#go to the dentist be firm to the mean man

[hafwen]

I will have a temp crown today and it will be worth going to the dentist. It will make my TMJ better to be able to chew on both sides again. It will make the subluxation of my jaw better. Everything will be better once it’s over

[sosa2imagines]

Hey I just got my wisdom teeth removed so I’m wondering if you can write a fic where Sebastian Stan’s and Chris Evans’s characters takes care of reader after they got their wisdom teeth removed please 😊

Hey, I hope you are doing well, please take care. Also thank you for this ask, I had lots of fun writing this.

Warnings- only fluff. ___________________

Sebastian Stan.

Bucky Barnes-

Bucky loves you and he was trying for you. It made him sad to see you this way, curled up on his couch, your eyes squeezed shut as you whine every now and then.

Bucky will panic and be worried at the same time. He would hold a cold compress on your face, help you to stay hydrated.

Every now and then he would ask, “Uh… do you want cold water?” “How about a cold juice?”, “ice cream is good, I brought your favorite flavor.” He���ll make sure to follow the instructions given by the dentist, to ease your pain.

Even in pain and swollen face, he thinks you're absolutely adorable.

You want his cool metal palm on you? It is all yours.

Oh, you are hungry? Even though he can’t cook, he will try his best, to make a soup for you. Bucky will go to the kitchen, a bit panicked and not sure what to do. He had never taken care of someone before, so this was all new to him. But you are not just someone, you are his doll.

He’ll do anything for you.

Nick Fowler-

Let’s say before the procedure even begin, Nick had warned the dentist, to go easy on you, to make it as painless as possible.

The dentist had told you; you did feel “little” pain. Nick was okay with that; you can deal with “little” pain. So why the hell are there tears in your eyes, because of the pain? Yup the dentist can kiss goodbye to their life job for lying.

Nick will not let you leave the bed. You will just relax and chill in the air-conditioned room. Everything will be at your service. From cold water to cold juices and ice creams.

There’s a min freezer in the room, full of cold- compression just for you.

You have a project to complete? Nope, not happening. You are just going to rest. The project can wait. Or the person who want’s the project done, can wait or say good bye to life it.

Lee Bodecker-

Lee just can’t stand, to see you in pain. He may not be good in taking care, but that does not mean, he won’t try.

He won’t eat sweets. If you can’t have them, he won’t have them either. You can only have soup? He’ll have soup too.

Before going out to work, he will remind you, to rest and take the pain killers, if absolute necessary.

But let’s face it. Looking after the town and the upcoming elections, he is tired. He has needs. The stress is making him crave something sweet.

So, he’ll come up with the best solution. He’ll go down on you. It’s a win-win situation for you two. He gets his dose of sweet, from eating you and you get the best distraction from the pain.

Chris Evans.

Steve Rogers-

Steve will instantly become the mother hen. Concern face on. Every fifteen minutes, he’ll ask “Hey, how are you feeling?”

He will gently examine your face, his fingers probing the swollen areas with a tender touch. “You're going to be okay, I'm here for you.” he says reassuringly.

He proceeds to pamper you with ice cream, painkillers, and a constant supply of cold compresses, even singing a soft rendition of ‘Star-Spangled Man with a Plan’ to distract you, from the discomfort. Even though he hates it. But for you, he’ll do anything. (Even take a break from avenging.)

Lloyd Hansen-

Let’s just say the dentist was bit hesitant, to treat you. Lloyd was sitting in the room, with pilers, just to make sure, you are having a painless treatment.

Back at the fortress of solitude, he has given everyone a strict order, to be quiet. No noise. Noise is ban. His sugar had a painful treatment and he’ll make sure you get to rest, without any disturbance.

He will lie down on the bed, next to you, letting you rest your head on his firm chest. Making you feel comfortable and safe. He gently caresses your hair, proud of himself, to see you are sleeping peacefully.

But someone makes a noise, waking you up. You whimper, because of the pain. He quickly gives you painkillers, kissing your forehead. He will find out who made the noise.

Lloyd removes that person’s tooth and makes the person wear headphones. Heavy metal playing in them. Let’s see how that person likes, getting disturb.

Lloyd, has filled the bedroom with magazines and books you like. Netflix ready to play. He has called in the best chefs, to make different types of delicious soups and ice-cream for you.

He will even let you play with his moustache.

Andy Barber-

As a district attorney, Andy is used to dealing with tough cases, but seeing you in pain, brings out his protective instincts. He proceeds to pamper you with ice cream, painkillers, cold compresses, music and even offering to make you a warm bath to relax.

As you two spend the day together, Andy tells you, stories of his courtroom victories and the latest town gossip, making you laugh despite your discomfort. He's determined to take your mind off the pain and make you feel loved and cared for.

Andy will keep on whispering, “You're doing great, love. Just remember, no strenuous activities for a while, okay?”

In the process of distracting you, he’ll end up distracting himself and you won’t even realize, when he started to do…..ahem

[melanieph321]

Brace yourself people for another Antony x reader!!

Tattoo Part 1 - Antony x Reader

Summary - A two part series where Antony is a friend of a friend who owns a tattoo shop. It's where you go to get your first tattoo and the two of you really hit it off. You later meet at a party where the two of you hook up.

Enjoy!

You stood outside of the tattoo shop. It was late. The street lights had just turned on. Your friends number lit up the display as your phone buzzes in your hand.

"Hello?...Where are you?..What do you mean you're not coming?...I can't go in there on my own. What if I pass out?

You sighed once you hung up. Your friend was stuck at work, the same work you just fought to get out of.

After some anxious thought you decide to enter the shop, a bell ringing above your head as you do.

"Hello?"

The shop looked closed since it was empty of people, although low music was heard playing in the distance.

"Anybody here?" The sound of your heels echoed as you crossed the room in search of a person.

"In hear." A voice shouted, a male voice.

"Where?" You frowned, having a hard time locating the voice.

"Around back."

You walked around back, to what appeared to be the shops darkroom. The walls were covered in inked art and a tattoo bed was set up in the middle of the room. The music was louder in here but not loud enough to enjoy you. There was movement in the corner of your eye. You turned your head and was met by a man dressed in black.

"Hi."

His hair was bleached blonde and several tattoos covered his rolled up sleeves.

"Hi,  I'm Antony, you must be Luna's friend..."

"Y/N" you said shaking the hand he offered you. He had a firm grip, but soft as he wore rubber gloves.

"Nice to meet you Y/N. I just finished laying out the sketches you sent me. I'm ready to go if you are?" He eyed the tattoo bed for you to take a seat. You did so reluctantly.

"So where do you want it?" He said, getting straight to business by pulling a chair up to where you sat.

"Well I don't want any one at work to see. So somewhere that's not visible, perhaps just above my rib cage but along side, just underneath my arm.

Antony raised a brow.

"I just really don't want anyone to see it." You chuckled.

"As you wish, but you're gonna have to get undressed for that."

"Excuse me?" You frowned, watching him load his ink pen.

"Well, how else am I gonna be able to get to the spot?" He said, ink pen ready in his hand.

"Oh, right." You blushed.

"Just lift up your shirt and unhook your bra, that should be enough. "

You were a bit taken back by how bluntly he spoke to you, as if you were another patient at the dentist or something. Slowly you lifted up your shirt to the point where your breast began. Antony showed no reaction to the fact that you wore no bra. Your shirt didn't require one since the rough fabric helped cover your nipples anyhow.

"Just move your arm a bit." He said,  directing how you should sit, almost like a photographer, making you pose in front of the camera.

"You can rest your arm behind your head.  Bring it down whenever you get tired."

"You must do this alot huh?" You said, in attempt to lighten the mood. However Antony was none-responsive, shrugging your words away. This didn't help, especially since you could feel yourself freaking out a bit as the sound of the ink pen got closer to your ear.

"Why are you shaking?"

Everything paused for a second. No music and no sound of the ink pen.

You realize that you had been squinting your eyes shut and open them to find Antony starring down at you where you lay on the tattoo bed.

"I'm sorry I..." you were quick to sit, your shirt sliding down your belly. "I think this was a bad idea, I should probably..." You attempted to jump off the tattoo bed, but carefully, since you didn't want to break your heels. But that's when you felt a hand around your wrist, Antony's arm.

"It's your first tattoo, isn't it?"

It was intense, the way his eyes held your gaze. They made you crumble.

"Is it that obvious." You said, your gaze shifting to the floor.

"You should have told me."

Antony let's go of your wrist and you look up to see him flash a shy smile at you.

"I probably should have. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just lay back down and I'll take it slow."

You did as he said, for some reason seduced by the way he ordered you around. There was no resuming of the music, it was replaced by the sound of Antony's hand on your skin and his rubber gloves rolled up the hem of your shirt, stopping at your breast, revealing a hint of underboob.

"I'm turning on the pen now." He said, preparing you for what's to come.

"Okay." You whispered. The sound made you jump a little. However Antony didn't move a muscle until he felt you relax again.

"I'm going to put it to your skin now."

You nodded your answer, too busy squinting your eyes, bracing for impact.

"Ahh." You weezed, as there was a burning sensation.

"Just tell me to stop and I'll stop. " He said. And for some reason you really believed him. You were sure enough that a man like him would never lie to you. Ever.

The session went on without interruption. Despite the horrific first impression, Antony had made you feel really comfortable and the result showed that he was a really talented tattoo artist.

"Can you stand in those?" He said, referring to your heels. He help you up from the tattoo bed as you felt a little lightheaded getting up by yourself.

"Probably not." You chuckled. To your surprise Antony bent down to remove your heels, one foot at the time. You were so moved by the action that you were stunned for words. However Antony just smiled and asked if he could get you some water.

"Yes please." You said and made sure to text your friend to come pick you up.

Once you downed the glass of water you were good to go. Your friend was waiting for you in her car parked down the street. All that was left to do was for you to pay for the tattoo.

"No charge." Antony said, refusing to take the money you offered to him at the door.

"What? Why?" You frowned. Had you been that bad of a costumer, you thought.

"The first one is always free of charge. That's how I get my costumers to come back." He winked.

"Okay." You said confused, but waved him goodbye as you made your way towards your friends car.

"So how was it?" She asked, firing up the engine, driving away.

"Horrible." You sighed. If it wasn't for Antony you would have passed out forsure.

[marinerainbow]

Howdy folks! Are you ready for some headcannons for the ultimate husband,

~Roger Rabbit~

(It kind of looks like he's about to read out the headcannons to us. Idk I just find it funny XD)

I think Roger may be the asexual one in the relationship. The only time we see him look at Jessica not so innocently is in the short 'Trail Mix-Up', and that was in the cartoon itself, so that looked like he was just acting out his role. And in 'Tummy Trouble', when Jessica asked about pattycake, his response was "Pattycake? Jeepers." However, in the sequel comic 'Resurrection of Doom', we see Roger initiate the Pattycake, and for all we know his response to Jessica was his version of a 😏😏😏 response rather than a ace response, so I'm not entirely sure. But regardless, we can definitely see that pattycake isn't on his mind all time.

While I headcannon that Jessica is Jewish, I headcannon Roger is Christian. He respects her beliefs and will even celebrate her holidays with her, and vice versa. (I know, why would he and Jessica get married if they have different beliefs? Honestly, people forget that just because you have different religion or politics or whatever doesn't mean you can't get along. Jessica and Roger are practically the definition of opposites attract, and it's their differences that bring them closer together, so I honestly wouldn't be surprised if they had different religions, but they don't let it define their relationship with each other.)

Roger... Dear God, Roger will not stop talking and sharing his personal life if you give him the chance. Seriously, one time he went to the dentist once, and now that dentist knows just how much he loves his wife, his friends, his family, his career, and is invited to dinner on Saturday now. Roger means well, but you will have to be firm if you don't want that dentist's fate.

That's actually how he and Baby Herman became friends despite how aggressive Herman seems to be. They started working together, Roger enjoys company so in breaks he would talk to Herman about anything and everything, and Herman eventually just let it go, and even started to like Roger's optimistic presence. Even if he doesn't act like it. (So basically they're Shrek and Donkey.) And yes, the same with Benny. If Roger decides you are friend, you are friend and there is no escape.

In the universe where toons work like humans (have families, age, be born and not created, etc), Roger comes from a long line of comedians. Clowns, actors, stand up comedy, you name it and he probably has some long distance family member who pursued that profession. So, him wanting to make people laugh, is literally in his blood. His family didn't exactly 100% approve of him marrying a risqué toon like Jessica (not for her religion, but how un-funny she was), but he didn't care and supported Jessica no matter what. And that was all she needed to be convinced that this was the man she was going to marry.

Roger absolutely helps Jessica with her make up in the morning if she's in a rush. Look me in the eye- Look me in the eye and tell me he hasn't learned how to apply a killer eyeliner for his wife while she's flipping pancakes and chugging her morning coffee to get out the door as fast as she can.

Cooking isn't exactly his forte, but he's trying! Jessica is teaching him, and he'll take on the bulk of cleaning since she does the bulk of cooking. He's able to make a decent egg salad now!

Although Maroon often puts Jessica in a minor and steamy role in the cartoons, Roger does everything he can to help Jessica get bigger roles, especially ones she'll be comfortable in that don't treat her like a sex object. It's a slow process, and Jessica doesn't want him to risk losing his job just for her, but he's persistent for her. He may seem more naive then Jessica, and in some cases he is, but he does notice when his wife is uncomfortable and will step in without hesitation (I would pay money to see how he would have responded if he saw Greasy falling for the booby trap)

Roger seems to be pretty afraid of the Toon Patrol in the movie, and implied that he ran away from them before ("It's not so bad! Once you get used to it."). So I think he has a past with them. I'm not entirely sure what though; dd he screw them over once? Does he owe them a debt? Or is it purely because he knows that they are the ones who will drag him to his death? It could easily just be the last one, but I love drama and him having dealt with the weasels before sounds perfect for the film noir vibe the entire film has.

And that's that! Any questions you guys have, I'll be more than happy to answer! ^^

[my-secret-shame]

🔮-> oh Fates who is my Oscar Isaac soulmate? 🥺 if you're still doing them! x

🔮THE FATES HAVE DECIDED🔮

Your soulmate is: William Tell

And you met: at the Chiropractor's office

You waited, fidgeting with your hands and trying to resist the urge to look at your phone. You’d forgotten to charge it before you came out and the battery was low. 

It was the first time you’d ever seen a chiropractor. You knew you shouldn’t be nervous, there was no need to be. But bounced your leg up and down none the less. 

Your doctor had recommended it. You had fallen off a step ladder while trying to paint the ceiling of your best friend’s flat. 

At the time it had just been funny, if a little embarrassing. But nothing more than a bit of bruising and a bashed ego. 

Then the pain had started the next day. And the next. And the next.

And now you were here. 

There were some magazines on the table, but you weren’t interested in looking through them. In fact-

Another customer came in and spoke briefly with the receptionist before taking the free seat next to you. 

You froze, barely managing to resist the urge to stare at the stranger – who just so happened to be the most beautiful man you had ever seen. 

Your nerves grew tenfold. 

For a minute you stared straight ahead, trying your best to quieten your ragging heartbeat. 

Then you snuck a small glance at him. Then another. Then one more after that.

He was reading a beaten-up paperback, the pages folded almost completely over on themselves so that you couldn’t see the title. 

Maybe if-

You glanced upwards and saw him staring back at you, eyebrows slightly raised. 

Heat flooded your skin. “I’m so sorry, I just, erm, was looking at what you’re reading.” 

He smiled, a little pull at the corner of his lips. Then held the front up for you. 

“Erm, thank you.” 

“No problem.” He stayed looking at you, didn’t go straight back to reading like you had expected. 

“Is it, I mean, are you enjoying it?” 

He nodded. “I’ve read it before.”

“Ah.” You swallowed and looked away, picking at the skin around your thumbnail absentmindedly. 

“Nervous?”

“Yes.” You blurted out, looking back to him. 

He graced you with another of those little smiles. “It’s fine, nothing like the dentist. No need to worry.”

“I don’t mind the dentist.”

That made his smile widen. “Well, I haven’t heard that before.” 

“Are you a dentist?” God if he was you would definitely be booking regular appointments, anything to have him looming over you. 

He shook his head. 

“Sorry, I’m, I’m just,”

“Nervous?” 

“Yeah.” You laughed. 

He closed the book, you noticed that he didn’t use a bookmark or bend the page back. “I’m William.” He held his hand out to you. 

You told him your name as you shook it. His hand was firm, reassuring. 

“I’ve been seeing chiropractor’s for a little while now,” he gestured to his shoulder. “Old injury.” 

“Do they help?”

He nodded. “I usually need check-ups, I’m not so good at keeping up with the stretches they recommend.” 

You opened your mouth to speak but the receptionist called out your name. 

“Thank you,” you smiled, though wishing you could have stayed and spoken to him for just a little longer. 

“Good luck.” He said as you went to your appointment. 

.

It was surprisingly helpful. The chiropractor had been kind and understanding when you told her you were feeling a bit anxious. 

You had to book another appointment for the following week. And just as you went around the corner and entered the reception, you couldn’t help the grin that broke out of your face. 

William was in line, waiting to speak to the receptionist. 

He gave you another smile, his eyes lighting up upon seeing you. “Hello.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“How did it go?”

You nodded. “It was good, really good, definitely helped.”

“Good.”

“What about you?”

“Also helpful. I got told off for not doing my stretches again.”

“You could always lie and say you did them.”

He grinned and leaned a little closer to you, all conspiratorial. “They’d know.” 

Just as the receptionist conversation was coming to an end, William turned fully towards you. “Are you busy, after this?” 

You shook your head.

“Would you like to be?”

Thank you so much!

My Secret Shame's Little Party

[nemhaine42]

SO

I have been having A Time.

Stuff's happened and is continuing to happen. Most of it's not even that bad, just that it needs to be dealt with and it's all just crammed into one fortnight and I feel like I'm one inconvenience away from hulking out.

So firstly, my brother quit his job. This, in and of itself, is not terrible. They were totally taking him for a ride because he's the type of person who will take on extra work to see it done properly, rather than leaving the shit to hit the fan because the company was too miserly to pay enough people to run itself right. So he's better off out of there.

HOWEVER it does mean he can't afford his flat anymore and has to move back home with us. Again, not actually bad. He was really struggling to look after himself on his own and I'm of the firm belief that rejoining the family herd will benefit him and not really make that much of a difference to us.

The Problem is... Well, the first problem is that moving is stressy, especially when he's downsizing and trying squeeze himself into a smaller space. But that's a given. MY problem is that when I say "he's downsizing" what I actually mean is that I'm downsizing him. My brother would be quite content to pick up all his stuff, get home, drop everything as soon as he's in the door and just live like that. Turns out that's what he did when he moved into the old flat because Mum and I are picking up boxes and bags that are literally where we put them down last summer. And while he might be able to live that way, the rest of us cannot.

So I'm spending a lot of time trying to reorganise closets and cupboards and drawers so that all of us can have as smooth a path as possible to our stuff, while working against a person who does not see the value in that.

This is all on-going, because my brother is paid up through the middle of April on his rent. Which is good because we don't have to rush and be left with a mammoth task. But it's also bad because it drags out the whole experience.

That's not even the end of it.

I got my period as expected but just once I would like to have a period where the blood didn't end up on the floor. All while Mum is knocking on my door and trying to ask me what I want for lunch. A hysterectomy is what I want, mother.

One of our pigs died. We knew Arthur was an Old Man and that we wouldn't have him for all that much longer. But it still just sucks.

The horses had the dentist, which, again, normal. But usually the dentist works out coming on a Friday but this time they came on a Tuesday and it threw off my entire groove.

And, of course, I also have the dentist which fills me with dread anyway. I like my dentist, I trust them to do a good job but that does not make me any less petrified of the process.

So stick a fork in me, I'm done.

[blnk338]

another round of shit from Britain that is different from the UK

credit cards - You have to tap it yourself, and the cashier/waiter holds the card machine out for you. (It’s probably safer this way as people can’t steal ur credit card details)

THE HEAT - I’m just going to say this, you’ve never experienced what hell it’s like here in the UK during summer unless you’ve actually experienced here. Like I went outside and it was like i got slapped in the face with heat. NOT TO MENTION HOW HUMID IT IS!!!!! It may be like 25 degrees here but jesus I felt like I was in Australia like the air is so thick that I couldn’t breathe. ALSO WE HAVE NO AC!!!! Unless you’re in a really poncy building

Poncy - Posh

We don’t take halloween as seriously as Americans. I only went Trick or Treating like once when I was going up. Also it’s uncommon to see a house with lights on at Christmas/it’s not really common at all to put decorations outside. Most of the time we just decorate inside instead

Also I found out you have to sign receipts in the US????? Why????

-British Anon

ok ok this one i gotta respond to

everyone lets you tap/insert your card on your own unless the place is smaller/in more rural areas. also not everything's tap bc the us has a big income disparity so some folks don't have cards at all (also in a lot of places outside big cities will only accept change-- sometimes people barter, too LMAO)

i can't sit and not say anything man-- SO MUCH OF THE US DOESNT HAVE AC BRO!! (none of this is meant in a mean way, i just don't think europeans get whats going on in the us) I've never had ac in my entire life and i don't think people get how many biomes are in the US. america isn't entirely California weather and the entirety of the us faces bad heat almost every summer. I'm not saying that the folks in the UK don't have heat, but Florida hits a minimum of 30C in the summer and so many people don't have ac (also they have cockroaches and shit to deal)(and desantis LMFAOO). I'm from a dryer place in California (still averaging at least 30C in the summers but without the humidity), but I've spent summers on the east coast (west coast is much drier and has more desert temperatures but the further east/southeast you go, the more humidity you're gonna have) without ac!!

point is: join the club big man (another big thing us and UK have in common: both our countries refuse to help their citizens with better construction models so our homes can withstand heat/cold like this)

poncy is a silly funny word and sounds exactly like what it means'

i kinda already knew about the halloween thing but honestly i think Christmas in amercia's just been so capitalized on by corporations, people have just kinda forgotten that its supposed to be about family and not about flash sales

the receipt thing actually made me think because i forgot that people don't do that. in all honesty, i don't think I've had to do that anywhere except maybe the dentist because its a smaller firm that i go to? you don't have to sign receipts usually, i don't think-- or at least you don't have to do it as commonly

[ladyscarlettwrites]

hi i have to get my wisdom teeth removed soon >.< so i was wondering if you could do the turks + rufus taking care of their s/o after they get their wisdom teeth removed?

A/N: So sorry this is late and if it already happened I hope the removal went well! I had mine taken out too, I looked like a chipmunk when it swelled! Didn’t help that I already have chubby cheeks 😂

Reno:

He would absolutely take care of you

But he would also joke around

Especially if you’re high from the laughing gas they gave you for the removal

If you’re the type of person that wouldn’t get mad if he recorded you then he will definitely do it 😂

One; to show you and two; to keep it if he thinks you were acting so cute so he can watch it while he’s at work

”Mah fwace ‘s so swowen, Weno!” Y/N giggles as she looks at herself in the mirror as Reno records you.

“That’s because you just had your teeth removed, yo!”

Y/N gasps and looks back at the mirror and touches her teeth frantically. Reno laughs and hugs her from behind with his free arm while he continues to record them.

“Calm down, I’m not talking about those! I’m talking about your wisdom teeth!” Y/N smiles and turns around to hug him.

“I wuv you!”

“I love you too, but now let’s go and make Rude make us some yummy soup!”

“Yay!”

Rude:

Where do I even start with this man

He will take the entire day off to be there for you 🥺

If it’s possible then he’ll be sitting right next to you and hold your hand while the dentist pulls out your wisdom teeth

He’ll also be ready with an ice pack for when you’re done with your procedure to help keep the swelling down

I’m a firm believer that this man can cook anything

He’ll make you either a delicious soup or a broth of your liking

Y/N pouts as she sits down on the bed as she holds two ice packs on her face. Rude opens the door and walks in with a bowl of soup.

“Here’s your bowl of soup, Y/N. I hope it’ll be okay for you.”

Y/N smiles as she sets the ice packs on her nightstand. “Of cworse I’ll wike it!”

Rude smiles softly as he sets the tray in front of her and sits on the other side of her and eats with her.

“S’anks Wude...!”

Rude chuckles softly and leans down and kisses the top of her head. “Anything for you, my love.”

Tseng:

He’s the leader of the Turks so he probably won’t be able to take the day off to go with you

Can’t blame him since he’s a very busy man working for Rufus

Also can’t trust that Reno will do his work properly if he’s gone

But the moment he’s free he’ll be there to help take care of you

He’ll make sure that you’re taking your medicine to help with the swelling

If he can cook then he’ll make you food that you’re allowed to eat

But if he can’t cook then he’ll have Rude make you something since he knows you like his cooking

Y/N sighs as she sits alone in the living room and flips through the tv channels without really paying attention to what’s on. It was getting really late at night and Tseng wasn’t home yet.

After an hour later Y/N sighs again and turns off the tv as she gets up and heads to bed. At the same time Tseng walks through the front door with a container of food.

“Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to take so long. Reno messed up a report and I had to force him to fix it.” He says as he sets down the food on the table.

Y/N walks over to him and wraps her arms around him. Tseng smiles softly and wraps his arms around her and kisses her forehead.

“Did you take your medicine already?” Y/N nods her head. “Are you hungry?” Y/N shakes her head. “Do you want me to lay down with you?” He chuckles softly when she nods her head as she tries to lead him to their bed.

“Hold on, love. You go on and head to bed first while I put the food away.” Y/N pouts but listens to him.

After Tseng puts the food away he goes to the room and changes out of his suit before getting into bed and pulling her close.

“Thank you.” She whispers as he gently runs his fingers through her hair to help her fall asleep.

Rufus:

Like Tseng, he is also a very, very busy man

But that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t do anything about it

He’ll make sure that you have the best dentist there is

He’ll also send Darkstar with you to keep you company in his place

Darkstar adores you so Rufus will know that he’ll make sure the dentist does his job properly so that your procedure go smoothly

He’ll also have his personal chef make you whatever you desire (that you’re allowed to eat)

He isn’t really the PDA type but once you two are alone he’ll be very affectionate

But he’ll have to share you with Darkstar because he’s a big baby who loves to sleep either near your feet or on your lap

Rufus leads Y/N to bed after their dinner.

“If I wake up tomorrow with swollen cheeks, I’ll have to hide in this room forever...!”

Rufus chuckles softly as he kisses cheek gently, “Darling, stop being over dramatic. You’ll still be the best looking woman in my eye.”

Y/N rolls her eyes but can’t hide the blush she has, “You’re only saying that because I’m your wife...”

“No, I’m saying that because it’s the truth. Now let’s get some sleep.” He says as he pulls her close to his chest.

Darkstar whimpers from the foot of the bed. Rufus rolls his eyes as Y/N laughs softly.

“Come here, my big baby...! Sleep next to mommy...!” Y/N coos as Darkstar quickly jumps onto the bed and snuggles next to her.

“He’s not a baby, Darling.”

“He will always be my baby until you finally decide to give me one.”

Rufus raises an eyebrow at that before smirking, “Oh? Well maybe I’ll give you one once we have the privacy that we need to make one.”

Y/N blushes deeply as she looks up at him, “R-Really?!”

Rufus smiles softly, “Yes I am. But not right now. We can start once you heal from the stitches in your mouth.”

Y/N smiles and cuddles closer to him, much to the dismay of Darkstar.

[platypanthewriter]

Guess Again

Day Four of Harringrove AUgust, Profession AU!  Steve runs into a hot guy named Billy on his plane flight back to Indianapolis, and Billy lies about what he does for a living, then, laughing, admits he lied.  The prize for this guessing game: an exchange of phone numbers.

Steve found his seat, in coach, because that was the only seat available on the overbooked flight into Indianapolis a week before Thanksgiving.  He shoved his carry-on under the seat, and wedged himself in the limited leg room, opening his laptop to answer the emails that had been pinging his phone before the plane was ready to take off, and he—blessedly—had to go into airplane mode.  

He barely even noticed the guy wedging himself in to sit by the window, and trying to get the damn table to stay up.  Steve typed away as the busted table mechanism flapped onto the guy’s lap over and over.  Finally, Steve grimaced, glancing over.  “You can use my table,” he offered, registering only that the guy was tattooed, and kinda...hot.  “I’ll put this away as soon as we taxi to the runway.”

“It’s fine,” the dude said, smacking the floppy table with a sigh.  “Not like there’s a meal on this flight.”

“You can lean in and share my pretzels,” Steve told him, grinning over, and was met with big, long-lashed blue eyes, an annoying mustache, and curls that curved around an attractively firm jaw.  

The guy nodded, and put the broken table away.  “...kind of a workaholic?” he asked, probably because it was nearly ten o’clock at night, and Steve was glaring at his screen and typing emails like his survival depended on a high word count.  

He snorted a laugh.  “I left them all until now,” he said, grimacing.  “They really don’t need my input, but if I replied earlier, they’d just ask me something else.  Something they could google.”  He narrowed his eyes at an email from a coworker who’d actually emailed to ask for exact details of what was allowed under the sexual harassment policy.  Talk to HR, he sent back.  Creep, he thought.  He finished the last of the replies, hoping he wasn’t sending anything too weird in his distraction, and closed his laptop.  “Um.  Sorry.  What do you do?”

“I sell life insurance,” the guy said immediately, with a toothy grin.  “I’ll sell you so much insurance on this flight.”

“Uh,” Steve said, blinking at him.  “Umm...oh.”

“That’s a lie,” was the dude’s followup, and Steve stared at him, starting to regret his offer to share a table, or catch the flight at all.  “I don’t sell life insurance, I swear.  I promise,” the guy said, laughing.  “God, your face.  I just...my job is...I started telling people I sell life insurance, so they wouldn’t talk to me.”

“I can just sit over here,” Steve offered, pretending to zip his lips.

“No, no, it’s, uh.  Sorry I lied.  Talk to me, it’s a long flight.”

“Why do you have to lie?” Steve had to ask, and the guy grimaced.  

“My job’s kinda awkward,” he said, laughing.

“Are you a...porn star?” Steve asked, trying to figure out what kind of job would get the worst people to talk to you, and the dude cracked up.  

“Jesus, no, but thanks for the ego boost,” he said, and Steve snorted a laugh.  

“Um.  What about…” Steve thought, opened his mouth, and then closed it.  “Can I guess?” he asked, grinning, and the guy snickered.  

“Sure.  Give it your best shot.  Just don’t tell me any horror stories.”

“Do you embalm bodies?” Steve tried, already holding back a tide of questions, like did you ever drop one and have to fix a broken nose.

“Nope!” said the guy, turning to lean more against the window, to face Steve.  “How many tries do you want before I just tell you?”

“Oh, no, no, lemme guess,” Steve said, thinking as they came around asking for drink orders.  “Horror stories...um.  Are you a soldier?” he asked, wide-eyed, and the guy laughed again.  

“No!  No, nothing like that.”  He leaned to see Steve’s ID as Steve pulled it out to order a beer, and Steve grinned.  

“I’m Steve.”

“Billy,” said his mysteriously-employed seatmate, offering his hand, and Steve flipped it over investigatively.  

“You don’t have those, like, love/hate knuckle tattoos,” he said, feeling like a detective.  “So...maybe not a biker?”

“I’m not a biker,” Billy snickered.  His hand was warm in Steve’s.  “Is that even a job?”

“Oh!  Oh!” Steve leaned forward, sure he had it this time, and Billy moved the armrest between them out of the way.  “A writer?”

“What?!” Billy laughed, which probably meant Steve was wrong, but he argued his point.  

“People tell you horror stories,” he said, narrowing his eyes.  “So—so probably everybody tells you they have a great idea for your next novel—”

“No, uh.  One clue,” Billy said, grimacing.  “They’re true stories.”

“True stories,” Steve said, going to cross his arms in thought, and realizing Billy hadn’t taken his hand back.  “Uh, what do I get if I guess right?” he asked, squeezing Billy’s hand, and Billy snorted a laugh, grinning like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“I dunno, I feel like Rumpelstilzkin, you want like my firstborn or—”

“No, nope,” Steve made a face.  “I got enough kids around, thanks.  Oh—” he blinked, realizing how that sounded as Billy started to pull his hand back, and lean away, “—not, like, I’m not a dad, I don’t have a wife and kids or anything.  I just have some little shitheads that come over all the time and eat all my popsicles and pizza.”

“Oh good,” Billy said dryly.  “I’d feel terrible if holding my hand ruined your marriage.”

“No other knuckles can fulfill me, now,” Steve said soulfully, and then when Billy burst out laughing, Steve couldn’t hold a straight face.  

“You know how fucking dirty that sounds, right,” Billy whispered, rubbing his face with the hand Steve wasn’t holding, and Steve snorted a laugh.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to get you to fist me on the plane,” he hissed back.

“Coward,” Billy shot back, and then they started giggling again, like they were ten.  

 “True horror stories,” Steve repeated, later, as they leaned together over the napkin on his tiny airplane table, where he was keeping track of the guesses he’d already made.  “True horror stories.  Are you a reporter?” 

“God no,” Billy said, making a face.  “Imagine this many tattoos in front of the news cameras?  We’ve got a ways to go before they allow that.”

“Oh, true,” Steve nodded.  “I mean, unless you worked for, like, a tabloid.  Circling everyone’s stomach in pictures and writing ‘BABY BUMP?!’ on it.”  

Billy jumped when Steve yelled ‘BABY BUMP’, and half the plane twitched and mumbled.  “Fuck no!” he hissed, laughing.  “Ssh!”

“Huh,” Steve said, studying the napkin.  “Oh!  Um,” he grimaced.  “Police officer?”

“No,” Billy growled, and Steve nodded, writing that down and crossing it out, and sipping his third beer.  “We never worked out what you got if you guessed,” Billy said, watching.  

“Oh, yeah,” Steve agreed, nodding.  “Uh, what about...dinner?”

“We’re gonna land at like six in the morning,” Billy pointed out, and Steve fingergunned him.

“Breakfast.”

Billy laughed.  “I dunno if I’m willing to put out on our first plane trip together.”

“Lemme get you, like, bacon and eggs,” Steve said, leaning in and waggling his eyebrows, “—and my phone number.”  He smirked as Billy cackled, leaning his head in the window.

“Yeah, okay.  Gimme some breakfast sausage, Steve,” he said softly, the overhead reading light making his curls glow a little, like a halo.  

“Now I haveta figure it out,” Steve said, frowning at his list, and Billy’s fingers twitched towards him.  Steve grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together, and accepted another beer from the flight attendant.  “I wonder how many beers that is,” he said, prodding at the label with his thumbnail.  “I think they’re like ten bucks a pop.”

“I bet the alcohol will really help you think,” Billy said dryly, and Steve made a face at him.  

“Shut up, I got it.  I got it this time,” he said, tipping his head back for a long, satisfying drink of beer, and wiping his mouth.  Billy’s mouth hung a little open when he finished, and Steve licked his lips, grinning.  “You—you’re a doctor.  A—a doctor of butts.  A butt-doctor.”

Billy started laughing so hard, silently, that Steve was starting to wonder whether he could breathe.  

“I’m right, right?” Steve said, taking a triumphant swig, and Billy shook his head, wheezing for air.

“You mean a proctologist?!” he gasped.

“Yeah, and you understood fine,” Steve told him, annoyed.

“I’m not—I’m not a butt doctor,” Billy choked out, tears of laughter in his eyes.  “I don’t have a doctorate in ass—”

“Your loss,” Steve muttered, glaring at the napkin with the list.  “Man, my cousin is one, and he has some stories.  Dude, that’s everything, that’s every damn job.  Ever.  Do zookeepers get told horror stories?!  Oh!”  He pointed the beer bottle at Billy.  “Dentist!”

“No,” Billy giggled, his hair rising with static in the dry air of the plane, and sticking to the wall and window behind him.  He looked ruffled and fond, and Steve squeezed his hand again, trying to think of what he’d missed, before the plane landed, and he’d spent the entire flight guessing jobs, and Billy hadn’t even given him a last name.  

“Shit,” Steve said, then straightened again.  “No, okay, this time,” he said, the beer making his words a little soft around the edges, “This time I really have it.  You’re a Mickey Mouse person.”

“I’m a what now,” Billy said, still snickering.

“You know,” Steve said, his eyes narrowed.  “You crawl up the ass of one of those suits and let kids think you’re a Disney princess.”

“No, Harrington,” Billy said, breathlessly, as he shook with laughter.  “No, I do not.  Do people tell mascots horror stories?!  I don’t even want to know.  Which princess?  Just for scientific curiosity, Steve, which princess do I crawl up the ass of, in your brain?”

Steve tried to remember them all.  “Not Jasmine,” he said with certainty.  “Um.  Wait, Peter Pan?  Maybe?”

“Peter Pan’s not a princess,” Billy choked out, wiping his eyes as he tried to muffle his laughter.  

“Hrm,” Steve said, accepting another beer and huffing a sigh, but Billy leaned in suddenly and just kissed him.  His lips were warm and chapped, and Steve hummed happily against them.  Their teeth bumped, a little, because Billy was giggling so hard, and Steve was grinning so wide his cheek muscles ached.

“I’m a drug and alcohol counselor,” Billy said with a grimace, and Steve glared at his beer, betrayed, "—so, um, horror stories.  Yeah."

"I just have butt-doctor horror stories," Steve said quickly, trying to salvage the situation, and he shoved his beer behind him.

Billy laughed harder, shaking his head.  "I’ll still take that number,” he whispered, kissing Steve again—and snickering, his cheeks flushed.  “And breakfast?”

Here’s my other Harringrove stuff!  Or check out the Harringrove AUgust collection on Ao3!  Add something!  =D 

[rolandtowen]

three times Zuko comes into the Jasmine Dragon coffee shop, and one time Sokka leaves with him. Set in the Neurodiverse Zukka AU, but can read as a standalone.

*banging pots and pans together* "Come over here and get yall Neurodiverse Zukka!"

Read it on Ao3 or under the cut!

TW: discussions of skin picking and implied child abuse

i.

When Sokka pulls into the parking lot of the Jasmine Dragon, he is unsurprisingly the first car there. Being a freshman in town means getting the worst pick of shifts at local businesses. Sokka was hired on to work the opening shift, which means he wakes up at the ungodly hour of 5am to open the shop before the first round of sleep-deprived college students comes in. The pay isn't bad, Mr. Iroh is an incredibly fair man,

The bell on the door jingles on his way in, and he flips several light switches on, watching as the coffee shop slowly comes to life. He busies himself with getting the beans for the day grinding, pulling his first shot and dialing in the expresso. When he takes a sip, the espresso is spot on for the day, which is a relief. Having to make adjustments as customers start filing in is a nightmare.

Today's brew is floral and citrusy, so he decides to make himself and iced lavender latte - with oat milk, of course, because he's gotta do it for the gays - and he spends the next 20 minutes setting out pastries and fiddling with the display cases, making everything look perfect.

At 6am sharp, Sokka unlocks the front door and flips their sign to open, before retreating behind the bar to nurse his latte. Not even five minutes later, the door bell jingles, and Sokka sees a flash of dark hair, face obscured by a pile of textbooks and binders. The figure runs into one table, and then another, and Sokka is rushing out from behind the counter. He gets there just before textbooks go toppling everywhere, his hands taking a firm hold of the top bundle. As he pulls the books into his arms, he sees the face behind them.

Breathtaking golden eyes.

And.. a massive burn scar.

"Hi!" Sokka says, "I'm the barista on shift today - my name's Sokka." He would reach his hand for the other man to shake, but for the stack of textbooks in them.

Golden Eyes smiles.

"I'm Zuko, Zuko Sozin," he says, setting his remaining textbooks on the table by his side. Sokka follows suit.

"Hey, I think I've seen you before - are you taking Piandao's Intro to Biology class?"

"Uh, yeah - yeah! You sit a few rows in front of me." Zuko laughs. "Your doodles are uh, something alright."

Sokka knocks him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "I gotta keep my hands busy for my brain to focus." He looks down at the stack of books on the table. "What on earth are you studying, to have that many books?"

"Uh, Biology and Chemistry double-major, Pre-Med track." Sokka's eyes widen. "It's really not that much! I got a bunch of stuff out of the way with AP credits."

Sokka raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, it is a lot - but I'm really passionate about it. I want to be a doctor."

"Well, Dr. Sozin, what can I get started for you today?"

"Can I get a iced matcha, with a lot of honey?"

Sokka raises his other eyebrow. "A doctor with a sweet tooth?"

"Kind of?"

"Don't worry, I won't rat you out to your dentist. An iced matcha with extra honey?" Zuko nods and Sokka smiles. "You got it, doc."

ii.

Sokka falls into a routine at the Jasmine Dragon. He opens the shop every morning, and every morning of the fall semester so far, Zuko Sozin comes in at precisely 6:05am. Zuko will order an iced matcha with honey, and sits at a table by the window with his laptop and at least two textbooks open at all times. Then, at 11:50am - Sokka guess he has a class that starts at noon - Zuko leaves the shop, always making sure to throw his spare change into Sokka's tip jar.

He's so beautiful.

On a slow day, Sokka comes out from behind the safety of the counter and works up the courage to ask Zuko if he can study with him. Zuko looks shocked at first, but his lips quirk up in a smile as he gestures for Sokka to sit in the chair across from him, moving his textbooks to make room for Sokka's one book and laptop.

"What are you studying, Sokka?" Zuko appears to be genuinely interested.

"Oh, uh, social work, with a concentration in mental health." Sokka waits for Zuko to laugh at him. It never comes. He looks up at him over their laptops.

"That's really cool."

"You think so?"

"Yeah! I mean, some pre-med majors can be really pretentious, really dismissive of mental illness, but um - not me. I don't really have that luxury." Zuko laughs, as though at a joke with himself. "What's the Intro to Biology for, then?"

"Not all of us got our common core out of the way with AP credits, like some nerd I know." Zuko smiles at that, and looks back down at his laptop screen.

Sokka pulls his keys from his pocket and starts fidgeting with the stim toy he keeps on his keychain as he reads through his latest assignment for his Mental Illness and Society class. He bought it on Etsy, relieved to find a neurodivergent-owned shop after scrolling through a lot of stores that just seemed to be hopping on the 'trend' of selling fidget toys. He flips to the next page in his textbook, popping the buttons back and forth in a steady rhythm. He remembers Zuko's sitting across from him and stops abruptly.

"Is this annoying? Do you want me to stop?"

Zuko just cocks his head. "Why would I get a say in what you do? It's kind of your shop, right?"

"Um, to be polite?" Sokka laughs. "And you would be surprised how many customers I get who think they get to tell me what to do." His eyes settle on the half drunk latte in front of him. "It's not really my shop either, I just work the early morning shifts so Mr. Iroh can sleep in. If you ever get to stay past noon sometime, you'll see him come in. You can't miss him, short guy, talks in riddles. He's older, a war vet I think - I just get that impression from some of the stories he tells me. But anyway, did you want me to stop fidgeting?" Sokka looks back up to meet those golden eyes.

Zuko glitches for a second. "Oh! No, no, go for it - if it helps you to study, I'm all for it."

Sokka smiles, and looking at the way Zuko keeps picking at his cuticles gives him an idea. He digs into his backpack and pulls out another stim toy, an acupressure ring. ""Do you want to try this instead of maiming your hands?"

Zuko hesitantly holds out a hand and Sokka drops it into his palm. "You don't have to."

Sokka scoffs. "I know I don't have to - I want to. Come on, I wear it on my thumb sometimes -" and suddenly he's taking Zuko's hands into his and getting very close to Zuko's face. Zuko can smell espresso on his clothes and Sokka's hands are so warm against his. Calloused, sure, but warm. He holds Zuko's right hand gently, pressing the spiky ring onto his thumb. "And you can rub it back and forth with your pointer finger and it gives you that kind of prickly sensation that you get from skin picking, just without the skin picking." Sokka pulls his hands away and Zuko immediately misses them. "Give it a shot, tell me what you think."

Zuko tentatively rolls the ring over his thumb. Huh. The cute barista's right, the acupressure gives him that same prickly, scratchy feeling that picking at his nails and cuticles does. "Wow," he says, "I think you've converted me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then keep it, I've got a thousand more where that came from, ADHD perks."

Zuko instinctively opens his mouth to protest but the words die in his throat.

"You, you have ADHD?" He stops rolling the ring across his thumb.

"Yup." Sokka's lips popped on the 'p', and he turned to the next page in his textbook. "And I'm pretty sure you've got some spicy stuff happening your brain, too. But you don't have to tell me."

"How are you so open about it?"

Sokka's hand stills around the fidget. "My parents never treated me like I was deficient in any way - my brain just works differently, which means I have trouble with some 'normal' stuff. But I also strengths in areas that others don't have naturally. Accommodations aren't anything to be ashamed of."

"Sounds nice." All of the levity drops out of Zuko's voice.

Sokka levels a look at Zuko. He lets his eyes flit to the right side of Zuko's face and the scar there. He's seen it so many times, and the burns look so concentrated, almost... intentional. His stomach churns at the thought. The scar's old... and Zuko's at college now, he has to be safe - he has to be.

"Like I said, you don't have to tell me." Sokka's hand starts to fidget with the buttons again. "But I have it on good authority that I am a good listener."

"I'll... I'll keep that in mind." Zuko looks down at his hands, fingers rolling the ring back and forth against his thumb. "Thank you."

"Anytime, doc."

iii.

Somehow, fumbling through their collective social awkwardness, they manage to swap numbers.

At the end of the fall semester, Sokka texts Zuko for the first time.

S: hey, im gonna be a few minutes later. don't worry, im still coming.

Z: okay. thank you.

When Sokka finally pulls into the parking lot fifteen minutes late, he sees Zuko waiting outside the door, sitting on a bench, head buried in one of his chemistry textbooks.

"Hey," he puts his keys in the door. "You can just come in while I open, it won't take too long."

Zuko follows him inside, and he closes the door against the chill.

"You didn't have to text me," Zuko says, like it's a question.

"I wanted to," Sokka starts flipping on light switches. "I know you've got your routine, and I didn't want to stress you out when it got messed up."

"Why would that matter to you?"

"Um, I don't want you to be stressed? I kind of care about you."

"You... you care about me?" Zuko stands in the middle of the coffee shop, unmoving.

Sokka smiles. "Yeah, I think I do."

"Why?"

"I think we could be friends?"

"Oh." Zuko's face falls for a second - what Sokka has come to understand is his 'processing' face - and he looks back up a second later. "I think we could be friends too."

"Friendship with a barista has great perks, you know." Sokka laughs as he starts up the grinder. "Although the perks of a social worker friend aren't too bad either."

"How's that going? With your first semester ending?" Zuko sits on a stool at the bar and watches Sokka putter around behind it.

"Well, I'm going to pass Intro to Biology, not for lack of trying on Piandao's part - I swear he's trying to weed out all the humanities kids. It isn't even a weed out course!" He polishes an espresso glass furiously. "How are you doing?"

Zuko chokes. "Oh, I'm - I'm fine, you know it's a hard class and all -"

"You're getting an A, aren't you?" Sokka squints at him from behind a bag of coffee beans. "Curve breaker," he scoffs.

"Hey, it's not my fault that I'm, what did you call it? A 'burnt-out gifted kid with people pleasing tendencies'." Zuko crosses his arms and huffs at the memory of that conversation. Sokka had read him like a picture book. And it was not fair for one person to be that good at emotions.

"You are correct, I did indeed call you that." Sokka pulls the first shot of the morning. "And it looks like I was right."

"You know what you said the other week, about being a good listener?"

"Sure do," Sokka takes a sip of the espresso, swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it out. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, if we're going to be... friends, I just think you'd want to know that - I'm autistic." Zuko stares at Sokka searching his face for any cues about what the next words out of his mouth will be, waiting for the facade of friendship to drop. He furiously rolls the acupressure ring up and down his thumb.

"Okay, that's great!"

"...what."

Zuko's hands freeze and he squeezes the ring against his skin, feeling the pressure increase.

"That's great, I'm glad you felt safe enough to tell me that. I kind of guessed your parents weren't as accommodating as mine?"

Zuko laughs something sour. "No, no they were not." He looks up in surprise as Sokka puts an iced matcha, extra honey, in front of him. "You're right though, I do feel safe here. I feel safe with you." Zuko looks down at the acupressure ring on his thumb, softening his grip. "You could have totally ignored me, but you didn't. Or you could've been mean about my quirks - but you weren't. Why?"

"Well, for starters, you tip well." Sokka smiles and leans across the counter, bracketing Zuko's elbows in with his own. "But you're also a really great guy - you're passionate, you want to make people's lives better, and you're also like, really beautiful."

Zuko feels his cheeks flush. "You really think that?" His fingers still against the fidget again, but he doesn't feel the need to press it into his skin. He's captivated by Sokka's words. Surely, Sokka couldn't actually mean -

"Oh, yeah. Every bit." Sokka brushes his hand against one of Zuko's, the one with the fidget ring. "Can I hold your hand?"

"Yes, please, yes." After weeks, Sokka's hand is back in his, and Zuko thinks he's going to implode. "Can, can you hold both of my hands? With both of your hands?"

"Of course," Sokka's positively beaming, grabbing Zuko's hands and running his thumbs across his knuckles. "Now you're absolutely allowed to say no to my next question, and there are no hard feelings."

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"Fuck yes."

The iced matcha is forgotten.

+ i

Sokka's feet hurt like hell. Mr. Iroh had called in him to work a double on Friday, and since he doesn't have any classes on Fridays, he foolishly agreed.

It won't seem so foolish once you see the paycheck, he reminds himself. He and Zuko have a deal. Zuko pays for his medical school with his job shelving books at the University library, and Sokka pays for their tiny apartment by caffeinating all of the other broke college kids in town. By some miracle, they seem to be able to make it work. Zuko graduated into the medical college a year early, which helps with tuition costs, and of course his brilliant boyfriend got all kinds of scholarships.

Sokka is indescribably proud of him.

The door bell jangles just as Sokka is wiping the crumbs off the last cafe table. "Hey, we're starting to close up for the night, so it'd better be a to-go order," he calls over his shoulder.

"Even for me?"

"Zuko!" Sokka drops his cloth immediately and spins around, pulling Zuko into a hug. Zuko taps the small of his back when he's ready to let go, and Sokka lets him go, beaming. "You came to visit me at work?"

"More like I picked up your favorite soup dumplings from Haru's across the street and thought we could walk home together?" Zuko shrugs, gesturing to the brown paper bag in his arms. "How's that sound to you?"

"Baby, that's just what I needed today." Sokka picks up his cleaning supplies. "Okay, I just need to put all of this away and then we can lock up and go home, how's that?"

"Great," Zuko smiles at him. "I may have also picked up some more Doctor Who DVDs from the library," he smirks.

"Oh, you trickster!" Sokka yells from the kitchen, before appearing again. "You used my one weakness, pork soup dumplings, against me in order to get your nerdy way."

"Oh, big talk coming from the guy who watches astronomy documentaries for fun," Zuko laughs as Sokka leads him out of the shop, switching off the lights and locking the door behind him. "If it were up to you, we'd be watching Cosmos all weekend, and I can only take so much of Neil deGrasse Tyson explaining the peculiarities of the moon."

"Hey, the moon is cool!"

"You are correct, the moon is very cool. It's freezing, because it's a rock. In space. With no atmosphere. Or life." Zuko deadpans, earning a light punch on the shoulder from Sokka.

"Fine, you get Doctor Who tonight, but Saturday is going to be all PBS Nova, baby. Brace yourself." Sokka takes Zuko's free hand into his as they start the walk home.

"Well, as long as you're there, I'm happy."

Notes:

fidgets in this work were inspired by those from shop StimBox

[mrssimply]

GOSH I LOVE YOUR WRITING PROMPTS!!

I thought, I too might as well request the goods <3. “Reality is even better than my dreams.” #8

Male V x Kerry

Hello Anon, thank you for your prompt and for the kind wwords, and please, forgive me for the delay!!! As you might have gathered from previous posts, this little challenge got away from me and evolved into something a lot bigger for some of the prompts. I came back to something a little more reasonable here!

And: Hurray! We are officially done with all the prompts!!! Again I would like to thank every one of you who prompted me, I really loved doing this. I also want to do it again but I need to concentrate on the Big Bang Challenge for now ;).

Regarding this prompt in particular, I loved it because it gave me an excuse to go into the fluff category, even with the sex. So get an appointment with your dentist because this is rotten sweet. It's soft, it's tender, it's gentle, there is not an ounce of violence of angst here ahah. And I think it's a good ending for this session of prompts.

I'll stop here before getting too emotional. The story is under the cut as always, but I had to make the cut right at the begining because we jump right into it, and when I say "it", I mean sex of course.

Adulation

Whorship

Kerry liked being on top. He loved ridding V, the muscles of his thighs contracting as he cantered on V’s cock. And when it happened, V could barely breath as he watched the mesmerizing show of light brown skin undulating over firm but discreet abs. In the mansion, the light was soft and diffuse as sun rose over the hill. The first lights of day made Kerry appear god-like. The sun touched his cyberware, making the gold sparkle and the dark polymer of his vocal implant glitter. It made the sweat covering his body shine and V could barely believe his eyes.

Hands tightening over Kerry’s hips, he saw the older man smile mischievously just before he changed the cadence to something even slower. It was like watching a movie in slow motion; everything seemed starker that way.

“Breath, V,” Kerry laughed, pausing for a second to stroke his cheek and indeed, V gulped a mouthful of air between trembling lips. His eyes were certainly feverish, reflecting the absolute devotion he felt for this man. Flexing his abs made his cock move inside Kerry, who moaned around a smile and threw his head back. V surged to kiss his exposed throat, prompting another whimper from the guitarist. Kerry frowned and opened his mouth a fraction to sigh softly. The merc kissed him, bit his lower lip while trailing his hands in the short white hair. He started moving in increment, following the sounds Kerry made to adjust angle and cadence.

It was so rare that they had this kind of slow love-making. Kerry preferred is fast and on the verge of too rough. But V was a hedonist, he loved to work for hours before bringing his partners to climax. Nothing got him more than seeing them lose it after literal eternities of sweet torture. And today, when V had come back from a gig and slid in bed after showering as the first lights of day appeared, Kerry had only grunted, kissed him before moving over him. They had started like this, just slow kissing and grinding against each other until the singer was a fraction more awake.

“Fuck!” Kerry cursed, “Fuck me,” he added, opening plaintive eyes as he tried to make V accelerate and deepened his stance to rock his hips harder. “Fuck me, please.”

With a curse of his own and a panted breath, V closed his eyes and buried his face in his partner’s neck before putting his hands over the small of his back. Whole body tensing, he reversed their position carefully. Kerry let out a surprised mewl followed by a small laugh that turned into a long keen when V snapped his hips forward swiftly.

Then the merc stilled, buried as deep as he could and watched Kerry lashes flicker over his eyes as he laced his feet behind V’s back and tried to move him. But the man just let his weight drop on his partner, effectively caging him until Kerry whined in frustration.

“I said fuck me, V, not stop.”

But his output only kissed him on the forehead, then let his lips trail toward his jaw. He bit it softly just as he started moving. Kerry huffed and relaxed against the bed, stroking his cheek and putting a hand over his neck. He closed his eyes, threw his head backward against the pillow and let V have his way.

Looking at him intently, V pushed them to a slow and languorous rhythm, shifting until Kerry gasped and moaned again. Then he kept himself there and moved back and forth in little moves. After about a minute, Kerry started arching off the bed, and his eyes opened wide as he gulped breaths between soft moans. All the while, V continued to look at him, drinking every flicker of pleasure off his face.

Then Kerry tried to touch his own cock and V caught his wrist to prevent him from doing so. He pushed it by his head and held it there.

“V, please!” Kerry cried out, straining against him, but the merc continued rocking his hips at the same pace.

“Fuck, ok, ok, please,” the rocker mumbled as tremors started coursing through him. And then he stopped breathing, his mouth widening around a silent shout. It got expelled as a long keen when his cock started vibrating with his release. And V didn’t stop, pumping slowly through it until a shudder ran all over Kerry.

The merc smiled and huffed, bending down to kiss his partner and lick into his mouth. Kerry responded with a long and muffled moan, arms going around V’s shoulders. The merc eyes flickered softly when the singer playfully clenched around him.

“Again?” Kerry murmured. And, kissing him, V nodded.

---

Later, after he had gotten Kerry off a second time and had come deep into him, they laid tangled in the messy sheets. Kerry was on the verge of going back to sleep, V could tell, so he was slowing down his caresses and lightening his touches.

“You have a way of looking at me,” the older man declared in a whisper as the pink of the sky turned bluer.

V smiled and nodded.

“Like I’m… I don’t know,” the rocker hesitated. He didn’t dare voice what he thought he saw in V’s eyes, for fear it would shatter if called upon.

“Like you’re perfect and I want to worship at your altar for the rest of my life?” V asked with utter tenderness.

Kerry nodded, a small frown appearing between his brows.

“That’s actually what worries me. I don’t want you to worship me, V.”

With a huff, the merc nuzzled the musician’s neck before playfully peaking at him.

“Only just in bed? Please?”

It was clear that Kerry was fighting off a smile, heart melting at how cute V could turn sometimes.

“I’m serious. That’s not how I want it to be between us.”

“I know, and I promise you, I see you, in all your perfect and ugly glory.” He replied with a modicum of severity to show his good faith. “But it’s just... It’s hard not to, when this is like a dream come true.” He confessed, and the other man’s frown deepened before curiosity won over.

With a mischievous smile, V traced his finger over Kerry’s lips.

“I was maybe ten or eleven the first time I saw you. It was your homecoming concert here in Night-City, back from the Dark Confessions’ Tour.”

Kerry was now wide awake, looking at V with riveted eyes.

“Sofian and I, he was one of my friends from Heywood, had sneaked in by a back entrance. His brother had been working here as security. The goal was to pick-pocket everything we could and bring it back outside. As kids, we would get off easy if we were caught.” V paused, reliving the memory himself.

“But the moment you came on stage, I completely forgot about that and stood dumbly in the middle of the crowd. I think I vaguely remember Sofian shaking me but the only thing it got me doing was getting closer to you.”

Eyes running tenderly over the rocker’s face, V touched their noses together.

“I was a scrawny kid, got between the legs of the fans and by all the gods, you had some hardcore ones! They were literally swooning in the front row!”

At that, Kerry chuckled with a wince.

“Yeah I know, there is a dedicated Trauma Team for that at every one of my concert.” He confessed.

“Well, I nearly got trampled by them but I just had to get closer. And there I was, squished between a woman who was losing her shit and two young men in tears as they professed their undying love for you.” He paused, shifting a bit to stretch his body and then cuddled back against Kerry. “But they had the right idea, because that’s exactly what I felt too. You already had the blue eyes, but your hair was not that white. And your voice, fuck, Ker! I can still remember how it vibrated through my chest.”

V’s voice was rough, full of the emotions the memory still brought.

“After the concert, Sofian was looking at me like I had lost my mind and I thought I might have too. And that night, when I laid in my shitty bed, I lost sleep thinking about you.”

Kerry couldn’t help but smile at that, although there was clear doubt in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe he had had such effect on a kid.

“You were also my gay awakening,” V concluded with a grin, which the musician returned before freezing. His expression turned mischievous.

“V… Are you telling me you jerked off thinking of me?”

And the merc honestly blushed. He had not anticipated this when he had started the story.

“I did not.”

“Liar.” Kerry laughed. “I don’t know if I’m honored or weirded out.” He added, looking at the ceiling with a quizzical expression. There was a moment of silence before V felt it coming: with a grin like the Cheshire Cat, Kerry asked:

“What did you imagine, in that little head of yours?”

With a groan, V turned on his back and hid behind his hands.

“Nothing! I did not wank thinking of you!”

“The Nile is not just a river in Egypt, V. Come on, you gotta tell me now, I’m curious!”

With a long-suffering sigh, V kept his hands over his face and mumbled something. Raising himself on one elbow, Kerry caught his hands and pulled them off his face. His gaze had gentled a bit, and he took one hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles.

“You’re right, maybe it’s weird,” he declared after muzzling against V’s palm. The younger man looked at him with a tender expression.

“I was pathetically obsessed with you Ker. It was not just physical. I dreamed that one day I would be this awesome man that would sweep you off your feet. I had all these little scenarios about saving you from gangs like in the movies. Or colliding with you, you know, spilling coffee on each other and exchanging looks while apologizing and all that jazz…”

Once again, Kerry grinned and shook his head.

“You were so cute.”

“Well, I’ll admit I had… other fantasies… Later. When I was older.”

“Really? Pray tell, what were those fantasies?” Kerry wondered with laughing eyes and heat simmered again in his pupils.

Reaching to Kerry’s face, V stoked his cheek gently.

“Doesn’t matter, reality is even better than my dreams,” he murmured, gaze turning serious once again. The musician’s smile slipped off his face too, chased away by the tide of emotion that had suddenly risen between them.

“And I’ll fucking fight to keep it,” he vowed in the same tone.

Both men looked at each other in silence. The sun bathed the room in a fuzzy yellow. Kerry sighed and laid back down over V’s chest, letting the other man embrace him.

They stayed in silence for a long moment, so long V started to relax and was ready to answer the call of sleep.

“Did you get to see any other of my concerts?” Kerry wondered in a soft voice.

“I was a dirt-poor kid, Ker. Of course not. But I kinda collected everything I could about you. I was such a gossip when it came to your life…” he murmured. “But when I grew-up, I also recognized it for what it was: a teenager’s crush. I didn’t know the real you at all.”

V stopped, yawned and turned his head to kiss Kerry’s hair.

“Meeting you for real certainly was a surprise… I won’t lie, my inner fanboy had a seizure when he saw you barely covered the first time.” He admitted with a self-depreciating expression, “But the adult me knew you were just another man. A man I had yet to know. A man I wanted to know.”

“And now? Now that you know me?” Kerry breathed in the liminal space between them.

“Now? Now I love you. For real.”

Link to the master post for the other fills here.

[starsfic]

Niú Mówáng R. Boy and Qi Xiaotian

Summary: Writer Red's summer of peace is broken one morning when his new neighbor moves in.

AO3

-_-

A loud crash was what Red woke up to.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, still not quite awake and very confused. Loud yelling and the beep of a moving truck was what made him wake up enough to growl and pull a pillow over his head.

The plan had been peace and quiet. His therapist had encouraged this summer of serenity to give him time off from writing and time to think over who he wanted to be without his parents’ expectations. He had thought the country would be nice and peaceful.

Except he was wrong.

Another blaring honk broke the silence and Red growled, glancing over at the clock. It was six, way too early to deal with this. He dropped the pillow and grabbed his slippers and bathrobe. He stalked to the door, throwing it open.

“-wake up the entire neighborhood! Just-just leave it by the curb!”

The sun wasn’t even up yet and all he could see was a thick blanket of fog. The streetlight managed to break it a bit. As well as the headlights of the moving truck. He slammed the door shut and stalked towards it. Whoever was making that noise was going to get an earful.

Before he could do that, something rammed into him. There was a yelp from him and whomever, as well as the sound of things falling into the gravel at his feet. “Sorry!” Red turned at the voice, clearly the person yelling.

And blinked.

The first thing he noticed about the noise complaint was the bright orange jacket that contrasted vibrantly against the fog. Then they looked up, revealing a pretty young man, a red headband pushing back dark hair. His mouth was pressed in a firm line and dark eyes were annoyed. “Sorry,” he repeated before turning back to the ground. He was holding a box that was full of books and art supplies, several books and a drawing tablet on the ground.

“I didn’t mean to bump into you,” the man explained, grabbing the books and stacking them in. “This fog is really thick and- this isn’t even my yard. Sorry about the noise!”

Red found himself kneeling, helping him stack the books in. “It’s no issue,” he said, his anger extinguished and mouth dry at the sight of the handsome man. He grabbed the tablet and the last book and stood, watching as the man stood. Something about the book caught his eye.

Stars of the West.

Hey, he had written this! It was his very first novel, a sci-fi version of the Journey to the West and the stepping stone to the literary power he had today. Nowadays, he was more known for business articles or his research into how much influence the economy had in politics. He ran his thumb over name indented into the glossy cover: Niú Mówáng R. Boy. He hadn’t been able to help it. Red Boy had been his favorite character in the Journey to the West.

He hadn’t seen it in years.

“Have you read it?” The man said, having noticed his gaze. “You can borrow if you haven’t.”

“I’ve read it.” Red said. He should’ve told him it was him that had written it. He had done it to several people before and he had always enjoyed the reactions. But he stayed his tongue. “One of his older ones, right?” Maybe he could hear an honest critique.

“Yep!” The man took the book and tablet and managed to stack them in the box. Steadying it on his knee, he managed to get a grip with both hands on the box. “Nice to meet you!” And just like that, he was walking past him and to the house next door. Red managed a wave.

So, that was his new neighbor.

He stood there in the fog and his pajamas, feeling the latter getting damp from the former. The thought rolled through and he looked around. It seemed like the driver wasn’t interested in helping, so…

He sighed and turned back to his house.

Once he was inside, he headed up to his bedroom. He got dressed, ignoring his stomach’s desire for breakfast, finding himself choosing casual but flattering clothes. He headed back out and to the moving truck, finding his neighbor was at the back, grabbing another box and nearly falling out of the truck.

“Do you need help, Noodle Boy?” The nickname came in a flash, stemming from the white shirt he wore that read Pigsy’s Noodles. He resisted the warmth that wanted to rise up when he squeaked, eyes tracing his arms.

“Uh, yeah! That would be great.” He passed him the box, turning back to the truck to grab another. “I’m MK, by the way.”

“Red.” he said simply.

The two worked together to bring in boxes. Much to his pride, Red noticed a few more of his novels, but he held off on asking. Soon enough, the last thing was the couch. Together, the two managed to heft it up and lug it to the door.

Then a problem presented itself.

The door was too small.

“Maybe if we turn it sideways…” MK eyed him, sweat making his hair stick to his face. Sweat started to form, but it was more due to the low boiling heat coursing through Red than any of the work. It was a bit before he realized the other was speaking. “- a shot.”

Then he was distracted by moving the couch.

“Turn it a little to the left- My left!”

“Yeah, that’s right!”

“No, my left!”

“That’s my right!”

After a few minutes of arguing and shoving, the couch popped through the doorway. The two managed to set it in place and Red collapsed on it, sighing with relief. He heard MK moving around, but he didn’t open his eyes, not even when the door closed and he could hear the moving truck move away.

Then something warm rested on him. He opened his eyes and bit back a yelp when he saw MK leaning against him. His new neighbor seemed to not notice, busy typing. “So, it’s a bit late for breakfast,” he said, looking up with a smile that made Red’s heart flutter. He was cute. And charming. And read his books. It was hard not to like him. “But can I treat you to brunch?”

“Absolutely.”

After that, MK hopped off the couch and set to work opening boxes. Red followed, placing things where they were supposed to go. Another novel of his caught his eye. The Blueprints of the Star Chaser was another sci-fi, this one a short story and reminding him. “So...what do you think of Niú Mówáng R. Boy?”

There was a chuckle. “I like his older stuff.”

He blinked, caught off-guard. Most people he had spoken to preferred his more current stuff. (The fact that most people were his parents was something he ignored.) “Really? Don’t you think it’s kinda… childish?”

“Yeah, they’re amateur, but that’s what I like. He clearly enjoyed what he was writing back then. Nowadays it’s either articles or political dramas. I can understand why people like his more polished stuff, but at least it didn’t read like every word was a rotten tooth being dragged out by a dentist.”

That was… graphic. But his parents had told him that he needed to get serious to be respected, and his sci-fi novels and different analyzes of the Journey to the West weren’t serious. Before he could spiral into these thoughts, MK’s voice broke his thoughts. “What about you? What do you like?”

“Qi Xiaotian.” It was immediate. The name brought up the memory of beautiful art. “His comic version of the Journey to the West , to be specific.”

“Really?”

Red shrugged, unable to resist his smile. “I love his artwork. It’s so colorful and… wow. You can really feel his passion on every page. And that doesn’t describe his blog posts and short stories! I mean, on some of his analysis I don’t agree with. But the amount of research shows.” When he looked up, MK was flushed, a pleased smile on his face. Before he could continue or ask, there was a knock on the door.

They both hopped to their feet and scrambled to their feet, eager for food. When Red opened the door the delivery boy yelped. “Ah! Mr. Niú Mówáng! Are you- I mean, I have an order for a Qi Xiaotian?”

Red froze.

“That’s me!” MK said, reaching forward with cash in his hand. “I’m paying for all of it.” Soon enough, money and canvas bag full of food had exchanged hands and he was shutting the door. Now alone, the two blinked at each other.

“So…” MK said, breaking the silence, tapping his fingers together. “Can we forget the part where I compared your writing to rotten teeth?” Red burst into laughter and he smiled, moving past Red to the kitchen. “But, seriously, I’m sorry for whining about you not writing sci-fi anymore.”

Red chuckled, leaning over to grab the set of paper plates and plastic utensils Mk had set. “Well, I’ll forgive you, Noodle Boy, if you tell me what you’re working on now if you forgive me for my dislike of your analyzes.”

“Deal.”

Yeah, this was gonna be great.

[wistfulcynic]

Love Reigns

SUMMARY: On his wedding day, Killian reflects on his life and his future with Emma, and his new role as the crown princess’s husband. 

Part Three of the Modern Misthaven series that began with Error 404: “Little” Brother Not Found. 

Tumblr: Part One | Part Two AO3: One | Two | Three

a/n: The lightest, sweetest Lieutenant Duckling fluff, because writing in this verse is very soothing. Have the dentist on speed-dial. 

Rating: G-ish Words: 3.1k Tags: Lieutenant Duckling, Royalty AU, Modern Royalty, Wedding

-

LOVE REIGNS: 

The flowers are beautiful. 

It’s probably an odd thing for Killian to be thinking at this moment, but they truly are. Mist lilies, the national flower of Misthaven, with their unusual blue-grey colour and subtle fragrance—mid-June is the height of their season and they’re Emma’s favourite flower so there was never really any question as to what time of year the wedding would be. 

The chapel is awash in them, draped in garlands over the chairs and gathered in bouquets on either side of the aisle, bouquets rounded out by sprays of Queen Anne’s lace and the sunshine yellow roses that are their country’s second most populous flower. There’s a lily tucked into his buttonhole, just a small one nestled in a sprig of lacy white. Liam put it there not an hour earlier, his usual jovial smile dimmed by the weight of solemnity and nerves. 

(“Nervous, little brother?” he attempted to joke, adjusting the flower and smoothing Killian’s lapels.

Killian smiled, content to let the nickname slide. Just for today. “No,” he replied. 

“What, not at all?” Liam fiddled with his tie as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m a bloody wreck.” 

Killian turned to examine their reflection in the mirror—both in their formal dress uniforms, though he had technically given up his naval commission when he accepted a seat on the Royal Council. “I suppose it’s because I’ve had such a long time to get used to the idea,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this day since the first time I kissed her.” 

“How?” Liam shook his head. “How could you know after one kiss?” 

Killian doubted he’d ever be able to fully articulate how it felt, that calm certainty that had settled within him from the first touch of her lips on his, even as the taste of her set his blood racing. It was the certainty of knowing exactly where you belong, and he had known from the first that he belonged with Emma—by her side always, despite how impossible such a thing had seemed at the time. 

He couldn’t explain it and even if he could there wasn’t time. The chapel bell began to chime and Liam jumped, then chuckled at himself. Killian reached up to clasp his brother’s shoulder and give it a reassuring a squeeze. “When you know you know, as they say,” he quipped. “With Emma I’ve just always known.”)

The organ begins to play and the guests rise to their feet. Killian can feel Liam behind him, standing straight and palpably tense. He wishes he could offer his brother some reassurance but he can’t move—every particle of his focus and attention is directed at the chapel doors. When they open a bright flare of sunlight bursts through and then there is Emma, more radiant than any beam, and he catches his breath. 

Her hair is twisted into an elegant updo, and though he prefers it loose and curling around her shoulders for his fingers to tangle in he cannot deny that she is stunning, the graceful curve of neck and shoulder bare and just teased by curling tendrils. Her dress is long and flowing in the traditional style, ivory silk shot through with gold, and he would swear that every inch of her gleams. 

He swallows hard as she approaches, his heart thundering though not with nerves or even excitement. It’s closer to awe; the culmination of years of study and work and dreams, planning their life together and building its foundations, slowly, until the day it could at so long last be realised. 

(“I’d go down on one knee for this,” he said to her on the morning of the happiest day of his life so far. “I probably should, tradition and all, but people kneel to you all the time and I don’t wish to be one of them.” 

He stopped walking and turned to her, tightening his hand in hers. It was a cool day, cloudy but dry, and they were in the palace gardens where the mist lilies were just beginning to fade, making way for the late summer flowers with their richer colours. He looked down at her, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, her posture tense with expectation and excitement. He knew her answer, had known it for years, but the question still required asking. 

“So I won’t kneel,” he continued, “but instead I stand here before you as your partner—if not precisely your equal—to tell you that I love you with everything I have in me, and that I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days at your side. Or two steps behind you, should the occasion require it.” 

She gave a bright laugh, even as a tear escaped the corner of her eye. He wiped it away with a gentle brush of his thumb, framing her face in his hand. 

 “Emma, my love,” he said softly. “Will you marry me?”) 

She arrives at his side and her father lifts her hand to his lips—Killian startles; he was so absorbed by Emma that he forgot the king was there—kisses it gently and passes it to Killian, who takes it in his own hand and kisses it in his turn. 

King David nods and makes a formal bow, and when he straightens his eyes catch Killian’s. Understanding flashes between them, and there in that moment they are not a king and his subject but a father and the man about to become his son-in-law. It’s a brief moment but heavy with meaning, and when it passes David gives a nod and the barest curve of his lips before stepping back and taking his seat next to the queen. 

Killian returns his attention to Emma, tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow and attempts a smile. 

“Swan, you look...” he trails off, for once at a loss for words. 

She gives him a cheeky smile. “I know.” 

His own smile blooms, the breathless tension broken, and they turn together to face Lancelot. 

(The footman announced him and Killian entered the king and queen’s private residence to find them waiting with tea already laid. They looked surprised to see him alone, then comprehension dawned and they sat up straighter, more formally, and he bowed, first to Snow then to David, then waited at military attention until they bade him to take a seat. 

“I know that you know why I’m here,” he said. “We’ve never spoken about it in so many words but I know that you have always understood how much I love your daughter and that my dearest wish for a long time has been to marry her. I believe that now, with my new position on the Council and with Emma officially taking on her royal duties, that it is the... well, the time.” 

He sat as straight as he could, shoulders back, and met their eyes without a waver. “Yesterday I asked Emma to marry me and she said yes,” he continued. “Today I am here to ask for your blessing—not your formal approval as the king and queen, but your blessing as parents. I know I wouldn’t have been your first choice for her, but I promise you that no one could love her more than I do and I will devote my life to her happiness.”

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, awaiting their reply. They were silent for a moment, sharing that unspoken communication they had, that he and Emma had as well. Then Queen Snow pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes and King David’s stern face softened. 

“Oh, Killian,” said Snow, sniffling. She rose to her feet and he hurried to follow—it was very bad form to sit while the queen was standing—but she waved away his attempts at protocol and took his face in her hands with a tremulous smile. “It’s true you weren’t our first choice but that doesn’t mean you aren’t the best one. You are Emma’s choice and you make her happy, and that’s all we care about. Of course you have our blessing!” 

She pulled him into a hug which he attempted to return both warmly and respectfully—not the easiest balance to strike—and met David’s eyes over her shoulder. The king was attempting to look stern, but Killian knew him too well by now to be fooled.

So did Snow. “David,” she said, turning to him and dabbing her eyes again. “Come greet our son-in-law.”  

David stood and offered Killian his hand. “Welcome to the family,” he said.)

Lancelot’s smile is wide and his voice resonant, but Killian does not hear his words. He is conscious only of Emma beside him, the soft weight of her hand on his arm, the magnitude of this moment. His heart is so full of love for her he fears it may burst, and though he supposes he should listen to the vows he is taking, he doesn’t truly need to. He knows what they say and more importantly he feels them, those words that speak of love and trust and partnership, of solemn duty gladly undertaken, and he has no need to hear the words to promise to uphold them. 

“I do,” he says, when the time comes, and Emma repeats this vow in her turn. Then he is turning to her, his hand firm on the small of her back as he leans in to kiss her. 

And with that, they are married. 

(“Killian!” Emma tapped gently at his door. “Killian, are you there?”

“Swan!” He leapt from the sofa where he and Liam had been lounging, exchanging an alarmed glance with his brother as he approached the door. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“I just wanted to talk to you,” she said quietly. “I miss you.” 

Liam rolled his eyes but Killian ignored him. “I miss you too,” he said. “But—”

“I wish I could see you.” 

Killian sighed. “Love, you know that’s bad luck.” 

“I know you think it’s bad luck.” 

“A seafaring man knows better than to mess about defying superstitions,” he told her sternly. “Even ones that may be foolish. Perhaps it’s not bad luck to see the bride the night before the wedding, but I don’t care to take that chance.” 

“I know,” she sighed. “And I do understand, I just—I hate sleeping without you.” 

“I know, darling, me too.” Killian leaned his forehead against the door, knowing that on the other side she was doing the same. “But it’s just one night. Come tomorrow there’ll be no getting rid of me.” 

Emma’s voice dropped so low he could barely hear her. “Promise?” 

“Aye, my love,” he whispered back. “I promise.”)

The organ music swells as he and Emma walk arm-in-arm back down the aisle. The doors swing open as they approach and the glare of the sunlight outside momentarily blinds him. When his vision clears he sees a crowd of people filling up and spilling out of the chapel grounds and into the streets, where traffic has been blocked off for the occasion. A great cheer erupts as they emerge and stand together at the top of the curving steps so the people below can get a good look at their princess and new prince. 

Bloody hell, thinks Killian. Prince. 

It’s a courtesy title that holds no real weight, and he won’t even technically assume it until Emma takes the throne. But the tabloids are already calling him Prince Killian, which makes him blush and Emma laugh, and as the crowd cheers and she smiles and waves as naturally as breathing, Killian feels overwhelmed. This is his life now, he thinks. He is a public figure, a member of the royal family. He has a duty to these people, a responsibility, and—his head begins to spin and bile rises in his throat and then he feels Emma’s hand tighten on his arm. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers, rubbing tiny, gentle circles on his bicep with her fingertips. “You’re okay. I love you.” 

Her touch grounds him and her voice quells his rising panic. He looks down at her and she smiles, radiant with happiness and love and sunlight and he feels himself relax. This is just them, after all. Just Killian and Emma, together, as they’ve been now for more than five years. That’s all that matters. 

He smiles back at her then turns to the crowd and raises his hand in a tentative wave. Cheers swell and cameras flash, and Emma’s voice is low in his ear. 

“You’re a natural.” 

~

The rest of the day is a dizzying whirl of speeches and toasts and hands to shake, people bowing and calling him ‘sir’, Liam’s tight, proud hug and the tears in the queen’s eyes. There is dancing and a meal they don’t have time to eat, and so many camera flashes that Killian begins to think the spots behind his eyelids when he blinks may be permanent. 

Emma smiles through it all but he can see fatigue begin to settle on her shoulders and around her eyes. She’s been awake since dawn at least and moving nonstop, with constant demands on her time and attention. She bears it brilliantly, sustained by a lifetime of royal training, but he knows how much it drains her and wishes he could whisk her away to someplace quiet and private, just for a moment, where they could lean against each other and just breathe. 

Finally the time comes for them to leave for their honeymoon, which they do in one of the palace limousines. One with tinted windows, Killian notes in relief, and comfortable leather seats, quite different from the stiff, open-topped carriages that conveyed them to and from the chapel. Everyone gathers round to see them off, and they muster the energy for one last round of smiles and waves. The instant the car pulls away Emma droops, collapsing against Killian’s chest with a small sigh. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her close. 

“Long day,” he says. 

“You’re not kidding,” she murmurs. “But a good one.” 

“Aye,” he agrees, and lets his cheek rest on his wife’s head. His wife. “The best day.” 

They sit in comfortable silence as the car moves through the streets. People still line them, hoping for a glimpse of the royal couple, but the tint of the windows is dark and Killian is glad of it; frankly he feels no obligation to give the public any more of himself or of Emma today. He’s exhausted and she’s already asleep, snoring faintly into the crook of his neck. 

They drive to the palace and through the grand front entrance, around the main buildings and towards the rear exit and the road that leads to the airport. The limo pauses briefly in a small alcove that’s invisible from outside the palace grounds, where Killian nudges Emma awake and they perform a quick-change operation worthy of a spy film, slipping from the limo—which then proceeds through the rear gates without them—and into an ordinary, unmarked car.  This car Killian drives out a small side exit where no crowds are gathered and down the quiet streets that lead to the coast, as Emma curls up in the passenger seat and dozes again with her head pillowed on his coat. 

It’s quite late when they reach their destination—a small house on a tall cliff overlooking the ocean. The housekeeper is there to greet them, giving them a brief tour of the amenities then showing them to their room, with a curtsey and a reminder that she lives just next door should there be anything they need. 

“Thank you,” Killian says with a smile. “I think we’ll be all right.” 

He turns back into the room where Emma has already shed the sleek dress she wore to the reception and is snuggling into the dressing gown that was laid out on the bed for her. Killian follows suit, pleased to discard his stiff dress uniform in favour of slipping into something far more comfortable. He considers making a quip along those lines to Emma, but considering how tired she is he doubts the innuendo would be well-received. Something like 80% of couples don’t have sex on their wedding night, he reminds himself. And he and Emma have three weeks’ worth of nights to look forward to, alone here on this rocky stretch of shore—one final interlude just for them before they return to their life in the public eye. They can spare this one night just for sleep. 

Their bedroom has a set of wide French doors leading to a balcony that overlooks the beach, and these Killian opens, stepping out into the fading twilight and breathing deeply of the crisp sea air. It’s unlikely he’ll be able to spend much time on the sea in the future and he would be lying if he claimed not to feel a twinge of sadness at that thought. But he’ll have a lifetime with Emma instead, in the face of which joyous prospect all other concerns pale into insignificance.

Emma. His wife. He wonders how long it will be before that word stops making him feel giddy. Possibly never—and honestly, Killian reflects, he’s okay with that.  

Emma’s arms slip around his waist and she rests her chin on his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” she asks. 

He turns so he can wrap her in his arms. “I’m thinking about how much I love you,” he replies, “and how much I am looking forward to living the rest of my life by your side.” 

��Mmmm,” she says. “Those are good thoughts.” 

She leans up for a kiss and he gladly obliges, trying to keep it light and sweet—but Emma is having none of that. She presses herself firmly against him and slips her tongue past his lips and Killian’s body leaps to attention before he can stop it. 

“Are you sure, Swan?” he murmurs. “You’re exhausted.” 

“I had a nap,” she replies, nipping at his lip. “And this sea air is really quite  invigorat—oh!” She shrieks as he scoops her up in his arms and carries her to the bed where he lays her down with a gentleness that belies the fire in his veins. She watches as he slips off his dressing gown, biting her lip in that way she knows drives him mad. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes, love,” he purrs. 

“Why don’t you come down here and do something about it?” 

She shrieks again as he pounces on her then sighs into his kiss, and as the rising moon casts the room in a gentle glow they share one last celebration of their wedding and their love. 

___

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @kmomof4 @stahlop​ @darkcolinodonorgasm @katie-dub @teamhook @snidgetsafan @mariakov81 

___

[davidkarofskyindie]

submissivecumslxtsrp (Scott/Kylie)

@submissivecumslxtsrp​ continued from (x)

submissivecumslxtsrp​:

Kylie vowed that once he transitioned and came out he would live some of his dreams. High on the list was seeing Yosemite but not so high on the list were tents and sleeping on the ground. What was the saying? Someone up there likes me? Not only had he met a wonderful, handsome sexy man in Scott, but the dentist was fine with Kylie having a pussy. Tonight? Kylie hoped, going to be where they made love the first time, and to make it even more special, Scott had a camper and had taken him to his dream place. Fresh from a shower, Kylie climbed into Scott’s lap. “Just a hug? I would say it earns you all of me, but you already have that.

@davidkarofskyindie

Scott grinned playfully when he watched Kylie walking over and looking as precious as could be. Their relationship was still new, but it was precious to Scott who loved every single inch of his boyfriend. When Kylie climbed into his lap, his arms went right around that small flawless body and held him close “Well, I figured I’d start small at a hug and work my way up to all of you” he whispered, leaning in to kiss against Kylie’s neck “Though if I did earn all of you, maybe I should take you in and test out how comfy that bed is” he let his hands slip down just a little and sensually trailed his fingertips over the man’s firm ass “I mean, if you’re up for it... the only downside is having to let go of you for a few minutes”

[skinks]

mr wentworth yes i help my son with his goofy voices yes i am a dilf tozier has the salt n pepper hair of god (oscar isaac) and the sexy librarian glasses to match

god I had never even considered that... the range of this...

Went starts going gray at 32 when Richie is 5 and it’s all the church women’s group can talk about... indirectly, of course. Oh, but he’s so young. Oh, he’ll be balding next. Oh I don’t know, doesn’t he look... distinguished? Mrs Nash from just down their street sees him doing rock-paper-scissors with his son Richard in the grocery store to determine whether or not Richard is allowed ice cream, and Dr Tozier is laughing because he’s winning, and he’s winning because Richard doesn’t know his father can see his little hidden hand reflected in the freezer cabinet, tucked behind his back. Richard’s laughing too, even though he’s losing, and bleats, “Again! Dad again,” eyes shining big as planets with coke-bottle rings.

“Don’t you know what best two out of three means? That was four draws ago.”

“No! No, I’ll win!” The boy shakes his head so hard his whole body rocks from side to side, then clings up at Dr Tozier’s middle with sticky hands. His very... trim middle. Helen’s own Rory, God love him, he enjoys a sudsy six-pack too much these days to keep a middle like that. “Two outta three! Three ice creams please Dad please please Dad please watch I can count to a hundred—”

“Well, we’re not playing hide-and-go-seek right now, Rich. And I beat you, didnt I?”

“Yeah!”

“Right. So why don’t you go get Dad six apples instead, alright? If you can do a hundred, six’ll be pie.” Dr Tozier claps his big hands gentle to the boy’s round cheeks, until they goldfish.

“Easy as,” they chant together. Helen props herself up with the handles of her own cart, the can of little hotdogs going slack in her hand.

“Six apples, then come right back. You got that, doc? You pick the color.”

Richard nods like he’s trying to detach his own head. Dr Tozier puts one hand just briefly on Richard’s dark mophead hair, like he’s giving the boy a blessing for his apple adventure. His hand is really quite broad, thinks Helen, popped out square at the thumb-joint. Matches that jawline of his, something whispers darkly in her stomach. Then the boy’s off, tearing down the aisle on a squeaking chariot of scuffed-gray sneakers and babbling what sounds like a Bugs Bunny impression, repeated on a loop. What’s up doc what’s up doc what’s up doc, fading around the corner to the fruit. Peculiar. Helen once saw the Tozier boy eat a worm at the park while pushing her youngest on the swings, after another solemn-eyed little boy with a faceful of freckles had carefully presented it to him in the sand box. Most peculiar.

Dr Tozier watches him go, then turns back to the freezer cabinet, and sticks two cartons of ice cream into his shopping cart—the very sugary kind. And the man is a dentist!

Helen puts her hand on her chest to calm the trilling schoolgirl rush of her heart, and then stops herself at the sight of her own wedding ring. Get a hold of yourself, Mrs Nash! For Pete’s sake! She trundles her cart over for some chit-chat. Afternoon, Doctor, she says, lovely weather. A perfect neighbourly opener. It is lovely; bright and warm and clear and golden, like honey outside. She’s quietly smug about her new blowout. Dr Tozier is wearing a crisp shirt with buttons like neat soldiers and short sleeves, exposing lean forearms. Yes, a lovely day. Helen swallows.

“Yes, good for the lawn,” replies Dr Tozier.

“We missed Margaret at book club this week,” Helen hedges.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Dr Tozier, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins are even more distracting without the facemask he’s usually wearing, when Helen drops in for her check-ups. He pushes his spectacles up the strong slope of his nose. They’re wiry like him, steely gray to match his eyes. “She meant for me to tell you, or Diana. Maggie’s been in Skowhegan for the week at her mother’s. My mother-in-law is a woman of... nervous disposition, shall we say. Maggie didn’t think she’d cope with two Tozier men at once, now that Richie’s started losing his teeth.”

“Ohhh,” Helen coos. That must explain the ice cream. She puts her hand near to Dr Tozier’s arm, then away, then near, then away again for good. A neighbourly distance. Margaret is a lovely, lucky woman, even if she does wear flared pants. Hippie to yuppie pipeline’s alive ‘n’ flowin’, Rory always grunts whenever the Toziers come up in conversation. Helen imagines a picket fence between their bodies, and calms. “My Wendy was the same, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes,” says Dr Tozier mildly. “You brought her in six times as I recall it, Mrs Nash.”

Mrs Nash. Honestly, like she’s his schoolteacher. It’s a little rude. Admittedly he does look quite, quite young with his faintly curling weekend-hair, if not for the new gray blazing a trail back from his temples like virgin snow. Helen is undeterred, even if something quivers inside at the thought of the word virgin in conversation with Dr Tozier. Music tinkles tinny through the ceiling speakers, and it puts Helen in mind of potted plants, or elevators. This is a lovely chat. “Well, you hate to see them suffer, don’t you? I’m sure Richard’s the same, lots of tears—”

“No, actually, Richie keeps on finding things to hit himself in the face with and knock out more teeth,” Dr Tozier interjects. He raises his eyebrows and speaks hushed, as if this is a secret for Helen’s ears alone. The thought makes her dizzy. “It’s my fault, I made the mistake of giving him a quarter for the first one. That’s why he’s not invited to Grandma’s. Lot of antiques.”

“Oh,” says Helen, taken aback. She has three girls; little boy behavior is as yet mystifying. “Well.”

“I’m joking, Helen,” Dr Tozier says cheerfully.

“Oh. I—I see. What a relief.”

He opens a freezer chest to examine a bag of frozen peas. “Maggie’s mom is deaf as white cat, she’d never notice.”

Helen tries to wipe her clammy hands on her dress without being obvious. Her face is hot, but she hopes her cardigan conceals the effect that the chill of the freezer aisle is having under her bra. She also hopes that it doesn’t.

He really does have such a slender, pleasant face, always with an air of casual, amused expectancy hanging around him. Haloing him, like that bright yellow light above the chair in his practice, blocked out when he leans over and slips his fingers inside. Helen supposes that’s what graduating medical school must do to a man, what marrying and fathering young and having one’s own practice by the end of such a turbulent decade as the nineteen-seventies must elicit. The ability to put people at ease, to—to say open wide and know the people of Derry trust him enough to comply. To open themselves. Helen’s breathing catches. Dr Tozier idly checks his sensible watch, still smiling the unhurried smile of a man who very rarely does his own grocery shopping anymore. Everyone knows you pick up the ice-cream last.

Helen gathers herself. This is the longest conversation she has entertained with Dr Tozier without children or the squeaking of latex gloves between them, and she’s gripped by the terribly silly need to be interesting. “Speaking of white cats, I couldn’t help noticing your hair, Wentworth—”

“DADDY!”

Dr Tozier blanches, whipping around to scan the end of the aisle. He is a long line of tense instinct tuned to thrum into action at one specific frequency, knuckles white on the cart handle. His cart bumps into Helen’s. It is thrilling.

“Fuck,” Dr Tozier mutters, and that’s thrilling too, he swore, oh, the boy’s probably fine Wentworth, don’t go, why don’t we just stay right here with the frozen goods and—

Then Richard comes barrelling back down the aisle like a colt on new legs covered in old Band-aids, with his arms full. The fluorescent strip-lights gleam white on Dr Tozier’s broad shoulders and he sags, like snow dropping from a branch, with relief.

“Hey, lunkhead,” he says, sounding shaky, but Richard is only five and would never know it. He’s babbling again. Seems to Helen like the boy’s as a hydrant overflowing on a hot day; entertaining and welcomed at first, until it becomes a nuisance when you begin to understand it won’t shut off, and have to call the firemen.

“Nyyeeeeeah,” Richard greets his father, tousled and bug-eyed with clear adoration, breathing hard from his Supermarket Sweep. Then he makes the carrot-noise. Looks like Bugs, Helen thinks of the boy’s new adult front teeth, the beaverish jut of them exacerbated by his missing canines on either side. Then she feels abruptly un-neighbourlike for being jealous of a child for his father’s attention, good grief.

Dr Tozier regards his son for a long moment. Then says, “What’s up, doc?” in a spot-on Mel Blanc whine. Richard giggles so hard his too-big glasses start slipping. “How many apples is that?”

“Gotta apples and I was gonna put ‘em in a bag but I forgot and Dad, Daddy look, s’a dinosaur on the box for my dinner when Mommy’s at Grandma’s—”

Dr Tozier sighs, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other over his clean-shaven mouth, watching Richard drop his armfuls everywhere, scattering the linoleum. He has two apples, four boxes of brightly colored cereal, a handful of pencils topped with cartoon-character erasers, and a kiwi fruit. For a moment, Helen sees the shining enamel of Dr Tozier’s everything-will-work-out-with-another-cup-of-coffee amusement slip, wear away to worry underneath.

“Rich,” he says, interrupting Richard’s blabbermouth, firm and patient. Helen’s thighs burn suddenly under her skirts at the tone of his voice, and she looks down, rearranging her own groceries. She should leave them to get on. She could offer to help. Margaret’s out of town, poor things, they probably haven’t eaten a cooked meal all week!

“Richie,” Dr Tozier says again. “Listen and pay attention when Mom or me ask you to do something, remember? How many apples did I ask you to get?”

Richard has to crane his neck to meet his father’s eyes. Dr Tozier is one of the tallest fathers in the Derry Elementary catchment zone, Helen has checked. “Six!”

“And how many’ve you got, Elmer Fudd?”

“Um.” Richard’s pale little face creases in thought, then brightens. When he speaks again his voice is strange, accented. “Twooo.”

“Some apple hunter you are, huh.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s fine.” Dr Tozier stoops to gather Richard’s detritus, and Helen knows she has something to contribute, watching the boy stick one of the pencils up his nose.

“You know, apples are very good for you,” she says. Richard turns to her, slack-jawed, as if seeing her for the first time. “You should listen to your Daddy, Richard, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Richard stares for another few seconds. Then he bites down on his boogery pencil so that it threads through the gaps in his teeth, and hollers, “MY FRIEND BILL SAID THAT’S A PILE OF BULLSHIT.”

“No shouting indoors, Rich,” says Dr Tozier, still gathering. Helen rocks a step backwards, clinging to her cart like a life-preserver.

“Bill and my’s friend Eddie eats a thousand apples and sees the doctor all the time though Dad, and Miss Spiegel said if we eat apples we don’t have to see the doctors but Eddie eats them and—Bill said—”

“Pile of bullshit, yeah, I liked it. Bill’s an eloquent guy,” says Dr Tozier. This is the second time Helen has ever heard him curse in as many minutes. It comes out easy and amused as everything else does in his pleasant tenor. His legs and his jaw are so lean and angular that Helen can see the suggestion, the shadow of the shape of his perfect, swearing teeth through his cheek as he grins helplessly at his son, the fruit of his loins and someone else’s loins who isn’t Helen, and all of a sudden she feels a slick pulse of wet heat, up between her thighs.

She squeaks. Flutters her hand to her face without knowing why, perhaps to catch the noise before Dr Tozier notices, just another quivering Derry leaf tossed along by his breezy manner. He looks up anyway, with a frown.

“Everything alright, Helen?”

“Just—fine, yes,” she manages. Dr Tozier is still down on one knee, kindly face level with her skirts. She can see right down under his starched collar from this angle, a slivering glimpse of smooth, dark hair. No undershirt. Helen has lain naked against Rory’s nakedness before without feeling this alive, in every part of her body. She feels like a heart, beating.

“Oh, hang on.” Dr Tozier says, eyes widening, and turns Richard by the shoulders to face her. One pencil for each nostril, now. “Apologize to Mrs Nash for cussing, Richie.”

“Sorry!” Richard shouts, sounding less like he’s apologizing and more like he’s just deemed Helen it during a game of tag.

Helen is still floating in a dazed state of mild panic. Like a prey-mouse, bewitched into slack compliance by her own body’s snaking desires. “That’s alright, dear.”

F-word, Dr Tozier had said. Maybe cussing could be quite neighbourly when applied in the right context, thinks Helen.

“You mentioned my hair, earlier,” says Dr Tozier, straightening back up with a knowing sort of arch to his eyebrow as he smiles genially at Helen. He tilts his head down at Richard. “There’s the reason. Every last one, sprinkled onto my head at the tender age of thirty-two by the great salt-and-pepper shaker of fatherhood. Especially this week, with Maggie on sabbatical. Had to bring you to work with me, didn’t I, buckaroo?”

Richard bites and swings and tugs on his father’s long arm, a tearaway kitten with a much obliging scratching post. Dr Tozier hardly seems to notice. “Yeah! Daddy’s got fishes at work!”

Dr Tozier grimaces slightly at Helen, but also as if he’s seeing right through her to some past unnamable horror. “I liked those fish. Calmed down the nervy patients.” He sighs again.

Helen wonders briefly whether or not the residents of Dr Tozier’s waiting-room fish tank suffered the same fate as that worm in the park, and decides she’d rather not know.

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” she says, gamely. She watches her hand reach towards Dr Tozier’s silver-black brindle, then snatches it back from his bland expression to brush the tips of her own feathered-out hair. “The gray, I mean.”

Dr Tozier blinks.

“It’s very—that is to say, you look, it makes you look, I mean, I think it’s—”

Dr Tozier’s left eyebrow joins his right, raised up high.

A tidy little jet of hysteria shoots up from Helen’s knotting stomach to spin like a top in her chest. She hears herself stutter out the word, “Dashing,” and immediately wishes to flee the store, leaving her cart abandoned like so much collateral damage.

But Dr Tozier only barks a laugh, a short, smooth hah like everything else he says. Entirely unperturbed. “Well, thank you.”

Too unperturbed. Helen is struck by a sudden bolt of terror, at the thought of the things Dr Tozier must surely hear every day, when people are lulled by the hypnotically intimate environment of a dentist’s chair and a touch of the laughing gas. Oh, this is terrible. Her face is on fire.

“But they—they make products for men now,” she says, and why, oh why can’t she stop talking? “Hair dyes, I mean, if it really does bother you? I’ve seen them in Keene’s.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Dr Tozier, looking down at Richard then with a soft edge, at his bouncing noise and scabbed knees and gently curling hair like a black spaniel’s. Like his father’s. “I find I’m rather grateful for it, truth be told.”

“Plus,” he continues, as if Helen wasn’t already melting harder than the Tozier’s ice-cream, as if Johnny Kitchener the shop-boy isn’t going to have to come along with a mop and bucket to clean up on aisle seven, “Maggie’d kill me if I got rid of it.”

Then Dr Tozier winks.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, Helen’s whole ribcage is so tight she can’t squeeze out a reply, because who could blame dear, pretty, annoyingly friendly, lucky, lucky, lucky Margaret for that when Dr Wentworth Tozier DMD is so—

So f—

So fffffff—

So fiddlesticksing handsome!

“Well, we’d best not keep you, Helen. This one is in dire need of a bath before his mother sees him, and hands me a divorce on the spot,” Dr Tozier says, when another few moments have passed and all Helen can do is try to desperately smooth the creases from her breathing. He’s humming mild interest at something Richard is saying, knelt back down to the linoleum to tie the boy’s loose-worm laces presumably before he gives himself any more skinned knees, and they’re leaving. Dr Tozier is leaving, and Helen hasn’t done anything but act like a ninny this entire time. She doesn’t want him to think her a ninny, a simpleton. She wants him to leave this bright, liminal church of bold colors and jazzy waiting-room music and return to his lemon-yellow two-storey house thinking my, what a lovely chat I had with Helen Nash.

She wants to linger, as he lingers. Like an amiable spirit hanging over the women’s group at church, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s eager notice. I bumped into Dr Tozier at Palmer’s on Saturday, she’ll say to the other jealous ladies, with triumph, and we had such a nice talk. He called me Helen.

“And when—when does Margaret get home?” she blurts. A very secret part of Helen wants Dr Tozier to leave this conversation with Helen and his wife both, entwined by association in his mind. She tries very hard not to think about the Toziers divorcing, because that is un-neighbourly, and feels least neighbourly of all when a dopey, dreamy look crosses Dr Tozier’s face like a brief sunbeam at her question.

“Ah. Tonight. Not too late, hopefully.” He jerks one of his knuckley thumbs at his shopping cart, licking the other to wipe something unidentifiable from Richard’s grubby face. “That’s why we’re here, stocking up for her miraculous return. Like a couple of noble emperor penguins in Antarctica, eh Rich?”

“Penguins like from Batman! Ka-pow.”

Helen takes a peek into their cart, curiosity getting the better of her now that permission is granted. Dr Tozier might not know it, but looking into another person’s cart is bad grocery etiquette, especially in a town like Derry, where gossip grows like a fungus in every sweaty and close little huddle of people. Not that Helen would know about that. Anyway, there isn’t much to gossip about besides the unfortunately liquefied ice-cream, the severe lack of crunchy vegetables characteristic of a young man in 1981 trying to provide for a tooth-shedding son, and—

A little cardboard box. Tossed unashamedly between the Wonderbread and a magazine about sports. Prophylactics. Rubbers.

36-pack. XL

Helen knows her jaw is hanging open and strains to close it, the back of her neck and her shoulders feeling hot and tight and shuddery. She kneads a fist into her skirts. Crosses her legs at the ankles as demurely as she knows how, because the very last thing she needs is for frank, sensible Dr Tozier to see right through her with that easy doctor-patient-confidentiality smile, and know she’s soaking through her underwear at the sight of his Saturday grocery run, and all it implies.

Dr Tozier is laughing, nudging Richard in the direction of the register, or perhaps the apples. “Ka-pow is right. I’ll make sure to use that on Mom, thanks. Say hello to Rory for us, Helen. Have a nice day,” he says from over his shoulder, startling her. Holds up one long hand in a wave with a grin, and is gone, shadowing the boy’s haphazard attempts to push the cart despite not being able to see where he’s going.

Helen stands amongst the humming freezers, trembling. “You too,” she rasps, but Dr Tozier has rounded the corner, and is evidently going to have a nice day and a much nicer night, regardless of whether Helen wishes it for him or not.

All the bright little branded characters are watching her from their shelves, a silent jury. Helen Nash opens a freezer cabinet with a weak arm, and stands there for a while, staring at a leg of ham and thinking cooling, neighbourly thoughts.

[rons-hermiones]

Come Find Me

Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Warning: This chapter is dark, probably as dark as it will get. There are heavily implied conversations/thoughts about rape, but not elaborated in any sort of detail. Nevertheless, if that sort of thing triggers you, please wait until the next one.

Chapter Twenty Four

She doesn’t know how much time has passed. She can’t be sure. Everyday is the same. 

Pain. 

Hermione wasn’t crazy. She couldn’t be. 

And she doesn’t think she was. 

Sometimes things were harder to remember than others, but she always worked it out. It was sort of a miracle. 

She’s read time and time again about the effects the Cruciatus Curse has on someone when administered once. Hermione’s lost count of how many times Bellatrix used it on her. 

She was certainly feeling the effects on her body, but not so much in her brain. She almost wishes she could forget it, maybe it would all be easier. 

Forget all the pain this place caused her. How many times she’s had her free will taken from her. All the times she’s had her- 

No. Don’t think about that. 

Hermione never let that cross her mind. She’d rather face Voldemort then relive those moments. 

The only thing keeping her grounded was that book and the mantra she’d often repeat to herself over and over. 

‘My name is Hermione Granger...’

More often than not, the unforgivable curse messes with your cognitive functions. Feelings, thoughts, your five senses. 

Besides the pain that felt like her nerves splitting throughout her entire body, she just couldn’t seem to speak. Deep down Hermione recognizes it’s probably some self inflicted mental block because her silence is all she has at this point. 

It’s just easier to tell herself it’s because there’s been so many silencing spells cast on her. 

Either way, whenever she tries to think up probable reasons, it takes triple the time it used to. She’s easily distracted by a different thought, or none at all, or she simply can’t remember what she thought to begin with. 

However, at the moment, her silence was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead, she was using her hand that wasn’t killing her to clutch at her leg. 

Today she’d been thrown at the wall like a rag doll and harshly banged it on a table in the process. Hermione was positive it was broken. 

The familiar scraping of metal suddenly sounded, making her slink back a little. 

That’s the noise Bellatrix made, wasn’t it? 

No, no, it’s not her. It’s that boy from her school's mother-Drake-no-Draco. Yes. Draco’s Mum. 

“Hello dear. You must eat. I’ve mixed in a bit of skele-gro.” She spoke softly. 

Hermione liked her voice. It wasn’t at all that shrill nails on a chalkboard like sound from Bellatrix. 

With a shaking hand a wince she grabbed the tray. 

“Oh darling, your hand, it looks awful.” She observed through the bars under the candle. 

Her brown eyes looked at it. All crushed and bloodied. It was the werewolf he, no, the witch, yes, Bellatrix. She stomped on it in those awful boots. 

“I’d wrap it but Bella would surely realize...” Narcissa whispers to herself more than the girl in front of her. 

Hermione slowly spooned the awful tasting broth into her mouth. Doing her best not to wretch at it’s taste. 

“What are you going to tell me tonight dear?” Narcissa asked softly. 

This happened each day. The woman would come down and coax a story, a memory, from Hermione in order to help her keep her sanity. 

Talking was becoming more and more of a difficult feat for the young girl, so it was mostly a game of charades. 

Some nights she pointed to her eye remembering, no, teeth, remembering her parents were dentists. A few times she traced a lightning bolt on her forehead for Harry. 

She’d outline the scar on her chest after days of being violated by Dolohov. Or prod at the scratches down her abdomen for after Bellatrix got bored and gave her to Greyback. She even had a few bruises on her neck from Scabior. 

Nights Hermione did that, Narcissa had no choice but to cry. She was just a child. Draco’s schoolmate. 

She did everything in her power to keep those disgusting men from touching her, but unfortunately, when her sister wanted something she got it. 

Narcissa is pretty sure the young girl blocks the whole happening from her brain. She can read it on her face the days they have their way with her. Hermione’s eyes are dull. It’s almost like looking at a ghost. 

And the woman is sure to never bring it up. Sometimes she’ll begin to broach the topic, but it always causes the girl to cry and cower into a corner. Instead she watches as she traces over scratches and bruises as Narcissa just watches. Listens for the small whimpers and offers a hand. 

Today though, the men were nowhere to be found. That fact alone makes Hermione more willing to do their nightly routine. 

It’s all so twisted. Her choices are having the purest thing taken over and over from her or endure the literal torture curse. 

“So what is it going to be?” She reiterates. 

Hermione crawls forward and reaches a hand through the bar. Gently, she tugs at the woman’s hair. 

“Hair?” Narcissa questions. 

Hermione nods, then wildly points at the enchanted candle. 

“Candle?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Flame?” She tries next. 

Hermione nods again, almost excited. 

“Hair flame?” That didn’t sound right, “flaming hair?” She tries. 

Hermione nods, something that looks like a twisted sort of smile comes across her face. But it’s almost like she doesn’t know how. 

Cissy thinks on the subject thoughtfully. It soon comes to her in flashes. Draco mentioning Weasley, Bellatrix and even the Dark Lord taunting the girl using the name Ron. 

“Ron?” She asks shakily. All these nights, she’s narrowly avoided the topic, but she’s seen parts of that book. 

And just like that, hearing his name sends her over the edge. 

Fat tears streak her dirtied cheeks as small heaves escape her mouth. 

“It’s okay dear.” Narcissa whispers, though she feels pathetic. 

Hermione keeps shaking her head as silent sobs wracked her now smaller, frailer, body. 

“W-w-want.” She barely says. 

“I know you want him dear, I’m so sorry.” Tears sting her own eyes. 

Her head shakes again, like that wasn’t what she meant. “W-w-won’t wa-“ she can’t get it out. 

Narcissa gets it now. 

At the heartbreaking thought she pushes open the door to the cell. The sound seems to send Hermione back. 

“It’s okay.” Narcissa whispers, crouching on the ground and holding out her hand. 

“It’s okay.” She says again. 

Slowly, Hermione reaches her good hand out and places it gently on the woman’s almost scared she’ll shift into her sister. 

Gently, she traced the woman’s hand. 

“I won’t hurt you.” The woman knows that’s not true. She’s let this poor girl be hurt for this long. 

“Wo-won’t wa-want m-me.” She chokes, it’s her first full sentence in days. 

Unable to control herself, Narcissa pulls her into a motherly embrace. At first, she stiffens, but soon relaxes and sobs into her shoulder. 

“You’re so brave.” She to the point of tears herself, “you’re so beautiful. Don’t let them break your spirit. Please. Your future is too bright.” Her cheeks are wet. 

Hermione continues to shake. 

If Ron didn’t want her then, no way would he want her now. Not when she’s so, impure, so tainted. 

“You don’t deserve this dear.” She grasped her tighter. 

Feeling so torn. Feeling so much pain for the girl in her arms, she grips her cheeks to meet her eyes. 

“I promise, I’m going to get you out of here.” And just like that it’s decided. She can’t let this go on anymore. 

The words seem to calm the brunette and she attempts to speak, “wh-where?” Where am I? Where are you getting me out of? 

Narcissa seems to understand. 

“Wiltshire.” She begins before gulping, “Malfoy Manor.” 

...

Hermione fell asleep like that. In Narcissa’s arms. It was the most peaceful, most protected she's felt in weeks. 

She vaguely recalls the woman’s promise to get her out. She hopes more than anything it’s true. 

She doesn’t know how much longer she can go on. 

As she opens her eyes, she finds the woman to be gone. She knows that can only mean one thing. 

It’s a new day. Another one of enduring whatever Bellatrix has in store for her. 

And like she could hear Hermione’s thoughts, the mad witch comes sauntering in humming to herself. 

“Good morning!” She says in mock excitement, “you’re in for a real treat today.” 

Hermione shivers. She’s heard that many times before being handed over to Dolohov, Greyback, or Scabior like some doll. 

She begins clapping, “up! Get up!” 

Not wanting to face her wrath if she didn’t, Hermione uses the wall to drag her weak body up. 

From through the bars she can make out the witch pouting, “aw, leg hurt from yesterday. Shame.” She tuts in false concern. 

Soon she flicks her wand as the door creaks open. Roughly, Bellatrix grasps her arm and drags her along, not having the patience of her mangled leg. 

“You see,” she whispers into the brunette's ear as they start up the steps, a dreadful task, “the Dark Lord is here. He’s requested your presence. Behave.” She warns as they reach the top.  

She shivers. Voldemort is far from a welcome sight. 

“Ah, lovely to see you. Sorry I’ve been absent. I’ve been busy.” The snake-like man said as she entered the lavish room. 

Bellatrix let go to stand to his right. 

“I’ve heard you’ve had a very exciting few weeks.” He smiled. It made her stomach clench. 

He stepped forward and placed a cold hand on her cheek. 

“I just want you to know, you’re very, very, important to me.” Voldemort whispered to her, his pungent breath invading her sense of smell. 

She remained firm, looking into his cold eyes. Only one thing was crossing her mind. 

Harry. 

Wherever he is right, she’s praying he’s thinking of her. 

Please Harry, please. I know where I am. Let me tell you. Please Harry, please. 

Nothing happens. She thinks maybe if she brings him up, he’s more susceptible to strengthen the connection. 

“H-h,”

Bellatrix cackles at her struggle to speak. 

“Harry.” She gets out, knowing this is her chance. 

Voldemort eyes her funnily for a moment, not realizing what she’s doing. 

“Ha-Harry P-Potter.” 

“No.” He says, slight ache building at the base of his head. 

Bellatrix’s lips fall into an ‘o’. 

“Harry Po-Potter.” She manages louder, more firm than she’s heard herself speak in weeks. 

His eyes squint shut. She’s almost there. 

“T-the b-boy,” it gets caught in her throat, she takes a deep breath, “the boy who lived.” She somehow gets out. 

This seems to send him over the edge, he collapses onto the ground as his eyes open with a harsh scream. 

She knows this is her chance and summons all the strength possible to get what she needs to say. 

“M-Malfoy!” She yells out, “M-Malfoy!” Hermione yells. “Malfoy M-“ 

Suddenly a rough growl interrupts her as she’s thrown to the ground. 

“Crucio!” The red jet of light hits her chest, making her writhe. 

“Get Greyback!” He roars to Bellatrix who nods and scampers away. 

Soon, a harsh kick is felt in her already bruised ribs. He soon crouches down and roughly grabs her hair to meet his eyes. 

“I told you next time you did that, someone will die!” He screams, her spit coating her face. 

“Who should it be huh?” Voldemort whispers, “the young Weasley girl I befriended all those years ago? How about one of her brothers? What’s the name of the one you so long for, Ronald?” 

She whimpers, shaking her head vigorously, doing her best to apologize. 

“Or how about your lovely parents, I hear Hampstead is beautiful this time of year.” He taunts menacingly. 

Tears trek her cheeks at his words. 

Then, he turns his wand and pushes it right to her heart, “or how about you?” 

He cries become louder, “I’m s-sorry p-p-“ 

He soon moves it away, “no, killing you would be easy. Not when you’re so entertaining.” 

Suddenly loud footsteps fill the room as he releases the grip on her hair, letting Hermione’s head thunk onto the floor. 

“She's yours for the evening Fenrir.” Voldemort grants the hungry werewolf, “do control yourself, I need her ready for the surprise I have planned.”

“Oh! A surprise!” Bella calls excited. 

He nodded to her, “yes, one I’ll need your help with Bellatrix.” 

From the ground Hermione could vaguely see Voldemort whisper something to the witch as she nodded in agreement. Soon, she heard them apparate away as Greyback crawled on top of her. 

She shut her eyes, trying to shut him out, along with the impending worry that Voldemort would keep his promise. 

“Someone will die.”