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13atoms · 2 years ago

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Aching Muscles and Kitchen Tables (Lucy Carlyle x Anthony Lockwood)

This fic owes a huge thanks to @thegirlfromthesea, for continuous proof-reading, helping me when I was stuck, and indulging my lore questions despite the fact I have not read the books yet. Thank you! 💚

Contains: Angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence and injury, domestic hurt/comfort, featuring George because I love him. 4.4k words

Summary: Lockwood is working them to the bone, case after case, and Lucy's exhausted. After a particularly crappy comment made to a particularly crappy client, she's had enough.

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A flurry of movement made Lucy gasp, falling back onto her injured ankle as she slashed her rapier across the gaseous form in front of her. A hiss. Again, this time from above. The rush of cloudy air in front of her was sliced through a swing and a less-than-elegant sweep of her non-dominant foot.

Lockwood knew she hadn’t liked that client. Not him, not his weird, staring son.

She swiped again.

“Women,” the client had laughed, as Lucy stood shivering at the end of the night, refusing to recount the horrible things she’d heard.

“I always say she’s too talented for her own good,” Lockwood had laughed back.

Lucy felt her stomach drop. The client’s son was still staring at her.

Hiss. Swipe. Readjust footwork.

Bastard.

She was panting, gasping at each hiss. There was an anger flowing through her which just wouldn’t dissipate, so powerful it made her fist clench white around the handle of her rapier. Again, she swung at the training jet, hissing at the pain in her foot and an overextension of her aching biceps, still hurting from the real type two they’d fought earlier.

She’d heard adults say sprained ankles never fully heal. That she’d understand when she was older.

Lucy already knew. The broken toe she’d sustained getting her level one still irked her on cold nights, making her gasp if she ran on cobblestones. There was a permanent ache in her back, a symptom of muscle gained too quickly, her habit of carrying heavy bags on one shoulder, of too much looking over her shoulder. It was a rare weekend when her head didn’t ache, the echoing pain of Listening barely subsiding before her Talent was needed again.

All over, a surfeit of scars and aches. The ones no one else could see felt the worst. The ones which she couldn’t prove.

Then there was that endless sense of loss inside of her, low level, something chronic. Mourning that which she had lost, and that which she had never possessed at all.

And now, betrayal. The realisation that Lockwood had agreed with that man. That he hadn’t understood why she’d curled away from him in the backseat of the night cab. Why she’d sat, unmoving, for hours in the kitchen. Lucy didn’t want to sleep in a room without a door.

Again. She struck another jet, twisting at the sound and spotting it in a few more milliseconds than she ought to. She gasped with pain, with frustration, steadying her rapier with a second hand on the hilt.

Again.

She pivoted on the spot, with a swipe to the fake spectre behind her. The basement was filled with the steady thud of trainers on concrete, the deafening hiss of the pipes depressurising, the ear-splitting ring of her rapier.

She hoped Anthony Lockwood could hear it.

That she was keeping him awake.

Quieter was the pant of Lucy’s breath. The grunts she gave as something hurt anew. The raggedness in each breath she drew was growing, as the sun passed its zenith in the sky and the countdown to the next case began.

She’d always loved the sanctuary of night, despite what it had taken from her. When her mother was asleep. When she possessed a Talent which made her feel safe, even as those who held power over her had cowered. The world had been her own at night, free from the pressures of daytime, shielding her from the things she didn’t like other people seeing.

Lockwood & Co. had changed that. The boys were night owls, to the point that Lucy could guarantee seeing one of them if she ventured downstairs in her pyjamas at three in the morning. With their cases running through most nights she lost the predictability of the rest of the world. It had driven her to early mornings, and afternoon naps.

George would be asleep for another few hours, unless he was anxious about a case to flee to the library. Lockwood never seemed to sleep deeply. Lucy was still finding a place in the house’s strange, asynchronous schedule.

Another hiss.

She lunged, too far from the activated jet to hit the bulk of the flurry, but hoping she might snag the tail end of the gas expelled before it vanished, and convince herself she had made the strike.

It was a direct jolt to her damaged ankle, and Lucy stifled a shout at the spike of pain. Her impulses led her to overbalance, hands flying forward in some attempt to control her fall as she collapsed to the ground.

The jet directly above her activated, making her shiver and gasp for air, stunned as the stream doused her, and flattened her sweat-slicked hair to her head. It took her vision for a few shocking seconds, and her eyes ached as she opened them again to the dark basement.

She was dead.

Something moved in her peripheral, but Lucy didn’t care. Her eyes shone with tears and she couldn’t draw her gaze from the concrete ground, its web of black scuffs and the occasional fleck of something red. There was a flick, and the sound cut out. The jets were off.

For a moment, she tried to hold her breath. Hoped he would leave. It only took a glance to know who it was, regarding her through the dim light with one hand on the power for the training jets and the other hooked around a mug of steaming tea.

“Can I turn the lights on?”

No.

Lucy was sat on her arse, head pounding, unable to dampen the sobs which wracked her whole body. One hand uselessly clutched her rapier, as she shivered against the sweat which had immediately cooled on her skin. Her ankle throbbed worse than when it was freshly injured, and Lucy could feel the thickness of snot mixing with sweat and tears on her red face.

Lockwood shifted, his slippers brushing against the floor.

She didn’t realise she was screaming until the words echoed back to her.

“Get out!”

“Luce…”

Lockwood moved quickly towards her, hands extended in concern. Later, Lucy would realise she couldn’t hear anything but concern in his gentle calling of her name.

She hurled her rapier at him.

Lucy was one hell of a shot. She knew she was. Never missed.

In some subconscious way, she wondered if she had tried to miss Lockwood. It was better than the alternative: that she had tried in earnest to skewer him, and been too damn exhausted.

Lockwood had fled from the room before her rapier was finished clattering against the floor. She stared after him in shock, sobs falling from her mouth, clamping two shaking hands across her face.

And so, she listened.

For the slam of the front door, the lifting of the phone receiver, a shout to George. She listened for Lockwood’s footsteps as they rushed to his room, faster than he rushed out of the house each time they ran late. Then, the sliding of his drawers. A moment of silence.

Footsteps descending the stairs. The draw of a rapier from the basket.

Lucy tensed, near hyperventilating as her chest shook with sobs and her hands refused her breath.

The front door softly closed.

When George found her in the basement half an hour later, she laughed off his concern. He was sleepy, complete with bedhead, calling her name in the kitchen. Lucy was shaking with cold, her leg stretched out in front of her.

“Down here!” she responded, trying to shout.

The anger had left her, replaced by something she liked less.

As George’s face appeared, smiling and backlit by sunlight, she realised that it might be guilt.

“Having a break?” he teased, barely sparing a glance at the rapier lying at the foot of the stairs.

“Sorry,” she laughed, hiding sniffles as she wiped her face on her shirt, “hurt myself training.”

She didn’t need to gesture to her ankle, it was laid out in front of her, the shoe gingerly removed to reveal the joint swollen and angry, lines left where her socks had been.

“Oh wow, you should have shouted! That looks bad!”

Lucy shrugged him off, catching his concern at her puffy face, the tears still wet on her cheeks.

“It’s alright, you would have slept through it anyway.”

“That’s fair.”

George laughed as he conceded, and Lucy felt a sharp pang of guilt in her stomach as he helped her to her one good foot, half-lifting her up the stairs to the kitchen.

“You do look in rough shape, long night?”

“The longest,” she lamented, and George offered her a look of understanding which only an agent could share.

He set her down at the kitchen table, chucking her a crocheted blanket when she groaned that she couldn’t reach it, and made tea with an amused glance at her as she wrapped herself in it like a shroud.

“Do you know where Lockwood is?”

The question was light-hearted, as George slid toast and butter in front of her, and Lucy occupied herself with buttering it. Nonetheless, it made her breath hitch and guilt erupt in her stomach.

“Not sure, I heard him go out earlier,” she murmured, and George laughed.

“Bankrupting us buying flares again, probably,” he mused.

George was still fussing, making scrambled eggs, and Lucy occupied herself with buttering his toast too. There was a third plate out, but no toast on it, and she reminded herself it was ridiculous to feel mournful over a plate.

“Or flirting with Arif’s daughter,” he glanced at Lucy, like he was hoping to get a rise out of her, “he’ll get himself in trouble one day. Then we’ll actually have to pay for our own doughnuts.”

“Not worth it,” Lucy offered distractedly, glancing at the door.

“How long do you reckon he’s been gone?”

“Longer than it takes to get to Arif’s and back,” Lucy responded, “unless he’s really flirting.”

George smiled a little ruefully and took his seat opposite Lucy. Lockwood’s handwriting was below her plate. She couldn’t quite make out what it said.

She was completely in her own world, focused on cutting up her eggs and toast, when George spoke again.

“He was a piece of work, that guy last night,” George offered, and Lucy looked up in surprise.

“I thought I was the only one who noticed,” she admitted.

“No,” George scoffed through a mouthful of eggs, “total dick. You said so, too.”

“His son was weirding me out –”

“Yes! After you mentioned it, absolutely staring. Weird.”

George punctuated the comment with a stab of his fork into his toast, and Lucy felt a punch of satisfaction at George’s frustration.

“Lockwood was an absolute dick talking to the guy, all about how I’m ‘too talented for my own good’.”

“The doesn’t sound that bad…”

Betrayal. Again. Though it didn’t sting as badly from poor, innocent George, who made the fluffiest scrambled eggs she’d ever eaten.

“It was patronising,” she spat, “the guy had just made some comment about ‘women’. Everyone already thinks I’m a nutter, last thing I need is to be called hysterical too.”

George screwed up his face in disgust, and Lucy felt herself softening again.

“Oh, I didn’t realise that. I’m sure Lockwood didn’t meant it,” it was an empty platitude, and so obvious that Lucy didn’t bother to call him on it, “and no one thinks you’re a nutter, Lucy.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Agreeing with someone saying that stuff means you also think that, George.”

She was trying to spell it out, and George was looking at the thinking cloth with a focus her doodles did not warrant.

“I mean… you know what he’s like. Schmoozing. Trying to get people to like him,” George raised his eyebrow, but Lucy couldn’t bring herself to laugh.

It was humiliating. George didn’t get it.

The sound of the front door only gave Lucy a second of warning before Lockwood was in the kitchen, dressed entirely as normal and regarding her for a second too long.

“Morning,” he offered both of them evenly, although George was already on his feet to cook and Lucy had become enraptured by the movements of a bird outside the window.

The guilt was back, heavy and oppressive, and making Lucy set her fork down with a clatter against her plate. She wasn’t hungry, as Lockwood set his rapier down on the table and took yet another glance at her.

“You should get some sleep, Luce,” he muttered, while George whisked away at the stove, and Lucy longed for him to come back.

“I’m fine,” she responded, unable to meet his eye, tacking on a half-hearted: “thanks.”

“You look tired.”

He glanced at her ankle, propped up on a chair and getting more purple by the minute.

“That looks bad,” he noted, his tone frustratingly even, stripped of anything Lucy could read.

It was bad. It hurt. Lucy wished it didn’t hurt and it wasn’t bad, so that she could leave.

“Was that from last night?” he persevered, and Lucy nodded.

She poked at her scrambled eggs, waiting for her appetite to come back. Avoiding Lockwood. She should apologise.

She knew she should. But in her shame, she couldn’t do it. Not in front of George.

Not when she still felt she ought to be a bit angry at Lockwood.

Lucy looked up hopelessly at George, just as he finished Lockwood’s plate and slid it in front of him. The pan remained on the hob – it was someone else’s job to wash up.

“Did you go for a walk?” she asked him, and Lockwood nodded, covering his mouth until he had finished chewing.

“Just had a wander to clear my head.”

“Go anywhere nice?” George interjected, and Lockwood shrugged.

“Just around. Around Russell Square and back.”

George and Lucy raised their eyebrows. That wasn’t a short walk. Not at this time in the morning.

“Think any good thoughts?” George asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

He poured himself the remainder of the orange juice, then added it to the shopping list.

“Only that we work too hard,” Lockwood offered, sparing Lucy a glance which she didn’t appreciate much.

Her ankle hurt a lot, but she refused to shift. To draw attention to it. Her shoulders ached. She could still hear Lockwood’s voice. Feel that man’s glare. Women.

“Amen,” George replied, “I’m glad it took you a solo wander around Islington first thing in the morning to work that one out. Look at the state of us!”

He nodded to Lucy, and she wrinkled her nose, relieved to see the wink George threw her. Lockwood’s attention was moved once again.

“I do think you should probably see a doctor for that, Luce. Looks bad.”

There was a rapier between them, on the table. It was in Lockwood’s case, the sharp end towards her. Guilt roiled and snaked in her stomach, even as she glared across the table.

“They’ll just tell me to rest it,” she barked, “and then I won’t be able to rest it. Because you’ll book a case. So, no. I probably won’t bother.”

George’s eyebrows were hidden by his fringe, as he moved his plate to the sink and muttered something about going to his room. She couldn’t even look at Lockwood.

Shame made her throat ache, her eyes burn. Her heart was pounding, ankle throbbing with the stress of it. An image of her mother’s heavy hands and red, twisted face flashed before her, just for a moment. That uncontrollable rage, which seemed to burn inside Mrs Carlyle.

Lucy had simply assumed she didn’t love her. After all, how could she have treated those she loved so deplorably?

She planted both elbows on the table, displacing the rapier in its bag, and just the rustle of it made her stomach turn.

Lucy had to leave. She had to run. And George had already left the room, so it was just her and Lockwood. The air was too thick. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look anywhere but the ground beneath her useless feet. Why was it so hard to do anything but run?

Lucy had thought, for so long, that all she knew how to do was run. That her instincts were meek and pathetic, submissive to a fault.

The sound of her rapier hitting the concrete floor replayed in her mind, burned there next to the image of Lockwood’s horrified expression. She wondered if it would hurt her, when she retrieved her blade. If there was enough emotion forged into the metal to make her feel shame and guilt all over again.

Lockwood still hadn’t spoken. She could see his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, the hurt in his eyes which even his best I’m-a-grown-up persona couldn’t conceal. Like he’d been struck.

Lucy couldn’t remember another time the kitchen door had been closed, but Lockwood stood to close it now, letting the latch take with a quiet click before leaning against it. Lucy snatched her stare away, fixing it on the Thinking Cloth.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and her heart ached as Lockwood sniffed, back straightening.

“Are you okay, Luce? Have I done something wrong?”

Shock, yet again. Just like she’d been in shock on the job last night. Like she’d been reeling after chasing Lockwood from the basement with a blade.

He was staring at her, eyebrows knitted together.

“I just… for a moment I sounded like my mum.”

She was crying. Lucy couldn’t help it, gasping over the word mum and trying to hide it from Lockwood because damn it, now she was playing the victim. Just like she did. The hollow in her chest grew wider and wider, and she wondered how long before it engulfed her heart and killed her completely. Lockwood reached out for her, and Lucy froze. Slowly, his hand found her shoulder.

“You’re nothing like her, Luce,” he promised.

Lockwood didn’t know much, but he’d watched Lucy enough to know that someone had treated her very badly, and she could never have deserved any of it.

“You can’t know that, I’m her flesh and blood.”

She spat the words out, hoping it might scare him away. Then he’d be safe. She’d be alone.

“It just… it happened so fast, this anger!”

Lockwood was beside her bad ankle. He could hurt her, if he wanted, Lucy thought as she watched him beside the purple and blue marbling. The swollen flesh which didn’t look like hers. He could dig his thumb into the joint and make her scream and hurt like he had.

“You’re tired, Lucy. You’re tired, and you were hungry, and in pain,” he glanced, again, at her wretched ankle, “and you’d listened to things I can’t even imagine…”

“I wasn’t possessed!” she insisted, because he needed to know.

He needed to know the truth, that she couldn’t be trusted. That she didn’t understand this rage which boiled up inside her sometimes.

“I know, Luce. I know.”

Lucy was crying in earnest, and hating that she was crying, and Lockwood was still crouching in front of her even though his legs must be aching by now.

“I think… they train us, our whole lives, to be weapons. Deadly with a rapier,” Lockwood declared theatrically, heart singing as he got the slightest shadow of a smile from Lucy, “that it shouldn’t be a surprise when our fight or flight instincts become deadly too.”

“Still –”

Lockwood interrupted her.

“I shouldn’t have startled you. You said to go away, and I didn’t. I’d appreciate if you didn’t throw rapiers in the house but… I get it.”

Stupid boy. Lockwood was stupid, she’d decided. Keeping someone like her around. Lucy was still reeling from the rage she’d felt, stuck there on her arse, wound up from adrenaline and horrified to be discovered in that state.

They could be in a hospital. She could be behind bars.

“I should be apologising to you,” she sniffled, and Lockwood smiled softly, like he might at a confused child.

“Go on then.”

The words came as easily as breathing, now. Lucy looked him in the eye and tried to control her sobs and reached for his hand with both of hers.

“God, Lockwood, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown that rapier at you, or snapped, I don’t know… you were trying to help.”

He pulled her close, face to his chest, and Lucy concealed a hiss at the shifting of her aching body. She let him hold her close.

“It’s alright. No harm done. I… I was just worried you were upset with me –”

“I was angry with you,” she blurted out, and Lockwood blinked at her in confusion.

“About that horrible man. And his creepy son.”

His forehead creased, searching for recognition, before smoothing out once again.

“He was pretty weird,” Lockwood conceded, but Lucy shook her head.

“You agreed with him. When he said that stuff about women and me and too talented for her own good.”

“You are too talented for your own good, Luce! It hurts you, and I wish it didn’t!”

She couldn’t hide an eye roll, the setting of her jaw.

“That wasn’t what he meant and you know it, Lockwood. I said I wasn’t comfortable!”

“You had us there! Nothing would have happened!”

Lucy was done speaking to him. She huffed and crossed her arms and pretended she couldn’t see her tear stains making Lockwood’s shirt transparent, couldn’t feel that vile pull of guilt returning to her stomach.

“You’re the best agent we have, Luce. We couldn’t have done it without you,” he offered, and she huffed.

“So what? You made it seem like I was crying over my period when you were talking to the client! You knew what he was implying.”

Lucy’s throat was thick with tears again. Her head ached from it.

“You know what I think of you, Luce,” he breathed, and she couldn’t look at him.

One of her hands found the suede of the rapier sheath on the table, and searched through the fabric until she felt the foil, sharp against her thumb.

“I can’t… I already don’t get taken seriously, Lockwood. If you’re my boss and you’re joking about these emotional women agents…”

“I’m sorry,” he offered again, with the same earnestness as the first time he’d said it.

She watched him, unspeaking. He sat on the floor. At her feet.

She heard the phantom clatter of her rapier on concrete again.

“I find it hard not to brag about you, you know that. And I can’t say ‘sorry Lucy’s a bit out of it, she’s the most powerful Listener who’s ever lived’,” he began.

Lucy went to interrupt, but Lockwood gave her such an imploring look she snapped her mouth closed.

“It was stupid, and I honestly hadn’t thought twice about it. Just… tell me. If things bother you. Or you’re hurt,” he looked mournfully at her ankle again.

It really hurt.

“I’ve done a crap job of looking after you recently. And George. I don’t know how to do this, I need you to help me, when I get it wrong.”

“I will.”

He gave her a look like he didn’t believe her. Lucy supposed he had probably made the right judgement there. They had all grown up too quickly, too far from help, so now none of them knew how to reach for it. Individual pillars, each crumbling unsupported.

She looked around the kitchen, at the freshly established morning light. The pile of dishes in the sink was small, she wondered if someone had washed up last night. She knew looked bad, smelled worse. Lucy knew she needed to ice her ankle, if she ever wanted to be of use to Lockwood & Co. again. She knew needed a shower and to sleep, and to remind Lockwood how much she adored him.

(Platonically. Obviously. Just like she adored George.)

Whatever there was between them, whatever future Lucy had simply assumed would be there once their Talents faded and they were something a little bit closer to normal people, had vanished for a second. She needed that back. That hope.

“Thank you for turning the jets off earlier. And sorry if I woke you up. I was just… a bit overwhelmed.”

Lockwood looked surprised, frowning up at her from the kitchen floor and offering her a ‘you’re welcome’ which sounded more like a question than a platitude.

“Could you help me up to the shower?”

“Of course.”

He smiled, and clambered up from the floor, ready to do his duty. He was good at that. Fulfilling his duty to them.

There was an awkwardness in Lockwood passing Lucy a towel through the shower door, and helping her change, helping her hobble up the stairs, closing her curtains for her. They spoke in soft voices as she nervously requested tea, and Lockwood apologetically pressing tea-towel wrapped frozen peas to her foot, and through it all Lucy thought she could feel something healing.

She was curled up in bed, foot elevated on spare pillows from beneath the bed, with steaming tea and a cup of water on her bedside table. The room was dark, aided by Lockwood hanging her dressing gown over a gap in the curtains, and Lockwood crept back to her bedside with a hushed voice as though it was midnight.

“All okay?” he asked, yet again.

She smiled against her pillow, willing sleep to come.

“Yeah. Thanks. Thank you.”

Lucy opened her eyes to see him nod in the darkness, open hand coming to meet hers, before changing his mind and instead patting her shoulder.

“We’re okay, yeah?” she asked, suddenly feeling timid, like a child asking him to check for monsters under the bed.

“We’re okay,” he told her, so sincere it broke her heart. “Talk in the morning?”

“It is the morning,” she teased, and Lockwood shushed her, making her laugh and shake beneath the sheets.

“Don’t tell your brain that! It’s midnight… it’s very late, and you’re going to sleep very well… and I’m going to ban George from using the blender…”

Lucy smiled, matched his tone: “And I’m going to wake up less grumpy, and cry less.”

He offered her a fond look, offset by the cheeky tilt of his head.

“You can wake up however you want, I’m going to hide your rapier.”

And despite the pang of guilt in her stomach, Lucy laughed, and laughed again at the wave Lockwood gave her as he left, turning off the light behind him.

#Lockwood x Lucy #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co fic #lockwood and co #lucy carlyle #fic #13atoms #locklyle

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rwprincess · 3 years ago

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Head Over Feet (Brian Johnson x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Word Count: 4.8k

Synopsis: What’s that sound? It’s another anachronistic Brian Johnson songfic! (Based on Alanis Morissette’s Head Over Feet) You’re one of Bender’s trash-punk friends and things change drastically when he brings the scrawny brain from detention with him to meet you all. Set up in snippets, your relationship develops with Brian, even if you weren’t really looking for a relationship.

CW: Teenage smoking (including reader), swearing, parental abuse (being being kicked out), sexism, angst and fluff

“This is Johnson,” Bender indicated the boy he brought along to your group’s spot under the bleachers.

“Brian, please.” The kid corrected. You eyed the gangly youth from top to bottom; in his sweater over a crisply-ironed collared shirt and khakis, he definitely didn’t fit in here with you all. You’d be called grungy punks at best. You didn’t think any of you even owned an iron and crisp definitely wasn’t your style. You blew out a puff of smoke, exhaling the nicotine from your lungs and shifted your gaze to Bender, wondering what he was at with this. He wasn’t the best guy, but pranking this preppy little nerd by bringing him down to your hangout? That seemed beneath him.

“You, uh, running some kinda charity here, Bender? We’re not exactly Make-A-Wish material, kid.” Scorch told the blonde dweeb and you snorted at the thought.

“Shut the fuck up,” was all Bender said in response. The rest of the twenty minutes of Brian Johnson standing there was of course, incredibly awkward and it was clear to everyone that he didn’t fit in. But that didn’t stop him from coming back a week later. And again a few days after that. And again and again until, well, that dork had grown on the lot of you. While he didn’t partake in cigarette smoking like most of you, he did take Bender up on his weed on several occasions and was actually really funny while high. He did weirdly spot-on impressions and had a sense of humor that none of your group had anticipated.

And, as much as you would vehemently deny it, you liked him when he was sober, too. He was incredibly smart and helpful and while his jokes were different without marijuana in his system, he could be amusing. That first awkward encounter was back in March, maybe April. But now you spent time with him without the convenience of school pulling you together. Now it was June and you sought to spend time with him, even without the group. Tonight, you were laying in a field not far from the high school, just the two of you. You liked to listen to him ramble on about the constellations and the myths about why they were named as they were. You remembered liking that as a kid, but you didn’t remember most of the stories. You knew you could ask him questions about the actual stars, too. Like, the science of it, and he would know. But you’d rather let him ramble and tackle one subject at a time. Even though he focused more on science and math, he was a pretty good storyteller, and right now that provided you with more of an escape than talking about the chemical composition of a star. When he finished his retelling of Ursa Minor’s story, however, he remained silent and didn’t start up a new piece of lore. After a moment, you looked at him to see what the hold up was, but you just caught his eye as his gaze was already fixed on you. Your heart started pounding in your chest because you knew what was coming.

“You know, we could go on an actual date some time.” Brian suggested, breaking the silence. You closed your eyes, almost wincing at the words. He was generally more subtle than this, but the same idea had been brought up before. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Brian. In general, you did, and in the honest depths of your soul, it was as more than a friend. But, every time it came down to this subject, you panicked. You had never been serious with anyone and the thought of dating was completely foreign to you. You had messed around with some guys before but you never had feelings for them. You didn’t know how to depend on another person, to have an actual relationship with them.

I had no choice but to hear you

You stated your case time and again

I thought about it

You sighed, your eyes still closed. You didn’t know what to tell him. Before, he always left it as more of a hint and it was easier to dodge. Now he was just coming out and saying it. Basically asking you out, so you would actually have to turn him down this time. The terrible thing was, you didn’t really want to. The conscious side of you wanted to agree and go out with him, on a proper date. But your subconscious kicked you into fight or flight mode and if you weren’t in the middle of a field, you might have picked flight and walked away. But that didn’t seem to be an option.

“Look, Johnson. It’s not that easy. Just...don’t waste your time on me.”

“I’m already wasting my time on you.” He pointed out, but when you took a peek at him, he didn’t seem upset about it. He was actually grinning about it. “We’re already wasting our time out here. Or at the library, or under the bleachers… So why not like, a movie theater or dinner, or my house?”

“Oh yeah, your mom would love having me around.” You joked, humorlessly. The smattering of times you had met Brian’s mother hadn’t gone swimmingly. You could read the derision in her voice and knew she did not approve of her good little baby hanging out with a ne’er-do-well like you.

“She’d come around. You’re different once someone actually gets to know you.” He meant it as a compliment, but you took it as your out.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You leapt up, indignantly and he just gaped at you like a fish out of water.

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it, I swear!” He put his hands up defensively as you looked down at him. “Forget it, I’m sorry.” You had victory, he dropped the subject and your friendship could last another night and you could try to pretend like he wasn’t right, that you two weren’t meant to be something more.

*~~~~*

You treat me like I'm a princess

I'm not used to liking that

You ask how my day was

For the most part, working at Bert’s auto shop felt worthwhile and valuable. Other days, it chewed you up and spit you out. It was hard being in such a masculine environment and not fitting into that type. Customers (mostly men, but even the women too) thought that you were less knowledgeable and handy than your cohorts. Bender’s teasing didn’t help that image, either.

Now you slid into the booth at Gino’s pizzeria utterly deflated and defeated. Of course, Brian took notice right away. “Rough day?” He inquired, pushing a menu towards you even though he knew you ordered the same thing every time.

“That’s not even the half of it. Why does Bender hafta be such a dick all the time?!” You asked, incredulously but sincerely, diving right into your problem.

“I don’t know. I think he thinks it’s part of his charm? Maybe it is. I mean, we’re still friends with him.” You nodded at his point, but clenched your fists just the same.

“I just wish he knew when to back off sometimes. Like, he never realizes he’s taking it too far and digging you further into a shithole.”

“What did he do this time?” Brian’s gaze on you was unbroken; it made you feel important, like your opinion, your story, was the only thing that mattered.

“So we got this old guy in the shop today. Beautiful car, so of course he was hesitant with me touching it.” You began and his eyebrows furrowed, already not liking the direction this was going. “And I’m trying to prove myself worthy to work on this car, even though I would just be doing an oil change, which isn’t like a big deal anyway, right? Simple stuff.” You looked to him to get acknowledgement to move forward.

“I mean, I guess. I don’t really know about oil changes or anything about cars. But I know you do.”

“Right, so Bender has to go and make a crack to the old guy about how they won’t let me near it and I’m just the secretary for the shop or whatever. Just a total dick move. But of course the guy believed him and laughed with him and sent me to go get him a cup of coffee? I mean, what the hell is that?”

“That’s not right. And you wear a mechanic’s uniform at work, why would he think--?”

“Because macho man Bender told him I was! He was more believable than me.” You sank back and put a hand up to brace your forehead as the waitress approached the table. You prepared to order your drink when she set down exactly what you would have ordered in front of you and walked away, promising to come back in a few minutes. You blinked at the cup as if it magically had appeared.

“I uh, figured you’d get the usual and you’d need it when you got here, so I ordered for you. I hope that’s okay.” Brian said and then looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the idea. Since he wasn’t looking at you anyway, you allowed your lips to twitch up into a smile threatening to break out on your face...but only for a moment.

“Yeah, whatever. So anyway, Bender…” you carried on, pretending nothing happened, but secretly cataloguing his gesture in your memory.

*~~~~*

The only thing worse than arguing with Brian or him pissing you off was him making you laugh. There were times that you would go home with sore sides and itchy eyes from the tears that formed while laughing so hard. Then you would always, always reflect on the hours you just spent together, feeling the warmth and butterflies tickle your insides and a nervous heat would prickle your skin as you thought about how happy Brian made you. He never pushed you to do anything; he liked you the way you were. Sure, he would drop hints here and there about how you should stop smoking or give you advice when you had a particularly bad argument with one of your friends, but overall, he just accepted you. And you knew how hard that was to find.

You had never been popular and when junior high rolled around, you accepted that you never would be. You found your own little group of outcasts who understood what it was like to be kicked down time and again, and now he had somehow joined that group too. You knew he understood how it felt. Even though he looked different and came from a very different social circle, he had been looked down upon by his peers all his life. You were guilty of judging him the same way when you first met him, but now you couldn’t imagine life without him. He was cut of the same cloth and you could see yourself in him, which is why you just clicked. And he was so kind and so patient with you. You tried to push him away dozens of times, to put up the barriers and the walls that worked so well for everyone that came before him; you couldn’t be hurt if you never got attached. Where most people gave up and only saw the cold, distant bitch you gave them, Brian always saw something more. He didn’t give up in breaking down those walls, and even accepted just being your friend. That made you love him even more.

Shit, wait. Did you just think about loving Brian? A crush is one thing. Having a buddy to fool around with is one thing. Being in love was quite another.

You've already won me over in spite of me

Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet

Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn't help it

It's all your fault

*~~~~*

Mercedes Johnson was all about keeping up appearances, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hear her arguing with Brian on the other side of the door, about you. Again. You had known from the second you met her that she didn’t like you. She was instantly worried about the influence you’d have on her son; it was a common reaction from parents based on the way you looked and the company you kept. You would think you’d be used to it by now.

However, it truthfully bothered you more because this was Brian’s mother. You were hoping that she would be different and see the person underneath like her son had, or at the very least, that she would eventually warm up to you. You had no luck with either.

“I’m not comfortable with having her over at the house right now.” You could hear her tell Brian.

“She’s my friend, ma. Of course she’s going to come over--”

“I’m aware of that but you know I wish she weren’t. I would prefer that you keep the company of other friends.” The formality of her sentences while she was still cruelly putting you both down made you cringe.

“You don’t know her because you won’t give her a chance. She’s not that different from my other friends.”

“You have friends in the Physics Club, from Knowledge Bowl, Honor Students. You don’t need the association with a hoodlum like that or John Bender and I don’t know why you keep insisting on bringing them into my home when I have repeatedly told you no. I don’t want them around your sister, or even you!”

“Fine. Then we’ll leave.” You heard the door swing open harshly and Brian was motioning for you to follow him out of the house.

“Brian Ralph Johnson!” You heard his mother cry after the two of you. Brian held open the front door for you and you looked at him cautiously before rushing out. You knew you weren’t wanted there, but you were worried that he wouldn’t come with you. You were even more worried that he would. “You are not leaving this house.” Mercedes put on the most intimidating tone you had witnessed her use.

“No, I am. We are. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t bother coming back tonight if you walk out of this house!” She was now pink-faced and losing all of the reserved, polished look you had seen her have. She had never been so...uncomposed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” Brian said and grabbed you by the elbow as he escorted you down the driveway to your car. He immediately got into the passenger seat and as you sunk behind the steering wheel, you glanced at him.

“Brian, this is stupid. You don’t have to---you shouldn’t do this.” The whole situation reminded you of the many times you had been kicked out of your house. This was just another home you weren’t welcome in.

He clenched his jaw in response. “Let’s just go. I’ll figure it out later. Please, just drive.”

Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole

You're so much braver than I gave you credit for

That's not lip service

“Your mom gave you a choice, you know. It’s not like she told you to get out. She actually told you not to leave.” You said as you both sat on the trunk of your car, looking out across the field that was slowly turning to a golden hue, both from the afternoon sun and the change into autumn. Neither of your houses were really an option to go to, so you just chose the empty field that you would look at stars in during the summer.

“It’s not like it was really a choice though, was it? I’m tired of her trying to control every part of my life. I need to start thinking for myself, doing things for myself. She needs to understand that I’m going to do what I want, and like who I want to like.” He looked at you meaningfully for a moment, but you looked away quickly. It was too heavy for you to process right now.

“That’s a big step. I’m really impressed with you for standing up for yourself.” You told him, and he gave you an appreciative, heart-stopping smile in return that caused your cheeks to flush. Your parents had shouted at you to leave so many times before, any time you were ‘inconvenient’ for them, that it was hard to relate to someone who chose not to stay. But you wanted to support him and you did feel proud of him today. You thought back to the most recent event in which you had been dismissed from your family, and how you had tried to take it out on Brian:

You slammed your locker and watched him almost jump out of his skin. “I don’t want to talk about this.” You growled at Brian.

“I understand that, but you need to. You can’t just--”

“Just what?”

“You can’t just act like nothing happened or run away from it...run away from here.” You had been disciplined at school yet again and your parents had had enough. You had a big fight with them the night prior and did not sleep in your own bed. The tiredness racked your body today and you were stiff from sleeping in your car. If it weren’t for the social aspect, you wouldn’t have bothered coming to school. But you quickly realized you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and you were only making the situation worse.

“Like hell I can’t.” You stated, quickly turning to walk away.

“Y/N, don’t. Come on, talk to me. Tell me what happened. We can figure it out together.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, bucko. I’ll be fine. I’ll do this on my own. I’m used to that anyway.”

“But you don’t have to be alone, Y/N. That’s what I’m saying! That’s my whole point: I’m here for you!”

“I didn’t ask you to be, Brian.”

“No, because friends don’t have to ask.” His words scared you. Nobody had so adamantly offered to be a safety net to you before.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “we’re great friends. We’ve bonded so much in the, what, four months you’ve known me?” You rolled your eyes, trying to make him feel uncomfortable, to drive a wedge between you. You only knew how to put up walls, how to run.

“You know we are.”

“Yeah, sure, right. Friends. Not like you want to sleep with me or anything.” You tried to drive another knife into him, to play it off like he was following you only because he had a crush on you, one you tried to pretend wasn’t reciprocated. “It’s not going to happen, Brian. So just accept that we’re not friends.”

He let you get about three steps away before you heard him say, “No. I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. Sure, part of me wants something more, but...I care about you, Y/N. And if we can just be friends, I am happy with that, I swear. But don’t do this to me. Don’t try to shut me out or walk away or act like you’re fine. I know you well enough to know you’re not.” When you turned around, you could see that he had tears rimming his eyes, threatening to fall, which made your own tears spring up as well. “I am your friend. I’m not going to just let you go and do something stupid. You are going to talk about this. If not to me, then someone else. But you can’t just run away or sleep in your car or, or…”

“Okay.” You said, softly.

“Okay?”

“Fine, let’s talk about it. I screwed up again and my parents kicked me out. So what do I do?”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I...we’ll think of something.” He began to tell you, but you bit your lip and drowned him out in your own sobs. Everything crashed in on you at once; you hadn’t escaped in time. You slid down your locker wall and sat on the floor. Brian joined you and put his arm around you tentatively.

You are the bearer of unconditional things

You held your breath and the door for me

Thanks for your patience

After that day, you knew he wouldn’t let you go. You tried your best to brush him off, to hurt him, to land irreparable blows. But it was all in vain; he stuck by you. You admired how he stood up for you, for your relationship, whatever that meant. He didn’t back down, even though you knew he genuinely cared what you thought. He was willing to put everything on the line just to be with you, in whatever capacity you would allot him. And today, he had chosen you again. He had picked a fight with his mother and chosen you. He placed you above being safe and comfortable and at home right now.

“I’m sorry, this must seem so stupid to be complaining about. I know I don’t have it that bad, it’s just that--”

“No, your problems are valid, too. Your mom sucks.” You told him and he laughed, “But I would be lying if I said it wasn’t...weird to have someone be given the choice to stay instead of being yelled at to get out and that you’re worthless and---I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make this about me.” You said softly, looking down at your hands.

“No, I get it. It’s gotta be on your mind a lot, the uncertainty. Plus, I don’t mind talking about you.” He nudged your shoulder with his own, trying to be playful but you knew he meant that. He always put you first. You couldn’t help your next impulse as your hand shot up to cup his face and you leaned in and kissed him roughly. You weren’t entirely sure why you had done it. It would probably change everything and you couldn’t tell if you were doing it selfishly to feel like someone cared or to keep him around or because you truly wanted to. Of course, he kissed you back, and the feeling it gave you pushed a lot of those doubts from your mind.

You're the best listener that I've ever met

You're my best friend

Best friend with benefits

What took me so long?

*~~~~*

The kiss in the field still didn’t mean you were “together.” Realistically, it complicated things for a while. You avoided Brian for a couple of days and didn’t discuss it when you finally caved in to your desire to see him. He didn’t bring it up either, even though there were many times he would look at your lips like he wanted to make a move again, but you never talked about it. Things began to look “normal” after about two weeks. You spent time at the record shop, or under the bleachers with your friends or in the library with his friends. He nagged you about giving up smoking and you finally listened, much to his surprise.

“What made you finally decide to quit?” He asked, looking at the nicotine patch on your arm. You shrugged, not wanting to tell him the truth.

“I guess I just finally got tired of you being a broken record, mother hen.” You teased him, but he just smiled because he was happy with your choice. The truth of the matter was, you had done it for him. While you weren’t with him, you wanted to be. You didn’t want to keep doing something that bothered him so much, but you also knew that eventually, your habit of smoking would cost time with him and you didn’t want that. You lied to yourself that you didn’t want a relationship and weren’t thinking about a future with Brian, but you were. Every time he helped you study or encouraged you to do your best, the time your parents were out of town so he had made you his “specialty” of spaghetti in your kitchen, when you drove him around singing songs together on the radio...you thought about doing those things with him forever and instead of the fear you used to feel at such a thought, you felt happiness. You anticipated a future with him, something to look forward to.

I've never felt this healthy before

I've never wanted something rational

I am aware now

*~~~~*

“It’s kind of weird, yeah. But they’re cute together, I guess.” You had just returned from a movie with Bender and Claire. You were surprised at how long their relationship had lasted, especially since you had hated Claire at first. You assumed she was dating Bender as a statement, but it had been over six months and they were still together and it just seemed to work.

“It must be nice to have someone like that. Even if they don’t make sense, they care about each other. It just must be a nice thing to have a relationship like that.” Brian looked at you for a moment before backpedaling, realizing he must have made it sound like he was guilt-tripping you. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you out again. I really just was complimenting them--”

“Well, maybe you should.” You cut him off.

You realized how rare a find like Brian truly was. He always put you before himself; he listened to all of your problems and knew when to offer solutions and when to just listen. He was endlessly supportive, and kind. He kept taking giant risks just to be with you, to show you that you mattered to him. You knew, without him saying it, that he loved you. Why else would someone go to the lengths he did, just to make you happy? You had tried everything to shake him, to get rid of him so neither one of you would be in too deep to get hurt. But he stayed, and now, you wouldn’t want him to go anyway. It was too late; you were both already in too deep.

He just blinked at you, sure he had heard incorrectly. “Wh-what?”

“I said, maybe you should. Ask me out again.”

“Y/N, do you want to go out with me?” He asked, unsure. It felt like a setup, but he knew you wouldn’t do something so cruel to him.

“Yes.” You replied, softly.

“Why?” He asked with furrowed eyebrows.

“I don’t know. I guess you won me over.” You chuckled, but he failed to see the humor in it, so you changed to a more serious tone. “Brian, I thought that these feelings would go away, that you would go away. Lord knows how hard I’ve tried to push you. But...you didn’t and the feelings didn’t. I-I love you. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to keep loving you, I don’t want to waste my time with anyone else. And...And I think that you love me.”

“I do.” He breathed quietly, with zero hesitation.

“So, why fight it any more? I was afraid that I would hurt you, but I think I’ve already done that and you’ve stuck around.” He nodded in confirmation of that fact. “And I was scared that I would get hurt but...but I’ve realized that you won’t do that to me, either.”

You've already won me over in spite of me

Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet

And don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn't help it

It's all your fault

He took your hands in his, “You’re serious? You really want this? Because, you know how I feel. How I’ve always felt.” You nodded in response, tears quickly filling your eyes, which was a rarity for you. He leaned in towards you to kiss you, for the first time since your conversation in the field over a month ago. He waited for you to be ready in every aspect of your relationship and you had never known so much love and respect before. It took some adjusting to, but he had pulled you in and made you fall for him again and again.

Just gonna tag my buddy...

@90sinequity

#brian johnson x reader #brian x reader #breakfast club #the breakfast club #reader insert #reader-insert #romance #mild angst #angst with a happy ending

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felassan · 4 years ago

Text

Extended thoughts on the Dark Fortress preview pages [spoilers at link]

(Would I be an MJ if I did not do this? This post is under a cut due to spoilers.)

I like the preview pages a lot, I’m excited for release - roll on March 31. There’s a lot packed into just these limited pages, so I’m looking forwards to seeing the issue and its contents in their entirety.

A flashback to the Battle of Ostagar all those years ago is the last thing I was expecting when coming to this comic and it hit me with a one-two of feelings and nostalgia. Up there just off-screen, the Hero of Ferelden and Alistair have just lit the beacon in the Tower of Ishal. In these panels, the rain, the lighting, the atmosphere - it’s surreal (not in a bad way) seeing these fateful events again, back where it all kinda began really, and that page does a good job of replicating that cutscene and the heavy feel of it in a different medium. It’s a nice touch seeing surprise/unsureness and even conflict on some of the soldiers’ faces as Loghain gives the order to retreat. A couple of them even seen disconcerted as they walk away (looking at one another in askance). I like this take on Ser Cauthrien, and I wonder if Aaron ever encountered Aveline, Wynne, Carver or non-mage Hawke at Ostagar before the battle...?

Loghain’s words “He must do what his honor compels him to do” almost feel like a bit of metacommentary, i.e. on Loghain’s character in addition to obviously being about Ser Aaron.

In-universe before now, there have been varying accounts of Ser Aaron’s experience at Ostagar. Did he miss the fight, did he kill two ogres, etc. Now we see the truth of the matter is exactly as he told Vaea, which speaks of the trust and close relationship between the two. I’m not going to lie, the “I am coming my king” and subsequent panels make me cry on this re-read. Aaron reaching out for Cailan in his sleep with his other fist clenched, jerking awake from a nightmare in a cold sweat.. Aaron is so brave, he was the sole or one of the few soldiers in Loghain’s company to make this kind of stand (and you can see that there was a moment when he did turn to leave and considered it before turning back), and these panels convey the extent of the trauma that he experienced on the field of battle that day. I’m positive that in panel 2 here, it’s the exact moment when he sees Cailan die. It also hurts to think that not far from there, Duncan is seeing the same thing. They’ve done a good job integrating the new characters’ pasts with previous canon events with things like these. It’s like, expanding on things, but without anything conflicting.

When Aaron reaches for his alcohol skin I’m pretty sure his hand is shaking. Vaea is so tender and understanding/supportive at this part and it’s a really poignant and soft moment for them.. Aaron’s nightmares are a regular occurrence it seems. I love her and their relationship so much.. keeping watch over him while he sleeps a bit away from the others and the fire. ;; Also Autumn’s ears here, she’s lying down but still listening to what’s going on with and between her people. ;;

Brief pause here: I always appreciate getting a good sense where different events are taking place in the additional media. Also we now have in-universe confirmation that in the timeline we’ve now reached 9:45, as opposed to only external word-of-god. Do you guys ever think about your Wardens and how it’s been 15 years for them?

Aaron is like a father to Vaea 😭

Fenris has two daggers now in addition to his twohanded sword. The better for ending Danarius’ bloodline my dear 🔪

Have they tweaked Fenris’ hairstyle a bit, compared to Blue Wraith? Possibly also his skintone and eyebrows, compared to Blue Wraith? (I find this kind of thing hard to tell. If I’m incorrect here please feel free to correct me.) He looks good in this preview.

Poor Francesca. Tessa is really kind at this part and it’s nice to see more moments like these between female characters (women supporting one another). It reminds me of the moment in a previous issue where Vaea hugs Francesca on the ground. Tessa makes a great point here that true strength isn’t necessarily being stoic and unemotional, it’s standing up for what you believe in and for the greater good, even at great personal cost. It’s not 'not crying' and hiding your sadness. That’s a nice message, and again, Fran has really grown on me.

I also think it speaks well of Fenris and his character development after all these years in-universe that he was looking for a way to help Aaron, then immediately thought to go speak to Francesca when she was upset to see if he could help her in turn.

hhh brooding silent Marius staring broodily and silently into the flames and not responding to Fenris’ attempt at making conversation tho, the gentle lampshading.. That’s so true to his character. These might be my favorite panels in the whole preview. Fenris’ dry wit and facial expressions, the general composition, Fenris peacing out like “ok bye ig” lmao. You also get the sense that Fenris is reeling a bit and feeling abandoned since Hawke and co split up. After trying to do something to help both Aaron and Fran above, he then tries to make conversation with Marius. He’s trying to lighten the mood but also to connect after being alone for some time. He has missed having a group around him, and I suspect this group with its varying troubles and issues reminds him a lot of Hawke and co. That both the humor aspect and this characterization comes through in these 3 panels is pretty brilliant.

We reach the titular dark fortress! If ever there was a fortress for a bad guy, huh? x) The narrow exposed causeway being the only approach is a smart line of defense, strategically. Also, the realization that this is where Fenris lived while he was a slave of Danarius’ :| It’s a horrible-looking place and will be full of bad memories for him.

If this is how stormy the Nocen Sea gets in places - well, it reminds me of the lore that in Thedas naval exploration beyond the known map has been historically limited by different factors like pirates, Qunari dreadnoughts, stormy seas and sea creatures etc.

Characters speaking their native languages in places is always a nice touch. Now we’ve heard “By the Maker!” in Orlesian.

Aspects of the style and architecture of the Tevinter buildings in this preview, like the window shapes and the red lights and stuff, echo or remind me of what we’ve seen of Minrathous in the most recent trailer and some of the recent pieces of concept art for the next game. Neat.

We have our name and identity for the mage on the cover! Tractus Danarius, bastard son of Danarius. Danarius fucked around huh. “Tractus” has a Latin root, fittingly for a Tevinter name. Its different meanings are quite interesting: being dragged, extracted, plundered, an anthem sung in some masses, an elongated area or abnormal passage... I wonder if one of them will come into play somehow, the name possibly having been chosen for a reason? I also wonder how young Tractus is relative to Fenris, and if their paths have ever crossed in the past.

Tractus makes his entrance with two elven slaves or servants in tow. Like on the cover, his eyes are red. The head of his staff is a red sphere, also. Can we assume a connection to red lyrium, then, given these factors and the villains’ interest in using red lyrium to power the sarcophagus? I would guess that as normal magic was required to make it work with blue lyrium, the thing required to make it work with red lyrium is blood magic? A blood magic ritual. My guess is that the thing Tractus shows Marquette and Nenealeus is probably a chained up dragon or similar, which they plan to sacrifice and use the blood/power derived from that to fuel the magic/ritual. This is considering blood as a theme in this setting, blood as a source of power mechanically and the dragon-like beast on one of the covers which has clearly at one point been shackled and collared. (Here’s some previous speculation about Dark Fortress based on the covers.)

Although Tractus’ relative youth and inexperience compared to Nenealeus comes across in these pages, I get the feeling that Nenealeus will regret talking down in this manner to Tractus later in the comic.

It seems Tractus paints his nails dark. His commitment to aesthetic I give 5/5 stars

Remember the fall of Ventus/Qarinus to the Antaam invasion in TN? The Antaam must be progressing through Tevinter if people fear that Neromenian may soon fall also.

I appreciate that everyone’s horse is different! It’s a nice touch. A lot of the time in media groups of people ride identical horses like they’re clones or automatons as opposed to actual creatures.

Tractus’ smile when he’s asking if they’re going to wait for Qintara to arrive is slightly manic, lol, he’s giving off “Are we there yet?” car journey energy here. The doorway in this panel - is that a portcullis-style door? It seems like it has spikes at the bottom which would sink into the floor, and that there’s some kind of mechanism running along the floor towards it. Presumably to contain the [dragon?]?

I forgot Nenealeus has a sword - I guess then he knows magic artforms similar to those of a Knight-Enchanter or Arcane Warrior. Also here, Marquette echoes the Executor in TN, with the sentiment that Qintara fell with Ventus. Nenealeus is then referencing Gaius, the impersonator Qintara, right? That’s interesting; Gaius’ true master was Fen’Harel, on whose behalf he accessed important information about the world. This means then [?] that some of the time when Gaius believed himself to be working on behalf of Fen’Harel, he was really being manipulated by Nenealeus. Poor Gaius, at different points Fen’Harel and Nenealeus were pulling his strings. Does Nenealeus’ manipulation refer to Gaius trading it away to House Danarius for information?

Marquette references the red lyrium idol, and suddenly my Dragon Age 4 ears are pricking the way Autumn’s do. x) He mentions that it makes weapons, referencing I assume Meredith’s lyrium sword, Certainty and the ritual blade that pops out from the base of the idol during The Dread Wolf Take You. I wonder when the events of this comic take place in relation to the stories related at the spy meeting in TDWTY? Is this before or after the events of the Mortalitasi’s tale? At any rate, Marquette voices something we’ve been obsessing over: what else can and does the idol do specifically, beyond just making weapons and being Ominous and Powerful? Because whatever it is, it’s key to Solas’ ongoing plans, and Solas obviously knows.

So it seems that the villains’ plan is to use the red lyrium idol’s sword part with the sarcophagus, red lyrium, a ritual and [the thing Tractus shows them in that panel - the dragon?] in order to transform Shirallas into, essentially, a Red Wraith, a Red Lyrium Fenris. And then to arm him, under Nenealeus’ control, with the sword.

Does Shirallas still have his vallaslin - is it just the lighting and the angle in that panel? Also, that panel with Shirallas and Nenealeus looks so ominous and foreboding 😭 .. (and reminds me somehow of Fenris and Danarius when Fenris was still his slave and bodyguard) Shirallas, we really are in it now 😭 This is a really cool panel btw, like the composition, the lighting, the dramatic-ness.

Nenealeus is motivated by a desire to route the Antaam from Tevinter (like the mage in the Mortalitasi’s tale in TDWTY) and reconquer lost lands in order to restore the glory of the Imperium (which reminds me in a way of of Aurelian Titus, who also wanted to restore the Imperium to greatness). Classically Tevinter here.

“Danarius the Lesser” is a sick burn. I’d guess Tractus’ life thus far, as a bastard, has had themes and struggles with inferiority and consequent lack of power but desire for it (being disrespected, but craving respect, being connected to a certain world but not really part of it, in fact rejected by it). Venatori connection confirmed. That the Venatori had to be convinced to accept someone as a Danarius - implications for the role of the Venatori remnants and their role in Tevinter and things in general going forwards? Lightning flashes overhead as Tractus and Nenealeus have this face-off in that panel, emphasizing the tension between the two. I wonder what the magic in the fortress and in the courtyard can do? It’d have been no mean feat to escape from this place as a slave, it seems, especially bearing in mind there’s only one proper way out, that causeway (passage not included). Tractus’ staff-head lights up when he’s making a threat (uh-oh), and then wow! Shirallas moves so quickly, in the blink of an eye suddenly appearing out of nowhere and startling the guard-mage onlookers. He’s fast and formidable.

I wonder about Tractus. Is he a “half blood” because he’s a bastard and his mother wasn’t an Altus, or even wasn’t a mage, or because he’s a bastard and his mother was an elf? Or both?

Will we see a face-off between perrepataes (Marius and Shirallas)? Will Marius face-off against his former master, Nenealeus? Perhaps a showdown between the Blue Wraith and the “Red Wraith” is on the cards?

Back to our team in the tavern! There’s a looot of great character content packed into these pages, which is really cool. Each brief character interaction conveys a lot, and in general this sequence is just well-executed imo. How troubled and tired Aaron looks at the bar (my heart.. it hurts); Fran worrying for Aaron; Vaea knowing that she can’t pressure him too much because that’s just not how it works when it comes to folks who struggle with issues like these; Vaea asking after Fran’s wellbeing; Fran struggling to come to terms with what happened to her father; Fenris watching the door waiting for news (he’s so vigilant isn’t he? safety, an escape-route..); Marius Broods Harder; Vaea’s [relative] pacifism being highlighted; Vaea engaging Marius looking for reassurance; and the choice of having Marius break his silence now is meaningful and impactful in that it shows what happens when one becomes ‘numb’ to the constant murderizing of people, so to speak. Fenris then rightfully points out that becoming numb to killing and violence isn’t really a good thing and is worse, really, than being ‘soft’ or uncomfortable with it. I wonder if he’s speaking from experience here, given the hundreds of people Hawke and co kill their way through during the Kirkwall years, for example. Then Vaea’s concern for Aaron and his state of mind, and Fenris’ uncanny insight into that, of a man he’s only recently met.

Tessa looks so cute when she comes in the door! I love Vaea’s lil “:D” face when she sees her, and I wonder what the tavern food on the table is.

Those two panels, when Fenris talks about Hawke and Leandra, are the biggest emotional gut-punch in the preview pages 😭 omg.. I’m not strong enough for this.. bls... bruh... This is then compounded by (hitting me when I’m down!!) the look of sheer... fear, fury, alarm, upset, shock - that appears on Fenris’ face as soon as he hears “I found Danarius”. Seriously, look at his eyes here. He (understandably) still has a trauma-response associated with the name/man.

Bless Tessa.

I have to say, it’s very Metal of Fenris that not only did he kill Danarius in DA2 (in those universes), but he has also been going around Tevinter since then killing all of Danarius’ [adult] heirs, and that his response to learning there’s still one remaining is to grab his sword and go to march off with the aim of ending the bloodline a second time. Very metal

I love the final panels in the preview as well! Vaea’s sense/smarts and how she wasn’t afraid to tell Fenris no, Autumn’s giant ears, how Autumn also moves with Vaea to step in front of Fenris to stop him (SHE! HELPED!!!), Autumn’s Happy Face and furiously wagging tail and agreement with Aaron, and Proud Dad Aaron rising from his slump to praise Vaea with the most Proudest Daddest expression that you ever did see... ( ´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥` )

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wastrelwoods · 4 years ago

Note

For the answering questions about characters thing: Alessandra Strong please <3

YES oh that’s a deeper cut but i like it!!!

why i like them:

i jsut love a woman who is gay and literally unkillable. cockroach strong...i just *clenches fist* love that for her. also i would be a hypocrite not to love every lady detective equally...and....oh god i’m tearing up...she’s so strong

why i don’t:

i always gotta feel a little conflicted about hot women who served in the military. like oh i don’t love that career path for you but good god...you have some muscles i have noticed. anyway she’s out of there now! moved on to better things

favorite episode:

of the two she’s in, DEFINITELY promised land. i like a lot about prince of mars but juno laying one on her without really asking first is not part of it, and also in promised land she carries him around bridal style SOOOO

favorite season:

alessandra PLEASE come back i NEED juno to crash your wedding in the middle of a completely unrelated heist. but i guess as much as it’s applicable season 2!

favorite line:

hhhh when juno’s like. hey i’ve decided i am going to stop wanting to die because i am too mad. and alessandra’s like “I’m proud of you”??? thats the shit

favorite outfit:

gkljfdgh just her big backpack...she’s gonna wear that shit to her wedding and i know it

otp/brotp:

frankly until such time as i actually MEET her wife i’m still a juno/alessandra fiend....i just like them and under other circumstances? couple o lady detectives being a bi battle couple? can’t beat that

headcanon:

HMM i guess i don’t have a lot or much lore for her but i would love if she turned out to have quit the army her dang self

unpopular opinion:

ehhhhhh i don’t know if this counts as an unpopular opinion i just think. she gets the short end of the character design stick sometimes. a little easy to caricature by making her like. more angry and rough and physically intimidating than everyone else while also giving her the darkest skin? sir caroline gets it too. just something to consider

a wish:

COME BACKKKKKKK

an oh-god-please-don’t-ever-happen:

HM i guess perhaps just not hearing from her again

5 words to describe them:

world hard and cold, tiddy soft and warm.....

my nickname for them:

not sure if i have one?? borat voice my wife tho

#the penumbra podcast #ask game!#pigeon post

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tonyglowheart · 4 years ago

Note

This entire thing is a rant, feel free to ignore it, but I saw your post about how destiel fans can’t win in this context, and yeah. So have some rambles.

I’ve been thinking about the fact we (current spn/destiel fans) can’t win all night... I’ve seen so many people talking about how homophobic it is - and while I would very much like to argue, as every point I’ve seen made by a non-spn fan has been wrong so far, if I did everyone inside the fandom would agree and everyone outside would either call me straight or pity me for believing it’s okay.

(Cas wasn’t even sent to hell lmao. He was sent to angel death (the empty), a place he has escaped in the past. Other points, like that meta about spn has been predicting exactly this for months, that Dean ended up sobbing on the floor because he was so upset, like that death means next to nothing on spn, like that there is two episodes left, etc etc. you feel me right? I just don’t want to post wank to other spn blogs atm, we’re getting enough frustration as it is, no need to add to it.

It’s also worth pointing out that the bar is very, very low. Spn is a prominent TV show - not a Netflix show, or indie, or whatever - and it just said “main character in gay love saved the world”. [insert gif of ghostfacers dude saying that gay love can pierce through the veil of death and save the day here]

I just saw someone saying that spn having Naomi try to brainwash Cas out of loving dean makes spn homophobic (it is a conversion therapy parallel). My first response to that is that Naomi was the villain lmao? I guess we can’t write villains doing anything homophobic because having villains do homophobic things makes, uh - checks notes - villains look homophobic, and clearly we can’t have that.

There certainly are legitimate things to criticise spn about, but this isn’t it lol.

Also now some people are unironically trying to cancel Jensen because “his acting was homophobic, and so he’s clearly homophobic”, nevermind that he’s an actor and his character struggles with understanding his emotions (which I think he played excellently, myself. That scene had a very Dean delayed emotional response), nevermind the support he’s given to us queers in the past. Like. Idek man.

We would have been laughed at if we got no destiel, too.

It would have been worse, had the writers pulled a dumbledore. At this point I also trust the writers not to pull a GoT - they have explicitly criticised that ending in spn’s canon.

Spn’s writers did that by making the main villain of this season, Chuck / God, say GoT had a good ending. To reiterate a previous point I had: villains do bad things because they’re bad. And the bad things they do make them bad. For the people out there not still following, if someone does something in a story and it makes them a villain, that is explicitly telling you the story (and probably the writers) thinks that thing is bad. In this case, Chuck likes to write things for him, and we the audience have been shown and told that is bad.

Apparently thinking a gay confession is good in 2020 makes me straight. Seems unlikely, but whatever. Sorry for the length, I guess I went overboard, I’ve been holding it in lol. Anyway, DESTIEL IS CANON 💚💙 hope you have a good night

Helloo supernatural anon I hope you are living your best life right now. Yeah I’m like..... skeptical and leery myself but having lived through some absolute garbage discourse that is general purity wank, as well as the C/QL greater fandom here and on Twitter I find myself... much more wanting to question the “general wisdom” of things esp in terms of negativity, bc a lot of the time I find.... it’s wrong? Like so wrong. Or at least presents such an incomplete picture of the whole situation and also presents it in such a removed context that words that have meaning and are operationalized in a certain way for a reason, no longer have meaningful usage.

Anyway I don’t... know too much about the specifics of Spn but someone I follow is into it and talks a lot about the Gnostic stuff and that all was very fascinating to me, and I also have been grappling a lot with cultural Christianity bc of cmedia and the way ppl just *clenches fist* unthinkingly or uncritically slap some Christian norms on it and call it a day 😩 help I’m Tired. My thing here being... I actually got tired of the uncritical “superhell”s at some pt bc I am, in fact, incredibly exhausted with cultural Christianity, and because it does seem like, even possibly(?) without the Gnostic stuff it’s different from a “hell” or other Protestant-derived afterlife concept, and also yeah that it wasn’t seeded out of nowhere, it was set up to happen, which then... lends credence to the idea that whatever the current era of Spn is doing, the current showrunners are doing it with purpose.

And idk I just... refuse to believe the concept that ALL of the fans of Spn - esp the ones who have been following it still, or got back into it and are following it currently, are acting under delusion or are fooling themselves into liking it or thinking it’s good or whatever. I personally find that kinda infantilizing and patronizing and playing into issues of dismissing things women and/or other marginalized identities like.

Plus I find the concept that (from what I think I’ve been seeing Spn fans say) that the current era of the show is quite actively grappling with itself, its past, its legacy. to be very interesting and compelling; it hearkens back to like an old lore kind of feeling, of a thing that has grown into a nigh undefeatable monster and realizing that, also realizing that the only way to defeat itself is through grappling with its own nature and transforming and transmuting itself into something else. I personally find that more plausible and compelling than “Supernatural has been actively and continuously queerbaiting for 15 homophobic homophobic years., so right now we’re all very sorry for you because this maybe is no longer queerbaiting but it’s still homophobic and it can never be anything different ever.” I’ve been sort of tangentially aware of Spn thru the years and didn’t we agree, around the time of that in-universe play about Spn and with the lil Destiel shoutout, that Spn has come a ways as far as coming to terms with its fandom and working to treat its fans better? Why the sudden regression into “oh no, Supernatural is and forever will be homophobic and a hate crime”? 🤔

The rest under a cut bc the ask is already long and then my rambling will get longer-

But yeah I mean..... I get that the legacy of Supernatural has been certifiably Rough, but I think people also forget how different of a time 2005 was? Hell, how different of a time 2015 was, even, prior to, say, Obergefell v. Hodges. Now I’m not saying that to blanket-excuse Supernatural, but like, you look at mainstream shows from the era and... there’s a lot of shit lmao. The fact that Supernatural has existed this long seems to me like.... maybe we CAN look at how it’s developed through the years vs just insisting it is what it was 15, 10, hell, 5 years ago. Especially since, to my knowledge, there’s been showrunner changes? Which seems to me like it would... affect things? I mean honestly, I remember back when I got into Spn for a hot second because of Castiel, I remember watching panel, Q&A, etc vids thru the years, and like... I thought we agreed that... it was the fans who were going a bit far pushing the shipping question like literally ALL the time to the actors, who are not in control of the show and.... like at the time.... that could have had personal implications for them? And yes homophobia bad, and people can still be allies despite that, but again like.... I do feel like - from what I’ve seen - that these guys were NOT ready to deal with a lot of that but they’ve (okay Jensen I’m talking about Jensen here) genuinely grown and learned? Also how many years ago was the essay autograph thing that people keep trotting out, like what year was it in and what year of spn was it, and what were the prevailing opinions on LGBT issues and bisexuality then.

I’ve been seeing some murmurings of identity politicsing surrounding ppl who enjoy Supernatural, and I’m sorry that that’s happening to you, it really fucking sucks and it’s also the dumbest way to “make” or “win” an argument because it shouldn’t ever be a final determiner, just factors to consider when considering what life experiences might have informed someone else’s PoV and views as well as maybe how you can better communicate with them. Instead of it being a “weapon” or “tool” to either dismiss someone or de facto validate an argument.

Also yeah I get it that you don’t want to send discourse to spn blogs bc I imagine you guys ARE actively grappling with all the bs rn and it’s a lot. Even just from like, the stuff I see around, I’m like tired of it. I’m genuinely having more fun with ppl who are having a good time with Supernatural than the ppl who are hating on it, even in this sort of backhanded “oh we’re not clowning YOU we’re clowning the writers and showrunners who think you should be satisfied with this,” when... yeah? the people who HAVE been watching the show and therefore... know what’s up.. DO seem to be? And all this based on *fake gasp* context. And that’s where the backhandedness becomes kind of poisonous to me, because it implies that it IS bad, and that you SHOULDN’T be satisfied, but poor little you are but don’t worry, we’re not making fun of YOU for liking garbage, you’re just the hapless victim who is consuming the garbage bc... idk, whatever reasons ppl are coming up with ig.

idk man it’s 2020. Fandom isn’t activism, performative or otherwise, it’s okay to let people enjoy things even if you think they’re “objectively” bad, and like... I don’t know if people can call something bad when they’re not even working with the whole context and instead are dealing with rumor and reputation.

#supernatural cw #I tag this for ppl who I know want nothing to do with spn rn and are blacklisting and so it doesn't end up in main tag #Anonymous #asks answered #long post

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scabopolis · 5 years ago

Text

emma x killian au: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic

Holy moly! This (really needs to be edited one more time, but we’ll save that for AO3, shall we?) monstrosity is my gift to @hollyethecurious for the @cssecretsanta2k19 (thank you for your tireless work on this!), and is my first attempt at Emma x Killian fic (eek!).

Hollye, what a joy to chat with you over the past month. I present to you a wordy as all getout friends to lovers fic that takes place over six holidays (five holidays with a bit of disaster, and one with a bit of magic), a soupçon of Captain Cobra, and brief appearances by older brother Liam, as well as (one hopes!) romance and a whole host of other good things. Hope it brings some joy to your season. And I’m thrilled to be able to start following you on Tumblr now and send messages without fear!

And I swear -- post-road trip, a more edited version will also appear on AO3. Happy holidays!

---------- title: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic fandom: once upon a time pairing: emma x killian word count: 12,400 | AO3 link: here ----------

summary: When Killian and Emma first meet on Thanksgiving she has some rather unsavory words for him. But then they somehow manage to navigate a series of holiday disasters together. In so doing they also stumble upon a bit of holiday magic.

Thanksgiving Or, the holiday where Emma calls Killian a pervert

As far as holidays go, Killian finds this Thanksgiving to be relatively textbook. Liam and Kate both made far too much food, took utter delight in teasing him for his lack of love life, and then he went home laden with abundant leftovers.

Only for things to rapidly become significantly less than textbook. It all started when he poured himself a glass of wine at home.

Home: the place wherein he poured himself the aforementioned glass of wine as he began to wind down for the evening, and then somehow proceeded to spill all but a single gulp on his bedding. Bedding: the freshly laundered, high thread-count duvet and sheets, put on the bed this morning, now soaked with Malbec.

With one set of sheets in the hamper and the second set wine soaked, Killian tossed back the remaining gulp of wine and resigned himself to an evening of doing laundry. On Thanksgiving.

In retrospect, Killian knows he should have just taken his brother and sister-in-law up on their kind offer to stay the night, but he’d found himself emotionally overwhelmed by the end of the night. Over dessert and coffee Liam and Kate informed him they were likely going to start trying for their first kiddo in the new year. And as excited as Killian is at the prospect of having a little nephew or niece to dote on next Christmas, it also served as a reminder of how close he’d gotten to having it all once. And how it doesn’t seem at all likely he’ll ever get that close again.

These kinds of maudlin thoughts are exactly why Killian poured himself that glass of wine. Wine that, as Killian holds the clean sheets up to the light in the laundry room, quite remarkably seems to have not stained. He does the complicated hand twisting and folding technique his mum once showed him and sets aside the fitted sheet, reaching for the flat sheet.

Killian hears the door to the shared laundry room open behind him as one of his neighbors enters. He slides his stacks of laundry together to make room on the folding table and is about to greet whoever walked in, commiserate over their fate of doing laundry on a —

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving, you sick pervert?”

Okay. Maybe not.

He turns around slowly to meet the steely gaze of one of his neighbors whom he’s seen from time to time in the mail room and hallways (and once in a rather lurid dream he still feels guilty about). “Do I normally do laundry on Thanksgiving? I wouldn’t consider it a tradition as such, but —”

“No. I mean steal women’s underwear.”

“Pardon?”

She steps closer only to swipe a pair of his briefs off the table. The pair of underwear is, admittedly, a little absurd, but nothing quite warranting such a vitriolic reaction. They’re the rare white elephant gift he actually opted to keep. Aside from being the most comfortable pair he owns, he quite enjoys the whimsical print of yetis sledding and decorating Christmas trees. He takes a step towards her and she backs up.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“I’m not certain what is happening here.”

“What’s happening is, you’re a sick fuck.”

He frowns. That seems, to put it mildly, uncalled for. “Okay, hold on now —” he takes another step towards her

“You stay there,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He has so lost the thread of this conversation. And he really should have just stayed at Liam’s house for the night. “I won’t come near you, lass, but if you could return my trunks I would —”

The indignation on her face makes her appear incandescent. “Yours?!”

“Yes, mine.”

His neighbor starts sputtering and then she goes silent, her jaw clenching in a way that is, if he were to be honest, rather intimidating. Still, Killian does (for some unknown reason that would likely require a good amount of therapy), what he so often finds himself doing whenever he meets his match: he smiles.

His smile only makes the frown lines on her face deepen.

“Look,” he says, in his most sensible tone of voice. “Do you really believe I would be daft enough to steal your undergarments and then remain in the laundry folding them knowing any moment you might return?”

It’s only for a split second, but her features relax as she considers his words. Then she full on glares at him, clutching the briefs in her fist. But then her eyes dart to one of the dryers on the wall.

“Have a look,” he says, gesturing with his head to the dryer.

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

She remains true to her word, keeping one eye on him as she opens the dryer and roots around inside. He knows she’s found what she’s looking for when he hears her groan. “Fuck me,” she mutters to herself, and then pulls out a pair of briefs identical to his own.

She groans again. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yet here we are.”

She shuffles over and hands him back his briefs. Killian has to actively work to keep in his laugh as he watches her remove her clothing from the dryer and start another load. From the way the pink in her cheeks burns brighter, she’s aware of his gaze.

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving?” he asks. And there’s that rather becoming jaw clench of hers. “Accuse men of stealing your underwear, I mean?”

She remains silent and Killian decides to show mercy, finishing up his folding and stacking the clothes in his basket. His neighbor gives him a wide berth as she carries her laundry basket on her hip and leaves - no, flees - the room. But not before she mutters an apology. “Sorry if I, uh, said — you know?”

“Now, what could you have possibly said?” he asks, all faux innocence.

If possible, her blush gets even brighter. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Once back in his flat he texts Liam the whole story. As he putters around, remaking his bed and pouring himself another glass of wine, he bursts out into little chuckles of laughter replaying the scenario. Laughter which Liam echoes in emoji form once he responds. Frankly, this woman is Killian’s hero (Liam's too, as he offered to buy her a gift basket for helping keep Killian's ego in check). Maybe he’ll see her in the mail room and can assure her of her place of honor in Jones family lore.

He’s settling into the couch with a book when there’s a knock. Killian frowns, his eyes darting to his wall clock. It’s somehow only half-eight, but he isn’t expecting anyone. He looks out his peephole and smiles at the sight of one his young neighbors holding a platter of baked goods. They’ve only chatted in the elevator and occasionally in the halls but Henry is a warm and charming young man, and Killian always looks forward to their interactions. Which doesn’t explain why he —

“Mom, get your butt over here.”

“You knocked, he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.” And then the woman from the laundry room comes into view and it all makes a little more sense.

“When you mess up, you apologize. Those are the rules.”

“The rules for what?” she asks.

“For life.”

“Who taught you these rules?”

“You did.”

She huffs out an exasperated laugh, but wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder and pulls him close. “God, why couldn’t I suck more as a parent?”

Killian decides to put her out of her misery and answer the door. Young Henry looks delighted at his appearance, and his mom appears miserable. Like she wants nothing more than to sprint in the other direction.

“Mr. Jones! Happy Thanksgiving! This is my mom, Emma.”

“Sir Henry, Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He looks to Henry’s mom. “And to your lovely mum.”

Henry shoves the platter of treats at him and Killian bobbles it before holding it steady. “These are for you!” Henry needlessly explains. It’s a platter teeming with pumpkin pie, cookies, and some sort of toffee almond concoction that looks delightful. “My Aunt Mary-Margaret is the world’s best cook,” Henry says.

“Well, thank you, Henry. And please give my thanks to your aunt.”

“I will. Now my mom has something she wants to say to you.” Emma looks ready to protest but then Henry smiles up at her, his grin wide and toothy and she shakes her head, affection for her son apparent. “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.”

Emma watches as Henry walks down to the end of the hallway, unlocks the door, gives his mom a thumbs up, and walks inside. Once inside, Emma turns to him and mumbles something barely audible.

“I’m sorry. What was that, love?”

She huffs out a breath, fluttering a strand of her hair in the process. “I said, I’m sorry for calling you a pervert.”

“And?”

“And for trying to steal your underwear?”

“What about for calling me a sick fuck?”

“I did not!” she protests, but at his look her brow furrows in concentration. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?” She shifts her weight from side to side and he’s pretty certain he hears her mutter another curse word under her breath. She looks up and locks eyes with him. For a moment all he can think is wow, green, but she starts talking again. “Look, Henry and I had a really great day at my sister’s house but then I got this message from my ex, Henry’s dad, and to be honest it sent me into a bit of a tailspin. So then I go grab my laundry and there you are with a very peculiar pair of underwear and all I could think was ‘not today, asshole’ and then — well, you were there. I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, Emma.” Then it’s his turn to frown, gesturing towards the direction Henry walked as he leans against his doorway. “How did you know who I am?”

“Oh, I mentioned what happened to Henry and he asked me to describe the neighbor.”

“Smart kid.”

“Yeah.” She fidgets again, kind of shaking the tension out of her hands as she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I…that’s all, I wanted to say, so…”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She backs away from the door giving him a perfunctory little wave. For some reason, after he closes and locks the door, he finds himself looking through the peephole to watch Emma’s retreat. She lingers outside the door for a second before smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and then does an entirely unbecoming and yet endearing full body shake and flail, tossing her head back and groaning. She appears to catch herself, and Killian watches as she looks to his door. Her eyes close in resignation. “You saw that didn’t you?”

“Every single second.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Killian.”

Christmas Eve Or, the holiday where Killian almost freezes

It’s a working theory of hers, but Emma is willing to argue with anyone who cares that Christmas Eve is far superior to Christmas. The whole day is filled with baking, and listening to Christmas music, and lighting every baked good themed candle she owns. Plus! she doesn’t have to wake up to an overeager eight year old shaking her at dawn. It’s wonderful.

As she stores the vacuum in the hall closet (one last round of pre-festivity cleaning), her phone vibrates. She pulls it out of her pocket, smiling when she sees it’s a text from Killian.

Texts from Killian: another thing that is wonderful these days, if not unexpected.

11:12 AM - Killian to Emma My oven is on the fritz. Can I use yours for a bit?

11:13 AM - Emma to Killian Define ‘a bit’…

11:14 AM - Killian to Emma Ok. Less ‘a bit’ and more ‘a while.’

11:15 AM - Killian to Emma And by 'a while' I mean the rest of the day.

Emma snorts at that one.

11:17 AM - Emma to Killian It’s all yours. Though, I thought your fruit cake would be in door stop mode by now?

11:19 AM - Killian to Emma For the last time, woman, it’s not a bloody fruit cake.

When Killian proudly told her and Henry over Saturday morning pancakes he was preparing a classic Christmas cake for their Christmas Eve celebration, and then proceeded to explain the weeks long process behind making the cake, Henry frowned. “I think that’s a fruit cake.”

Which was the first, but certainly not the last time, Killian insisted: “It certainly is not!” And then Killian proceeded to explain, again, what a Christmas cake was.

From Killian’s explanation of how to prepare it, though, there shouldn’t be any baking required today. Which begs the question as to exactly what Killian is doing. As the host of the event, Emma is only responsible for appetizers (thank you Trader Joe’s), and booze with the rest of the guests bringing the meal.

A meal which apparently includes a British man she met a month ago, bringing a fruit cake to the Christmas Eve celebration with her family and closest friends. What is her life?

Dare she say it, life is pretty great these days. And Killian is definitely part of why that is.

After their ignominious beginning, she and Killian found themselves bumping into one another constantly. If they didn’t cross paths in the mail room, hallway, or elevator, it was Henry - her kid who would find a way to make friends with a paper bag if given the opportunity - who started inviting Killian to join them everywhere. While on their way to the movies it was a “hey, Killian, wanna come?” More than a few times Henry went to check the mail as Emma cooked dinner and when he returned Killian was with him. “I told him all about your chicken and dumplings, mom!”

Somehow Killian joining them for chicken and dumplings turned into the two of them texting throughout the day — Killian in between clients at the physical therapy clinic, and Emma whenever she needed a break from real estate contracts — and then a second glass of wine once Henry went to bed. Apparently, unbeknownst to Emma, this was all leading to Killian celebrating Christmas Eve with her family and friends. Oh, and coming over the next day for Christmas morning pancakes.

Despite what her sister and brother-in-law would like people to believe, Killian is only spending the holidays with them because his brother left for his in-laws earlier in the week and Henry didn’t want him to spend the holiday alone. That’s it! If it was more than that, would she be okay with Killian coming over while she was in her cleaning clothes? Obviously not. So, suck it universe.

Killian shows up ten minutes later looking fine and not at all biteable in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater that no one has a right to look as…completely adequate…in as he does. His arms are laden with grocery bags.

“All this for a fruitcake?”

“Christmas cake. And no. That has been done for some time, as you well know. I told Mary-Margaret I’d make Yorkshire puddings to go with the prime rib. And Liam would disown me if I didn’t make mince pies.”

“How British of you.”

“Well, I am British.”

“You know what I mean.” Emma grabs him an apron so he doesn’t mess up his Christmas sweater and as he makes himself at home, she buzzes around getting the apartment ready - pulling the folding chairs and table out of the closet, making sure Henry has enough clean clothes to wear for dinner, etc. Henry spends the day floating in and out of the kitchen to bug Killian. He plays his video games for a little bit and then is back to the kitchen and gets annoyed because there’s not enough room for him to make a sandwich. He is only appeased when Killian reveals he brought over leftover Chinese.

“Why did you bring so much extra food?” she asks, ignoring Killian’s disapproving stare as she bites into a cold eggroll. She’s pretty sure he also brought over a gallon of milk and what looks like leftover roasted vegetables. Weird.

“Do you know what the two of you are like when you’re not fed?” Killian shudders in horror, and Emma smacks him in the back of the head. She also pinches mince pie filling to be a brat.

When she comes out in her loungewear, after having showered, there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air. Before she even asks Killian hands her a mug of mulled wine. How did she even get this and what does she have to do to keep it forever? Emma freezes at the thought. By this she means his friendship. Obviously.

Once Mary-Margaret and David, then Ruby and Mulan arrive, the evening, dare she even thinks it, is borderline perfect. Continuing the British Christmas theme, Killian brought Christmas crackers from World Market. Henry got so excited at the hat and little joke in his that he hug bombed Killian and the poor man spilled his hot chocolate down the front of his sweater. Henry apologizes profusely, but Killian assures him it’s okay, losing the sweater for just a black tee underneath. Which, again, is fine and makes Killian look fine and Emma really needs the commentary in her head to quiet down.

“Hate to see a Christmas casualty,” David muses as Killian tosses the sweater aside.

“True, but good things tend to happen to me when I do laundry on a holiday,” he replies.

And Mary-Margaret gets this wide knowing grin, which Emma does not care for at all, but her heart is currently beating fast enough that she lets it pass.

The high-point of the night might be when Mary-Margaret serves slices of Killian’s Christmas cake alongside her caramel apple pie. Ruby holds up her plate, sniffs Killian’s cake, and with a perfectly cocked eyebrow simply asks “Fruit cake?” Henry almost falls out of his chair laughing.

Mulan and Ruby are the first to leave, needing to get to Granny’s where they’re staying the night. Killian offers to stay and help clean up but Emma refuses. The man spent all day cooking in her kitchen – she’s not going to make him clean, too. But when Henry hugs him goodnight and tells him they’ll see him for pancakes, Emma has to admit she’s a little sad to see him shuffle down the hallway back to his own apartment.

Henry proceeds to line up his mom, his aunt, and his uncle, debating as to who deserves to read to him that night. David wins the privilege outright when, upon Henry asking each of them to share their Percy Jackson voice, he actually recites from memory an excerpt from the book Henry is currently reading. Fucking show-off.

Mary-Margaret doesn’t even wait for them to leave the kitchen before she looks at Emma like she must say something or she’ll burst. As Emma is want to do, she ignores it. No wonder David lobbied so hard to get the bedtime story invitation. The two were in cahoots. As they do dishes, Mary-Margaret keeps dropping conversational breadcrumbs =, waiting for Emma to take one up. Which Emma steadfastly fails to do. So Mary-Margaret stops being subtle.

“So, Killian was here all day, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Mary-Margaret says, drying a wine glass and setting it aside. “Interesting.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

“God, you’re annoying,” Emma says, smacking her shoulder with the back of her hand.

Mary-Maragret frowns and does it right back. “I like Killian.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

“And I think you like Killian, too.”

Emma glares at her. “Well, he’s my friend.”

“Who you very much would like to be a naked friend.”

“Mary-Margaret!”

“What?”

She steals the towel away from Mary-Margaret and snaps her with it. “Can we be done with this conversation?”

“No. Because I have something important to say to you.” Emma groans and Mary-Margaret takes a step forward, placing a hand on either side of Emma’s face. “I know you think you’ve got this bruised and battered heart. But that’s not true, Emma. You have the most open heart of anyone I’ve ever known. And I don’t know how you do it, but as someone you let see that big beautiful heart, I just need you to know how lucky I am to have you in my life. Anyone would be so lucky to have you. So be brave.”

Emma feels her eyes go glassy and seriously! Mary-Margaret has been in her life for more than twenty-years. How does she always do this to her? She reaches forward and hugs Mary-Margaret tight, blinking the tears back.

“I love you,” Mary-Margaret says.

“Shut up.” Emma holds her even tighter. “I love you, too.”

After Mary-Margaret and David leave she gives Henry a final tuck into bed then takes a moment to look around the apartment. The space feels emptier than when the day started. It must be the come down from an almost perfect night. Right? Not like she’s feeling morose because there’s a person down the hall who she very much wishes was still currently in her apartment. Someone to perhaps share leftover pie and a glass of wine with. That would be absurd. It’s just that the whole night felt a little magic, and now it’s over.

Emma blows out the living room candles and that’s when she sees it — Killian’s ugly Christmas sweater draped over the back of the couch. Which Emma immediately decides she should return to Killian. It’s urgent. That sweater could mean a lot to him. Or, something.

She locks up the apartment door and heads to Killian’s. Knocking on the door triggers a feeling of panic and she’s tempted to drop the sweater and run. But then he opens the door and his already bright eyes somehow get brighter. This was the right decision.

“Emma! What are you —”

“You forgot your sweater.��

“Thanks, love.”

She immediately notices that his apartment is very dark. Was he already getting ready for bed? This early? She stands up on her tiptoes to peek, and his smile falls. Killian wedges himself into the doorframe, closing the door behind him and obstructing her view. Emma narrows her eyes.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Do you have someone over?”

“No. I’m just —”

“Why are all your lights off?”

“Being energy efficient. Climate change.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Fine, then. You should probably stain treat this,” she says, and hands him the sweater.

“Thank you.” He reaches for it and the moment he does Emma pushes him aside to crash into his apartment. All the lights are off. He's lit a few candles, and oh fuck. Does he have someone over?

“Killian, your lights are off.”

“What do you call those?” he asks, pointing to the three-wick sugar cookie candle Mary-Margaret got him.

“Killian.” It’s a tone that usually convinces Henry he in fact does need to wear socks with his shoes but simply causes Killian to smirk at her.

“Maybe I want to romance myself, Swan.”

“Gross. All your lights are off," she repeats. "Even the light on your microwave.”

He looks like he wants to protest but must sense she is in a particularly stubborn mood because he stops himself. If she weren’t trying to get him to fess up Emma would take a moment to gloat that the look always works.

“I was working on a project this afternoon and think I crossed some wires,” he says, running a hand through his hair in, she presumes, some mild embarrassment.

“More than your oven is on the fritz," she realizes, making sense of why there is currently milk in her fridge. "Isn’t it?”

“Seems that way.”

“Well did you —?”

“Aye, I tried, but it didn’t work, and with the holiday the electrician isn’t able to come until Thursday..”

“Well, why not call —?”

“How do you think Leroy is going to feel about me doing an undisclosed wiring project and killing the —?”

“—yeah, I get it. Look, I need to get back to Henry, but pack a bag and I’ll see you soon.”

“Do what now?”

“It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight, Killian. You are not staying in this apartment without power.”

Emma watches as he mulls over her words, considering whether or not he should abide by them. “I could sleep on your couch and then away to my flat in the morning.”

She shrugs. “Or, you could pack a bag.” A little voice inside her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret is cheering her on. Telling her to press a little more. That it’s worth it. “Come on, Killian. You can’t freeze to death on Christmas Eve. Imagine how that would play on the evening news.”

He laughs, shaking his head in that way he does. If she isn’t mistaken, it's tinged with a little more affectionate every time. “Depressingly, I imagine.” He breaks eye contact long enough to look down at his slippered feet. For all the times he’s made her blush in their month of friendship, it is ridiculously rewarding to see the tinge of red on his cheeks as he looks up at her. “I’d love to join you and Henry for Christmas.”

Emma dashes home and checks on Henry. He is, predictably, still fast asleep in that way he most frequently is — legs akimbo and sticking out of the blankets like he’s preparing to start running the moment he wakes up.

As she waits for Killian she changes into her pajamas and makes two hot chocolates, adding an extra large dollop of leftover whipped cream to the top pf each.

Killian’s knock is borderline inaudible and it makes her smile, how she knows he’s being careful for Henry’s sake. She takes his bag and invites him to get comfortable on the couch — “it will soon be your bed, after all” — and, as has become the habit, they face each other as they sit there. There’s a lot she loves about their friendship, but high on the list is the way their conversations always start in the middle rather than at the start. She loathes small talk.

“Your family and friends are lovely, Swan.”

“Eh,” she says, scrunching her nose in consideration, “they’re alright.”

“You and your sister appear rather close in age.”

She nods. “We’re only a year and a half apart.” Killian smiles, like he is happy to accept that as a complete answer if she so chooses. And maybe it’s that she’s listening to her sister, or maybe it’s Christmas, or maybe it’s that Killian faintly smells of his sugar cookie candle, but she takes a deep breath and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I’m adopted, actually.”

He hesitates, uncertain. “Emma, I didn’t mean to —” She doesn't want him to be uncertain.

“I was with a family for three years and they couldn’t keep me. I was so young that my social worker really didn’t want to put me in a group home, so they opted for short-term care while they searched for a permanent solution. But at the end of the two weeks, when they got ready to move me to a new home, Mary-Margaret had an utter fit. Refused to let anyone near me when she found out they wanted to take me away. And then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into her room, barricaded the door, and we hid under her bed. She was five.”

“You remember all that?”

“I remember her grabbing my hand and us hiding. Mary-Margaret remembers some and my parents filled in the rest.”

“So after that?”

“They decided to adopt me.”

“That’s quite the story.” Killian gently places his mug beside hers and he inches closer. His hand hovers over hers for only a moment before he settles, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Please don’t let this go to your head,” she says, and rotates her palm to squeeze his hand right back, “but you’re really easy to talk to.”

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I can see why Mary-Margaret did what she did.”

There’s a teeny part of her that doesn’t want to inquire further, but she blames her damn sister and her damn hope speeches for asking, “And why is that?”

“Because I think you’re the type of person it would be impossible to say goodbye to.”

Emma doesn’t know about that — a whole host of boyfriends might say otherwise — but she believes he believes it. Sitting across from him on the couch, his lack of electricity, and the two of them in their pajamas, Emma feels almost a glimmer of magic come back into the room.

Christmas Or, the holiday where Emma almost accidentally murders Killian

Killian wakes up to the sound of giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The gas fireplace is already switched on, as are the Christmas lights, and he’ll have to ask Emma later how she managed to prevent Henry from crashing into the tree in his excitement to get at his presents.

“I’m going to set the table, so go ahead and gently wake Killian —” And that should prepare him, but he doesn’t hear the rest of Emma’s prompt as a hurling mass of eight year old runs into the living room and jumps on top of him. “Oof,” Killian groans. “Merry Christmas, Sir Henry.”

Henry leans his face down and grins. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

“Henry, I said gentle!”

“Yeah, but you kinda winked when you said it.”

Killian manages to sit up just enough to watch Emma try and deny that she did in fact encourage the barbarism of her child. He raises an eyebrow in question and she responds in the first true “harumph” he’s ever heard in real life.

“Breakfast is ready,” she says.

Killian sits at the table and apparently the Swans take their Christmas breakfast seriously. Fresh fruit, and coffee and — shit, he forgot to mention something, didn't he? he thought she knew?— breakfast burritos smothered in avocado and tomatillo salsa.

“So, what’s the plan for the day” Killian asks, and then takes a sip of his coffee. Emma passes him the bowl of fruit, and — of fucking course — there’s bananas in it. He pours a little on his plate and hopes he can get away with just coffee for breakfast.

Henry explains that they always eat breakfast first because his mom thinks delayed gratification is good for him — “I stand by that,” Emma says — and then he and his mom exchange presents, and then they play boardgames, and then have Christmas Eve lunch leftovers, and then they go to a movie and have popcorn and milk duds for dinner.

“Milk duds play what part in delayed gratification?” Killian asks, pushing his plate, he hopes discretely, aside.

“I’m not a monster,” she says.

“Why aren’t you eating your burrito? Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asks.

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” At that precise moment, Killian’s stomach growls louder than it’s every growled before. Liar, it seems to proclaim. He sighs. “I’m actually allergic.”

“You are?” Emma asks. If her wide eyes are anything to go by, she is horrified.

“To burritos? That sucks,” Henry says.

“No, not to burritos, but the avocado on top.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, because of course Emma would argue with him about his food allergies. “I assure you I am.”

“But when we got lunch last week, you ordered that sandwich with avocado on it.”

He doesn’t think he should be as flattered as he is that Emma remembers that. “I took that one to go. For Liam.”

“But…but…” and then she drops her fork to her plate and covers her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god I could have killed you!”

“Emma…”

“I almost murdered you on Christmas.”

“I can assure you…”

“That I almost murdered you? Because, yeah, figured that one out.”

“It’s not nice to murder people, mom,” Henry helpfully comments then reaches for Killian’s plate. “Can I have this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“What else are you allergic to?” Emma asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t seem to believe him as she sits with her arms across her chest, challenging him. “Seriously. Just the avocados.” And then quietly adds, “And kiwis and bananas.”

“So the fruit is also poison,” she says. “Anything else?”

“Latex.” The instant he says the word he regrets it. It’s true, completely, but with the way Emma is looking at him it feels a little…inappropriate to say.

“Latex,” she repeats. She doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug aside. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” Henry asks.

Emma maintains eye contact, but her cheeks go a little rosy. "Well, um, see the thing is…" she trails off.

Killian cuts in. “Because when I go to the doctor, sometimes the doctor or nurses wear gloves with latex in them.”

“That’s not interesting,” Henry says.

Emma makes him an omelette and then proceeds to apologize all morning. After they open presents (Killian will remember the look of delight on Henry’s face for all his days), she also makes a quick batch of chocolate chip muffins and insists he eat several. The rest of the day unfolds just how Henry said it would. Except Henry didn’t mention he’d only make it two-thirds of the way through the movie before falling asleep on his mom’s shoulder, curled up in the seat. As he snoozes he kicks his feet out into Killian’s lap and Emma rolls her eyes and helps herself to the rest of Henry’s popcorn.

“No personal space boundaries,” she whispers.

When they make it back to Emma’s, Henry wakes up just enough to shuffle to his room. And much like the night before, they find themselves on Emma’s couch talking over the day when she reveals she has a present for him.

“We said we weren’t buying presents, Emma.” He completely bought her a present but was planning to bend the rules by giving it to her on New Year’s Day. Surely New Year's Day presents are a thing somewhere. Right?

“It’s just a little something,” she says.

As Killian opens the gift he registers the novelty print first, and he is almost certain he knows what she got him. It’s three pairs of underwear in rather absurd prints and patterns. The same exact brand and style she tried to steal from him on Thanksgiving.

She grins as he laughs tossing the paper aside. “Did you know you can get them personalized?”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

She takes one of the pairs out of his hands and shows him the inner waistband. There it declares in embroidered thread "Property of Killian Jones."

“Just in case someone else tries to steal your underwear.”

“Nonsense, Swan. That’s our thing.”

The silence stretches between them as Emma rests her head on the back of the couch, her face turned towards him. Over the course of the night they’ve moved close enough to one another that their knees are touching. How did that happen?

“Killian, I want to tell you something.”

He swallows. “You can tell me anything you want, Emma.”

“I —” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I —” she begins again before stopping, letting out a frustrated groan. She offers him a tentative smile. “I want to thank you for doing everything you did for us today. It meant a lot to Henry.” She pauses, and it looks like she's going to say more, but she simply adds, “And to me.”

“Of course, love.”

“And I’m sorry for almost killing you.”

“I fully intend to use your guilt to my advantage in our relationship for years to come.”

She smiles. “The electrician is coming tomorrow?”

“He said he’d arrive somewhere between 7am and 3pm.”

“Nice he could narrow it down for you.” She looks away and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Do you want to stay here again tonight?”

“Aye,” he says. “If you'll have me.”

"I'll have you," she whispers, her lips tinged with a smile.

And he knows he shouldn’t be disappointed. Staying the night on her couch is wonderful and generous and it means another day of getting to wake up with the Swans. But there was a little part of him that thought she was going to say — he’s not entirely sure what. Strangely enough it’s the feeling of disappointment that confirms for him a long held suspicion of his. That with Emma the more she gives him, the more he wants. Every smile she gives makes him want 1,000 more. Every story she shares makes him want to share 1,000 of his own. He’d do anything for her to know he understands her. And he’d never intentionally hurt her. And that this Christmas was one of the best of his life, and is there any way she’d be willing to give him her New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and perhaps Flag Day, too?

Boxing Day Or, the holiday where Emma breaks herself

For as relatively calm and almost perfect as Christmas was, the day after is completely different.

Henry comes running into Emma's room at 8:00 AM insisting they don’t have enough batteries. When she calmly reminds him about the extra supply in the hall closet, he runs off without a thank you. A little later she’s pouring herself coffee and Henry runs into the kitchen, grabs the poptart package out of her hand and runs out again. “I’m putting together my legos!” he shouts.

“We are leaving in one hour, Henry.” Silence answers her from his bedroom. “That means shoes, scarf, coat and gloves.” More silence. “Henry!”

“Got it mom! One hour!” Door slam.

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Killian barely stifles a laugh as he watches the sequence of events from the coach.

“How much for you to take him off my hands for the next two to three years?” she asks, trying to ignore how cute he looks waking up in her apartment, sleep rumpled with hair sticking up every which way.

“You want me to bring him back as a pre-teen?”

“Good point. What about one of those boarding schools in Switzerland rich step-mothers always want to send their kids to? You know those ones in movies with the Olsen twins?”

“You’re truly trying to cast yourself as the stepmother in this situation?”

“Shut up and come get your coffee.”

She can see why Killian and Henry get along so well. Much like her son, Killian can’t simply stand up and walk into the kitchen. No. He bounds off the couch — she has no doubt he was tempted to hurdle it simply to prove he could — and then swaggers towards her. Does he always lead with his pelvis? God, why is she thinking about his pelvis? Once he’s in front of her, his mess of hair appears even more riotous and her fingers actually twitch with the urge to smooth it down. Instead she hands him a cup of coffee and picks hers up again. If her hands are busy maybe she’ll keep them to herself. And why did she think having him sleepover again was a good idea? What was she thinking?

Well, to be honest, she knew what she was thinking originally. But then late last night he shared why it is that Christmas is usually a hard season for him — a reminder of losing his mom as a child and his fiancé just two years ago — and all she could think about was how lucky she was to have walked into their laundry room that night.

Killian is a big one for eye contact — she knew that the day they met in the laundry room and it’s been confirmed a million times since — and it has a very squirm inducing impact on her insides. His heavy lidded eyes make everything twist up, and flutter, and race in a way that is almost painful. But like a good kind of painful.

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Betray your kindness for a bit longer and wait for the electrician to arrive. Yours?”

“Henry is going ice skating with a few of his friends. I’m going to go for a run after I walk him to Avery’s, but no plans after that.” She clears her throat as her pesky thoughts urge her to ask him to spend the day together. Naked, a part of her brain unhelpfully suggests.

“You’re going to walk in this weather? And then run in this weather?”

“I snagged a parking spot right in front and Avery’s family only lives a few blocks away. There is no way I am sacrificing my parking spot.” She turns away from Killian to top up her coffee. “And running is good for me. Helps me make sense of my thoughts when they’re all muddled.”

“What is making your thoughts muddled?” he asks.

She freezes for a second, the question taking her by surprise, and then turns around slowly. And holy fuck why do his eyes have to be so focused on her and so damn blue?! It’s oppressive, his eye color. “I didn’t say —”

“You kind of implied.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh, shaking her head. “You know it’s moments like these that remind me you’re the baby brother.”

He laughs, nodding his head in concession. “True. But in this case my persistence is motivated by my own selfish curiosity."

“What makes you curious?”

“I’m curious about all sorts of things. But I have to admit that my thoughts have also been rather muddled these days.” ” He taps his lips, thinking, and that is not fair. “For instance, I’m curious about what you wanted to say to me last night. Before you stopped yourself from continuing.”

How did he —?

“I’m curious about why you’re taking such shallow breaths right now,” he continues, sidling closer to her.

“They’re not —”

“But really, Emma, I find myself wondering if you would be interested in knowing what has my thoughts muddled these days?” He moves even closer as he reaches behind her to set his mug on the counter-top.

She takes a shaky breath. “I might be.”

“Then ask me.”

Okay. So, last night she chickened out. Sitting on the couch with Killian — the fire going, and Henry asleep, and Killian sharing his life with her — Emma had every intention of doing herself, and Mary-Margaret, and every human being who finds men attractive proud by telling Killian that she thinks about kissing him. Thinks about it a lot. So, she's smart enough to see this moment for what it is: a second chance. Another opportunity to get it right. Because Killian wouldn’t be leading her like this simply to reveal his thoughts were muddled with — fuck, she doesn’t know — whether or not he should finally bump Russian Doll to the top of his Netflix queue.

(He should, by the way, but that isn’t the point. The point is, he’s trying to lead her somewhere and she has to decide if she’s going to follow.)

She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Tell me?” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a question.

“Emma,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on her hip. “It’s you.”

Now, here’s the thing. Nothing in Emma’s life has ever resembled the plot of a romantic comedy. Every time she let herself think — secretly and only in her head and only like three times — “maybe this is my big romance!” it crashes and burns and turns out the guy only looked at her with stars in his eyes because she kinda reminded him of his ex. Until she met Killian. Because no sooner does he whisper the words “it’s you” — and holy shit that is some Mr. Darcy level stuff — her son comes crashing into the room, dressed for ice skating and holding his jacket. Then he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and telling him he has to play Smash Brothers with him because he’s been practicing and he’s finally going to beat him but he’s only got fifteen minutes left to prove it.

Killian looks at her, a little helplessly as Henry drags him away. She smiles to reassure him it’s okay. They’ll get to talk soon. Right? At least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she gets into her running clothes and laces her sneakers.

“Henry,” she says, walking out of her room. “Time to go kiddo. I told Avery’s mom we’d be there in 10 minutes.” Henry must be losing to Killian. It’s the only explanation for why he so readily sets the controller aside.

“See ya later, Killian,” he says, and tackle side hugs Killian before sprinting for the door.

Emma grabs him by the hood of his jacket and pulls him back before he can bolt for the door. “Henry. Gloves.” She gestures to the coffee table where they’re waiting for him.

“Oh, right.”

As they walk out of the building, Emma is trying so hard to listen to Henry’s enthusiastic play by play of the game he just played with Killian but all she can think of is the fact that Killian is in her apartment. Waiting there for the electrician (and her?). Sitting there on her couch. Unless the electrician arrives while she’s on her run he’ll be there when she returns. What is she going to say? How do they even pickup that conversation?

It’s this state of distraction that she blames for missing the patch of ice on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She slips and lands hard not even certain of what happened.

“Mom!” Henry shouts, immediately at her side.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she grits out, trying to catch her breath. “I just slipped.” Except for when Henry tries to help her up her knee buckles and pain shoots up her leg. Shit. She sits on the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, not wanting to scare Henry.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Can you do me a favor, bud?” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. “Talk to Killian and ask him to come down, okay?” Maybe she should be the one to call but she kind of feels like crying and needs a second to gather herself. To focus on not bursting into tears from shock and pain.

After Henry hangs up — “Killian come quick! Mom fell!” — Emma steels herself and calls Avery’s mom to explains what happened. Thankfully she tells Emma they’ll just swing by and pick Henry up, no problem.

Killian comes running outside, not even wearing a jacket the idiot, as she hangs up with Avery’s mom. Emma has to stop him from picking her up and bringing her inside immediately.

Her whole body shivers; the sidewalk absolutely icy and freezing. “We need to wait with Henry,” she tells him.

Once Henry leaves, Emma reassuring everyone she’ll be just fine, Killian helps her up. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and she leans into him as he takes her weight and walks her inside. It’s amazing how being in pain can zap all sexual tension from an encounter because Emma isn’t thinking about Killian with his hand on her hip in the kitchen. Not at all. All she's thinking about is how nice he is, and how thankful she was that he was there to help and, okay, fine, maybe being in pain can only zap 80% of the sexual tension. Still. That’s a lot less sexual tension.

Once back in her apartment Killian settles her in the armchair and props her leg up on the ottoman. He buzzes around, bringing her water and ibuprofen, and then asks to see her ankle. She supposes this is kind of his area, so she nods and does her best to hold in a wince as he removes her shoe and sock. He moves her ankle gently from side to side and she braces herself for the pain but it actually isn’t that bad. Until he presses on a spot at the top of her foot and —

“Holy shit that hurts!,” she exclaims.

“Good news is it’s not broken.”

“Feels broken to me.”

“Probably just a really bad sprain but I can take you to get an x-ray if you want.”

“Or?”

“Or I collect some supplies from my apartment and I’ll wrap it myself.”

“That option is free?” she asks. Killian nods. “I choose that.”

“Keep this elevated.” Before he leaves for his apartment, he notices her struggle to get her other shoe off. He sighs affectionately, unlacing her shoe and setting it aside. Without asking he reaches for a blanket on the sofa, one he used the night before, and lays it over her lap. “Back in five minutes.”

The moment the door closes behind Killian tears spring to the corner of her eyes. Yes, Emma’s in pain, the ibuprofen not quite kicking in yet as she feels her ankle throb. And, yes, her butt is a little cold, but that doesn’t really explain why she starts to cry. These past couple of days have just been a lot. In a really great way, but it’s still a lot.

The tears must be something Killian notices when he gets back because in a flash he crouches in front of her, resting a hand on her uninjured ankle. “Hey now, what’s this?”

She shakes her head, not really sure how to explain. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

His raised eyebrow and tightly drawn mouth indicate he doesn’t believe her, but as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve, he takes to unpacking the supplies he brought over. The truth is that it’s not nothing; more like it's everything. It’s that his apartment is down the hall and when she demanded he come stay with her and Henry he could have refused, or used his spare key to stay at his brother’s, but he didn’t. And that while she has yet to hear an explanation concerning his “it’s you” statement, she has a feeling it’s something good. It’s everything to her — the ways both big and small he chooses her and Henry. And it’s only been five-weeks but she wants more. She want more weeks.

He wraps her ankle up then fits her to the pair of crutches he brought over. As he helps her stand, she stumbles and accidentally puts pressure on her ankle. She hisses at the sudden pain, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Careful, Emma,” he says, running a hand up and down her back in comfort. She looks up at him; his eyes are all soft and concerned. “You okay?”

It’s you, too, she wants to say. I don’t know how or why, or even what it means, but it’s you. She nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

New Year’s Eve Or, the holiday where Killian meets the ex

“So tell me about this party, Sir Henry.”

Killian’s noticed that when Henry has a lot to say, he has a habit of taking a deep breath and then clenching his fists at his side. It's like Henry’s little body is bracing itself for an onslaught of enthusiasm. “Well,” Henry says, fists clenched, “Aunt Mary-Margaret and Uncle David have this big farmhouse that is so cool and my friend Roland and his dad, and my other friend Violet and her dad, and my other friend Gideon and his mom, are all coming over too and we’re having a big party. And then after we eat so much food, we’re going to play sardines inside with all the lights off, and then after that we’re having a campfire out back, and then after that…”

Killian does his best to listen — really, he does — Henry’s enthusiasm is genuinely delightful so it isn’t hard to be interested. Usually. It’s just that as Henry is talking Emma walks out of her room dressed for the evening in a tight black dress and he kind of loses his head a bit. Actually finds himself staring at her, which he only realizes when she catches his gaze and smiles.

“Breathe, kid,” she says, breaking their stare. “Your aunt texted and said they’ll be here in five minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yup!”

“Go get your shoes on, then.” Henry runs off and Killian watches as Emma inspects Henry’s pile of belongings, confirming to her own satisfaction that Henry won’t be without a change of clothes or toothbrush.

“This party sounds fun, Swan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend time with your friends and boy there?”

“Nope. We’re going to Ruby and Mulan’s, and we’re dancing until at least 1:00 AM because that’s when they bring out the dancing snacks.”

“Dancing snacks?”

“Donuts and coffee for the drive home. It’s the best.” He’s about to point out that there exists these wonderful things called donut shops that allows one to purchase a donut and coffee at a time that is not 1:00 AM, but her phone rings.

Emma halts her process of shutting off lights in the kitchen to answer.

“Hey Rubes.” As Ruby talks, Emma refreshes her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She pauses the action, groaning in aggravation at something Ruby says. “Seriously?! Can’t you be total dicks and tell them to leave? Since when? Fine! Be good people! Yeah, we’ll be there in about thirty.”

Emma hangs up and Killian tries not to laugh at Emma’s quietly muttered, “Well, shit.” She told him a few weeks ago her resolve to never swear in front of Henry gets a little weaker with each passing year.

“What was that, love?”

“Apparently the sister of one of Ruby’s co-workers invited herself to the party — much to everyone’s annoyance because Zelena is apparently awful — and then proceeded to be even more awful by bringing along her new boyfriend who, pause for dramatic effect, happens to be my ex.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she says, finishing her lipstick and dropping the tube into her purse. “And Walsh being Walsh, he’s too much of a —” Emma trails off, her eyes darting down the hallway to see if Henry is coming — “fucking narcissistic dickhole to leave once he realized whose house he was at. I know he’s only staying to drink booze and leer at me when I show up alone. Sure, he’s the one who got drunk one night and cheated on me, but I’m the one who is going to have to deal with him.”

“But you’re not showing up alone.”

“Yeah, but you’re my friend date. Not my date date.”

Killian’s heart clenches a little at that entirely accurate explanation.

Hard to believe it was only five days prior that he and Emma were seemingly on the emotional precipice of — well, something. He’s not entirely sure what, because first Henry interrupted their conversation, then Emma sprained her ankle, and then, as he was in the midst of applying his physical therapy degree in perhaps the most important context of his entire life, the electrician called to say he arrived. The man spent several hours trying to undo what Killian did, and then Emma called and asked him to pick up Thai takeout for a late lunch, and before he knew it, Henry was back from ice skating, and Emma was asleep on the couch with a bowl of Phad Thai balanced on her chest.

So, her assessment is correct. Right now they are friends and this is not a date date. Though he wishes it was, and he is certain all it would take is an uninterrupted moment for him and Emma to find that bit of magic again. He’s also convinced that Emma in her dress — black, and short, and lacy, with long sleeves and a neckline that is both wonderful and tempting — is a bit of magic in and of itself.

David texts Emma that they’ve arrived, and Emma and Henry both get bundled up to meet them outside. Killian grabs Henry’s piles of belongings and they’re out the door.

Emma has this whole theory that with surge pricing likely in effect all night, it would be wildly irresponsible to take an Uber to and from Ruby and Mulan’s house. Killian vetoes her theory with his medical opinion that as her PT, it would be wildly irresponsible to allow someone who sprained their ankle a week ago to walk a mile in high heeled boots. She scowls but he requests the Uber anyway. Fuck, he must be far gone because even her scowl is starting to feel like a kind of magic.

As the night goes on, Killian discovers that the problem isn’t if he should confess his feelings but rather what feeling he should confess to first. He watches Emma run in and hug Ruby and Mulan and thinks “I should confess how her smile makes everything better.” When he discovers one of his co-workers is also at the party, apparently a regular at the diner Ruby owns, Emma is kind, and warm, and eager to get to know the man, and Killian thinks “I should confess that my days don’t quite feel real until I am able to talk them over with her.” And then there’s the confession he’s been concealing for well over a month: that he wants to kiss Emma, and he wants to kiss her a lot.

Turns out Emma has a confession of her own to make. Well, not so much a confession as a bald-faced lie.

Killian and Emma are in the middle of a rather heated debate with a couple they’ve just met about the best claymation Christmas movie when a supercilious voice interrupts their conversation, seemingly not caring about a lack of courtesy.

“Isn’t this a festive coincidence? Us being at the same party?” Emma clenches her jaw at the voice and plasters on the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It screams false, false, false. She turns around to greet the man.

“Walsh,” she says, and then extends her hand to the woman who must be Zelana. “I’m Emma.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she responds, ignoring the hand. Zelena looks at Walsh, the two of them laughing at some shared joke.

“Seriously, Ems, what are the odds?” he asks.

“Well, seeing as Ruby and Mulan are my friends, the chances of me being here were pretty high. I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of you showing up. Nor do I really care to,” she shrugs.

Killian chuckles at that, bumping Emma with his hip in what he hopes is a dual gesture of both affection and camaraderie. I’m here for you, he wants the gesture to mean. It also has the effect of catching the attention of both Walsh and Zelena.

“Emma,” Walsh says condescendingly. “You didn’t introduce us to your friend.” The emphasis on the word friend is mocking. Like, “look at me with my girlfriend, and here you are with just your regular old friend.” Killian hates this guy.

But, because he likes to think himself a gentleman, he extends a hand in greeting. “Killian Jones,” he says. “Emma’s —”

“Fiancé,” she cuts in almost immediately. Emma wraps her hands around his arm, snuggling into his side. “This is my fiancé.”

“Oh,” says Walsh, glaring. Killian doubts he’s jealous as much as he’s mad Emma’s potentially happy.

“But where is your riiiing?” Zelena simpers. Killian didn’t know the word ‘ring’ had quite that many syllables. “Could you not afford one?” He's decided he hates her, too.

“Oh,” Emma says, voice quiet. “Well —”

Fine. If they’re going to do this… “It’s at the jewelers. Being resized. It was my mum’s ring, and a little large for Emma I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Walsh frowns. “How did the two of you meet?”

“Neighbors,” Emma practically shouts. “We are neighbors. And that’s how we met.”

“Rather ordinary,” Zelena says, sounding bored.

“Well, the sex is great, so…” Emma trails off and Killian almost chokes. Her expression makes him want to laugh — she apparently took herself by surprise with that one. It’s like she can hear herself saying the words and would like to be able to stop saying them, but can’t.

He would never want Emma to think she caused him any distress. They’ll surely talk about the whole fiancé thing, but he’s been hoping all night for a magic opportunity to appear and maybe, he thinks, it’s time to make some magic of his own.

“Truth is,” he says, “I knew Emma was the one for me months before we actually met.” He looks down at her. “I know you’re sick of this story, love, but mind if I tell it once more?” She shakes her head, eyes wide and questioning, and he turns back to Zelena and Walsh. Walsh, who it must be said, looks like he’s sucked on something sour. Killian wasn't sure he'd ever confess this to Emma, but here they are.

“My first glimpse of Emma was in our apartment lobby. Henry must have been at a sleepover of some sort, because Emma was coming home at the early hours of the morning with her sister and friend, stumbling into the lobby clearly drunk and laughing. Then Emma shouted 'we should race!' and someone else said the loser had to make breakfast and no sooner did the words ‘ready’ come out of her sister’s mouth, than Emma took off her shoes and sprinted for the stairs.” He looks down at Emma and notices a rather stunned expression on her face. He hopes it's a good kind of stunned. Might as well keep going. “I think someone called her a cheater and Emma called them sore losers and she was up the staircase, and certainly to her apartment before the two of them even managed to stumble to the elevator. And I remember thinking to myself ‘this woman is amazing.’ We met officially in the laundry room a couple months later and she’s confirmed that thought every day hence.”

He feels that sizzle in the air, of hope and possibility and one of Emma’s hands leaves his arm to slide around his back, squeezing his waist gently. She turns into him further, away from Walsh and Zelena. When he looks down, she leans up and kisses him, soft and delicate on the corner of his mouth.

Walsh coughs, and Zelena says something he immediately opts to ignore. Magic.

“Killian,” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Emma, you have to come take shots with us!” And man, Killian likes Ruby a lot but her timing is on par with Henry’s. Ruby is wearing heels that must be at least four inches high and as she approaches their little circle, wedging herself in close to Walsh, she stumbles. It feels like it starts to happen in slow motion but then all of sudden it's over: the bright red cocktail in Ruby's hand sloshes over the edge of the glass and douses Walsh in what Killian hopes is something both sticky and impossible to get out.

“Fuck,” he shouts, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “This is Tom Ford.”

Ruby holds her hands up and shrugs. “Oops.” She crouches down to be at eye level with the stain. “Sorry, Mr. Ford,” she says, slurring the words.

Walsh storms off and Zelena follows. They furiously grab their coats from the hook and leave, silencing the crowd with their ire. As soon as the door slams the strained silence in the room breaks, and Ruby turns to him and Emma with a big smile. “Happy New Year, guys!” Miraculously sober once more.

“Ruby,” Emma scolds, not sounding the least bit upset. “You are ridiculous!”

“Excuse you, I tripped.”

“Why didn't you 'trip' two hours ago when Walsh first showed up?”

“I could have,” Ruby says, "but it was so satisfying to watch it happen, wasn’t it?”

Emma looks like she wants to maintain her indignation, but then Killian bursts into laughter, and Ruby grins with unfiltered pride at her accomplishment.

Just as Killian is plotting as to how he and Emma can escape next — (she only kissed him about two minutes ago but it feels like it’s been a lifetime; why is it the second he manages to make a little magic the universe appears dead set upon stealing the moment from him and Emma?) — Ruby tells them “Ems, I wasn’t joking about shots. I need you.”

She looks over to Killian, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Ruby, I need to —”

“Go on, Swan,” he reassures, “I’ll be here.”

Ruby pulls Emma away, no further conversation, Mulan whooping loudly as they get closer. Was that a mistake? Or should he have followed them? What is he even doing? He has no strategy when it comes to Emma. He has no plan; only an intended end goal. Which is her in his life for as long as possible. Ideally with more kissing. Why has he been wasting all this time? He should have asked her out the second she and Henry brought him toffee almond bark.

He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cart in the living room and then escapes to the back porch, sipping on the drink, cheersing the smokers out there as they all make small talk. Ruby slides the door open a few minutes later. “Come inside future emphysemiacs of the world, the countdown is starting in one minute.”

At Ruby’s commanding tone, everyone tamps out their cigarettes or ceases vaping and moves inside. But Killian stays where he is. He’s too much of a romantic for a New Year’s Eve countdown. The strike of midnight without a kiss from Emma just might break his heart.

The door to the patio opens again, noise swelling as he hears a few people start the countdown with a loud “60! 59! 58!”

“Ruby, I’ll be right in.”

The door closes. “Not Ruby.”

At the sound of Emma’s voice, every nerve ending in his body starts firing. Heart beating wildly. Palms sweating. And he’s either halfway to being in love with this woman or he’s about to throw up.

He looks at her, and her smile is open and warm. He can’t help but smile back. “Emma.”

“Some party, huh?” she asks, standing beside him, forearms resting on the banister. Neither one of them are wearing jackets, and her sleeves might be long but they’re all lace. There’s no way they’ll last out here long.

“Yeah.”

She looks at him. “I feel like I should apologize for the whole fiancé thing. But —” she trails off.

“But?” he asks.

“I’m actually a little more interested in that story you told Walsh.”

His heart isn’t possibly beating loud enough for her to hear. Right? That noise is all in his head?

“What about it?”

“Was it true?”

Somewhere distantly he hears the group inside continue their countdown, now hitting “34! 33! 32!” and getting louder with each number.

“Yeah. The first time I saw you was in the lobby of the building.”

She immediately shakes her head, appearing almost angry at him. “No. Not that part. I remember that night with Mary-Margaret and Elsa. The other part. The part about me. About knowing —” A shiver runs through her. He can see the goosebumps on her skin, and yet she persists. “About me, and knowing that —”

“Of course it’s true, Emma. I wouldn’t make that up.”

Then Emma does the last thing he expects and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him but it’s surprising enough that it hurts. “Ouch!” he says, rubbing the spot she hit. “What was that?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Are you saying I should have?”

“Well, obviously.” She clenches her fists, and huffs out an aggravated breath. “I don’t make eyes, Killian. Okay?” She doesn’t punch him, but she does sort of push his shoulder. “I am not a make eyes person.” And she pushes him again. “Got it?”

“God, woman, would you stop shoving me?”

“No, because you are an idiot.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. And are you listening to me? I DON’T MAKE EYES.”

“Okay, fine!” They’re almost shouting now, but he can still make out the “10! 9! 8!” from inside the apartment. “You don’t make eyes! I read you!”

“I don’t make eyes,” she says, for the fourth time, a little quieter but no less emphatic. “Except I do make eyes at you. Pretty much from the first moment I met you.”

What? Her words take a moment to register, and then all he manages to say is, “Oh.”

Emma is having a harder time keeping in her shivers now. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and there’s something about seeing that which springs him into action. He steps closer and runs his hands over her arms, hoping to bring some warmth to her skin.

The group inside bursts into a jubilant shout of “Happy New Year!” and he has apparently been making eyes at him. This whole time.

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yeah.”

New Year’s Day Or, the holiday where Emma and Killian make magic

Emma is tempted to go inside for two reasons: one, to get out of the cold because sheesh, and two to text Mary-Margaret to inform her “I did the brave thing and all he did was say ‘oh.’ Twice!”

But something about the way Killian said ‘oh’ the second time and the way he looks at her now has her rooted in place. He’s running his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. It feels better than anything has the right to.

“Happy new year, Emma,” he says. She hears the slight shake in his voice. Is he nervous, too? She kind of hopes so.

“Killian,” she says, and takes a small step closer. And, shit, she really hopes she’s not misreading his signals here. “Kiss me.”

For a fraction of a second Killian’s hands still entirely and then his brain seems to take over. One hand snakes around to her waist and he grabs her, bringing their bodies flush, and the other goes up to the nape of her neck. Killian’s thumb and forefinger are doing this massage thing which is utterly divine, and — Oh, she thinks, we’re kissing now.

It isn’t something she’s actively thought about — the logistics of kissing Killian — but that seems to be okay because her body is charged and humming in a way she’s never experienced before. She is suddenly struck by the sensation that she does not have enough hands. She tangles a hand in his hair, grabbing a fistful and earning her a grunt from Killian, which makes her want to do it again. But if her hand is in his hair then she can’t run it up and down the planes of his back and that’s a shame. So, she does that. But, she finds, if both hands are feeling the corded muscles of his back, then she can’t feel the firmness of his arms, which is a crime against the world. And if she’s gripping his biceps, then she can’t get a handful of what she has always suspected, and has now been able to confirm, is a phenomenal ass. It’s a problem scientists should dedicate the rest of their lifetimes to solving — too much Killian and not enough hands.

Killian runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and the sensation is so overwhelming she has to take a second, pulling away with a gasp. Only now they're too far away from on another so she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She keeps her eyes closed, wanting to savor the everything of the moment for another second.

“Emma,” he says.

She smiles, and opens her eyes only long enough to kiss him again, sweetly on the lips before nuzzling into his the space between his neck and shoulder. Either she's aggravated her ankle or something about Killian is affecting her because she's having trouble standing.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her once more, and yes! This is significantly warmer than the rubbing of arms things. They should have been doing this the whole time. The kissing is so much warmer.

“Emma,” he repeats.

“Hmm?” she doesn’t feel like she can actually say full words. Maybe it’s the not saying of full words that’s allowing her to feel this warm (also, made her something called a snowball shot and it was minty and wonderful and that might also be contributing to the warm feeling).

“How committed are you to this hanging around for donuts and coffee thing?”

“Why? You have a better offer?”

“I could make you hot chocolate,” he says.

“And?”

“That’s not enough?”

She smiles, opens her eyes and shakes her head at him. “Coffee and donuts. That is a beverage and a snack. You offered only a beverage.”

“Counteroffer: I steal a box of donuts from Ruby and Mulan’s kitchen and we bring them back to your place.”

“Now you’re talking.” Their plan is to get bundled up in their outerwear, say their goodbyes and then grab the donuts, but it all goes to hell when Ruby asks Emma why she’s being weird and in response she shouts “I kissed Killian and I’m stealing your donuts!” She grabs a box and runs. As they try to make their getaway Ruby’s shouts at them from the front door. “I’m sending you a request on Venmo! Donuts are for non-horny guests who stay for dancing!”

Safely tucked into their Uber (she asked about the true horror of surge pricing and Killian refused to answer), Emma finds herself fixated on the red glint of Killian’s stubble under the passing glow of streetlights. He swallows a few times as she runs her finger along the line of his jaw.

“Killian? Has your heater been working okay?”

He nods. “Right as rain.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Well, if it ever stopped working, you could stay at my place again.”

The corners of his mouth twitch as he holds in a smile, and she really wants to bite his neck but she also doesn’t want to negatively impact Killian’s Uber rating. “Is that so?”

“Just being neighborly.”

“Obviously.”

The rest of the ride to their apartment complex is wonderful, with the touching, and the smiling, and the knowing that she has a box of contraband donuts, but she wants more.

As soon as they get out of the car, Killian takes Emma’s hand but she stays where she is and pulls him back to her.

“I changed my mind,” she says. He looks uncertain, and she rushes to explain. “You should stay at my apartment even if your heat is working.”

“Well that sounds grand,” Killian says, his voice low.

“Well good,” she says, and that’s when inspiration strikes. Once in the lobby, she unzips her ankle boots and holds them out for Killian to take. “Trade you boots for donuts?”

“Deal,” he says.

“So.”

“Who would have thought, huh?”

“What?” he asks.

“I mean, who would have though that me calling you a sick fuck on Thanksgiving would lead to us fucking on New Year’s Day? Crazy, right?” She asks the rather audacious question in as casual a tone as possible. Killian looks a little dazed and Emma leans up to kiss him again, smiling as their lips meet.

“I —” he sputters.

“Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“Loser makes breakfast in the morning,” she says, and then she’s running through the lobby, clutching the donuts to her chest.

Killian’s laughter chasing her up the stairs is magic.

#cssecretsanta2k19 #captain swan #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #emma x killian #p: emma x killian #c: emma swan #c: killian jones #hollyethecurious #never stories

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themoonandotherslikeit · 6 years ago

Text

Back to You- Chapter 4

*REQUEST by UKgirl71

On a case, Sam Winchester saw a friend that he hadn’t seen in over ten years, Freya Scott. Freya was a blonde, fiery hunter with a serious skill set. The couple quickly realize how good they are for each other, in cases and life. With her, Sam starts to remember the possibilities he has outside of hunting, but when an accident rips them apart, will Sam ever be able to love anyone again? Will he be able to make it back to her?

Chapter Four, Deliver Me

Sam

We'd been pouring over the lore for an hour and a half before Dean begrudgingly pushed into the motel. He was covered in dirt and bathed in annoyance. His eyebrow was twitching. "Well aren't you two just peachy."

"Come on, Dean. Don't be cranky." Freya said, from her position curled in the chair across the room from the door.

"Easy for you to say, Princess." He grunted. "I need a fucking shower. Sammy, please tell me you've found something out."

"Not so much."

"I still think its a Ghoul." Freya said, shutting her laptop. "I mean, look at the facts. Missing body parts. Changing into someone else... the bite marks."

"The only thing is that there's no corpse. No corpse in the grave tells me Revenant." Dean said, still sounding irritated.

"Okay, lets just cool it. Either way, it'll be out hunting at night, so we need to get our shit together and start looking around before someone else gets hurt. Dean go get in the shower, have a beer, and get the fuck over it."

Dean shot me a look before rolling his eyes and storming into the bathroom.

"He doesn't like me, does he?" Freya asked quietly. She always seemed like such a strong and independent woman, it was honestly really weird seeing her care what my brother thought.

"I wouldn't say that. He wouldn't invite you if he didn't like you."

"Sam, no offense, but I kind of think you're full of shit." Freya said with a shrug, letting her feet land on the floor. She stood up and stretched. "Do y'all just need a minute? I kind of need some air." She slid into her boots and her leather jacket.

"Hey." I said, standing up. "You good?"

Freya reached up and poked my nose. "I'm good, Kansas. Don't worry about me. I'll call you and meet up in a bit."

5 years later

She sat across from me, sipping on her coffee. She glanced up at me through her thick eyelashes, and through the steam from her coffee. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You're staring at me."

I could feel my neck heat up. "What? Oh.. sorry."

"It's okay." She smiled, sheepishly. Her cheeks tinting pink as well. "I don't really mind, just... is there something on your mind?"

I glanced down at my food. The noodles seemed to swirl around the bowl. I wasn't hungry. I was too fucking nervous being this close to her again. "You." I admitted. "Maybe that's crazy, but I just want to get to know you."

"Then ask me whatever you want."

"What have you been... up to?" Wow, super smooth, Sam.

"That's a weird question." She laughed, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Just working a lot. Taking care of stuff at home."

We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't comfortable. I sucked in my breath. I was messing everything up. She didn't know me. She was this other person. I sat my fork down and clenched my fists in my lap.

"Sam?" She murmured. I glanced up from my lap. Her eyes met mine. "Do you want to get out of here?"

I let out the breath I'd been holding. "Yeah. I'd like that." I sat some cash down and we walked out into the night. "Where to?"

"Thought we could go for a walk."

I nodded to her. We went back into the cold, the snow picking back up. It swirled around us, and quieted the rest of the world. "So, tell me about you, Sam."

"Well, it's just me and my brother now. We travel a lot."

"For work?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"What do you do?"

"Contract stuff. We're kind of gypsies." I grinned widely at her in the darkness. "Nomads."

"Sounds lonely."

"It can be." I admitted. "But there are a lot of ways to be lonely."

"That's true."

"We've been traveling like this our whole lives. Dad was the same way. He was a mechanic, but he couldn't stay still."

"So you never had a real home?"

"Home is relative." I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Home is with Dean. In the same car we've driven in our whole lives." Home is with you.

"That's beautiful."

"You making fun of me?" I shot her a grin.

"What? No! I'm serious. I live in a city of a million people, and sometimes I feel so lonely I could scream."

I pull my hand out of my pocket, and slide my gloved hand into hers. She locks her fingers with mine. "I'm from small town USA, I can't even imagine living in a place like this."

"It can be magnificent." She said softly, her breath crystallizing in the freezing night air. "But it can also be stifling. In a place this big its impossible to not feel small."

I looked at her knowingly, and squeezed her hand. Our eyes landed on a large tree. It was covered in a stunning display of Christmas lights. Was it that time already? At the base of the tree people were ice skating. I smiled widely. "Man, I haven't done that in... I don't know. Never. Probably."

"Never ice skated? Oh, Sam. We're doing it."

"What?" I looked down at her, alarmed.

"You heard me." She pulled me toward the gate. I fumbled for my wallet and handed the man cash so he could give us skates.

"I'm going to fall." I complained.

"I'll catch you." She said casually.

"I would crush you." My eyes met hers.

"No you wouldn't."

There was something about the challenge in her eyes. The flicker of life behind her iris. She was still in there. "Fuck it, okay. Let's do it."

"Yes!" She grinned widely.

She put her small hand in mine, and I wrapped my fingers around hers carefully. I cradled her hand in mine, and I wouldn't let go. Now that I had her back, how could I ever let her go?

Freya

Present

I walked past the Jack-O-Lanterns that lined the Main Street. Something was going on in the town, in preparation for Halloween. The air was crisp and it smelled like burning leaves. I pulled my jacket closer to me, for fear that everything inside me could come spilling out.

What was I doing in this town? With these two brothers that I met a lifetime ago? I'd heard about them from other hunters at the Roadhouse among other places. They were famous. They were reckless, and way too involved with each other. Nostalgia aside, this was probably a bad idea. There wasn't room in my car for another person. There wasn't room in my life, and just because the Winchester's had an open back seat didn't mean they had room in their life for another person either. Seemed like Dean was already regretting inviting me along, and when I wasn't standing under Sam's massive shadow, I was starting to regret it, too.

I turned down the street that the victim lived on. The town wasn't that big, so with the police report fresh on my mind it wasn't hard to navigate to his place of residence.

The whole house was roped off with yellow crime scene tape. I looked around a few times, ducked under the tape, and waltzed into the house. In the early hours of twilight the house was eerily still. I walked through the front room, and into the kitchen. The sight of blood stopped me in my tracks. Small yellow tents were placed around the scene, to show the different instances of evidence. Wrist and leg restraints on the kitchen island. Pooling blood. The kitchen cutlery.

I swallowed hard.

The report stated that there was no forced entry. Of course there wouldn't be, if the intruder looked like his wife. Why wouldn't he let her in?

I pressed my lips together in wonder. I scanned the kitchen, suspiciously. No one reported screaming. No one reported anything. It wasn't until she was later questioned that the neighbor mentioned seeing the wife. Wouldn't that be suspicious? I would've called the police. Or checked in. Or something. Something. Why wouldn't he scream when he saw her? Unless he didn't let her in.. unless.

Unless she had a key.

There was a soft thud behind me. I turned quickly, my hand reaching for my gun, but it was too late. Fuck. It always is, isn't it?

Sam

I didn't realize I'd been pacing until Dean came out of the shower, drying his head. He wore a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. "Princess bored of you already?" He asked when he noticed Freya wasn't in her chair across from me anymore.

"No, but she very well may be tired of you." I said, stopping to look at him.

"The fuck does that mean?"

"You're being an epic dick, dude."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So sensitive, Sammy."

"Don't Sammy me!" I snapped. "Why'd you invite her along if you didn't want her help?"

"We don't need her help, Sam. I invited her so you can get laid." He said flatly.

"Well, I don't exactly need your help with that." I met his tone and his eyes.

Dean and I never fought about women. Especially not like this. "What's it about her that's pissing you off?" I asked him carefully. "Really."

Dean sighed and rubbed his face. "You gonna make me say it?"

"Yeah. I think I am."

He groaned. Talking about feelings weren't exactly his forte. "Guess it didn't occur to me that you... I don't know. Like her?"

"What does that mean?" I raised an eyebrow. I didn't know what I'd expected him to say, but honestly that wasn't it.

"I thought it was about sex.. but watching you two, well fuck. Man you really like her, don't you?"

I pushed my hair behind both ears. "I mean.. yeah, dude. I guess I do."

Dean looked at his feet and shifted his weight awkwardly.

"What?" I asked him.

"Fuck. We don't do this shit, but fine, I'll say it." He rubbed his hands together before letting out an uneven breath. "Last time you found a girl... you wanted to settle down. Watching you two, well I guess it just occurred to me that if she sticks around you may... go. I know that sounds so fucking lame, and selfish, but fuck it's what I'm thinking. So sue me."

I smiled at him. "Dean, I'm not going anywhere." I laughed and shook my head. "Plus...Freya's a hunter. Not like she's just some regular girl. She's in the game. Has been since we were kids. You know hunters, they can't give it up, no matter what."

Dean met my eyes. "I can't believe I'm jealous of a fucking blonde."

"You're just mad that she beat you at Rock Paper Scissors." I gave him a large, shit eating grin.

"Shut up."

I shrugged.

"So what? Should we find your lady? I can apologize, I guess." He shrugged.

"Aw, you like her too, don't you?"

"Fuck off. I'm just a good wing man. Let's go." Dean sat down to put on his socks.

I rolled my eyes and pulled out my phone to dial her number. I frowned. There was a text from her. Three numbers. 911. I swallowed hard. "Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm hurrying. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"I think Frey's in trouble." I said, turning the phone to him.

"You tried calling her?"

I shook my head and pressed the green phone icon next to her name. It went straight to voicemail.

Freya

I came to, my head pounding from where I was hit. It was some goddamn miracle that I didn't have brain damage for all the times I was hit in the head. It happened more times than I could count. Usually, though, I didn't let monsters get the grab on me. Usually I wasn't so distracted. And by a fucking boy. Wait to go, genius. Dad would be proud.

I blinked a few times, my right eye was hazy, and red tinted from the blood that dripped down into it from my apparent head wound. I tried to move my arms, but they were restrained. My legs were restrained too, and I groaned. Fucking hell. I'm about to be monster chow. I struggled for a moment, yanking at the restraints, but they were too strong, and I was too tired.

I sighed.

As I went down, I clicked a message to Sam. The creatures boot crushed it in my hand after I clicked send. I hoped he would get it. I hoped he would understand.

The light that hung over me was bright and it obscured everything around me. There was a figure in the room, but I couldn't make them out because of the light. They were just a dark shadow behind me. I grunted and closed my eyes. It was over. I was going to fucking die, and all because I got involved. All because I crawled into the back of that fucking Impala, but yet, there was something else inside of me that was conjuring Sams face. He was a kid again, and then a man. He was pushing my hair out of my face, and kissing my neck in the shower. He was laughing, and his eyes crinkling in the corners. He was a release of a breath I didn't know I was holding. Something about him felt like the home I never had. Despite of everything, I would do it again. If he asked me. In that instance I knew that I would always climb into the back of that fucking car.

5 years later

I stepped out onto the ice and glided freely, my hand slipping out of Sams. I loved ice skating. It felt like flying. I went forward before turning around to make sure he was catching up.

The sight of this six foot tall giant gripping the wall, on hobbling newborn deer legs had me laughing out loud. I covered my mouth with my gloved hand as he narrowed his eyes at me. I shrugged and skated in a circle, goading him. My own inertia caused my hair to dance around me. I glanced at him through the blonde locks, and threw him a bright smile.

I watched him let out a warm breath into the icy air as he pushed off the wall. His ankles still trembled under his weight on the skates, but he managed to push himself forward. One foot. Then another. He smiled a bit, because he was getting it. First time skater and all, but maybe he was getting too cocky, or distracted, because he pushed forward a little faster. His toe must've caught a stray piece of ice, or maybe his ankle gave out underneath him, because suddenly this towering man was tumbling onto the ice.

I covered my mouth with my hands to stifle a gasp. He fell flat on his face, spread out in a X on the ice. "Sam?" I asked, quickly making it to his side. I dropped down on my knees and helped roll him over onto his back.

He groaned in response, when I pulled his head in my lap. "Hey big guy." I said, wiping some ice shavings off his cheeks. "You went down pretty hard there."

He looked up at me with hazy green eyes. "That was really embarrassing."

"It was kind of cute." I admitted with a smile.

"So this is how I get your attention?"

"Guess so." I said, softly looking down at him. He was so familiar, but yet so strange. Like maybe I knew him in another life. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"Nothing major." He said quietly, staring at me with stars in his eyes.

"Good." I exhaled, our breath mingling together, and before I realized it, before I could stop it, I found myself leaning down. I closed the space between us, pressing our cold, chapped lips together in the middle of the ice skating rink on a snowy December night in New York City, as if we were the only two people in the world. Because, maybe we were.

———————————-

Chapter Five

Get caught up!

Forever Tag List:

@foreverwayward

#fanfiction #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction #writing #mine #back to you #sam winchester #samxofc #sam winchesterxofc #original character

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eatyourgrapes · 6 years ago

Note

Ye just any dragon from any series, which one is like, number one in ur big scaly heart? The apple of ur eye? And I might as well send it all in one ask, but for the song rating game I rate you as a Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea by MISSIO. You got those mysterious, bittersweet and wicked vibes going on. Probably cause you stan series villains to your dying breath, lol

okay

Dragon Anon, I will be completely honest here…

I’ve been thinking about this question for fricken months now

You have asked me THE HARDEST THING

LIKE FOR REAL HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO PICK JUST ONE

I’M TOO SCALY FOR THIS

So in my best efforts I tried to at least break it down into a list

(in no particular order btw)

BOOKS

Saphira and Glaedr

Honestly, Saphira is probably what solidified my love for strong, scaly women.

She is hands down the best character in the Inheritance cycle overall (ESPECIALLY the first book lol, cause wow does it not hold up too well)

Glaedr is what got me on my “grumpy old mentor” kick and even if his character arc was “eh” I still enjoyed him in Eldest

(I gotta reread the whole series to see if that opinion still stands lol, but 10 year old me has a lot of grievances with that series lol)

I know there’s a lot of other dragons I liked, but it’s been so long since I’ve read any of the books they’re from I don’t feel confident in listing them lol

GAMES

Spyro the Dragon

He’s purple

He’s scaly

Need I say more?

(jk, Spyro has a special place in my heart is all)

Cynder

Honestly she has one of my favorite redemption arcs, Cynder broke my heart at the end of DotD (along with Spyro lol) and they’re honestly one of the first couples I ever really even shipped

Ignitus

Now I know that the “Legend” trilogy is the black sheep as far as the Spyro series goes but??? New Beginning was the first non-Zelda game I beat all by myself (In one sitting, without a memory card, mind you) and Ignitus just *clenches fist*

He meets all my standards

Malefor

I WOULD BE A LIAR AND A SHAM IF I DIDN’T INCLUDE A VILLAIN ON HERE OKAY

BUT I GREATLY ENJOY THIS TOOL

the “Legend” trilogy really added a lot of cool lore to the whole “purple dragon” thing and I loved that they did a “fallen hero” sort of thing with this guy.

Plus his design is just badass

Elder Dragons (LoZ)

If you guys have followed my blog AT ALL you would know about my unending love for fricken Skyward Sword

and some of my favorite people to meet in said game??? The DRAGONS

Faron, Eldin and Lanayru

The whole quest arc with collecting their songs was awesome and their designs are GUH.

Alongside that we also have

Volga

This dude is my main for Hyrule Warriors and I will not disclose how many fricken hours I put in (ON THREE DIFFERENT COPIES OF THE FRICKEN GAME) just wiping the floor with this dude.

I didn’t even own the game and friends would call me over to help out on missions, it was great

(Plus his arc punched me in the heart for the watered down thing it was due to gameplay restrictions, but STILL)

He’s a good villain and I loved the tragedy.

(Fun fact: he helped spawn my Gilded Fang project)

ANYWAY, TO AVOID LISTING FOREVER

I’ll call it here lol, I love me some dragons

#LoZ #Volga #Spyro #Cynder #Ignitus #Malefor #Legend of Spyro #Nintendo #~ask the grape #BLESS FOR THIS #EVEN IF IT TOOK FOREVER #Dragons

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dietaku · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 6: Video Games Have the Deepest Lore

I’ve been wanting to do this chapter for a while, so I hope you enjoy it! Also, Adventures of Hourai High is not only real, it’s perhaps my favorite SNES jRPG. It’s definitely worth checking out!

I stood up, dusting myself off, as I spied the quiet hamlet we tumbled into. A quaint village lay before us, with three large buildings standing before us. As I looked back at my friends, Zechs groaned.

“I landed on my keys,” he whimpered, removing his shades as he staggered to his feet. Jake loomed over him, arms crossed, as he helped Errin and Potato up.

“Zechs, about that motorbike, is that the ChromeBuster?” he asked, as Zechs nodded.

“Yup!” he beamed.

“Zechs,” Jake sighed, uncrossing his arms just to knead his brow,”WHY are you using a real cash item like the ChromeBuster?”

“B-because I liked the aesthetic. Plus, I got a special on the items, and I got the platinum gems, and...Oh crap, I shouldn't have told you that,” Zechs muttered, as Jake loomed over him.

“Zechs, did you have platinum gems, and you didn't tell us?” Jake asked pointedly.

“Um...Yes?”

“And you forced me to work for more?” I joined in, as Zechs stepped back from us.

“W-Well, I didn't want to spend my hundred thou on stuff for the guild. That was for me,” he protested, as Jake, Potato and I looked at each other, then back to him. Only Errin and Jun, patting each other down and laughing at their good fortune for surviving, didn't join in the unspoken judgment of our Breaker.

Jake then kneaded his brow once more, and said some incredibly rude things to Zechs, which naturally drew Jun's attention.

“Ms. Errin, what does it mean to F*** a goat like the dirty W*** you are, you cantankerous C***?” he asked, as Errin shook her head rapidly.

“Good boys shouldn't use those words,” she said, as he nodded gravely, understanding the temerity of Zechs' transgression. I sighed, shaking my head.

“Does this mean I don't need to 'earn' my keep now?” I asked tersely, as Jake shoot his head.

“No, this one will, though,” Jake growled, pulling Zechs up by the scuffs of his coat.

“Please, no! I wouldn't survive working with my body!” he wailed, as Jake laughed cruelly.

“Oh, don't worry, you'll earn your keep from here,” Jake pointed cruelly down to Zechs' backside as he went white with fear.

“Y-You don't mean--”

“Oh, for the love of---I mean your wallet, you dingus!” Jake corrected, as Zechs sighed with relief. I ignored the continuing banter as I looked up. Before me sprawled a large city square, hemmed in by three large objects. Before me rose a dense forest of fir trees, and bizarre reddish shrubs I couldn't put a name to. The lone path inside this dense bramble marked the spot as the meeting site of the Wardens of Nature. To its left loomed a Gothic castle, made all the more spooky by its apparent emptiness. Despite seemingly abandoned, the masonry looked in god repair, and even several of the gargoyles were patched with fresh cement. The welcome mat before the castle gate denoted it the home of the Soldiers of Virtue. To my right stood a dilapidated stone building. With crumbling walls, hoary bronze gates and two wizened lion statues guarding its doors, the sad plaque emblazoned on the gate identified the site as the meeting place of the Scholars of Wisdom..

“So, this is what the princess meant by the three Great Societies, I suppose,” I mused, as the others caught up with me,” Did you all know about this?”

Jake and Potato nodded, while Zechs shrugged, and Errin and Jun looked at each other quizzically.

“Of course I knew about Treisegen. I was honestly wondering when we were going to end up here. Potato and are both Soldiers of Virtue. What Society are you part of, Zechs? Jake asked, as Zechs coughed.

“Well, I, uh, y'know...The thing is, I'm very busy, and....I never joined any,” Zechs admitted, not looking at him.

“Well, you are today. You're gonna join the Soldiers of Virtue! Where are you headed, then, Dieter?”

I tapped my chin,” I'm not too wild on the Soldiers of Virtue or Scholars of Wisdom. I guess I'll settle for the Wardens of Nature.”

“I suppose I ought to join the Scholars of Wisdom,” Errin said, as Jun trotted behind her,” And I suppose Jun is coming with me?”

“Yes, I want to learn,” he grinned, as I chuckled, tousling his hair.

“You listen to Ms. Errin, okay?” I told him, as he excitedly nodded, trotting off as I waved.

“We'll let you get situated, and we can plan further tonight,” Jake called, as I gave him a thumbs up. Trotting off onto the path into the woods, I soon found myself in a small clearing, where a skinny bald man lounged on a tall rock before me. He was notable partially for his seat, but what really drew my attention was his striking garb; his modesty held by a furry tiger loincloth.

“Oi, you here to join up?” he asked, as I nodded.

“You know, this place is, like, serious and stuff, it's not just a place for orgies and the like,” he called, as I shot him a glare.

“What was that for?”

“Oh, nothing,” he waved off my retort,” Just most Floof Clanners who join clique up and just want to spend all their time together rather than partaking in Nature's sweet mysteries.”

I crossed my arms,” I've no interest all that. Show me what you got.”

He grinned,” That's what I like to hear. Follow me.”

Leading me through the forest along a small path, he stopped as the forest opened up around a large pool of...

“Mud?” I asked, scanning the clearing. Before me was a pit of bubbling gray emitting a pungent odor. Feeling dizzy just being around this bubbling pit, the man sighed.

“Oh, it's no good. No good, no sirree,” He grumbled.

“What's no good?”

As if to answer his question the mud rumbled, and a large beast rose out of the mud, a gigantic, squat beast with dark fur. It yawned, revealing broad, flat teeth from its grand, bulbous maw.

“A Hippopotomuds,” the man warned,” It moved into the mud beds since the last time we initiated a new member. You better rough it up to get it out of here.”

“I suppose,” I frowned, rolling up my sleeves as I strode forward. My fist swirled with the chill of air sucking away; the skill I learned in my battle with Marmalade.

“FIRST ATTACK! VACUUM FIST,” I roared, hitting the beast cleanly with my skill. I felt my skill reverberate through my foe's thick body, as it lazily looked up at me, and smacked me away with its large head.

“Ugh, I guess this means I was correct after all. Vaccum Fist really is useless after all. Take that, Jake!” I grimaced, jumping to my feet and back into the battle. “SCREAMING JETTER KICK,” I hissed, battering the muddy monster with explosive kicks. Alighting back on my feet from my tempestuous fusillade of strikes, I clenched my fist. Now, this is the end, baddy! BRUTAL SHRIKE DA--! I managed as my fist lurched back, as if hitting an invisible barrier,” BRUTAL SHRIKE DA--. BRUTAL SHRIKE DA--! WHY ISN'T THIS WORKING?” I wailed, as I looked through my vision at my Art Cells, now completely filled with arrows. In my haste, I completely forgot about the limitations of Art Cells.

“You okay?” the man called, as I snorted.

“This is nothing,” I smirked, dong my best to hide my worry. Art Cells degenerated after ten seconds, and I currently possessed nine. To do my most basic skill, Screaming Jetter Kick, required two. Making the next twenty seconds the most critical to my well-being The Hippopotomuds rose from the mud, and snorted, its glare zeroing on me, as it slowly stomped forward, shaking its large head menacingly. Leaping aside did little as its snout caught me, hurling me into a tree. Using the momentum, I jumped back into action, only to be batted aside.

“Perhaps boasting about this wasn't the best thing,” I muttered, stabbing myself in the chest with Kindly Jab. Thankful my team skills didn't require any Art Cells, I looked up at my Art Cell Line, just in time to see two open up. Grinning manically, I leaped forward with a madman, sweeping forward with my kick.

“SCREAMING. JETTER. KICK,” I keened, slamming my kick into the beast as it groaned in pain. Slowly rising, it shuffled off, as I stood victorious.

“Yeah, you better run!” I called, turning to the man,” So, what's with this mud, anyways?”

“Oh, you just need to bathe in the mud. That way you'll receive Nature's blessing upon you.”

“And this isn't anything weird?”

He laughed,” Oh, no, not weird at all!”

I sighed with relief and looked over the steaming cauldron of mud for a moment, before removing my gi and shoes as I turned back around, finding the man casually watching me.

“...What are you doing?” I asked testily.

“Just ensuring you're actually entering the mud properly. You really ought to wear as little as possible,” he opined, as I snorted. I wasn't removing my bindings and fundoshi.

“Whatever, weirdo,” I grumbled, slipping into the mud.

“My name is actually Gribbs. I'm the guide to the Wardens. Now, relax and enjoy your initiation, newbie,” he cackled, disappearing into the brush. As I settled into the mud, I sighed, enjoying the warmth on my bare skin as I sighed contentedly. Despite the odd smell, the mud felt nice and the pleasant morning sun shone pleasantly upon me. Slipping deeper into the mud, I felt more and more lightheaded, as the sunbeams danced and visions shone before my eyes. A pair of women stood over me, arguing with each other, shoving each other back and forth, one an auburn haired Floof with an impressive set of tails, while the other I recognized as Ayin He, the War Goddess. The pair shrieked at one another in a language I couldn't make out, before they disappeared as swiftly as they appeared. In their stead, I saw the auburn haired Floof woman once more, surrounded by adoring human women adorned in beautiful silk gowns. They were soon replaced by an ever increasing procession of Floof men and women, which finally ended in a man and woman who included Deegal's mother. The others disappeared, and Deegal's mother revealed a small bundle from behind her, as the two looked despondent. Eventually, the man left, leaving the woman in her own despair. However, just as she too left, a flash of sunlight hit the small bundle, and a tiny arm rose up, from its depths grasping at her. Realizing what happened, Deegal's mother scooped up the bundle crying tears of joy, and I realized what it all meant.

I was that bundle. Oh, God. Does this mean.....

Before I could continue this train of thought, new visions assaulted me; a tower in the center of a bustling nation, with happy, contented people, only to be swept aside by waves of flame and descending angels. Those who survived were branded with painful reminders of this transgression, as the Earth itself was slowly scoured. Then, ten stars alighted in the sky, and as quickly as it began, this apocalypse ended. Further visions haunted me, from a distinguished Loppo woman garbed in silver and red robes descending to a city of pagodas and fearful Pan'Tou. Then, at last, a single Loppo fell from the moon gracefully, to a grand city with a castle and a sprawling city, which I recognized as Grafzou.

“So, this is it, then. I'm just a magnet for bad luck, then. First I can't even be born correctly, and now this Loppo man from before. It seems there is no rest for me,” I thought,” Well, excpt maybe Jun. He's a good boy.”

I floated in this pleasant fugue for what seemed like hours before I blinked in the evening sun, as I felt the mud shift beside me. Rising to my full height, I gasped when I saw my neighbor. Beside me sat Dennis, grinning at me sleepily.

“Why do you always show up whenever I pass out?” I demanded, as Dennis tapped her cheek thoughtfully.

“I dunno! Why do you keep passing out around me?” she asked, nonchalantly.

I snorted,” Whatever, what do you want, anyways?”

“How rude! I'm a Warden of Nature, too! I just saw you in the pool of initiation, and I thought I'd join you,” she smiled, flashing a ring on her finger.

“What's with that ring?”

“Oh, this?” she smiled,” This is the Eternal Communion Ring you gave me, to symbolize our union.”

“Our what?” I asked.

“Our Union. When you were celebrating your adulthood with Pai Zuri, you and I enjoyed some time together, and it was then you told me,” I'm sorry you've been alone. You're really pretty when you smile, I'll be there with you. Forever.” You then gave me this ring as a symbol of this promise. I decided to let you have some time to yourself. I'm a kind wife, you see,” she smiled, as I blanched,” Oh, do you want to be the wife, then?”

“I...No,” I sighed. I didn't recall anything about that night, save my attempts to sing Qwest. I know, I know, it was cliche choice, but if I didn't sing “Don't Stop Doubting” badly, then who would? Still, this just raised more questions than it answered, and my concern must;ve showed on my face, as worry crossed over her face, as she fidgeted with her hands hurriedly.

“So...Are you denying it?” she ventured, as I shook my head slowly.

“No. I won't take back that if I did tell you that. Do whatever you want. I-I just don't remember, is all,” I mumbled. If I did tell her that, then who was I to back out now? That was the way my arents taught me, so I'd stick to my word, even if I regretted whatever drunken promises I made. Donning my clothes as I climbed out of the pool, they quickly slipped off my skin,” W-what the hell?”

Dennis giggled, pointing at my shoulder, now covered in a faint green swirling tattoo. Sure enough such flourishes covered my body as I looked myself over.

“Those are Nature Seals, the mark of initiation into the Wardens of Nature. To have those upon your body counts as clothing. You can only be garbed with very special and specific clothing,” she replied, as my heart sank.

“And how do I remove these, then?”

“You have to be fully initiated into the Wardens of Nature. Then they'll disappear.”

“Oh,” I sighed. Looking over my gear, I found only one armor was compatible with the Nature Seals: Aharel's Maidservant String. I groaned inwardly as I donned the slinky garment, Looking myself over, It seemed everything was in order, even if I suspected I was barely R-rated. Dennis looked me over with a small smirk, before tossing her blue cloak over herself.

“h, it's easy for you. You have a cloak,” I growled, as she tossed it off.

“What does it matter? We're here in the Wardens of Nature. No one will arrest us, and it's not like I'll catch cold. I'm an Ishtar Theurge. Why bother with the judgment of others? You're strong and beautiful, so take comfort in that,” she shrugged.

“D-do you really mean that?” I whispered.

“Of course! You and I are linked now. I would never lie to you,” she smiled, as I paused, thinking on her words.

“She's right. We're only with other Wardens here. Besides, what does it matter what others think? I'm the strongest among my party, anyways! I should enjoy this new freedom!” I thought. My epiphany must've shown on my face as Dennis brightened as well.

“C'mon, I want to see more of this place,” I motioned for her, rushing off into the woods. She and I ran through the woods, coming across numerous other Wardens as they contemplated Nature, planted trees or enjoyed the sun through the boughs of the trees. After frolicking, we finally sat down on a grassy hill and listened to Gribbs speak to several other Wardens below us.

“Nature itself has no morals, merely accepting what is. It is for this reason alone that we must preserve it. Humanity has its morals and values, and that is fine, but the only moral Nature teaches us is Life is sacred and must be preserved. This of course means other lives must end, but that is the beauty of Nature, to see that those with Will, Luck and Strength live. So, Life and the pursuit of its continuation is the one Virtue we espouse. All others are your own personal goals, and will be accepted as Nature accepts all, but do not confuse your own values with that of Nature's Will,” he warned, droning on and on about such philosophical points. As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, I left the woods alongside Dennis, as I found the others camping around a small fire.

“Oh, wow, Dieter. I didn't know it was my birthday,” Zechs called, looking up as I paused, unsure what he meant. Dennis giggled, and as his meaning dawned on me, I growled back at him loudly.

“Momma, why are you dressed like you're gong to the beach?” Jun asked, as I knelt down and tousled his hair.

“I had to do some things today near some mud pits. I didn't want to get my clothes dirty, I explained, as I scowled.

“I wanna t'go to the beach, too,” he grumbled.

I patted him on the head,” When we're done here, we can go to the beach.”

“You promise?”

I beamed,” I promise!”

“Oooooh, who is this?” Dennis asked, sidling up beside me.

“I'm Jun. I'm a Rancher. Who are you?” He asked bluntly.

“She's a friend of mine, Jun. I want you to be her friend, too, okay?”

He nodded, rummaging through his pocket, before revealing a glass rose he handed to Dennis.

“A Porcelain Rose! You can only find those in the Subterranean Depths! Thank you, you're quire the gentleman,” she patted him on the head as he chuckled proudly.

“Once again, the little kid gets all the attention,” Zechs grumbled.

“Well, then, what did you learn from your time with the Soldiers of Virtue?” I asked.

Zechs shrugged,” Not much. I was taken to their inner sanctum and told about their history. Then I saw the mausoleum of their four founders, and saw their mummies. You'd never guess it, but they were these weird Qwibon-man things. And they all had extremely radical names, too, like Thomas, George, John and Benjamin.”

“Things were different back during the Green Age, Zechs. Lots of things were different,” Jake stated sagaciously, as Errin looked up from her soup, clearly impressed.

“Oh? That's very impressive that you know all that,” she called, as Jake shrugged.

“I just know that since I read all the fluff text for items and quests. Unlike these two,” he scowled, pointing at Zechs and myself.

“Hey! I have things I gotta do! I don't care what dead guy decided to mix mushrooms and Healing Herbs together to make potions,” I countered, as Jake shook his head.

“Then what have you learned?” he asked.

I paused, choosing my words as I spoke,” I...I realized we may not be in a game. This may be entirely real.”

“Bullshit,” Jake spat,” Entirely bullshit. How can this be real? This isn't the real world, and all this magic, these gods and demons? How can any of this be real?”

“Yes,I know! It's crazy, but, Jake, listen! I've seen things. I've met Deegal's mother, and I honestly think this may be a real world all its own. There's too many little things that tell me this! The trash on the street, the way people talk to us, the fact that they have bathrooms! Do you even REMEMBER a game that has bathrooms coded in?”

“Adventures of Hourai High has bathrooms,” Zechs pointed out.

“I....Yeah, you're right. Still! I think this is bigger than we initially thoguth,” I said, as Jake arched a brow.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I dunno. I guess revisit Princess Catalina. She's the reason we headed this way ourselves,” I muttered, as Errin nodded.

“I'm beginning to feel the same way as Dieter. I noticed in my time here I've begun to recall things I would never -could never- know. Yet, I do. What does this all mean? I searched for answers during my time with the Scholars of Wisdom, but alas, nothing has come up,” she sighed,” In any case, I need to get up early, so I'll be turning in soon. Good Night.”

With that, Errin waved, and began unrolling her bedroll, as Jake nodded,” She raises a good point. I'll see you all tomorrow.”

With that, Jake, Zechs and the others wandered off to their own corners of the small clearing, collapsing asleep in their bedrolls, as Potato and I sat alone around the embers of the fire.

“So...You gonna explain to me why Jake things you're a guy?” I asked finally.

Potato looked up, removing her large top hat,“You're a guy. You wouldn't understand.”

“Oh? Go ahead, try me.”

Potato coughed, her voice becoming a fluty tone,”When I met Jake, he was a weakling who had no sense of the game or its mechanics. In spite of this, he tried his very best and never gave up, even when death looked him square in the eye. Because of this, He....He...I wanted to help him. I made a new character and everything, and even crafted this new persona as 'One of the guys' to help him, all because I loved seeing him sparkle so, growing and learning. All this for m, this is nothing. I love numbers and I love games. I'm a programmer in real life. I make websites and the like. Figuring out the underlying logic of Slidelands was simple. However, Jake didn't see it like that. He saw it as a world, and that's why I want to help him...”

“Because you want it to actually be a real world, don't you?”

Potato covered her face as her cheeks grew a deep crimson,” Y-yes, but there's other reasons.”

“O-oh. Oh God,” I snickered,” You-you actually like him, don't you?”

“See!” she squeaked, covering her face,” You don't understand! I told you!”

“Now, now,” I patted her on the back,” It's cool. I getcha.”

“Why are you so buddy-buddy with me, anyways, then? You trying to seduce him, too?” she whispered.

I snorted,” No. Absolutely not. Jake is a friend, and that's where that ends. However, you seem nice enough, and hey, it's cool you opened up to me like you did. If you need a wingma—erm, wingwoman, then I'll help you out!”

Potato wiped her eyes,”Thank you. I appreciate that. I guess I ought to have known a DPS like you would get it.”

“I—Huh?” I asked, as Potato giggled, waving as she too wandered off to bed. I sighed, tossing out my bedroll, as both Jun and Dennis sidled beside me. I fell asleep sandwiched between two squirming Floofs as I swiftly fell asleep.

I spent the next few days learning the ways of the Wardens of Nature, meditating in the woods, picking berries and listening to Gribbs' rambling diatribes about the aspects of Nature and the underlying sense of it all. No new epiphanies came to me during this time, but after performing a an afternoon of yoga, Gribbs approached me.

“You've done well, but now is the time for you to prove yourself. You must face the guardian of the forest, Humbaba.”

“He doesn't sound so tough. I'll take care of this,” I smirked, as Dennis trotted beside me.

“I'm not so sure, Deegal! Humbaba is a Divine Beast, tasked by Aleph Lamed to terrorize Humanity since antiquity! He won't be so easily cowed!” she pleaded.

“What do you suggest, then?” I arched my brow. What strange advice would she offer me? She rummaged in her cloak before producing a small pouch, offering it to me,” This is a small charm I made. It will boost your Luck.”

I took the amulet, not wishing to tell her my Luck was among my higher attributes,” Thank you. I'll wear it for you.”

I tied the amulet to my waist straps and trotted along behind Gribbs as Dennis waved me off We traveled together for an indeterminate time, as the Sun hid behind the boughs above us, with just flecks of light falling through the rare spaces in that dense armor from the sky. We walked along, till reaching a clearing, where Gribbs stepped aside. I blinked in the bright light, as I stepped back in fright. Before me sat a gigantic man-thing. He possessed the body and limbs of a human, but he was easily as tall as a two story house, and his head was that of a glowering lion, mane and all. Immediately spotting me as I jumped back, his attention turned to the pair of us as he shifted to face us.

“Gribbs, who is this you bring to me? Another play-thing to torture?”

“Master Humbaba, this is the latest supplicant to our order. I merely ask that you test her, to see if she is worthy of our order's inner secrets,” Gribbs asked, as Humbaba laughed. Standing, he loomed over even the treeline, as he looked down as me, his breath now hot and smoky.

“Small child, you stand before me a supplicant, then? Yet you also are a demigod, one of Hu Shian's despicable children. I will enjoy this,” he sneered, as he roared, a flash of flame and roaring steam spewing towards me. Leaping out of the way, I danced from Tree to tree as his offensive continued, sweeping his arm along, smashing over the trees. I hopped above his trundling barricade of flesh, running along its length until delivering a hearty Vacuum Fist to his cheek.

“GOTCHA!” I cheered, as Humbaba groaned in pain, before snatching me out of the air. Squeezing me in one hand, he gloated with a rumbling chuckle as his grip about me tightened.

“Little demigod, even with the divinity your bloodline gives you, you are nothing compared to me! I was granted seven terrors to array myself against you and all the other humans! Just skitter off to the rest of your disgusting race!”

“N-no,” I wheezed, as I felt my muscles and bones squeezed, bones cracking, muscles screaming out in pain. In this moment, my mind blanked, and I Bit his finger harshly. He howled in pain, loosening his grip as I let the flaring call of World Ogre's Mask overtake me.

“I dunno where you get off just mocking me like that, but I won't stand it,” I hissed, as I felt the pain of Alluring Tail Whirlwind. I stepped towards the giant with but one thought running through my mind; to destroy this monster utterly. He paused, stepping back himself as he flexed his fingers towards me.

“An impressive display, but your disgusting magic means nothing to me! Die in your own mind,” he cried, as a flash of flame covered me. Ignoring this torrent of heat, my temper flared. Lunging forward with several of my tails, I felt my power surge ever higher as “World Ogre Cleaver” flashed on my action menu. Whatever magic he employed cracked before him as spectral blades materialized about my tails, as he stepped back once more.

“What. Is. THIS? Destruction of Magic? Only a god could achieve such a feat! I-Lady Ayin,” he gasped, as I screwed up my face, my tails firing forward, slashing him with cruel slashes. He collapsed to his knees before me.

“Lady Ayin, I apologize. I didn't realize you were reborn. Please forgive this impudent slave,” he grovelled. I blinked, and my Rage dissipated like the fog on a sunny day. I scanned my menu and found my health barely at half.

“But World Ogre Mask only triggers if I'm at critical levels? What happened?” I thought, before realizing Humbaba still lay prostrate before me,” Ah, well, you are forgiven. Now, do I pass your test?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. You pass, of course,” Humbaba rose,” Gribbs give this one the lessons. I must return to the Cedar Forests. If Lady Ayin has returned, then her temple must be rebuilt.”

“Oh. Very well, then,” I called, turning to Gribbs as he looked at me with both awe and surprise.

“Very well, then, come along,” he motioned, as I trotted along behind him.

“Do you know why we gave you the Nature Seals when you first joined us?” he asked.

“No, what was that all about?”

“We bury our initiates in mud as their first task as symbolic of how, much a like a seed, they are beginning their journeys towards understanding. Then, we expose you all to the flames and danger of Humbaba in order to force you to grow. All those who cannot make it, well...” Gribbs looks away..

“You had them killed?”

Gribbs sighed,” Nature can be cruel, but fair. We like to think we're adopting her methods. With that, though.” He whispered a series of hushed syllables, and the tattoos along my body vanished.

“You don't mean,” I cried.

“Yes, you are free to wear clothes again, as a full Warden of Nature,” Gribbs declared, nodding, as I cheered. Donning my old gi, I spun about triumphantly, rushing towards the exit as Dennis perked up at my arrival.

“Oh! You made it! I mean, I knew you would, but....Well,” She mumbled, as I laughed.

“It wasn't anything,” I guffawed, putting Humbaba's strange surrender out of mind,” Now, c'mon, let's get the others.”

As we returned to the forum, we found ourselves alone, save for other Player Characters milling about. Meditating as a way to pass the time and raise my Holiness Skill, which raises my Spirit, I soon fell asleep, as a presence loomed over me, before I blinked awake, finding Jake and Zechs standing over me.

“I didn't figure you'd be goofing off so early in the day,”Jake mused, as I leaped to my feet.

“I was training! Meditating to raise my Spirit!” I countered.

“Yeah, sure. You drooling on yourself while meditating is a thing, too, right?” Zechs observed, as I shot him a glare.

“What do you guys want, anyways?” I asked, wiping my mouth.

“We just got Zechs initiated into the Soldiers of Virtue. If you want to continue elsewhere, then we can,” Jake explained.

“I was initiated early this morning. It's just the Grandmaster who had to go on and on with the prayers, benedictions, and rites for hours and hours on end aft—OWOWOWOW! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?” Zechs complained, as Jake slapped him upside the head with an armored hand.

“Those 'prayers and benedictions' were to extol you to further glory! Something you should've took to heart,” Jake growled. Before Zechs could reply, Jun bounded over him, crashing him to the floor as he rushed to my side, proudly presenting me with a diploma.

“Look! Look! I'm official now! I'm a smart!” he beamed, as I looked over the paper.

“This certifies Jun as a proper and rightful Scholar of Wisdom, fully certified to explore and plum the depths of all mysteries of this world and others. Wow, congratulations,” I patted him on the head, as Errin chuckled, walking up beside us.

“Indeed, despite his lack of schooling, his sense of logic and deductive reasoning are exemplary. Now, we're both licensed as Scholars What do we do now?” Errin asked.

“We need to get back to Grafzou. I need to talk to Princess Catalina and see for myself if my theory is correct,” I said.

“Oh?” Jake asked.

“Yes. I need to find out for myself if this really is a game or not,” I said.

Jake snorted,” There's no need. This is obviously a game.”

“But if you want to get from here back to Grafzou, then I recommend going along the Air Line bridge,” Potato interrupted, hopping down from a nearby tree,” It won't remove the need to travel along the Veeya Stream entirely, but it will cut off a good portion of the way, making it quicker. There's something else I remember is important, but....I can't recall what, though.”

“Well, then that settles it. Let's take this Air Line Bridge,” I declared as the others followed along,” One thing, though, where is it?”

Potato coughed politely, and took the lead, leading us off from the courtyard through a path to the east, crossing over a forested trail that weaved its way through the rocks and crags of the uneven terrain, painted with the falling leaves of the nearby trees. We traveled silently in this way for some times, as we came along a long narrow bridge made of woven metallic ropes seemingly pulled straight up from the ground itself. Walking along the platform of the bridge hesitantly as it vaulted at a steep grade up, I found, despite its narrow construction, it was of solid construction, and I soon forgot my dears, enjoying the view, all until the clouds about us parted and I spotted a lone figure before us.

“Oh. Now, I remember, “ Potato breathed.

“What? What is it?” I demanded.

Potato raised her trumpet,” This is the thing I was worried about.”

“What?”

“Ricky Raccoon,” she hissed.

“WHAT?” I demanded flatly as the figure approaching us came into focus. A roughly humanoid figure trotted forward, dressed in leather pantaloons and flamboyant red vests, covered in dark grey fur with a raccoon head, about as tall as Jun.

“Oh! Oh! OOOH! A bevy of beauties approaches me on my bridge! Well, I must've been a good boy in my last life! Oh, wait, I wasn't!” he cackled, as Jake sighed.

“What's your deal, little man?”

“I'm Ricky Raccoon, a Divine Beast formed by dear Lady Bet Mem! This bridge is my charge and I must charge those how travel along it! Now, if you want to, then I'll take one of your ladies, if you please,” he grinned maniacally, as I snorted.

“No chance,” I growled, as I rushed forward. As I shot ahead, I swung at his face. However, as my fist brushed his fur, he melted out of my sight, as I felt someone patting my backside.

“Mm, excellent, excellent. I prefer Loppo girls, but no one can deny the classics,” he chortled, as I spun about, slapping his hand as he wove out of sight again, dancing on the railing.

“NO ONE CAN HIT ME! NO ONE CAN HIT ME! NO ONE! WHOA-” he mocked, as Jake swung his hammer wildly at the weaving trickster,” You almost had me!”

“You slippery eel!” Jake roared, prompting only further laughter from Ricky Raccoon.

“Jake, keep calm! He's using an auto-evade skill, we can't just charge in blindly,” Potato called, as Jake fumed so badly, steam rose from his breathing slits.

“ABSOLUTE BATTLEFIELD MURDEROUS INTENT!” He roared, as a wash of killing intent flooded the air like a tsunami of solidified bad feeling, sending shivers down my spin, as Ricky Raccoon Leaped into the air.

“YOU! You did it! You did it! But, you have to know!, YOU CAAAAAAAN'T STOP THE RICKY!” He sang in a calliopean tenor. I grabbed my ears instinctively as the blast of the singing sent me flying backwards off the bridge. Hanging on the railing desperately, his pitch rose to an atonal wail, as I winced, grabbing my ears without thinking, and realized my mistake as I fell. Whistling through the air, I blacked out, presumably falling to my doom.

I awoke with Jun and Dennis hovering over me, as the pair sighed.

“Did we lose?” I croaked, as Dennis nodded slowly.

“We all got tossed off the bridge by that monster's bad singing,” she sighed, as I rose. I found we were in a simply furnished inn room, as Jun and Dennis rushed to my side.

“We're in the village of Feite right now, a small hamlet parallel to the Air Line. According to the locals we can get back on the Air Line if we cross northwest, but...As we are, there's no much we can do,” Dennis sighed.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I have no way to attack an auto-evading foe, and it seems like you don't, either,” Dennis frowned, as I nodded. I had no clue that such a benefit was even possible.

“Can you do anything about it, Jun?” I asked, as he shook his head.

“Rancher is a utility class. I can buff you all, but attacking isn't much I can do. Especially with that much Air energy around. Most of my attack Skills are Earth-based,” he said,” Sorry.”

“Potato, Jake, Errin and Zechs, seem to have a plan, though,” Dennis offered, as we found our fiends around a table on the first level, with Zechs lifting a bizarre sword. Its hilt was nothing special, but its blade was that of a meter stick.

“Now, Zechs, be careful, this weapon is incredibly dangerous,” Jake warned,” It will apply Sure Hit to all your skills, so if you use Area of Effect attacks, you WILL hit everyone within the area.”

“No need to worry, all my best skills are single target. Now, time to test this guy out! What is this sword's name, anyways?” Zechs asked, testing its balance.

“The Absolute Metric--”

“No matter. I'll call it the Frank Glabzarios,” Zechs interrupted, as Jake pursed his lips.

“Why did you ask if you were just gonna ignore me?” Jake demanded, as Zechs raised his sword, as the jar of cookies on the far shelf shot into his hands.

“OH BOY!” Zechs grinned, as he turned to me,” Oh, Dieter!”

“Hi--” I managed, as Zechs appeared before me, massaging my chest roughly, before warping back to his seat,” W-WHAT WAS THAT?”

“Nice, really nice,” Zechs grinned, as Jun nearly fell over out of shock.

“WHAT THE HELL, ZECHS?” Jake roared, as Errin shook her head, chuckling.

“I'm not sure what you expected, Jake,” Potato offered, sipping her tea.

“ZECHS, H-HE JUST MOVED THE WAY RICKY DID,” I squeaked, as Potato shook her head.

“Zechs didn't move. You did. This weapon, the Frank Glabzarios, applies Sure Hit, so if something is targeted, it will be hit by the user,” she explained.

“It's the Absolute Metric,” Jake sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I will be sure to use this weapon for great morality, just like the Grandmaster told me!” Zechs cried

“He said to use your power to protect others, not...grope people. Goddammit, Zechs,” Jake sighed, as Zechs teleported out of his seat and to the door.

“I'll be off training. See you all later!” Zechs called.

“We better follow him. Who knows what he's going to do with that much power,” Jake sighed, as Errin and Potato followed him out the door.

“Are you hurt? Do you need anything?” Dennis cooed, as I waved her off.

“I don't need anything. Just...I need warning from stupid stuff like that,” I sighed, as I followed the others outside.

The next few hours saw Zechs abusing space and time, as he warped about the small hamlet. Jun remained spooked as Zechs zipped about him. I secretly suspected he was doing it on purpose, but I didn't voice my opinions. Eventually, Zechs tired of his tomfoolery.

“Okay, okay, I think I got a hand for the Frank Glabzarios-”

“Absolute Metric,” Called Jake.

“Whatever. LET'S GO!” He cried, as we followed behind. Soon we fond ourselves back onto the Air Line, and before long, back against Ricky.

“You're back. Will you give me my toll?” he leered, as Zechs laughed.

“Hardly, you mutt! I'm gonna flay you alive so we don't have to listen to your singing! Seriously, it was like listening to a drowning cat on a blackboard!” he taunted, as Ricky paused. A bloody aura enveloped him, as Zechs reached for the Frank Glabzarios' hilt, as a cracking sound rang out and he winced.

“Zechs, what was that?” Jake asked.

“Promise to not get mad?” He asked.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“THE FRANK GLABZARIOS BROKE, OKAY?” Zechs cried.

“YOU IDIOT! That was our one shot at beating this guy It took me three hours to make that sword!” Jake roared, wringing Zechs by the neck, as Ricky leaped forward, lunging and removing their heads with a clean sweep of his paw.

“YOU INSULTED MY SINGING! YOU'LL WATER MY BRIDGE WITH YOUR BLOOD!” He screamed, as I scampered backwards, falling over my feet as Errin, Dennis and Jun all fell prey to Ricky's attack, before he slowly turned to me.

“Now, where were we? Oh! Oh! Oh! What do you think of my sing--” he managed as a boom roared out across the bridge as he collapsed to the floor with a smoking hole through his torso.

Out of the fog a new figure stepped forward. Dressed in a red leather coat, fashionable red trousers, and high boots, with a broad stetson perched on her head. This Loppo lass looked over her handiwork with a satisfied smile.

“You can 'bang' that!” she chuckled in a cutesy voice, as she coughed roughly, blood dripping from her lips,” Oh, god. That was harder than I thought.” I stared, partially out of shock, but also at my savior's name.

FluffyStar

[Neutron Drifter]

Level 12,345.69

#Adventure #fantasy #fiction #mmorpg #Photon Breaker Zechs

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gwinnetts-archive · 6 years ago

Note

💢 ✍ 💭 🔥 (For both Dean and Elle)

mun talks about muse ;; accepting | @stubbcrnwcman

Something about the muse that annoys you?

> elle

i specifically chose to make elle stutter-prone because... frankly, there just... aren’t... enough characters who are. i get it — creators need their characters to be easily understood, but i’m stutter-prone, and everyone talking so smoothly in media ... kinda messes with me sometimes...

anyway. this is under the ‘annoys me’ question because, even though i chose that quirk for a very specific and personal reason... sometimes i’m annoyed writing it, because i have to sit here and be like, “is she still understandable? does this make sense? am i being clear enough about my meaning?” etc. so... the reason why it annoys me... is that it stresses me out sometimes... gg i played myself

> dean

dean, do you HAVE to use a heavy but different emphasis on every other word? dean, i only have italics at my disposal, since you aren’t the all caps type 99% of the time. i don’t want to pick up using tumblr formatting just to communicate all your fucking emphases. i’m going to strangle you with my bare hands

Favorite thing about writing the muse?

> elle

less writing and more like, an effect of writing — i Love seeing people’s characters react to elle in a way that, like... validates the role i try to write her in. there are certain things she’s supposed to be good at, some effects i try to aim her towards — and every time i see the internal or external dialogues of her CR that reflect these things, i’m like. “i’m writing her right”

with OCs, you don’t have a canon to reference / check back against to make sure you’re IC and writing them correctly. this is the best i get with elle, but honestly, it feels even better than that, because it’s much, much more difficult to write a character who is, say, supposed to inspire people to believe they are capable of change, or supposed to evoke certain symbolism, without just shoving this down the “audience” (the thread partners and those who are reading along)

> dean

any time i really #Nail writing his dialogue. /clenches fist

Favorite memory of the muse?

> elle

another shoutout to rafe because it’s gonna be rough topping the character development that built up during our long running doctor who audio series crossover verse. this isn’t a very specific answer, but it’s hard to narrow down a specific moment out of that and my memory sucks to boot

> dean

i havent gotten a chance to break him out of his box very often, but i really enjoyed the ghoul questions from his old blog. writing his answers was a lot of fun, but having multiple ghoul muses on my dash also doing those questions at the same time... it was a Good Feeling

Unpopular opinion about your muse?

> elle

elle might be a malleable protag, but she’s still an oc, so i’m always a bit ??? about questions like this for any of my protags

as for the courier six role in general... i, uh. well...

okay, let’s go with this one: i’m personally not terribly fond of female couriers who go the legion route and then don’t get fucked over by it, one way or another. likewise, i’m not really fond of... “queen / princess of the legion” + someone else filling caesar’s seat. that’s just... that’s just not how the legion works. the legion was always doomed to fail because of the way caesar set it up. if caesar dies from his cancer, the legion is going to fall about sooner rather than later — but it’s still not gonna last past his death

and it doesn’t matter if the courier is related to caesar (like being his daughter), because the legion’s culture is specifically set up so that there aren’t dynasties or family rivalries. and it doesn’t matter if the courier is married to caesar, because women have no power in the legion and never will. they can’t even fight in the arena. like... it just doesn’t work. the lore made that really clear, imo

> dean

pls stop joking about “how do his sunglasses stay on,” those jokes were old eight years ago, they’re especially old now. pls

also, i am 99% certain dean is straight. there is a small chance he’ll surprise me, but... sometimes, a character just seems straight, y’know?

one more for the road... before he was a ghoul, dean 👏 domino 👏 was 👏 black. this stopped being a discourse a long time ago, bbbuuuut, i ain’t budgin’ on this

#stubbcrnwcman #asks : ooc ;; the answers are buried in me #muse : dean domino ;; give me envy; give me malice; give me your attention #muse : elle days ;; she didn’t choose this role but she’ll play it and make it sincere #;; long post

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pagesofivy · 7 years ago

Note

Can I have some flangst with Dean please? You can do what ever you want 😄

Of course! Also, it got a little long so there’s a read more link in here and I’m not even sorry

Watching Dean flirt and canoodle with other women always makes you feel insufficient and insecure. Sure, you’ve kept your feelings for Dean a secret- from him at least, Sam’d sussed it out of you one night when you were drunk- so it’s not like you can blame him for flirting and sleeping with women who aren’t you, but it still hurts.

As she laughs loudly at something Dean says, you can’t handle it anymore and slam your bottle on the table, pushing yourself from the booth as you practically run for the door, feeling like you’re suffocating.

You don’t realize anyone’s followed you until Dean sidles up beside you and speaks. “You okay?” He asks, and even his voice is grating on your nerves all the sudden.

“I’m fine, Dean. Go back to Macy or Lacy or whatever the hell her name is. I’m going back to the hotel.” You don’t give him time to answer, just walk away, your fists clenched at your sides. Dean watches after you for a few moments before returning to the booth, Sam shooting him a concerned look, wanting to know what happened.

Dean gives the girl- Tracy, he thinks- an apologetic smile and some lame excuse, nudging her from the booth.

“Sam, (Y/N) nearly bit my head off when I went out to check on her and then literally stomped off. She didn’t tell me what was up but she said she was gonna walk back. We gotta get her.” Dean’s practically vibrating with the need to make sure you’re safe, but Sam grabs his arm and shakes his head.

“Dean, we can’t. (Y/N), she- you- You should give her a chance to cool off.” Sam trips over his words and Dean narrows his eyes at his brother.

“(Y/N) what, Sam?” Dean asks, and Sam flushes, shaking his head slowly.

“Fine. I’m not supposed to say, but she loves you, you know?” The secret’s out and Sam only feels a little guilty, but it’s about fucking time someone did something to get the two of you together.

“She does?” Dean’s eyes are wide, his face slack, his disbelief apparent, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“She does, Dean. I guess she’d had enough of seeing you flirt with other women.” Sam says with a shrug, and Dean frowns.

“Well shit.”

You spend the week avoiding Dean, which turns out a lot harder than it sounds. First, you have to spend ride back to the bunker with him in Baby, and he’s quiet almost the entire ride. Sam actually fills the quiet with talk of lore, sports, the newest movies, latest books he’s read, literally anything he can think of.

You do your best to keep the conversation with Sam going, but eventually you doze off, and the car falls into quiet. Dean keeps glancing back at you, a soft smile on his face, and Sam just smirks silently.

You wake up ten minutes away from the Bunker but don’t say a word, still sleepy, and when you arrive, you grab your bag and trudge to your room, falling back asleep almost instantly.

Dean and Sam take their time, carefully cleaning the weapons and unpacking their stuff in thoughtful silence. Sam’s making a bet with himself on when you and Dean will finally become official, Dean wondering how he can make up for all the shit he’s done before he realized you felt the same way. Those women had just been to push you from his mind, and now that he knows you love him too, he’s going to do all he can to fix things and show you how he feels.

Dean implements his plan the next morning, getting up before you to make your favorite breakfast. It’s ready just as you pad into the kitchen, and Dean smiles softly at you as he plates the food and holds it out to you.

You eye the plate suspiciously but take it, setting down and digging in. It tastes good, almost better than when you make it yourself, and you let out a quiet moan of pleasure when the taste hits your tongue.

Dean busies himself with other things around the kitchen, but he keeps you in his peripheral, grinning when you’re happy with the food.

When you’re finished, you thank him, rinse your plate, and move on, off to do other things. Like hide in your room with Netflix and a book. Far away from Dean.

But of course, halfway through your show, Dean knocks on the door and pops in, starts talking to you about your show and what you want for lunch and dinner and “Maybe we’ll go to that diner in town you like so much?” but you brush off his offer and shoo him out of your room, eventually.

The week continues much the same, Dean with breakfast, then trying to insert himself into whatever you’re doing.

Sam hasn’t said anything about potential cases, so you figure you’re on a bit of a break, which is honestly a fucking relief because you were starting to feel pretty ragged.

By the end of the week, you’re about done with Dean’s existence. Normally you’d love to spend so much time with him, but you’re supposed to be still annoyed with him and getting over your feelings, but him being around so much is not helping with either of those things.

Today when he knocks on your door, it’s because you haven’t come out for breakfast. He waits for you to let him in and jumps back a little when you pull the door open forcefully, annoyance (and a little bit of desperation) written across your face.

“What the hell do you want, Dean? Why have you been hanging around me so much this week? What do you want from me?” You cry, pleading with him for an explanation, and Dean’s cheeks flush.

“I- you- I feel like a dick, (Y/N), and I wanted to make it up to you. I’ve been blind for so fucking long, if Sam hadn’t clued me in, we’d both be even more miserable in our same old routine-” All color drains from your face and you groan, gently hitting your head against the door.

“What’d Sam tell you?” You ask quietly, eye closed, afraid to look at Dean and see his reaction to exactly what you know Sam told him. That you loved him.

“Sweetheart, I need you to look at me.” He whispers, a couple steps closer, and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter for a moment before turning and meeting his gaze.

“I love you too.” He declares, and you’re so surprised you actually take a step back, apprehensive.

“Don’t fuck with me, Dean. Not about this.” You warn lowly, and Dean puts his hands up in a “not me” kind of way.

“I wouldn’t, not about this.” He assures, and you only hesitate a moment before slowly moving to stand toe to toe with him, looking up into his green eyes.

“Prove it.” you challenge, and his hands come up, capturing your face between them as he kisses you hungrily, emotions pouring out. You respond, kissing him back with as much passion, and he gently walks you back towards your bed, not breaking the kiss until you two fall into bed, then cuddling and kissing you even more.

“I’m not letting you go now.” He murmurs between kisses and this time, you won’t argue.

I’m doing drabbles this week!

#Dean Winchester x reader #spn drabble #random drabbles #flangst #angst #fluff #meganwinchester1999 #twx asks

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crispychrissy · 7 years ago

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Oreos

Summary: When Sam crosses you, you find the perfect way to take your revenge, while making sure you get a little something extra out of it. Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester Word Count: 2602 Warnings: Objectification of cookies, really bad puns, sexuality, implied smut, language A/N: This idea came from a very late night conversation with @saxxxology after I was giggling about cookie puns. I hope you all enjoy, I know I did. Beta’d by the lovely @there-must-be-a-lock.

You stomped angrily down the empty hallway of the bunker, your fists clenched tight at your sides, your jaw set and tense. You had finally reached your limit with the Winchesters and this time, there would be Hell to pay.

At first you assumed it was Dean that had broken the sacred oath both boys promised when you moved into the bunker with them eight months ago. You figured he would be the one to break because of his impulse control issues... but then again, he was your combat trainer and should have known you could kick his ass. He wouldn’t cross you.

It wasn’t until you found a long strand of chestnut brown hair at the scene of the crime that you knew it was Sam. For a health nut, the man really had a problem with his cravings. You grabbed the evidence and marched down the hallway into the kitchen, ready to spring on the unsuspecting culprit.

Dean was the first to look up when you quickly stormed into the room. His eyes went wide at your appearance and his mouth dropped open when he saw what you were carrying in your hand.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, drawing the attention of his brother. “Dude, you didn’t…”

“Huh?” Sam looked up at his brother and looked over at you. All the color drained from his face when you dropped the open and empty bag of Oreos on the table in front of him, sending black crumbs skittering across the table.

“Why did you eat my Oreos, Sam?” you hissed. You needed an explanation, and if the next words out of his mouth were not something about a spell or needing sugar or else he would die, you were going to take revenge in any way you saw fit.

“I’m sorry,” he timidly whispered, avoiding eye contact. “I was watching Netflix and wanted something to munch on. I didn’t mean to eat them all.”

“Sam,” you sighed, “there was half a bag in here.” You pinched the bridge of your nose and closed your eyes, bracing a hand on the table. “You do realize what you’ve done, right?”

“I’ll buy you a new bag, I swear,” he put his hands up in surrender, “I’ll get like ten of them. I’ll go to the store tomorrow. I’m really sorry, Y/N.” His voice was higher pitched than normal and you could tell he was actually pretty afraid of you at that moment.

You scoffed at Sam’s pathetic attempt to make it up to you and looked over at Dean, who was trying to suppress a smile as you scolded his brother. “Dean, do you remember the oath?”

“Don’t eat Y/N’s cookies. They are there for everyone’s safety during Shark Week. They are the chum that keeps the waters of the bunker safe.” He proudly rattled off, word-for-word, the only request you had when you moved into the bunker.

“And what did your brother do?”

“Ate Y/N’s cookies.”

You smiled and looked at Sam. “And do you remember what the punishment was?”

Dean nodded and Sam’s eyes went wide. “You would torment the offender until they begged for mercy.”

You flashed Sam a devilish grin and heard him curse under his breath. “Buying me more cookies is a start, but you best believe you’re not getting off that easy. I’m PMSing and unstable.”

“You’re so fucked, dude,” Dean whispered, earning him a glare from his brother as you sauntered out of the room.

Little did either of them know, getting fucked was your end game.

You and Sam had an interesting relationship. You were best friends, but you would flirt with each other all the time. The sexual tension was layered so thick between you that even Cas commented on it. Although you were constantly affectionate with each other, it always stopped before anything became physical, and you wanted that to change.

A little over a week ago, after one too many shots of whiskey, Dean had let slip that Sam harbored a huge crush on you. He explained that Sam was hesitant to let you know about his feelings because he didn’t want to ruin things in your friendship. You laughed and brushed it off at the time, but Dean’s words stuck with you.

It made you realize that you felt the same way and were afraid to make a move, too. Sam stealing your Oreos gave you the perfect excuse to test the waters and you walked down the hallway to your room. The moment you closed the door behind you, your head was buzzing with ideas on how to make sure your friendship with him turned into something much more.

Sam made good on his promise and bought you three bags of Double Stuff Oreos the following day, delivering them to you with his head dipped in shame, his eyes darting around out of fear. He had no idea what you had planned and the power you had over him was becoming intoxicating. Over the next week, you slowly built up the tension.

At first, you stuck to cookie-themed innuendos. You would separate two halves of an Oreo and slowly lick the creme off one side while making eye contact with him. You’d make innocent comments about loving being so full with creme that you couldn’t take any more. You’d even told him that cookies are best enjoyed with jugs… of milk.

After the cookie phase, you moved on to other small things. You’d walk around in a towel after your shower for a little bit longer than necessary, making sure Sam got a nice eyeful. You’d moan and stretch in his presence, making sure your shirt rode up to expose your midriff. You’d gently brush against him when you were both in the kitchen making food, and that’s when he started to notice the special attention you were giving him, and he knew you were up to something.

He tried his hardest to avoid you once he figured it out, but since Dean was in on the torture, he would constantly push his brother to interact with you. On the sixth day of the torture, Dean told Sam that he needed a lore book from library to work on a spell, when he knew full well you had it in your room.

You were sitting on your bed waiting for Sam in a spaghetti strapped tank top and boyshort panties, the lore book sitting the stack of books next to your dresser. A timid knock on your door drew your attention from the novel you were reading and you looked up.

“Come in,” you replied.

Sam opened the door and peeked around the corner. His eyes lingered on your body for a few moments and you audibly heard him gulp. “Hey, Y/N. Do you know where the 1700’s Romanian Witch spell book is?”

You hummed in fake thought and nodded. “I think I do, let me check the stack of books I have over here.” You got up from your bed and slowly walked over to the stack of books.

The moment you bent over and began to sort through them, pretending to look for the book you already knew was at the bottom of the stack, you heard Sam let out a small groan behind you. He was getting a nice view of your ass, and there was no mistaking it was having the desired effect on him that you wanted.

You pulled the book from the bottom of the stack and stood back up. You grinned up at the absolutely wrecked facial expression he had, and you held out the book in your hand.

”Is this the right one, sir?” you purred.

He shuddered when you called him “sir” and you smirked. The walls of the motel rooms you stay in while on hunts are usually pretty thin, and you easily picked up on Sam’s preferred title in bed by the women you’d hear screaming it at all hours of the night.

Sam didn’t respond, just continued to stare at you, his mouth slightly open. You raised an eyebrow at him and that seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He cleared his throat and nodded before snatching the book from your hands and quickly leaving your room.

On the morning of the seventh day, you rolled out of bed and stretched, opting to not change out of your tank top and short shorts. Normally, you would pull on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, but this time you wanted to make sure Sam got a complete eyeful of your assets. You had already let Dean know what you were planning and he said he would stay away while you exposed Sam to what you hoped would be the final day required of his torment.

You walked down the hallway of the bunker, goosebumps cascading over your bare skin at the chill in the air. You looked down at your tight tank top and saw your hard nipples clearly poking through the thin fabric. Perfect.

You turned the corner into the kitchen to see Sam sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal, tapping away on his tablet. You smirked and strolled through the room over to the coffee pot. You popped a hip out while pouring a cup of coffee and you knew his eyes were running over your body. You turned around and watched as his gaze shot from your ass to your eyes, down to your chest, then back to your eyes. A bright red hue crept across his cheeks and you smiled.

“Mornin’, Sam. Sleep well?” You casually asked, grabbing a bowl and spoon from the drawer and sitting down across from him.

He looked at you with wide eyes, a deer caught in your headlights. Your perky, erect, and braless headlights. You could see the veins bulging in his neck from the strain of him not wanting to look at your chest. You learned forward and crossed your arms in front of you, pushing your breasts together and up, giving you even more cleavage. He looked like he was sweating now and you looked up at him through your eyelashes.

“You okay Sam?” You bit your lip and reached over for the cereal, trying to hide your smile.

Sam cleared his throat and shook his head slightly, trying to turn his attention back to his tablet. “I… uhh… yeah I’m okay. I slept well, thanks. You?”

“Very well,” you smiled as you poured milk over your cereal.

Sam was looking his tablet but staring at you out of the corner of his eye. You intentionally dribbled some milk down your chin and giggled, swiping it with your finger and sliding the milk-covered digit into your mouth. You closed your eyes and licked the milk from your finger before pulling it out with a wet pop.

You opened an eye and smiled when you saw Sam was fully staring at you now, his lips parted and his eyes almost completely dark with lust. Your torture method was proving to be very successful. You ignored his staring and continued to eat your cereal. Your cell phone buzzed and you opened the text message once you saw it was from Dean.

I can see you from the library. Holy shit, has he given up yet? You’re such a cruel chick. Poor Sammy hasn’t got a chance.

You laughed and replied back.

He hasn’t given up yet, but I still have one more trick up my sleeve. Brace yourself.

You heard a faint chortle come from the library once he read your text and you put your phone back on the table. Sam had gone back to his tablet while you were occupied with your phone, but you knew exactly how to make him cave.

You folded your arms in front of you again and pushed your breasts up, leaning forward to give him a view of your cleavage. You were practically popping out of your tank top and you could see the cracks in his resolve beginning to appear. His eyes darted to your breasts, then up to your eyes.

“Y/N…”

“Sir, please,” you mewled with a pout. “Are you an Oreo? Because I want your cream between my cookies.”

Sam’s entire body went rigid. He didn’t move, just stared at you like a lion stalking a gazelle. It took a few moments for his brain to register what you said, but when it did, he was out of his seat and on you before you had time to react. He pull you to your feet and crashed his lips to yours. He was rushed, sloppy, and nibbled on your lower lip, making you weak in the knees and gasping for breath when he pulled back.

“I give, you win. You already make me want you so bad, but that? That was pure torture.” He pressed a quick kiss to your lips again.

“The feeling is mutual, Sam,” you laughed and he tilted his head in confusion.

“What?” He stepped back from you but kept his hands resting on your hips.

“I’ve had a crush on you since I met you, Sam. If Dean hadn’t gotten drunk and spilled the beans about your feelings for me a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have done this… but honestly, I’m glad I did. Seemed like you just needed a little push to act on your feelings.”

He growled low in the back of his throat and pulled you against him, kissing you deep enough that his nose to be smashed against your cheek so hard you thought it might break. He swiped his tongue across your lips and you parted your lips and reciprocated, exploring his mouth with your tongue as well.

Before you knew what was happening, the world shifted around you and Sam had lifted you and thrown you over his shoulder like a fireman. You giggled and drummed your hands on his ass, impressed with how firm it felt through his pajama pants. You heard him shuffling through the cabinets, but from your viewpoint, you couldn’t see anything besides the bottom hem of Sam’s shirt and his legs.

You saw another set of feet walk into the kitchen and you lifted your head to see Dean’s amused face light up with a smile.

“Hi, Dean!” you cheerfully announced.

“I see Sammy caved?” Dean said with a chuckle, watching you squirm in Sam’s grasp.

“He did. We both shared our feelings and now he’s gonna go make an Oreo out of me,” you snickered and pinched Sam’s ass, making him jump a little and swat your ass in response.

“He’s what?” Dean questioned before shaking his head. “You know what? I don’t wanna know.” He turned around and walked out of the kitchen, shouting “Use protection!” over his shoulder.

Sam turned around so you were even with the counter. You looked up and smiled when you saw a brand new package of Oreos sitting there.

“Grab those, I have some ideas,” he murmured at you.

You complied and snatched the Oreos from the counter. Sam began walking down the hallway to his room, you assumed, and you lifted your head up. “Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Just so you know, I’m on the pill… so feel free to give me some cream filling.”

“Fuck,” he growled as you saw his legs start to move faster until he was practically jogging down the hallway with you bouncing on his shoulder and giggling as he went.

Who knew Oreos could be an aphrodisiac?

Tags: @katymacsupernatural @queen-of-deans-booty @your-modern-shakespeare @wh1sp3r1ng-impala @wheresthekillswitch @holyfuckloueh @just-another-busy-fangirl @growningupgeek @ididntasktogetmadedidi @trashimaginezblog @jensen-gal @spnbaby-67 @feelmyroarrrr @donnaintx @potterhead1265 @mizzezm @atc74 @mereka18 @pilaxia @supernatural-jackles @squirrel-moose-winchester @impala-dreamer @bambi95-blog @wonderfulworldofwinchester @sofreddie @batmmgray @brooke-supernatural16

#sam x reader #fluff #reader insert #oreos #really bad puns #im sorry but i laughed #embarrassed sammy #sam winchester x yn #Sam Winchester #dean winchester #implied smut #sexuality #spnfanfic #guppy fic

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thehuggamugcafe · 6 years ago

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Parental Instincts I

To be fair, Akira didn’t blame you when you told him that you didn’t buy into the whole “demonic lore bull,” as you’d so eloquently put it to him on occasion. Such occasions came only whenever you felt that he needed to be reminded that, no, you did not believe that he was sterile, and furthermore, that he was unable to naturally procreate with you.

You didn’t believe him when he told you that in order for you, his newlywed wife, to become pregnant, he’d have to shift into the form of a succubus, get a “donation” of sperm from a male, and impregnate you that way.

You refused to believe him and his claims that, yes, some demonic lore was indeed right about incubi.

It would feel wrong if it was another man’s child growing inside you. A child that wasn’t Akira’s baby kicking, moving around, and growing as it was nourished by you while it was still in your womb. In all honesty, though, you were getting desperate for a baby, and although you tried so hard to hide it…

Akira saw how your eyes, your stunning and beautiful eyes, would well up with tears whenever your friends sent you pictures to your phone. Pictures of said friend with a baby in their arms, whether it was theirs or another friend’s child, smiling, beaming with maternal joy, despite their sweaty, exhausted expressions.

Akira would watch as you’d hitch in a slow, shaky breath.

He’d watch as hot moisture trickled down your cheeks, marring your skin with tear stains.

He’d watch as you blubbered a quick, “Excuse me” while you set your phone aside, standing to your feet and making a beeline for the bathroom door. Worried, Akira would get up and immediately follow you, rounding a corner just as you entered the bathroom.

The resulting bang of the bathroom door as it was slammed shut echoed throughout the second floor of your recently bought home, followed by the sharp click as the lock was set into place.

However, there was a noise that prevailed over everything else. A noise that dominated your quick footsteps, your heavy breathing, the bathroom door banging shut and being locked as you entered it.

It was the sobs you breathed, the cries that echoed just behind the wooden barrier that separated you and your husband, Akira Kurusu.

It was worse whenever you and Akira ventured outside the house for any length of time, for any reason.

You’d get emotional watching the children screaming, giggling, as they chased and were being chased by their friends at the playground not too far from where you lived.

Your eyes would prick with tears, your watery gaze zeroing in on the happy, smiling mothers and fathers, all who watched their shrieking, rambunctious children with observant and hawkish eyes.

It wasn’t any better when you two were waiting in line at the grocery store. Your healthy complexion would lose a few shades, taking on a horrid ashen tone whenever a baby—sitting in its carrier—would look at you, baby blue eyes, delightfully round cheeks and all, and then…

The baby would smile at you.

Maybe he’d fidget, throwing his tiny little arms around, clenching and unclenching his small, fat fists.

Maybe she’d voice a coo, followed by a giggle. Maybe her baby blue gaze would shine with joy.

Once the groceries were scanned and paid for, once you and Akira returned home, and put them away…

It would take him half an hour, sometimes an hour, to calm you down.

Your eyes would well up with fresh tears, your face would take on that shade of cherry red that he usually loved seeing on you, but whenever your face grew flushed as your eyes leaked tears, as you latched on to your husband... You’d cling to Akira like he was a life raft, and you were stranded in the midst of a cold, raging ocean that could very well drown you if help didn’t reach you in the nick of time.

“Darling... I can’t give you one, no matter how much you want one. No matter how much I want to give you one.”

You were sick and tired of seeing your friends’ pictures.

You were sick and tired of your friends looking so damn happy, holding a newborn baby in their arms.

You were happy for them, but…

“...Maybe... If you’re okay with it...”

It wasn’t the same. They’d be able to know what it was like to be pregnant, and you wouldn’t.

Your mind berated you for being so selfish, for being so undeniably jealous of your friends, and of other women. The other women who could enjoy the boons, the frustrations, the natural worries that came with being a mother, and you wouldn’t be able to enjoy neither the positives or the negatives of motherhood.

Yes, you were selfish. Yes, you were envious. Yes, you were angry.

“We could always adopt a child?”

Somewhere, deep down, a part of you, and a very small part at that, disliked Akira for not being able to impregnate you normally.

Still, despite your conflicting emotions, the larger part of you still loved Akira dearly, even if he couldn’t give you a child.

You were starting to believe him. You were starting to believe his claims that, unfortunately, some demon lore was indeed chillingly correct.

“...No, Akira.”

However…

Your mind continued to quietly chastise you, and yet your heart ached. You glanced down, staring down at your arms and the associating hands through the hot moisture that burned your eyes. Your lips quivered as you blinked, allowing fresh tears to trickle down your cheeks.

You would only accept adoption in the worst-case scenario. In the event you weren’t able to birth a child, and yet... Perhaps... Not even then. You desperately wanted a baby of your own. Whether it was a beautiful baby girl, or a bouncing baby boy, you’d be fine. You’d be more than okay with it.

“Sweetheart... I don’t like seeing you like this.”

You hated making Akira worry about you.

“Are you sure you don’t want to adopt a baby?”

You hated the thought of not seeing a baby bump developing.

“Yes, Akira, I’m sure.”

More importantly…

“...Very well.”

You hated the thought of not being able to taste happiness, like other, far more fortunate women could taste the ups and downs of motherhood.

Was it so wrong of you to want to enjoy something as simple as that?

#persona 5 #p5 #akira kurusu #incubus!akira #reader #akiraxreader #incubus!akiraxreader #request #pregnancy request #selenecrown request #this part is kind of angsty #part 2 will be served ASAP

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reynewcw-blog · 7 years ago

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>> One has red hair. The other has blonde, both vaguely smelling of frat boy but also smoke. Not the tobacco kind either the…fire and brimstone kind. Make sense? >> Sure. >> Don’t patronize me. You want the info or not? >> ? I said sure. Keep going. >> Anyway. Both have a vaguely Montana accent. Nasal Midwesterners. One mentioned they needed to get back to their shift at…Marla’s? Mario’s? Some bar downtown. Other than that, they’re both tall, kinda lanky… >> Got it. That’s all I need. Thanks. >> You can tip me a little extra next time you see me.

Zhen rolled his eyes as he tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. He had his car parked outside of a bar and was looking through the smudged windows inside. He could see a man with hair so red it reminded him of the Little Mermaid. Could have been dye. Or it could have been a façade shoddily created to form a human shell that could be flashy and appealing to the average human being. His eyes drifted from that garish spot to the corner of the street where a tall blonde with hair as bright as the sun was talking to two women with a sharp smile on his face.

One worked inside, the other worked outside. A decent operation of the bait and switch. If they could get at least two women they’d be fed for a while. If they could get more and use their appeal to set off the idea of a threesome for both then that’d be four humans to feed from. A feast for a quiet Saturday night. Checking his passenger seat, he reached into his bag and looked through what he had. Holy water, crucifixes, some old ass but blessed amulet, rosary beads…and ah, there. The wrap around case of knives he kept, all of them coated in a special holy water mix that would slip through a demon’s façade like a hot knife through butter. Complete with sizzling sound effects.

Zhen pulled on his leather gloves and zipped up his jacket. He grabbed from the selection of knives and dagger he kept with himself and shoved the holy items into his pocket. He got out from the car, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up to his ears as he walked forward.

As he passed the blonde he could hear the purr of his voice, “It’s a pretty cool apartment. I’ve got a hot tub on the patio. Some wine set aside for two ladies as lovely as yourselves.” Zhen swore he could almost feel the sticky, sickening miasma that surrounded the demon in a man’s meat suit.

One of the girls giggled and swayed further into the demon’s embrace, sighing, “I would love to.” Zhen had to give the other girl credit for stepping back, clearly confused as she warred with herself to not follow the stranger home. But with one touch to her arm she melted.

Zhen stopped in his tracks, and turned, “Hey,” his voice cut through the beat of silence that passed as the resisting girl stumbled forward. The blonde turned and eyed Zhen, frowning. “…Do you got the time,” Zhen asked, taking this chance to walk towards him.

The blonde rolled his eyes, but he got out his phone and checked. Right when the screen flashed that it was 9:21 in the evening, Zhen moved. The jostling of beads was soon met with the sudden sizzle of flesh. The blonde screamed, eyes going wide and mouth yawning open, cracking along the edges of his lips as the poorly made flesh melted around the rosary. Both women jerked, as if someone had snapped the wire between them and the demon long enough to realize what was happening. Zhen drew up the bandana around his neck to cover his nose. The scent of burnt flesh had never been his favorite.

When the blonde, or incubus now that Zhen knew for sure, attacked he was quick to follow up. He blocked the swinging clawed hand with his forearm, pushed up, then turned around his back sharply to jerk the long arm around and pressed it against his lower back. Behind, Zhen leaned in and whispered into the demon’s ear, “If you would have just stayed in hell you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.”

The demon snarled while the women turned and ran. His meal had left. Zhen felt a delicious, vindictive victory as he kicked out to take out the demon’s knees from behind. He then jerked his arm around a neck that was turning black, so he could drag him back into a shadowed alley. It gave Zhen the cover he needed to ease out his knife and stab it right into the demon’s back. As it shrieked and struggled, Zhen’s mouth started to move so sharp, fluent Latin left him. He kept the demon pressed against his chest, arms locked and keeping it in place as he whispered. He was used to killing things with his bare hands and weapons, using something like holy texts or totems still took some getting used to. However, as he watched the demon start to shrivel and shriek, its wings cracking from its form just to snap back into place like a rubber band…Zhen had the thought of, ‘I’m getting better at this.’

Once all that was left in the demon’s place was a scourge of black marks and bubbling goo on the ground, Zhen thought it was time to find the next one.

The red head from the bar found him first.

The initial slam of half a two by four on the back of his head made Zhen’s vision swim. The next hit on his back had him collapsing to his knees. Before the third hit could land however, Zhen reached into his pocket with trembling hands. As blood trickled down the back of his neck he looked up and saw a sliver of pale skin between the demon’s shirt and jeans. It was all he needed.

He jerked the vial of holy water up and crushed it between his gloved palm and the demon’s flesh. The scream that escaped was ungodly and reminded Zhen of the time he had seen the Grudge as a kid and had nightmares for weeks. As he sat up on his knees, the demon started to sink onto his own. Using the glass, it opened up that form, so the holy water could sink in. As their eyes met once the red head fell to his knees, Zhen began to chant again. His voice was steady despite his own lack of balance, his eyes never wavering as word after word seemed to unfurl the human flesh from a demonic form.

Until finally the incubus was nothing more than another mark on the concrete. Zhen sat back on his knees, panting softly, eyes fluttering. He hissed as he reached back and touched over his head. Damn. That would be difficult to deal with later but for now. Mission accomplished. He could report this to the handlers and get his payment. These were the exact guys he had been sent to look for, but he had not been able to catch their trail until they had been seen at Legends lurking about. He’d have to text his thanks to Noah later. For now, he had to get home.

As he stood up and had to catch himself on a brick wall he just prayed to whoever out there was listening that the money and information he got in return for this could override the drawback of needing stitches.

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

“…That’s it?”

Across from Zhen was a woman who stared at him like he was stupid.

“What do you mean,” she asked, “We gave you ten thousand dollars to take out the threats. That was the agreed upon amount.”

As he shoved the check into his pocket, Zhen’s jaw clenched, and the muscle jumped up beneath his skin. “I’m talking about information. I was told that if I did this I would get something else. Something from the files that could me figure out Dai’s murder.” He looked at the woman’s desk and then back up to her face, “There’s nothing?”

She rolled her eyes as she looked away to her computer, “We told you what we know so far. The evidence there was chaotic. That entire apartment was in disarray. We swabbed the evidence left on the walls, the couch, the sink, and the kitchen floor. We know that whoever killed your sister was a succubus or incubus thanks to the makeup of what was left behind. We also know your sister was half drunk that evening and had claw marks on her legs, her thighs, and…other places.” She had the decency to look remorseful at that part. “We also know her phone was taken, her laptop crushed…there’s little else we can find and the hospital your sister worked at refuses to let go of the security tapes or images. Claiming some sort of privacy law.”

“Are you saying you have nothing else for me,” Zhen asked, chest tight, fists clenched on the counter.

“No,” she responded sharply, panicked more at the idea of them losing such a useful hunter rather than crushing the hopes of the man before her. “No we just. Ask that you be patient.”

Zhen stepped back from the counter, “Right. Patient.” He wanted to snap that he’d been patient for two years but…but no. He wanted to keep this gig until he tapped every resource possible.

“Thanks,” Zhen turned on his heel, eyes burning with a disappointed fury that warred between wanting to punch the shit out of someone or go home and hide in his bed until it was time to pick Bran up from school. Instead of that Zhen went to the library to pick through old books of lore and mythology until the fog in his head cleared and he had the plan in place to keep looking. He refused to limit himself to what the Handlers could do. He had gotten comfortable. Now it was time to challenge himself, to push, until he had that murderer by the hair and could rip the head from their body. Anything less was unacceptable.

#writing #zhen

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soy-em · 7 years ago

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New Wincest Fic: Realisation (1/2)

Title: Realisation

Chapter: 1/2 (I think)

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester

Rating: E/NC17 overall (this part T/PG13)

Warnings: none for this part

Summary: After Dean gets his memory back, Sam has to deal with the consequences Dean losing his inhibitions. Trouble is, he has no way of knowing whether Dean remembers anything or not.

Series: Sequel to Distraction

A03

Sam knows it makes him a bad person, but he’s actually kind of glad they haven’t seen their mom for a while. He just doesn’t know how he would look her in the eye right now. He’s struggling, and at least without Mom around he’s got one less family member to worry about.

Family.

That’s the problem.

Ever since Dean lost his memory and ...things...happened, family is one of two words that thrums through his head every minute of the day, sometimes even waking him up at night in a cold sweat. The other word is brother.

Because Dean is his family, Dean is his brother, and therefore the thoughts he’s having, the dreams, the way his mind drifts when he’s in the shower, in the minutes between waking and sleeping, it’s all so very wrong.

Sam’s pessimistic thoughts are interrupted by said brother slamming the door open as he comes into the bunker, hands full of beer and shopping. “Oy, Sammy,” he shouts. “Lend a hand.”

Dean had been out for a couple of hours, doing their monthly supply run. Apparently, despite the many magical properties of the bunker, it didn’t automatically restock on toilet paper. It had been a real learning curve for them both - neither of them had ever really had a fixed home, and their few intermittent attempts had been with women who were used to living civilian life and running regular shops. They’d learned the hard way to make sure to replace the toilet roll before it ran out, as well as having to buy laundry detergent and other cleaning supplies. Sam has never felt the weight of his life choices, his decision to be with Dean, as much as he had in the queue at their first major walmart shop as they pushed a trolley full of toilet bleach and washing up liquid.

Carrying in the shopping is the kind of mindless task that allows his brain to run riot these days. He follows Dean to and from the kitchen, and finds himself idly noting the strength of his brother’s shoulders, the way Dean’s hands capably juggle the fruit he bought for Sam, how his brother’s legs bow out as he crouches to get under the sink, they way Dean’s jean’s tighten over his ass.

It’s been happening ever since Dean lost his memory and got it back, this casual appraisal of how beautiful Dean is that both his upstairs brain and, distressingly, his downstairs brain are carrying on without his permission.

It’s like he’s become aware, in a way he hasn’t been since he was a teenager and jealous of the way girls flocked to his brother, that Dean is superlatively beautiful. He’s always known objectively, has taken advantage of it for a case many times as Dean has flirted them out of trouble or into information, but now - now that knowledge is real, and intimate.

He can’t help but remember the easy, loose way Dean had stood in front of him, all the tension gone from his body, offering himself to Sam like it was totally normal. Kissing Sam like it was totally normal. He remembers the way that muscle had felt under his hands, the warmth of Dean and his familiar, comforting smell. He remembers the way Dean had been ready and willing to be directed, to do whatever would best please Sam. Most of all, he remembers the way Dean tasted, like beer and mint and safety; the plush feel of his brothers’ lips on his; the little noises Dean had made at the back of his throat.

Sam has blocked so many things out over the years, has repressed so many memories that’s he’s happy to say he’s an expert, but none of his techniques seem to work for this. Apparently, incestuous memories are so disgusting, make him such a terrible person that even his subconscious, with its memories of hell and torture, doesn’t want them and is forcing the memories to the forefront of his conscious mind.

“Earth to Sam,” Dean says, lobbing an orange at him which hits him in the shoulder. “You alright?”

Sam has been caught staring again, that much is obvious. Hopefully it was at something more innocent than Dean’s ass (unlike last time).

“Fine,” he says, distracted.

“Uh huh,” Dean says. He looks intently at Sam, and then smirks, turning his back and wiggling his butt, just ever so slightly. So slightly that Sam would never have noticed if he hadn’t been laser-focused on it already. Dean looks back over his shoulder at Sam, almost coquettish, and says, “You coming?”

Sam sputters. There’s no more elegant way of putting it, he sputters and stares, and again, Dean smirks.

Not for the first time, Sam wonders if Dean had been telling the truth when he said he didn’t remember anything.

***

They’re in a bit of a lull, in terms of work. Ramiel is dead, Kelly Kline is in the wind, with Cas tracking her, and Sam really, really doesn’t want to know what Rowena is up to. He can’t bear the thought of having to see Rowena’s knowing smirk any time soon. He’s scoured the internet for possible cases, desperate to get out on a hunt, but for once, America’s supernatural beings seem quiet.

That leaves him and Dean puttering around the bunker, taking care of all the chores that they put off during cases. That’s another thing Sam had more or less forgotten: how much work goes into keeping a home just ticking over. He and Dean had sat down a while back and created a painstaking schedule of who was to clean which toilet when; who would drive the garbage to the nearest bins; and what chores Sam would take over in return for Dean being solely responsible for the cooking (it was in everyone’s best interests). On top of routine housework, they’re still working their way through the bunker’s extensive hoard of supernatural paraphernalia; there are whole rooms of neatly filed boxes they haven’t searched through methodically, and with Lucifer’s son potentially about to be born into the world, now seems like a good time.

Dean, of course, is not a big fan of sitting down for extensive periods to research obscure artifacts or read through old case notes from the 1940s. They’re sitting at the main table in the bunker now, surrounded by files from the early part of 1947, and Dean is getting visibly frustrated. He’s tapping his fingers, leaning backwards and then forwards incessantly and sighing loudly at intervals.

Sam is well-versed in Dean - how could he not be after living in each other’s pockets for most of their lives? He’s normally able to easily drown out his brother’s ridiculous, childish behaviour through immersing himself in lore. But now, since the spell, he’s hyper-aware of Dean’s every movement. Each time Dean leans forwards, the detail of the freckles across the bridge of his nose and his perfect, thick eyelashes come into view; when he leans back, his old band t-shirt stretches across the muscles of his chest in a way that leaves little to the imagination.

Sam has barely gotten used to this more casual version of Dean since they’ve been living in the bunker; out on the road, they both drown themselves in layers of clothing in case they have to run, or on the off-chance that something nasty gets spilled on them (they’d learnt that lesson the hard way); but here, Dean is usually just in a tshirt and soft track pants, often even barefoot. It lends him a fragility that hurts Sam’s heart a little; and creates a sense of domesticity that highlights their shared life together.

Looking at Dean now, Sam could swear that he can see his brother’s (frustratingly perky) nipples through the thin fabric. Before he can stop himself, his mind wanders off into wondering whether Dean would squirm if Sam bit them, and imagining the noises Dean would make.

He almost growls when he catches himself. On top of the instinctive repulsion at the thought of incest is the knowledge that he’s turning into one of the men he’s always hated: the men who visibly and consistently objectify his brother.

He’s been aware, since he was small, that Dean attracted attention. Girls at school would swoon, and suddenly be Sam’s best friend, when they realised who his brother was. Older women in motels would find ways to bring them food, or move them to a better room, after one of Dean’s blinding smiles. Guys at every school they went to flocked around Dean, trying to get his attention, or just hoping to hook up with the girls drawn into his orbit. Dean had loved all of that; somehow soaked up the smiles and the approval without letting it spoil him.

But Dean had hated the way men looked at him. Even at 9 or 10, Sam had been aware of the way men would hesitate by their table, looking at his brother; of the catcalls that had followed them across parking lots later at night and the way teachers at their new schools would sometimes find themselves spellbound for a few moments before pulling themselves together. More times than he could remember, Sam had seen John approach a leering man, fists clenched, before the guy very rapidly vacated the area; or had watched as John hustled Dean into the car, or walked his son into motel rooms with a protective arm around his shoulder.

As Sam had gotten older, and Dean had been left to look after them both more frequently, Sam had become aware of what the men had said to Dean and the offers they made. They’d frequently promised money, which Dean had always rejected with rude words and a shudder; but in retrospect, Sam now wonders if Dean had sometimes felt forced to accept in order to put food on the table. Every time his mind wanders down that track, the fury he feels is so strong that he can’t bear to think about it, mind skittering away.

So when Sam finds himself staring at his brother, mind caught up for endless minutes in how pretty Dean is, how goddamn sexy he finds his brother’s every move, he can’t help but think he’s objectifying his brother in the same way, perving over him in a manner that Dean would find repulsive.

With an internal groan, he buries his head back in the dusty files, swearing that he’ll ignore Dean and his perky nipples until the end of time.

***

Dean’s been more touchy-feely than usual lately. Sam doesn’t know if it’s just because things have actually been right with them for the past couple of years; or if their mother’s reappearance has made Dean a little more vulnerable; or if it’s something else altogether; but he’s noticed it a lot recently.

They’ve never had much concept of personal space, growing up crowded into the back seat of the Impala or crushed together in a single motel bed. Their arms always brush when they walk, their knees press together when they’re sitting side by side, and their elbows find each other’s ribs more than is strictly comfortable. But now, Sam finds himself with Dean’s feet in his lap in the evenings, Dean’s arm hooked around his shoulders a few times a day, Dean’s head drooping onto his shoulder late at night. He knows it’s a recent change, but he can’t put his finger on just how recent. There’s a little voice in his head saying that it’s only been happening since the spell, but he’s trying resolutely to ignore that. There’s no way that Dean remembers anything from that time, his memory was so shot; so it’s just Sam’s wishful thinking.

***

It’s late the next evening when Sam finally pushes the last file from 1948 away from him. He’s been immersed all day in a fascinating case about shifters and how they reproduce; reminding him of that case with the babies when he’d been soulless. It’s not a time he generally likes to think of; but that case had been different. His brother had loved looking after little Bobby-John and had been devastated to give the baby up. Sometimes Sam thinks that the greatest tragedy of their lives is that Dean will never get to be a father.

Unwilling to dwell any longer on that thought, he leans back, cracking his neck and stretching out cramped muscles. Raising his hands to the ceiling, he feels his shoulder pop and sighs at the advance of age on his body.

The bunker is quiet, and he wonders where Dean is. He hasn’t seen his brother for a few hours; after spending half the afternoon researching, Dean had become increasingly fidgety and finally stalked off, muttering something about the garage and testing out the cars there. He’d come back into the main room to shove a plate of food under Sam’s nose a few hours ago, but Sam has hasn’t seen him since.

Sam can feel himself getting restless now at the realisation of how long it’s been since he saw his brother; it’s been this way between them ever since he can remember, both of them feeling the aching need to check in with each other at regular intervals. Sam can ignore it, of course, he’d been able to suppress it for four years at Stanford; but he’s long since stopped wanting to.

He sets off in search of his brother, long legs carrying him through the bunker. Dean’s not in the kitchen or his room, and when Sam pokes his head into the garage there’s no sign of him there either, although his tools are still laid out next to one of the cars.

He finally works out where Dean is when he hears his brother’s off-key warbling emerging from the main shower room. Sam shouldn’t be surprised; he thinks that Dean has an unhealthy fixation with the bunker showers, and Dean absolutely does not care what Sam thinks and takes the longest showers ever anyway.

Content now that he knows Dean’s whereabouts, he’s about to head towards his own room when the bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam billows out. It’s like something from a bad eighties music video, the steam sweeping upwards and obscuring the light. Sam snorts, wondering how Dean could possible create this much steam from one shower.

He’s so busy snickering to himself that he’s not prepared for his brother to emerge from the cloud, bare skin gleaming and droplets trailing down to the towel wrapped around his waist. Dean hair is spiked up adorably, and the heavy muscles of his chest and arms are on full display.

Sam’s laughter dies in his throat along with his ability to breathe. His brain decides to go on holiday, all the useful blood that usually powers it heading rapidly south, and he actually gurgles at Dean, unable to form words.

Dean smirks. He smoothes one hand down his chest, spreading water droplets down to the dubious barrier of the towel, but his eyes lock onto Sam’s, burning with intensity.

They stand, unmoving, for a long moment.

“Like what you see, Sam?”

The words and the low, intimate tone catapult Sam back into that motel room a few weeks ago, when he’d so nearly crumbled in the face of Dean’s undeniable charm. Sam’s voice stays on vacation and he’s unable to find the words to respond, mouth opening and closing without success.

It feels like they’re trapped there forever, Dean not moving and Sam unable to. Finally, Dean sighs.

“Night, Sammy,” he says quietly, and walks down the hall. Sam can’t help watching him go, eyes drawn to the dimples of his back peeking above the towel. He’s so fucked.

***

Sam downs most of a bottle of whiskey that evening in an attempt to shut his brain down. It takes that much to stop his mind from fixating on the vision of his brother he’d seen earlier, and to keep his hand out of his pants.

He wakes up the next morning feeling like shit. He’s not used to hangovers; heavy drinking has always been Dean’s chosen method of oblivion, not his. He makes his way to the kitchen painfully, and slowly, hoping that Dean has some coffee ready for him and beyond pleased that they have no plans for today.

“Wakey wakey, Sammy,” Dean says, already dressed and looking cheerful. “Rise and shine!” He’s obnoxiously loud and he grins as he waves a coffee cup at Sam, playing a short game of ‘keep away’ before taking pity and handing the cup over. “You look like shit,” he continues.

“Fucking thanks,” is Sam’s only response, before he buries his nose over the cup, inhaling deeply.

“Aww, poor Sammy,” Dean croons. “Feeling a bit delicate, are we?”

“Fuck off.”

“Poor little brother.” Dean rubs his hand through Sam’s hair and Sam shudders, stomach roiling.

“Do that again and I’ll throw up on you,” he threatens weakly, and Dean throws his head back with laughter.

#wincest #wincest fic #wincest fanfic #sam winchester/dean winchester #regarding dean #spn s12e11 #my writing #sequel

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