#he’s attached to my hip and he’s otherwise perfectly healthy

[monayen]

huge fan !!!

i made an ao3 account just to give you more kudos lol

if its okay, can i request for some headcanons for Luther? dating him/being his pet specifically, but i go so feral for how you write him that im sure anything you write will be amazing

have an amazing day 😭🙏💞

Pet/Girlfriend headcannons | Luther Von Ivory

➷ Paring - Luther Von Ivory x Fem!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - master/pet play, use of 'sir', unsafe sex, clothed sex, fingering, possessive/controlling tendencies, praise, overstimulation, isolation as a form of punishment, domestication kink (?), breeding kink, use of German words (translations provided) he is ur boyfinrd

a/n - AH cheesing that you like my work, thank you for supporting me :3 !! Luther is definitely my sweetheart... so cute... i love writing for him... as always requests are open friends !

Luther Von Ivory… such a nice guy!

Whether you consider yourself his pet or girlfriend, (why not both?) he will always make sure to take care of you

✽ Trust that he will spoil you.

New clothes, new gifts, new everything!

Makes really good use of his everything catalog subscription

He won't willingly say that you are spoiled, that's favoritism! He cares for all his family, you're just a very good pet/girlfriend! (despite everybody knowing it)

✽ Every morning, he chooses your outfit

He makes sure to lay it all out for you out on his vintage dresser, showing multiple options before he ultimately decides on one

Luther’s favorite thing to dress you in?

Skirts, skirts, skirts! A couple cute dresses here and there – but wow does he go crazy for skirts!

There's just something so lovely about them; how the waistband perfectly hugs the curve of your waist, how it exposes your sweet thighs for him whenever you do chores around the house, how easy it is to slide his large hands under…

Luther also really likes clothed sex. He appreciates skin to skin but scheiße (language!) is it a sight to see you all messy in the clothes he got just for you

✽ Tracks EVERYTHING

Have you eaten? Brushed your teeth? Did you do your chores? What room are you going to? What did Sebastian just say to you?

He wants to know it ALL

Your business is basically his business. When you're a couple, it's important there are no secrets!

Even has a little notebook consisting of your daily doings and schedule

Trust that it's to keep you safe and healthy, he truly does care about you a lot. More than you’ll ever think

✽ He's very big on discipline

He expects you to behave and listen… like a good pet!

It’s easy to imagine Luther as a brat tamer, which he can be, though the novelty wears off for him if you continue to be difficult

So, it's much preferred if you just listen to him

✽ It goes hand in hand with domestication

Girlfriend or pet, he still holds you to that standard of taking care of yourself and the house

Wifey behavior – if you must

Luther just loves to see you on your hands and knees… scrubbing the floor, of course!

✽ Adores using pet names and honorifics.

He likes to call you pet, but he finds calling you dear and geliebte (beloved) much more endearing

Call him Sir or Master and he loses it! It's so cute coming from you, he’ll make you say it hundreds of times and cause you to lose your voice

Don’t worry, he always has tea ready to soothe you with later :)

✽ You guys are attached at the hip

Moreso, he keeps you there

You both share his room, sleep in the same bed, wake up at the same times, do everything together!

It's impossible to do anything without him hovering around you

Isn't sneaky at all... it's easy to spot him staring at you through a tiny sliver of an opened door

"Don't worry, dear. Just checking up on you. Keep doing what you're doing."

It’s exactly how he wants it. Bonding is very important, don't go thinking otherwise

✽ It's safe to say that he gets very possessive

He knows you won't ever leave, he's made sure of it by convincing you of how lost you’d be without him

He’s had Randal tell you terrible stories of monsters and freaks, just so you can run into his arms

“Outside pets don't last long,” he tells you. “You're much safer staying by my side, okay?”

Luther makes you nod and promise that you won't ever leave him

He gives you everything a good little human pet needs, so why would you?

So unlike his catmen or even Randal, he rarely ever lets you outside the house

The world can be dangerous, and he’d much prefer to keep you in the “controlled” environment that is the Ivory house

Right where he can keep his eyes on you.

✽ Dates tend to consistently be on the Ivory property

Again, he loves spending time with you!

Luther totally does make that effort to plan dates with you, he'll dress up in his nicest dress shirt and help you pick out a cute dress and do your hair<3

Then, he'll hold your hand and give you your favorite flowers, complimenting you like he didn't help you get ready

He plans out nice activities for you two, something you can spend hours doing... he wants you by his side for all of it

Favorites are: reading books in the study room, cooking dinner together, watching tv for hours as you lay your head in his lap (with petting, obviously), and gardening

Can anything be considered a date if you are constantly together in the same space?

On the rare occasions Luther lets you out with him, he likes to take you shopping! Just don't be greedy and ask for too much…

Either that or drive in movie theaters. Simpler the better.

He has you home by 10 pm (what a gentleman!)

✽ Like I said in my last post about Luther, he is very intimate

Everything is a process when it comes to sex with him

He usually prefers to lie you down on his king bed, thin lips trailing down your collarbone

Let him hold you just a little closer, hands slipping underneath the cute panties he bought you

His long fingers always tease – even if he doesn't intend to

Luther just wants to hear your soft moans, urging him to do more

He’ll shush you, but he doesn't actually want you to be quiet. It's more to comfort you – to say that it's okay, Luther will take care of you now, dear<3

He likes to tell you what to do, as if you don't already know

Luther tends to almost treat you like a lost baby animal, petting at your hair and whispering sweet nothings as he unbuckles his dress pants above you

Once you envelop his lengthy cock, he always makes sure to kiss at your forehead as he pushes in inch by inch. You poor thing, he is quite big… you take it so well for him

Luther doesn't tend to moan or grunt, but he makes sure to let you know how great it is with praises of good girl and so perfect, meine süße (my sweet)

His pace stays slow and deep, hips thrusting rhythmically as he listens to your pleasure and reactions

It's maybe a little crazy how he knows exactly all the spots to have you blushing and squirming under him

Luther isn’t a fan of mess, considering how neat of a person he is

So expect him coming inside a lot, totally not because he has a breeding kink…

Either way, It always ends with him matching your orgasm with his, how cute is it to finish together!

There's purpose and intention behind his every movement, it shows just how much he loves and cares about you. How you are his<3

✽ Though, he could always be a lot rougher if he deems it necessary… i.e, you misbehaving

He's trained you properly that it rarely happens but when it does…

His strong grip will pin your shoulders back, Luther then wedges between your spread legs as his (surprisingly) skilled fingers rub at your clit

You writhe, gasps loudly escape you as he soon ten folds the overwhelming sensation by filling you with his cock.

He purposely tries to overstimulate you, hips snapping roughly against your soft thighs as his thumb rubs at your swollen clit, drawing out shaky moans from you

“It’s too much… isn't it, pet?” Luther says lowly, the contrast is clear as day to his typical sensual doings

“Ah– please, slow down! I can't–!” He hums at your cries, shaking his head and choosing to angle himself to hit your g-spot

“You know better, haustiere (pet). Will you behave for me?”

He’ll make certain that you understand that there is no disobeying him, if it takes plowing you into his silky bed sheets over and over again… so be it

“Yes, sir! I’m sorry– I’ll behave. I promise!”

Ah, such music to his ears to hear you proclaim your compliance.

He’ll lead you to repeat yourself a few more times, each time going faster and faster as the words draw shaker and shaker from your mouth. Just so you really understand :)

✽ A good thing is that he won't ever harm you

Unless… you actually try to escape. You’d never do that to him though! You guys love each other too much!

Besides overstimulating you until you cry and pass out, his other punishments can include isolation

He’ll lock you in his room for days to a couple weeks (depending on the crime), making sure you get no contact with anyone else. Not even the rest of the family

If you don't lose your mind like that, you are sure to when he takes away your privileges of using the internet/watching tv, reading books, drawing.... basically anything that could take your mind off of what you have done

By the end of it, he wants you on your knees begging for forgiveness

And the ever kind humanoid he is, he’ll wipe the cute tears off your red face and pet your hair to comfort you

“It’s okay, geliebte. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

He knows it's harsh, but training is important for pets. How else do you learn?

If you're going to be the future bearer of his children… he needs you to be on your best behavior :)

[nonbinarybrainstorm]

please don’t judge me

Yayyyy another personal idea fic

This is just a weird idea I had... Brainstorm gets impregnated by Cybertron via tentacle-like cables... yeah...

I’m just going to get back to requests now... I need to stop my brain from having anymore wild, horny thoughts

Brainstorm never imagined that the depths of Cybertron would be like this. The twisting tunnels of Cybertron’s underground are dark and twisting but that he expected. He never thought of what they might’ve sounded like, a detail he didn’t know was important until now. It was a deep hum in the powerlines that fed energy the low set red lights guiding his path deeper into the recesses of Cybertron, it was a low note on the air the slithered deep into him, it was a voice that had been long forgotten, it was a call. Brainstorm follows the sound almost mindlessly, his curiosity consuming his processor and clearing it of all of his initial intentions of studying the infrastructure in favor of finding the owner of this enthralling voice. It didn’t speak any language Brainstorm had ever heard before but he knew it’s meaning, he knew what it was saying and it was telling him to come closer. Other mechs with a better sense of self-preservation or just a general healthy amount of fear would have turned tail and ran the other direction but no Brainstorm. No, this was a moment of discovery, of promise.

Brainstorm walks through the passageways, at first trailing his hand along the walls in the dim light so he knows where he’s going then realizes he’s not hitting any turns. The faint, familiar sounds of transformation sequences greet his audials, giving him the realization the halls must be shifting for him, leading him on deeper into the abyss. The halls are alive, a fact that would frighten most people but in Brainstorm’s case, it excites him. He removes his hand from the wall and surges forward, with any small amount of caution he still had leaving him as he almost runs down the hall. Light suddenly pours in at the end, golden and warm in invitation. As he enters the antechamber, squinting and blinking his optics as they adjust to the sudden light, he sees his target.

Bright and shimmering with waves of energy, a giant orb-shaped chamber sits like the sun in the middle of the grand chamber. All at once, Brainstorm comes to understand that this is the very spark of Cybertron as it sings his name, his true name, the name of his very spark. The words are ancient but the meaning is clear as he walks forward to the system of cables and blinking consoles below the hovering spark chamber. With care, Brainstorm detaches one cable and pulls it out then reaches around to the base of his neck cables with plug pointed directly at it. A panel slides away revealing a port therein and he plugs in the cable, letting Cybertron himself into his core systems. The sensation of a full mental link with Cybertron is intense, flooding his systems with massive amounts of data filtering into his processor: images and statistics overwhelming him before slowly becoming a coherent stream of information. A strange understanding overcomes him and he knows more than any individual Cybertronian had any right to, yet here he was. Then, the words become solid, tangible instead of just a stream of feelings and sensations.

“Brainstorm, welcome,” Cybertron’s voice echoes in his processor, “I am glad that you have come to my core.”

“Why did you call me here?” Brainstorm speaks aloud, just to return some sense of reality to his frame while knowing perfectly well Cybertron already knew his question before he so much as got the first syllable out.

“I have a favor to ask,” Cybertron’s voice shakes his frame from the inside out as his true voice booms into him from the outside in sending him into a fit of shivers.

“Sure,” Brainstorm smiles, greedily taking in the information still filtering in, “I’m happy to help.”

“You have proven your frame is capable of maintaining if not nurturing sparks,” Cybertron’s words send a strange jolt through Brainstorm as prehensile cables begin to nudge and caress his frame blindly, “I wish for you to hold and nurture some that I have been withholding that could not become full-formed otherwise. You may refuse of course but I hope you will consider it.”

The promise behind the words, the feelings of lust behind them make Brainstorm shiver while understanding that part of Cybertron’s interest was in him due to the connection between them. It was more than just the request that he harbors these newsparks but a request that he let Cybertron into every part of him. He falls back into the cables that come up in response to his touch to cradle him in a firm hold. Plugs find their way to his ports at his flanks and plugin, giving Cybertron access to his entire sensornet. Liquid fire courses through his lines and he gasps as he feels himself being caressed from the inside, Cybertron lighting up his sensors without actually touching his plating. He lets his panels transform away to open his array to the air and another, thicker cable rubs against his valve slowly. Then, parts of it unfurl revealing an iridescent, blue appendage that’s not unlike a spike but it’s dripping with lubricant. It feels hot and gooey as it pushes into Brainstorm, stretching him with ease as Brainstorm’s valve loosens at the faintest contact with the viscous fluid seeping from the appendage. When it hilts, flat arms that extend from the cable lock onto his hips, keeping the appendage firmly in place.

Yet another cable comes and transforms into something Brainstorm doesn’t get a good look at before it covers his spike in tight, wet warmth making him forget everything but the pleasure coursing through him. He fears that if he lets himself get too lost in this feeling, so complete and mind-numbing, he may forget himself, forget everything including his name and stay here forever under the gentle touch of Cybertron. A pulse of strong approval emanates through him from Cybertron, making him laugh that’s quickly cut off by a gasp as the appendages start working him. The appendages thrust into him and ride him while still firmly attached to him. His valve is stretched wider as he relaxes more, the appendage inside of him expanding and pulsing steadily. Lubricant from the appendage begins to fill him with nowhere else to go as his spike is slowly sucked on.

“I didn’t know this was necessary for this process,” Brainstorm teases between moans.

“It is not,” Cybertron replies calmly while spreading Brainstorm’s legs wider as if to get a better look, “I wanted to feel your pleasure and to thank you for your generosity.”

“H-happy to help,” Brainstorm stutters with a lopsided grin as the thrusting in his valve speeds up and the sucking on his spike becomes harder.

His chestplates suddenly snap open at Cybertron’s bidding, his consciousness manipulating and teasing Brainstorm’s frame. The cables pull Brainstorm in closer to Cybertron’s spark and he cries out as the energy from the large spark chamber mingles with his own. More cables descend upon him as the thrusting in his valve and sucking on his spike become faster and Brainstorm can feel Cybertron’s own excitement mounting, feeding into his own. The new cables come up to his chest and he realizes through the haze that they’re holding sparks, tiny sparks that were much too small to survive on their own. With care, each tiny spark is implanted into the cavity around his spark as Cybertron’s spark energy continues to bloom around it. The cables writhe and spin around him as their gentle clamps brush the sensitive plating of his spark chamber making Brainstorm shiver as heat gathers in his array. With each newspark connecting to his frame, waves of pleasure course through him from Cybertron, delighted at the sight of Brainstorm filled with newsparks with all of them totaling to eight. With each new connection, the thrusts speed up and the appendage around his spike tightens.

The force of the thrusts would be rocking his entire frame if it weren’t for the cables wrapped around him tightly, keeping him in place where he can do nothing but take the pleasure being inflicted upon him. His chestplates remain open at Cybertron’s pleasure, feeling how the image of himself like this excites Cybertron as a translucent tube slithers towards Brainstorm’s intake. The tube fills with thick, pink fluid that glows faintly and Brainstorm lets the tip between derma and sucks on it, the fluid beginning to spill into his mouth. It’s thick and sweet energon, sweeter than he’s ever tasted and as he swallows it down, he can feel a heavy warmth weigh down his frame as his array is continued to be worked over, heightening the pleasure even higher. He can’t think, can’t even remember where he was as his body floods with charge and then crashes over into overload, completing the connection with the newsparks. As Brainstorm calms down, he’s gently lowered onto the floor by the cables onto a berth that he doesn’t remember being there. As the appendages move away, slipping out of him and from his spike, he shivers but is quickly soothed by the gentle touch of the cables that had been holding him. Still connected to Cybertron’s mind, he falls into deep recharge.

When he wakes from recharge, he can feel the welcoming presence of Cybertron still on his processor. Brainstorm sits up slowly and rubs his chest, feeling how full and warm it is now with the newsparks and smiles sleepily up at the spark chamber. Cybertron pulses back an invitation to stay with him here, safe and warm in the antechamber of his frame. Brainstorm sends back an apologetic pulse before disconnecting the cable still at the base of his neck, feeling the dregs of Cybertron’s reluctant understanding and the flicker of disappointment.

“I can’t stay here, you know that,” Brainstorm says and begins walking to the exit, stopping to look over his shoulder, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t come to visit after all…”

Brainstorm bites his lip and looks away as his faceplate heats up, resting a hand over his chest. Cybertron communicates his curiosity in that ancient language again that called Brainstorm here in the first place, making Brainstorm smile.

“After all I know there are more newsparks that need to be nurtured, I saw it in your thoughts,” Brainstorm smiles as that gets a chorus of joy, excitement, and lust from Cybertron.

With that, he leaves the antechamber and makes it back up to the surface. He gets back to work, telling no one of his adventure within Cybertron. Well, telling no one except Ratchet who had the best look of shock on his face when Brainstorm revealed the newsparks to him. Brainstorm laughs as he works in his lab at the memory only to break from his thoughts at a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to find Perceptor with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Can I help with something?” Brainstorm asks, his wings fluttering with mirth.

“Perhaps,” Perceptor pulls up a datapad detailing energy readings, “These are the ambient energy waves detected from Cybertron. Recently, while you were underground mapping powerlines there was a sudden, inexplicable power surge. I was wondering if you by any chance saw what might have caused it.”

Brainstorm stares with wide optics at the line graph with dawning realization as he suddenly goes very hot with embarrassment. Quickly, he whips around and pretends to work again while clearing his intake.

“Nope!” he says pleasantly, “No idea! Sorry!”

He can feel Perceptor’s optics piercing into him but he doesn’t share any suspicions he might have.

With a sigh, Perceptor says, “If you remember anything, you’ll let me know won’t you?”

“Of course!” Brainstorm chuckles nervously.

Perceptor just hums noncommittally and leaves Brainstorm to his work. Brainstorm collapses onto the floor as soon as he hears the door shut behind Perceptor, face firmly in his hands. Surges like that could be felt by nearby transformers which means if people knew what he had done… Brainstorm shakes his head and stands up to get back to work pushing his embarrassment away because really, no one was ever going to know. Except for Ratchet of course...

[itsclydebitches]

Title: No Harm to the World

Summary: When Aziraphale's birthday comes around he expects a book from Anathema. Perhaps a bottle of wine. Or even some nice socks. He does not expect a series of ballroom lessons with London's rudest instructor.

Fandom: Good Omens

Words: 4,461

Warnings: None

Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley

Author’s Notes: "Let us read, and let us dance — these two amusements will never do any harm to the world" - Voltaire

Written for Cademon who doesn't actually know me, but managed to chuck out a prompt I just couldn't resist: "Dance instructor/student AU with slow burn and slow dancing and kissing and bonus points for smutty goodness." I'm bad at writing kisses, even worse at smut, and I don't think 4k counts as a slow burn... but it's an instructor/student AU! Woot woot let's count that as a win.

Where to Read it: AO3 or below the cut 

Anathema, he decided, was going to hell.

Certainly there was no other option for the poor girl. Sad, but true. What else could Aziraphale assume given the sin she’d committed?

“It’s not right,” he told the server, a young woman with pink hair and an expression bordering on awed. “You don’t just give someone that sort of gift. It’s not a gift at all! Gifts are books, my dear. Or an excellent bottle of wine. Perhaps a decent pair of socks if we’re getting intimate. But to foster off something with such requirements attached to it, particularly on someone who is and should be treated as a loved one... it doesn’t bear thinking about. I cannot possibly express my disappointment in her.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve been doing well so far.” The server pointed at Aziraphale’s empty plate. “You want another slice or what?”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you. Now see, cake. That is an excellent gift.”

“Uh huh.”

With those words of wisdom she left Aziraphale to his thoughts, his still growling stomach, and the letter he’d propped up against the salt and pepper shakers. Lesley had delivered it this morning, no doubt because Anathema was too craven to give it to him herself. At first Aziraphale had been rather touched by the gesture, sure that she was embracing his love of sophistication—not archaism, thank you—on the day of his birth, foregoing all that horrible, digital nonsense to send him a proper letter instead. How inspired! Ha. More fool him. What Aziraphale found was not the opera ticket he’d expected, or a monthly wine subscription, or even just a personal account of all that he meant to her...

No. Fifty years old and she got him dancing lessons. A month long, twice a week, fully paid for trap that Aziraphale either needed to suffer through or risk offense, to both her and the instructor. Someone who, Anathema had made quite clear, was already expecting him. Tonight. On his birthday. Had he mentioned that yet?

Outside of her instructions the rest of the so-called letter was a single line written in viscous, glittery pen:

You need to get out more ;)

Love,

Anathema

“Poppycock,” Aziraphale muttered. “Oh. Pardon my language.” His server gave a snort as she laid down the second slice of strawberry shortcake. She skipped off before he could start another rant, though Aziraphale was happy enough to continue glaring at his ‘gift.’

Get out more? What rubbish. Aziraphale certainly didn’t need to pepper his time with dance lessons, of all things. He lived a perfectly healthy, happy life and didn't need a woman half his age saying otherwise. Why were they friends again? He hardly knew.

Aziraphale stabbed his fork straight through the slice. Not even buttery cake and macerated strawberries could cheer him though. The letter remained in view, taunting him.

As did the knowledge that he was expected at this studio come 7:00pm sharp. He, Aziraphale, was meant to spend a full hour in an organization titled Dancing With the Devil.

It was with a sigh that he slipped whipped cream past his lips and raised his hand. “Miss! I do believe I’ll be needing a third slice.”

***

Six and a half hours later found Aziraphale outside an apartment complex, the top of which clearly housed the studio in question. If that absurd name didn’t give it away—displayed in red, looping letters against the old stonework—then the music thrumming all the way down to the sidewalk would have done the trick. Aziraphale might have thought the place a disreputable club if not for the fact that the music was Sinatra.

...Not entirely horrible then. Not quite.

“Though by no means a redemption either,” he muttered, waiting for the elevator. As he did, Aziraphale took a moment to examine himself in the reflective surface, rather pleased with his choice of outfit. He’d gone with a blue vest tonight, a periwinkle that matched his bow-tie perfectly, and brought a spot of color to the browns and beige he’d otherwise donned. He wasn’t entirely sure what one was meant to wear to a dancing lesson, but surely you couldn’t fault style? He looked quite spiffy, all things considered. Besides, Anathema’s horrid little note had specified ballroom lessons. Not the sort of thing that involved traipsing about on the ground or attempting anything as unnecessary as a jump. And if it did? Aziraphale would leave. Simple as that.

“Quite,” he told his reflection and stepped inside.

The music grew louder as Aziraphale ascended, until he could feel the vibrations through the soles of his shoes. When the elevator opened on dim lights and smiling people, he was momentarily taken aback.

Some day, when I'm awfully low

When the world is cold

I will feel a glow just thinking of you

And the way you look tonight

They must have just started this song because people were still coming together, men and women alike extending hands to partners, walking side-by-side to the outskirts of the room. To be entirely honest, most of those smiles seemed to stem from embarrassment. Aziraphale watched the couples—perhaps six of seven in total—fumble arms for a moment or come dangerously close to stepping on toes. A few individuals were so intensely focused on their feet he didn’t think they’d react if the whole studio came crashing down around their ears. None of it was very... good, per se. Aziraphale had seen just enough old films to know that the awkward gaits and simple steps he was witnessing weren’t much to write home about. But the attempts were charming in their own way and he was all too aware that it was more than he was able to do.

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt rather out of place.

The exception to stiff movements and lowered heads was the man who cut through the middle of the floor, the only one without a partner. He wore slacks, but short heels that appeared to be dance-specific; a collared shirt, but with red hair that fell down past his shoulders. Perhaps the most notable accessory though was a pair of dark glasses perched on his nose, entirely unnecessary in this lighting and thus looking rather absurd. No doubt he thought himself one of those cool men who could never pass the age of twenty-five. Aziraphale didn’t need any official introduction to know that he was the instructor though. The way he moved said it all.

Like liquid. Like grace incarnate. He put more hip action into walking than Aziraphale could ever manage in a Salsa and it was, to be frank, bordering on obscene.

The man was also heading his way.

“You must be Zira!” he called, loud enough to turn every head. Aziraphale shrunk, his hiding spot obliterated. “Beginner’s class? 7:00? You’re late. Can’t have that. First day here and you’re already slacking? You’d think a guy dressed like you would want to make a better first impression.” The man grinned.

Of all the—!

“It’s Aziraphale,” he hissed, the first and most important thing to tumble out of his mouth. “I don’t do that nickname nonsense. And I’m not late. I’m not slacking! I’m not—oh. Well I suppose I am here for the beginner’s class. But that’s the only thing you got right and one out of four is nothing to be proud of.”

He could feel the heat in his cheeks and the arrogant, downward turn to his mouth. Aziraphale had been told on more than one occassion that this was why he so rarely got customers (not that he particularly wanted them...) and why he had so few, close friends. Thus it was more than a bit surprising to find that his default state didn’t immediately get him chucked out of the class. What a pity. Rather, the man seemed to enjoy his ire. He continued grinning, quite manically, finally throwing out a hand with purple, painted nails.

“Name’s Anthony Crowley, but everyone here just calls me Crowley. I am about the nickname nonsense. Sort of, anyway. Let’s see...” Crowley’s fingers tapped the top of Aziraphale’s hand, sending a jolt all the way up through his arm. “I own this studio. Own the flats downstairs too. Guess that doesn’t make me much of a slacker, but I enjoy a good TV binge every now and then. And you’re right.”

“Right?” Aziraphale parroted.

“You’re not late. Fifteen minutes early, in fact. This lot,” he jerked his head at the dancers. “Have just been with me before. Know to leave time to warm up.”

Crowley finally released his hand and Aziraphale immediately plastered it against his thigh, trying and failing to be inconspicuous about wiping the sweat away. Crowley eyed the movement, lips twitching. “Well. You’re gonna be rubbish at this if one handshake gets you all nervous.”

Aziraphale gaped. “How rude!”

“Anathema said you’d be a handful.”

For a moment surprise warred with offense. The surprise won. “You know Anathema?” He’d been under the impression that this little ‘gift’ had no further strings attached. How foolish of him.

“Sure!” Crowley waved a hand. “We’re old girlfriends. She talks about you some. I’ve been telling her to get you in here for ages. Never said how you two know each other though.”

Aziraphale drew himself up. “Anathema is a frequent visitor to my shop. Over the years I’ve been able to procure a number of rare books for her. Our love of literature all but ensured that we would be fast friends.”

“Huh. Cool. I hit her with my car a few years back. Anyway, c’mon!”

Aziraphale was left, open-mouthed, grappling with the image of an Anathema three years ago with bruised face and a broken arm. Apparently Crowley wasn’t one for explanations though, as he was already striding back across the room, clearly expecting Aziraphale to follow. Obeying such a high-handed command was a horrible thought.

...standing there awkwardly was worse.

“Excuse me, pardon me, ah...no, no, go on as you were!” Despite their slow movements and few numbers, getting past the dancers was a surprisingly difficult task, those capable of dancing and looking up simultaneously casting him amused smiles. By the time Aziraphale reached Crowley—now standing beside a row of chairs on the outskirts of the room—he could feel the heat in his cheeks and the slight dampness beginning to consolidate beneath his shirt. Hardly his fault. It was so dreadfully hot in here.

Crowley eyed him up and down once more, that smirk too knowing for Aziraphale’s tastes. With a huff he straightened his bow-tie with one hand and thrust out the folder he’d been carrying with the other.

“I've done research,” he announced. “Quite extensive. Not to speak too highly of my own abilities, but it’s rather a talent of mine and one that I put a great deal of stock in. Thus, after much deliberation I have decided that if I am to learn any formal dance is should be the gavotte.”

Seconds ticked by. Aziraphale shook the folder in the air between them. Crowley failed to take it.

“I’ve done research,” he repeated, just in case that first part hadn’t been clear.

“You’ve really got no idea how this all works, do you?” Crowley asked. To Aziraphale’s great relief he finally took the gathered materials—

—only to toss it all right over his shoulder.

“How dare you!”

“Jeez, you’re a sensitive one. How dare you this, how rude that. We’ve got to loosen you up a bit first. Everyone, watch your floorcraft!”

The students behind them dutifully maneuvered around the now scattered collection of papers, a few giving audible laughs at the turn of events. Aizraphale felt that blush creeping down his neck and instinctively bent to gather them up.

Crowley intercepted, taking him into his arms.

He might have struggled. Perhaps he should have, the shock of someone touching him in such a manner without permission just the sort of thing Aziraphale normally would have riled against. But when Crowley dipped his glasses also slipped, and for a moment (a moment was all Crowley needed) Aziraphale was left breathless and rather easily swayed.

It was his eyes. They were...well, quite stunning. If he was entirely frank. A brown that appeared almost gold in the right light, but more distinctive were the pupils that bled downwards into his iris, creating a surprisingly oval shape. The effect was akin to a keyhole. Or, if one were being fanciful, something not quite human.

Crowley, of course, noticed him staring. His grin was slow. Like he had to pull it into being one muscle at a time. “Coloboma,” he said, the word sharp and quick. “I was lucky enough to get it in both eyes.” Crowley briefly removed his hand from Aziraphale’s to push the glasses more firmly onto his nose. Then they came back together, the movement almost unnoticed. Aziraphale was still peering closely.

“Is that why you wear those?” he asked. “Even inside? In this lighting?”

“Mm-hmm. Tends to freak people out. Sometimes. Enough times. Need to get used to it first.” Crowley’s head titled to the side, red curls falling between them. “Does it bother you?”

Aziraphale was aware that he owed this man precisely nothing. Certainly not honesty for the sake of honesty. And yet, he found it slipping out nonetheless. “Not at all, dear boy. In fact, I think your eyes are quite beautiful. Rather like a snake’s.”

As soon as the words hit the air Aziraphale stumbled, the compliment his mouth had seen fit to give suddenly catching up with his brain. Crowley went rigid too, though because of the “beautiful” or the “snake” part Aziraphale couldn’t be sure. Because a second later he murmured,

“People normally say 'cat.'” His voice was rough and rather...shaky?

“...Ah. Of Course. Logical.”

"Yeah."

Well. That had gone swimmingly! Yes, old boy, insult and act inappropriately with your instructor five minutes into the lesson. What a positively perfect way to begin a month-long course. Not that Aziraphale cared if Crowley decided to cut him. Not at all. Hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place.

Funny thing though, it was a lesson and not a bad one at that. All at once and without Aziraphale’s knowledge they'd fallen into their respective roles. While they’d been speaking, Crowley had taken the hand he’d snagged and the underside of Aziraphale’s shoulder blade, just sort of... steering them around the room. They weren’t doing any of the fancy footwork that the rest of the group was immersed in. Just a little shuffle there and back, like one might see during a slow dance at senior prom. Yet it was steady, and soothing, and all at once Aziraphale was hyper-aware of exactly how close they’d gotten. He tried to ignore the smell of Crowley’s cologne—delightfully spicy. He’d have to ask his barber for something similar—and how soft his hand was, palm pressed to palm and fingers cupping fingers. His brief faux pas was quickly forgotten. When Crowley seemed content to simply sway and hum along to the music for some undetermined amount of time, Aziraphale finally cleared his throat.

“What, if I am ask, are we doing?”

Crowley blinked. “Dancing.”

“I would hardly term this dancing.”

“Well that’s because you’re the ignorant student and I’m the former Blackpool competitor.” He spoke right over the protest. “What’s the best kind of learning? The kind that doesn’t feel like learning. Duh. Look at you go. Walking backwards like a champ.” Crowley suddenly stopped, Aziraphale stopped too, and somehow his gaze seemed more shrewd, even behind the glasses. “Why?"

“Why? Why what?” Aziraphale tried valiantly to regain his balance.

“Why did you stop?”

“Because you stopped.”

“No, no, no, stupid answer. What bearing does me stopping have on you stopping? You could have just kept going, straight out the door! Anathema said you were smart. Where’s that now? One more time...” They started moving again, parallel to the line of chairs, and this time when Crowley stopped—

He hummed in the back of his throat, catching Aziraphale’s expression.

It was hard to explain though. The fact that he was literally connected to another person obviously played its part, but there was more to it than that, what Aziraphale suspected his teacher was trying to convey. Something about how the hand at his back had pressed suddenly, becoming a barrier he didn't want to push past. The hand in his had tightened, almost pulling in the opposite direction. Something else about the feeling of Crowley’s body so near to his, subconsciously picking up on the change in his weight...

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to articulate any of that though. What came out was a disgruntled noise that made Crowley laugh.

“Connection,” he said, clearly taking pity on him. “You know where and how far I want you to go because of how closely connected our bodies are. From here,” he shifted them to the right. “To there.” Back to the left. “The slightest touch, just a little, tiny press—” Aziraphale suddenly knew that he was to take a step backwards and when he did Crowley’s smile was magnificent. “It can accomplish a shit ton.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Is that a technical term? 'Shit ton'?”

“Oh yeah.” Crowley suddenly grew serious. “But if you don’t have that connection...” His arms went limp, his chest pulled back, and Aziraphale hadn’t the slightest clue where he was meant to go now. When Crowley suddenly stepped backward he was scrambling to catch up. “See? All falls apart. It’s about balance. Push and pull. Like you’re standing on the edge of a knife and the both of you have to maintain perfect position so that neither of you falls...You manage that and you can manage just about anything.”

"A relationship," Aziraphale said, his mouth once again running away with him. No reprimand came though. Just a quick squeeze of his hand that felt like praise.

Crowley had taken him in his arms again—what he referred to as the frame a few moments later—and with the careless delivery of someone commenting on the weather, told Aziraphale to step back, back again, and then side together, off to his right. No, not quite that fast. Yes, that’s better. A slow, a slow, quick-quick pattern. Again and again until Aziraphale realized, with no small amount of shock, that they were mimicking the other couples around the dance floor.

“See?” Crowley said. There was only a bit of smugness seeping into his voice. Already Aziraphale counted that as a win. “You’re a natural.”

He thought of long-ago gym classes and his brother Gabriel’s attempts to take him jogging. “You’d be the first to think so.”

“Or I’m just that good a teacher. Hmm. Might be leaning towards that one. But the fact that you can take two steps without panicking or tripping over your own feet is a major plus.” Crowley leaned in close, sharing a conspiratorial whisper. “Most of this lot still don’t know their right from their left.”

It should have been cruel coming from their instructor, but Aziraphale had the distinct sense that Crowley meant it in only the most loving way possible. A chuckle wound its way up his throat because yes, what just fifteen minutes before had seemed so out of reach now appeared... quite simple really. Whatever had he been worried about? Across the ballroom some poor chap was nearly trampling another—who astoundingly managed to keep a polite smile in place—while two women behind them were taking each step with an agonizing slowness that had thrown them off beat. Aziraphale had never considered himself to be terribly adventurous, never quick to embrace any change, but even that was a bit slow for this tastes.

With Crowley, the room spun at perfect speed.

“It’s all that stuffiness,” he was saying, oblivious to Aziraphale’s thoughts. “You’re all,” and Crowley drew his shoulders up to his ears, miming someone overly stiff with a pursed lips and squinty eyes. The display fell apart with a laugh at whatever expression Aziraphale pulled. “Nah, nah, it’s good. Gonna have a devil of a time with you in the Latin styles, but smooth? Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“I like lemons,” Aziraphale commented, unsure how else to respond in the face of more unexpected praise.

“Please don’t tell me you just... eat them.”

“What? No! I mean lemonade. Or squeezed over veal with capers.”

“Okay good because I once knew this guy who’d just fucking peel them—”

So it went, with Crowley rambling on about, apparently, whatever popped into his head each moment, all while leading Aziraphale round and round the room with an ease that spoke of years of practice. He was far less graceful, stumbling now and again, but largely able to move and hold a conversation simultaneously, which was far more than Aziraphale would have assumed himself capable of, especially after such a short period of time. In fact, with Crowley’s arms a warm press and those absurd opinions filling his ears, it was all almost a bit... fun.

Damn it all. Anathema could never find out.

The song—another of Sinatra’s—finally drew to a close and with it the lights rose, shaking the group out of their daze. People put distance between their partners, thanking one another, laughing over perceived faults, and Aziraphale felt a pang when Crowley moved to do the same.

That is, until he ducked into a low bow, brushing a kiss against the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said, tone overly formal, eyes alight with mischief. Aziraphale might have called him out on the contradiction if his thoughts were even in the vicinity of coherent.

Oh dear.

Crowley left. Or rather, rejoined the rest of his class. Which honestly felt to be much the same thing. Aziraphale had to tramp down on the absurd burst of jealousy that flared when Crowley briefly took another man into his arms, leading him through a slightly longer, more complicated step. Thankfully though that stint of madness was brief. With a self-conscious cough Aziraphale smoothed down his vest and joined the others in front of the mirrors. They were all lining up, seemingly expectant, and all at once Aziraphale was the odd man out again. Unsure of where to stand; overly dressed next to the others' jeans and t-shirts.

Then Crowley paced before the lineup and tilted his head just so, allowing the light to reflect through his glasses. Aziraphale could have sworn he dropped him a wink.

“Welcome! Excellent warm-up, all of you. Though I could have done without so many feet watchers.” A few titters flowed through the group. “Seriously, are your shoes really that interesting? Because if they are I want to know where you got ‘em. Drop me a brand name after class. All right, all right. Enough of that. Good to have you all back. Good to see some new faces too. This is Bronze One, Smooth Dancers for Beginners, and today we’ll be learning the Foxtrot... though I’ve already gotten the sense that you lot won’t be beginners for long.”

His gaze was definitely on Aziraphale and he burned for just a moment, caught. As Crowley began his lesson, Aziraphale straightened his bow-tie one more—just for luck—and vowed that such a complimentary statement would not be said in vain.

A minute later, as Crowley helped him partner up with a lovely young woman looking similarly unsure, Aziraphale quite forgot that he’d never wanted to be here in the first place.

***

July, one year later.

“Honestly, I don’t know what that girl is thinking! It’s an insult, my dear. Plain and simple. I hope as you grow you’ll develop better manners than my supposed friend has.”

“I’m thirty-five, sir.”

Aziraphale sat in the same café, at the same table, with the same waitress listening to him rant about the misuse of birthday presents. The only true changes were that he’d since learned her name was Amber and Amber now sported green hair instead of pink (with blue and orange somewhere between the two).

This was old hat by now. “Two slices of the key lime pie then?”

“Three.”

“Three?"

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. Amber only just caught it. “Relax, dear. I’m not quite as stressed as that.” The ‘Not yet’ was muttered into his water glass. “I’m merely expecting company.”

Which was the cue for the door across from them to open, Crowley sauntering in with sundress and hat, heels and $200 shades. Amber huffed out a laugh, allowing her hand to briefly clasp Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Three slices it is then,” and she wandered off.

Crowley took her place.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale scowled. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Hey, if the shoe fits... speaking of,” Crowley slouched in his chair and stuck one long leg out from beneath the table, showing off his yellow, strappy heels. “You like?”

“Your continued obsession with footwear that now eats a hole in our joint bank account? Never.” But Aziraphale nevertheless eyed the new addition with admiration. “Can you dance in those?”

“Nah. Not enough traction. You’re due for a new pair though. Can’t go competing in those worn-out practice shoes.”

The mere thought of his first competition nearly undid Aziraphale’s appetite, but for now at least anger overrode the fear. “I was under the impression that Anathema was buying some for my birthday!”

Crowley blinked. “She’s not? It’s what she told me she was getting you.”

"Oh no, no, no. I received a package this morning that was most certainly not shoes..."

As Aziraphale leaned across the table, nearly upending water and silverware in his haste to share the news, Amber returned with three plates of pie and some complimentary mints. She arrived just in time to see Aziraphale whisper something into his partner’s ear that turned his cheeks roughly the same shade as his hair. The grin though... there was nothing self-conscious in that.

“That sly girl,” she heard, aiming to remain professional even in the face of Aziraphale’s angry huff. “Can’t say I’m surprised. When was the last time she gave you the present you were expecting?”

“I am this close to murdering her, Crowley.”

“Sure you are.” Amber’s last glimpse was of the two of them tucked together, sunlight streaming across the table, heads bent so close in conversation they nearly touched. Crowley took a bite of the pie as Aziraphale quite obviously watched his lips.

“I'm sure we'll figure out some use for her generosity." The sarcasm was apparent, even from across the room. As was Crowley's amusement.

"Besides, I’d say her last gift turned out just fine.”

Fin.

***

Important note: The most AU aspect of all this is that both of these bastards can actually dance

Less important note: You decide what Anathema got Aziraphale for his bday ;)

[khhunniewriting]

It Happened So Fast

“Four years Kris, I waited four years for you. The least you can do is give me a few months to have you all to myself.” Even though you got married months ago Kris had been off filming for a movie, postponing your honeymoon.

Kris knew you deserved way more than what you were asking for. All these years he had put his career first and you second. There are plenty of women who would have given up and left. You stayed, you loved him so much that you were willing to wait patiently for him. “I never knew you loved me that much Baby.” He gently tilted your head up by placing one finger under your chin. The height difference had him crouching down to meet your lips no matter how high he tilted your head.

The kiss was a little unexpected, his silence made it seem like he was searching for a way to gently let you down. You thought he would say work was just too good right now for him to take such a long break but the slight smirk he showed right before the kiss gave you hope.

When his lips left yours Kris kept his eyes on their parted state, noticing how they quivered with the loss of contact. The constant rise and fall of your chest made him sure of the fact that he had just taken your breath away.

His gaze was making you uncomfortable, not in a bad way. The way he was staring at you made your face redden and your legs tighten. “What was that for?” you asked when you couldn’t handle the silence any longer.

“To show you what you can expect from me when we are alone for three months.” He loved you more than anything and would properly show it.

“We’re really going?” your voice rose in excitement.

“Yes but first I have to finish the movie promotions.”

“Deal!”

\\\

Kris was careful to enter his home as quietly as possible. The sun had yet to rise, he was sure you were still fast asleep. He took a look around as he rid himself of his suitcase and other belongings. Nothing seemed to have changed in his perspective. It was almost like he hadn’t been gone for the past four weeks.

When he got to the bedroom he was welcomed by the sight of you sleeping in the middle of the bed instead of your usual side. The blankets were kicked off to the foot of the bed, as usual, the only difference he noticed was your hair. It would usually be tied up but right now it was crazily laid out on the pillows and all over your face. You would normally tie it up for his sake. to keep it out of his face but with him gone you let it fall as it pleased.

He approached you silently with no intention of letting you know he was home. However, he couldn’t resist the urge- he had to kiss you. In one swoop of his hand, he moved your wild stray hair out of the way and kissed your forehead.

The kiss tickled, causing you to wake up with a smile. As soon as you saw Kris you remembered everything and proceeded to deprive him of the warm welcome he was expecting. “Oh, you’re back,” you deadpanned. You had gone to bed feeling upset and his face just rekindled that feeling.

“Is that all I get after all this time?” Kris asked unaware of the reason you were acting indifferent.

“I’m sorry, is it upsetting?” you sarcastically asked. “It can’t be as upsetting as finding out your husband is back but hasn’t bothered to call or show up until the next day at...what is it like three in the morning?”

Kris chuckled, it was past four but he wasn’t going to make things worse. He actually liked seeing you get mad but there was a limit. If he got you too mad he would end up sleeping alone on the couch. What he wanted most after being away was to cuddle up next to you.

To your knowledge, Kris wasn’t coming home for another three days. That’s why it was so shocking to see his face all over the internet as he walked through the airport then later a party. All day you waited for him but he never got home.

"Sorry Y/N but the whole reason I came back early was to attend the party. It was all work and no fun.”

“I knew it was work,” you sighed. Sometimes it was hard to love Kris...

“Baby I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

“You should have,” you agreed moving over to the other side of the bed. “But it’s too early for apologies. Just go to sleep and we’ll talk later.”

Kris smiled realizing you were no longer upset. He immediately got into bed, not bothering to undress. Without a word, he reached over to your side pulling you in until you were up against his chest. He gave a satisfied sigh at the much-needed comfort this brought him.

You held back a giggle as you thought of how hard it was not to love him when he acted this way. “Comfortable?”

“Very,” he kissed the top of your head before falling asleep.

There was no way you could be mad at his arrival. Even if he snuck in another work-related party into his schedule it was all forgotten because you knew soon you would be on your way to your honeymoon. You couldn’t wait to go to France and binge on all the cheese, wine, and pastries the country had to offer

\\\

Only a few days later Kris was invited to another party. This time it was a formal event where he was encouraged to bring his new wife along. This was going to be your first appearance as a couple since your wedding. You wanted to look your best so you put on a dress one of Kris’ designer friends gifted you. “Can you zip me up?” 

“Of course.” There was a sly smile on Kris’ face when you turned to reveal the open back to him. Sure you could have asked the stylist that had done your makeup to also do this for you but you knew he liked to do the honors. 

As he zipped the dress up Kris ran into a problem. “Ummm...Baby, it’s not closing.”

“What?” You began to panic knowing you had no backup outfit. The dress was the same size as all your other dresses so you never imagined there would be a problem. 

He tried again but was met with resistance. “Did you maybe...gain weight?” Immediately after the last word was spoken Kris regretted asking the question.

You whipped your head around to show your anger. “Did you seriously just ask me-” you cut yourself off and walked away to find the stylist. “My husband is useless, can you please zip up my dress?” You hoped he wouldn’t notice but you had put on some weight unexpectedly.

“Baby I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” Kris had actually noticed a difference in your body after having been reacquainted with it. Your hips, thighs, and even your chest seemed fuller but he wasn’t complaining. On the contrary, he was wanting to embrace you even more. He followed you to the stylist watching with an amused look on his face as she too failed to zip up the designer gown. "I’m just saying if you need another dress we can get you one. It’s no big deal.”

From the front, in your perspective, the long sapphire blue dress seemed to wrap itself around you perfectly. You were especially loving the way your chest and hips seemed to stand out. The problem lied in your abdominal region. No one was able to zip the dress past that area meaning the zipper was stuck at your lower back.”I don’t want another dress, I want this dress!”

Kris was taken back by the tears that threatened to spill out of your eyes. You were never one to cry for something minor like this. He looked to the stylist desperate for a solution.

She quickly looked at her phone checking how much time was left. There was a little over an hour before you two had to leave. “I think I can let out the seams a bit.” After the nodding approval from Kris, she turned to you reassuring that she could get it done. “We only need a tiny bit of wiggle room to get this closed.”

“Really?” you instantly cheered up. It was a good thing too, your makeup was at risk of running down your cheeks if you let those tears out.

She nodded and immediately helped you out of the dress.

Kris came over with your black silk robe, “See Babe, everything’s fine.” He held it up for you as you slid your arms through.

“Yeah,” you beamed at him, glad he had such a wonderful team working for him. Going a step further you stunned him when your arms wrapped around him and rested your head against his chest.

He held you for a moment raising a brow as he wondered if you were always this moody.

At the party, you were arm in arm with Kris. 

You received many compliments on your dress making you forget the whole meltdown instead focusing your efforts on giving your best smile to those who approached you.

Being newlyweds meant everyone expected you to be attached at the hip with nothing but love in your eyes. They were not wrong but there was still something Kris was trying to figure out. 

His answer didn’t come until a few weeks into your honeymoon when you experienced lower back and abdominal pain. Your lower abdomen had become swollen. 

Kris instinctively put his hand over the bump despite your scowl. 

“Stop,” you warned. Kris insisted you looked pregnant but the multiple pregnancy tests you took said otherwise.  The more he insisted, the more you became worried. Your nerves were at an all-time high as you experienced more and more of the quintessential pregnancy symptoms.

Kris didn’t stop. “We should take you to the doctor.”

\\\

"Oh-” the gynecologist gasped at the image that appeared on the screen. She knew you were pregnant from her previous examination of you but it wasn’t till now that she realized exactly how far along you were. “Your baby is already in position.”

Kris didn’t even need the doctor to point it out. He could see it clearly on his own. 

“Is it safe for her to travel like that?”

“Commercial airlines consider up to 36 weeks as safe but you are flying privately so that won’t be a problem.”

“But is it safe,” Kris repeated worriedly about his wife and daughter’s safety.

“Both the baby and mother are healthy,” the doctor assured. “For optimal comfort make sure to wear loose clothing, take regular walks around the plane to allow proper circulation, and watch for nausea.”

Even with the doctor’s approval, Kris hesitated to put you in an airplane. 

“Kris, I was pregnant when we flew here.”

“If I would have known I wouldn’t have brought you.” He tightened his hold on your hand as he anxiously scrolled through his phone. 

“What are you doing?”

“Setting my timer. The doctor said you have to get up every thirty minutes-”

“Relax,” you held his hand in yours reminding him to breathe. 

He exhaled loudly as he looked over to you, his eyes immediately going to your belly. The flowy floral print dress you sported lifted slightly in the front because of it. It was so surreal how he had left with only his wife but was now coming back with a daughter.

“How can I relax when I’m going to be a father so soon? I don’t even have anything ready for her.”

“Neither do I.”

“You’re already doing most of the work.” He sunk back into his seat looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “I didn’t really do much.”

You laughed, “Well we both enjoyed ourselves in the process.”

“We did,” he agreed with laughter of his own. “It’s also going to be fun seeing the shock on people’s faces when they see you come back pregnant. Maybe we should hide wait until the baby is born to go back and really shock them.”

The two of you laughed at the thought of arriving at the airport with a newborn baby to the point where you felt you could literally pee yourself. “Stop making me laugh,” you lightly slapped his thigh. “The baby is already squishing my bladder.”

Kris’ alarm went off signaling you had to get up and stretch your legs. He helped you up and walked right behind you down the small yet spacious aisle of the private jet- afraid you would fall in the occurrence of turbulence.

Once you sat back down you felt her moving. “Yifan she’s kicking again.” You quickly grabbed his hand and placed it on the spot you could feel her movements. 

He forgot all about setting the timer once more as he was absorbed by his little girl. “She needs a name,” he thought out loud.

"Why don’t you name her?”

“Lucy,” he immediately answered. 

"That was fast.” It took Yifan four years to marry you yet he came up with his daughter’s name in seconds. “You sure you don’t want to think about it for four years?”

His answer came in the form of a kiss. Whether it was to silence you or punish you for making fun of him, you didn’t know and didn’t care.

-end-

A/N: Drop by my inbox if you realize where the name comes from. (Hint: it appears in another fic.)

I really didn’t know what to tag. What kind of scenario is this? He’s an ex-KPOP member but he’s no longer there. Maybe CPOP but he does more hip-hop music with American artists so... I just put it all -_-  (not to mention the man is an actor)

Also here is a brief explanation of how someone might not be able to tell they are pregnant like in this fic: Crypto Pregnancy caused by hormone imbalance. If you have PCOS or just any other type of hormonal imbalance, irregular periods, low HCG levels or none at all that can be detected by at home pregnancy tests and sometimes doctors. 

[bittysvalentines]

Something Sweet

From: @ackermom

To: @stickinotes

Notes: Happy Valentine's Day to stickinotes! There's a little bit of everything you requested in here, so I hope you enjoy it. Summary: Jack and Bitty have their first breakfast together as official boyfriends.

August 2015

Boyfriend.

Jack had said boyfriend, and the tiny plastic figure he'd pressed into Bitty's hands had been smiling just as sweetly, just as nervously, as he'd waited for Bitty's answer. There'd been sweat and tears and one very long hug, spun around the kitchen, before Bitty had been carried off to the living room to study his flashcards while they waited for the cassoulet to finish.

The studying hadn't lasted very long. Jack's first mistake was cozying them up on the couch, where Bitty could lean back into the pillows and press his feet against Jack's thighs, serving as the perfect distraction. They barely made it five minutes before Bitty was completely in his lap, intent on a very heavy make-out session with his boyfriend.

The oven timer had gone off, they'd eaten dinner together standing at the kitchen counter, brushing against each other as they ate straight from the pan, and then it had been off to bed after a long day. Bitty fell asleep with one of Jack's hands in his hair, the soft white lights of the bedroom slowly fading from his view. He drifted off into warmth.

Not a bad way to end his first night at Jack's new place, and a wonderful way to wake up in the morning between the arms of his official boyfriend.

Bitty stirs first, coming to under the glowing beams of a late summer sunrise. He wakes gently, and when he shifts between the sheets, yawning as he rubs a hand of his eyes, he feels the weight of Jack's arm draped over his stomach. He blinks into the soft light; Jack's eyes flutter when Bitty traces a finger through his hair, but otherwise, he remains dozing, his breaths soft and slow. Bitty lies still for another moment. Jack had always woken first in Madison, so to watch him sleep is a new, precious thing for Bitty. And it's absolutely adorable.

He gets out of bed, finally (and maybe it's only after taking a dozen pictures of Jack's sleeping face, but how could he resist?), and he pads around the bedroom in his socks, looking for something to snuggle up in. It may still be summer, but Jack insists on sleeping in the freezing cold; Bitty is damn near shivering under the high-speed whir over the ceiling fan. It's alright though- he finds a brand new Falconers sweatshirt hung at the end of the bed, and the bottom hem clings perfectly to Bitty's thighs. He tucks the long sleeves up past his wrists, pauses to snap a few sultry bedhead selfies, and heads to the kitchen.

"Coffee," Bitty murmurs as he opens the fridge to peruse.

He'll have to remind himself again in a few minutes, when he's been distracted by whatever sizzling, toasting breakfast he's about to embark on. He prefers his coffee sweet, with a healthy dose of whipped cream, but he knows, after some slow mornings at the Haus, that he won't get to see that loving light in Jack's eyes until at least one sip of caffeine.

It's funny, the things he notices now that they're together: the way Jack always smiles before he kisses Bitty, the way their bodies fit perfectly into an embrace, the way they can talk without saying a word. The way Jack looks at Bitty when he's rambling. The way Jack stocked his pantry for Bitty's arrival, including the expensive red mixer that Bitty gets the honors of unboxing today.

And, of course, the tiny grumpy lines that tug at Jack's mouth when he doesn't have coffee in the morning.

His choices in the fridge aren't overly abundant (that's another thing: the way Jack eats eggs like his life depends on it), but there's certainly enough to make a hearty breakfast for the two of them. Bitty can't help but hum as he sets about the preparation, whisking eggs in a bowl on his hip and waiting for the skillet to heat. He has another pan out before he glances back to the bacon, thinks for a second, and changes his mind. Oven on, baking rack laid with thick slices, aluminum lining the pan to catch the grease. It's less fatty.

He's about to start on the omelets when he remembers.

"Coffee," Bitty exclaims to himself.

The bacon has to cook for a bit anyways, and he doesn't want anything getting cold; he sets the egg mixture aside and begins on the coffee. It's a complicated process- to him, at least, because the most complex the Haus coffee ever got was when Lardo introduced the reusable K-cup. He puts the water on, then sets about discovering the secrets of the pour over. There's a funnel thing, and the filter goes in there, and he thinks Jack said something about using the espresso because it'll be too weak otherwise-

Bitty yelps when two-hundred pounds of muscle suddenly wrap around him.

"Sorry," Jack says, pulling back.

Bitty turns around, settling his hands on Jack's warm arms, and huffs. "That was sneaky."

"I thought you heard me. I said your name."

"Oh, Lord," Bitty sighs, smiling. "I'm trying to figure out your coffee thing."

He tries not to blush when Jack chuckles and bends to kiss him. He fails.

"It's not that hard," Jack says as he pulls away, one arm curling around Bitty's shoulders. "You just pour water into the thing."

"I got that part," Bitty exclaims. He gives Jack's arm a playful hit as he turns to finish making the coffee. "I just couldn't remember if I'm supposed to use espresso or regular ground coffee."

He feels Jack's weight press up against him, Jack's chin settling on top of his head.

"Either is fine," Jack murmurs. "But I like the espresso."

"Espresso it is, then," Bitty says, reaching for the coffee tin. "Jaack."

"Hm?"

"You have to let go if you want coffee."

"Hm."

That's less of an argument than Bitty expected, but that must be because Jack doesn't leave after he lets go. He lingers behind Bitty, hands trailing over his neck and shoulders, sending chills down Bitty's arms as he spoons the coffee grounds into the filter. Bitty smirks to himself, laughing at Jack's insatiable sense of touch, but he says nothing and just pours the water.

"There," he says when he's finished, stepping back. "You can have the first cup while I finish the eggs. Do you want anything in your omelet?"

Jack drags his coffee cup across the counter to follow Bitty to the stove, one arm still firmly attached to him. "I think I have some mushrooms."

"And there should be some onion leftover from last night," Bitty says. He pours the egg mixture into the pan, keeping a careful eye to make sure nothing spills over. He sets the bowl aside, readies his spatula, and glances up at Jack with a smile. "Can you get them, sweetheart?"

He bends down to kiss Bitty's forehead, fingers tingling along Bitty's back, before he finally detaches himself and heads to the fridge. His touch leaves an impression on Bitty's skin that lingers with warmth as Bitty works on the omelets, humming. Jack grabs the fixings, stops to reset the coffee to brew a cup for Bitty, and returns just in time.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Bitty coos.

"You're welcome, sweetheart. Smells amazing."

Bitty can't help but giggle. "You're gonna start calling me sweetheart?"

"Maybe I will," Jack says, wrapping his arms over Bitty's shoulders again. "You're my boyfriend now."

"If you want to make me blush, you can just call me that."

"Just boyfriend, eh? What about darling? Or sugar?"

"Jack," Bitty exclaims through a laugh as Jack presses a kiss behind his ear. "Even I don't call you sugar."

Jack straightens up and reaches for his coffee cup. "Maybe you should start."

Bitty holds back another laugh and folds the omelet. "Okay, sugar. Now move your big butt so I can check on the bacon."

"Mm, that's what I'm smelling," Jack says, stepping aside. He leans against the counter and sips on his coffee as Bitty shuffles backwards and bends over to peer inside the oven. "Is that my sweatshirt?"

Bitty glances down at himself. "Oh, is that okay? I was feeling a little chilly when I got up this morning, so I just thought I could throw this on."

"That's fine," Jack says. His eyes travel down as Bitty closes the oven door and stands upright. "Makes you look like you're not wearing pants."

He gives an oof in mock pain when Bitty slaps his stomach with the oven mitt.

"My eyes are up here, Mr. Zimmermann."

"I'm not looking for your eyes, darlin'."

"Jack!" Bitty exclaims through a burst of laughter as Jack presses him against the stove, one hand tickling at the bottom hem of the sweatshirt. A shiver runs along Bitty's thighs. "I'm going to burn your omelet if you don't stop messing around!"

"I'll still eat it," Jack says. He grins and settles back against the counter.

"I know you will," Bitty sighs with a side-eye.

"I'll eat anything you cook, Bits."

Bitty smiles at him. "I know you will."

He finishes the omelets as Jack fixes Bitty's coffee for him, stirring in the milk and sugar (two heaping spoonfuls) while they wait for the last few seconds on the oven timer to run out. The bacon comes out, perfectly sizzling on the rack; the smell is mouthwatering, and Bitty's stomach growls, reminding him just how hungry he is. They ate dinner late last night, but then they'd stayed up for a while, talking: elbow to elbow washing dishes, side by side brushing their teeth, and then snuggled up together in bed, letting the warm lamplight fall over them as they finished their midnight whispers.

They sit catty-corner at the table, their feet knocking together underneath. Jack's legs are cold, but Bitty warms himself quickly, a hot mug of sweet coffee cupped between his hands, which are hidden by the long sleeves of Jack's sweatshirt. He has his own. Jack brought it to him in Madison and he found excuses to wear it down there, even during the sweltering heat of July. But this one's nicer.

"You're keeping that sweatshirt, aren't you?" Jack asks when their plates are empty.

Bitty hums to himself. "No, I'm stealing it."

"Ha, alright."

"You'll have to wear it for me, before I leave. So it can smell like you."

"Of course," Jack says, smiling across the table at him. His eyes are full of love, warmed by the coffee, the breakfast, and the two of them sitting there together. "That's what boyfriends are for."

[swhurtcomfort]

Fall Apart, Fall Together--- Chapter 6

Beginning   ---  Previous Chapter   ---   A03

------

Naboo is warm in the early spring. The sun rises early and Padmé opens a window to breathe in the smell of warm rain.

The babies are sleeping through the night now—at least, most of the time. Presently Luke had fussed and cried until at least two in the morning, when Anakin had gotten up to take over and sent Padmé to bed. She notices Leia is awake, and still alone in the crib.

“Well, good morning, birthday girl,” Padmé trills, scooping the baby up and twirling around as Leia giggles. Together they make their way to the living room, where Anakin is dead asleep in an armchair with Luke sprawled out on top of him.

Padmé ruffles Anakin’s hair a bit as they walk past into the kitchen. “Daddy’s sleepy,” she says to Leia.

“Dada,” Leia agrees.

Padmé cringes when she sees how many messages are waiting on her work comm, but she’s taking the day off today. Soon they’ll have to talk about her splitting her time between Naboo and Coruscant, but working from home has been alright in the interim.

While Padmé is fixing Leia a bottle, they hear Luke waking up in the living room, followed by an adult-sized groan.

Anakin enters the kitchen with Luke on his hip.

“Good morning, my favorite ladies” he says, giving them each a kiss before setting Luke down on the kitchen floor so he can crawl after a plush toy. “Here, I’ll do that. Do you want to comm Sola, and make sure they’re still coming over later?”

Leia whines to be put down too, and Padmé obliges. They aren’t walking yet, but Leia is getting quite good at shuffling along when she has a low piece of furniture to lean on. Luke’s taking a little longer to get the hang of it, but there’s no hurry. By all accounts, the twins are thriving. A stranger might mistake them for younger than a year, but otherwise no one would be able to tell they’d been preemies.

“When did he fall asleep?” Padmé asks.

“Sometime after me, I think,” Anakin admits.

“Maybe we can get him to nap before the family gets here.”

Anakin snorts skeptically.

It’s to be a quiet gathering – it’s not as if the twins even know what a birthday is anyway. As they get the house ready, Anakin blows up a few balloons (which Leia greatly enjoys) and puts Leia’s hair up in two matching clips (which she absolutely hates, and an hour later he finds one of them stuffed between the couch cushions). Luke is visibly exhausted, and gets cranky whenever he’s not in Padmé’s arms.

After midmorning, Padmé puts Luke to bed, hoping that he will get some rest, but within twenty minutes they hear him start to cry.

Anakin gets there first. “What’s wrong, little man?” he asks. The Force around Luke pulsates not with pain, but frustration.

“Moo,” cries Luke.

“Mommy?” Anakin guesses.

“Moo!” He sounds utterly devastated.

The doorbell rings. He glances at the clock—Sola and the girls shouldn’t be arriving yet, but he hears Padmé moving to answer it so he returns to the crisis at hand.

“C’mere,” Anakin tuts, lifting Luke out of the crib, but the baby pushes back against his chest and demands ‘moo’ again. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Anakin paces up and down the room once, bouncing a little.

“Anakin,” calls Padmé in a bit of an odd voice.

“Busy,” he calls back, now trying to console Luke with the plush Loth-cat he’d been playing with earlier.

“Moo,” Luke breaks into a fresh peal of sobs.

Neither baby is really communicating with the Force yet, but sometimes Anakin tries. All he gets from the little storm in Luke’s Force signature is a despondent sense of lost, missing.

“Anakin—”

“Padmé, what’s ‘moo’?” he asks down the hall, interrupting. “Have you heard him say that before?”

Padmé appears in the doorway and nearly steps on a beanbag toy on the floor. She picks it up and starts to put it back in the crib, but Luke shoots out a hand towards her.

“Moo!”

Padmé and Anakin both look at the toy, then at each other. Luke whines and reaches further.

“It’s a bantha. Moo,” says Anakin, face splitting into a wide smile.

“What a clever little man,” says Padmé, reuniting the bantha with Luke, who immediately puts its horn into his mouth. “Here, I’ll take him Ani. You should go see who’s here.”

Standing awkwardly by the bannister in the toy-strewn sitting room is the last person Anakin expects.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan clears his throat a little bit.

Anakin doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry to turn up unannounced. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

There’s no judgement in his gaze - as far as Anakin can tell his curiosity is genuine. Anakin doesn’t know how to feel about that. There’s a sense of loss for the life he’d left behind, as well as a dull anger swirling up in him.

“We’re all healthy and happy,” he finally replies.

“I’m glad,” says Obi-Wan quietly.

Padmé shifts Luke on her hip and herds them all to the armchairs in the living room.

“I’ve missed you,” Obi-Wan confesses.

Three responses avail themselves to Anakin’s mind, the first a desperate I miss you too. The more bitter side of him, Oh go kriff yourself with that. The last, which he says out loud as he takes a seat, “I can’t go back.”

Obi-Wan nods his acceptance of that fact. They awkwardly meet each other’s gaze. Anakin still hasn’t decided whether he is angry. Obi-Wan’s shields are a blank wall, but he knows the man well enough to tell that he is conflicted too.

Leia crawls over and tugs on Anakin’s pant leg until he puts her on his lap. Obi-Wan studies them both, a pensive look lingering on his face.

Luke makes eye contact with Obi-Wan and laughs, still clutching Moo to his chest.

“Would you like to hold him?” Padmé offers.

“Ah, no thank you, I don’t exactly…” Obi-Wan shifts uncomfortably in his chair at the thought.

“Come on, Obi-Wan. Say hello.” Anakin’s voice holds a note of teasing.

Obi-Wan looks panicked as Padmé passes Luke over. He supports the baby stiffly as Luke squirms around to get comfortable. With the look on Obi-Wan’s face, you’d think he’d never seen a baby before.

“You’re doing it right,” Padmé assures him with a smile.

“You’re getting so big,” Obi-Wan says to Luke. “It’s someone’s birthday today, is it not?”

“Two someones,” Anakin croons, brushing the hair out of Leia’s face.

Obi-Wan pats Luke’s back a bit awkwardly as the conversation lapses again.

“I resigned from the High Council,” Obi-Wan finally reveals.

“Why?” Padmé asks.

“Depa has been reinstated in my place. The Mind-Healers are quite pleasantly surprised with her recovery.”

“That wasn’t my question,” she presses.

Obi-Wan sighs. “The fall of the Sith raised a lot of uncomfortable questions,” he says. “I wanted time to devote myself to meditating on the war and its consequences, and seek some answers of my own.”

That sounds like a perfectly Obi-Wan thing to do. Padmé glances at Anakin, who’s smiling a little.

“The Jedi were naïve, and vulnerable. Anakin, we ought to have been able to spot Sidious’s influence over you before it all went so wrong.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about that part, Obi-Wan,” says Anakin. “But look, when I tipped Master Windu off, it wasn’t because I thought it was my duty or my job or the will of the Force. I was scared of what might happen to you and Padmé if the Sith came to power. I was attached, and I had something to protect.”

“I know,” says Obi-Wan. “The world is changing, and many feel that our Order needs to change with it. There has been a lot of talk about the prevalent analysis of the Jedi Code over past centuries decades, and whether it is…appropriate.”

Padmé and Anakin both try to hide their surprise.

“I only wish we could have had these discussions sooner,” says Obi-Wan slowly. “Perhaps…”

Perhaps you could have stayed.

Anakin shakes his head. He slips his hand into Padmé’s, their fingers intertwining with a supportive squeeze. Padmé knows that Anakin’s decision was a difficult one, but it’s been made. Neither of them want to think about what might have been.

Padmé hopes that Obi-Wan will see what she sees. Anakin loved being a Jedi, loved the idea of saving the galaxy, but the galaxy was always too large and too broken, and he didn’t know how to handle it. Anakin is thriving here, where he can need just a few other people and be needed by them in return.

Leia is getting restless. Anakin brushes the hair out of her face again and smooches the top of her head before he lets her clamber off of his lap.

“I wish my mom could have met them,” he says suddenly. “I just know she would have loved being a grandma.”

Padmé rubs his shoulder supportively.

Luke starts yawning again and snuggles into Obi-Wan’s cloak. Obi-Wan gives his parents a helpless look. “He’s exhausted,” Padmé whispers.

“Is it finally naptime, Luke?” Anakin tuts, and the baby reaches out both arms towards him. Anakin scoops him up.

Obi-Wan follows them down the hall to the bedroom and watches Anakin put Luke down for a nap.

He turns around and sees Obi-Wan smiling. “I never imagined that this would be the path that you chose,” his old master says suddenly. “Maybe I just got Qui-Gon’s plan for you stuck through my head, and if that’s true, I’m sorry. But you seem happy here.”

“I am,” Anakin affirms.

Obi-Wan nods. “You both seem happy.”

A year has gone by with hurt feelings weighing heavily on them both. Some things, it’s too late to change, but perhaps not others.

Obi-Wan retrieves his cloak and starts to put it on.

“Padmé’s sister and her two girls are coming over for cake later,” says Anakin. “Why don’t you stay?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head sadly. “I have business in Jan-gwa this evening, I’m afraid.”

Anakin initiates the embrace, but Obi-Wan returns it wholeheartedly. When they break apart, he leans over to give Padmé a one-armed hug as well.

“It was good to see you, Obi-Wan,” says Padmé.

A year has gone by since Anakin described their lives as being on the edge of a knife—caught between personal crises and a war of deception that scarred the galaxy. But what has been broken is not beyond repair. Anakin was never made to fight the whole galaxy, but his world now revolves around two twin suns. Padmé’s fight has only paused—with her own health recovered, she will soon return to the front lines of the reorganization of the Senate. But whatever that challenge brings, she knows deep in her gut that they are standing now on stable ground.

----

Fin.

[imlostinatunnel]

Candy Canes

Casual Christmas fluff! Merry Christmas, you wonderful people you!

Jack was not a man built for stealth, but when necessary he could call upon an earlier time in his life, a time where he was trained in such techniques. His objective was just across the room. In and out, he thought to himself. No time for games.

But this was far from a game, possibly one of the most important assignments of his career. He brushed the thought away. No time for that kind of pressure when his objective was in his reach.

Click.

The lights came to life and a thin, familiar figure stood under the archway leading into the kitchen. “And just what do you think you’re doing, Mr. Grinch?”

Jack turned, meeting the stern face and posture of Angela with her arms crossed and foot tapping the floor. He waited, hoping it was a rhetorical question. Her silence and constant eye contact said otherwise. “I was just. You know. Doing kitchen stuff?”

“You were trying to sneak another candy cane, weren’t you?”

“Of course not! There are plenty of other things I do in the kitchen you know.”

Angela’s face remained unchanged.

“Fine, yes! You caught me.”

Walking toward him, Angela plucked the cane from his hand. She placed it back into the bowl he snuck it out from. “You have eaten more than your fair share of these, Jack.”

“Oh come on. I’ve only eaten three, maybe four?”

“Try sixteen. In two days. It’s my turn for a couple.”

He took a moment to process the number. “Okay, so I was a little off.”

“I’m no dentist, but too many of these can be bad for your mouth and teeth.” She unwrapped a candy cane that had a similar pattern to her holiday sweater. A majority of red with white stripes that spiraled around the cane. In Jack’s opinion, the pattern looked better on her than the candy cane. “I tend to kiss the lips attached to that mouth, you know. I’d like it to stay healthy,” she said, playfully nibbling and licking the tip of the cane.

“I’d like to think I’d know that. I was there a couple of times for it.”

Angela smirked. “At least a couple. Come on, you’re gonna help me wrap a few gifts for our friends.” She latched the hooked end of the cane onto Jack’s shirt collar and lightly pulled him out of the kitchen with her.

The bedroom was a mess. Wrapping paper was scattered all over the floor with pieces of tape mixed in. The gifts that she did manage to wrap looked to be on the verge of falling apart. Angela continued to bite down on her candy cane, only about half way through with it.

“Weren’t you a surgeon, better yet a head surgeon? I thought you were good with your hands,” Jack said.

“Hey, the cuts in the paper are cleaner than the sanitary rooms I operated in.”

Jack picked up a piece of discarded wrapping paper and un-balled it. Sure enough the cuts were clean and angled at a perfect ninety degrees. “Good lord. I can’t cut a smooth line like this to save my life.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had to wrap anything,” she said.

“Well, I can show you a thing or two in the art of gift wrapping.”

“Oh, this is an art now?”

“Angela, you are looking at the second place finalist for speed-gift wrapping in the back in Indiana.”

“Who’s the first?”

“My mother.”

Angela giggled, reaching the hooked end of the candy cane. “I think one demonstration will do,” she said, handing him a box to wrap.

Jack opened one of the flaps to have a peek. Inside was an over-sized glass mug hidden in miniature styrofoam peanuts. He flicked the side with his finger nail and listened to the ring slowly fade away. On the thick glass, no, inside the glass held the laser-engraving of a slightly 3-D crusader in full armor, proudly holding a banner sporting their motto. Unfortunately, Jack was a bit rusty on his German. “For Reinhardt, I’m guessing?”

“Think he’ll like it?”

“I think you might want to prepare for one of his infamous bear hugs. I didn’t think these could be found anymore.”

“It took me half a year to track one down. Be gentle when wrapping it.”

“Yes, ma’am. Wrapping paper, please?”

Angela cut him a fresh sheet of paper. A perfect rectangle.

“That is still impressive,” he said. “Ok, so the rick is keeping the paper tight on the edges and keeping the creases smooth. You take these two ends and fold them like this...”

Angela swore she only blinked once, maybe twice. It looked like he flipped it over and the paper magically wrapped around the box.

“... And tah-dah! For added measure, you can tape down the sides.”

Angela crunched down on the last of her cane. “Right, any chance you can do that again at a speed visible to the human eye? Actually, why don’t I cut and you wrap?”

“Will I get a candy cane afterwards?”

“Maybe something a little sweeter than a candy cane.” She gave him a wink. “Until then, get Fareeha’s gift ready.”

“We decided that was the pirate gear set, right?”

“Yeah. Ana told me she is still going through her pirate-phase. She said she won’t stop shouting ‘Avast ye!’” She snipped the rectangle out of the roll of paper and handed it to Jack. She watched as he had it wrapped perfectly in but a few seconds. Seeing is believing, but she was still working on the believing part.

Jack and Angela sat among the wrapped gifts for their friends. Jack spun a tiny wreath between his hands. Its lights flickered in its pre-set pattern to perpetually spiral around the wreath. Angela sat against the bed, stacking some of the smaller gifts.

Jack set the wreath on her head, putting her pony-tail through the hole.

“And what’s this for?” she asked.

“Every angel should have a halo, right?”

“God, Jack. You are so cheesy.”

“Would you love me if I wasn’t?”

“Now who said I loved you?” She re-adjusted her ‘halo’.

“You did. About fifteen times a couple nights ago. I’m sure the neighbors can vouch for me. They must have heard it.”

“Oh stop it, you!” she giggled. She gave him a light shove.

“I still want my candy cane,” Jack said.

“Well you got to do one thing.” She stood up, hands on her hips. “You have to unwrap her first.” She enjoyed Jack’s pause before jumping to action. “See if you can get her to sixteen this time.”

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Balance on the Head of a Pin*

Chapter Four

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x OFC   |   Word Count: 4318 Warnings: Fluff, Smut, NSFW 18+

Stunned, Loki found himself caught in her eyes, jade now with confusion and pain. With a sigh, he brought his forehead to hers. “Lauren, no. Never. I should have told you from the first.”

“Told me… what?” she whispered.

“I want this. I want… you. I have for some time.” His heart hurt at finally speaking the words which beat so hard within it. “This was never a charade for me. I may have… influenced you into choosing me, but only because I couldn’t bear the idea of it being someone else.”

A soft sob escaped her lips. “Really?”

“Really… my love.”

The cry she released was one full of hope and disbelief. Then, her lips were on his, moulding, tugging, nipping with her teeth, setting him growling.

When she finally disengaged from his mouth, he hummed quietly, “Is that a yes, my sweet?”

“To which? Being together or being engaged?” she quipped, her hands caressed down his arms, and fell to slide around his waist.

“One leads to the other, does it not?”

She gasped and pulled back to stare at him. “But I… we… you… huh?”

He chuckled as he drew her mouth back to his, kissing her smartly. “Let's start with being together. Though, I'm not certain I like the title you granted me. I am not a boy, and I wish to be so much more than just your friend, darling.”

She smiled, laughing a bit at his logic. “What would you prefer? What do they call it on Asgard?”

“Hm, I would prefer… lover,” he purred against her lips making her gasp, the sound breathy and aroused. “But on Asgard, you would be elskan mín. It loosely translates as darling or love. To others, I would introduce you as Ástvinur, my beloved.”

“Am I?” she asked, eyes heavy-lidded and face flushed.

His smile softened. “You are. I have loved you,” he shook his head, “for so long.” More tears fell over his fingers, but he did not think they were from sadness. Not with how her eyes had darkened into sparkling green emeralds.

“Why didn't you ever say… anythin'?”

She was killing him with these questions. He was a trickster. Honesty was not something he did easily. But for her, he could give nothing less. She was his love, his heart. Being anything but honest with her would be dishonourable.

“Because, you're the darling of the team, and I am the dark one. Who in their right mind would allow me to make even a tentative overture? But I have watched you and learned of your heart, your compassion, your goodness. It was impossible not to fall for you.”

“Oh, Loki.” Her eyes closed, wet lashes splaying over her cheeks. “I've always admired you. It was,” she sighed before looking up at him, “so brave of you to come back and make an effort. You faced so much ridicule in the beginnin’, so much distrust it hurt to watch. There were so many nights I just wanted to reach out, pull you close, tell you how strong I thought you were. How brave. I should have. I should have just reached out. And through all of it, you just stayed poised, like nothin’ hurt, but I could see how much it did. You made me love you because of that. Even when they all wanted to paint you a villain, you stayed a good man.”

“Lauren…” he breathed, stunned by her openness. “I had no idea.”

“My feelin's for you have been hidden for a very long time. I'm accustomed to hidin’ my true self,” she said, looking away.

“No more. No more hiding, elskan mín. They do not deserve you.” Her so-called family had hurt his Lauren for the very last time. “From now on, you will be as the Valkyrie I named you. Strong, powerful, and full of mischief. You will be mine, and as mine, you will never bow to anyone’s will but your own.” He smiled a wicked, suggestive grin. “And perhaps mine from time to time.”

“Oh? And how would you have me bow to your will?”

Brow arching, Loki peered down at her upturned face, eyes still damp but full of a playful sort of seduction. Curiosity glowed with a deep-seated need, a want so strong it burned in her beautiful green gaze. Brushing her cheek, the skin soft, he caressed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Regarding your safety, I would always seek obedience. I would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

Her hands slid up his ribs, over his chest and into his hair. It felt as good as the previous time she’d done it. Loki hummed a soft sound, nearly a moan.

“And otherwise?” she asked, her fingers sliding pleasingly over his scalp.

Cheeky minx. She was the one playing now.

He wiped the last vestiges of tears from her face and closed a hand at the back of her neck. The other dropped to her waist, drawing her flush against him. Her lips parted on a soft exhale. His gaze took in the beauty of her face, lingering on her lips before slowly returning upward.

“I would have you obey me... in bed,” he murmured, nipping her bottom lip, licking it with a leisurely pass of his tongue.

“Loki,” she sighed, body melting into his.

He kissed her jaw, the enticing line which so attracted him. “Tell me, my love, how many times were you with him? How many times did he fail you? How many times did he leave you wanting?” Trailing his lips to her pulse, he sucked gently.

“Oh…” she moaned, pleasure in the sound.

“How many times, my Lauren?” He tilted her head, tracing his tongue down to the hollow of her throat.

Her skin was warm, beautifully soft and creamy. She smelled of her perfume, but she tasted like sugar. Like the most perfectly created confection.

“Eight… eight times,” she whimpered, her hands tightening in his hair.

He growled, the sound low and angry. “Fiend. Did you enjoy yourself at all, darling?”

She whimpered again. “It was… alright.”

“That would be a no, then.” It was unthinkable. To take pleasure and not give it back? How dare he!?  I will repay the debt.”

“What?”

“The debt, my love. His debt.”

“I don’t… understand,” she sighed while he kissed a trail down the swell of her breast.

Tugging free the tie at the back of her neck, he released the fabric covering her. It pooled around her waist, catching on his hand, baring her to his eyes, and showing him the lovely sheer lace of her nude bra. It followed the line of her halter top and lifted her breasts like an offering.

“Such fascinating undergarments you Midgardians wear.”

“Loki… please!” Her cry was both aroused and a little frightened, giving him pause.

“Lauren,” he brushed his nose across her soft skin. “If you wish for me to stop, you need only say so.”

“No!” she yelped. “No, no. I just… it’s so... fast.”

He smiled and nipped her breast. “My darling, I’m not going to take you today. When I do make you mine, it will be only after I have repaid the debt created by your former,” and he used the term loosely, “lover.”

“What’s that mean?” she moaned when his tongue traced the lace edge of her bra.

“I plan to make you come, my sweet. As many times as he failed, I will not. You will see Valhalla eight times before I take you to bed.”

She gasped when he took her nipple in his mouth, fabric and all. “Oh… god,” Lauren cried, head falling back, her hands tugging his hair.

His smile turned a touch wicked. “Does that feel good? Does it please you, my Lauren?”

She nodded vigorously. “You… you don’t… you don’t have to,” she finally managed to groan out.

Pulling the cup down, he lipped and nibbled her nipple, sucked it into his mouth, and released it with a wet pop. “Yes, I do. I will cleanse your time with him from your memory. Make it cease to exist. I will show you what it should be like when a man pleases his woman.” And then he would show her the difference between a man and a God.

“Loki.” Her hands threaded through his hair. “I already know you can do that, peaches. You and that magic tongue of yours. I feel more when you kiss me than I ever did with George.”

He chuckled against her skin. “Magic tongue. I will show you just how magic it can be.”

When no further protests were forthcoming, Loki traced his fingers down the side of Lauren’s throat, splaying them out as he caressed his way down her chest, and cupped her other breast. He weighed the mound of flesh, the perfect size to fit in his palm. Firm, pert, and warm. Perfect.

She had beautiful breasts. The lace confection she wore simply enhanced what nature had given her. Beneath the nude undergarment, her stomach and ribs were sleek and toned. The muscle he could see and feel kept her healthy and fit. It was magnificent. She arched when he ran his palm over her, moving like water, smooth and flowing as she bent back over his arm. Between her breasts was a small clasp holding the lacy garment together.

He gave it a flick with his finger, and it sprang open. The twin mounds bounced slightly with their freedom. He walked his fingers up the valley between them, admiring the creamy orbs.

Round, the size of oranges, soft but firm, they were topped by pale pink areolas and slightly darker nipples. Enticing little berries he wanted to get his lips on. Gliding his fingertips over the inner edge of her breast, up across the crest. He took his time approaching her pert bud before finally running his thumb across it.

She gasped and moaned. Her knees shook, and she sagged against him. His magic swept out, and Loki sat back and down on a newly created high backed narrow chair bringing Lauren into his lap. She straddled his thighs as he drew her in, breathing a breath of cool air across her skin. Her nipples pebbled, and she cried his name.

Chuckling wickedly, he lapped at it, licked and suckled the bead. He was rock hard beneath her, more aroused than he had ever been in the past when it came to foreplay. He squeezed her breast, pulled and tweaked her opposite nipple. Loki sucked and nipped the one his lips were attached to, loving on her until both were swollen, red and hard.

He skimmed his hand down to her buttock and rocked her hips into his cock. The feeling was exquisite. Heat poured from her core. Scorched him. Burned him. It made him ache.

Popping off her breast, he peered up at her flushed and panting features. “This is what loving feels like, elskan mín. What pleasure feels like.” He jerked her hips into his.

She cried out, “Oh, oh please... Loki!”

“Does it burn, my beautiful one? Can you feel it grow in your belly?” She tugged his hair, and Loki groaned, his cock swelling with her action.

“Yes! Fuck!” She rocked into his hips.

“I'm going to make you come so hard, darling. So hard, and all from playing with your beautiful breasts and rubbing on my cock. Will you do that for me, my sweet? Be a good girl and come for me?”

Lauren gasped when he dropped his head and bit at her breast. A sharp nip followed by a slowly stroking tongue. Both of his hands fell to her hips and were soon dragging her core up and down his length.

Arms linking around his neck, she drew him closer, forcing his head up so she could pant and moan into his mouth. Kiss and lick and suck at his tongue.

He could feel the diamond hard points of her nipples drag over the cotton of his shirt as she clutched at him. Feel the heat of her core on his length. Feel her heart beat against his chest. Frantic. Pulsing. Rabbiting as her body rose higher, got closer to exactly what he’d claimed.

She was reaching for the gates of Valhalla.

“Breathe, darling,” he whispered against her cheek.

She gasped, and a high pitched sound was dragged from her throat, arching her back as she bowed away from him. “I… Loki…. Please!”

A sharp grind of her hips made him growl. “That’s right, my Valkyrie. Ride.” He jerked her higher, thrust up against her, took her nipple between his teeth and bit down. He’d never been so aroused and still clothed before.

“Oh, my god…” Lauren gasped, “Oh, my…. stars!” she shrieked.

Loki lifted his head and watched as Lauren’s world exploded. She flushed red, all up her chest and throat. Her lips parted, she breathed out a moan which shivered heat down his spine, and she trembled all over. Ten sharp spots of pain were digging into his shoulders, her nails at some point having clenched into his muscle.

He cared not.

She was gorgeous in her abandonment, and she smelled like heaven. He could only imagine how wet she was. How it would soak right through her undergarments. How hot and slick she would be. He wanted nothing more than to throw her on the bed and have his way with her, but he would not. Not yet.

“That’s one, elskan mín,” he breathed against her throat as her trembling subsided into small aftershocks.

She collapsed against him, precisely the same way she had on the aircraft. Body boneless, warm and sweet, and he worked his lips over her jaw in tender little kisses.

“That was… wow,” Lauren whispered. “I never… I mean, I have, but not like that… not so…” She blushed and turned her face into his throat.

It set him chuckling while he ignored the insistent demands of his cock. It would be staying corralled for a while yet and would have to deal. 

Stroking his hands up her back, tracing circles in her bared skin, Loki asked, “Not once in all your encounters with him, did you feel pleasure?” He could feel the heat off her skin when she blushed against his throat.

“It was nice, I guess. He never hurt me, at least, but it was always quick like he was in a hurry. And they were few and far between. Sure he was away at school, but when he came home, it was like he had to. Like it was an obligation. It's easy, now, to look back and see why that was but at the time... I was young and foolishly in love.” She shook her head. “I slept with him all of eight times in a year. What twenty-five-year-old male does that?”

“A man who could look at any woman other than you is a mewling quim of a man,” he muttered, setting her giggling.

“I thought Bucky was going to talk to you about that particular insult?”

“He did, but we are in private, and it is fitting.”

Lauren pulled back enough to see his face. “George was right about one thing.”

“How can that man be correct about anything? He is a deviant miscreant of a cretin who is no better than dirt on the bottom of your boot,” he scoffed.

She lightly traced her fingers over his lower lip. “You really are quite fancy. At least you talk fancy.”

He drew her in tighter. “Would you prefer it if I said things like knee-baby and bless my heart?”

Her fabulous breasts rubbed against him when she burst out laughing. “Oh, peaches! I didn’t know you had it in you. That’s quite the accent!”

He rumbled out a sound of pleasure. “Darling,” he crooned, watching her through lowered lids. “I think it best we re-dress you before I strip you completely and show you Valhalla a second time.” She blushed beautifully, but when she scrambled to get off his lap, he held her still. “I wish one thing first.”

Her brow arched in a manner closely resembling his own. “Oh? And what would his highness request of me?”

“You really are a cheeky Valkyrie.”

She grinned smugly. It had the arousal which had cooled coursing through Loki's veins a second time. Shaking his head to clear it, he gently worked his fingers along her spine. “I wish to see your piercing.” Her shirt had pooled at her waist and hidden it from view.

“And just how do you know about that?”

Leaning her back against his arm, Loki bent and kissed her directly over her heart. “The day I watched you do the yoga, it caught the light when your shirt lifted.”

Humming softly, Lauren placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed. He let her up, admiring her in her dishevelment. Her beautiful breasts hung free until she trapped them again behind her pretty undergarments, while the mint green top fell down her hips, pooling on the floor around her sandals.

“Halls of Valhalla…” he breathed reverently. “Look how beautiful you are.” His gaze walked the curves of his woman.

Her breasts swelled against the lace cups. Her ribs and waist curved. Her belly was toned and flat, tiny defined muscles rippling beneath her skin. White pants spanned her hips, and she stood before him with more confidence than Loki had ever seen on her before. She twisted slightly, allowing the light from the floor to ceiling windows to glint on the tiny green jewel within the silver setting in her belly button.

“You humans have such… interesting customs.” He reached out and touched a fingertip to it. “Does it hold special meaning to you, the jewelry?”

“N-no… it was pretty. I did it just after I moved to New York. Rebel… stage…” She gasped when he traced a circle around it, shivering beneath his touch.

It made him smile coyly. Stroking his fingers over Lauren's skin, he hooked one in the waistband of her pants, spread his knees, and drew her back between them. With a palm to her abdomen and the other across her lower back, he held her there, placing a tender kiss beside the tiny jewel. 

“May I?” he breathed against her skin and gazed up at her.

A high flush turned her cheeks pink while her teeth were set in her lower lip. Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders, and Loki rested his chin on her stomach. “S-sure?”

Consent without complete understanding. A trickster’s favourite kind. But this was no trick, only a gift. Again he let his magic rise up inside him, fill his mouth, and sealed his lips over her belly button. His power was cool on his tongue when he swept it slowly over her.

Her gasp became a moan, and her hands closed in his hair. She writhed, arching into his touch, her voice strained when she cried out, “Merciful God!”

He chuckled a deep sound full of wicked mischief and slowly pulled his mouth away. “I can be… for those who please me.”

Panting great heaving gasps, Lauren asked with a teasing voice, “Do I please you?”

The fact she continued to play these games with him pleased him greatly. “Indeed,” he whispered, tracing the design he’d left on her with his fingertip. “Hopefully my gift pleases you.”

Around her belly button twisted the forms of two snakes, highly detailed and wrought in gold. They curled around the little dimple while the small gem of her piercing had been replaced with a jewel which matched the one in the ring winking at him from her left hand, now cast in an antique gold setting. Brushing his fingers over the intricate design, he could just feel the raised pattern against her soft flesh.

“Did you… tattoo me in gold?”

“Hm,” he nodded. “Lovely isn’t it?”

“Loki!” she barked and jerked away. “You can’t just mark people without askin’!”

Her hands were on her hips, the elegant length of her fingers splayed out, framing the mark. It was stunning, gleaming against her creamy skin.

“But, it looks so fetching on you, darling.”

“I don’t care! You can’t just… do these things! What if I didn’t want it?”

He blinked up at her, shocked and dismayed. She didn’t like his gift. Pain ripped through his heart. “Very well. Come here, and I will remove it.” He beckoned her toward him.

“No!” she exclaimed, covering the mark with both hands.

His brow arched, incredulous. “You have me at a loss, Lauren. You do not like my gift, but you do not want it removed either?”

She sighed, stepped forward, and cupped his face in her hands. “I like your gift. It’s you, peaches. Don’t think I don’t know just what those twisted serpents represent. I may be blonde, but I’m not stupid.”

“Then what is the problem?” he asked, pleased she recognized the symbol most associated with him.

“You did it without askin’, hun. Branded me like I’m property. Put a mark on me which I’m sure loudly proclaims me as yours in some strange Asgardian way.” 

He had the grace to at least look sheepish. “You… may be correct in that assumption.” Still, he couldn’t help but brush his fingers over the mark. “But you don’t want me to take it back?”

“No. It may have been a shock initially, but it’s pretty. I think I’ll keep it. It was a gift after all. Just, use a few of those fancy words of yours before you do somethin’ like this again, okay?”

“Of course, my sweet.”

She smiled down at him, healing the hole she’d unwittingly punched in his heart.

“Asgardian customs are different from those of Midgard, certainly. For instance, as elskan mín, I should have presented you with this with my declaration.” Green light sparkled around his right fist, raised in the air between them. He opened it slightly, allowing the pendant to fall where it could swing beneath his hand.

“Oh!” Lauren gasped, then laughed. “You do that so easily, the magic.” She reached for the pendant.

The beaten square of gold had the same entwined snakes worked into the front within a border of runes. “Protective magic for elskan mín, forged in the flames of Valhalla, and blessed by Var and Frigga.”

As soon as she touched it, it disappeared from his hand to reappear around her throat. Her hand flew to it, pressed against it, and made him smile. It would be warm against her skin. The weight would grow to be a comfort she would feel empty without, and as their relationship grew and strengthened, so would the chain around her throat.

One day it would thicken into a torque only he would be able to remove. On that day, he would know for certain she was his forever. He was already hers. He would not have presented her with the brúð steinn otherwise. The Bride Stone was sacred and not given lightly.

Getting to his feet, he stood to tower over her, gently touching the pendant laying now against her skin. “It suits you.”

“It’s beautiful.” Her fingers traced the edge. “Is this gonna be a regular thing? Random bits of jewelry just… appearin’ when I least expect it?”

He shrugged. “It is a strong probability.”

“Hm,” she hummed, the playful light returning to her eyes. “Just as long as you don’t go hog wild. I’m not one who needs all these fancies.”

“Well, this one,” he dragged his fingers over her stomach, “is for my eyes only.”

“As long as we’re swimmin’ alone,” she teased, her finger tracing a path down his chest. “It ain’t like a bikini covers that much skin.”

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he jerked her up against him, making her gasp in excitement. “You are far more mischievous than I would have given you credit for. Don’t you know better than to tease a God?”

“I will remember that when next I meet one,” she quipped, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Feeling rather full of yourself, my love?”

“You just seem to bring it out of me. There’s an imp sittin’ on my shoulder whisperin’. Encouragin’ me toward mischief. I blame you.” Her smile was sultry and wide, smug even.

The challenge in her eyes set him chuckling softly. “Do you know what it does to me, this side of you?” She surprised and delighted him continually, turning him on something fierce. 

“I can guess,” she purred, pressing her lips to his. She bit his bottom lip before sucking it in her mouth.

He squeezed her hips with a quiet groan. “Wicked Valkyrie. If you do not wish to spend the next few hours locked in this room with me, you will put your clothes back on.”

“You’re the one who took them off in the first place,” she reminded him.

“Are you asking me to take off the rest?”

She bit her lip, a seductive little worry of teeth. Pink coloured her cheeks, and she looked down and away. “I…” The wild thrumming of her heart in her throat told him more than her words could.

“Get dressed, elskan mín. Then you can show me your home.” He kissed her cheek and pulled away, walking over to where the windows became exterior doors. Turning the handles, he stepped through, heading for the railing which ran the upper level.

He needed a moment away from her to clear the scent of her essence from his head before he simply locked down the room and forgot anyone else existed outside of himself and Lauren.

Next Chapter

[dadvans]

don’t look back in anger (otayuri, 2.5k, teen) :: 

 [life lesson: if some dumb-dumb actually tags you in a callout post on tumblr and says shitty, baseless things about you, don’t engage them.  write petty fic about otabek and yuri as grandpas who live on mars instead!!  you’re welcome.]

At age 54, Victor Nikiforov-Katsuki became one of the first successful test subjects for a series of anti-aging surgeries.  At 37, he had a knee surgery and received hair plugs, but the first in a series of operations at 54 gave him joints and muscle and organs of someone forever young.

Yuri had grimaced at the holoscreen when the news broke, having seen too much of Victor’s face to last several lifetimes.  “I bet he has a robodick too.”

“Yura,” Otabek had said, both fond and resigned from across the dining room table where he was dissecting a grapefruit half.  

At age 87, Victor Nikiforov-Katsuki went out in a blaze of glory deep-dicking his husband (“robodick,” confirmed BuzzfeedMars) on a solo flight to their summer home on Venus, when his elbow slipped and he managed to undo the ship’s airlock.  Neither he nor Yuuri had looked a day over 40.

Yuri’s let his body age. He’s still in good shape for 82; he does water aerobics with a group of old ladies every Tuesday and Thursday, and the atmosphere on Mars has naturally benefited his bones for the past three decades.  But he and Otabek have always been purists otherwise, letting nature take its course with their bodies and never giving into the temptation or philosophy of synthetic body maintenance.  There’s a small, petty part of him from his youth that remains, the purest part of himself that celebrates his body as the ultimate defeat of Victor Nikiforov.  He revels in his own skin, and in Otabek’s, and the thought that when death comes to them in old age they won’t have cheated it, but earned it somehow.  Victor and Yuuri’s parts were supposed to last them until 2089, and by then, who knows.  The idea of them fucking their ancient asses all over the goddamn galaxy still stirs something ugly in Yuri.  

Until Otabek gets sick.  Like, really, really sick.  And he keeps getting sick.  Bladder infections and kidney infections and pissing blood and choked up catheters and too many nights in the hospital instead of their estate, and suddenly there’s a question that goes unspoken between them.

“You’re killing yourself,” Yuri says finally after their third trip to the ER that month.  Otabek had a temperature of 40 degrees and collapsed in their greenhouse.  

“Or I’m just dying,” Otabek says.  “I’m old.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri says.  Otabek still skates sometimes on weekdays when the rink is empty, because he was blessed with superhuman cartilage in his knees and the back of a titan.  He just does simple laps to relieve stress while Yuri watches from the stands, long since given up the ice out of self preservation.  But Otabek has never had to, because Otabek has always been healthy and strong.  There’s nothing else to be said or done, because, “bullshit, you’re not allowed to die.”

 “I don’t think that’s how dying works,” Otabek replies.  He’s smiling and there’s acceptance in the smile that feels damning.   

“Fuck you,” Yuri says.  “The doctors have given you dozens of options.  There’s-- technology, there’s--there’s--”

 “I thought you didn’t believe in that,” Otabek says.

 “Don’t let my pride kill you, Christ, Beka,” Yuri says, feeling impossibly young even with his knobbed knuckles and crooked fingers wrapped around Otabek’s own, mindful of the saline drip and hiding the biggest of his liver spots.  “If you don’t live through this, I’ll kill you.”

  The kidneys have to go.  The bladder has to go.

Otabek’s dick has to go.  

“It’s fine,” Otabek says after the doctor leaves the room.  Their intimacy has suffered recently.  Until Otabek’s body started failing him for good, they were still going at it an admirable two to three times a week.  It was bragging rights at Yuri’s water aerobics class; Janice and Marta and Ahimsa are all twenty years younger than he is, but still delight in his gossip.  

“Your hips can still handle fucking on the stairs?” Marta would ask, and Yuri would preen, his long gone grey hair curling with the heat of the pool around his ears.  

Yuri has always deeply loved Otabek’s body, even in old age.  He’s loved Otabek’s full chest of hair, the grey curly-cues that gather down his shoulders like shrubbery.  He’s loved the wrinkles of Otabek’s ass when Otabek fucks him sideways in the mornings and Yuri reaches behind him for something soft and familiar to hold onto.  He’s loved the deep growing cut of Otabek’s philtrum, he’s loved the soft ocean of Otabek’s stomach and the way it curves perfectly against his spine at night.  He’s loved Otabek’s cataracts, Otabek’s thick fingernails, Otabek’s shitty liver and bladder, Otabek’s dick that has its own groove inside him.  

But Otabek will still be Otabek.  It’s always been Otabek’s character and strength that have made Yuri feel strong just standing beside him.  

“It’s fine,” Yuri agrees.  Otabek will carve new grooves into him.  Otabek will not be in pain.  Otabek will be ninety and still skating past Yuri in the stands of the skating club while Yuri drinks hot cider and pretends to ignore Otabek in favor of a book he’s read six pages of in the past ten years.  Otabek will be alive.  Yuri will still get to wrap himself around Otabek at night and press his nose to the wire-stiff hairs at the base of Otabek’s neck and listen to the sharp way Otabek negotiates the prices of fresh fruit and farmed fish at the market on Tuesdays.  Yuri will still be able to occupy a comfortable silence where the room feels full and alive just because his feet are resting in Otabek’s lap.  Yuri would do anything to keep that selfishly for himself as long as possible.  “It’s fine.”

  It’s not fine.  

The organ transplants--the kidney, the bladder anyway--are all farmed sustainably and are available for Otabek at any time.  

The dick however, is not.  

“Please, do not say the word--”

“Robodick,” the doctor says anyway.  “That’s the direction the market has deemed most profitable in perfecting, so the best technology currently available is the Nikiforov model.  At Mr. Altin-Plisetsky’s age, I would be too worried that an organic transplant might not take, as we haven’t perfected the procedure.  Going with a Nikiforov model would ensure a much higher success rate.  This means his body wouldn’t reject the transplant, and the likelihood of--worst case scenario, death would be much, much lower.”

“Say that name again,” Yuri says.  It’s a challenge, not a request.  The doctor looks between Otabek in a gown on the table, and Yuri, hands curled over the handle of his cane.  

“Would you like me to leave you with literature?” the doctor says, not taking the bait.  He hands a thick magazine to Otabek and nods at Yuri.  “I can leave you two alone if you need time to discuss the options available.”

As soon as the doctor is out of the room, Yuri snarls, “is that a dick catalogue?”

“That is,” Otabek says, flipping it open to a random page before leaning away from it and fumbling for his reading glasses, “that is exactly what it appears to be.”

“Did he say ‘Nikiforov?’” Yuri asks, lifting his cane to poke gently at Otabek’s hand.  Otabek smiles, entertained.  It’s the same kind of smile that he used to direct at Yuuri decades and decades ago when they were young, at some banquet or fancy party hosted by Victor and Yuuri, where Otabek would turn to Yuri and mouth, you jealous? against the long curve of Yuri’s neck

Otabek flips a couple dozen pages back in the magazine and adjusts his glasses.  He’s trying not to smile too much.  “‘Nikiforov -- or N1-kiforov is the prototype model still used today in all of our synthetic penis transplants,’” he reads out loud.  “The design and shape of the model are based off of the organic penis belonging to Victor Nikiforov, who--”

“I am not,” Yuri spits out, “not having Victor Nikiforov’s dick inside of me.”

 Otabek lets the magazine close around his thumb, bookmarking the page.

“They have to have other models,” Yuri continues.  

Otabek frowns, his cheeks cutting deep curves against his mouth like a bulldog, and flips the catalogue back open to read quietly to himself.  Yuri can feel the years peel off his own lifetime watching Otabek read.

Eventually, Otabek continues, “‘The N1-kiforov model was eventually chosen as the base model for all synthetic penile transplants, as the feedback regarding use, size, as well as shape concerning the girth and slight curve was favorable for both recipients, as well as sexual partners of all genders.’”

“Are you fucking with me?” Yuri asks, completely serious.  “Beka, I need to know: are you fucking with me.”

“I am one-hundred percent not fucking with you,” Otabek replies.  “But look-- there are different versions, a lot of luxury attachments--”

“Like what, Beka? A pasta maker?  This is your dick, not a fucking KitchenAid,” Yuri does not scream.

Otabek looks at him.  Really looks at him.  Takes his glasses off and rubs at his temple slowly, and Yuri instantly wishes he could take every word that’s stumbled out of his mouth in the past minute and shove them back in.

They take the dick catalogue home.

They bathe together, quietly.  Yuri sits between Otabek’s legs and lets the back of his head rest between where Otabek’s chest has gone soft and droopy and he closes his eyes and tries to forget the day.  Otabek won’t let him.

“I need to get a transplant,” he says.  

“I know,” Yuri says.  “I’m being petulant.  I’m in mourning.”

“You’re going to be mourning more than my dick soon if I don’t actually go in for the operation,” Otabek says.  He still sounds so kind.  

“Shut up,” Yuri says.  He hates this.  “I know.”

“Is it really so awful, me having Victor’s dick?” Otabek says.  “I mean, you never wondered--” 

He’s teasing, and Yuri wants to now sink underwater but also drag Otabek with him.  “I hate you!”

“You love me,” Otabek says.  He says it with such command in his voice that Yuri can do nothing but agree, weak for him with it.  

“Yeah,” Yuri says.  “I do.”

  The series of operations starts less than a month later.  Organ transplants are done with such frequency and ease these days that they’re the kind of operation that the lead surgeons will step out of the room during, send their interns in with their rivals to poach new techniques.  Yuri pretends that he isn’t nervous, wearing his comfiest pair of sweats and one of Otabek’s winter sweaters in the waiting room.  In his decades and decades and decades alive, humanity has still not found a way to make a comfortable hospital chair.  

 Every time Otabek wakes up, Yuri feels like he’s been suffocating.  The slow blink awake makes Yuri’s heart catch in his throat every time.   

Each surgery requires additional physical therapy.  Otabek is so strong, Yuri thinks for the thirty-thousandth time in his life.  He makes it through each one with such ease, it reminds Yuri of the first time he saw Otabek land a quad axel in competition.  Invincible, he thinks.  

The doctors tell them they can engage in sexual intercourse in a month.  Yuri doesn’t know what he’s going to do when that month is up.  He doesn’t expect to die before then.  Yuri eats a piece of candy a day, does low-impact cardio three times a week, drinks a glass of red wine with dinner, and even if that weren’t enough to ensure some kind of longevity, Yuri is sure to live to 112 out of sheer spite alone.  

(Even on their honeymoon in Rome fifty-five years ago, Otabek called him, “my grumpy old man.”)

 It’s not like they have to have sex to have a meaningful relationship.  It’s not like their relationship has only lasted nearly seven decades because the sex.  But Yuri likes the sex.  Yuri likes sex with Otabek; the noises he makes, the reminder of him solid and sure at the beginning of the day, the end of it.

Yuri hasn’t been so afraid of something or unsure of anything in a very long time.  It sits in his stomach like a stone, and it grows heavier as Otabek gets better.  He hates it.  It makes him feel nauseous and it makes him feel tired; it makes him feel old.  

Finally, Otabek turns to him and says, “we don’t have to, you know.” 

And Yuri knows exactly what he’s talking about.  

And in that moment, Yuri knows he wants to.  As soon as the choice is taken away from him, Yuri knows exactly the decision he would make, and that would be to let Otabek fuck him, even if it were with a synthetic model of Victor Nikiforov’s dick.  

“How dare you,” Yuri says.  He’s making tea on the stove, slicing up a lemon for Otabek’s while Otabek scrolls through the news on his tablet.  How dare Otabek bring it up so casually in the morning, not even daring to look him in the eye.  “You don’t get to make this decision for me.  You coward.” 

Otabek looks up from his tablet and pushes his glasses up his nose, smiling.  “Coward?” he asks.  “You always tell me I’m the brave one.  Even in our wedding vows, you said--”

“I know what I said!” Yuri says, angrily scooping too many spoonfuls of ceylon into loose tea bags.  It’s going to come out too strong, bitter, and Yuri will put too much milk in his to hide it and then be sick for the rest of the day.  Otabek knows this.  “Look, if you want to fuck me, you can go ahead and fuck me.  In fact, I would love it if you fucked me.  The girls at the gym have been giving me pitying looks and I would love to shut them up.”

The kettle whistles on the stove, and Yuri grabs it huffily.  He’s blushing.  He’s halfway to 85 and he’s blushing.  

“Maybe I was saying we didn’t have to because I don’t want to,” Otabek says.  If possible, Yuri’s blush deepens.  He turns his back to Otabek and pours the water over the overstuffed tea bags with a steady hand.  

“Fine,” he says.  He’s sure Otabek is just teasing him now. 

“Fine?” Otabek repeats.  

“Fine!”  Yuri grabs the cool milk pitcher from the counter and, as expected, pours more milk than water into his tea.  “Beka, we’ve always-- we knew we weren’t going to be two kids on the back of a motorbike forever.  We knew that would end, like we knew competitive skating would end, like we knew music would change and clothes would change and we would change. I’m not going to stop loving you now because something else changed.  We’ve always changed together.  I don’t care if you have Victor Nikiforov’s dick, or if you don’t want to fuck me anymore, as long as I get to be with you.”

Yuri hears Otabek exhale shaky, the sound of the table creaking as Otabek grips it to help push himself up.  Otabek shuffles toward him slow, and then Yuri feels Otabek’s arms circle around his middle; he’s stayed lanky all this time, and Otabek’s stayed robust, and the way he embraces Yuri has stayed so tight, grounding like an anchor.

 “Fifteen-year-old Yuri would have never said that,” Otabek says in his ear.  His voice is like honey.   

“That’s not true.  Fifteen-year-old Yuri would have said anything to get you to like him,” Yuri replies, and he feels Otabek press a smile into the crown of his head.  “Fifteen-year-old Yuri would have said it, he just wouldn’t have meant it.”

“Do you mean it?” Otabek asks, dry, thin-lipped kisses down the back of his neck.

“Of course, old man,” Yuri replies, turning around.  He grabs Otabek’s soft cheeks in his hands, fingers curling into Otabek’s sideburns.  When he kisses Otabek, softly, Otabek tastes like the same awful chalky dry toothpaste tabs he’s used for the past thirty years, and a little like sleep.  He licks a little into Otabek’s mouth just to be a shit, and Otabek laughs, grabbing at his collar as Yuri pulls back with his tongue out.  “Don’t be stupid.” 

 “I’m not okay with people shipping Otayuri … because I wanna know what made them look at yurio in canon and think ‘i wanna see him older and sexy’”

[REJECTED PROVERB, SOME DIPSHIT ON TUMBLR]

[privateanderssmith-blog]

How Do You Teach A Dog To Give Paw

Dogs are very sensible creatures that many people wonder how they study tips that they carry out. Zillions of problems pop up if you attempt to train your puppy or canine, the exclusive or tough act of rolling over safely and correctly, owing to their learning talents and speed. One must study to understand that the occasional refusal, denial, aggression and ignorance is short-term and you must take the higher-hand to indulge and interact your puppy or canine in an interesting sport of coaching the way to roll over. Change the treat every day and award him with special treat every time he makes an excellent leap.

How Do You Teach A Dog To Heel

When your dog has finished following the observe of your deal with to soundly and perfectly trip over as to roll round; it is best to nearly instantly reward him with the deal with you've been conserving closed off him. This makes your canine perceive that it has achieved one thing that's, liked. Talk to him as in appreciating him in order that he registers the act properly as an excellent or beautiful thing after teaching him the way to roll-over. Adore and respect your canine beginning the moment he completes tripping over. Begin by commanding your canine to take a seat, and reward him with a treat. Subsequent, maintain a deal with in front of him however barely out of reach. Begin with your canine in a down position. If your canine is aware of down” you possibly can cue it, or simply lure him right into a down, by putting a deal with close to his is aware of and slowly move your hand down and into your dog a bit (toward his chest) until he's in the down position. This is the video—it is solely about six minutes lengthy and you'll learn precisely how one can educate your dog to roll over. Once your canine is within the down position, place a deal with by his nose and sluggish transfer it to the side reverse of the rolled hip (or the path of the roll you want). Your dog will in all probability simply twist his head around. At first, just reward that by clicking (in case you clicker prepare) or by praising your dog and giving him the treat. Among the many actions that you simply practice your pet into, teaching tricks and method is a traditional means of instructing expression or the following degree of acquired linguistic skills. With a well-educated and healthy dog, one does not have too many issues to encounter as issues, throughout teaching your dog to roll over.

How To Teach A Dog To Roll Over Youtube

By following the steps below, you'll be able to expand your dog's knowledge of dog coaching in addition to successfully teach him a fun trick each of you may get pleasure from. I must admit I've an affinity for this trick. It was one of the first tips I taught my dog, and it gave me such a way of confidence. It is also a good idea to create a sample by which you give your verbal command Roll over” two or three times in a row, after which check your dog's understanding on the following repetition. And because you've just taught your canine the behavior within the first two phases, the only factor left is to give your verbal command, Roll over,” just before you give your hand sign.

How To Teach A Dog To Roll Over And Play Dead

Once you'll be able to easily lure your dog to roll over, the following logical step is to show your dog to reply to a hand signal. You is likely to be wondering why it's worthwhile to train a hand sign. The primary cause is to keep your dog from turning into dependent in your having meals in your hand to carry out the habits. The hot button is to get your dog to associate the spoken command with the bodily move of rolling over. 6 In case you choose, you should use a hand signal by making a rolling movement together with your hand. Otherwise you may give a verbal and physical sign concurrently.

How Do I Get My Dog To Roll Over

How Do You Teach A Dog To Give Paw

How Do You Teach A Dog To Come

Using your treat-stuffed hand, turn his nose in the direction of their shoulder by rotating your hand over his head. Kneel beside your dog and hold a small, yummy treat to the aspect of his head near his nose. Hold practicing till he can do the trick without help. After the first few successes, the dog ought to be capable of roll over with out your assist. It is best to no longer have to maneuver the deal with over his head or bodily roll his body over. Arise and inform him to roll over; when he does so on his personal, reward him with a treat and a pat on the top. Tip: Watch your physique language as you're employed on this conduct. In the event you train it to your dog while sitting on the ground, your dog might not understand what to do when you ask her to do roll over while standing up. This would possibly require returning later to follow the trick every time, since reward and food treats are likely to get a canine excited and shifting round. With your canine mendacity down, hold a treat at your canine's nose and transfer it towards his shoulder. The moment he turns his head, click on or reward him and give him a treat. Apply this several times till he's persistently turning his head. Now that your canine is readily going by means of all the process with speed and willpower, you may connect the cue to the habits. Say roll over” right as your dog is performing the habits, which is basically instructing her English by attaching the phrase to the motion. When teaching your canine to roll over, it is usually best to add the command as soon as your dog is constantly rolling all the way in which over. As soon as he is smoothly following the deal with and rolling over every time, it is time to add the command. Maintain the deal with in front of him, give the command "roll over," and lure him over with the treat.

How To Teach A Dog To Play Dead

Teaching your dog this trick is a must. Along with sit and down, this is without doubt one of the most nicely-known canine tricks. In fact, if a customer comes over and asks you, "Does your dog know any tricks?" then proceeds to search out out for herself, chances are high high that she'll ask, "Come on boy, roll-over." Have you ever wondered how one can get your canine to roll over? It's harder than many different methods, but with endurance and numerous encouragement, your canine will probably be rolling over on command.

How To Teach A Dog To Roll Over Easy