishing off his plate of what looks to be pigs in a blanket while Pidge shoves leftover hors d'oeuvres into her shoulder pack. “I’ve got to get this recipe,” the former is saying when the pair come within hearing distance, looking up at the sound of their footsteps and doing a triple take before not-so-subtlety nudging his smaller companion with his elbow. With both gazes trained on them, Hunk gives a too-innocent smile. “Looks like you guys had fun. How was the dancefloor?”

“Crowded,” Keith replies at the same time Lance says, “Cozy.”

The yellow paladin’s eyes flicker between them. “Okay, yeah. Well, we were gonna head out soon… Are, um, you guys gonna…”

“It is getting pretty late,” Lance agrees, leaning forward to steal the last bit of the food from Hunk’s plate before slipping around Keith and draping an arm across his shoulders. He pops the finger food into his mouth and makes a show of chewing loudly when Keith frowns. “You’re going back to the Atlas, right?” he asks him, oblivious or uncaring of the two pairs of eyes that dissect the entire interaction. “Do you think I could hitch a ride with you? I’m staying with Veronica tonight and I think she already left.”

“Sure.”

“Cool.” Lance leans away far enough that he nearly topples the two of them over and Keith has to lightly brace his hand on the other’s waist to better balance them. “See you later, paladudes.”

They four exchange fist bumps and then the red and blue paladin are angling themselves towards the exit, Keith trying not to combust when their arms stay wrapped around each other. More than one eye sticks to them and even more bodies put themselves in front of them to give a deferential goodbye; Lance takes it in stride, giving a sincere wave here and an over-the-top wink there, and it more than makes up for Keith’s own stilted replies. He only blunders once and that’s when Shiro catches his eye over the brim of a champagne glass, smile smug and unbearable.

Finally, they make it to the building’s transport dock where the Black Lion sits docilely.

The forcefield dissipates before Keith even asks and there’s a low rumble in greeting when the pair walk up the ramp, which Lance reciprocates with a light pat to one of the wall panels before following Keith to the cockpit. Then it’s just a means of setting a course to the Atlas and watching the stars pass them by as the mechanical lion does the rest.

The Atlas is empty save for the night shift, all of whom pause in their work up in the control room to watch the Black Lion land and the two paladins that exit it make their way across the room. It is almost eerie how their footsteps sound like a military march in comparison to absolute quiet that reigns once the cabin pressurizer comes online but Keith doesn’t give himself any time to consider it, not when he has a preferable distraction walking alongside him. Lance fills in the silence easily, looking princely as he charms Keith with anecdotes of parties past, laughing alongside him as he recalls the time he had won the Winter Formal crown and the resulting awkward dance that had followed, set to an early century song that he attempts (and fails) to beatbox. It makes the trip up to the floor with their quarters all the more enjoyable and when it’s over, Keith wishes it wasn’t.

Lance flashes a smile at him. “Night, Samurai.”

He sighs in return. “Night, Sharpshooter.”

Then the boy is turning around, disappearing down the hallway with only one look over his shoulder. And Keith, not wanting to look more foolish than he already has by getting caught staring at the spot his crush had occupied, quickly unlocks his door and slips inside.

His mother is in the kitchen, slicing up something that looks like a blue tomato, and looks up when he lingers in the doorway. “You’re back,” she says neutrally, transferring the food to a serving platter and pointedly ignoring the cosmic wolf that watches her every move, drool starting to collect at the base of his largest molar. “How was the party?”

He shrugs. “It was alright.”

“Just alright?”

He shuffles away and into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. His neck cranes back, giving him a perfect view of the ceiling tiles. There’s a scorch mark in the top-right corner from when Kosmo had mistaken one of Krolia’s blasters for a chew toy. He squints at it, thinking, and his mind instantly snags onto the phantom brush of thighs and the strum of an alien guitar. Mouth dry and more than a little embarrassed, he squeezes his eyes shut.

The couch dips slightly and then a clawed hand is stroking his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face and behind his ear. The gesture quells the loud noise in his chest and he lets his head dip to the side, heated cheek squished against the cool felt of the couch.

“It was maybe more than alright,” he finally answers. For some reason, it’s this admission that had him blushing and curling his toes in secondhand gratification. “I had fun, more fun than I thought I would have anyway.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She doesn’t ask, but he knows she wants to know. Better yet, he wants to tell her.

“Everyone was there.”

She hums and continues to comb through his hair.

“Shiro, Pidge and Hunk and Allura. Lance too.” A pause where he clears his throat, far from casual. “We danced.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it was—nice.”

They sit in silence for a bit and his mind lingers on the dance he had shared that evening. He plays it on loop, going over every detail until he could sketch it out on paper, framed and made all the more real. Eventually Krolia stops her grooming in favor of offering him a slice of the strange fruit; he takes it and plops it into his mouth without question, surprised at the sweet taste.

“It’s weird, feeling this way,” he says absently, grounded but with his head in the clouds. “Weird that this is where I am. That life’s like this now.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” she tells him with a hum and he would scoff at such a cliche saying if it weren’t for the way his mother says it so genuinely. “Sometimes, it takes a lifetime and a half to find your place in it. I’m glad you’ve found yours.”

The flashes start coming faster and—

—Lance’s warm hand in his as they walk through a line of stalls selling alien wares. Merchants offering gossamer scarfs the same shade as the rising sun and jewelry that shines like they’ve been plucked straight from the night sky. Gaggles of children running through the streets, laughing as they dodge through the crowds. An ornate dagger purchased and gifted—

—fingers gently rubbing a sticky substance over the stretch of his cheek while a voice drones on about the benefits of skincare—

—his shoulder leaned against a doorway as he watches Lance address a class full of recruits, eyes twinkling when they catch sight of him hidden in the shadows. The loud trill of a bell and the shuffle of children eager for lunch, tempered by the arms wrapped around his neck and the kiss bestowed on his cheek—

—the shudder that goes through him as they rock into each other, skin sweaty and breathes loud. Hands gripping his thighs and his teeth nipping at an exposed neck, leaving marks so the world would know who they belonged to, now and to the end. Words whispered in the dark just as stars burst across his vision—

—eyes connecting over a crowd, secretive and happy—

—Keith fumbling with the black box in his pocket as he paces their room, repeating the words he wants to say to the man that he loves, nervous and excited and everything that comes after—

—he never wants them to stop.

They are hanging out in Keith’s room three days after the ball, sitting on the floor and leaning against his bed as they enjoy each other’s presence. Between them, Kosmo rolls onto his back, expecting belly rubs now that they’re no longer distracted by the show they had been watching, ending credits rolling after twenty-three minutes of terrible storytelling and bad animation. Lance is talking with the assumption that Keith will listen, going on loudly about how his character in the show is the main protagonist while delivering pats to the space wolf.

And Keith is… distracted.

Distracted in a sense that he can’t focus—or rather, he can’t stop focusing. On the energetic hand gestures and the expressive emotions that flit across Lance’s face as he speaks, pausing intermittently in order to coo at Kosmo and ask his opinion on things, always answered with a happy pant and an excited tail wag that has the blue paladin nodding sagely before continuing. He focuses on the way he feels now, in this moment, content like he’s never felt before.

A wet tongue licks a stripe up Lance’s cheek and he rears back, half disgusted, half charmed, and Keith can’t keep quiet any longer. Just blurts out, “We should do something this weekend.”

His friend blinks owlishly. “What?”

There’s fire coursing through his veins, invigorating him. It gives him courage to continue, to make so that the flashes are no longer flashes but memories. “I said we should do something this weekend. Do something together.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The casualness of the answers makes him think that the boy doesn’t quite understand the request. Assumes what he’s asking is for something they’ve always done. They hang out all the time, yes, but this is different. He wants this to be different.

“No, I mean we should go out this weekend.” Keith sends him a certain look, waiting for Lance to catch on.

He doesn’t catch on. “Huh?”

Dark eyes roll toward the ceiling and Keith shakes his head, and there’s that something again and oh, it’s fondness—it’s a look of fondness quirking his lips.

“What I’m saying is…” He takes a quick moment to shift on his hip so that their knees are almost touching and, after a moment of consideration, Keith slides his hand down and over until the tips of their pinkies bump into each other. “We should go out this weekend, like go on a ride out to town. Whatever you want, really.”

Lance’s blinks once, twice, three times, and—there. Comprehension floods and it takes only half a second before a high pitched noise scratches out of the boy’s throat. His eyes are wide, comically so, and he stares at Keith, mouth parting in an eclipse of a red moon. Then, just as Keith is committing the image to memory, he snaps his mouth shut and visibly shakes himself. “O-okay, I see. You mean like a scouting mission, right? For any lingering drones out in the desert. Well, yeah, um, as long as it’s okay with Shiro—”

“No,” he quickly cuts off, partially frustrated at the gap in communication and partially embarrassed that they would need clearance for what he has in mind. “I meant—a ride together—as in, you and me. No mission. Just us… together.”

The boy swallows loudly and Keith tracks the moment involuntarily.

"Oh.”

A lapse follows, not uncomfortable, but full. Keith buzzes in the aftertaste of his impromptu proposition and holy hell, he just asked Lance out. They’ve still yet to talk about the ball and how they had danced all night, and, despite the looks they receive from their teammates, neither of them have been brave enough to breach the silent agreement of keeping whatever feelings they had to themselves. However, now everything threatens to burst. His heart finally catches up to his words, beating in overdrive as he waits for an answer. But Lance seems not to care for the nervousness pulsing in his veins or the butterflies fluttering in the base of his stomach because he keeps up the uncharacteristic silence. It remains that way for a solid thirty seconds, until, finally, Keith can't take it anymore.

He clears his throat. “So, is that a yes?”

Lance jerks to attention, looking caught. “I, uh, what?”

“Do you want to go?”

Something incredible happens then. It’s wild and previously unthinkable, but Lance blushes.

He blinks and his vision doubles, half of it going auburn in a wash of caribbean light. He is by the waterfront, the sound of crashing waves dissolving into background noise when compared to the breathy laugh that washes over his face. Darkened cheeks lift in a smile that crinkles eyes and Keith goes a bit red himself at the image. The flash indulges him in a scene of utter bliss; velvety sand and supple lips, parting against his own.

Without thought he leans in, chasing the moment not yet passed. It causes present Lance’s eyes to go wide and it’s nothing like the cool burn of his half lidded gaze on the beach, salt drying on his lashes and sun-born freckles prickling his cheeks.

“I—ah, um. I—I’ll go.”

“Yeah?”

Lance looks away and then back. His voice is the quietest he’s ever heard. Almost shy. “Yeah.”

And it really is that easy.

The days go by slow after that, drawling in an agonizing pace. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour. Nearly stagnant, Keith hangs under time’s dispassionate influence, watching the clock and willing it to move. It’s a blessing when it finally hits five o’clock on the following Saturday. He stops the pacing he had been doing for the past hour and checks his reflection for the sixth time in as many minutes, tucking and untucking his shirt and running a hand in his hair in an futile attempt to tame it. When the results only further his agitation he gives up, collecting his nerves to the best of his ability making his way out the door with the intention of a quiet getaway.

Which makes him startle when he runs into Romelle outside his door, hand raised and poised to knock. “Keith! I've been sent to retrieve you!” He sees her gaze flicker down to take in his outfit—his cleanest pair of jeans, a corded necklace with a hanging Marmora pendant, and a leather jacket so new that its tag is stuffed in his back pocket—and he stops himself from turning back around and locking himself in his closet till the end of time. “Dinner is almost ready and Coran has made the most spectacular—”

“Actually,” he interrupts, unable to maintain eye contact, “I’ve got other plans.”

Romelle opens her mouth, but Keith, knowing the girl’s knack for rambling, is already speeding through the hallway.

Unfortunately for him, the living room is not as empty as he had previously thought. The yellow and green paladin are sitting on the couch, surrounded by a hurricane of blankets and pillows, the leftovers of a raid on Shiro’s candy stache sprawled across the coffee table.

“Aw, Keith, you look nice. What’s the occasion?”

Pidge looks up and over her screen, lips curling in a sly grin that instantly puts Keith on edge. “Yeah, Keith, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he says immediately. Then, “Out.”

“Out with Lance I bet. Isn’t your date today?”

Hunk gasps. “You guys are going on a date?”

“How did you…?” He spots his phone on the couch next to her and huffs angrily, stomping over and snatching it back. He quickly unlocks it, frowning when his last conversation with Lance immediately pops up, the other boy having sent a barrage of emojis in affirmation that their outing was still on. “Stop looking through my stuff and for the last time, we aren’t—it’s not a date. We’re just going for a ride, maybe check out the town market. It’s whatever.”

“I don’t know, that sounds a lot like a date to me. Hunk, any thoughts?”

Hunk has just one. “It’s totally a date.”

Heat flushes his cheeks. “Don’t you have your own quarters? Why are you even here?”

Pidge leans back, priggish smirk still in tact. “Matt and N-1 are having their rebel friends over and I didn’t want to third-wheel it, so Shiro said I could crash here for the night.”

Keith internally curses Shiro and his mother hen tendencies. Outwardly, he searches for the key card he’s pretty sure he left on the table the night before. His hair falls into his face as he ducks to check under the furniture and he brushes it back behind his ear, thinking maybe it would be more manageable in a ponytail.

“Look at him.” Pidge snickers. “What a schmuck.”

Hunk shushes her with a light pat of the arm. “I think it’s sweet. It means he cares. And don’t you worry Keith, I’m sure Lance will appreciate the effort you put into today. It’s also perfectly normal to be nervous for your first date— ”

“I’m not nervous and it’s not a date.”

Their response is lost when he goes to the office in the next room and searches there. But it’s all for naught because Shiro is a veritable mess when it comes to anything other than flying because there are papers scattered everywhere and it would take hours to file through even half of it.

When he comes back out, Allura has joined them. She perks up at the sight of him, but he ignores her in favor of checking in between the cushions of the armchair. However, Allura is not deterred. “Keith, Pidge and Hunk have just informed me of your date with Lance. If I may, I have some suggestions—”

“I don’t need any suggestions. I just need to leave or I’ll be late.” Pidge squawks indignantly when Keith shoves her to check her side of the couch.

“Yes, you’re right! Punctuality is very important for these types of things. Early duflax gets the wyvin, as Coran always says.” It seems pointless to mention that not once has he ever heard Coran say that. “But if I could impart some advice before you go. Now, I don’t know much about Earthen mating rituals, but Pidge tells me that courting is a common practice here— ”

“I’m not listening.”

“—gifts are imperative for a successful—”

“Can’t hear you.”

“—when you present, do so when tensions are high—”

“Allura, please, stop.”

“—and then, finally, you must lay claim—”

“I’m leaving,” Keith announces loudly, trying and failing to drown out the giggles that come from Hunk and Pidge’s side of the couch. Forget the keycard. It’s not worth this pain. “Bye. I hope you all have a terrible day.”

They are unfazed by his words, grinning like madmen as they wave. He stalks out of the room, shoulders hunched all the way to his ears as he desperately tries to block out the kissy noises Pidge is making. He can’t believe there was a time he was worried that they would be out of his life; he must have been having an existential crisis or something because this is a new level of embarrassing.

He’s so consumed in his thoughts that he nearly barrels into Shiro on his way out. It’s only the steady grip of his automated arms that Keith doesn’t crack his head against the doorframe and give himself a concussion.

“Whoa there. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just…”

“Looking for this?”

There, dangling from Shiro’s prosthetic fingers, is a familiar key card.

Keith lets out a deep breath, a whisper of relief cooling down the anxious fire within him by a few degrees. He sends his oldest friend a strained smile and takes them. “Yeah, thanks. Where did you find them?”

“Under the couch with one of my shoes, the holoscreen remote, Hunk’s headband, and Allura’s earrings. It seems like Kosmo’s starting a life of crime.”

He lets out a chuckle, unraveling just a little less. “I should probably put a stop to that.”

Shiro nods, patting his back in that sorta awkward, manly sort of way. It’s encouraging and he steps past the other man with a deep breath. Feeling more like himself, he secures the key card to his belt loop and turns to head down the corridor, promising himself that he’ll only start running when there’s no one to catch him doing it.

“Oh, Keith?”

Keith whips around, nerves already reinflating. “Yeah?”

Shiro fails to keep his smile in check. “Have fun on your date.”

And before he can even begin to retaliate, the door is sliding shut and he’s left there, standing in an empty hallway, red to his tips.

Lance looks nice. Really nice. Really, really, really nice. It’s actually a little distracting how nice he looks.

They had met up at the east end of the loading docks and Keith had fought to keep his cool when he had spotted the tall form of his fellow paladin casually leaning against a security rail. His white v-neck and ripped jeans contrasted with the industrial setting, his denim jacket faded and adorned with a couple of pins, sleeves rolled up to showcase the collection of beaded bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. But what had truly pulled it all together was the smile he had sent Keith upon noticing him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Lance returns. “You clean up good, Mullet.”

The compliment flusters him a little and he nearly walks straight into a support beam, only just managing to avoid it with a side-step that brings him close enough to brush shoulders with Lance. “Thanks. You, uh, you too.”

Unsure of what to say next, he ducks his head and leads them to the area the coordinator had assigned him when he had called in the favor. Section A-26 is large and the usual aircraft that docks there is nowhere to be seen; instead, there his hoverbike sits, scavenged from the Blue Lion’s cave and restored to its previous glory. He hoists himself up into the seat with practiced ease and looks down at Lance expectantly.

Pink tints the other boy’s cheeks, but there’s this mischievous smile on his face as he asks, “Why do you get to drive?”

“Because I’m the one that knows where we’re going.”

“Wow, you actually have a plan. Um, okay, then where are we going? Or is that top secret?” He bounces where he stands, looking for all the word: giddish.

“It wasn’t until you asked.”

Lance looks pleased at the response and climbs up behind Keith.

The hoverbike dips a little at the uneven dispersion of weight and he offers his hand as a brace, blushing faintly when it’s taken. But thankfully, Lance doesn’t see, focused as he is on swinging a leg over the seat and scooting close enough to Keith that his chest brushes sparingly at his back. Then hands are wrapping around his middle, loose, and it’s embarrassing how responsive Keith’s body is to the touch, rolling in one long shiver that’s unmistakable. If Lance notices he doesn’t comment on it.

“Ready to roll,” he says, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear.

Keith puts on the goggles hidden in the front compartment and passes the extra pair he brought to his back seat passenger. Then it’s a matter of twisting the throttle and feeling the engine come to life beneath them, four hundred pounds of metal under his control. And it’s like it was just yesterday he was speeding across the desert with Shiro, tasting freedom for the first time, his hands gripping the handles like they were always meant to; the circumstance has changed but the feeling hasn’t and Keith, with the luxury knowing that he’s got time on his side, grins and drives.

“Woah!” Lance exclaims when Keith tears out of the loading docks, erupting into laughter when they take a sharp turn at the gates of the Garrison compound and startle the men stationed there.

Then it’s just the open desert road, flat and red-tinged. The torrid heat follows at their backs, rolling alongside tumbleweeds and whistling in the wind that buffets the nose of the hoverbike. Dust swirls under the speeder's anti-gravity fenders, curling over the shadowy silhouettes of cacti that they fly past. It brings the beds of the distance buttes into startling focus, massive against the clear sky and infinite horizon.

It takes twenty minutes to get to their destination.

Keith parks at the outskirts of the town nearest to the Galaxy Garrison, waiting for Lance to dismount before following. Their shoulders brush a bit as they stand side by side, Keith eyeing Lance as he eyes their surroundings curiously. The town market is already in full swing, tents set up and people bustling about, buying and selling wares; already, more than one individual behind a stand is calling out to them, offering a discount if they buy in bulk.

“I thought we could walk around a bit?” he says, hoping that the idea isn't too lame. “And after—well, there’s an arcade in the plaza a few streets down and they’ve got pizza.”

His fears are unfounded because Lance just grins. "Pizza not made out of green goo? Count me in."

Things go smoothly after that. The anxiety bubbling in Keith’s chest eases and it allows him the strength to grab Lance’s sleeve and tug him in the direction of a tent hosting a repository of wind chimes. From tent to tent, they go; browsing at board games from planets even they haven’t been to, giggling over misspelled words on shirts, daring each other to try gross-looking foods and petting every dog they see.

And it’s… fun. Keith is having fun.

Lance is great. He’s nice and funny and smart and actually seems to enjoy hanging out with Keith. He nods along when Keith speaks, insanely attentive, and offers his own input with great enthusiasm. They bicker too, playful jabs volleyed back and forth, easy and natural like it never was in the beginning but is now. And although Keith has never thought himself to be an overly funny guy, he finds that pulling a laugh out of his fellow paladin isn’t all that hard and even sort of a reward on all on its own.

It’s like they fit, slotting together like puzzle pieces—or flashes.

“Hey, Keith?” Lance’s hand finds Keith’s elbow. He had discarded his jacket just before they started eating, which is doing nothing to help the hot flush rushing to the apple of his cheeks. The corded muscles of forearms on display is near impossible to ignore and Keith’s eyes follow the dips and curves of his arm, the hard muscle leading up to his shoulder, the soft line of his neck, the defined jawline. “Your fries are getting cold.”

It’s the touch that has him pulling out of the confines of his thoughts, physically shaking his head and straightening his shoulders, not wanting to appear anything less than invested.

Naturally, the world seems to think Keith can’t have a single nice thing without a price because it’s just a few minutes into their meal that his phone starts to blow up with messages. A quick glance shows that most are from his mother, with a few from Shiro sprinkled in intermittently. All of the messages are ones of encouragement, some having been sent while they were driving and others steadily ignored when the two had browsed the stalls of the market.

Eventually all the small pings get to be enough that Keith has to silence his phone.

“You’re really popular today,” Lance notes, slathering an alarming amount of ranch onto his pizza. It’s only when he drowns the unsuspecting slice that he catches Keith’s surprised and guilty look that he elaborates, “Dude, your phone has been lighting up all day. I’d be blind not to notice.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

Still, Keith feels the need to explain. “It’s Shiro and my mom. They’re… checking up on me.”

That gets a light laugh out of Lance. He brings out his own phone, showing Keith the mass of notifications on his lock screen. “I get that. I’ve gotten at least five texts asking if you’re secretly an axe murderer. I hope three years in space is enough time to confidently say that I wasn’t lying when I told them you weren’t. Would really put a damper on the day.”

“I don’t even own an axe.”

Lance’s grin grows and when he puts away his phone to continue eating, he doesn’t reclaim the few inches of space he had given away in order for Keith to see the screen. Their elbows knock a few times, but Keith doesn’t mind.

They leave the plaza in a good mood, making their way back to the hoverbike while they talk about nothing and everything. They only stop when they mount the vehicle and when Lance doesn’t ask Keith where they’re going he decides that he doesn’t want the day to be over quite yet, so he revs the throttle and heads toward the direction he knows his shack is. He eventually leads them to a hill that he and his father used to frequent when he was younger, an escape from the world long before the stars were something to shoot for.

It’s an easy hike up the hill and when they settle by the edge, their pinkies are touching.

“You can’t do that,” he says on their fourth game of tic-tac-toe when Lance brushes the dirt and erases his wobbly X, shifting it over a spot so that it blocks Keith’s next move. “That’s cheating.”

“No, Keithy boy, that’s what I call winning.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“Isn’t it?” Que pursed lips and a sly side-eye. “If it’s not, then why did you dress up for today, huh? Trying to one up me in style too?”

“This is what I usually wear.”

“Pah-lease. Like I don’t know Shiro’s handiwork when I see it. Dude’s got an eye for colors and he did you a solid keeping with the red. Bet he put up such a fuss when you kept the fingerless gloves—they scream embarrassing scene phase that never really went away.” Lance laughs when he doesn’t immediately counter the accusation and it must fuel him because he continues. “I bet you were upset when you couldn’t find any eyeliner for our date—”

As if struck by lightning, Keith straightens.

“—probably used it all up making yourself look like an edgy, space raccoon going to some street race—”

Our date, Lance had said. He had called this a date. They were on a date right now. Officially. The two of them, together.

“—being emo. But, I mean, whatever works, you know? Sometimes you just gotta paint your nails black and—mmph!”

Keith’s kiss lands on his upper lip, hard and dry.

It’s quick, over and done within a matter of seconds. Lips tingling and heart hammering, Keith pulls back, soul leaving his suddenly flushed body when he realizes he can still feel the other’s breath on his face. He must remain in his catatonic state for longer than he realizes because then Lance’s giving him this particular frown and saying, “What was that?”

With nothing else to do, he shrugs helplessly. “It was a kiss.”

“I know what a kiss is.” Eyes search his. “Why did you kiss me? ”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “Was that not okay?”

“No, that wasn’t… No, it was cool.”

“Cool,” Keith repeats.

Lance scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. I liked it.”

“Me too,” he adds, looking down. A good portion of their game has been accidentally wiped away and he redraws it, purposefully putting all the X’s and O’s in their respective spots before Lance had decided to remake the rules. He nudges the other boy’s foot with his own, biting back a smile when they’re hooked together. “We can, um, stay here? If you want?”

“I’d like that.”

They stay long enough to watch the sun dip under the horizon.

As dates go, it’s the best he’s ever had.

Later, when he’s home and high off the promise of a second date, he walks into the kitchen to find his friends congregated despite the late hour.

“So,” Allura starts as soon as he walks in, boots loud on the linoleum floor, trying to appear casual as she leans against the counter and just failing. It doesn’t help that the space mice are nearly tripping over her hair as they peer at Keith from over her shoulder, adding four tiny pairs of eyes to the many already scrutinizing his every move. “You’re back awfully late.”

Romelle is no better, inspecting her nails even as her ears twitch in his direction. “Yes, how did it go?”

There’s a plate of cookies on the island counter, comically shaped like the lions and dressed in an assortment of colors. He picks up the only red one on top and bites into it, humming at its surprising sweetness. Knowing his audience still expects an answer, he attempts an aloof shrug and nails it. “It was fine.”

There’s a pause and Keith can tell something is coming. He doesn’t know what exactly, but the warning signs are all there, flashing neon when Allura steeples her fingers and gives him a look.

“And the other… thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Why your kiss with Lance, of course.”

He nearly drops the sweet in his hand and immediately goes to look through the kitchen pass-through, spotting the rumpled state of the pillows and blankets by the living room window looking out to the barrack’s hallway. That and the smudge of chocolate on the window sill, coupled with the candy wrappers sticking out of Pidge’s hoodie pouch, can only mean one thing. “Were you watching?”

“No,” Romelle and Hunk immediately deny just as Allura and Pidge say, “Yes.”

Keith fumbles for a plausible reaction. His friends had undoubtedly seen the goodbye kiss that had been exchanged between him and Lance when the latter had insisted on walking him home; it had been a memorable kiss and Keith had maybe lost himself to it for longer than he’s willing to admit, but that’s something else entirely. A little helplessly, he searches the room for a means of end for this absolute embarrassment. He finds none. “That’s—I can’t believe—uncool!”

“Lance texted me almost immediately after,” Hunk offers, as if that makes up for his eavesdropping and then denial of said eavesdropping. “He hasn’t stopped talking about how you sprung one on him. You don’t really beat around the bush, do you?”

Shiro, the traitor, nods. He ignores Keith’s death glare and takes a sip of his tea, eyes crinkling with mirth over the rim of his mug. “Keith has always been very straightforward in what he wants. A real go-getter.”

It’s at that time that Coran makes an appearance, dressed in an obnoxiously orange pajama set with a matching hat, but any hope Keith has of the older man causing a distraction and, by default, a new topic change dissipates when he asks, “Oh, are we talking about Keith and Lance’s kiss? Congratulations Keith, I hear it had quite the impact.”

Pidge looks like she’s barely holding back a laugh. “Yeah, way to go in for the kill, Keith.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Stop talking. Just stop talking. I don’t want to hear another word.”

Thankfully, they listen and grow quiet. It doesn’t stop the looks that are thrown his direction, especially with Allura nearly vibrating in her slippers in the effort to capture his gaze, but it’s easy to scowl and turn away. He snatches the drink Shiro holds, ignoring the other’s surprised whine, and takes a sip, ready to head to bed and purge this conversation from his mind, never to be brought up again—

“Did you use tongue?”

Keith chokes.

Hunk merely hums. “Yeah, didn’t look like it.”

Keith thought he knew what love was.

It had been an easy thing, once upon a time. It had been his dad’s hugs after a long day, the blade left to him from a mother he didn’t know, a pat on the back following a perfect maneuver from a brother he found. It was as simple as looking up at the sky and letting himself get lost, for space was everything he had ever wanted, vast and exciting and impossible. Constant and safe and easy, a look to the heavens that held every dream.

But this is new.

New in that he is utterly blindsighted and unprepared for when it happens. A change in heart, from wistful ache to hopeful relief, sudden in the wake of new love. Stitched together through time and soft words, it beats again. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, it goes, drumming loudly against his chest, swelling at touches that burn like supernovas, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Even more goosebump-inducing than the fire in his chest is the response it gets. Because, startling enough, the feeling is reciprocated.

No words have been said but the thought is there. It comes through in the accidental brushes that turn to lingering caresses. It’s the stretch of an arm thrown over wide shoulders, heads dipped closer as casual words are exchanged. It’s the lack of space as they sit, thighs pressed firmly together and feet idly kicking. It’s the pluck of pink petals out of dark hair, absent-minded, curling in the breeze. It’s the hand pressed against a lower back, feather-light as it guides them closer and onward.

Everything is the same, but different.

Following the date, they are still Lance and Keith, still stubborn and opinionated and more than willing to call each other out, but now—now, they’re more. Keith can talk strategy for restoration while their hands are clasped under the table; can steal a kiss during a spar and, while the other is distracted, sweep his legs right out from underneath him and ensure his victory; can argue the integrity of putting pineapple on pizza for three hours while cuddled under Lance’s arm; and can even sneak the boy into his room when Shiro and his mom are out on call, leaving the door closed and the lights off. He’s allowed to do these things—encouraged, even, if Lance's pleased as punch looks are anything to go by—to look, to touch, to hold. It’s a recently discovered niche in which they fall into, each eager to explore, and once they find their line, Lance makes a point of tiptoeing it. And Keith—well, Keith can't find it in himself to complain.

(“Like this,” the Lance of his flashes murmurs to him one night as he gets ready for bed—only for the words to be spoken again three days later as they curl into each other on the beat-up couch in his shack. “I like it like this.”)

Life shapes into something remarkable in the days of after. It becomes a certainty that the flashes had promised and Keith sometimes can’t believe it, that he gets this. Gets this and more. Because not that long ago, he had nothing—he was nothing—scraping by, sneering at everything he couldn’t have just to hide how it hurt to be denied the love he so desperately craved. But that’s the past and though it shapes him, it is not him. He is here, today, and soon, tomorrow too.

Tomorrow and every day that comes after.

In a menagerie of light, meteor showers and space whales, Keith dreams.

Even so long apart, the abyss is a physical thing inside him. It curls inside in the space behind his heart while he sleeps, coveting each heartbeat like a dragon to a horde; time does not exist in this plane and each heart beat, a remembrance to what he has lived through and what he will live through, is too enticing to pass up. It croons out a soft lullaby, asking for one last look.

Keith gives it.

It’s the sand between his toes and lips meeting his own, sun-warm and pliant to the lazy breeze. It’s the hot puff of breath at his neck while frantic hands explore. It’s the ring on his finger and the sip of champagne, glasses clinking in a toast made. It’s the weight of a child on his chest, calm and innocent, snoring lightly as a small hand fists his shirt. It’s the dip of a mattress every night, for the rest of his nights.

Keith wakes up and knows that’s the last flash he’ll ever have.

On the first day of the rest of his life Lance challenges Keith to a race.

It’s not the first time one of them has issued such a dare and it surely won’t be a last, but Keith still treats it like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done. He squares his shoulder and steps up to the plate, toe to toe, staring Lance in the eye as he accepts. It’s like old times, even with the newness between them, rearing up in the deliberate way Lance tilts his head, chin jutting out in that stubborn fashion of his, the crook of his eyebrow and the curl of his lips dangerous in ways Keith is only just getting used to.

Nevertheless, the day finds them back at the loading docks, convincing the Atlas crew to let them borrow another speeder. When Keith has signed the proper paperwork he turns to find Lance already seated on one of the hoverbikes. The red one.

Keith squints and Lance grins, but lets it go with a soft huff. He walks over to the gray bike and hoists himself with little effort, straddling the sleek seat and making himself familiar with the controls.

“Ready?” he asks once he's done.

“Born ready,” is Lance’s answer.

And, well, Keith can't let a challenge like that stand.

Without further ado, he revs the engine and shoots down the catwalk. He hears the beginning of a surprised squawk before the wind is boxing his ears, tugging at his hair, chasing away everything until it is just him and the road.

Flying is in his blood. It’s been a part of him since as long as he can remember. It was there when he sat atop his father’s shoulders, arms spread wide and leaning back as far as he dared, staring up, up, up. Fondly, he recalls the way big hands had grasped his tiny ankles and the voice, deep and honest, quoting, Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

He had been too young to understand the words then, but he thinks he understands them now.

Though the most air he gets this time around is a particularly steep ledge over a slim ravine a quarter of a mile east from Galaxy Garrison property, it still feels the same. Like he’s taking a deep breath for the first time, lungs expanding until he is weightless, free. Free to be who he is, even if that is a boy quick to anger and slow to love.

And Keith likes who he is now. Likes who he can be—with Krolia, with Shiro and the team, with Lance.

In the end, Keith wins the race.

It’s a close call and his heart races at the thought of it. Because Lance is grinning that absurd grin, eyes crinkling with the force of it, and his hair is a mess, windblown and highlighted gold by the sun. The white shirt that clings to him is twisted and Lance makes a halfhearted effort to fix it as he quiets his hoverbike’s engine and starts talking in compensation, mouth moving a mile a minute.

“I almost had you at that last bend,” he is saying, leaning back in his seat so that his torso is one sleek slant. “I shouldn't have hesitated on the acceleration—I guess I’m just not an adrenaline junkie like you, but hey, now that I know the angle, it’ll be different. So I say we go around again. Two out of three wins. Loser has to help Coran clean the—Keith? Hello? Are you even listening to me?”

It’s not a flash, but it feels like one.

“Keith?” Shoulders rise as Lance angles his head to catch his gaze, honest concern coloring those beautiful eyes. They aren’t that close, hovebikes parked perpendicular to one another, but he swears he can see the universe reflecting in dark navy. Planets colliding and forming, spinning in orbit around a dilated pupil. “Hey, man, what’s wr— ”

“Date me.”

The words are out of his mouth before he has time to really think about them and what they mean.

Lance splutters. “What?”

But now that the idea has been introduced. Keith can't deny its appeal; to keep what they have, in all its stubborn sincerity and wild attraction, going for as long as they live. Perhaps even further than that. “Date me,” he says again, with more conviction. A pause. “Please. Please date me.”

A moment, then—

“You just have to beat me at everything, don't you?” Lance starts, loud enough to be considered yelling, but having none of the thunderous anger usually associated with the volume. “Can't even give me this one thing, can you? Well, the joke’s on you—cause it was going to be great! I had everything planned out and it was going to be the most romantic thing ever! Would've blown this disaster out of the water, I'm telling you!” He stands and, uncaring of the wobble it gives under his weight, marches purposefully across the wing of his bike until they’re parallel to one another. One of his hands waves madly about, flying across the entire range of their surroundings before gesturing to Keith himself. “Candles and rose petals everywhere! Hunk was gonna cook something nice and we would've danced and—and you were gonna swoon! Straight into my arms! There would've been kissing and everything! The whole shebang!”

Keith furrows his eyebrows, lost. “What?”

But Lance blows past his confusion and slumps to the side in an expulsion of energy, mumbling, “God, you're such a jerk.”

Hands move to grip the front of his shirt, the only warning before the entire weight of his maybe-boyfriend is forced upon him. Keith feels the wisp of eyelashes fluttering against the column of his neck as Lance smooshes his nose into the junction there, mumbling words and noises he can't hope to translate. He returns the clumsy embrace automatically, winding his arms around the other’s waist and resting his cheek on a soft, brown crown of hair.

“So… yes?”

Lance laughs a watery laugh, deliriously happy, and leans back to stare him straight in the eye, a whirlwind of blue caught in a crystal ball of stars. The grip on his shirt loosens, fingers trailing up his chest until they tease the nape of his neck. “Of course it's a yes, you absolute loser.”

Keith frowns even as his heart sings, melody erupting into fireworks so loud he might go deaf. “See, it's stuff like that last part that really mix me up.”

“Oh my gosh, just shut up and kiss me.”

So he does.

Time, like most things in Keith’s life, is something he keeps close.

[iwillbeinmynest]

Seeing Ghosts? - Frank Castle x Reader(f)

Author’s Notes: This is for @sgtbxckybxrnes​ Fall Writing Challenge! I had fun with this one so I hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 2.4K

Notes/Warnings: Mentions of cheating, mentions of drinking, kissing, anxiety, aggression, fluff.

Masterlist

 For the love of all things. Y/N knew from the moment she started getting ready that tonight was going to be a disaster and now what was supposed to be a girls night was turning into a “Let’s see how many of us can find guys to go home with” night.

  Y/N rolled her eyes and sipped on what was left of her one and only drink. No way was she getting tipsy and ending up on a walk of shame tomorrow. No, after things ended with Sean there was no way she was going to rush into anything else for a while. The last thing she wanted to deal with was another guy. 

 Which was also why the fact that this girl’s night was less about the girls and more about guys ticked her off. 

 “Oh my gosh.” Raychel stood up at their table. “You know what we should do?”

 The table waited for her to answer herself. 

 “Go ghost hunting!”

 There was a mix of responses from the group of eight. 

 Y/N shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

 Raychel tilted her head and smirked. “Why not?”

 “Because ghosts aren’t real and it is a colossal waste of money.” She downed the last of her drink. “You guys do what you want but I’m going to call it a night.” She stood from her seat only to be pulled back down.

 “Um, no.” Jessa sassed. “You’re coming. Last thing you need is to go home and sulk. You need to find a guy and what’s the most guy-ish thing to do on a night like tonight? Ghost hunting.”

 “And that’s exactly why I’m not going.” She replied. This crisp and gloomy fall night was perfect for getting into something spooky and that’s why she refused. No way was she willingly going to get herself into trouble.

 Jessa shook her head. “You’re going. I’m buying and you aren’t going to complain.” She gave Y/N a look that didn’t leave room for arguing. 

 Y/N rolled her eyes and huffed.

 At her submission the rest of the girls cheered.

******

 An hour later and the group was standing in the lobby of Ghouls and Haunts Tours waiting for their tour to begin. 

 “Alright,” Began the tour guide. He was a rather round man with a fisherman’s vest on. It was loaded with all kinds of gadgets and blinking lights. He was the kind of man Y/N expected to believe in ghosts. “So, since we usually do large groups we are going to have all of you join together since each of your individual parties isn’t large enough to book a solo tour. So, get comfy people.”

 Everyone in the room looked around. Some offered small smiles and some were clearly annoyed. There was a group of four who were on a double date as they were wholly attached to their respective partners, and a group of maybe ten guys who Y/N guessed where a bachelor party and, of course, Y/N’s group of friends.

 It came as no surprise that her friends were blatantly eyeing up the boys. Jessa nudged Y/N in the ribs and raised her eyebrows in the direction of a man who seemed to be just as miserable and annoyed as Y/N was. 

 “He’s perfect for you,” She chuckled. “Maybe you two can be mopey and sulky together.”

 Y/N rolled her eyes. “No, thank you.”

 ******

 The tour started just as stupid as Y/N thought it would. The guide, Toby, told everyone the history of the abandoned button factory and of all the “odd goings on” that happened on a nightly basis and how everyone should keep an eye out for any moving objects. Y/N was convinced it was all rigged.

 Another few minutes and Toby was bound and determined to cram the whole group of twenty-two people into a small room where, apparently, two orphan kids were kept and chained to a small table as they were forced to work until they died three years later.

 “Pack it in people! The more of you who are in here the angrier these kids get and I’d hate to rob you of the opportunity to see them.”

 When Y/N stood with crossed arms and pursed lips outside the door, Toby lifted a brow. “Don’t you wanna see this?”

 She shook her head, “I’m good, Thanks.”

  Toby rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t wander off, kay?”

 “Sure thing.” She huffed a laugh. 

 Toby closed the door behind him and Y/N could hear through the walls as he started his dramatic story telling.

 When a movement caught the corner of her eye, Y/N noticed the man that Jessa had pointed out to her earlier. He was smoking and leaning on his side with his shoulder against a cement pillar.

 They made eye contact and he nodded politely before taking one final drag, flicking the bud to the floor and stepping on it to put it out. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his well-worn black hoodie and walked over to her.

 “Too scary for you?” He asked, clearly feeling like he had to say something to avoid an awkward silence as they both waited for the tour to continue.

 Y/N was slightly offended. “Um, no.”

 He chuckled. “Sorry. I was just curious.” His crooked smile was actually gorgeous.

 “Are you? Why are you out here? And don’t pretend that it was for a smoke.” She pressed. If he was gonna be nosy, so was she.

 He smiled and nodded. “I mean it’s a pretty good excuse. Gives me a break from a lot of stuff I don’t wanna do. But no, I’m out here ‘cause I can’t listen to that guy anymore. Twenty minutes is plenty enough.”

 It was Y/N’s turn to smile. “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work.”

 “I’m Frank, by the way.” He didn’t extend a hand but turned to face her fully.

 “Y/N.”

 “Nice to meet you.” He nodded. “So, what brought you out here? I couldn’t help but notice, in the lobby, you looked like you were forced to come.”

 “So did you.” She countered.

 He sighed. “That’s fair. Yeah, a buddy of mine is getting married and this was what his best man picked as part of the bachelor weekend. So, no choice.”

 “Ah, well, I’m in a similar boat. My friends wanted a girl’s night and one too many cosmos later, here we are.” She gestured to the empty factory.

 “One of them getting married?”

 “Nope. Actually, they are all single and looking to go home with someone. So they picked the most guy-ish thing they could think of. And low and behold we got grouped with a bachelor party.” She laughed and he chuckled too.

 “What luck.” He sniffed and ran his hand over his short, dark, beard.

 “For them, maybe.” She shrugged.

 Frank inhaled to ask another question when the door flew open and a couple of people ran out of the room. 

 The door had slammed so hard against the wall that, instinctively Frank grabbed Y/N and shielded her from whatever he thought was going to happen next. When he remembered the tour he let go of her shoulders immediately. “I’m sorry.” He said obviously embarrassed.

 Y/N nodded, she had been startled by the sudden movement herself but then, when she realized there was no threat, she smirked up at him. “I thought you weren’t scared?”

 He backed up from her as the rest of the group poured out. “Ha. Ha.” He rolled his eyes with a grin. “I was just-”

 “You were just...Uh-huh, sure.” She grinned.

 The group was full of mixed emotions, some were laughing and others looked genuinely frightened. One girl was crying, it was Raychel. Serves her right for picking this stupid place, Y/N thought. 

Jessa was rubbing her shoulders and trying to calm her down.

 When Y/N looked for Frank he was back with his group but was watching Y/N. She smiled at him and then turned to follow the tour.

***** 

Up a questionable staircase and onto the second floor the group was once again escorted into another room to probably be told another embellished story of someone who had died doing something.

 And once again, Y/n and Frank held back- much to the protest of their respective friends. 

 “What did you mean earlier when you said it was lucky for them that my group was here?” Frank asked as he sat on some old boxes.

 Y/N shrugged. “I meant that they are looking for some single guys and that’s, generally, what you get with a bachelor party, so…” 

 He leaned his head back, understanding. “So, they are going to be trying to hook up with my friends.”

 “Unfortunately, yeah.”

 “Anyone my boys should steer clear of?” He smiled and leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together.

 Y/n thought about it. “Not really, but Sarah is one hundred percent on the hunt for husband material and she gets clingy, real fast, so maybe watch out for her. But other than that, there are no crazies to speak of.”

 He nodded. “And you? Are you on the husband hunt?”

 Y/n snorted and laughed, which made Frank smile even bigger. “No. Definitely not. No, I just got out of a really bad relationship a few months ago so, I’m trying to stay away from guys for a while.”

 He hummed and his smile dropped ever so slightly. “What happened?”

 Y/N took a deep breath. She didn’t even know this guy and yet, she wanted to tell him everything. Maybe just a brief overview of the traumatic split. “Uh...three years together and I guess he got bored. He proposed and then three weeks later said he wanted to break things off. Turns out he’d “fallen in love” with someone else. Actually, I’m pretty sure, now, that he’d been cheating on me pretty much the whole time.”

 Frank frowned. “So why’d you stay? Why’d you say yes?”

 “Because at the time I had no idea he was cheating. I only found out when he broke things off. He implied that he’d been seeing other girls so…” Y/N swallowed hard, embarrassed.

 “Well, you got no judgement from me so, don’t look so ashamed.” 

 When Y/N looked up at Frank she could see just how sincere he was being. She nodded. Another tour group headed towards them and the stairs. Y/N glanced their way and her eyes widened as she gasped.

 Frank jerked and followed her gaze. “What?”

 “That’s him,” Y/N swore. “That’s Sean, my ex!” She whispered and began to fidget. “What do I do?!”

 Frank looked from the group to Y/N. He didn’t know which one was Sean but he knew that Y/N was in need of a save.

 Frank grabbed her face and pulled her lips to his.

 Y/N gasped through her nose but quickly seized the opportunity to not look panicked in front of Sean and she’d be lying if she said this wasn’t a darn good opportunity.

 Frank’s hand tangled in the hair at the base of her neck as his other wrapped around her to rest on her back and pull her even closer. He felt Y/N relax into him and he kissed her more. He pulled back a little and peppered her lips with quick soft kisses before he rested his forehead on hers. Both of them sat there, just breathing in the cold fall air.

 “Y/N?” A voice called as it came closer.

 Frank felt her stiffen and looked up to see her looking at him. “You got this.” He whispered.

 She gave the slightest of nods before she looked up as she wiped her mouth from where Frank had claimed it.

 “Sean.” She said flatly. 

 Sean smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He crossed his arms as he eyed frank quickly. “Hey, who’s your friend?”

 Frank stood up quickly and all but grimaced down at Sean, who he was taller than. “Frank Castle. Who are you?” He crossed his arms.

 “I- I’m Sean Galloway,” He seemed confused. He looked to Y/N who hadn’t gotten up and was very much not thrilled to be having this conversation. He looked back to Frank. “She hasn’t mentioned me?”

 “No, why? You some one I should know about?” Frank turned slightly and held out his hand. Y/N took it and stood up beside him. Frank wrapped an arm around her, sticking his hand in the back pocket of her jeans.

 “Well, Y/N and I...We - Uh.”

 “We what Sean?” Y/N waited for him to actually say it.

 “I guess,” Sean’s head ticked to the side and he sighed as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I guess it was nothin’.”

 Y/N nodded. “That sounds about right.”

  Sean shook his head in disbelief. “You’re really gonna pretend we didn’t date, that we weren’t engaged?” He was clearly getting agitated.

 “Listen, Pal, you better get goin’ ‘cause you’re makin’ my girl real uncomfortable and I don’t like the tone you’re taking with her.”

 “Your girl? What is this the fifty’s?” Sean chuckled. “You two goin’ to the sock-hop later? Gonna share a milkshake, too?”

 Frank let go of Y/N and stepped up to Sean. “I’m gonna say this one last time.” His voice was low and all threat. “Get lost.”

 Sean swallowed and nodded. “See you ‘round, Y/N.” He spoke softly and defeated.

 “No, you won’t.” Y/N and Frank said in unison.

 They stood quietly until Sean disappeared. When he was out of sight, Y/N sighed and sank back down to the boxes they’d been sitting on. She leaned over with her head in her hands.

 Frank sat beside her and put a hand on her back. “You okay?”

 “I believe in ghosts, now.” She muttered to the floor.

 Frank huffed a soft laugh. “Do you?”

 “I’m pretty sure I just died so, yeah.”

 Frank pushed her shoulder back so she’d sit up and look at him. “Seriously, you good?”

 She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” After a moment, she added. “Thank you for that. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t...kissed me like that.” She blushed.

 “I didn’t go too far with the whole...pocket thing, did I?” He wondered.

 She shook her head. “No, no. It’s fine but I appreciate you asking.”

 He nodded. “I swear I was this close to punching the life out of him.” He scoffed. 

 “You wouldn’t be the first.” She smirked.

 He raised his eyebrows and leaned back slightly in surprise. “Have you punched him before?”

 Y/N looked at him proudly. “Yes, I have.”

 Frank cursed and chuckled. “Good for you.” He looked at her hard. Was he falling for her?

 Y/N laughed. “Seriously, thanks for helping me.”

 Frank smirked. Yes. Yes he was. “Hey, I’m happy to help, anytime you need me.”

 “How’s next weekend sound?” She chuckled as she scooted closer to him. “My parents are trying to set me up with their dentist’s son.” She leaned in closer.

 “I’m free next weekend.” He smiled and leaned in and pecked her lips. “And this Monday,” another kiss,  “And Tuesday,” Another kiss, a little longer this time.

 “How about Wednesday?” Y/N smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

 He hummed, “Mmhmm,” as he kissed her deeper. 

 *   *   *   *

Forever Tags:

@heismyhunter @sgtbxckybxrnes @pickledmoon @whimsicalrebirth @marvel-lucy @thisisthelilith @james-bionic-barnes @thedreamingowl @poemwriter98@kimistry27 @annie-lujan @buckyandsebsinbin @lilasiannerd @gypsy-storm-15 @cassiopeiassky @earinafae @the-stuttering-kiwi @obsessedwithatwell @shortiiqt16 @shifutheshihtzu @elaacreditava @nikkitia7 @theonewithallthemilkshakes @gallifreyansass @storytellingwanderer @palaiasaurus64 @iamwarrenspeace @engineeringgirlcve @magnolia-wanders @carameldaemoncakes @canumoveyourseatup-no @melconnor2007 @movingonto-betterthings @spideytrxsh @fantasticmiraclehologram @kapolisradomthoughts @iamwarrenspeace @melconnor2007 @yesiamdeliciouslycaffeinated @mcu-avengerrs @archy3001@mmauricee @barnesvogue @feelmyroarrrr @beyondbarnes @marvelous-avengers @veronicalei @cornflax01 @kudosia @witchymarvelspacecase@beccaanne814 @inumorph @thisismysecrethappyplace @artemis521@darkhologramblaze @palaiasaurus64 @awkwardfangirl2014@diinofayce @youclickedthislink  @lille-kattunge @patzammit @amiquette @destiel-artemis @nea90sweetie@miraclesoflove @nickimarie94​

Frank Tags: (I don’t actually do character taglists but I figured I’d throw yall on here from the last Frank fic I wrote)

@evilxcupcakexnik @harrysthiccthighss 

[winifrvd]

— 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨.    𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

pinterest. statistics. references.

basics.

full name: winifred anneliese james  nicknames: freda, win, anything you want really  age: 20  birthday: march 18, 2000  astrology: pisces sun, virgo moon, pisces rising  major: computer science  positive: kind, forgiving, loyal  negative: naive, insecure, guarded

about.

click here for winifred’s full bio. tw: domestic abuse, death, suicide attempt

winifred’s father comes from old money, and her mother was a housemaid working for his family. he fell in love with her and his family cut him off when they found out. they were young and in love so they eloped and moved to a small village by the seaside. i put brighton for the sake of putting a town down, this is subject to change if i find a town that better suits the vibe i’m going for.

her father was pretty impulsive n fiery. he was the youngest son and prone to making decisions he didn’t really think through, and his marriage was one of them. he grew up with a silver spoon his whole life and he didn’t realize how hard it was and how much he would miss it when he got cut off. he becomes alcoholic and abusive toward freda’s mother

when she’s twelve, she finds out that her father dies driving drunk. her mother still loved him and really spirals after this. she gets really depressed, and even though she can make it to work most days, winifred and her younger sister, francesca or chessy for short, basically raise themselves after that.

freda has photographic memory and is tagged as gifted at a pretty early age. she does well academically and is granted a lot of opportunities that she wouldn’t otherwise have had because of teachers who recognize her potential. they encourage her to do extracurriculars, to enter competitions, etc

she gets into ashcroft on scholarship and decides to study computer science even though what she really wants to do is study art history. if she was allowed to pursue what she wanted without thinking about the consequences it may have on her family, she would wanna be an art museum curator who lives by the seaside and paints on her days off tbh

she’s incredibly gifted and well-read, but she has crazy imposter syndrome. she doesn’t feel like she belongs in the imperium society at all like she thinks the only reason she does well is because she knows how to memorize, but that’s just not true. she’s articulate and critical, she always has something interesting to contribute, even if it’s just her opinion.

she’s a very talented computer scientist, and she participates in hack-a-thons and won first place at the fall hacks ashcroft has. also, the summer after she graduated she interned at a company and helped develop an app to promote women’s safety and prevent rape or assault. the company got really big after this app, so i imagine her involvement is how she got in the society. or at least how she thinks she got in the society

winifred’s pretty torn up about octavia’s death. she and octavia weren’t super close or anything since i would imagine that they only really got to know each other during the second semester and while lysander was with octavia, but winifred really did admire her. i’d imagine that she never saw octavia’s “bad” side per se; i’m under the impression that she can be slightly manipulative and volatile and i feel like winifred was never close enough to see that.

to her, octavia was always just someone who was full of life and bright and stuff. it doesn’t feel real to her that she died. she also never believed that lysander was guilty. she just doesn’t look at him and see a murderer.

when octavia started showing up, she was honestly pretty invigorated by the implications. lysander’s not guilty, and she’s always known that. she’s not righteous about it, but it does change things because before she couldn’t really justify doing anything about it when everyone so clearly thought it was lysander. now she actually could help look into other possibilities without feeling like she was being disrespectful to anyone.

of course that doesn’t change the fact that people will still think it’s disrespectful, but winifred thinks she’s justified and she doesn’t think any of this is a coincidence or a prank. she loved octavia, and she loves lysander, so she can’t just sit by and do nothing when the signs are this clear

fun facts.

always smells of lavender. she has sprigs of it tucked everywhere, in her pocket, in her purse, on her desk, between notebooks.

she has a rubik’s cube on her desk that she is perpetually solving then scrambling. she’s probably done this hundreds of times, and it’s like her own fidget cube. she doesn’t mind people messing it up or trying to solve it on their own, but it’s just something she does if she’s sitting around or trying to take a mini break. she’s also painted her rubik’s cube so it has prettier colors

she sketches a lot. she sketches in the margin of her notes, but she also has a sketchbook. she sketches her mother, her sister, hamlet, othello… romeo. so many of romeo. if you’re sitting across from her and she thinks there’s something interesting about you, she’ll start sketching you, even if she’s supposed to be studying.

would’ve wanted to become an artist if she could absolutely do anything she wanted, but doesn’t believe she has the right creativity for it. she would’ve wanted to work at an art museum where she could literally just spout facts about different art movements or different artists, but is pressured by her desire to provide more for her family to pursue cs instead

she really enjoys arts and crafts because she likes the idea of self-expression through art: she likes embroidering things, she’s done pottery once and did a little thing to keep her pens, she likes calligraphy/bullet journaling, she paints a lot of things (her phone case, laptop case, the aforementioned rubik’s cube)

she’s fluent in french, spanish, and russian. she took a couple of language classes for fun because it comes a little bit easier to her

a big believer in stretching and meditating in the mornings. she usually takes this time to just clear her head and think about what she needs to do for the day

her favorite thing to do when she’s near any body of water is skip rocks. once she got it to skip eight times. yes it’s her proudest accomplishment. yes she jokes it’s why she got in the imperium society.

winifred’s got a thing about wishing on coins and throwing them into fountains. there’s a small fountain on ashcroft (is this allowed? i made up this fountain) that she can often be found at with her eyes closed, hands clasped around a silver coin, a whisper of a wish on her lips.

a pineapple pizza WARRIOR

she loves an underdog. her favorite male character of all time might be cameron in ferris bueller. he is her KING. she loves sidekicks. she thinks they’re sweet and needed and overlooked too often.

always sings mindlessly when she’s baking or doing chores or whatever, it’s only nice because her voice is quite sweet

her style is conserved and comfortable, simple pieces that are feminine, mostly muted colors. an absolute slut for turtlenecks. wears a pair of white sneakers that are worn to death but in a cute and charming way where you know she knows how to love things long term. is always wearing a necklace her sister got for her as a graduation gift, a delicate gold chain with a snowdrop engraved in a circular pendant, on the back are chessy’s initials (f.j) so she is always with freda

winifred doesn’t wear that much makeup but she usually doesn’t leave her room until she’s put at least a touch of concealer (to cover those dark circles babey), some brow gel, and a pretty pink lip stain that she’s probably been using since high school. classic no makeup makeup kind of gal

really enjoys 70s and 80s music. her parents used to play it when she was younger before everything turned to shit and they’d dance in the kitchen and sing while making dinner. her mother had the prettiest voice.

some favorites:

flower: snowdrops

movie: about time

book: a tree grows in brooklyn

season: spring

fruit: nectarines

[luv4fandoms]

Best Fucking Birthday. Mick Mars x reader

There isn't enough stories about Mick in the fandom, so I decided to contribute lol. This story took me longer than I expected, it's been awhile since I've written smut lol.

Anywho I hope you all enjoy this fluffly and extremely detailed smut about Mick 😘

(May write some for the other boys as well, not sure yet but I know that this movie made me fallin love with Motley Crue all over again XD)

@heavymetalprincessa (because they wanted to be tagged ^_^)

Iwan!Mick x Reader

Warnings: EXTREMELY DETAILED SMUT! and cussing but I mean...It's Mick, this should be expected. (Also the fact that I finished this story with only a couple hours of sleep lol)

Word count: 5,647 (buckle up, it's a long one)

Smoothing down the red thigh length dress you checked your face in your mirror once more before heading to your car. Today was your boyfriend Mick's birthday, and Tommy insisted on holding a party at his house in honor of the man...Even if he still wouldn't tell them how old he was.

You and Mick had met one night at a bar you were attending with your already drunk friends, they had taken you to see the show and although it was amazing and you couldn't wait to see them play again, you were also tired and wanted to go home...but your friends had other plans. So that's how you ended up at the same bar as the one and only Motley Crue that night. You watched your friends flirt with and go to different back areas with the guys, while you just shook your head and ordered yourself a coke, after all, you were their driver.

“Shot of whiskey and a beer” a voice spoke beside you, and when you looked you came face to face with the guitar player...what did Cindy say his name was? Um Mick something...Oh! Mick Mars. Quickly turning back around to hide the growing blush you nursed your soda for a moment.

“Coke? Well aren't you the life of the party”  he spoke again, and you couldn't help the huff of a laugh.

“Sadly that's the downfall of being the sober driver” you replied, surprising yourself by not stuttering.

“That sucks” he added, slightly looking around.

“If you're looking for your friends, they met mine and went to...do something I don't even want to think about” you replied before taking another drink. He just shook his head and turned back to the bar.

“Nothing new”

“Yup, nothing new for them either” you nodded.

The rest of the night was spent with you two sitting there, exchanging stories about your idiot friends, or just talking about random things. You wouldn't think it upon first meeting the brooding man...But he was actually a lot of fun to talk to.

Pulling into Tommy's driveway you started to feel nervous, there were quite a few people here and you weren't really used to this yet. Though you two had been dating for almost a year now, Mick only told his bandmates recently, how you two had kept it a secret for that long you'd never know, but Mick didn't want you so involved in the band's crazy lifestyle, he had told you multiple times that he didn't want that kind of life for you. But this was his birthday, and you had a very special surprise for him, so after you picked up the small box from the passenger seat you made your way to the door.

At first you weren't sure if anyone would hear the doorbell over the loud music and talking, but after a few moments the door was opened to reveal a smiling Tommy.

“Hey (y/---holy shit!” His jaw dropping a bit at your outfit.

“Are you trying to give the old man a heart attack? Or just a boner?” He laughed while letting you in.

“Hopefully just the boner” you smirked.

“Oh so now it comes out, good girl is actually naughty” Tommy smiled while throwing his arm around your shoulder and leading you to the party.

“Only for him” you laughed while poking his side.

“Fair enough”

Truth be told you were actually really nervous, in the time you and Mick had been together, nothing ever went past making out. Mick was the first really serious relationship you had been in, and you weren't the type for one night stands...so that meant.

“I-I'm a virgin” you confessed to your boyfriend, things were ending up how they usually did nowadays, you sitting in his lap while he leaned back on the couch, hands resting on your hips while your mouths rarely left each other’s.

“Ok” he spoke between kisses, before he stopped and pulled away.

“You wanna stop?”

“N-not kissing” you replied hurriedly which caused him to smirk.

“I just...I just don't know if I'm ready to go...further” you confessed, looking down at your lap, you felt bad, you didn't want to rush stuff...but would he be ok with waiting? He was a rockstar after all...he was probably used to girls throwing themselves at him. Hell guys you had just gone on dates with before thought that a girl should give it up on the first date.

“That's fine” his voice broke through your thoughts and made you look up at him again.

“I'm not gonna drop you just cause you don't wanna have sex right now, I'm fine with waiting” he nodded, his voice was level, but you couldn't help but lean in and kiss that small smile on his lips.

“Thank you”

But here you were, almost a year later, completely head over heels, and tonight you finally felt ready to take the next step. He had been nothing but patient with you, and it was time his patience was rewarded.

Tommy rounded the corner and you were able to spot the group all sitting on a large couch. Girls were already gathered around and sitting close to them...A blonde sat far too close to your boyfriend than you liked, and your jaw clenched as you watched her start running her hand up his thigh. You were ready to say something but you noticed him grab her hand and place it back in her lap, all the while still talking to Nikki.

“Hey guys, look who I found at the door” Tommy announced, causing everyone to look over. Vince was the first to speak of course.

“Damn (y/n), why don't you come sit next to me for a bit” he winked, causing you to laugh.

“Didn't know you had anything like that, how come you never wear it to the shows?” Nikki asked with a smirk, clearly scanning you. You will admit that when it came to clothes you never wore anything shorter than knee length, and even then you had very thick tights on...So your sheer stocking clad legs and a dress that only went a little ways past your thighs was something new.

“She probably didn't want to distract her old man” Tommy laughed while sitting back down.

“I don't have to wear something like this to distract him” you smirked before leaning down and capturing Mick's lips. You could hear the blonde beside him grumbling which only caused you to smirk.

“Happy Birthday baby” you whispered against his lips as you pulled away. You sat on the other side of him and put your hand on his thigh, just as the blonde had done, but with you he simply put his arm across the back of the couch, his own gesture for you to get closer to him. You snuggled into his side while his fingers danced across your bare shoulders. You easily started up a conversation with Tommy and Vince while Mick talked to Nikki. It didn't take long for the conversation to turn to gifts, Tommy being excited to give his, and Mick only sighed while Tommy sat the box in his lap.

Mick's hand never left your shoulder even as he opened the box, in fact, instead he brought it up to run in through your hair, causing you to smile and lean into him more.

“Why do you always do that?” You giggled, both of you were laying in bed, you with your head on his chest, and him reading a book, his fingers running through your hair.

“Do what?” he asked while glancing over at you.

“Play with my hair” you smiled

“Is there a problem with me playing with my girl's hair?” He asked, eyebrow raising but eyes never leaving the book. Your heart always skipped when he called you his girl, he was a famous rockstar and yet...he chose you.

“No problem, just wondering” you told him, your eyes never leaving his face as you watched his expression change with whatever he was reading about. After a moment he took a deep breath and spoke, but it was so low that if you hadn't been laying so close you would have missed it.

“It's relaxing”

The boys all had gifted Mick a gag gift of sorts, though you will say that Tommy's actual gift of a small album of random pictures they had taken on tour made up for it. They all told you the stories behind each of the pictures, even if some Mick wish they wouldn't have, and you couldn't help but smile at the warm atmosphere surrounding the group. Their lives were crazy, sure...But they were family.

“So where is your gift?” The blonde who now sat a bit closer to Vince asked, looking at you pointedly.

“I think her outfit is the gift” Nikki laughed, you only shook your head while reaching into your purse and grabbing the small box.

'He's not far off’ you thought with a smirk before handing Mick the small box. He gave you a small smile before opening it to reveal a guitar pick with an alien on it.

“The back even says Mars” you smiled.

“I knew you needed a new cool one” you stated while playing with the one that hung around your neck.

“What is this?”

“Nothing fancy” he replied while you opened the small box, inside sat his guitar pick “Mars” written across it, it was the pick he had used for so long, and now it was attached to a small chain.

“But you've had this one for so long” you said while looking at him with wide eyes, he simply shrugged and took it out of the box, walking behind you so he could put it around your neck.

“I want you to have it, just something since we are about to go on tour” he told you, his breath fanning across your neck while he clasped the chain.

“I love it” you smiled, leaning in meet his lips.

“I love it” he said while turning to you and pulling you into a kiss.

“Do you see this guys, we don't get kisses when he give him stuff”Tommy joked, causing Nikki and Vince to start laughing.

“fuck off” Mick replied once he had pulled away from you. The laughter died down but a voice spoke in it's absences.

“That's all you got him? A guitar pick?” The blonde asked rolling her eyes at you.

“He liked it, what's it to you?” Nikki asked, clearly annoyed by the girl.

“Actually I got him another present” You told her flatly.

“Oh yeah? Where is it?” She asked, and the smirk that formed on your face was nothing if not smug.

“I'm wearing it”

Mick looked at you, his eyes scanning your red dress while the guys started laughing.

“See I told you the dress was the gift” Nikki spoke.

“It's not the dress” you stated.

“Oh? Are you saying what we think you're saying?” Vince asked. Your eyes locked with Mick's, your tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips before you smirked.

“It's under the dress”

Wolf whistles and laughter erupted from the boys once more, but you just watched Mick's pupils dilate while he scanned your body once more before coming to rest on your own eyes. A silent question from his gaze and you knew without a doubt of your answer, a simple smile and nod was your reply before you heard him inhale sharply.

“I think Mick suddenly wants to leave the party” Vince stated when he noticed how you two had been staring at each other.

“I have some spare rooms” Tommy smirked

“Thanks, but the last thing I want is you fucking kids outside the door” Mick stated while standing up, he reached out to help you off the couch as well before you picked up the boy's gifts off of the table.

“let them leave guys, the old man needs a fun night” Nikki smirked, raising his beer towards you before taking a swig. You all said your goodbyes and made your way to your cars, just as you were about to head to your car Mick grabbed your hand.

“I'll have one of them bring your car tomorrow, you'll ride with me” he stated, while pulling you to his car, you couldn't help but smirk, in all the time you had been dating Mick never acted like this. He opened your door for you before making his way to his side, you quickly got in and shut the door just as he cranked the car and started for your shared house.

“You seem like you're in a hurry” you giggled, placing your hand on his thigh, his leg tensed under your touch for a moment before relaxing.

“Before we get to the house” he started, eyes never leaving the road.

“Are you completely sure”

Smiling at his consideration you moved yourself closer to him until your lips were right next to his ear.

“I need you Mick” you whispered, your hand moving further up until you began to feel a familiar hardness. Something that had you blushing all the other times you had felt it while making out, now had you smiling knowing you were affecting him...the sharp intake of air and quiet curse was simply a bonus. Your hand gently stroked him while your lips made their way from his ear to his neck, sucking a dark purple mark while adding a bit more pressure. By now Mick had a death grip on the steering wheel, and his legs had spread to not only help himself, but to give you better access. He had been patient with you when you told him you wanted to wait, he was fine with it, he was fine waiting this long, even when you two moved in together and you slept in his arms every night, he could control himself...But he'd be damned before he stopped you if you were finally willing.

“Can I try something baby?” You asked sweetly against his neck while your fingers began to unbutton his pants. He simply nodded, his adam's apple bobbing when he glanced at you, your once (e/c) eyes were now dark, only a small ring of the color left, you lips were red from your work on his neck and you were breathing just as heavily as he was.

“You gotta keep your eyes on the road” you told him while you unbuckled your seatbelt, you unzipped his pants and lowered them as much as you could before reaching in and gently pulling him out. He hissed at the contact and cold air, and you couldn't help but become a bit shy when you held him in your hand. He was big, and for a moment you were afraid for when you got home.

“You don't-” he started, but you quickly quieted him when you began moving your hand.

“You gotta keep your eyes on the road birthday boy’ you told him, his eyes darted back to the road and you noticed that it wouldn't be long before you were home.

‘No more shy girl’

Stroking him a few more times you leaned down and ran your tongue along the length before wrapping your lips around the tip.

“Oh fuck” he hands gripping the wheel but eyes darting down to you every now and then.

You flattened your tongue along the side as you took him further into your mouth, taking as much as you could, and surprising you both when you took almost all of him.

“Fuck! Where did you-” his question turned into a moan as you began bobbing your head, your hand stroking what you couldn't take.

“Shit babe...fuck” he groaned one hand still on the steering wheel while the other grabbed a handful of you hair. Encouraged by this you sped up your actions, your tongue flatting against the tip before taking him back in. You felt the car speed up before slowing down and turning. Knowing that meant that you were pulling into your driveway you decided to take it up a notch, remembering what you had seen you took as much of him as you could and swallowed just as the car came to a sudden stop. Mick shut off the car before grabbing your hair again.

“Do that again” he breathed,moving you hair away from his face so he could watch you, the sight of you with your lips wrapped around him, wide eyes looking up at him had him moaning. But you swallowing around him had him throwing his head against the headrest and cussing. His hips pushing upwards when your lips started to leave him, only for you to push them back down and start bobbing your head at an even quicker pace.

“Fuck babe” he groaned, not wanting to admit yet that he was already getting close, almost a year without anything but his own hand had even the slightest touch from you bringing him to his edge.

“Shit you feel so fucking good” he groaned earning a whine from you. Looking down at you he realized that your hand had drifted between your legs and the thought alone of you getting off while sucking him had him coming to his end quicker.

“Fuck your fucking getting off on this” he breathed, his grip on your hair switching hands before his now free hand ran down you back and cupped you ass, earning a moan from you and had him moaning as well. His hand moved further feeling the softness of your panties as he rubbed his finger along your clothed core before pushing them to the side and running his finger along you wetness.

“Fucking soaked” he breathed, before moaning again as you swallowed around him.

“Babe let's go inside” he groaned, but you simply shook your head, him still in your mouth. You looked up at him and was met with as equally wrecked and confused Mick. You pulled away and with the most innocent smile said.

“Not until I make you cum” and with that you went back to work earning a loud “fuck” from your boyfriend. With renewed energy you quickened your pace with both your mouth and hand.

“Babe I'm..fuck..I'm not gonna last..shit..much longer” he groaned, hand reaching back down to grab your ass. You hummed your acknowledgement and noticed how his body tightened. Getting an idea you took him in as much as you could and hummed. His body reacted instantly, his hips raising, hands grip on your hair and ass tightening, and when he wasn't cussing his breath was shorter. Doing it a few more times seemed to be his undoing because the third time you did it you felt his hand press down on your head before a warm salty fluid filled your mouth, and his guttural moan filled the car.

Panting, he slowly let go of your hair and ass, allowing you to sit back up and fix yourself, making a show out of swallowing. Your lips were red and puffed from your actions, and your mascara was smudged a bit, but to Mick you had never looked so beautiful.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” He chuckled, a small smile on his lips.

“I found some of the pornos you thought you hid” you giggled.

“Shit” he breathed, running his hand over his face.

“Glad I didn't hide them well”

“You ready for your real present?” You asked while opening the door and stepping out.

“That wasn't it?” He asked, putting himself away while looking at you, you giggled while leaning down to look into the car.

“Like I said at Tommy's, I'm wearing your present” with a wink you closed the door and head for the house. Mick had forgotten that you had indeed said that, and quickly followed you into the house.

As soon as the door closed you heard it lock before you were spun around and pressed against it. Your lips met in a sudden kiss as his body pinned yours to the door, your hands buried in his hair while his slowly inched up your dress. Tongues fought for dominance before a whine left you, his hands grabbing your ass to pull you closer. One hand began to make a path up but stopped as soon as it came in contact with leather. Breaking the kiss and stepping back his eyes darted down to your now exposed panties and garter belt, black lace meeting black leather that peaked out against the red dress.

“You're going to fucking kill me” he groaned, earning a giggle from you. You grabbed the hem of the dress, slowly lifting it up and over your head, revealing the black leather and lace bra.

“Come on birthday boy” you smiled while taking his hand and walking towards the bedroom.

“It's time for you to unwrap your present”

“Fucking finally”

You opened the bedroom door and walked in, quickly being turned around while he backed you up towards the bed. With a gentle shove you fell back onto the soft mattress, giggling as you bounced, but your giggling died out when you realized that Mick was just staring at you.

“What's wrong?” You asked, about to get up but he quickly placed a hand on your stomach.

“Just been thinking about this for awhile” he spoke against your lips.

“I know...thank you...for being patient with me” you told him, meeting his gaze that was a mix of hunger and something else, something that even after such a long time he had never said but you always knew.

“I love you too” you smiled, leaning up to close the gap between your lips. You felt him smile against your lips before he broke away and started kissing down your neck quickly finding your sweet spot and marking you as you had done him. His hands ran over your clothed breasts, cupping them while he marked your chest.

“Mick” your breathy moan only spurred him on as he pulled the straps down your arms before cupping the bra and yanking it towards your waist, earning a surprised gasp that quickly melted into a moan when his lips wrapped around one of the hardened buds, his hand massaging your other breast before switching.

“Fuck” you moaned, head thrown back while your hand buried itself in his hair, tugging at the dark locks and earning a groan from him. His lips continued their path down, teeth grazing your stomach before stopping at your garter belt. He quickly undid the straps to your stockings, and hooked his fingers under the waistband of the lace, eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a kiss to your clothed heat before slowly pull your panties down your legs. The sight alone had you squirming, but the knowledge that you were now bare in front of him had a heat blooming across your face and in your stomach.

He reclipped your stocking to the belt and smirked up at you.

“those can stay on” he stated before kissing your thighs, slowly making his way to where you wanted him most. You couldn't stop the moan that left you when his tongue ran across your heat, the sensation completely new and addicting. Your hand tangled in his hair again as he kept his licks slow, using the tip to circle your clit every now and then.

“Fuck, Mick please” you panted.

“Please what babe?” He asked, finger rubbing along your heat before coming up and pressing tight circles against your clit, making you throw your head back and moan his name.

“Shit I don't, I don't know” you panted, truth was you really didn't know what you were asking him for you just wanted him to keep going.

“More, please don't stop” you whimpered.

“Wasn't planning on it” he told you while grabbing your hips and pulling them closer. His lips wrapped around your clit and gave a gentle suck, your eyes rolling back at the sensation, but the feeling of his finger slowly entering you had you crying out. His movement started slow to let you adjust to the strange feeling, but as soon as he felt you were ready he inserted a second one, his hand beginning to move faster while his tongue licked over your clit repeatedly before he gave it a harsher suck. The feeling in your stomach grew tighter the faster his fingers moved, but it was his tongue that made lights burst behind your eyes. You could feel your back arch off of the bed, fingers tightening in his hair earning a groan from him, his free hand grabbing your hip to steady you while he worked you through your orgasm.

His movements slowed once your body started to calm down, coming to a stop shortly after.

“holy shit” you breathed, loosening your grip on his hair and running your fingers through the dark locks as he crawled over you.

“If this is what this felt like, why the hell did I wait?” You laughed before capturing his lips, you could feel him chuckle against you lips, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, but the one point you focused on was the hardness that was being pressed against you. Your hips rose to meet his, a moan leaving him at the contact and the heat. Your hands ran down his sides, grabbing the hem of his shirt and slowly lifting it, your fingers dancing across each new bit of exposed skin. He leaned back, pulling the shirt off and tossing it aside before capturing your lips again. Your hands danced around his chest and stomach, something you rarely got to do at the start of your relationship.

His fingers would dance across your back and stomach while the two of you made out, but as soon as you moved to run your fingers under his shirt he would stop you. You respected his wants though, just as he respected yours, and it wasn't until you accidentally walked in on him changing his shirt that you found out that your extremely hot boyfriend...was a little self conscious. You should have put two and two together sooner, after all, while the other guys wore hardly anything on stage, Mick kept himself covered. You had simply bit your lip when you saw him shirtless, trying not to swoon even harder while you approached him.

“And just when I thought you couldn't get anymore attractive” you had said with a smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You prove me wrong, you really are perfect, inside and out”

Your hands now moved to his pants, unbuttoning them just as you had in the car, the zipper soon following before you began pushing them down along with his underwear. His hand grabbed yours, breaking the kiss to look you in the eyes.

“Last chance babe...we can stop now if you want but if we keep going” his sentence trailed off against your lips.

“Mick, I'm sure, I want you baby, only you” you smiled, a smile gracing his lips while you two stared at one another before he stood up and took his boots, pants, and underwear off. You had also sat up to remove your bra fully while Mick reached into the bedside table and grabbed a condom. You raised an eyebrow as he rolled it on, eyes meeting yours afterwards.

“What? Can't blame a guy for hoping and preparing for this day” he shrugged before climbing back on the bed, he started to climb over you again but you held up your hand and giggled at his confused expression.

“You're the birthday boy” you started while pushing on his shoulders, he realized what you wanted and laid down against the headboard.

“So therefore I'm going to do the work” you told him while straddling his hips. Truth be told you had done your research and knew that this position would be best for him.

“Why are you so fucking perfect?” He asked, resting his hands on your hips and groaning when you started to grind against him.

“I'm not perfect” your giggle turning into a breathy moan when his tip skimmed along your clit.

“Could've fooled me” he breathed, pulling your hips harder against his. You leaned down to capture his lips, your hand reaching down to line him up, the tip resting against your entrance as you broke the kiss.

“Just perfect for you” you smiled while slowly lowering your hips, the tip slipping inside with little trouble and you thanked the heavens the man was good with his mouth.

“Holy fuck” he groaned, hands grabbing your hips to steady you as you slowly lowered yourself. It wasn't as bad as all of the horror stories you had heard, of course you had also heard that it only really hurt if the woman wasn't relaxed enough.

“Fuck, Mickey you feel so good” you groaned, using your pet name for him.

“You feel like fucking heaven” he moaned once you were fully seated atop him. You gave yourself time to adjust to the feeling, it was different, but not unpleasant. Finally ready, your hands came to rest on his chest as you slowly lifted yourself before gliding back down, the sensation earning moans from the both of you. He could tell you were still a bit nervous, a bit unsure of what to do by the slow pace you took him, so guiding your hips he quickened the pace a bit, the new sensation causing you to throw your head back and moan. Once you realized though that Mick was controlling the speed you leaned forward, hands coming to rest beside his head you body lowering as you captured his lips once more, you circled your hips, grinding against him before setting a faster pace.

“Fuck” his gaze locked with yours as you moaned.

“Mick, shit baby” you moaned back, voice breathy due to pleasure.

“Feel good babe?” He smirked

“Feels so fucking good” you groaned, burying your face in his neck for a moment, your mind flashed to the not so hidden porno that you watched and decided to see how he liked it if you mimicked what they did, so you leaned up again, bringing his hands up to grab your breasts before leaning back on your hands and speeding up.

“Holy shit” he breathed, watching as you threw your head back and cried out his name, his eyes darted down to where your bodies met, watching himself disappear inside of your soft heat. His jaw clenched at the sight, his breath picking up just as your moans did. Hands left your breasts, one came down to grip your hip, holding something to anchor himself while the pleasure grew in intensity. His other hand began rubbing tight circles on your clit, the pleasure caused you to clench around him.

“Mick! I-I'm” you panted, you words breaking off into a moan as his fingers worked you. The knot in your stomach was growing tighter with every pass, every slide of him inside you, every moan or curse from him.

“Me..fuck..too babe” he told you, every little sound you made brought him to his end faster, and the sight you made atop him was one he could watch forever.

“Mick...shit, baby I'm so close” you whimpered, eyes tearing up from the intensity as they locked with his.

“Cum for me babe, fucking cum, wanna feel you finish around me” he groaned, eyes never leaving yours while his grip on your hip tightened and his fingers on your clit sped up.

“Fuck! Mick I'm..shit I'm...fuck!” You threw your head back, eyes closing and mouth opening in a silent scream as you rode out the waves of pleasure. Mick wasn't far behind, the tightness of you around him paired with the sight of you finishing was enough to have him gripping your hip in place while his hips stuttered before stopping as he filled the condom. You both struggled for a moment to catch your breath before you slowly climbed off of him with wobbly legs and laid down. He leaned over to throw the condom in the wastebasket before laying back down with you.

“So how did you like your gift?” You tiredly asked, a smile on your lips, lips that he couldn't resist leaning down to kiss before he reached down and started helping you take the stockings and garterbelt off.

“Best fucking birthday” he stated, giving you a smiled while you both laid down under the covers.

“Yup that's what it was” you said with a yawn.

“A fucking birthday” your joke earning a chuckle before he kissed the top of your head that now rested on his chest.

“Dork”

“Your dork though” smiled against his skin.

“Yeah...I love you” he stated while running his fingers through your hair, you eyes met when he spoke the three words you had always wanted to hear from him.

“I love you too” you smiled, nuzzling into his neck before you drifted off to sleep.

The clock ticked on for what felt like an hour, but had only been about five minutes while Mick simply stared at the ceiling, fingers still running through your hair while his mind ran with thoughts. Looking over at the bedside table he thought of the small box inside, a little blue velvet box that held a question he had been wanting to ask for awhile now, and here, with you wrapped around him, he hoped your answer would be the one he needed.

(Well that was fun, let me know what you thought 😊)

[megabadbunny]

so after sketching out the doodle for this post upon the request of the lovely @chiaroscuroverse, I decided it was high time I finally got started on something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now. Thusly, I present to y’all the first installment of my sketch series New Who Companions in (Mostly) Historically-Accurate Period Costumes! :D

(clicky on the smaller images above to embiggen; clicky the read-more for costume history facts and assorted nerditude for each design!)

So long story short, I’m a big ol’ fashion history nerd, studied a good chunk of fashion history in the Western world during ye olde college days, and sometimes I like to think about what our New Who companions might have worn if they wanted to go mostly-historically-accurate in their old-world adventures. Below are some descriptions of what those costumes could have looked like, and a little bit of the historical context surrounding the ensembles. Thanks for joining me on this sartorial nerd-journey! <3

Fig. 1: Donna Noble, The Fires of Pompeii (Roman Empire, 79 AD)

So Donna’s original costume, while very pretty, is not accurate in any way; I can only imagine the designer was held back by some untold constraints (i.e. this costume is either constructed based on stylistic requests from Catherine Tate or it’s the product of executive meddling). Here, Donna wears a stola, i.e. a dress-like garment fastened with fibulae clasps and held in place with a girdle high above the waist. This garment would technically be worn by a married woman, to sort of show off her wealth and worth, but I figure Donna don’t give no shits about that, just give her the pretty dress already. She’s also wearing a palla, a shawl Roman women wore when going about their business outside. You would typically see the palla wrapped around the woman’s body to both accentuate her curves where desired, to hide her features when wanted (women might draw the hood close to the face to hide from unwanted male gazes), and to keep the material from dragging along the ground. The volume of fabric in the shawl signified a woman’s status; the more fabric, the wealthier the lady. Donna’s garments are fashioned from the finest material available, being linens imported from Egypt and silks imported from China.

Fig. 3: Bill Potts, The Eaters of Light (Scotland, c. 100 AD)

So, finding solid details on how women dressed in this time and place was fun,* but I did my best to sort of piece things together into a design that would make sense given the convergent influences and the materials (cloth/fibers, dyes, equipment) available in the area at the time. Basically, you’ve got a tunic cinched at the waist, and a woven cloak on top sporting a Pictish-type design, and simple jewelry fashioned from alloys that were commonplace at the time. Bill’s brooch and belt would definitely be met with approval from the other ladies; only peasant-women left the house without a belt.

* It was not fun. It was frustrating.

Fig. 2: Rose Tyler, The Stone Rose spinoff novel (Rome, 120 AD)

Rose’s garments and hair are intentionally sculptural in design, inspired by a series of Roman statues built around the time the story is set (I figured it was appropriate given the book’s plot!). Here she is wearing half of her Fortuna costume, on her way to save the Doctor (obv). Typically, a not-yet-married woman would only need to wear one layer (as unmarried women were, shall we say, low on the priority list in terms of Roman fashion), but here, on her way to being immortalized as the great Fortuna, an exception has been made for Rose; Marcia’s servants have draped, wrapped, and pinned some very fine material over Rose’s close-fitting tunica. Rose is also shown with a mantle, for covering her hair in public. Both Donna and Rose would have had their hair curled using a calamistrum, or an early curling iron, which varied in shape and style, but in this case likely would have actually been made of iron, and warmed over hot coals.

Fig. 4: Clara Oswald, Robot of Sherwood (England, 1190 AD)

Okay, so why did they make this look like a Halloween costume? It’s just, this episode clearly had a budget, the designer clearly did their homework, so who made what decision and where and when that led us to this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice Halloween costume! Like, one you would have to rent instead of buy, because she is le pricey. But I’m curious to know why the designer ventured so close to the actual periodwear without actually committing to it. Like the sleeves—the flare at the elbow suggests the overdress, or bliaut, is of French design, except those sleeves ain’t near big enough, neither in terms of volume or length. Sometimes these sleeves were so long, women would have to knot them to keep them from dragging the ground. If you don’t wanna deal with big sleeves for your action heroine, that’s fine, just go with a more English design, which forewent the exaggerated trumpet-shape in favor of something more subtle. The current shape just looks weird—like, it’s halfway there, but got tired and gave up. Then you’ve got the front-lacing on the bodice; this is a nope, and only enhances the Halloween/fancy dress look. Dresses would fasten on the side or in the back; if you were upper-class, you might be looking at a modesty panel to hide the lacing in the case of the latter. The hair is another instance of halfway-there; the top half is pretty good, with its center-part and the wraparound braid, but the loose bottom portion and the salon-curls are a big no-no. Curls weren’t really in vogue in the area at the time; ladies’ hair was worn long and braided, both to keep it out of the way and to show off elaborate styles. And last but certainly not least, why the heck is Clara’s circlet shaped the way it is? It’s like they took a necklace, situated it with a bunch of slack in the chain, and stuck it to her forehead using spirit gum. Would noble ladies have worn circlets/coronets at the time? Sure! Would they have been shaped (or stuck-on???) like that? Nope! The original ensemble is full of potential but it feels like someone somewhere along the decision-making process looked at the original, better design, said, “Eh, can you modernize (read: sex) that up for me?” and then this was born. Again, it’s not horrible, just, it could have been so much more.

/rant

Fig. 5: Amy Pond, Vampires of Venice (Italy, 1580 AD)

So I realize there’s a class difference between what Amy wore in the show and what’s depicted here, but I figured the upper-class depiction made more sense, given the fashions of the other young ladies accepted into Calvieri’s school. (That being said, Amy’s original outfit still isn’t quite there; this shows an example or two of what a working-class woman would wear at the time.) On the right, Amy is wearing a velvet gown over a petticoat; even though the color and bodice-shape denote a heavy Spanish influence, the dress would have been referred to as a French gown due to its fitted shape. Were Amy to go whole-hog and give herself some true mid-sixteenth-century hair, the front would be short, and regularly wound into tight, compact little curls, while the back was kept long, for elaborate braids and updos. That’s right--the sixteenth century was technically full of mullets. Mullets everywhere.

Fig. 6: Rose Tyler, A Groatsworth of Wit spinoff comic (England, 1592)

ok but the design in the comic, just

I don’t even understand why the artist drew it this way. It doesn’t make sense, not from a costume history perspective and not even from a design/fudging-the-details-for-the-sake-of-modern-sensibilities perspective. (Also from a perspective-perspective; dude’s having some major issues figuring out how foreshortening works, but that’s neither here nor there I suppose.) It would actually be way faster to focus on what this gown does right instead of wrong. So, let’s see here: it has a lace collar, which was a thing. It has a structured, paneled bodice; also a thing. Full layered skirt, that’s good. And, that’s officially it. The rest of this design is garbage. Like, why the eff is she wearing a ruffle as some kind of low-slung belt? Is that supposed to be cartridge pleating? What century are those sleeves supposed to be from? (Do those outer sleeves even? Show up in any century to speak of, outside of my nightmares???) If you’re going to do a lace cuff at the end of the fitted sleeve, why not do it right (i.e. like the way they actually looked at the time, which was usually in a cone shape flaring out from the wrist to the elbow)? Why would the artist imagine that Rose would go to the trouble of pouring herself into this 80’s-teal monstrosity without bothering to do anything to her hair except for a ponytail? What the fuck is up with the fucking boob lace??? See, I know the artist can draw actual historically accurate outfits, because Shakespeare in this comic looks fine. His shit’s pretty accurate. But for some reason, when it came to Rose’s dress, it’s like the artist lost their goddamn mind. (Don’t even get me started on the jewelry and accents, not if there’s a loving god in this universe)

Fig. 7: Martha Jones, The Shakespeare Code (England, 1599)

So Martha has herself a lovely heavy brocade gown, trimmed in sable, accented with soft leather gloves, and topped with a cartwheel ruff round the neck. (Don’t worry; I imagine the TARDIS only carries ethically-harvested furs, like they’re grown in a lab somewhere or collected after critters have had a long and prosperous life or the hairs are vacuumed up and reconstituted by some futuristic device, etc. etc.) Elizabethan sumptuary laws dictated that folks had to dress according to social class, so depending on what your social class was, you may not have been legally permitted to wear things like silks, certain colors, certain furs, and more. Fashion was such a surging industry and indicator of wealth that, at the time, you had higher-ups selling huge swaths of land in order to have the money to dress themselves as well as possible--it was seriously that important to be fashionable. Martha’s garments indicate that she has pretty high social standing, given the materials used. Also, she wears a pretty bitchin’ hat.

Fig. 8: Yazmin Khan, The Witchfinders (England, 1612)

Yazmin’s dress sports a fashionably high-necked bodice featuring embroidered linen silk, topped with a standing collar and “wings” at the shoulders. The dark hues shown here were super-popular at the time due to a surge of obsession with melancholia in arts and literature. Yaz also wears a “Cavalier” style hat, accented with an ostrich feather. Her outfit is basically a riding-habit/hunting-habit, constructed with ease of movement in mind.

Fig. 9: Mickey Smith, Rose Tyler, and Reinette Poisson i.e. Madame de Pompadour, The Girl in the Fireplace (France, 1758)

Setting aside my many issues with this episode’s story/plot, the bugaboos I have with Reinette’s original costume design in the show are relatively minor, and I imagine can mostly be explained-away with stuff like “this is what the BBC already had on hand” and “goddamn that’s pretty.” Both pretty salient points! But I do think it’s interesting that the designer(s) went the way they did--Madame de Pompadour was actually famously not in favor of glittering gems (actually, she supposedly donated palace jewels to the French treasury more than once to help out during times of war); she tended to prefer fairly simple pearls as embellishment, instead. She also wasn’t really into big hair; obviously the styles shown here on Ms. Myles aren’t exactly Marie-Antoinette-big, but they’re definitely more voluminous and modernized than the styles the real-life MdP typically sported, which usually consisted of a slight pomp and fairly close-knit curls framing the face. (It’s also interesting that Moffat wrote her with such a heavy innuendo for sex/romance, because rumor had it she didn’t really actually enjoy things in the bedroom all that much, instead preferring to pull political strings, promote the arts, patronize motherfucking Voltaire!!!, help design architecture!!!, and keep the king constantly entertained and distracted so he literally didn’t royally fuck everything up. She was a very busy lady! Also she like. Paid contractors and artists on time? Instead of dicking them over with “credit” bullshit like other wealthy patrons??? Sorry she was just WAY more awesome than the show gave her credit for!) Anyhoo, long story short, Rose and MdP are shown here wearing gowns and hairstyles that are heavily inspired by those worn by the real-life MdP wore in some of her many many portraits.

Thanks for tuning in to my giant costume nerdfest; see you next time for part 2! <3 <3 <3

[erintoknow]

evidence

fallen hero: rebirth fanfic, set right after Heartbreak ~1.8k words, staring everyone’s favorite Sergeant Steel. retribution alpha minor spoiler

content warning for a That Guy

------

Not quite civilian business, not quite Ranger business. Chen wasn’t really sure how to dress, wasn’t comfortable with this blending of lives. But if he didn’t get to the bottom of this, who would? Ortega was in no state of mind to pursue this. The odds of a dead end was too high. He couldn’t do that to his friend. Things were bad enough right now. Breath in, breath out. Straighten his collar. Ring the doorbell, knock on the door. Wait.

It had taken Chen more than a few beers and hours of reminiscing with Ortega. Surreptitiously going over what they remembered of old stories, writing down the details and cross-referencing everything against each other with a map of the city. Cross out options and narrow down the list. Maybe the fourth time would be the charm. Hopefully it would be worth it.

Someone shouted from the other side of the door, the sound of shuffling furniture. There was the sound of several locks being undone and then finally, the door cracked up, a single suspicious eye peering out. “Who is it?”

Chen clasped his hands behind his back. “Sergeant Steel, we talked on the phone briefly yesterday?”

The eye stares, boring in to him.

Chen stares back.

The eye blinks first. “Yes, yes, I remember now.” The door shuts, there’s a rattling of a chain, then opens again wider. “Com’on then, take a seat.” Defying expectations the owner of the eye is not a crone of an old woman but a man, maybe in his forties? Greying hair, wrinkles coming into their own on his face. If he dressed a little nicer, Chen might even class him as handsome. Untrimmed beard and beer-stained tank-top, however? Not so much.

“Thank you,” Chen says as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Please, take a seat,” his host repeats, gesturing towards the wooden chairs arranged around a dining room table. His host pulls a chair away from the table edge before sliding into his own, a pile of books in poor condition scattered in front of him.

Chen raises a hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Alright then, suit yourself.” He shrugs, “I’m John Carpenter, nice to meet you in person, Mr…?” Chen eyes the man. Definitely a fake name.

“Sergeant Steel is fine.”

John frowns at that.

“You said the person I’m looking for might have been a tenant of yours?”

He nods, reaches to grab one of the books in front of him. This one looks like it’s seen some heavy water damage. “Yep, the name Becker sounded familiar, and you certainly don’t see too many German names in this part of town these days, mostly–” He stops himself, and looks at Chen uncomfortably. Chen allows him the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

“Anyway,” John flips through the book, stopping on one page to circle a name with a red pen. “Here we go.” The way John just rips the page out of the book and slides it over is enough to make Chen wince. “Moved in back in 2007, stayed about… oh, two years?”

Chen scans the page. Towards the bottom, the circled name ‘Chelsea D. Becker | April 13th, 2007 | Deposit and Rent: Paid’

Chelsea? A fake name? Even for Sidestep that seemed a little lazy. With some care, the fine motor control in his hand wasn’t the best, Chen pulls a photograph out of his unbuttoned front pocket, putting it down on the table. “Does this person look familiar?”

John leans over, squinting down at the small, crinkled picture. The only group picture Ortega had been able to corral Sidestep into taking without her suit on, dressed in a vest over a long-sleeved blouse and skirt with tights. It was supposed to stay on the fridge. Hopefully he’d find something out of this that would get Ortega to forgive him.

John purses his lips, pushes his tongue in his mouth from side to side and makes a clicking noise. “The one on the far right there,” Chen keeps a blank expression as John points a finger right on Sidestep’s face. “Reminds me of the kid Chelsea always had around, maybe a sister?”

That throws Chen for a loop. “Parent-Child?”

John shakes his head. “Don’t think so. This kid just showed up a not long after Chelsea did. Maybe right out of high school?” John clicks his tongue and shrugs. “Normally I’d charge extra for stuffing two people in studio apartment like that, but I think the kid had been homeless so I pretended I didn’t see nothing.”

Alright then. What was the connection between this ‘Chelsea Becker’ and Ariadne Becker?

“Can you tell me anything else about them?”

“‘friad not, I respect my tenants’ privacy.” John says with possibly the most lying-through-my-teeth look Chen has ever seen on a man’s face.

Chen waits him out.

Finally; “Okay, well. I think the woman might have been a drug dealer or something. Always weird hours. Always paid on full, never late–”

“That’s cause for suspicion?”

“Around here it is, yeah.” John waves a hand, dismissing the question. “Now that I think about it, you know how women are,” He shoots Chen a knowing look. “Maybe she was just keeping the boy around as a fu-“

“Excuse me,” Chen cuts him off, “Boy?”

“Yeah, boy. Kid was a boy.”

Chen frowns. Another dead end then after all.

John clicks his tongue. “Probably a fairy though,” He makes a face, completely oblivious to the fact that only years of self-discipline is saving him from having his nose broken. “Kept running around in girl clothes and shit. Hell, maybe that’s not a sister in your picture. Could just be him.”

Maybe not a dead end then? But that would mean… It would mean Chen has even more questions now than when he started this whole process.

“…when was the last time you saw the kid?” Chen asks, keeping his face blank.

“So, when Chelsea moved out, I offered to keep renting to him, but he couldn’t afford it. Felt bad though, so generous man that I am, I let him stay, off-the-books, until I got a new tenant to rent the room like, a month later? Never saw him again after that.”

“No idea where they might have went?”

John shakes his head. “Him? Nah, he just straight up vanished the day I gave him the heads up, didn’t even take anything with him.”

Chen sighs, frustration mounting. Why was trying to dig into anything about Sidestep like digging in sand?  “What about the… the woman, Chelsea, any idea where she went?”

John shrugs, “Left the city, I think?” An idea occurs to him and and he leans in for a conspiratorial whisper. “You think she was on the run from the law? You Rangers tracking down a cold-case?”

“Something like that.” Chen pinches his nose. “I can’t discuss the details of an investigation in progress.” That was… technically true.

John clicks his tongue, grins. “Say no more Sarge,” he winks. “Say, you know what? Maybe you want to take a look at the stuff he left behind, maybe something’ll help out the case?”

Chen raises an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe you held on to a tenant’s property for half a decade.”

John waves him off and gets up the table, trundling into a back room. “I am a collector Sarge.” He says the word with an uncomfortable level of relish.

A few minutes of rummaging later and John is back with a small plastic bin. He drops it on the table in front of Chen. “Few pictures, a journal. Think there were some tapes and records too, but I kept those for me.” He looks at Chen, “Always figured I could sell it back to the kid if he came around again. Never did though.”

Chen has to will his hand to keep steady as he picks through the few items in the bin. Pull out one photo, a young blonde-haired woman standing next to an even younger looking androgynous teenager with short reddish-brown hair, and green eyes. Chen lays the the picture down next to the earlier photo he had brought with him. It feels like he’s looking at something he shouldn’t be – there’s an itching in the back of his skull. But the similarities are too close to be ignored, right down to the way the uncomfortable smile breaks across the face.

“I’ll need to hold on to these for evidence.”

John opens his arms wide, “Be my guest, always happy to be of service to the law.” John winks again, “Provided of course, the law remembers me favorably in return.”

Chen frowns, “I’ll make a note of it.” He says, with no such intention to do so. He reaches back into the bin, pulls out the journal. No indication on the cover who owned it. Just a plain black moleskin bound book, held shut with a cloth strap. Slip it open with a careful slide of the thumb, start with the first page.

chelsea thinks keeping a journal will help that I can write out the nightmares as if that’ll like get them outside of me?

she doesn’t understand why I can’t do that I can’t explain it to her either I mean

last night wasn’t even that bad, since i started saving people things feel better

like

i’m in control again it’s fun actually? just hang around with a police scanner and be ready to run across town tucking sucks like super shit though

i don’t trust the rangers charge seems real full of herself thinks she’s so hot with her perfect smile and the way she stands with her hips cocked and

wow that’s embarrassing

you know what forget this this is dumb sorry chelsea

Chen flips through the rest of the book, all the other pages are blank. Another dead end. Nothing to suggest what might have happened to Sidestep now. Nothing to hint at what was up with the ambulance Chen knows carted Sidestep away in direct contradiction to the official report. Where had Ariadne lived between this and now? Where did she go when she wasn’t at a crime scene or following Ortega like a lost cat? Who did she associate with outside of the Rangers?

Maybe they could put the journal in the ceremonial casket, it’d be better than nothing. But how to explain finding it to Ortega without giving away the investigation? And there was the matter of... Maybe it was best to keep the journal to himself after all. This was one secret that didn’t need to be exposed.

Chen puts the journal back in the bin and adds both the pictures and the torn record book page. Might as well hold on to it. Hopefully his government contact would get back to him soon with something, anything, about the where he’d seen that ambulance go. This had been his best shot at nailing down a residence and it ends up being years old. The only other lead left was this ‘Chelsea’ woman, and given his luck so far, it was hard to be optimistic about the odds.

Ariadne Becker, woman of mystery and thorn in his side, couldn’t even have the courtesy to have a non-mysterious death. This one was going to eat at him.

[dfroza]

A resurrection of life

is seen of a 12-year-old girl in Today’s reading of the Scriptures in the New Testament book of Mark that includes this line:

“Little girl, wake up from the sleep of death.”

[Mark 5]

They arrived at the other side of the lake, at the region of the Gerasenes. As Jesus stepped ashore, a demon-possessed madman came out of the graveyard and confronted him. The man had been living there among the tombs, and no one was able to restrain him, not even with chains. For every time they attempted to chain his hands and feet with shackles, he would snap the chains and break the shackles in pieces. He was so strong that no one had the power to subdue him. Day and night he could be found lurking in the cemetery or in the vicinity, shrieking and cutting himself with stones!

When he saw Jesus from a distance, he ran to him and threw himself down before him, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Leave me alone, Jesus, Son of the Most High God! Swear in God’s name that you won’t torture me!” (For Jesus had already said to him, “Come out of that man, you demon spirit!”)

Jesus said to him, “What is your name?”

“Mob,” he answered. “They call me Mob because there are thousands of us in his body!” He begged Jesus repeatedly not to expel them out of the region.

Nearby there was a large herd of pigs feeding on the hillside. The demons begged him, “Send us into the pigs. Let us enter them!”

So Jesus gave them permission, and the demon horde immediately came out of the man and went into the pigs! This caused the herd to rush madly down the steep slope and fall into the lake, drowning about two thousand pigs!Depending on weight, the cost of two thousand live pigs today could be as much as $250,000. The economic cost to the community over the loss of this herd was significant.

At this, the herdsmen ran to the nearby villages, telling everyone along the way what had happened, and the people came out to see for themselves. When they found Jesus, they saw the demonized man sitting there, properly clothed and in his right mind. Seeing what had happened to the man possessed by many demons, the people became afraid. Those who had witnessed this miracle reported the news to the people and included what had happened to the pigs. Then they asked Jesus to leave their region.

And as Jesus began to get into the boat to depart, the man who had been set free from demons asked him, “Could I go with you?” Jesus answered, “No,” but said to him, “Go back to your home and to your family and tell them what the Lord has done for you. Tell them how he had mercy on you.”

So the man left and went into the region of Jordan and parts of Syria to tell everyone he met about what Jesus had done for him, and all the people marveled!

After Jesus returned from across the lake, a huge crowd of people quickly gathered around him on the shoreline. Just then, a man saw that it was Jesus, so he pushed through the crowd and threw himself down at his feet. His name was Jairus, a Jewish official who was in charge of the synagogue. He pleaded with Jesus, saying over and over, “Please come with me! My little daughter is at the point of death, and she’s only twelve years old! Come and lay your hands on her and heal her and she will live!”

Immediately Jesus went with him, and the huge crowd followed, pressing in on him from all sides.

Now, in the crowd that day was a woman who had suffered horribly from continual bleeding for twelve years. She had endured a great deal under the care of various doctors, yet in spite of spending all she had on their treatments, she was getting worse instead of better. When she heard about Jesus’ healing power, she pushed through the crowd and came up from behind him and touched his prayer shawl. For she kept saying to herself, “If I could touch even his clothes, I know I will be healed.” As soon as her hand touched him, her bleeding immediately stopped! She knew it, for she could feel her body instantly being healed of her disease!

Jesus knew at once that someone had touched him, for he felt the power that always surged around him had passed through him for someone to be healed. He turned and spoke to the crowd, saying, “Who touched my clothes?”

His disciples answered, “What do you mean, who touched you? Look at this huge crowd—they’re all pressing up against you.” But Jesus’ eyes swept across the crowd, looking for the one who had touched him for healing.

When the woman who experienced this miracle realized what had happened to her, she came before him, trembling with fear, and threw herself down at his feet, saying, “I was the one who touched you.” And she told him her story of what had just happened.

Then Jesus said to her, “Daughter, because you dared to believe, your faith has healed you. Go with peace in your heart, and be free from your suffering!”

And before he had finished speaking, people arrived from Jairus’ house and pushed through the crowd to give Jairus the news: “There’s no need to trouble the master any longer—your daughter has died.” But Jesus refused to listen to what they were told and said to the Jewish official, “Don’t yield to fear. All you need to do is to keep on believing.” So they left for his home, but Jesus didn’t allow anyone to go with them except Peter and the two brothers, Jacob and John.

When they arrived at the home of the synagogue ruler, they encountered a noisy uproar among the people, for they were all weeping and wailing. Upon entering the home, Jesus said to them, “Why all this grief and weeping? Don’t you know the girl is not dead but merely asleep?” Then everyone began to ridicule and make fun of him. But he threw them all outside.

Then he took the child’s father and mother and his three disciples and went into the room where the girl was lying. He tenderly clasped the child’s hand in his and said to her in Aramaic, “Talitha koum,” which means, “Little girl, wake up from the sleep of death.” Instantly the twelve-year-old girl sat up, stood to her feet, and started walking around the room! Everyone was overcome with astonishment in seeing this miracle! Jesus had them bring her something to eat. And he cautioned them repeatedly that they were to tell no one about what had happened.

The Book of Mark, Chapter 5 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 7th chapter of the book of Esther that documents judgment against Haman’s evil plan towards Mordecai and the Jews:

King Ahasuerus and Haman came to dine with Queen Esther; and while they were drinking wine, the king posed his question once again.

King Ahasuerus: What is your request, Queen Esther? I’m willing to give you anything you want. Just make your request. Even if it’s half the kingdom you desire, I will make it happen!

Queen Esther: If you favor me, my king, and if it pleases you, spare my life. That’s all I’m asking for—that my people and I be spared. That is my wish. There are some, my king, who wish to rid your kingdom of us. For my people and I have been sold, marked for destruction and massacre. Now if the plan were simply to sell our men and women into slavery, I would have kept my mouth closed because that would not have been important enough to disturb you, my king.

King Ahasuerus: Who has targeted your people? Where is this man who dares to do this?

Queen Esther (pointing to Haman): The man responsible for these actions is wicked Haman. He is vile, and an enemy to my people.

In that moment, Haman’s joy turned to terror before the king and queen. Angered, the king shoved away from the table, left his wine, and walked into the palace garden. But Haman, aware that King Ahasuerus had already sealed his fate, didn’t follow behind. Instead, he pleaded with Queen Esther to spare his life. In desperation, he threw himself onto the couch where Queen Esther was sitting, just as King Ahasuerus walked back from the garden to the place where the wine and the banquet had been set.

King Ahasuerus: Haman, will you even violate my queen right here in the palace, where I can see you?

As soon as the king gave the order, the royal eunuchs covered Haman’s face. His fate had been sealed. One of those eunuchs was Harbonah.

Harbonah: Look! Haman has prepared a 75-foot pole for execution in his own courtyard. He was hoping to use it to hang Mordecai, the man who spoke up and saved the king.

King Ahasuerus: Well, hang him on it!

So they took Haman and killed him and displayed him on the pole he had made ready for Mordecai. And King Ahasuerus’ anger subsided.

The Book of Esther, Chapter 7 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, April 4 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about connection:

We all have a great need to be seen, heard, and understood, and therefore one of the greatest gifts we can give to another person is simply to take the time to listen to them. The great commandment is Shema (שׁמע) - to listen - but this implies that we make "space" within ourselves for the voice of others, thereby helping them bear their burdens (Gal. 6:2). And just as God listens to our heart cries and knows where we hurt, so we can offer our empathy so that others will not feel alone in this dark world. Words are meant to be shared in communion, but if we don't make the effort to listen to others, in the end we will only be prattling to ourselves, alone and devoid of real connection... It is important to remember that we need one another to help fight against the darkness. [Hebrew for Christians]

4.3.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

April 4, 2021

Risen with Christ

“If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God.” (Colossians 3:1)

The wise believer revels in the fact of Christ’s resurrection. Some things in Scripture may be easier to identify with and apply, including Christ’s substitutionary death, but it is the resurrection that gives us power to live victoriously. “Like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4).

We have been “crucified with him, that the body of sin might be destroyed” (Romans 6:6). Nevertheless, we are risen with Him, as our text and elsewhere clearly teaches (Romans 6; Ephesians 2:1-10; etc.). This resurrection is an inward one, of course, but our bodily resurrection is also guaranteed by Christ’s bodily resurrection, should we physically die. “Knowing that he which raised up the Lord Jesus shall raise up us also by Jesus” (2 Corinthians 4:14).

Power to serve Him effectively comes through His resurrection, for we have access to the “exceeding greatness of his power to us-ward who believe, according to the working of his mighty power, Which he wrought in Christ, when he raised him from the dead” (Ephesians 1:19-20). We have authority over all human and demonic institutions through Him who even now operates as head of the living church of His followers.

Perhaps the most precious of all benefits of the resurrection is that “we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens” who is sympathetic to “the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:14-16). JDM

[notoriousjae]

Finding the Love Of Your Life in a Closet (When the Rest Of the World Is On Fire) || Supercat || (1/2)

Chapter Title: Whirlwind of Elegance

Pairing: Kara Danvers/Cat Grant

Rating: M

Description:

Kara Danvers, last daughter of a decimated country and freshman extraordinaire, meets, falls in love with, and sleeps with Cat Grant, senior and editor of her college's paper at a frat party. It should be smooth sailing, right? Well, it would be if Kara wasn't engaged in an arranged marriage to her (best) childhood friend...and prince of the country they fled, Mon-El of Daxam.

Oops.

(Supercat college AU)

Chapter 1 (Current): AO3 | Below:

“When you leave this country, you’ll be…capable of wonderful, wonderful things, Kara Zor-El. Our two houses might have torn our nations apart, but my daughter—the last daughter of Rao…you and Mon-El of Daxam, you will create a new house, together. But never forget, my dear. Never forget the light you have inside of you.”

Those were the last words her mother ever spoke to her, the screaming of a dying war of a country that pushed a twelve year old girl to her knees, Kryptonian and Daxam sounding through the halls all around them. Her mother’s fingers cupped her cheeks, the light of the sun setting on Rao, their beautiful country that was small and torn from the inside out by a war between the Kryptonians and the Daxamites for as long as she could remember.

“Ieiu—” She’d begged, her hands grasping towards the sun, the necklace around her neck catching the light from a nearby explosion as a young boy lifted her into his arms, struggling against her strength and determination to choose her family over her duty.

“JE!” Astra’s voice carried from the hallway, a gun tucked at her hip as the royal guard scrambled to get the council to safety, but there was no use. Her father tucked up a gun, himself, both of them heading towards the windows, defending the last few members of their house against the slow ascension of Rhea and Lar Gand, troops behind them as they advanced on the mansion.

That was the last time she saw them. Her aunt and mother on either side of Zor-El as all of them raised up their guns in symbol, fighting for freedom and democracy against the aristocracy they were born into.

All of the soldiers behind them chanted with them, raising their guns up with a holler. Once. Twice. Thrice. All of their voices filled the once-bright halls with a shrill cry of undying determination:

Zyv. Zyv. Zyv!

The House of El would not go down without a fight. 

Mon-El chose her, then, despite his parent’s wishes, a promise hanging around his neck.

“Kara!” It was snapped—harsh—full of gravel and tears. He smelled like grass and gunpowder and the alcohol he’d spent their youth trying to get her to sip with him. “Kara, for once stop trying to—stop! Stop fighting! We have to go!”

She collapsed in his arms, strong as they wrapped around her from behind, his youthful cry burning tears down her back as she scratched towards the dirt, the last image either of them had of their homes—of their promise—of the mansion exploding in a fire as they ran down the hills far from the sprawling buildings of Argo City, a forgotten metropolis buried underneath tall tales to the rest of the world.

Screams filled the night air as the sun set on the nation of Rao for the last time.

Their fingers twined as they ran until their lungs seared, despite the charging force chasing after them, the Daxamites determined to see the prince returned and the girl he was to wed slaughtered so that the feuding home of Krypton would never raise, again.

The stars rose and the shouting and firing stopped when the two small forms scrambled the rest of the way of the mountain, near the hills. The thought that it was over was short-lived and naïve when a larger explosion sounded, prince and justicar’s daughter’s breaths panting in their chests when a brilliant flash lit up the night sky. The shock of it sent both of them tumbling to dirt, Mike’s body flopping over to restlessly cover her as dust filled their mouths and gravel clung to their stained, torn shirts. Kara managed to stumble upwards first, offering her hand down to a trembling palm, wide eyes taking in the ruins of the city cleared from a force that rocks the mountains, themselves, a bomb of such a great size dropped on the towers that there would be no one left, Daxamite or Kryptonian. Stragglers, maybe.

Refugees, by the end of the night.

As Astra had prophesized and no one had listened—a fact Kara would not truly understand for years—the war cost the lives of all, save for two (and a third young man far removed from any of them, a hidden secret of a Bastard from an old line of rule).

Alone in the hills, the last two of a lineage left standing and their country decimated, Kara Zor-El and Mon-El of Daxam wept, their rings hanging from their necks as they huddled together in a small cave.  Mon-El wrapped up Kara’s shaking, small body with the weight of his own like how they’d always done since they were children and it was then, underneath the gasping listlessness of tears that had dried on young cheeks that shaking fingers slid a ring onto her thumb, a vow not dying on her lips.

“We will not let them die in vain, Mon-El. We won’t.”

Exhausted and battered—bruised—his knuckles full of cuts and his heart full of wounds time won’t heal, Mon-El snored as he tugged her closer, burying a grunt of exhaustion in her shoulder.

She’ll listen to her mother—they’ll flee to another country. To another life. They’ll make a difference in the world—stop war where their country couldn’t—and they’ll marry.

They’ll carry on the line of their homes, a young twelve year old girl decided then and there, full of dirt and blood and tears, resolve overwhelming her strangling urge to cry.

She was, after all, her mother’s daughter.

They’ll change the world, happiness be damned.

--

“Ah, ah, ah—” Mike snatches her hand up and boldly tugs off the thinnest emerald band tucked around her thumb and Kara’s eyes widen, their engagement ring hoisted as a hostage between them.

“M-Mike, come on, you can’t—”

“Stop being such a Kryptonian.” His voice is harsh but his eyes are pleading, tucking up her chin in a way that makes her huff through her nose, “Honor, values, prudishness, I get it. Woo. Yay.”

“I’m not a pru—”

“You need. To learn. How to have. Fun.” He enunciates every word with a slosh of his drink and Kara barely manages to catch it before he drops it on her bed, eyes lingering on the glint of a band he holds in his thumb. She’s glad to see that it’s with a little more reverence that he unclasps the necklace hanging over his neck and slides the green swirl onto it before once more clasping silver underneath his hairline, hanging over his heart, watching as their rings slot together over the dip of his neck. “We’re engaged. I get it. We didn’t choose it, you get that, too. So go out there and please—please—have a little fun, okay? I’m not saying this as your totally handsome zrhymin, I’m saying this as your best friend, ball and chain.”

“Mike…” She sighs, eyes darting down to the ground because he’s always been able to look outside of their little union, but she—she can’t—

“I’m not saying go looking for it, Kara. But…come on. Not everything in life is…duty and responsibility and trying to honor our shitty parents’ memories. It’s a college party. I’m—” He inelegantly points towards himself, smirking, “Going to go get laid.” She winces, ignoring the sharp gasp of pain that settled in her stomach long ago before turning away, “And you…are going to have some fun. Okay?”

“Okay.” She looks back down at her book. A moment passes. “Or, I can finish my homework—”

“Nope! Stop being such a loser,” He snatches it up and holds it high above her head and, to his testament, manages to keep holding it even when she roughly elbows him in the stomach, best friend doubling over in pain but curling around the book like a football, something he has far more experience with. “Oww. God. Domestic violence.”

She gets ready to smack him with her free book when he holds up a hand in surrender, reluctantly snaking out the book. “Kar’, you’ve been here for a year and haven’t left your classes.”

“And I’m almost through with my sophomore year because of it.” She’s eighteen and not about to be talked to like a child, but that doesn’t keep her from talking to Mike like he’s one. Because he is. A giant man-baby. “Come on, you’re acting like I don’t have friends. People—I am—hey, I’m likable and…and adorable. Or something, and—Eve!” She tries. “Tell him!”

Her roommate just grunts an acknowledgment from her side of the room, not looking up from her magazine. “Yep. Totally likable.”

“Yeah. Everyone knows you. As the kind girl who always helps them when they need it and can’t get her head out of her books.” Mike rolls over onto her bed, wagging his eyebrows at her roommate--who wisely rolls her eyes--and Kara hits him in the stomach with her textbook again for good measure, maybe taking a little too much joy out of the noise he makes when he groans. “Please.”

Her grip slackens on the book when he scoots closer, far gentler when fingers curve around her wrists. Softer, barely a whisper: “Mon-El….”

“Kara, there’s more to life than just…books and always pushing yourself too hard. I get you want to help people. I do. It’s the most infuriating and best thing about you, but you have to help yourself sometimes, too. Come with me. Please. Pretty please. Super please. Meet me there.”

It’s the fourth please that does it, she swears, and before she knows why, she’s walking with him towards a frat house in the same clothes (she refused to change; it’s not like she’s coming here for the same reason Mike is) nerves curling up her throat.

A frat party. A college frat party. People dancing and laughing and socializing and…partying.

She can totally do this.

--

Mon-El is old enough to emancipate himself—fifteen, an adult in a small, lanky body with hair that doesn’t quite grow, Kara thirteen and quiet—but it’s impossible to take care of both of them, no matter how hard they try. They manage to stow away on a boat to America, small bodies shivering and huddling and sneaking food from ships, until Kara manages to get state-side and it takes them two months, their clothes tattered and irredeemable by the end of it, for them to finally track down Kal-El.

Clark holds her so tightly that she thinks her bones might break, tearful reunion tucking up the sagging sigh of Mike’s lips, their native tongue tasting heavier underneath the loss of their families as they huddled in a small apartment. Clark had thought she was dead—the whole world thought she was dead—and it was undeniable that some people still wanted to see the last line of Alura In-Ze and Zor-El spread across asphalt in lines of red, even if young Kara wanted nothing to do with the throne of a land that was suddenly ash. It was the morals her mother held so dear—the idea of freedom—her mother’s caring heart so strong that people across countries would track down even the remnants of it to see it erased.

Clark is in college—editor for his school’s paper—and is ill-equipped to protect her from death threats and even less equipped to keep Mon-El from being dragged kicking and screaming towards the prison of ruin that is their homeland.

So that’s how Kara wound up with a foster family an hour from her cousin’s small dorm, Mon-El staying with them for only a month before he left on his own. Their letters were frequent, rings hanging down the burden on their shoulders, and there was never too much time between them before one—or the other—snuck away to find each other underneath moonlight. Soon, war became a faint memory underneath the sound of Alex’s laughter and a school that never knew what it meant for a girl to come from a royal line that wanted to revolutionize the world with democracy. But faint memories are never far, and it always came alive underneath the brush of Mike’s knuckles by her ear, watching moonlight catch along the glint of his ring. His mouth was always rough but he was always too gentle—his eyes were always distracted but he was always loving in smiles—and his loyalties always lay with her, even if she knew other girls occupied his bed.

Marriage, Astra had once told her, was a matter of convenience, not of love.

Kara clung to it.

--

The whole house is shaking with music and suddenly she wishes Eve wasn’t packing up shop to go away this weekend, because she could really use some moral support. Or at least her roommate’s infallible sense of optimism; Kara is told she usually has it in spades, but for some reason she doesn’t find it here. 

“Kara,” Mon-El hoots when he spots her, bumping into someone far less-dressed, eyes already lingering and Kara’s own close, breath catching against the edges of her mouth, pointedly looking away from the spectacle. But his hand curls around her shoulder and she leans into it—leans into him—leans into the scent of alcohol and too much aftershave and familiarity of a charming smile that sets her nerves at ease, but sets every other girl in the house’s on fire. It’s how it’s always been, comfort where fire should be. But maybe they had enough fire in their early lives to balance it out. “Uh, uh, no way—” He tightens arms around her like she’s a second away from bolting (which she totally isn’t. Right now). “You gotta live a little, babe. Come on—”

“Mike…” She sighs, but lets him tug her backwards in through the house—in towards the raging boom of life all around them—head shaking fondly as he starts to hop up and down on his feet like a boxer.

“Ka-rah. Ka-rah. Ka-rahh—”

Oh, great, he’s trying to give her a rallying cry. People, drunk, around them, start cheering her name, too.

“Stop it,” It’s a groan, reaching forward to shove his shoulder, which he rolls down in towards her, catching her lips in a swift peck before twirling them around and all but shoving her into the building with a swat to her ass.

The sound of her yelping is lost when he runs inside and the whole building cheers his name, instead.

Right. King of parties.

That’s her future husband. King of his family line doing a line of shots off of the table, roaring in triumph as someone dumps water on his head.

Yep.

“Welp, Kara.” It’s a heavensward sigh, already resigning herself to her fate as dozens of hollers chant her fiance’s name, shoulders slinking downwards as she makes her way further into the crowd, apologizing as she ducks underneath cups and arms and dancing (grinding) bodies, hands coming up to cup her ears from the thrumming base that shakes the whole fraternity house. “Time to make some new friends.” Fingers try at doors as she goes, hoping to win the lottery and not find someone inside. She decides because she knows this part as well as the back of her hand and somewhere across the house, she’s pretty sure she can hear a chorus of people yelling Mike and Chug in repetition. Finally, she manages to slide into a guest bedroom that is miraculously unlocked, closing the door on the persistent thud thud thud in the back of her skull. “With the wall.”

And then she notices the people on the people who decidedly do not notice her and she stumbles out of the room—oh, eww—and rushes across the hall, apology dying on her lips.

And then she sees it, a small little refuge across the way and she manages to make it across the sea of mangled fraternizations to triumphantly skip into the small little space of an unoccupied closet. It’s when she looks up that she sees someone else intently ducking cups but the other girl doesn’t seem to duck fast enough, getting jostled by a large jock with a shoulder that sends her careening towards Kara.

Kara, who opens her mouth to warn the girl to look out a little too late, and the other girl, who strings together a line of creative expletives lost underneath the music that might make a sailor blush—

So that’s how a small little ball of heeled fury all but tackles the freshman (sophomore) into the depths of the small little room in an elegant whirlwind. But the elegancy of said whirlwind is no match for Kara Danvers’ clumsiness, their bodies colliding, and Kara barely manages to catch the small form and tug her close out of reflex, flipping them both so that she lands on her back with a crunching, sputtering gasp as all of the air in her lungs tumbles up into the air, the door smacking shut behind them from Kara’s grasping, desperate free hand.

Oww.

The girl makes a point of scrambling up, elbowing Kara in the stomach as she does, and there goes Kara’s wind for the second time.

“What the hell do you think you’re—”

“Oww.” It’s a groan from the floor, wincing with another gasp as Kara reaches behind her to pull out her purse, the book there making a pretty painful bed for her to lay on, lodged into her side. The music drowns out the faint sound of rattling as the small girl starts smacking on the closet door with impatient hands, Kara blinking as she slowly sits up on elbows to take in her surroundings.

“Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me!” The girl snaps—yells—jiggling and wrestling with the handle for a few more seconds. It’s a small closet space, but it’s big enough to be a walk in—for Kara to uncomfortably sprawl on the floor, head resting against the wall as she catches her breath—and coats line the walls, hangers, and floor with no rhyme or reason. The light filters in through slats in the door, enough for Kara to adjust her glasses and see the silhouette of the other girl obscuring it, and Kara eventually scrambles up behind her, nursing her slightly-wounded side as she does.

It reminds her of the time in New York City when Mike had almost been mugged and Kara scrambled to rescue him (scrappy and small and full of so much anger that she would have taken on the world if she could), both of them managing to ward off their attackers but Kara hadn’t been able to breathe without wincing for a month. To the point where Clark is still ginger along her side, anytime he sees her.

The thought causes her to fish out her phone with a groan because of course they’re in the middle of a signal black hole.

“No signal. Is it locked?” Her breath sucks in, blinking, and the shorter girl whirls around to level Kara with a stare so impressive that she stumbles backwards, nearly knocking off half of the coats from the wall in the process. “I’ll…I’ll take that as a yes?” It’s practically a yelp and the girl huffs through her nose, Kara nervously shuffling the glasses on her nose, now, already straight on her face. “Sorry?”

She has no clue why she’s apologizing since the other girl is the one that pushed in here and knocked her onto the floor. Maybe because Kara had grabbed the door on the way down, trying to catch them both.

It’s not like she locked it.

“You should be. I can’t believe this. This was supposed to be my night out—my first night out in months and aggggh—” A small foot kicks the door for good measure, the wood rattling with no purchase against the relentless assault and Kara gulps, eyes adjusting behind slim frames. She’s shorter than her and Kara can barely see the light from the hall highlight gold locks. It’s hair that must have been perfect prior to their little fall, and the outfit (what must be a meticulously-chosen dress of black and blue hues) leaves little to the imagination in a way that makes Kara look away for a breath. Which is good, because the other girl is suddenly looking at her again with a gaze that is utterly uncompromising and it would have been pretty awkward for Kara to be caught staring so intently at her ass. “Do you have a credit card?”

“What? I—no?” A blink, looking back up, taking in slitting dark eyes that are covered by a few loose curls of hair, not sure what a credit card would do for them.

“Student ID?” Forging on, tone annoyed, “Do you even go here? Since you look probably like…twelve. With that outfit.” It’s a huff and Kara shifts underneath the appraisal, scowling.

“What does a Student—”

“I need a card to break the door. Unless you want to be stuck in here, all night.”

Kara thinks of her piles of paper cluttering her small dorm desk and assignments due two days from now and the thought of being stuck in here all night with this girl before she rushes to the door with her and both of them start yelling for help through the slats.

--

Alex and Mike both tried to get her to branch out—to go to parties and dance with the people whose eyes always lingered a little too long—but her breath always caught, guilt catching in her chest.

“You’re not cheating on me if you just—”

“No, Mike.”

“For fuck’s sake, Kar! They’re gone. They’re gone when are you going to get it in your fucking head that—”

It was an unspoken agreement between them, and Kara never had the heart to break it, because she was engaged to a Daxamite who changed more than she ever thought he could, but there was one area he never would.

But that Daxamite was engaged to a Kryptonian, too, and where he only knew conquests, she only knew loyalty and she wanted him to look at her like she wishes she knew how to look at him.

Like even if they weren’t pushed together by fate and obligation, there would have never been anyone in the world who could hold her so close—kiss her so fiercely—like theirs was a romantic tale, not one of destruction.

Like they were in love.

“I love him, Alex.” And Alex’s fingers brush through her hair—Alex’s fingers tuck up her necklace—Alex’s lips brush over her shoulder with a heavy sigh.

Kara loves him.

“I love him.”

She doesn’t know how to tell Alex that she doesn’t love him how she should.

--

Eventually, they both wind up collapsing on the floor, the other girl—Cat, she’s learned in begrudging response to Kara’s own offer of a name—looking so down-trodden at the thought of having to sit on it, at all, that the young girl had thoughtlessly tugged off her cardigan and laid it out like a happy picnic blanket. Cat had looked surprised, but sat down, anyways, kicking off her heels with a sigh.

And that’s where they find themselves, sitting in awkward silence as the world dances all around them, staring down at their only exit with little hope.

“The party has to die down, eventually.” Cat grumbles, “I don’t have time for this.”

That’s the first thing Cat’s said that Kara’s agreed with.

“What do you have due on Monday?”

Apparently, they’re both workaholics, which is pretty good. There’s something to be said for forging some common ground, if they’re going to be stuck here all night, because that’s the first subject that unhinges Cat’s jaw all night.

And just like that, it becomes a little easier.

“What about you? Since you apparently do go here.”

They talk about shared professors—about university—commiserate about their roommates and Kara finds out that Cat is a senior who somehow landed an RA room without the responsibilities this year. Though her ex-roommate (Lois Lane, one year older) sounds like a dragon with three heads, the way the smaller blonde describes her. 

“I think college is a lot like prison—you can get a lot by bartering.” Cat hums, eyebrows raising, “Olivia has a thing for pot brownies. Which makes sense, given the fact that she actually wants to be a politician”

Before long, they both stop actively looking for a way out and settle against the wall, instead, Cat stifling a laugh as she relays a story about an IT nerd in one of her classes getting stuck on the roof of the dormitories in his underwear and Kara realizes with a small hint of horror that it’s one of her friends, practically guffawing in the small place, because no wonder why Winn gets so nervous everytime he forgets his belt.

Cat looks surprised at the sound of her laugh and both of them share an easy smile, no clue how much time has passed.

“Wow, the party really isn’t going to die down, is it?” Kara sighs, head tipping back, and Cat lets out a commiserating noise.

“At least you didn’t waste an outfit. That one’s not much of anything.”

“Hey, I didn’t know I was coming. I got dragged here.”

“Uh-Huh.” Cat drawls, tone perking up at the edge in a clear tease and Kara boldly—gently—shoves her shoulder until the edges wobble enough to crack, a laugh spilling forth and she suddenly loves that sound. She would do a lot to elicit that sound.

“I can clean up nicely, thank you very much.”

“That I’d like to see.”

“Challenge accepted.” Kara hums—beams—soft underneath the sound of Cat’s laugh still bouncing off of the small closet walls. “Next time I’m stuck in a frat party closet, boy you will eat your words, Cat. Just you watch.”

Their eyes meet and for a moment—just a moment—Kara forgets there’s music outside, at all.

“With baited breath.”

For some reason, Kara doesn’t mind being stuck in this one.

--

She was the one that kissed him, the first time, when they were young. She was eight and he was nine and he tasted like grass and she hadn’t known they’d sealed their fate, then.

So it was only fair that she was the one who pushed him for more, too. Frustrated and furious and hurt, hands nervously wringing together like frayed knots, his shoulders slumped as he shirked off yet another job shift—slept with yet another woman—laughed at yet another chance of happiness that their parents gave him. He was eighteen and throwing his life away and Kara was chasing after him in years (fifteen going on sixteen going on a thousand) and wishing she could give him a world he wouldn’t want to.

He was so furious with the world and she was the only thing he had left and instead of being furious, too, she clung to it—clung to her responsibility—fingers roughly tangling in the fabric of his shirt and tugging him down closer.

Their mouths met in a sloppy, angry kiss and when he picked her up in his arms, she felt like she was falling, not flying, and her heart sunk into her stomach from the weight of her own lead shoulders, wrapping around his neck.

He kissed her until she could barely breathe, pressing her back up against the wall of a room her and Alex have shared for three years, jostling the N-Sync poster hanging on the wall. It was nothing like the gentler kisses shared for eight years and Mike looks surprised that Kara would have this kind of fire in her, at all.

And when she speaks, it’s in a language dead to the world save for the few people that remember it.

“We’re supposed to get married, Mon-El.” It’s a furious, huffed whisper against his mouth. “I don’t expect you to be faithful, but you should at least honor that. You should at least honor yourself. There’s so much more in you than this. There’s so much more in my husband. There’s so much more in you, why can’t you see that?”

He looks stunned—breathless—and the fury on his face dies on his tongue when he hefts her further up and her fingers tangle in his hair.

She loves him more than she knows how to love anyone, and it still doesn’t feel like enough to keep him here, but when he lays her down on the bed and kisses her, she vows she’ll try.

He leaves for college the next day and she’s so proud of him she nearly bursts, hopping around Alex like a puppy dog without balance, stumbling and skittering along the floor of their Midvale home.

“He’s going to make something of himself, Alex. I mean it, you’ll see.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex takes a bite of her bagel and doesn’t look up.

“He just…needs a little help to get there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He doesn’t know his own worth.” Kara shakes her head and Alex looks up at her, then, bagel hanging from her lips as she sighs. “You’ll see.”

“Okay.” She swallows a piece of the bread. “Whatever.”

“You’ll see.”

--

“So you’re planning on tackling all of college in two years? Ambitious.”

“Well…yeah.” Kara shifts, a little uncomfortable with the attention, hands jostling glasses as she shrugs—smiles—nose dipping down as a faint laugh rumbles along the edges of her lips. “The faster I can get out of school and start helping…”

“Of course out of everyone in the world I could be stuck in a closet with, it’d be a tree-hugger.” Cat grumbles and Kara hears it, head snapping up to frown. But the girl doesn’t seem to back down from the affronted gaze, almost reveling in it, instead. And that’s when Kara learns that this Cat is a girl who relishes in the ability to flaunt her opinion. “You can’t possibly be joining to actually help. You watched some Saturday Special with Alanis Morisette crooning about Angels, or something, and you—”

“That’s the ASPCA commercial.” Kara cuts her off and Cat blinks before that gaze turns into steel, apparently not used to being cut off.

“Whatever.” A huff through nostrils, “Whatever it was, you probably got this overly romanticized notion of swooping in to save other people because your own life was too boring to—”

“Do not patronize me.” Kara’s jaw clenches, “You're only like...a few years older than me. And you don’t know what I think.”

“I think you’re obviously not adult enough to even think about tackling the world head on. Who do you think you are, Supergirl? What would joining the Peace Corps even realistically do? Be realistic.”

“I think one person can make a huge difference in the world, that’s who I think I am. I think that it doesn’t matter what you think of me, that I can make a difference. I can help people who don’t have resources—don’t have access to the things I do, now. I can help do what my parents couldn’t.” It’s impassioned and Kara can’t remember the last time she felt this sizzling fire in her stomach, lapping up her throat to her tongue, but there’s something about Cat’s dismissive tone that bubbles it up out of her. That quakes her clenched hands and makes her believe more in herself just to spite her. She doesn’t even realize the belated slip of her tongue at the end of the sentence and, apparently, Cat pays it no mind, either, before the other girl blinks.

No, instead Cat just looks a little surprised.

“You really mean that.” 

“Of course I really mean that.” Kara huffs, but when she rolls her shoulders back, she smiles. “You know, you can’t just judge people at face value. All of us have experiences. I wouldn’t judge you just because—”

“Maybe you should. There’s something to be said for intuition.” Cat shakes her head. “People always talk about forming pre-emptive opinions like it’s a bad thing. How else do you sort through information? And people? They’re information.”

“People are a lot more than just information. They’re…they’re constantly changing. Evolving.”

“Everyone’s the same at the base of it. Don’t be naïve.” But Cat pauses for only a moment, eyes flicking down to her hands, twirling the pen she must always keep on her at all times like a keepsake and at the sight of it, Kara’s fingers thoughtlessly move up to her own neck, toying with the edge of a necklace. “Don’t misunderstand me. Don’t get me wrong. I…do believe the best in people. I do believe in hope.” A long sigh and when their eyes meet, again, there’s something so intense in Cat’s gaze that Kara might shrink under it if she didn’t feel like it was a test. “Maybe if you believe you can change the world, you can. One woman does have the power to do it. I know I will.”

“I know you will, too.” Kara immediately supplies and the girl shakes her head almost fondly.

“Is blind faith just a commonplace occurrence for you, or something?” There’s a hint of amusement there and the responding laugh is bright—loud—dancing in the small space between them as Kara shrugs in response. Her hand falls over an up-tucked knee, head falling back to rest against a particularly long coat.

“Maybe. My sister always tells me that I want to see the best in people. Usually to my own detriment, I guess?”

“That I don’t find hard to believe.”

The silence settles far easier between them, now.

“So…you want to be a journalist? That means you read a lot, right?” The look Cat gives her—non-verbally accompanied with a no shit sherlock—makes Kara shuffle a little, trying her best to smile through the hint of nerves suddenly on the edge of her tongue. “What are some of your favorite books?”

That seems to loosen both of their tongues for the second time—a second barrier forged past friendliness into familiarity—a common ground splayed out between them in open white pages. Eventually, neither one of them seems to care about the party, the noise in the background fading into a gentle hum, and somewhere along the line they scoot closer, together. Eventually, Cat’s legs find themselves stretched over her own and their shoulders ease together and neither one of them comment on the fact that they shouldn’t be so comfortable—so close—because it doesn’t matter that they’ve only known each other for a couple of hours.

For some reason, Kara feels like she’s known Cat her entire life.

--

It’s six months later that she flies all the way out there to tug him out of bed by his ear and yell at him about his Instagram footage.

Because boy does Mon-El need constant encouragement.

She manages to convince him to stay in college—to stay somewhere he can make a difference—and she beams with pride when the conquests and lines of alcohol bottles thin into half-hearted tales of tests and studying. He’s smart—smarter than he’ll ever give himself credit for—and she knows he’s furious with even the idea of applying himself. He slips enough times for her to threaten to go take him on, again, and not wanting to undergo the wrath of his fiancée, Mon-El of Daxam (Mike Matthews of Midvale) finally finds his place in life.

By the time she’s eighteen, Kara tells herself that it’s only two years until she’ll find her own. Two years until she’ll graduate and enroll in the Peace Corps and do her best to keep other countries from undergoing what her own had, lost and forgotten in history books that will never write about it.

They’ll get married and join and change the world.

Two years.

Two more years.

What could happen inbetween?

--

Cat’s head has found the crook of her neck and it’s easy to tuck the girl against her chest, both of them resigned to their fate of dying here before anyone thinks to check it.

Not that Kara really minds it so much when that laugh is so warm against her skin.

“No, really—”

“No, no way, don’t believe it.” Cat’s still laughing, hard enough that she needs to grip her side, leaning further into Kara’s stretching arms when she does, the younger of the two splaying out her hands in dramatic effect, imitating an explosion in front of them.

“It just went boom. I mean it. We were so grounded.”

“Well that’s what you and your sister get for thinking you could sneak off in the family car.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that an entire family of squirrels ran out into the road. I had no choice but to turn off the road.” Kara indignantly responds, serious, because what had the alternative been?

“It’s your sister’s fault for listening to you and letting you drive.”

Kara laughs, “Okay, maybe.” She assents, remembering how long she had pestered her sister for hours until Alex had relented.

Alex hasn’t let her drive since.

“It could have been so much worse.” Cat notes, “You two are lucky it didn’t explode with you in it.”

“It almost did.” Kara shifts, a hint of guilt still fresh in her chest, cardigan bunching up on the ground underneath them. “Alex was knocked out cold. I remember being so scared. I had to pull her out of the car and call 911. It’s funny, now, because Alex insists that I would put that family of squirrels over her well-being again in an instant,” She laughs a little, “But…it could have been a lot worse, yeah. We were always getting into some kind of, um…trouble, I guess. If it wasn’t me, it was her.”

“You two must have been hell for your parents to raise.” Cat hums, and Kara wonders when she’d grabbed her hand, finger idly tracing along the lines of her knuckles like a painting.

“After they adopted me, yeah.” Kara shrugs, not explaining that her and Alex weren’t so close in the beginning—not explaining that her parents never would have let her in that car in the first place—not explaining a good bit about her past, yet, because maybe that’s a second trapped in a closet kind of thing. (Or maybe she’s just scared of how much she wants Cat to know). “But, hey, that’s nothing like you trying to track down a drug dealer when you were seven to write an expose on him.”

Cat chuckles, chin tipping back to search the line of Kara’s jaw, like the side-stepped notion hasn’t evaded her—Kara’s learning not much does, not underneath the scrutiny of those sharp eyes—but a journalist surprisingly lets it go.

“Someone had to expose the man for what he was.”

“And that someone was you.”

“Clearly.”

“Clearly.”

They smile, silence again stretching between them and when Cat once more rests her head on her shoulder, Kara finally listens to the soft din outside, party still going strong. Or at least the music is. Cat settles against her shoulder and she’s not sure why she even asks—

“Hey, do you um…do you want to dance?”

Kara blinks, remembering what Alex always said about her thinking before talking.

Oh, God, why did she ask—

“To techno music.” Even in the dim light Kara can see both of Cat’s eyebrows raise, her tone dry. “In a closet.” Cat doesn’t look away as she drawls it and Kara wishes she would. “Alone.” 

Kara shrugs, glad for not the first time that the darkness of the closet hides the flare of her cheeks, bravado dying on the edge of her throat. “Well, you said you came here to unwind and you’ve been stuck in here with me instead and I—um, well I mean—you—I guess it’s silly but I figured there’s no reason you can’t still dance and it’s not like I’ll just you if you still want to—”

“Wow, sometimes you really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” But Cat’s standing and Kara scrambles to her feet, after her, ready to apologize like the other girl might leave—like either of them could right now—blinking when instead she rests a hand on her shoulder. “We don’t have enough space for much. Guess it’ll have to be a slow one.”

“Yeah.”

Kara doesn’t bother hiding her relieved laugh, brows knitting when she steps closer because she’s only ever been lead, not lead herself, but Cat starts moving and suddenly Kara doesn’t feel like it matters. Because their bodies thoughtlessly slot together as they sway to the obnoxious bass beat in the room outside, Cat’s arms wrapping around her neck, the nerves fading away at the soft smile that tucks up the other girl’s lips.

This is what it feels like, isn’t it? This is what it feels like, a rush of monarchs dive bombing in her stomach and her heart skipping with every beat shifting their feet.

“I’m…sort of obvious, huh?” Kara finally asks, quiet as Cat’s nose slots against her neck.

“Oh, yeah. Very.” But there’s a hint of a smile against warm skin—Kara swears she can feel it, “But I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Kara breathes out a shaking breath, expectations and reality and obligation flooding away with it for the first time in ten years.

“Okay.”

“Just…don’t stop dancing.” Cat whispers and Kara has no problems complying, hands sliding down to wrap around a waist, eyes sliding shut as they move.

This is what it feels like, and there’s another promise she made that she intends to keep.

--

“chahv kir.” Astra calls around the corner, the sound of laughter dancing along the walls in trilling piano notes and the young girl perks up and tries to scurry away, back up the stairs she’d snuck down from, but the effort is futile because she only makes it two steps before her aunt wraps arms around her waist and picks her up like she used to do when she was little—she’s seven now and shouldn’t be picked up so easily—but her squeal of laughter joins the pianos, regardless, when her aunt whirls her in the air like a plane. “You are supposed to be sleeping!”

“But everyone was having—” The protest is cut off by laughter and she looks up, sheepish, at the sound from the top of the steps, Mon-El’s scruffy locks coming into view for only a second before he runs up the rest of the stairs, abandoning his friend and fiancée to her fate. “Everyone was having fun and I just—”

“Ah, just you?”

“Yep!” Kara emphatically nods even with Astra holding her up in her arms, eyes a little wide. They grow wider than their cat’s saucers when Astra’s slit in response. Uh-oh.

“You don’t lie to me, Little One.” Astra tutts a clever tongue against the roof of her mouth and Kara’s shoulders sag despite the fact that she’s still being held, eyes nervously looking towards the stairs before they settle on her other best friend in the universe. “It’s brave to cover for your friends—especially a little Daxamite boy who won’t cover for himself,” It’s groused and Kara won’t understand the annoyance—the over-protectiveness—for years, but in the moment Astra just plops them both down on the nearby step, tucking Kara close to her chest. “But family comes above all. And we’re friends, are we not? You should put great trust in me.”

“Sorry Aiahv.” It’s properly chagrined, head hanging, but her aunt’s gentle fingers—calloused and rough from planting and fighting—tuck underneath her chin and their eyes meet.

“Never apologize for protecting someone you love. Just know I’d never hurt you. It’s a lesson you should learn, even young. Besides,” A long-suffering sigh, bouncing Kara up on her knee until the girl hops off. “That stupid boy is your betrothed, now. Whether or not I like it, you’ll both be causing far too much hell together.”

Kara laughs, a little scandalized, but that’s one of the reasons she loves her aunt. She never makes her feel like a child—never candy coats—and it makes the ring hung around her neck feel less like a burden and more like an…honor. It’s difficult to hide the surprise when her aunt drags her towards the festivities, the sound of laughter and music growing louder and louder with every footfall. Non is leaning against the edge of the large glass windows of their living room as her mother and father play the piano, dancing and singing. Rhea and Lar Gand surprisingly dancing and laughing with them, the union between the Daxamites and the Kryptonians still timid. Still new.

After all, it’s only been two weeks since best friends were announced to be engaged. But music, Alura always insisted, could bring anyone together across their differences, and it seems to do its job, now.

There’s other diplomats in the house, all twirling and dancing and laughing, and when Astra meets Non’s eyes, he raises a hand towards them both with a wink and Kara smiles, squeezing her aunt’s hand.

“Can I stay and dance?” Kara tugs her down, whispering into an ever-attentive ear, and Astra hums in the back of her throat with a gravelly chuckle, knees cracking as she squats down to her level, fingers brushing through her hair.

“I’m afraid not, Kara.”

“Oh.” Her nose ducks, scrunching, and those fingers once more tuck up her chin.

“You cannot stay. But I said nothing of dancing. Why don’t I dance with you around the corner? It will be just us.”

“Really?” Kara squeezes both of those large hands until the older woman laughs, both of their feet pattering along white wood, the sun far set and the laughter and music carrying them towards the small study around the corner. “What about Non? Shouldn’t you be dancing with him, Astra? Like I should dance with Mikey.”

“Mon-El.” Astra thoughtlessly corrects, but her voice and eyes—normally so stern—are kind. “You understand how I told you there was nothing wrong with protecting someone you love? And how you both—you and your betrothed—would always cause trouble?” Kara nods her sharp understanding, head bobbing up and down feverishly—almost enough to knock off her glasses—and Astra fondly tuts her tongue before straightening the pair on the bridge of a nose. “You don’t always have to choose your husband, Kara.”

“What?” Kara blinks, brows knitting as her fingers idly reach up to her neck. “But…but I thought—”

“Oh, shush. We’re strong women. Generals.” Astra reminds, patting Kara’s young heart like that’s where the source of the word lies—the strength of it—before tugging Kara closer and catching her hands. “Marriage is not everything, Kara. There’s duty and life. But, most importantly, love.”

“Love?” Kara breathes the word, something wistful and painful in her chest, too young to understand why it clenches so tightly.

“Oh, yes.” Astra hums, slipping into their native tongue: “And I love you most of all.”

“Aiahv.” Kara beams, ignoring her aunt’s formal gesture of hands for dancing to wrap them around a tall neck, leaping up to tug her down into a tight hug that makes the normally unflappable woman stumble, chuckling as her arms wrap around her waist. “I love you, too!”

“Someday, I hope…you’ll understand love, too. Not just obligation.” She pulls away, cupping her niece’s cheeks and Kara doesn’t understand why her Aunt’s eyes are suddenly a river of emotions, water brimming along lashes as she holds her, “Promise me you’ll try to find it, someday. Above all else. Treasure it, Chahv Kir.” 

“I promise it, Aiahv.”

“Good girl.” Astra nods, running a loving thumb along her cheek before she tugs her close, the music settling over them as they dance. Lips brush over Kara’s temple and she sighs, eyes fluttering closed as she smiles and listens to the sound of a nation outside of their doors dance in harmony and laughter, held safely in her aunt’s arms.

“You’ll make a fine general someday, Kara. Far better than a fine wife.”

Kara beams up at her and their eyes twinkle and for some reason—for some reason—it feels like the world’s greatest secret as they smile.

--

“So…do you do this for all the girls?” Cat practically purrs against her neck and Kara swallows, not stopping the soft swaying despite the hint of nervous laugh caught in her throat. She’s certain Cat might be able to feel it trapped there. “Trap them in a closet and try to sweep them off their feet.”

“Hey, you bumped into me, remember? But I…” Kara futilely argues, “I don’t do this with anybody.” A beat, “I’ve, uh…I’ve only ever been with one person. That’s kind of…I don’t know. I don’t think it’s sad, but sometimes people look at me all…weird when I say that.” Kara laughs a little, nose scrunching, “But I was with him since we were thirteen. Well, longer than that, really, but my—our parents…they wanted us to get together, so we did.”

“Well, if I did everything my parents wanted me to do, I’d probably be dead. At least my Mother. Sometimes parents don’t know best.”

Kara blinks because they’ve talked a bit about Cat’s mother, already, but Kara still has no clue what to do with that level of hatred towards a living relative, since she doesn’t really have any, outside of Kal-El. “I…okay, I’ll admit, I don’t really know how to respond to that.” Surprisingly, Cat laughs, both of them sharing a sly smile. “What about you? I could argue you’re trying to sweep me here, you know.”

“By try I think you mean that I’m succeeding.” There’s that victorious smirk on Cat’s lips and suddenly Kara’s mouth feels a little dry, even when her eyes dip, a little shyer than she might expect herself to be from the way her voice suddenly husks: “I’ve had a few boyfriends. One was…longer than the others. Joe. I…had a scare last year when he moved away—he moved to Metropolis—and I didn’t…we didn’t work it out. Everyone else…everyone else always leaves. If not eventually, they always leave in the morning.” There’s a beat, Cat’s eyes skimming along palms like she can trace her own lifelines when she pulls away and Kara feels the distance, immediately, “I…” Those eyes dart upwards and settle on Kara, like she’s a little in awe but utterly unwilling to admit it, “I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I’m glad you did.” A little breathless, trying to think of the right words to say and settling on the truth, instead: “I’d…like to learn everything about you, Cat. Is that—is that weird?”

“A little.” The girl concedes—laughs—but there’s something soft in her gaze, “But not…entirely unwanted. I guess.”

“Oh.”

Both of them tuck their teeth in their lips in a nervous gesture in union and Kara thinks Cat wears it far better than she ever could. Wears nerves like a tight-fitting black dress that her fingers long to itch along the hem of.

Boldly—sinfully—Kara suddenly wants to help relieve Cat’s lips from her teeth with her own.

“So you’ve…never been with a girl, then. Have you ever thought about it?”

“I am right now.” Kara immediately supplies and then slaps a hand over her lips with a faint laugh, thankful for the dim light of the closet that covers her blush, something that only deepens at Cat’s low, surprised laugh.

“Well I can’t blame you. I am hot. Especially in this dress.” She steps closer and Kara wishes she’d cross the distance faster because suddenly her knees shake and she’s not sure how to move, “Brazen is a good color on you, Kara.” 

“I was just being honest. You’re…” Her hand raises and hesitates along the lines of a jaw, hovering without touching, “You’re beautiful, Cat.”

“Oh.” And Cat’s biting her lower lip, again, eyes searching Kara’s before they dart down to her mouth and back up. Fire—fire—burns like a nation in Kara’s stomach. “I really never thought younger was my type.” But she’s leaning closer and Kara swallows.

“And now?”

“Now I…I don’t know. I’m thinking about it, too.”

“Could you—would it be alright if I—” Kara sucks in a sharp breath before letting it out, calming herself because she shouldn’t be doing this at all, but suddenly she doesn’t know how she can do anything else, “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

So Kara stops asking and does it.

--

“Is it…different?” The question is quiet and barely laced with the insecurity that fills her stomach. It rolls in her chest like a fast, boiling pot of water, sometimes, how it feels when she looks at him.

“Being with other girls?” He finally asks, rolling over onto his side, thumb smoothing along the ridges of her ribs where a scar sits. She’d climbed onto the top of a tree when she was ten and his youthful, bragging voice yelled down to her to jump—that he’d catch her—and she had. He’d caught her, but both of them wound up with matching scars from a nearby tree branch that caught them both just as happily along their sides.

“Yeah.” Her swallow is thick—tight—brushing fingers along the ridges of his knuckles so that she doesn’t have to look into his eyes.

“It’s different.” He murmurs, eyes concerned because he knows she doesn’t usually like talking about it and even Kara isn’t sure why she is, shrugging a little.

“In the books…in the books they always…they always make it seem like this…magical thing, you know?”

“Oh.” Mon-El shrugs, flopping onto his back and tenting out his arms and she nestles on top of them, both up them looking up at the stars. The fields of Midvale spread out all around them, the wind rustling the small blanket they’d stolen from the laundry room, and he’s quiet for a long moment before he murmurs: “It’s nothing like that. Like in your books.”

But it’s not like that with her, either, she knows.

“Do you think we’d know it? If we ever found it. Do you think…” Her fingers brush down the line of his chest, “Do you think it’s even real?”

“I don’t know.”

The question makes her think too much of her aunt, so she stops talking and kisses him, instead, insisting this must be enough, anyways.

--

It’s different.

It's different with Cat.

It’s different in all of the ways she never knew it could be. Soft where Mike is rough—gentle where Mike is unrelenting—pressing where Mike is timid—consuming where Mike is…there. Kara kisses Cat and she feels like she’s flying. She feels like her body lifts off of the ground and slowly ascends towards the heavens and when those fingers raise up to brush into Kara’s hair, she feels like she’s on fire. And she’s so certain she’s never truly been kissed before, before this moment, because it’s nothing she’s ever known, at all.

Cat kisses her—Cat’s shaking, gentle touch consumes her until they’re both breathless in a simple brush of lips, however gentle or unassuming it is, and when they pull away Kara slumps forward, her whole body chasing after her like a shooting comet’s tail chasing a planet in the sky.

It's chaste, really, all things considered—timid and gentle and almost…loving, for two people who don’t know each other, at all, but have suddenly known the most important pieces of a puzzle in the past few hours—and she’s never felt anything like it.

She’s never felt anything like Cat.

“Wow.” It’s a murmur, eyes half-lidded when she blinks to take in Cat’s parted lips, eyes still closed. It’s another second until they bat open, a little dazed, herself, and Kara boldly runs her hand down a sternum to brush fingers over a skipping heart behind her new friend’s chest. Is there a label for someone who you’ve only just met and kissed and don’t ever want to stop kissing? Friend doesn’t seem appropriate.

“That was…” Cat trails off—darts a tongue over suddenly dry lips—breath sucking in and out with two sharp pulls of a knife. “Okay, that was good.” Adding, like she doesn’t like admitting good things so easily, “That was a good start.”

“Very good.” And suddenly Kara feels alive, that hand finally coming up to cup the other girl’s cheek, marveling at the feeling of soft skin. Marveling at the way Cat leans into her like she wants to be touched—held—kissed again. “Can I—”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re not going to ask for permission every time, are you?”

“I—” Kara blinks, but the words are cut off by Cat’s mouth, kiss suddenly far more pressing, stumbling backwards and barely catching both of them from the momentum, crashing into the coats on the wall with a muffled thud, her hmm of a noise lost against an insistent mouth.

Cat doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest, arms looping around her neck and tugging Kara down, and suddenly she understands what all of those books meant about falling in love.

It doesn’t feel like falling, at all.

It feels like flying.

--

“You don’t want to, do you?” Kara sighs, knees tucked up against her chest, palms pressing into her eyes because it still burns up her throat in a way she can’t help.

“Hey—Kar, Kar, come on. You know I…” His sigh is tight, hand scrubbing over his face, “You’re it, for me. I love you.”

“Mike.” Kara protests, tone sharp—

“No, I mean it. I love you.”

“Mon-El.”

“So what if it’s not like…like those stupid books or the shows or—or—whatever! You make me want to be better.”

It’s softer, crumbling, “Mon-El…”

“You make me glad I didn’t stay with them, Kara.” His eyes close, “I’ll repay you for the rest of my life, if I have to.”

“We owe it to them.” She whispers, gingerly sliding a ring back onto her pinky. “We owe it to them.”

“Yeah.” Mon-El swallows and his charming, spreading smile doesn’t meet his eyes, “Yeah, we owe it to them.”

--

When someone finally opens the closet, neither of them scramble up towards it, though they do pull away to blink, disheveled faces turning towards the light. The bright light.

Sunlight.

The obviously drunk partier makes some snide comment that seems to stir Cat back to life, the small little spitfire flinging upwards with a wagging finger in the boy’s face. But the slew of words don’t seem to register with him, since it seems to take more brain power than he possesses to focus on the finger in his face, stumbling backwards to catch himself on the doorway as he does, and that causes Kara to scramble upwards, herself.

The glasses on her face are askew and her lips are bruised when she wraps an arm around Cat’s waist, physically pulling her back and stepping between the two in case the drunk guy decides to get violent from the assault. But he looks like he doesn’t understand it, let alone register it, and she catches him before he can fully fall, immediately moving to help him sit on a nearby barstool by the kitchen island. It’s only after he’s settled that she turns around to take in the carnage that was the frat house the night before, the steady, timid sunlight spilling in through the open windows.

It’s like a drunken battlefield.

There’s cups strewn everywhere and even more bodies littering every surface, music still thumping along despite all of the occupants either passed out or gone.

But that’s not the aftermath of the party that Kara lingers on. She turns around to see a small Cat, whose hands are curved disapprovingly on her hips, eyes slit and lips bruised. Golden hair is tousled and her outfit has obviously been mussed by Kara’s hands and her heart drops down into her stomach, stepping forward, suddenly not caring about the party, at all.

It should be sobering, seeing the after-effects of potentially poor life choices. She should pull away and find Mike (untangle him from whoever he’s with—whatever bottle he’s fallen next to) and go study. She should throw herself back into her old life in the sobering hours of daylight, but instead her fingers curve along Cat’s cheek with a dry swallow.

She’s amazed when Cat leans into it, because the other girl should really put a stop to this for both of them, shouldn’t she? But despite appearances, Kara’s learned one thing about this Cat that is the one striking common ground between them: she follows her heart, too, and there’s no denying—

Oh, there’s no denying—

Kara kisses her in the daylight, the air open and free around them, no longer stuffy and restrained, and Cat gasps against her.

Maybe Cat thought she would pull away, too.

She kisses Cat until fingers curl in her braided hair and nails rake against her neck before those same hands skim down bare arms to curve in elbows.

“Come back to my dorm.” It’s murmured against her mouth and Kara swallows, nervously looking up into dark eyes, so clear and so green in the morning sun. The base is still thudding along, drowning out everything but her heartbeat and the words dancing warmth against Kara’s lips. “I don’t do this, Kara, and I know that sounds…God, that sounds so cliché, even just hearing it, but I don’t. I do not just invite people back to my room, but I am inviting you back to my room. I am definitely inviting you back to my room.”

“I want to. Oh, I want to.” Kara breathes. “I can think of…of a thousand reasons why—”

“So can I.” Cat cuts her off, “But I want this, anyways. And when I want something…I don’t see the point denying myself, do you?”

“No.” A shuddering breath, tumbling between them when Cat’s nails rake down her arms and settle on her hips. “No, I really don’t, right now.”

Kara figures that the walk back will give Cat enough time to sober up even though she knows the other girl only had half of a beer all night—enough time for both of them to come to their senses—but the entire time she feels her pulse racing out of the hand that’s twined with the other girl’s and can’t bring herself to pull away. It should be silent. It should be awkward.

But instead they keep talking the entire way there. They talk until they get to the dorm building—they talk until they pass the tall RA nodding curiously towards them (with a lingering gaze on Cat, like she’s almost surprised)—they talk until they get to the door and then they talk some more, the birds starting to chirp in the air and the wind rustling through both of their mussed, tangled hair.

Keys jangle and the lock clicks, door barely parting open.

When the laughter and conversation settles like a goodbye between them, Cat’s small shoulders leaning against her dorm room door, keys twirling idly around her thumb like a pen might, Kara doesn’t know how to pull away.

She should pull away.

But she steps a little closer, instead, hands flexing—clenching and unclenching—before they settle on slim hips.

“I guess I don’t mind that party, all of the sudden. It did…lead me to you.” Teeth tuck at a lip as Kara leans downwards and for once, the rest of the world fades away. No expectations from her family—from Alex—from Mon-El or their wilting promise—and the most surprising part of all is that it’s just Kara Danvers standing here that’s so bold. It’s just Kara Danvers who wants to make this choice—wants to do this for her—to trace the curve of Cat’s jaw until she memorizes it.

“If you…invited me in, I would say yes.”

“Oh, well I…had no doubt about that.” Cat whispers but her fingers barely tremble as they raise up to skim along the dip of an elbow towards a bicep—to run a nail just along the outside edge of Kara’s blouse in a way that makes both of their breath catch against parting lips.

“And if…I stay,” A tongue darts out over dried skin, close enough to almost touch Cat’s lips, and when it retreats back into its home, Cat leans up into her like she’s hoping she’ll do it again if just to catch a hint of moisture against her teeth. “If I stay, I would love to have breakfast with you. Tomorrow, I mean…I won’t go anywhere. And would…” Their noses barely brush, nerves settling between them, deciding that the words say enough: “I would like to have breakfast with you. And lunch. And maybe dinner.”

She’s tired of making promises she doesn’t want to keep—this is a promise she knows she’ll keep. This is a promise she wants to.

“I’ve…never done this before.” Cat confides, “I’ve never even thought about doing this before.”

“Me neither,” Kara’s quick to reassure, “Well, I mean, maybe thought, but I…well, I just—”

“Yeah.” Cat agrees, but neither of them move and when Kara lets out a heavy breath, it breaks against her new acquaintance’s lips.

“Yeah.”

Their eyes meet.

“Fuck it.” Cat seems to decide before the hand curved along a shoulder falls down to roughly tangle in the fabric of Kara’s shirt, tugging her forward until their mouths meet in a far sloppier mess than the tentative brushes an hour before. It’s wet and tastes like cheap beer (and something else) and when Cat’s hands hungrily raise to curl in her hair, finally tugging a braid out, it feels perfect.

It feels perfect.

A kiss shouldn’t feel like this. A kiss has never felt like this—like this contradiction of frantic heartbeats trying to find each other in rhythm; like two different songs are playing between them, but then Kara presses Cat against the door and their bodies slot and their heartbeats sync up in tempo and…

And, oh, Cat groans and it’s music.

The door pushes open and they stumble inside and Kara doesn’t open her eyes to learn what Cat’s small dorm might look like because she knows it’s bigger than hers.

Instead, she learns what it’s like to catch a soft lower lip with her upper one—what it’s like to lose the strength of her knees when teeth tug at her own—what it’s like to feel hips arch up against her in a yearning, restless ache. Like she’s wanted. And Kara’s never felt fire like this, before, sudden and consuming and devastating. She’s used to a slow burn of a simmer that never quite resolves, but nails rake at her skull—drag down her neck and bury in restless vices at her shoulders—and suddenly Kara’s whole body is an inferno. It’s blazing up from her stomach to her searing lungs to her clenching fingers and they’re lucky that Cat had left the door open because she’s not sure she can stop and it isn’t long before Cat is pressed up against another wall somewhere inside this small space.

Kara can’t breathe and it feels like she’s losing something almost intrinsically more important than air when their mouths rip apart, a mewling, desperate noise breaking from her lips when Cat’s mouth trails sloppily down from her lips to her chin—her cheek—her jaw—but she’s full of precision when her teeth tug against a sensitive earlobe and a tongue slowly, teasingly, smooths along her ear.

Another noise leaves Kara’s chest, hips pinning Cat a little harder against the wall, and before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s pressed wrists there, as well, both of their bodies panting in a push and pull that hasn’t quite registered. Because she wants a moment to look at her—to see her.

To see the way the morning hue filters through drawn blinds and paints Cat’s hair like a sunrise; to see the way those lips part with a gasp, tongue that had just curved along Kara’s ear dancing along a lower lip, a hint of moisture and rain caught against the glistening surface; to see the way hazel eyes shift to something irretrievably dark that Kara has pulled from inside of a stranger’s chest; to see how beautiful she is, dress rumpled and eyes vulnerable.

Kara snaps a hand up to shut the door because suddenly she doesn’t want anyone else to see Cat like this, the sound of a door shutting lost against the dangerous rampage of her heart and, oh, Cat doesn’t let her go far.

“Kara,” It’s husked in warm, racing breath against that wet lobe and Kara would suddenly give Cat anything she ever wanted—anything she ever asked—just for a chance to hear that again. Nails rake down from wrists to shoulders to tremble over collarbones, eyes darting down to covered breasts and up again. So she tells her, stumbling against the words because the heat shoots straight through her—

“Say my name again. Please, say my—”

“Make me.” Cat challenges, hands so sure for someone that’s never done this before (but maybe it’s the same principle as with someone else, isn’t it? Even if this feels like nothing Kara’s ever even dreamed, let alone done) snapping up to curl defiantly around wrists but slowly—slowly—guiding Kara downwards to the faint hemline of a short dress. Kara swallows when her fingers skim along hot skin for the first time, but it doesn’t stop because Cat keeps pushing her hand up and as transfixed as Kara is by the journey, when her eyes flick upwards to see the other girl almost nervously biting her lower lip, eyes almost black they’re so lusting, Kara’s knees almost give out the rest of the way.

Make me.

It’s a challenge and for some reason, Kara feels like she’ll arise to it. Exceed it, just for Cat, and suddenly her hands are cupping breasts over a bra and Cat is arching into her, gasp panting in her ear, and Kara tucks her own chin in order to catch an open, hot mouth, tasting the way she moans when her hands cup a little firmer.

Cat’s hands hastily tug at the tanktop that had rested underneath a cardigan (happily forgotten at the party, crumpled from misuse underneath the weight of their bodies) until the fabric hastily dragged up between them causes their lips to break apart.

Kara can’t help her desperate laugh when the tanktop gets tangled and stuck on her head, Cat’s laugh joining her when it takes both of them tugging and rearranging to finally pull it free, taller blonde impatiently tossing it down on the floor like she’s taught it a lesson and the shorter of the two’s face curving into something almost fond as she straightens out the collateral damage of hair that had been caught up in the tangle.

Their eyes meet—Kara a little sheepish—catching Cat’s fussing hands with a spreading, soft smile, brushing lips over a palm in a way that makes a breath hitch against her. When their eyes meet, again, it feels heavy and the second kiss is much slower, Kara’s palms lowering to smooth up the skin of a clenching stomach—to once more curve along breasts—back arching as long fingers slowly start on the button of her pants, tugging her hips closer with each yank and pull.  

“Should we…” It’s a broken gasp when Cat’s fingers tug the fabric down tilting hips, fingers hooking in the line of fabric unveiled underneath. (And, oh, thank God she wore something cute, today). Nails skim along her hips like a writer skimming the thin, sharp line of a fountain pen along the white canvas of a page and Kara shudders. “Shouldn’t we be in a—God, I’d like to…I want you on a bed.”

Normally she would blush at the sound of it—at the turn of phrase—but it’s suddenly the truth because now all she can imagine is the gasp Cat lets out against her cheek rolling against her bare shoulders and—

“Yes.” Cat’s voice is silk and her next tug on pants is rough until the fabric pools about Kara’s thighs and there’s something beautiful about the way she elegantly slides down onto her knees, nails dragging the scratching denim down hot skin until it’s a puddle by both of their feet, trailing slow kisses back upwards. Wetness skims along calves—thighs—hips—a tongue dips in a navel and Kara’s fingers curl desperately in hair—between breasts—a neck—and she can’t take it, anymore, catching Cat’s mouth with her own.

Teeth tug on a lip and fingers scratch nails down the expanse of heat and Kara can’t breathe, anymore, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling away to trace teeth on a neck, restlessly sucking when she feels the way Cat’s hips arch up into her.  

“Bed. Bed, right—Down the—oh, down the—don’t stop. Don’t—shit, that’s. That’s— ”

Their bodies collapse on top of aching springs with an inelegant squeak but Kara is too busy memorizing the way Cat’s legs clench around her waist when she pulls down the fabric of a bra to trail a testing mouth down to a breast and she almost bites to hard when Cat’s hand, never one to be outdone, chases fire and sweat down her abdomen to smooth down the wetness between legs.

Kara makes Cat say her name, again, broken with teeth biting at a shoulder as heels press in the dip of a curving back.

Cat makes Kara beg the response with desperate fingers curling in the fabric of a pillow that smells like perfume and ink, body raising prayers off the bed to the noon sun.

They’re learning, now. Clumsy and wanting and…God, it’s not perfect, but it feels like it is.

It feels like a piece of Kara’s heart was missing until Cat’s breath and smile and moan and arching back filled it.

The afternoon sun slowly starts to lower itself from its once-brilliant expanse of blue, gingerly painting the pale lines of tangled bodies in reds and purples and yellows. Eventually, their bodies sag and Kara Danvers learns what it’s like to watch Cat smile so lazily that she looks like she was born in mussed sheets.

Kara knows.

Kara knows, without a doubt, that there’s something she’ll have to do tomorrow morning.

Cat’s thumb idly skims along a ring of untanned skin, juxtaposed with the rest of it, curious and unknowing. And Kara’s never felt so liberated in her entire life. Not since a fire between lost nations—not since she took on another name and another home.

Tenderness curves a spine when she leans down and gently brushes lips over the thumb painting her and hazel eyes widen, surprised at the motion before a brilliant, soft smile spreads across features.

So Kara kisses her, again, soft and slow and testing, easing the other girl back into the sheets with a happy sigh.

They have all the time in the world.

Kara made many promises when she was thirteen, before the sun and the ocean and her fiancé took her. Before she grew up and decided to save the world in a way her family never could.

But there’s one promise that sticks against her ribs, even now—the one she made her aunt, both of them dancing underneath the sound of laughter and pianos and harmony.

This is the moment when Kara Zor-El stops focusing on the past—stops focusing on the promises of a nation and a family lose—and starts focusing on the future, instead.

--

It’s nearly seven at night when Cat stirs and Kara, not wanting to seem too much like a stalker, tries to act like she just woke up, herself.

“Morning, sleepy head.”

“Mmm…” Cat rolls into her, nose skimming up a neck to brush along a pulse before lips lazily replace the small prod. And then her tongue. And then her teeth. And Kara is once more arching off the bed and she knows—she just knows—that her neck is going to bruise, fingers tangling in blonde locks, and she can’t bring herself to care. It’s only fair, really, since Cat’s yet to see Kara’s own handiwork painted in angry blacks and purples against her own neck. “Morning.”

“I thought sleep was—oh…” Cat bites down harder and Kara moans, fingers tightening a little harder in reflex in her hair and when Cat lets out a yelp of a noise of surprise, she immediately loosens, but insistent hands keep those digits just as close as they were before and when a chin tips back, blue searches the near-black of her lover’s eyes. “For the slackers.” But the joke, something that should likely be continued, dies underneath a hint of apprehension in Kara’s eyes. “Did you…was that—”

“I liked it.”

“Okay.” Kara nods, filing it away despite the blush, leaning down to kiss her, again. Consuming and full, “I liked…that. The, um—my neck.”

“I know.” Kara laughs at Cat’s curling, relentlessly pleased smirk. “You have had sex, right? I mean, it seemed like you had, but I don’t know if you’re naturally gifted from the nervousness I’m seeing, now.”

“One person, remember?” Kara shrugs, “I don’t know…what you’re supposed to talk about. How I’m supposed to tell you if I—”

“Talking’s fine.” Cat assures, a little gentler, stemming what might easily become a nervous ramble like a pro with her lips and Kara sags into the bed. “Calm down.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologi—”

A ringing phone cuts them off and Kara’s brows knit, confused for a second, before the fear settles in her chest, apologizing profusely before she scrambles off of the bed, searching for the offensive device with nervous hands, listening to it go to voicemail the moment she plucks it up, only a brief flash of a picture catching her eyes before it does.

Mon-El’s arm wrapped around her, nose pressed against her temple, Kara’s wide beam stretched out between them as she’d lifted up her phone, a graduation cap tucked (askew) on her head. He’d blown a raspberry on her cheek the moment she took the picture and idly, her finger comes up to skim along a tan-line outside of the picture, chest heavy before she turns around to take in Cat’s curious look.

She shakes her head, mouth opening to explain—to tell her—before the smaller of the two shakes her head in retaliation.

“Do you need to go?” There’s a hint of steel in that voice and Kara’s mouth snaps shut, immediately dropping the phone back onto the pile, hesitantly sliding back onto the bed, arms stretching above shoulders, watching as Cat practically curls into the sheets underneath her.

“Not before we get that breakfast.” Kara gently offers, serious and far too loving for one night, something in her immediately wanting to put out the nervousness in those eyes. The vulnerability.

And maybe she should tell her, now—tell Cat what she’s decided and why she’s decided it—but there’s nothing to put more pressure on a college hookup than informing someone that she knew she was going to leave her fiancé of ten years the moment their mouths met. It was something long-coming before they ever met, but now that Kara knows what something like happiness might taste like…

“I really should work on my article.” Cat murmurs, but her shoulders barely ease into the bed, hands coming up to curl in hair, and Kara nods.

“I can go find you some breakfast and come sit with you while you do it, if you want. Or leave you alone if you need to work, I just…that was my way of—” Her nose ducks, nerves curling on her tongue even when Cat’s fingers smooth through her hair, “I was trying to say I’m not going anywhere, if you want me here. To stay here.”

“Oh.” It’s a breath from Cat’s lips, the other girl raising up on elbows and taking in a shaky breath before she evenly says: “I think you should go.”

The disappointment settles in her stomach—flashes over her face—but Kara nods, smile slim as it tucks upwards, slowly moving off of the bed and making short work of tugging back on yesterday’s clothes. She’s to the door when she hears Cat’s struggle, turning around to see her pressing hands against her eyes, a furiously frustrated look tugging down lips and Kara opens her mouth to speak, to let her know it’s okay—

“Kara.” Those hands slap down on the bed and Cat flops over on the side of it, scowl warring with something that’s either a grimace or a smile before it eases in its entirety when Cat looks up to see her, Kara’s hand sagging, bag falling down a little as they share a look across a second set of discarded clothes from last night. “I meant…” Cat visibly swallows and her smile is slim—almost hopeful— “I meant…maybe you can go get me breakfast. Or dinner. And then come back here. If you want.”

That’s not what Cat had meant, at all, but Kara beams regardless, so beyond cool with letting it go, crossing the short distance and kissing her so happily that it doesn’t matter how dopey she looks when she pulls away, because Cat looks pretty happy, too.

“I can do that.”

She casts one last look over her shoulder at the sight of Cat sprawled on tangled sheets, naked and painted in the dim light of a desk-lamp that was left on before they ever came in and pushes open the door to night air, breathing in a happy mess of it.

Without a word, she tugs out her phone, immediately dialing back her fiancé with a heavy, conflicted breath.

“Kara! You okay? I forgot to check on you last night and I—”

“Mike, I’m…I’m great.” She breathes, gingerly cupping the phone in her hand as she heads towards the campus cafeteria. “I’m great. I promise. But…but we have to talk.”

“What?”

“Not tonight, but I—” Eyes flick back towards the closed dorm door before trotting down the stairs, smile and resolve spreading, “We need to talk.”

An hour later, she’s tucked up against the edge of Cat’s bed idly crunching on an apple as she flips through pages of a book, blonde hair sprawled over her lap as a mini-journalist taps away on her laptop. Every couple of seconds, Kara’s fingers skim through her hair, and every couple of minutes, long fingers quietly brush along the line of a tucked knee when inquisitive eyes stop typing to read through what she’s written.

It’s nearly midnight when Kara leaves for the second time to reluctant eyes and teasing words and when the door closes she can hear Cat’s uncharacteristic squeal of a noise. It’s bright and beautiful and happy and Kara trots the entire way home.

Her roommate is gone and Mon-El is sprawled on top of her bed, hogging the majority of it with a snore, but when she crosses the distance and brushes fingers along his shoulder, he lets out a snort of a grunting noise, immediately reaching out to tug her close by the waist. Her fingers brush through his hair before leaning down to run along the line of their joined rings, pressing a kiss against his temple before crawling in next to him.

It's easy—familiar—to settle against his chest and her swallow grates sandpaper against the ridges of her teeth, tears pricking the edges of her eyes as she traces the scruff of his jaw—the dip of a nose broken too many times—and rests her hand over his heart.

Home.

“I’m sorry, zrhymin.” And she is, the weight of it settling on her shoulders. “But both of us deserve to be happy, don’t we? Our houses are gone…” A shuddering breath, “Even if it’s not with her, don’t you think I deserve to be happy?”

Mon-El doesn’t answer, just grunts another snore before tugging her closer and her body stiffens before it settles against him, tired body sagging into him with far more familiarity than it does her well-worn springs. Her wraps around her immediately and holds her and he smells like alcohol and cigarettes and sweat and she sighs, because she loves him.

But sometimes love isn’t enough.

“I deserve to be happy.” She decides and almost like a thoughtless blessing in his sleep, Mon-El brushes lips over her temple, their rings happily clinking along his chest, slotting together like maybe they should but never quite have. Instead, she thinks of the slumbering form of one Cat somewhere across campus—the way Cat smiled against her shoulder and poked her side and curled underneath her hands. The way Cat kissed her name underneath the setting sun and chased stars and constellations with her fingers along the freckles of Kara’s back. It’s not the first time she’s cried in Mon-El’s arms in the middle of the night without him waking up to the quiet quiver of her shoulders.

But it’s the first time she wishes he won’t wake up to console her and that’s maybe the most liberating of all.

---

**Kryptonian Translations**; Source Ieiu; Mother; Noun P:[je.ju]K:Éú Je; Sister. Noun;P::[je]K:IE Zyv; Law. Noun;P:[zɪv] ; K:: zyv Zrhymin; Husband (Or: Betrothed); Noun P: [ʒ͡rɪmin] K: ZRo}min Chahv Kir; “Little One”; a term of endearment. Aiahv; Aunt.; : Noun; P: [a͡ɪɑv]; K:åav

[sellout-shaw]

The Disappointment || Self-Para

The first thought upon seeing her was that she didn’t belong.

Mansions like these weren’t an entirely unfamiliar thing for Christian. He’d know a few of these homeowners. Top businessmen and women, actors, authors, musicians -- all sort of rabble who’d built their way to fame and fortune. Some of them on less than stellar scruples that required a lawyer with good etiquette and even back track records. That was where Christian came in. Even the rich and famous had to find ways to make their legal troubles go away.

It didn’t take long for him to find a room that suited his tastes. This whole mansion had and while he made good money, he didn’t make this good of money. His penthouse had been nice, not lavish. This mansion, it was lavish. It was money and class all rolled up into a pretty package and whether or not it should have still felt that way after almost a year of the end of the world, Christian didn’t ask too many questions on it. Everyone was allowed a miracle once in awhile, right? Maybe this was theirs. This group’s miracle. A place they could settle, let go of their woes, relax, and treat themselves.

The slamming of the door snapped him to attention.

Jumping nearly off of the lounge chair he’d settled down into, with a book on criminal cases that seemed miraculously right up his alley on his lap, his head snapped up to the newcomer who’d entered the room, door shut tight behind her. She was about his age, maybe a little older. Auburn hair and soft features that looked strikingly familiar, but something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A sundress that spoke of quiet suburbs, small towns away from the hustle and bustle of a city. The first thought upon seeing her was that she didn’t belong. Not a face he’d seen with the group, though he’d yet to meet everyone officially. But more than that, this wasn’t her world. This death and decay, this lavish mansion like a sore thumb in the middle of it.

She was from somewhere else. Some place else. Some other time. Too...pure. Her hands too clean.

And those blue eyes pierced right through him with their familiarity.

“Scared me,” he admitted, plastering on that usual smile, casual and friendly. Something he’d honed over the years. She wouldn’t be here, in this room, if she wasn’t a part of the group. They had guards at the doors 24/7 it seemed. Guys and gals with big guns and bigger knowledge in how to use them. There’s no way someone would have gotten in and she doesn’t strike him as someone who was a threat. She’s just standing there, watching him, with her hands down at her sides, toying with the hem of her dress.

“Christian.”

His name on her lips. That voice soft, like a quiet song he’d long forgotten, something the struck pain in his chest he couldn’t place. Lyrics he couldn’t quite remember, but knew they hurt, knew they had deeper, underlying meaning. It didn’t make his smile falter, but his fingers felt cold and he couldn’t rightfully say why.

“I…” he shook his head and then cleared his throat, setting the book aside and rising to his feet. Where were his manners? “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve officially met,” he tells her, crossing the room so he can come and stand in front of her. He holds out his hand, like she should shake it. “You know my name, but I...I’m afraid I can’t quite recall yours…”

Her head tilts. A slight movement to the side like she’s disappointed by that. Those icy blue eyes move, scanning his face, like she’s taking in every feature of his, every imperfection before her gaze settles and locks with his own. He waits for her to take his hand, hanging there empty. She doesn’t. She just gives the smallest shake of her head.

“Christian.”

Once more, his name on her lips. The tone has changed this time, like the name alone, the fact that it’s on her tongue at all, should answer his question. Should explain everything and he withdraws his hand. He studies her back this time. Takes in her features and her face and tries to place a time when they would have met.

There’s a thought. A wicked one. He silences it immediately.

It could have been a one night stand, though the idea sours on his tongue immediately. He’d remember her and even the thought seems like a putrid one. A client maybe? A witness? A jury member? Someone he’d shared coffee with? Had wine with? The daughter of someone who’d wrote his paycheck? Someone’s wife? Lover? Daughter?

Sister.

It comes back to that thought and he has to clear his throat, feeling it constrict slightly. But those eyes? That curve of her cheekbone? It’s older now, grown. Still soft, but not in youth. He’s stared at pictures of her. He’s seen her face sitting at empty chairs at dining room tables. Unopened packages beneath Christmas trees bore her name. Years and years of a void, of a life that had stopped before it’s time. All written in those blue hues.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I don’t know you.”

“You do,” she tells him with no small amount of certainty. He sighs in frustration, in fear that this is some sort of trick, that his mind went to a place it shouldn’t have gone because there was a want and a desire there for it to be true. He shakes his head, ready to protest but she reaches out, a hand lifting to place against his chest. He flinches, doesn’t back away but moves his head back, like maybe she might reach up and smack him next.

She doesn’t. That hand moves up to his shoulder, slender fingers wrapping around the chain he bore around his neck. A medal hung there, had for years. Something left over from his Catholic days and something even when he had stopped going to church, he couldn’t get himself to remove. A medal with the face of a man engraved into it. Saint Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of Miracles, Lost Things and Missing Persons. He wore it for the latter.

For the void she’d left when she’d disappeared.

“You wear this for me.”

His stomach drops out at the words, the breath leaving his lungs in a sharp burst, as though she’s just confirmed that awful, wicked thought in his mind. Her name blares from his memory, strikes against his chest and his tongue but he fights from blurting it out. It’s too painful. It’s not right. She’d disappeared when he was ten years old. Here one day, gone the next. Every search party, every phone call, every detective that had come to the house even years after that -- it had all been to give the family some answers, give them some closure. But Christian...he’d stopped seeking closure a long time ago.

What would knowing where her body was buried changed anything?

Only...now she stood in front of him? Not a body. Not a corpse or the pieces of one. But her. Alive, living, breathing. Standing in front of him with her fingers clasped around the medal of a patron saint he use to pray to to bring her home. She watched his face, watched every movement he made, every thought that spun and materialized inside his head.

“You know me,” she coaxes again in that soft voice of hers.

A nod and he’s struggling with a closing of his throat. “Sandra,” he says her name at last. His sister. Her face on missing persons posters all over town. On the news, memorials at school, anything and everything that could be done to bring her home. That hope of finding her alive had died after the years, and that want of finding her remains had died shortly after. He hadn’t wanted closure. What would it bring? A grave he could cry at?

He remembered her as young, youthful, fun, laughing. He remembered the last time he’d seen her, riding off on her bike. She hadn’t said goodbye. She hadn’t given him some words of wisdom for him to live by. She’d just hopped on and gone off because no one ever thinks it will be the last time they do. No one ever thinks they won’t come home. Especially at twelve years old.

Stumbling now, tripping over words, he shakes his head. It doesn’t make sense. Where did she come from? How did she find him? Why was she here? “I...how?” he manages out and it’s all he can do, his hands coming up to try and take hers, not sure still if this is some sort of trick or if she was really here. He used to believe in miracles. He’d thought this mansion was a miracle. Maybe this was possible too?

Only her hands come up to meet his, pushing them away and it freezes him where he is, because that face that had just a moment ago looked at him so longingly, wanting him to remember, was now marred with a frown. A brow furrowing as she shook her head at him. “You didn’t look for me.”

The words hurt and he shakes his head immediately. “I did,” he protests. “I looked for you. I was out with the search parties, I helped put up fliers,” he tells her. “Sandra, I spent months trying to help find you.” Months. The word feels gruesome on his tongue, like it’s supposed to be a long enough time to look for a person. A long enough time to spend trying to bring them home.

“You didn’t want me to come home,” she accuses and he shakes his head again.

“That’s not true,” he tells her, his own brow furrowing and his words harsh, bold. “I wanted you home.” The emotions were getting the best of him and no matter if this was some sort of trick or not, there was an intense need to explain himself. To prove that he’d always wanted her to come home. “There was only so much I could do. But I...I went to law school. I became a lawyer, because of what happened to you. If I couldn’t find you, I was going to punish the people who did things like...like what happened to you. That’s because of you, that’s all I could do.”

“A lawyer,” she says, her eyes falling to the side, like she’s thinking about it. “To put away criminals.”

“Yes,” he says, faltering slightly. That’s how he’d started. “Yes, that’s what I wanted.”

Blue eyes go dead in the next moment and her gaze turns to his, like she can see right through him. Like she can see the real him, standing there in front of her. “You keep criminals on the streets. That’s what you do.” He feels that breath leave his lungs again and he shakes his head, ready to protest. But her words come first and they pack such a punch he doesn’t see it coming.

“I hate what you’ve become,” she tells him. “I am so disappointed in who you turned out to be. You were supposed to be good,” her face crumbles in anger and pain. “You are a monster.” His eyes sting and it’s every fear standing right there in front of him. A sister who’d disappeared when he was ten, found at last. But here, looking at him with that look on her face, disappointed in who he’d turned out to be and the choices he’d made. It keeps him silent, because no amount of defense could change that. All of his skills and his time appealing to judges and juries -- this was the one he could not win against. He had no defense, no excuse for himself.

Sandra’s face crumples once again and he braces, because he already knows what comes next.

“You didn’t ask her,” she cries, tears on those soft cheeks.

There’s a fortune teller somewhere in New York. A small, run down building. Crystal ball that’s all for show. She tells him he can ask for anything in the world and the first question on his tongue doesn’t get asked. The question he should have, the one desire in life, that closure and that knowing of what had happened to Sandra, he could have asked. All he had to do was open his mouth and ask. All he had to do was say her name.

He hadn’t.

Be a better lawyer. A selfish thing, in the end. He could claim all day and all night that he wanted to be a better lawyer for Sandra. But the defense attorney position didn’t put her criminals behind bars. Maybe he’d helped keep her criminals out? Maybe someone who’d murdered his sister was walking free.

The thoughts were off. They weren’t making sense, because here she was standing right in front of him.

“Please,” is all he says. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Yes you did,” she shouts at him. “You made your choice.”

She shoves him, then. Square in the chest and he stumbles backwards. He doesn’t fall, but she’s turning and running. She’s flinging the door open and slamming it shut behind her and if there was pain and ache and weight on his chest with her standing in front of him, there’s panic and fear and anxiety that takes it place as soon as that door closes behind her. He’s bolting forward after her, hand wrapping around the doorknob and pulling it open with her name barrelling out of his throat.

“Sandra!” he yells to an empty hallway.

It chokes him, freezes him. A long, empty hallway. No sound of running footsteps, no echoes of her cries of disappointment. Just empty and quiet, still and dead. Like she’d never even been there. He’s left hanging in the doorway, looking at that emptiness, that void back in his life. That one sided argument because he had no one to argue back. That self disappointment that he could hide and bury and trample into dust because there was no one left to be disappointed in him.

And that’s what it came down to. His own disappointment in himself didn’t matter. That fear of learning his sister had been dead all these years, or worse, alive and wondering why no one had come for her -- none of that mattered. None of that was his greatest fear.

It was this.

It was an empty hallway. It was the continuation of a story that started when he was ten years old and his sister had rode off on that bike never to be seen again.

Disappointing someone didn’t matter when there was no one to disappoint.

He’d give everything in the world to be her disappointment.

[wreathedinscales]

The Rogues’ Gallery

For @coldflashchallenge​, Day 1: Witches/Warlocks

Because my fantasy writing ass can’t not do a week that has all creatures all the time.

Summary: In order to save Iris, Barry goes to Leonard Snart and his plethora of magical books. He gets a little more than expected.

(Read it on Ao3)

In Central City, there is a house of stolen books. Its location always changes when the sun rises, and if the owner doesn’t like you, you can never quite remember what it looked like or why you were there.

Barry has always been able to find The Rogues’ Gallery. He never forgets the pointed arches of the door and stone walls, the mahogany paneling, or the spiral staircase in the center leading up to floors that shouldn’t be there. He remembers the blue velvet curtains in the back with its ROGUES ONLY sign chained in front, and how it disappears for the owner, his employees, and occasionally himself. But most of all, he remembers the books.

A mish-mash rainbow of all different shades, ages, and sizes litter every wall. Scattered throughout the floors are more shelves, standing like proud clothes racks. The books are organized by the places or people they were stolen from, and each Rogue earned their own floor if they snatched enough tomes. The first floor is made of what the Rogues have stolen together, and is by far the largest. All kinds of books reside there, magical and nonmagical, and their combined smell can have a nasty right hook if you’re not prepared.

It’s the top floor that draws Barry tonight. Central City’s nightlife has come out to play, so nobody looks twice as he lands his broom with unrivaled speed. This time, the Gallery presents itself as a one-story dry cleaner’s, inconspicuous but for the blue door and its pointed arch.

It opens before Barry can so much as hop off.

“You’re perpetuating stereotypes, Barry,” Leonard Snart says with his usual sharp nasal, “Bad enough people can’t distinguish a sorcerer from a witch.”

Barry smiles sheepishly. “It’s a family heirloom, Snart.”

Snart adjusts his opaquely framed glasses. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that. What do you want?”

Barry sets his broom on his shoulder. “I need a book on pausing time.”

Snart’s eyebrows rise to his widow’s peak. “Changing the past gettin’ too boring for you?”

Barry’s smile has vanished, replaced by a thin line of tension. “If I don’t at least have a backup plan, Iris will die.”

Snart leans against the doorframe. “My, my, my. The fast-flyer isn’t fast enough to stop death. And I thought I’d seen everything.”

“Snart, you and your Rogues have way more magic in your Gallery than anyone on the planet.”

“You’ll be turnin’ my head with flattery.”

“I’m serious. If anyone’s gonna have a book on time spells, it’s you.” Barry’s fingers clench around his broomstick. “Please. I need your help.”

A slow smirk grazes Snart’s face. “Well. Who am I to turn down such pretty words?” Before Barry can perk up, he holds up a finger. “But while I’m pleasantly surprised by your attempts to actually thinks something through, all magic comes with a price. Disrupting time has already cost you dearly.”

“You have something, though, right?”

Snart tilts his head, eyes flicking over his shoulder. “I do have one book that could help. I nabbed it from the Time Masters’ wellspring.”

“Then I’ll pay it, whatever it is.”

“Careful, Barry. Words have power. You should know.” Snart pushes off the door. “Step into my office.”

The Rogues shoot Barry suspicious looks on every floor. For once, Barry ignores them, focusing instead on the sweeping back of Snart’s black coat. He’s got lots of coats and parkas, one for every occasion. Tonight, he’s wearing the one with pointed lapels, like some evil mastermind from a cartoon.

They reach the top floor. Snart’s floor. It’s bedecked in rich blues and a snowstorm for a ceiling, with rich dark woods for the bookshelves. In the very back, there is a compartment Barry’s never seen before: a diamond pane door made of iron, runes, and string.

Snart runs his fingers over the string. It’s pure white. “Laid out to catch winter’s first breath. Ices prisoners in its tracks.”

“Prisoners?” Barry says.

Snart smirks. He double taps the glass.

Blue light explodes inside, but the case holds. Chains rattle violently, accompanied by wild banging.

“What is that?” Barry hisses.

Snart closes the distance between them. “That is what you’re looking for. The Book of Oculus. My—especial favorite.”

Barry can’t help looking past him. The light continues to writhe. “How did you get it in there?”

Snart’s eyes suddenly look incredibly old. “I got my ways, kid.” Then he crosses his arms and the look is gone. “I can get it out and cooperative, especially if I’ve got lightning magic close by.”

Barry heads for the cage. “Then let’s get it out.”

Snart steps in front of him. “Not so fast, Flash. You want access to that book, you have to give me something first.”

Barry huffs. “What do you want, Snart?”

“Many things. But I’ll settle for some of your lightning.”

Barry freezes. “What could you possibly want with my lightning?”

The mischief in Snart’s eye is far from reassuring. “There’s a spell I’m aimin’ to cast next full moon, and while I have contingencies, your magic and mine would do wonders.”

“What spell?”

“Relax. First rule of the Craft: harm none.”

“Since when do you take that seriously?”

“I’m still a warlock, ain’t I? Don’t worry your little red boots about it. Nobody’s gonna die.”

“Coming from you,” Barry says, “that’s a cold comfort.”

Snart grins. “Gotta keep the theme. You know how it is, lightning boy.”

A returning smile comes unbidden. “I need to know the spell you’re using.”

“You also need that book. Which is more important to you? Iris’ life, or a spell I cast?”

Barry sobers. “Fine. How do we do it?”

Snart smugly appraises him. He holds out his hands.

Barry raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Afraid of a little chill?”

Another smile peeks out. Barry takes his hands.

Snart maneuvers them so their hands are vertical, fingers clasped. “Manifest your magic. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Barry closes his eyes. The world’s frequencies open to him—a million, billion, trillion crackling currents to focus on. It had taken months to train his concentration, though it would have taken years if Thawne hadn’t changed the timeline. But he can’t think about him, or the lights in the Gallery might blow out.

While Barry usually thinks of Iris’ smile, what comes through is the cold of Snart’s hands. They’re unrelentingly freezing even in the summer heat—which explains the man’s wardrobe—and it makes them a solid presence in the midst of countless volts. Once he notices, he can’t stop, and neither can his magic.

“Oo,” Snart’s voice hums, “tingles.”

Barry opens his eyes, knowing they’re jolting with his lightning. “Is that enough?”

Snart smiles. “Not quite. Perhaps a more—direct conduit will suffice.”

His lips are somehow colder than his hands. Barry shivers. He knows he should do something about this, but the fact is Snart’s cold feels amazing. It grinds his fickle lightning to a controlled halt, and although that should feel like a sledgehammer, it’s a balm Barry didn’t know he needed. Like all the chaos and hurt of the last however-long is soothed under a coat of snow—not gone completely, but enough that Barry can actually pause and breathe.

Snart tongues open his mouth easily enough. Barry’s lightning goes willingly, though it’s only a few strikes before the pull fades. Just like that, they’re done.

Barry keeps kissing him. He’s not sure, but he might be making some embarrassing noises. He’s definitely cupping Snart’s face, and those cold hands are at his hips. He’s never experienced a true conjoining of opposite magics. Isn’t it supposed to be painful? Aggressive? They’re getting into it, yeah, but the competition is geared towards something lighter—the teasing kind of fun cat and mouse they annoy each other with all the time.

It’s. It’s really nice.

When Snart finally breaks away, they’re both panting with bruised lips.

Snart certainly looks like the cat got the mouse on this one. “Well now. I was right.”

Barry has to swallow twice before his voice works again. “About what?”

“You do have a bad side.”

Barry scoffs. “You got what you need?”

“And then some.” Snart nips his bottom lip. “Now then. You have a pretty woman to save.”

“I mean—we’re not an official thing,” Barry says, “y’know, she’s got Eddie, and—and stuff.”

Snart’s eyes spark. “Good to know.”

[firethatgrewsolow]

One More for the Road

*Hey there - here’s a short silly one shot a good friend prompted.  I did it a bit on the fly lol so forgive me, but I hope you like it.  A tiiiiny bit nsfw.*

Robert dropped onto the bar stool, lighting a much needed cigarette.  Bonzo should be here by now.  In truth, he didn’t mind the drummer’s absence.  He needed a quiet moment or three, the previous night catching up with him.  Bloody hell, that woman at the hotel wouldn’t leave him alone … on and on about how she knew the Butter Queen, what great friends they were.  Good Christ.  Why G had booked them for a show in this dusty, little town, he’d never know, but he’d try to make the best of it.  Relishing the frigid conditioned air, he glanced at the taps, not surprised by the lack of a decent cider.  His eyes roamed the room, stopping on the bartender across the way.  She was engaged in conversation with another patron, their giggles and grins coaxing one of his own.  Her long dark braid swung around as she carried on, nearly brushing the top of her very, very short shorts.  Cute figure, he thought, idly drumming his fingers on the sticky lacquer in front of him, but I need a drink.  “Love, what kind of, um, beer do you have?”  She whirled around, her braid flipping to the front of her.  Robert smiled as he studied it, now skimming her bare tummy just below where her top was tied.  Interesting.  “Do you have a list or somethin’?”  She took a step closer, coyly sizing him up.

“Sorry, uh, not really.  Basically what you see is what you get.”

The singer blew out a long stream of smoke, charmed by her accent.  Very thick drawl.  And oddly familiar.  “What I see is what I get, huh?”

She kept his gaze a beat too long, finally shrugging.  “Well, we do have Heineken.”

“I suppose that’ll work.”  His eyes traced the outline of her body as she leaned into the cooler.

“Would you like a glass?”

“Yeah, a cold one if you’ve got it.”  At the shake her head, he added, “Any glass is fine, love.”

“Do you want a menu?”

Robert hadn’t any desire to eat when he walked in, but decided he’d do just that.  Mainly to give himself a bit more time to linger.  “Sure.”  She fetched a small laminated sheet, laying it on the bar next to his beer as one of the regulars called out to her with a slur.

“Angel, I think I’ll have a … daiquiri.”

Angel.  How nice.  Robert watched her roll her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest as she grudgingly responded.

“We don’t have a blender, Tom.”

“Yeah, you do … it’s right there.”

She tapped the appliance lightly with the tip of her Converse.  “It’s broken.”

“No, it’s not.  Josh used it last night.”

The singer quelled his smile as she raised her brow, clearly having no intention of pulling it out.  He shifted his attention to Tom, amused by the man’s drunken attempt to stand.  He’d splayed his hands on the counter, wobbling as he dropped a bill.

“Oh, fuck it, I gotta get back to the office anyway.”

Shaking her head, Angel followed his progress to the door.  “Have a good day at work.”

Robert caught her eye and chuckled.  “He’s going to work?  What does he bloody do?”

“Air traffic controller.”

Jaw dropping, his eyes flew back to the door.  “What the …”

“Just kidding,” she laughed, collecting the used glassware and wiping down the bar.  “He doesn’t work.  He watches TV all day.”

Robert smiled again, taking a sip of his beer.  Yes, definitely interesting.

“I’ve gotta go, too, Ang.”  

The singer glanced to the source of the words.  It was the young woman across from him who Angel had been chatting with when he first came in.  They whispered something to each other as the girl got up, flashing him a not so subtle grin as she stalked to the door.  The bar was empty now, save for the two of them, and he decided that it would be the perfect place to while away a sweltering late afternoon.  “So, your name really is Angel?”

“Nope,” she responded with a twinkle in her eye, “but you can call me that.  And you’re Robert, right?”

The cool, still air between them seemed to heat up as she blatantly looked him up and down.  “Guilty as charged.”

“My friend knows your band.  Led Zeppelin?”

He couldn’t tell if she was putting him on as he’d seen it all before.  The aloof angle.  It was cute, but still just that, an angle.  “Correct.  I take it you’re not a fan?”

“I’ve heard a couple songs.”  She moved closer, sidling up against the post next to him.

“Let me guess … Stairway to Heaven, yeah?”

Angel smirked and cocked her head.  “I was thinking Smoke on the Water.  Love that one.  Hmm, guess I’m not familiar after all.”

“That’s, ah, Deep Purple.”  Robert’s chuckle waned as she leaned onto the bar, batting around his pack of Marlboro’s with a finger.  Christ, she was practically falling out of the blouse.  As if she knew he was dying to take a peek, she kept her eyes steadfastly on his.  

“I don’t listen to music much, honestly.”

Don’t look down.  Don’t look down.  “Who doesn’t listen to music?”  Fuck, I looked down.

Grinning at the momentary flicker, she replied, “I prefer reading.  Ever heard of Lord of the Rings?”

Robert barked a laugh.  “I just might’ve.”  Very cheeky.  This could be a lot of fun.

“Do you mind if I bum a smoke?”

She promptly pulled out a cigarette, mindless of his response.  Enthralled, he watched her pause, just sort of staring at him, and he realized she was waiting for him to offer a light.  Fumbling, he pulled out his Zippo.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Not supposed to drink on the job.”  She took a long drag, slowly expelling the smoke.

“When do you get off?”

“As much as I can.”  

He blinked, opening his mouth to respond.  Fuck, he could feel himself beginning to stir and unconsciously shifted in his seat.  A knowing smile bloomed on her face.  

“Joking.  I’m done in just a few minutes.”

They sat in a booth in the very back, the evening crowd beginning to filter in.  The din was growing louder, but nobody spared them a second glance.  Angel was on her fourth shot, and Robert marveled at her constitution.  “You’re on a mission, yeah?”

Slamming the glass on the table, she scooted closer to him.  “As a matter of fact, I am.”  Her finger traced the links of the thick silver chain around his neck as she whispered in his ear, “I love this necklace.  It’s very sexy.  And I’ve decided that I’d like to have it.”  

He grinned at the brazen request.  “What do you propose?”  

“Let’s play a game of eight ball for it.”

They were almost nose to nose, and he could smell the last vestige of perfume on her skin.  Her lips were gently curved, her eyes tipsy and teasing, and he was suddenly very happy that Bonzo hadn’t made it.  “What’s in it for me, love?  If you … lose?”

“If I lose, I still get it,“ she pouted, sliding her hand up his thigh to give him a tight squeeze.  “But I’ll make it very, very worth your while.”

Good Lord, she’s a horny, little thing.  Basking in his good fortune, he nibbled his lip in anticipation.  He was beginning to have a new appreciation for the area.  “I’m game.”

As she set up the table, Robert surveyed the room out of the corner of his eye.  Every single bloke in the place was staring at her.  She leaned in with the rack, her shorts riding up to the bottom of her backside, and he had the sudden urge to reach out a grab it.  Not advisable.  No long hair in here.    

“I’ll take it easy on you, and let you go first.”  Angel smirked, handing him a pool cue.

He chalked the tip, the corner of his mouth turning up.  “Right.”  At the crack of the break, he felt the eyes of everyone at the bar shift to him.  Get this done.  It was a good one, sinking two solids and a stripe.  “I’ll take low.”  Clearly impressed, she watched as he proceeded to run the table.  She never got the chance to take a shot.  As the eight ball fell into the corner pocket, Robert smiled proudly.  “Okay, love, I guess I win.”

“I guess you do,” she replied, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to retrieve the necklace.

“Not yet, my little Angel.  If I recall, you were going to make it very worth my while?”

“Oh, I’ve not forgotten.”  She took his hand, wading through the throng.  “Come on, my place is two blocks away.”

The screen hadn’t yet closed, and she was wrapped around him, knocking him into the sofa.  He held on for dear life as they cascaded into the downy pillows.  She hastily untied her shirt, spilling over him, and reached for the buckle on his jeans.  Jesus.  “What’s the hurry, love.  We’ve got all night.”

“Uh-uh,” she groaned, continuing her assault on the stubborn belt.  “My mom will be home at nine to get ready.”

“Get ready for … wait, your what?  How old are you?”

“Old enough,” she muttered, kissing him again.

Finally successful, her hand slipped under the tight denim, and Robert sighed at the touch, determining that she was quite right.  Old enough, indeed.  

“We’ve got a little time.  It’s half past seven.”

Her braid whipped across his face, and he gently grabbed it.  “Let’s see your hair down, love.”  He tugged the tie, releasing the waves across her back as she shrugged off her blouse.  He pulled the tresses across her shoulders.  “Like Lady Godiva,” he whispered, trailing a finger down her throat and in between her breasts.  Damn, he was as hard as a rock.  He pushed down his trousers, groaning as she clasped him again.  Goddamn, what was she doing to him?  Something with her fingers that he’d never felt before.  And then her tongue … and then her … fuck, he was going to …

The door suddenly sprang open, and Angel jumped up.  “Holy shit!”

The next thing Robert registered was the visitor’s face, taking in the scene and his obvious erection.  Former, anyway.  Christ, it was the Butter Queen’s friend.  In slow motion, he watched Angel turn to her, snatching the strewn blouse and pulling it across her chest.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

“I think the question is, Angela Marie, what are you doing here?”  

Hungrily eyeing him, the woman took a step closer.  Bloody hell.  As if he could fly, Robert launched himself toward the door, hopping madly as he yanked up his jeans.  He didn’t look back, just headed to the hotel with a speed he didn’t realize he possessed.  Rounding the corner, he spied Bonzo, and was never more grateful to see his friend in his life.

The drummer’s brow wrinkled, his eyes moving over the disheveled singer.  “What the fuck, mate?  Have a little, um, accident in your trousers?”

Robert looked down, expelling a breath at the sight of it.  Goddamnit.

“No worries … the Butter Queen’ll clean you up.  Come on, then.”  He wrapped his arm around Robert’s shoulder, ushering him into the car.  “She’s got a new lady with her.  One I think you’ll fancy.”