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kpopfanfictrash · 4 years ago

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Raise the Barre (Ch. 10)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+ (Eventual Smut)

Genre: Enemies to Lovers / Dance Academy!AU

Warnings: the angst continues, but this time there are glimmers of progress

Word Count: 7,221

Summary: You and Park Jimin have been rivals for as long as you’ve known one another; ever since he tripped you in the front row of your first dance convention. When you graduate from high school and enter Russet Ballet Academy, you tell yourself you’re leaving all past quarrels behind. The main problem with this though, is that your past seems determined not to leave you alone.

Worse still, the obstacles you face while out in the real world might prove more challenging than anything your enemy has to offer.

For the first time all year, Jimin didn’t show up at class the next day.

You’d been dreading seeing him, unable to sleep all night as the kiss replayed itself in your mind. You’d told Jimin you needed to think and now, one day later, you still had no idea what to say.

You’d fucked up – big time.

Cheater had never been a label you would’ve applied to yourself; but here you were, scarlet letter on your chest. Yesterday seemed fuzzy whenever you remembered it, as though it had happened to you, as opposed to being something you’d done. Each time you recalled the moment, the kiss, your heart threatened to burst in your chest. You weren’t sure if this was because of Jimin or Finn.

Finn still hadn’t texted or called you since the fight. Maybe fight wasn’t the right word to describe the knock-down, blowout match you’d had in the library. You and Finn had never fought like that before. You’d had disagreements of course but had always managed to work things out. This was the first time you’d left an argument and found yourself at a loss.

Finn wanted a more available girlfriend and you wanted to dance.

Deep down, you knew this was an unsolvable problem, but the idea just seemed so unfathomable. The idea that this would be the thing to break you up. It hadn’t been a problem back in high school. Maybe Finn hadn’t always come to your dance competitions, but he’d attended recitals and brought you flowers at nearby performances. He’d always seemed to enjoy your dancing, even if he hadn’t fully understood it.

It made your heart ache to imagine that deep down, Finn thought your decisions were foolish. When you awoke Thursday morning, you saw Finn hadn’t called and nearly dialed his number, but then you looked at the clock and swore. Ballet began in an hour.

This conversation wasn’t one to do over the phone. Talking to Finn would have to wait, so you scrambled out of bed and threw on your clothes. Noelle had comforted you the best she could the night prior, but she still didn’t know the extent of what’d happened. All you’d said was you had a fight with Finn.

Saying it out loud felt like admitting defeat. Admitting what you’d done meant you’d have to see Noelle’s expression when you explained – when you told her you’d kissed Jimin while still dating Finn. You didn’t want to see her face when she learned the truth; you were having enough difficulty confronting it yourself.

Pushing this from mind, you focused on today as you entered the classroom. You would be forced to see Jimin this morning. You’d been so worried about talking to Finn, you’d nearly forgotten about the other piece of the equation.

You had kissed Jimin, and then you’d run away.

As you entered, you scanned the room and frowned when you didn’t immediately see him. Jimin usually arrived before you and Noelle. Setting your bag down, you began to warm up and continued to glance at the clock. At one minute until the hour, you began to grow nervous. If Jimin didn’t arrive in the next thirty seconds, the door to the room would shut and that would be that.

Watching the second hand tick, your stomach twisted as the unthinkable happened. Jimin didn’t show up. Ballet on Thursdays was taught by Mr. Vlad, who was notoriously punctual and at exactly 9:00 AM, he shut the door.

You had the sudden urge to check your phone for missed texts, but there was no time. Instead, you were forced to stand at the barre as you began pliés. You knew the second you started today would be a lost cause but could do nothing about it. Your relationship with Finn was in shambles, Jimin was clearly avoiding you but still, you needed to dance.

After class, you called Finn and went again to voicemail. Standing alone in your dorm room, you swallowed and tossed your phone on the bed. Fine – if he wouldn’t answer, you’d go and see him.

Stripping out of your leotard, you tossed this in the laundry to pull on new clothes. Jeans, sweater, coat – slamming a hat on your head, you shoved both hands in mittens and threw your bag over your shoulder. You were halfway out the door when you came to a stop.

You had no idea what to say to Finn.

Shutting your eyes, you slowly exhaled. You were angry, that much was true. Furious, even – his words had been biting, you were still hurting but you also still loved him, as insane as that sounded. Opening your eyes, you glanced at your trembling hands.

You hated feeling this way – weak, irrational. You hated wanting Finn, loving him and being so hurt all at the same time. Worse still, you hated the guilt clouding your judgement and lessening some of your anger. Finn had been wrong to say what he’d said, but you’d also been wrong to kiss Jimin.

For weeks now, you’d felt something for Jimin. Maybe months if you were being totally honest with yourself. Jimin had always consumed a larger amount of your waking hours than could be considered entirely normal for a supposed enemy.

Slowly, you turned and set down your keys. Removing your hat from your head, you stared at the door. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you sat at your desk and dialed Finn’s number.

It rang several times and then went to voicemail. This time, you didn’t hang up.

“Hey. It’s me.” You paused. “Finn, listen, I… we need to talk. Things have gotten so messed up lately. So… fucked up, right? I’m pissed, Finn. I’m really mad at you, but that’s not the only reason we need to talk. I – just call me back. Okay?”

You hesitated, wanting to tell him I love you, but forced yourself to hang up instead. Lowering your phone to your lap, you released a sigh. You supposed for all your avoidance of Finn, you deserved to give him a little more time to think.

Even though sitting here not doing anything was killing you.

As stupid as it sounded, you couldn’t bring yourself to break up over the phone. That would be considered the lowest of low. If you even wanted to break up, that is. It had been less than a week since you’d first had the thought in the cab – maybe you and Finn didn’t belong together. It seemed like a foreign concept still, as nonsense to you as chopping off your own hand.

But you couldn’t ignore things any longer. Something was obviously wrong between you. You needed to talk, you needed to lay all cards on the table and decide where you’d go next.

Closing your eyes, you leaned back in the chair. Without quite meaning to, your thoughts wandered to Jimin.

This seemed to happen more and more lately. You weren’t sure when he started vying for Finn’s place in your mind. The shift had been subtle, a change you’d barely noticed at first. But no – that wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t as though Jimin had taken Finn’s place, but rather forged an entirely new one.

What you felt for Jimin was different from how you felt for Finn. With Finn, things between you were comfortable, things – had – felt supportive and strong. Now, Finn was none of those things to you, but he still didn’t compare to how you felt for Jimin.

Jimin was like a breath of fresh air after being inside for too long. He was something you hadn’t even realized you missed until you went out. You wouldn’t feel like this for Jimin unless something were wrong with the room you were currently in.

Suddenly, you felt very tired.

You’d always prided yourself on your ability to persevere, on your talent for overcoming by simply pushing on. This though wasn’t something you could solve through sheer force of will. The mess you’d created was only made worse by your infernal stubbornness.

Opening your phone, you flipped to the thread between you and Jimin. The last text he’d sent you had been a TikTok before the night of the kiss. True to his word, Jimin had pretended to forget all about the club and instead, simply returned to being your friend. Rereading your texts, you felt your chest tighten.

It wasn’t as though Jimin had been entirely innocent.

He’d known you had a boyfriend, but you’d never done anything to push him away. You’d been the one to move closer in the club. You had been the one to kiss him first. Jimin didn’t deserve to be treated this way and slowly, you lowered your head to your hands.

It was too much. By all rights, several people should hate you right now and you had no idea how to fix any of it.

Looking up, you set your jaw and sent Jimin a text.

Y/N: you weren’t in ballet class today. Is everything okay? [3:14 PM]

It took Jimin a while to respond. While you waited, you stared at the ceiling, then the floor until you saw ellipses typing. Jimin paused, then stopped and started again. After several long minutes, you got a new text.

Jimin: was sick, sorry [3:22 PM]

Y/N: that sucks :/ [3:22 PM]

Jimin: Y/N. What do you want? [3:23 PM]

Swallowing hard, you sat back. You had no idea what you wanted, and therein lay the problem. Belatedly, you realized you couldn’t have this conversation before you talked to Finn. You couldn’t know what you were apologizing for until you knew where you stood with your current relationship.

You needed more time, which was what you had told Jimin yesterday – and then proceeded to ignore, texting him now.

Y/N: nothing. I’m sorry. I just… wanted to make sure you were okay [3:25 PM]

He started typing again, then stopped. This happened a few more times and you imagined Jimin rewriting whatever it was he wanted to tell you. Finally, he sent his text and you felt your heart sink.

Jimin: yeah. I’m fine. [3:27 PM]

Y/N: okay [3:28 PM]

Placing your phone to the side, you fought back the tears which now threatened to fall.

You’d never imagined yourself an emotional person, so you couldn’t imagine where all this was coming from. Some long-lost, pent-up part of yourself which throbbed and whispered how stupid you were. Stupid to have fought with Finn, stupid to have pushed Jimin away, stupid to have kissed him and hurt everyone in the process.

Climbing into your bed, you curled into a ball and let the tears fall until you had nothing left.

The next morning, you walked into ballet class with red-rimmed eyes. Noelle had returned yesterday afternoon, taken one look at your face and transitioned to mom mode. She thought your breakdown was all about Finn and you hadn’t bothered to correct her. In a way, it all was.

He still hadn’t called. When you woke, you battled again whether to go to Redfield and confront him in person. That hadn’t worked out so well the last time, but it was driving you crazy to exist in this state of not knowing.

When you entered class Friday morning, you saw an unfamiliar woman at the front and felt your heart sink. In the chaos of this past week, you’d nearly forgotten about today’s master class.

Maisie Vern was a renowned choreographer of classical ballet. She’d choreographed for some of the most well-known ballets all over the world, with her pas de deux choreography receiving comparisons to Balanchine originals.

You’d completely forgotten she was teaching today. Starting to panic, you forced yourself to stay calm. Just because your private life was falling to pieces didn’t mean this needed to manifest in your dancing. You could do this.

And then Jimin walked into the room and you realized you couldn’t.

He looked as tired as you felt, dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes. He hardly glanced your way as he entered, crossing to the other side to set down his things. Following him with your gaze, you watched Jimin begin to stretch at the barre. Dark hair fell over his forehead, hiding his face from view.

Forcing yourself not to look, you noticed Seokjin standing at the front. Seeing him beside Miss Vern made your stomach sink. Seokjin was in high demand as a teacher’s assistant; the only reason he’d be here was if he were assisting Miss Vern. And if he were assisting Miss Vern, this meant today’s combination must be a pas de deux.

Confirming your growing dread, Miss Vern clapped both her hands. She was dressed in a slouchy sweater, wispy bun and flat canvas ballet shoes. Effortlessly standing in first position, she glanced around the room.

“Hello,” she said. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Maisie Vern. We have a long class today, so make sure your water bottles are full. For the first hour we’ll warm up at the barre, then we’ll move to center and learn some choreography. I will warn you,” she said, raising her brow. “This pas de deux is from a ballet I’m choreographing for the San Francisco ballet, so it has never been performed live before. Therefore! A certain amount of professionalism and confidentiality is expected.”

Whispers swept the room, everyone eager for the opportunity to prove their worth. Even you found yourself awed by the moment – it was a privilege to dance in the same room as Maisie Vern, let alone learn choreography she’d yet to reveal to the public.

“Now.” Miss Vern gestured to Seokjin. “Some of you might know Kim Seokjin, my assistant for the day. He comes to me highly recommended and will help demonstrate some of the more complicated lifts. Today’s pas de deux is less about the choreography though, and more about the emotion.”

Hearing this, you froze at the barre.

“The ballet is a modern-day retelling of the Odyssey epic. Our hero, Odysseus, has just returned home and is reunited with his love, Penelope. He suspects her of cheating in his absence, so he disguises himself as someone else to test her. Penelope realizes who he is and is furious at her husband for his lack of faith.”

Your gaze darted to Jimin. He stared ahead at Miss Vern, but you could see his jaw tense from all the way across the room.

“This pas de deux is all about tension! Two people in love but pushed beyond their limits. Time and distrust have come between them. This,” Miss Vern announced, “will be the goal of you ballerinas and danseurs to convey.”

All around, a few people nodded, but most of the class seemed unnerved by the prospect. Thus far, your classes at Russet had mainly focused on technique. Even in weekly variations class, the emphasis had been on learning the choreography, rather than on how to tell a story.

This was the hallmark of a great dancer, though. Being able to act as you moved, telling a story which the audience could understand.

“It will be a challenge,” Miss Vern said. “However, I think you will find it to be enjoyable. With that said, let’s start at the barre. Pliés!”

Everyone scrambled to stand, including you and Noelle. Pressing play on the music, Miss Vern demonstrated the combination before you began. Barre passed quickly, possibly because you were dreading center so much. All too soon, the hour was up, and Miss Vern instructed the class to find their partners.

Warily, you crossed the room and came to a stop beside Jimin. He looked up as you approached but kept his face carefully neutral. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking and for a moment, felt a glimmer of resentment.

It had taken two people to kiss in that practice room.

Jimin had known you were taken, just as much as you’d known you were dating Finn. Even if you’d started the kiss, Jimin hadn’t stopped it – if anything, he’d kissed you back.

The moment you thought this, some of your anger drained away. Jimin had wanted to talk, but you hadn’t let him. Maybe you’d realized you felt something for him since then, but Jimin had never said anything similar to you.

For all you knew, he’d simply been caught in the moment. It wasn’t as though Jimin had ever said anything about wanting to be more than friends.

“Alright!” Miss Vern clapped her hands. “Ballerinas, you’ll start offstage. We begin at the end of the male solo. By this point in the choreography, Penelope and Odysseus have reunited. In her solo, we realize she knows who he is. In his solo, he’s angry to hear she’s entertained other suitors. They reunite for the coda!”

Glancing again at Jimin, he immediately looked down. The kernel of anger returned and this time, it grew larger. Although yes, you’d initially run away, you had at least tried to reach out to him yesterday. Jimin had been the one to skip class and shut you down.

It wasn’t fair for him to expect you to have all the answers. You had a boyfriend and you’d kissed. Clearly, you had a few things to work through.

Jaw tense, you separated from Jimin and went to stand on the sidelines. Miss Vern began teaching the danseurs the end of their solo, instructing the men to spread out on the floor. Unscrewing the cap of your water bottle, you took a large, angry sip.

As the music began, the male dancers followed suit while you watched from the side.

“Y/N?”

Turning your head, you found Sabrina before you.

She was dressed in her usual ballet clothes, but there was something about her which seemed different today. Maybe it was the hesitancy in her expression.

Looking at her in surprise, you wondered what she had to say. The fight you’d had on Halloween night seemed so far away but had barely been a week ago.

“Yeah?” you said as you set down your water.

Sabrina hesitated, seeming at war with herself. “Hey. So, I was wondering…”

Miss Vern yelled a correction at the group. Gaze darting sideways, you attempted to see who it had been directed to. After a moment, you returned to Sabrina.

“Wondering what?” you said, arching a brow.

“I was just… wondering if we could talk,” Sabrina finished lamely.

You blinked and stared at her in surprise. Out of everything, this was quite possibly the last thing you’d suspected would happen today. Before you could respond though, Miss Vern called for ballerinas to enter.

“Ballerinas!” She motioned you forward. “Your entrance will come from the top right wing. Run through the center and find your partner.”

“I – okay,” you said, realizing Sabrina waited for an answer. “Later.”

Sabrina frowned, about to respond but Miss Vern clapped her hands again, forcing you to move. Hurrying past, you hastily positioned yourself in the back of the room. With everything else that was happening, you didn’t really have time to worry about another enemy.

Speaking of whom – Jimin’s gaze hardened when you approached and in response to this, anger flared in your belly.

You’d asked him to give you time and he had agreed. It seemed this was no longer the case.

Woodenly, Jimin held out his hand. Staying carefully neutral, you took this as Miss Vern began to teach you the steps. She hadn’t been lying when she’d called the pas de deux difficult. By necessity, some of your anger disappeared as you focused on learning.

Jimin seemed equally concentrated, barely looking your way while he practiced. It took nearly forty-five minutes to learn the entire coda, with Miss Vern stopping partway for a water break. By the time you knew the choreography, both of you were sweating.

Miss Vern had also been right to call the pas de deux one about tension. At the start, Jimin’s character was testing Penelope. This involved him pulling you towards him, turning you and making you chase him – until halfway through the coda, when Penelope snapped. Choreography shifting, you began to chase him, revealing you knew who he was.

The choreography was intricate, necessitating trust between partners. Despite everything, you were relieved to find this still existed between you. When you jumped, you knew Jimin would catch you. When you fell, you knew his hands would find your waist.

Still, this didn’t mean things had returned normal. As you practiced a fouetté, turning quickly to face him, Jimin gripped your wrist harder than usual. Wincing, you pushed on towards the next jump.

The combination involved several lifts, one of which was the most psychologically taxing. It involved Jimin lifting you overhead with your front leg extended, holding only your waist. While not the most difficult move technically, it required a certain fortitude of mind to dangle, upside-down from his arms.

This certainly wasn’t helped by the fact that Jimin kept grunting.

“Will you stop doing that?” you hissed as he set you back down.

A muscle in Jimin’s jaw ticked.

“Stop doing what?”

“Grunting. I keep thinking you’re about to drop me.”

Jimin gave you a look, chest heaving for breath. “Well, it’s hard.”

“Our job is to make it look easy.”

“Yeah, look easy,” he argued. “That doesn’t mean it actually is.”

“Well –”

“Let’s just try it again,” Jimin said, cutting you off.

After a moment, you nodded and returned to your position. As you began to practice with music, you felt a familiar sinking feeling in your stomach. It seemed you’d taken several steps backwards since the start of the year. Instead of continuing to grow as partners, you and Jimin had returned to the start.

As you repeated the steps, you felt his grip on you tighten, but Jimin lifted you overhead with nary a grunt. He set you back down, your leg extended in arabesque.

“Good!” said Miss Vern as she walked past. “Try to support her lower back more, though, Jimin. She shouldn’t be falling that far behind.”

As she walked away, Jimin nodded and exhaled a breath. Once she was gone, he turned sideways to face you. Again, his gaze was unfamiliar and cold.

“Alright,” Jimin said. “Again?”

“From where?”

“Middle of the partner section?”

You nodded, taking a step backwards to catch your breath. The break in the partner section began with you running towards him, Jimin catching you around the waist to sweep you into a fish lift.

As you ran through the steps, you tried to concentrate on the choreography. Not on your partner, nor on the uncertainties which roared through your mind. Jimin certainly didn’t seem to have the same qualms you did. By all accounts, Jimin was a sharp, perfunctory, and timely dance partner.

You found this to be maddening.

Just when you’d forgotten how strained things had become, he’d grip your hand a little too tightly, or turn you a little too sharply and your eyes would narrow. After another ten minutes of practice, Miss Vern called your attention by the stereo.

“Let’s try it full out,” she suggested. “I won’t hold the first time against you, but please do your best to execute every lift.”

The class grunted in agreement; wiping sweat from their brows, they retreated to their starting positions.

Glancing at Jimin, you said, “Full out?”

He nodded. “If you want.”

Turning on his heel, he walked across the room. You watched him go, your blood beginning to reach a boiling point. Jimin was acting like a petulant child. This was how he used to be in high school, back when he was your enemy and everything had been simpler, but you didn’t want that anymore.

Now that you knew who Jimin was, you couldn’t possibly go back to hating him. The very idea made your heart hurt.

Possibly you were being unfair, or naïve. Clearly, you’d hurt Jimin, but there wasn’t time to fix things between you before the end of class. You needed to be professional, you needed to pull your shit together and you needed Jimin to do the same. Turning around, you crossed the room and reached your starting spot.

Taking a deep breath, you waited for your cue.

When Miss Vern signaled the ballerinas to enter, you ran – and felt Jimin catch you by the wrist. He wasn’t gentle, pivoting you to a penché and waiting for you to rise. When you did, he crushed you to his chest and caught your knee in posse.

Teeth gritted, you kept your gaze on him while extending á la second. Hand finding your calf, Jimin raised your leg higher. His grip was rougher than usual, making you shiver as his hand slid to your ankle.

Gaze lidded, Jimin bent you in cambré. When he pulled you upwards to face him, your noses practically touched. Your frustration, previously under control, began to unwind.

“Why weren’t you in class yesterday?” you whispered.

Jimin’s eyes flashed, as though in warning. When you turned around, he caught you deftly around the waist. Pulling you to him, Jimin’s breath ghosted your neck.

“I told you,” he murmured. “I was sick.”

“Bullshit,” you said, breaking free of his hold.

Jimin followed close behind, his feet skimming the floor. As you piqued to arabesque, he caught up and pulled you against him.

“You’re avoiding me,” you accused.

“I’m not. And it’s not bullshit,” he added. Turning you around, Jimin dipped you, only to catch you before you hit the floor. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

The next part required more footwork, both of you circling the other. Your breathing was heavier the next time you were close enough to speak.

“You’ve barely spoken to me today,” you hissed.

A mirthless laugh left his lips. Spinning you sideways, Jimin caught you against his chest, your bodies pressed together in heated silence.

“I thought you told me not to say anything?” he said sweetly.

The next move tore you apart, your feet skimming the floor before Jimin caught up and lifted you high overhead. You saw the ground for a moment, heartbeat hammering your ribs before he set you back down. Chasséing forward, you battemented and were again caught by Jimin at the ankle.

Dragging you closer, his hand found your waist.

Stubbornly, you met his gaze. “I needed time to think.”

“Oh, did you?”

Releasing your leg, he lowered you to a penché. As you rose, you managed to say, “I did. And now, I think we should talk.”

Jimin snorted. “What’s there to talk about?”

Your next battement nearly hit him in the head. Jimin’s eyes widened, but it was all part of the choreography. Timed to a change in tempo, the choreography shifted to you as the pursuer.

On pointe, you ran forward, leaping into his arms at the last second. Fish dives were difficult, since they required complete trust of your partner, but Jimin caught you easily, cradling you close to his chest.

Lips brushing your ear, he set you back down. “Are you still with him?” he asked, chest heaving behind you. “Your boyfriend?”

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, you hesitated. “Yes.”

His gaze hardened. “Then, there’s nothing to talk about.”

There was no time to respond since the next sequence involved Jimin chasséing away into a tour jeté. You followed with chainés, head whipping around to spot him every time. As soon as you were within speaking distance, you caught him by the arm again.

“I say there is,” you insisted. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Me?” Jimin barked a laugh as he turned. “You’re the one driving me crazy. Like you always do.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you said to him, baffled.

Jimin’s gaze cut to yours.

For the briefest of moments, you saw his façade break. All of his pain, all of his hurt and frustration shone through and you felt yourself falter. Staring at him, you couldn’t form a response.

Not that there was time. The dance hadn’t ended and class hadn’t stopped. Taking a slow step towards you, Jimin tenderly caught your attitude effacé and extended your leg. Dragging you forward, he pulled you across the floor.

As he came to a stop, Jimin swept your body to his as your fingers curled in his hair. In the choreography, the moment was one of near reconciliation between Penelope and Odysseus, a breather before their intense ending sequence. Jimin’s chest was concave with your breath, his gaze dark and lidded when he pulled back to see you.

You swallowed, disentangling yourself as you bourreéd away.

Heart pounding, you skimmed the floor with glissades, crossing the room with Jimin close behind. The final sequence was the grand reveal, with Penelope exposing Odysseus for who he is and forgiving his mistrust.

You could relate to the sequence.

Not all of it – had you been Penelope, you might have cheated while Odysseus had been away. You might have fallen for someone else; one of the suitors, perhaps. When you looked at Jimin now, you saw that clearly. There were feelings here which extended beyond a normal crush.

Still, you could relate to the dance. You could relate to Penelope’s frustration at Odysseus for being gone for so long. For leaving in the first place, for forcing her to withstand all her burdens alone. She’d been faithful to him and all he’d done was accuse her of cheating. You remembered Finn’s words to you in the library and felt your heart sink, since you’d ended up proving him right after all.

You’d also hurt Jimin though, which you hadn’t intended. Of course, he was angry – you’d repeatedly led him on, not pushing him away when you should have. And when things between you had finally snapped, you hadn’t let him speak. You’d run away.

Executing a double pirouette, you extended in attitude for a quick promenade. Shutting down your mind, you allowed yourself to be swept away by the music. Swept away by the characters, the dance and its emotions. The choreography became less important as the story came alive. Jimin’s hands were as familiar to you as your own, lifting you easily and setting you back on the ground.

Your heart ached with each step, wanting to be closer, wanting to be nearer to him than you were. As the steps slowed, you found yourself softening. Jimin’s hand slid to your thigh, settling you against his chest in a move reminiscent of the first time you’d felt a spark. Locking gazes with him, you inhaled and lifted your hand to rest on his cheek.

Time seemed to slow; you both felt and saw a muscle tick in his jaw. Jimin roughly exhaled, his chest pressed to yours as his gaze dropped to your lips.

“Bravo! Brava!”

Startled, both of you looked up.

Dazedly, you remembered you weren’t alone. You were in Miss Vern’s ballet class, most of whom had stopped dancing midway to watch. Placing you down on the ground, Jimin took a step backwards. Lacing both hands before him, he refused to meet your gaze, choosing instead to focus on Miss Vern.

“Beautifully done!” Crossing the floor, Miss Vern stopped before you. “The passion you showed! Such emotion, such artistry. My own principals couldn’t have done any better.”

Eyes widening, your lips parted. A flutter of incredulity went through you. It was unthinkable to receive such a high compliment from a teacher at Russet, let alone a choreographer as famed as Maisie Vern.

If you’d been looking for a sign to continue, this had to be it. One of the top choreographers in the world, commending your talent and somehow, her words didn’t feel nearly as good as when Jimin had said them.

Glancing at him, you found Jimin looking as stunned as you felt. The ache within you sharpened to a point, realizing how much he meant to you. How much you wanted his success, regardless of your own.

In that moment, you knew it had never been about anyone else’s perception of you as a dancer.

You knew you could do this. You knew you could make it at Russet, could make it as a dancer. Deep down, you’d always known this, despite your moments of doubt. Jimin had been right. You wanted to dance, you loved to dance and you would continue down this path regardless of what anyone else said.

That hadn’t been what crushed you about Finn’s words.

It had crushed you that after all this time, he still didn’t seem to know who you were. The fact that he could throw out those words so casually, as though you might simply stop dancing meant he didn’t see you. He might as well have asked you to stop breathing.

Jimin, though – Jimin understood. Jimin knew who you were. He’d been a part of your life for so long, he got what made you tick. He’d seen you at your worst, as your most bitter enemy and then again, as your most trusted partner.

It was part of why he meant so much to you.

You understood all this in the blink of an eye, then realized you hadn’t responded to Miss Vern’s praise.

“Oh,” you said, fighting to catch your breath. “I – thank you so much, Miss Vern. I honestly don’t know what to say.”

Miss Vern nodded, as though she were used to such a response. Beside you, Jimin was still breathing hard, but he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

She nodded, not choosing to linger as she faced the room. “Use them as an example!” she said, striding towards the stereo. “Seokjin and I will demonstrate, but that is the level of performance you should aim for. Again!”

The rest of the class passed in a blur, some of the fight dissipated between you and Jimin. He was still quiet, but you didn’t push him again to speak. You’d done enough for now.

As the class came to an end, Miss Vern gathered you round to give a short speech. She thanked everyone for the pleasure of teaching and, once you were dismissed, turned towards the barre.

Jimin left before you could, throwing his things in his bag as he rushed from the room. You followed him with your eyes, knowing he was avoiding you, but not blaming him in the slightest.

Sabrina wasn’t far behind and your gaze lingered on her, remembering the attempted conversation during class. You still had no idea what she’d wanted to say but honestly, Sabrina was the least of your problems right now.

Exhaling, you stood from the ground and checked your phone. Still no word from Finn.

You were trying desperately to understand, trying to give him time to think, but after your fight on Wednesday, you honestly weren’t sure if you still had a boyfriend. Finn’s radio silence didn’t seem to indicate anything positive, but you refused to let this be the way things ended between you. He owed you that much, at least.

Returning to your dorm, the knot tightened further as you imagined what he might say. Both of you had said hurtful things and now, you needed to tell him something which would change your relationship forever.

You needed advice. You needed to talk to Fin. You needed to apologize, you needed–

Plopping down on your bed, you dialed the only number you could think of to call. Noelle had graciously left to stay at Irene’s, giving you the room to yourself.

Your mom answered on the first ring.

“Y/N? Hello?”

“Mom?” you said, your voice suddenly tight.

“Oh, honey” she said, hearing your shift. You heard a soft click, as though she’d entered the next room. “What’s going on?”

“I – nothing.”

Closing your eyes, you fought to control your breathing.

“Nothing, hm?” Your mom made a gentle noise. “You’re still coming home for the holidays, aren’t you? That’s not what this is about? Your dad won’t stop talking about plans for when you get here. He just goes on and on! You’d think he didn’t have a wife.”

“No, no,” you said, opening your eyes. “I just… missed you. That’s all.”

“Well, then call more!”

When you tried to laugh, the sound came out weaker than usual.

Your mom fell quiet for a moment. “That’s not all, is it?”

“… No.”

“Tell me,” she prodded.

So, you did.

Once you started talking, you found you couldn’t stop. Everything came pouring out. The difficulties you’d had at Russet, the need for private lessons, the injury to your ankle and everything going on with Finn. The time he missed brunch, the gradual growing apart, the night he left you at the club – your mom had some choice words at this point – and your growing feelings for Jimin.

Everything had changed when you’d gone to Russet, and you’d always assumed Finn would stay the same but now, even he was crumbling into pieces.

When you were done, your mom was silent a moment, then sighed. You could picture her so clearly in your mind’s eye, seated in your dad’s office chair. This was likely where she’d gone when you heard the door click. The image made you so homesick, it physically pained you.

“Life isn’t ever as neat as we wish it would be,” your mom said at last. “People make mistakes, Y/N. People change. Sometimes the things we thought were permanent turn out not to be.”

“I know. And I know Finn and I are young, but –”

“It’s not that,” your mom said, cutting you off. “Some people meet the person they want to be with early on. That happens. Some people know who they are from the minute they’re born, but other people change and want different things.”

“I – I know. Objectively, I know but… it’s so hard to do something I don’t want to do. And I… I don’t want to break up with Finn.”

“Why not?” your mom said gently.

Biting down on your lower lip, you felt tears fill your eyes. Your answer was stupid – you knew it was. Partly, this was why you kept running away. You knew the answer wasn’t enough, which was why you didn’t want to say it.

“We’ve just been together so long,” you said, closing your eyes. “We’ve gone through rough patches before. Why is now any different?”

“I don’t know. Why is it?”

Swallowing hard, you whispered, “Because this time, I have no idea how to fix things. I think we’ve hurt each other too much, mom. I don’t know… I don’t see a way back to how we were.”

Hearing the words said out loud, you opened your eyes.

There it was. The thing you’d known for weeks but had been unwilling to say. So long as you kept it bottled in, pushed down, you didn’t have to acknowledge its presence or pain.

In truth, your fights with Finn had become so commonplace, you could no longer point to ‘the big one.’ The fight about spending time together had mutated, becoming a multi-headed dragon of differing life goals, de-prioritization and feelings for others.

Whenever you and Finn were happy these days, you found yourself holding your breath. You were waiting for said happiness to dissolve into pain. You had no clue when a relationship was supposed to end but had to imagine this wasn’t a good sign.

“I don’t think there are any easy answers, Y/N,” said your mom. “This is something you need to decide for yourself.”

“Shouldn’t it be easy, though?” you demanded, grip tightening on your phone. “When I list out everything that’s happened, I know things are bad. I haven’t been telling you things because deep down, I don’t want you saying what I already know.”

“Which is?”

“We… that we should break up.”

Your mom was quiet a moment. “It’s never easy to give up something you love.”

You wanted to respond but found you couldn’t, simply nodding even though she couldn’t see. On some level, she was your mom and she understood.

“What about the other boy you mentioned?” she said, sounding curious. “The one you’re having feelings for. Is this the same Jimin as high school?”

“Yes,” you whispered, the white-hot shame of your kiss burning you from the inside.

That was something you couldn’t tell your mom. Not now, at least. Maybe sometime in the future but for now, you couldn’t bear the shame of admitting what you’d done. You never should have let things get to this point.

“Hm.” She made a thoughtful sound. “You know, I’m not surprised to hear you’re getting along. He always seemed like a nice boy, despite how you treated him.”

“Mom!” you blurted. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am, honey.”

“Jimin used to bet I’d lose against him in competitions.”

“Mhm. And who started those bets?”

Although you huffed, you didn’t respond because your mom was right. Your bet senior year had been Jimin’s idea, but you’d been the one to start them before.

“It’s not even about Jimin,” you said, quieting somewhat. “It’s more… nothing in my life is solid anymore. I had a plan, mom. I knew exactly what I wanted and now that I’m here, nothing’s how I imagined.”

Softly, your mom chuckled. “Welcome to your twenties.”

“Mom!”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Welcome to adulthood.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Her voice grew softer. “I wish I was there, so I could give you a hug. You’ve always been the type of person who needed a plan. But there’s more than one way to be happy, Y/N. What is it you really want?”

Her words were so reminiscent of Jimin that for a moment, you could only pause. What you wanted was dance, but you knew acknowledging this meant giving up Finn.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“Well, then. That’s probably the first thing you should figure out.”

Closing your eyes, you nodded. You stayed on the phone with her a while longer, talking about nothing and slowly calming down. When you finally hung up, you promised to call more and confirmed your plans to come home for the holidays.

Lowering your phone to the bed, heavy realization settled over you. You’d reached your lowest moment. If you sunk any further, there’d be no salvaging anything.

What else could happen? You barely had a relationship with Finn to speak of, had hurt Jimin’s friendship in the process and were so distracted, so tired, you were in danger of jeopardizing your future at Russet.

Somewhere along the line, everything had become twisted. You had too many problems to ignore any longer. Sitting up straighter in bed, you wiped tears away with your palm. All you could do was move forward – starting with Finn.

Satisfied by this, you rolled over in bed and closed your eyes. It had been a long time since you’d slept; you figured you could try and nap before you called. Finn wouldn’t be out of his classes for a few hours yet.

For the first time in a week, you managed to fall asleep before your mind could talk yourself out of rest.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading 😊 ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT! (and then the epilogue, but you know) New chapters of Raise the Barre will be posted weekly; dates are listed on the series Master List. Requests for updates will be deleted.

RAISE THE BARRE MASTERLIST

#bangtanarmynet #btsbookclub #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #jimin writing #jimin au #jimin dance au #jimin series #bts writing #bts au #bts dance au #bts series

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yubsie · 4 years ago

Text

That Can Be Enough

A simple question from Sabine makes Hera and Kanan realize they probably should have made things official a while ago.

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Hera poked her head into Sabine's room, being careful not to intrude too much into their latest crewmember's space. Anyone who'd spent that much time at an Imperial Academy had to relearn that she did deserve her own space and shouldn't expect people entering it without warning. "Kanan's making a supply run. You need anything?"

Sabine hesitated. "I should be okay."

Hera glanced around at the walls. The Ghost was home, but the bunks weren't the coziest thing right off the factory line. She'd worked on the common areas, but until recently they mostly used this room for storing extra boxes that really could have been in the cargo hold just as easily. "If you want to make this place a little more your own, you're allowed. You're sure there's not anything you need for that?"

"You mean it?"

"You're home now. We do things differently here." She wasn't going to start calling her family yet. She didn't think the girl was ready for it. But she could be, if she wanted it.

"Well in that case..." Sabine pulled out her datapad and started making a list.

"Kanan will... do his best." It was a lot of specific colours. Kanan didn't have the eye for that. "It'll be close, anyway. Any favourite foods we should be stocking up on?"

"Maiya sweets should travel okay." Sabine looked up at her. "When's your anniversary? Just so I know."

"My what?"

"Your wedding anniversary."

"Oh, I'm not..."

Sabine looked away. "Oh, sorry, I thought you and Kanan..."

"No, we're... we're just..." Now that Sabine put her on the spot, she actually wasn't sure what they were. "We're just something."

Kanan did better than she expected at getting the right colours. They were all at least close enough to the shades Sabine requested that she said she could work with them on whatever it was she was planning. So that just left them with the big discussion.

"What are we?"

"Reb... els?" Kanan asked slowly.

For a man who could sense her feelings, he could sometimes be really bad at following her. "Not the crew. You and me."

"I guess I never really thought about it. Jedi didn't."

And there were always so many other things to worry about. So much else going on. She knew she was happy with him, but she never stopped to think about actual nouns. "Sabine thought we were married."

Kanan opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it again. "Jedi definitely didn't."

"I know." But Kanan wasn't a Jedi anymore. He often reminded her of that. There were no Jedi anymore. Or they couldn't do any of this. "But should we?"

"Do you... want to?"

She hadn't thought about it. She couldn't put a definite timeline on when they started being... whatever it was they were. She remembered when the sex started, of course, but that wasn't all of it and it hadn't been in a long time. Somewhere along the way, the feelings had gotten bigger than that and she really didn't know when. It just felt right. Felt natural. She knew him and he knew her and they worked well together because of it.

She'd been so busy fighting a war that she hadn't even noticed their relationship becoming... well, a relationship. But when she thought about it, Sabine was definitely seeing something. "I hadn't even thought about it. It wouldn't change anything, really." They were living on the edge. Constantly on the run from the Empire. No one had enough contact information to notify the other if something went wrong on a mission. They couldn't risk visiting the sort of medical facilities that would question whether the person making decisions had any legal authority to do so.

Kanan brushed a finger along her cheek. "It would piss off the Empire if they knew."

The Jedi wouldn't approve, but the Empire would approve even less. And... she reached up to run her fingers through his hair. Hair. He was human. She wasn't. Any relationship where they looked at each other as equals would be unthinkable in the upper echelons of society. "Are you suggesting we get married just to thumb our noses at the Empire?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?"

Sometimes they did things just to keep themselves flying. But it was their motivation for a great number of things that they did. They wanted things to change, after all. "A lot of things I guess."

"Also because we love each other."

There was that. She might not be able to define their relationship, but she could feel it. Getting married would be a convenient definition, too. But mostly... they did love each other. That was, she seemed to recall, the usual reason for two people to get married. "And because we love each other."

It was easy to say they were going to make it official. The trouble with making it official while on the run from the Empire was the official part. They probably weren't in any databases. They'd managed to keep their actions fairly covert. But right after springing a cadet from the Academy? That was a good way to trip some alarms.

But it wasn't like they were planning a big blowout wedding. All the family they needed was right here on the ship. As the captain, she could technically officiate a wedding.

Not her own though. Not if they were going to do this properly. And if they were going to get married, she didn't see the sense in doing it any way but properly. There had to be officiants out there who could handle this without it becoming a trouble.

Her finger hovered over the comm. She had one contact who seemed likely to be the expert on such legal quagmires as this. Not one of the contacts that provided missions often, but she had some sort of government connection. She'd been willing to help when she needed resources for other missions in the past.

"Captain? I wasn't expecting to hear from you." Not knowing where her contact was, she hadn't expected her to pick up so quickly. For all she knew, it was the middle of the night. The standard rebel vocal distortions would hide any bleariness.

"I hope I'm not overstepping, E."

"Are you having trouble with a mission?"

"No, it's a.... personal mission." Kanan would be appalled to hear her call it that. But she was starting to realize the logistics involved were going to take it to that level. "I find myself in need of someone who can perform a wedding ceremony without tripping any background checks."

The voice modulation was not meant for the sound that her contact made at that. There was an edge to the frequency that clipped. Then E coughed and returned to her usual tone. "Yes, I should be able to find you someone. There are a lot of places on the Outer Rim that know the value of discretion."

At least it wasn't far to go. She wouldn't have been able to justify the fuel for something like that. But it might be good for them to step away from Lothal. Not for too long, of course. There was so much work to be done here. But it could confuse the Empire, throw them off their trail.

Especially if they could manage to avoid doing any active rebelling on their way. On the other hand, it would make sense to make use of the time away. A supply run, at least, even if they didn't end up picking up an actual mission on the way to the altar.

Overthrowing the oppressive regime was more of a honeymoon activity anyway.

"You need a bachelor party." Zeb didn't sound like he was in the mood to argue with it.

"Does that mean I should be throwing a bachelorette?" Sabine was settling in, at least. Enough to suggest simply ludicrous notions. She was going to fit right in with the sort of plans Kanan tended to make.

"That really won't be necessary," Hera insisted.

"Who would we even invite?" Kanan added. "We're the only people we risk seeing regularly."

They did have a lot of smuggler contacts. A few pirates. Sometimes they even worked with other rebel agents, but not often this far out. Hera didn't know where they were more active and that was entirely the point.

"We could break some out of prison. That's my kind of party."

"I was just going to suggest paintblast. Zeb's idea is way better."

She seldom found herself in a situation where people were endorsing Zeb's idea. She didn't like it.

"Come on Kanan, it's a Lasat tradition!"

"Prison breaks?" Maybe if they ever succeeded in liberating the galaxy they could call that a tradition. A hard one to continue if they eliminated the Imperial prison camps.

"Having a good old fashioned booze up. We have to celebrate your last night of freedom."

Hera shot him a dirty look, but Kanan had her back. "My last night of... from Hera?"

"I mean she's already the captain, but getting married is different."

Kanan tapped the table. "How is it different. Explain."

She wasn't actually considering inappropriate uses of the airlock. But it was useful to let him think that. And entertaining to watch him squirm. This could count as a party right here.

"I mean... it's..."

"Zeb have you ever been married?"

"Well... no."

"Maybe you shouldn't comment on what an awful thing it is if you don't have any experience."

Hera laid a hand on Kanan's arm. "No one is forcing either of us to do this." The fact that they were at war with the Empire was making it very difficult. Maybe the fact that it did feel like the Empire didn't want them to do it was a bit of a motivation. She would never make a decision out of this just to tweak Palpatine's nose, but the fact that he'd be livid did bring her a certain measure of joy.

Mostly she just took joy in it because she wanted to do it. They probably should have done this a long time ago. There had to be a reason that Sabine assumed they already had within a day of being on the Ghost.

"I think they make a great couple." The opinion of a fourteen-year-old girl wasn't usually the decider in the matter of matrimony, but it was nice to hear that she felt comfortable voicing it.

"Are there any Mandalorian traditions you want to incorporate?"

Sabine hesitated. "Most of our traditions involve explosions. Or ritual combat. Or ritual combat through explosions..."

"Maybe we won't do that." It wasn't much of a defiant statement of life in the face of an oppressive regime if they added knife fights. Last night of freedom indeed. They were still fighting for their first night of freedom.

"I'll make you guys a present though."

Technically she'd already given them a massive one by making them realize they should do this. "Only if you want."

Sabine flexed her fingers. "I haven't gotten to create proper art in ages. It'll be fun."

Hera was curious what she was going to come up with using the colours that Kanan had bought, but she was sure it would be heartfelt.

"We could use the explosions to break out some people for the party," Zeb suggested.

Maybe it had been a bad idea to let the two of them meet. Too late now.

It was definitely better to plan this without the kids around. Too many suggestions.

"E said someone will be able to help us out on Garel." There were enough people moving through there that they could blend in with other travellers. And pick up some supplies while they were at it. So that was the most important part of the logistics established. They could actually make this official. Of course, now they had to figure out the rest of the details. They weren't really going to have a guest list, but the officiant would have questions about what they wanted in a ceremony.

"What's a Twi'lek wedding usually like?"

Nothing like what they were going to have. "It's a full clan affair. You would meet with the elders to make your case for joining." Which would involve speaking to her father and that certainly wasn't going to happen. She'd never really thought about whether she even wanted that big event. She wanted to fly, she'd never really pictured herself getting married. But then there was Kanan.

"Would I be expected to take your name? I'm not against it."

Hera leaned over and kissed his cheek. "The only name I need you to take for me is rebel scum, and you did that a long time ago. You couldn't do it without the clan... also kanan'syndulla translates to foul breathed spearman."

Kanan gave her a goofy smile that was presumably never seen in the Jedi Temple. "I might love you enough for that."

"I love you enough to not ask you to. We're still plenty married if we have different names." They were honestly halfway married already, but it was good to have a symbol sometimes.

"Okay. We've figured out what we're not doing. Jedi didn't get married, so I've got no traditions to work from either."

This might be why they hadn't already gotten formally married. "There must be a generic ceremony of some sort. Just... promise to love each other and then eat."

"That's an important part of a wedding, right?"

"The most important part. Especially now that we have a teenager." They might still need most of that clan banquet. And then Zeb wasn't technically an adolescent, but he did manage to eat like one a lot. At least Chopper didn't need to be fed. He made a cheap guest. Assuming he didn't murder anyone while they were there. This was probably enough other activity to keep him entertained.

"Okay. So food. Promise to love each other. Both keep our own names."

"You don't have to do any demonstration to prove that you will be a worthy addition to the clan." Hera was reasonably certain that no human would ever meet that standard in her father's eyes. No matter how many stories she'd heard about Jedi in the Clone Wars, often from his own mouth.

"I don't have to what?"

"It's not a trivial thing, getting married. The bigger difference between the influence of two clans the more... set in their ways the elders can become." Stubborn, really.

"So coming from a clan I just made up..."

"It's not even that. You could be the king of Alderaan and it still wouldn't have any status on Ryloth itself." Hera shook her head. "But we're not getting married on Ryloth, we're getting married in a random spaceport chapel on Garel."

Simpler. More them. This didn't need to be an entire elaborate undertaking. "Okay, none of those traditions. I guess we need to wear... something."

"No way to find a Twi'lek wedding robe out here." It would look strange in the chapel anyway. Without the rest of the trappings it didn't make sense. She'd always pictured wearing one like her mother's on the rare occasion she even thought about the possibility of marrying.

"Jedi would wear robes to other people's weddings but I can think of about five different reasons that's a terrible idea."

"Given that we're trying to avoid attracting too much attention." She knew he still had a lightsaber in the room he didn't tend to sleep in, but it was too risky to ever bring it out. Jedi robes would be an even bigger giveaway. "Do you even still have those?"

"Well... no. And I think Master Yoda would die all over again if I wore them to break the Code this blatantly."

Breaking the Code. She knew he didn't call himself a Jedi anymore. But that was still a big step. "You're sure you want to do this?"

"I'm attached to you whether we get married or not. This is just making it official. I made that choice a long time ago."

She wasn't sure when exactly either of them had made it. She'd never meant to get attached either. She was supposed to be focused on the mission. But he made it easier just by being there. Made her stronger. They were a good team. "Okay... that still doesn't get us closer to figuring the clothing out."

"Do we even own any formalwear?"

That was an excellent question. Hera stood and walked over to the closet. No robes, of course. And she certainly didn't own a dress. "There are a couple shirts in here that don't have grease stains."

"Alright. Good start. I think we're supposed to wear pants to get married."

The pants could come off later. But if the goal was to avoid getting arrested on their wedding night, they definitely wanted to avoid indecent exposure charges. "There has to be something in here that didn't start its life as part of a flightsuit." She pushed through the layers. If nothing else, she must have worn a disguise at some point. That orange fabric didn't blend in very well.

"What about these?" Kanan held up a pair of plain brown pants of a reasonably smooth fabric.

"Clean. Untorn. That's practically black tie in our circles."

"I'm not sure I have anything better than my usual pants..."

Hera looked him up and down. "The usual pants are just fine."

"You're sure? They're kinda..."

Hera smiled. "Flattering. Let's go with... flattering." A little tight, really. She appreciated it. He could pull them off. She could...

Well, definitely appreciate them. That seemed like the ideal thing for him to wear if they were making a formal commitment to their relationship.

"Okay, pants. Shirts. Both are clean. Is that all we need?"

"Technically." They owned boots. They were going to wear boots. That wasn't worth discussing. They could just clean the dirt off the boots. "Unless you have a real desire for a flower crown."

"We should get one for Chopper."

Hera snorted. "Zeb has to be the one to give it to him. I've got plans that involve you not getting murdered by my droid."

Chopper requested the flower crown. At length. Which left them in the unexpected situation of having to find a florist. Hera hadn't thought to ask E about that when requesting a discreet officiant. She felt vaguely ridiculous ordering it. but the florist decided they just weren't going to ask.

Probably a good life choice. Especially after the series of menacing beeps and whistles the droid made when Zeb had the audacity to comment on his new accessory.

The delicate circlet of purple flowers was the only thing that really marked them out as being here for anything other than mundane supply shopping. There wasn't exactly a wedding district to the port. They were just headed for an ordinary-looking office.

Hera glanced down at her datapad. "We're looking for Rov Melmin"

An Ithorian opened the door and waved them in quickly. "Of course, my friends! Come in, come in, quick now." His mechanical voicebox was surprisingly bubbly. It was possible with the technology, of course. But not a variation she had ever encountered before.

They stepped through, with Zeb, Sabine and Chopper following close behind.

"Do you know if anyone is following you directly?" he asked.

Kanan gave him a puzzled look. So much for the Force making all things clear. "Excuse me?"

They were technically wanted by the Empire, of course. But even after Zeb's idea of a bachelor party, they didn't have enough of a trace on them for it to be a major concern if they weren't on Lothal. At least if they weren't going anywhere too public for this.

"How clean was your escape? Do you think there are slave trackers on your heels?"

Hera glanced over at Kanan. She should have realized what this looked like. On the other hand, they shouldn't go around admitting that they were actually just on the run from the Empire because of that little bit of sabotage. So sure. Runaway slave. She could play that role. It would be more convincing with her childhood accent, but she didn't want to speak marriage vows in a different voice than she spoke to Kanan with their entire relationship. "We came farther to be sure of it."

"That was smart. I'll still make sure the perimeter sensors are engaged."

"Thank you," Kanan said.

Perimeter sensors would still be useful for their actual need for discretion. Though if the Empire disrupted this she might just take the Ghost to Coruscant and deal with Palpatine herself.

It was no banquet hall. The walls were painted a generic sort of colour that might have been white at some point. Melmin kept the place clean, but age still did its work. The floor had been swept recently, but there was no hiding that that particular shade of green hadn't been in fashion since the days of the Republic. A cheap polymer desk. A terminal several years out of date but somehow still running. It probably couldn't even patch into the latest version of the Holonet. Which at least made it a little more difficult for the Empire to tap into anything on it. E was onto something when she suggested this place.

No altar. But they had their flower droid and the rest of the family.

"Your friend didn't tell me anything about what sort of ceremony you wanted. Do you just want the papers or..."

They could. But if they were going to the trouble of making this official, it seemed anticlimactic to just fill out some forms. "We want something. We just... haven't really had a chance to discuss what."

"I"m sure it's been a very turbulent time. I realize that we can't carry out any of your cultural traditions here. Do you have any particular preferences, Mister..."

"Jarrus. I'm from all over."

Definitely not asking the Jedi for any input on a wedding ceremony, but the less detail the better on that front.

"Very well." Melmin scrolled on his datapad. "I have something basic I often use in these situations. Take a look."

Kanan leaned in close to read it over her shoulder. She glanced up at him and nodded.

"Yeah, we can work with this."

"Do we just..." with such a small guest list, it was strange to even know how to start.

Chopper gave a series of beeps and circled around them. As good an opening as any. Hera reached for Kanan's hand.

Melmin nodded at them. "In these turbulent times, love is the most precious treasure anyone can find. I don't know what path has brought the two of you to this place, in this time. But you are here, and you are together, and for now, that can be enough. I cannot promise you the road will get easier. But I am here to help you promise to walk it hand in hand."

"Kanan." She raised a hand up to his chest and looked into his eyes. They were really here. A place she never would have expected when they first met. "I promise to be by your side through the good and the bad. To love you whatever the galaxy brings us."

The words on the datapad were a good start. But she did have thoughts of her own to add. "I don't know what the future holds, but I know it's better for having you in it. Whatever battles may come, we'll face them together. Our fates may be in the hands of the goddess, but I place mine in yours as well."

The last line though, what more could she say than what was on the screen? "I swear to remain with you until our star burns out."

"Hera. I promise to be by your side through the good and the bad. To love you whatever the galaxy brings us. I never thought about having a future until you showed me there could be a brighter one. I'm stronger beside you. May the Force be with our union. I swear to remain with you until our star burns out."

"Then by the power granted me, I pronounce you husband and wife."

She'd seen human weddings in holodramas where the groom had to be told to kiss the bride. Kanan needed no such instructions. Chopper gave a triumph whistle while Zeb and Sabine clapped.

Tomorrow, they could get back to fighting for a better future. Today, she could just enjoy committing to her future having Kanan Jarrus in it.

#star wars #fanfiction #kanan/hera #kanera #kanan jarrus/hera syndulla #fanfic #yeah this is wedding fic #because they were married dammit

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writing-whimsical-worlds · 4 years ago

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Lab Rat

Eventual Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Summary: English enthusiast and art-minded y/n feels like she is disappointing her father, and Peter Parker’s newfound presence in Tony’s heart does nothing to quell her fears.

A/N: This is basically a set up for a series if there is any interest. Let me know!

“I just don’t understand how you can have such a gifted brain in sciences and mathematics and yet you refuse to utilize it. Make it make sense!”

“Dad, come on. Is it so hard to believe that maybe I want to pursue my actual interests instead of doing what is expected of me? I’m a good writer and I just want to see where I can go with that.”

This whole “what is y/n’s future?” conversation has been going on for months because Tony, for some reason, thinks he can change my mind about my future endeavors. Yes, I do have over a 98% average in all of my honors and advanced placement science and math classes, but that does not mean I enjoy it. I loathe every second of them but I’ll be damned if I get a less-than-outstanding grade in ANY course. He raised a perfectionist, what can I say?

“I just need you to recognize your potential, y/n. You’re a Stark! You have so many opportunities right at you fingertips! Write as a hobby, I don’t care. But I will not allow you to waste the talent and intelligence that you clearly have,” Tony continues.

“I don’t want to. I will be miserable! And my intelligence is not being wasted; I want to pursue further education in English, maybe some foreign languages. I can and will be successful doing so.” I stand up from the kitchen bar-stool ready to leave the room. This conversation never ends until one of us gives up and leaves, so I guess I’ll be the one to call it.

“No no no, you aren’t leaving right now, y/n. This is important-”

I keep walking towards the door but he doesn’t quit.

“You know I just want what’s best for you. I’m thinking of your future!” He has to shout that last part a little since I’m already halfway down the hall.

I know it seems a little bitchy to walk away from a parent like that, but sometimes it’s necessary to stay sane in this household. And by household, I mean the Avengers compound - since nothing in my life can ever be simple.

I slow from a fast stride to a stroll, nearing my quarters where I can finally get away from my dad and our endless bickering. I love him to death, but I need a break.

To my dismay, I happen to pass by the last person I want to see right now, Peter Parker. He’s my dad’s newest addition around here and all I ever do is hear about it. “Peter is so smart, y/n, you should really learn from him. Peter is so great, y/n, why can’t you be more like him?” God, I have nothing against the guy, but after hearing his name come out of my fathers mouth so much, I was just about fed up.

“Hey y/n, you coming down to the lab later to help work on my suit? Your dad and I are making a ton of progress,” he says, practically buzzing with excitement. I do admit that his boyish charm is a little hard to resist. I still have no interest in his proposal, however.

“No thanks, definitely don’t want any part in that,” I roll my eyes.

“Is everything okay? Your dad told me you you haven’t been... working as hard lately...” I can tell he’s nervous saying that, and he sure as hell should be.

“Excuse me? Just because I don’t spend my entire life in the lab doesn’t mean I’m not ‘working hard.’ I can do other things! Other valid things with my life that don’t involve astrophysics or whatever the hell he wants me to be doing.” Maybe it’s unfair to take this out on Peter, but he’s the one who brought it up.

He holds his hands up in placating surrender. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But you really shouldn’t take this stuff for granted, y/n. You’re a Stark.”

You’re a Stark.

Yeah, no shit.

I ignore him and head to my room to change into workout clothes rather than the lounge wear I was planning on wearing. I’m too worked up to finish the editorial I was working on. I may not be into the science part of my legacy, but I loved my affinity for kicking ass. I could train for hours in the gym and, hopefully, my favorite sparring partner would be down there.

Luckily, he was.

“Hey Buck.” I can tell he already knows what’s coming. My recent blowouts with my father have not been very subtle around here.

“Here to blow off some steam, y/n/n? Bet Tony never knew what hit him.”

“Actually, I’m sure he thinks he won this one,” I grimaced. “It’s like running in circles with that man.”

“No comment,” he laughs. It’s no secret that he and my father don’t really have the best relationship either. However, we don’t have to dwell on it. One thing I love about him is he doesn’t pry, and he can tell when I’m not here to talk things out. He can also tell, though, when I want to beat the shit out of something. What better than a super soldier?

Of course, this is said loosely considering I am merely a teenage girl with mediocre fighting skills. I have been getting a lot better, though, with Bucky as my teacher. He’s hard on me, but I learn a lot.

Between hits and dodges, I huff my most recent grievances through labored breathing.

“He.... never... listens to me! I see him... with... that spider kid... and it’s like... just adopt him already!” We come to a standstill and I can tell Bucky doesn’t really know what to say to that. “I’m sorry, Buck. I just feel like if I’m such a disappointment, at least he has Peter, ya know? He already acts more like a dad to him than he ever has to me.”

It was harsh, but wasn’t entirely false. My father, while caring for me deeply, was really hard on me throughout my life. He’s always been so judgmental, and I can’t help but feel like he’s unhappy with me constantly.

Bucky gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m being a little over dramatic. “Come on, kid. You know how important you are to him. Peter is just... a lot less stubborn,” he adds with a grin.

I roll my eyes and punch him in the shoulder playfully. He continues, “Oh, come on. You know you don’t exactly make things easy on him. It also doesn’t help that you guys are so different. I mean, aside from the mutual bull-headedness, you guys are like day and night. Go easy on him, doll.”

He’s right, and it pisses me off. I do really care for my father and feel a little guilty about how I stormed off earlier. It’s probably due to my strenuous workout, but I felt a lot less inclined to argue and sought to make peace with my dad. I guess I’ll head over to my room to shower and get changed. After that, reluctantly, I’ll go apologize to Tony.

Walking into the lab did nothing to brighten my mood as I see Peter and my dad working together amicably. It differed greatly than the way my dad and I worked together - it usually ended up with various items flung across the room as frustrations rose and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Hey, he raised me.

“Hey, uh. Can I talk to you, dad?”

Tony raised his head from his work, surprised to see me standing there. Mostly because he hadn’t expected me to come back and talk to him for the rest of the day, and also because he didn’t hear me walk up to him, too engrossed in whatever he was working on.

“Hey, princess.” He’s hesitant. I know he doesn’t enjoy arguing with me, and the truth is, I don’t enjoy it either. Lately, it’s just been inevitable. “Uh, I really want to get this done as soon as possible and Peter can’t make it over tomorrow, so it has to be tonight. I’ll probably be up late, too, so... maybe we can talk tomorrow?”

I could see he really was busy, and knew for a fact that Peter had academic decathlon meetings every Wednesday afternoon, but I couldn’t help but take offense at his dismissive tone. For once, I took the high road, and he can’t even tear his eyes away from Peter’s stupid spider suit long enough to hear me out.

It all comes back to Peter, doesn’t it? We’ll see about that...

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #mcu spiderman #peter parker imagine #peter parker x stark!reader #stark!reader #stark!daughter #tony stark

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tuanhood · 5 years ago

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designated driver

pairing: im jaebeom x reader

genre: fluff, angst(?)

word count: 2.9k

summary: you and jaebeom are always the designated drivers.

a/n: this is kinda bad and unedited so as always don’t roast me. alsO if you’re just coming across this and my blog here’s a self plug for my mark social media au ------> blurred

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“Pretty boring party huh?” You heard someone say to the left of you.

If you had to be honest, you didn’t want to engage. You were completely fine leaning up against the back wall of the room, sipping on what had to be your fourth La Croix since arriving with your friends. That’s what you tended to do when you weren’t sure what to do. Just mindlessly drink a La Croix or four.

You had volunteered to be the designated driver once again. Somehow it seemed like you always ended up taking the role whenever you went out with your friends and you weren’t exactly sure how. Was it the sad look your best friend gave you all when everyone declared it was her turn? Or was it the awkward silence that followed the age-old question, “So who’s DD?”

This time had been no different, except the stakes had been a little higher.

Mark Tuan’s end of the semester party.

Of course, Mark was notorious for all of his parties – his Halloween parties, his Winter Wonderland Blowouts, Toga Parties and Tailgates – but it was his end of the semester party that was always the biggest and always the messiest. If you had to gather statistics from all of the end of semester parties Mark had had since you’ve been at University, you would have guessed that at least 30% of partygoers experienced some level of alcohol poisoning. And you weren’t exactly sure how Mark got all of the funds to cover all of his gatherings – it wasn’t like he was in a frat or charged cover – he somehow just had the means to supply three fourths of the campus with an ample amount of alcohol.

When the discussion over who would be driving occurred for Mark’s party, you had told yourself that this time you would not be the babysitter for the night, and you would be letting loose after the tough semester you had endured.

“So, who’s driving tonight?” One of your friends had asked slowly, drawing out her words in a way that was meant to tell all of you that it wasn’t going to be her.

“I mean… I honestly don’t want to,” another friend had piped up.

Your best friend sighed, knowing that left her since you had driven the last two times, but she pressed for an alternative, “what if we take Uber this time?”

“Do you know how expensive the surge will be? And who even knows if we’ll be able to get one since there’s less drivers here nowadays.”

You had tapped your foot nervously. It couldn’t be you again, it couldn’t.

“And if that happens, I’m not staying over! That house is disgusting after everyone leaves and I’m not staying with that jerk!”

You blinked slowly and replied, “Mark is your boyfriend.”

“I know but he’s really pissing me off right now and I refuse to stay there while he has that other heathen staying with him.”

“Girl, Bambam didn’t meant to push you in the pool last time. He didn’t know about your fear of water,” your best friend responded blankly.

More bickering had continued, and that’s when you realized that once again it was up to you to be the responsible one out of your friends. To give up the binge drinking you had planned for and the large carb filled meals you had prepped to have before.

When you offered it had felt like they had been waiting for you to say those magic words the whole time, but they retreated and strategically hid the smiles on their faces. They shook their heads and said things such as, “oh no you can’t! We’ll figure it out don’t worry.” Until finally they caved and let you do it.

As if you had been begging for the job in the first place.

That’s how you found yourself in the position you were in now, watching everyone have fun around you and get completely and utterly wasted. Everyone drank around you as if it was their last night on Earth and they would never see alcohol again.

“Okay, so no response?” The voice asked again.

This time you decided to engage and tell whoever attempted to bother you and your sober self-pity party to leave you alone. You were instantly met with warm brown eyes and a bright smile that belonged to none other than Im Jaebeom.

You had seen him at many parties, often in a similar position as you – being the one responsible friend who took on the role of getting everyone home safely. Sometimes at these events you would shoot a smile at each other, sometimes it would just be a quick eye contact to acknowledge one another, but usually it would be you and Jaebeom talking and laughing about all of the drunk idiots around you. You had to admit that he made being the designated driver a little more bearable as you watched all your friends have fun around you. And you would be lying to yourself if you said the butterflies in your stomach whenever you saw him meant nothing.

Tonight, you felt those butterflies working overtime as you took what he was wearing. A light beige turtleneck that fit him tightly in the chest and shoulders showing off his broad frame but hanging loosely at his arms. It made you want to cozy up to him and have him make you scream his name all it once. How a stupid turtleneck did all that for Im Jaebeom you had no clue. The short sleeved khaki work short over his lower layer only emphasized his tall, broad frame and drew attention to the distressed, medium wash jeans that sat on his hip.

He looked hot. Something you obviously already knew, but it still always left you surprised when you felt a large pang of attraction for him just based on his style alone.

His entire look was complete with his current signature look – a backwards baseball cap. At Mark’s neon party a semester or two ago you remembered making a comment about how you thought backwards hats only looked good on a certain kind of guy. And that the certain kind of guy who was able to pull it off without looking like a douchebag was in your opinion, attractive. By certain kind of guy, you had meant Jaebeom, but you had figured he hadn’t caught on to that, but his fashion choices for the last few parties made you wonder if he was wearing them because of you.

You immediately shrugged the thought out of your head. As if Im Jaebeom would do anything for me. He doesn’t do anything for anyone.

With the time spent on his appearance you hardly noticed the red cup in his hand, which made you frown almost immediately. “Not the DD tonight?” You asked, a little bit sad that he wouldn’t be your sober buddy for the night.

He smiled at you sheepishly and tipped the cup towards you in an effort for you to be able to view the inside, “It’s just water.”

You pretended to be shocked and gazed at him with wide eyes, “Im Jaebeom are you telling me that you’re ditching your one true love, strawberry milk for water?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes at you pretending to be annoyed, but you could tell by the glimmer in his eyes and the corner of his mouth moving upwards, he was attempting to tease you. As was most of the encounters you had with him.

In a way you hoped that the teasing you often did to one another would lead to something more. In fact, it almost felt like your own version of a cat and mouse game, but most of your contact with Jaebeom was simply left to the confounds of a party. Never had you approached one another on campus, or ever had the slightest attempt to slide into one another’s DMs. Maybe all you two were good for was being designated driver colleagues.

“So, who made you drive this time? Youngjae? Ooh no I bet it was Yugyeom.” At your question, you noticed him look down shyly.

“Ah… Well you know…” He paused and rubbed the back of his neck, “A little bit of everyone.”

You nodded your head in agreement, “same here. I was going to get wasted after the semester I had, but once again I guilted myself into after no one really volunteered.” Jaebeom cleared his throat, “well you know any time you feel like you’re being coerced into it I can always take you and your friends home? I could even do it tonight if you uh… wanted to.”

You felt your heart warm at his offer.

“That would be really nice of you Jae, but what about your friends?” You laughed and you could almost have sworn that he froze at your use of his nickname.

He nodded slightly and looked away from you, out towards the party and the drunk people surrounding you both, “right, right of course.”

“But you definitely make this whole always getting stuck with designated driver kinda fun,” you mused. He turned back to you immediately, batting his eyelashes, “only kinda? You know I make it kinda definitely fun.”

His response caused you to snort and you couldn’t help but disagree with him. He didn’t make it just kinda fun or kinda definitely fun, but instead he made the whole thing fun and worth it. The moments over the last year or so that he made you laugh, warmed you with the gentle touch of his hand on your arm or made you freeze with just one look, had you thinking that if you had to stay sober for the rest of your life while your friends had fun and partied around you, it would be okay as long as you were with Jaebeom. When you were with him it was as though you were intoxicated in your own kind of way. It was as if you were drunk on him.

But he clearly doesn’t feel the same way. Otherwise he would have done something already, right?

You felt his hand comfortingly go to your shoulder as it always did when he was about to begin one of his big stories about his cats, a new track he was producing, something Jinyoung had learned in his Philosophy lecture or anything in between.

Looking up to him with big eyes, ready to listen to anything Im Jaebeom has to tell you, you smiled softly to show him he has all your attention, “so what is it this time?”

Jaebeom was just about to open his mouth when you heard a crash and a familiar voice suddenly yell, “watch out!” It’s at that moment you turn to see a football coming directly towards your face. You froze, too unsure and slow to react to the object.

At that moment you felt warm arms wrap around your waist as you’re spun to the other side of Jaebeom, the football avoiding you completely and simply hitting the wall behind where you were originally stood.

“Are you okay?” Jaebeom asked you, looking down at you with eyes full of concern.

“Y-Yeah t-thank you,” you barely managed to stutter out. And you don’t know it’s from the the shock and fast pace of what just happened or Jaebeom’s arms still firmly wrapped around your waist, as if they were meant to always be there.

Jaebeom nodded at you and as he turned to face the culprit, you feel his arms move away from your waist and rest at his side. You felt yourself frown.

“Bambam are you an idiot or something? Why the hell are you playing football inside?” Jaebeom asked the younger boy with annoyance written all over his face.

The younger boy immediately rolled his eyes at him as if his indoor take on an outdoor sport was the most obvious thing in the world. “Jinyoung told me it wasn’t possible, so obviously I had to try.”

“If Jinyoung tells you it’s not possible to jump off a bridge, would you do it?” As if on cue, Bambam rolled his eyes again, “no Jaebeom, of course I wouldn’t.” He turned to you and moved his eyes in Jaebeom’s direction as if to say can you believe this guy?

“Sorry about your drink by the way,” Bambam suddenly said, leaning down to the floor by your feet. It’s then when you realize that Jaebeom was no longer holding his red cup, as he must have dropped it when he rallied to get out of the way of Bambam’s football game. Bambam picked up the cup and sniffed the inside of the cup once and handing it over to you, “here.”

You shook your head at him, “It’s Jae’s.”

Bambam looked at you with confusion and turned to Jaebeom, “are you already that drunk that you have to switch to water?” he cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes to take Jaebeom in, “you don’t look that drunk.” Once again you found yourself shaking your head at Bambam for his incorrect statement, “no, no, no. He’s the designated driver.”

He looked back and forth between you and Jaebeom for a moment with wide eyes until finally deciding to fixate them on you, “what!? Are you telling me that Jaebeom is sober? If I would have known I would be halfway to the hospital for excessive alcohol consumption,” he groaned, “why does everything bad always happen to me?”

This time it’s you who looked at him in confusion, unsure of what he was saying and that’s when you took notice of Jaebeom rubbing his hand against the back of his neck once again – his nervous habit.

“If you’re just going to abuse your right to party, then I’m never volunteering to be designated driver again,” Bambam muttered.

It’s at that moment when everything clicks, Jaebeom was pretending to have to be sober. But why?

You turned to Jaebeom, “Bam’s your guys’ DD? Why aren’t you drinking?” You smiled at him and grabbed him a bit, shaking him excitedly, “you know taking part in organized binge drinking and alcohol poisoning?”

“I- well you know I just knew that you would probably be the one who has to drive all your friends home again… A-And you know I thought it would be lame if you were sober on your own so I just thought that I would keep you company.”

Bambam doesn’t hide his annoyance at Jaebeom, “I would have also been sober with her… and you know what? I am!” Jaebeom turned to look at Bambam with a scowl on his face, “Yeah but I’m the one who likes her so you should just shut your-” Jaebeom cuts himself off and widens his eyes, at a loss for words, not believing the confession he had just let slip from his mouth.

“You like me?” You asked him, also not quite believing Jaebeom’s sudden reveal.

He turned to look at you softly, lowering his head gently to the side, “Y-yeah and I planned on asking you to hangout away from all of our drunk friends and confessing to you somewhere a bit better. Like that tree you always sit under by the main quad or the rose garden near my apartment, literally anywhere else besides here.” He paused and groaned, putting his head in his heads woefully, “and now I’ve given probably the worst confession ever… Yelling at this stupid idiot,” he muttered bitterly, his eyes fixed on Bambam angrily.

Just knowing he wanted to take you somewhere special to confess his feelings for you was more than enough to give you the same warm buzz you know you would have felt if he had performed a grand romantic gesture, but somehow him doing it here – at a party surrounded by drunk people and scolding Bambam was kind of perfect in its own way.

In yours and Jaebeom’s way.

You reached out to grab Jaebeom’s hand before he can stop himself from doing any kind of damage to Bambam. At your touch, and your hand in his you felt him relax.

Delicately, you set your eyes on his and he returns your fragile look almost as though you both are having a silent conversation with one another. You had already known what you felt for Jaebeom was more than just casual friends who kept each other sane during a party, but for the first time since meeting him you realized that you wanted Jaebeom to have every piece of you and for the first time ever you weren’t scared of that.

You rubbed your thumb over his hand and felt yourself look at him shyly, “why don’t we go talk about this… upstairs?”

It takes a moment for him to figure out what you mean, and he almost chokes when he realizes, “t-that would be good. I would like that.”

Without another word you tugged on his hand, leading him through the crowd of partygoers and towards the stairs, leaving Bambam to gawk at both of you in shock.

“What’s going on over there?” Your best friend asked Bambam, slurring her words from her last few hours of too many cups of jungle juice.

Bambam blinked slowly for a moment, getting out of his state of surprise. He placed his hand on her shoulder and pat it comfortingly, “your designated driver and my new designated driver are going upstairs to have sex, so I hope you’re not planning on going home any time soon.”

She stared at him blankly, lost in confusion.

He pats her one more time and began his walk towards the kitchen, “now if you excuse me, I’m going to go get hammered. I have some catching up to do.”

#got7 fanfic #got7 au #im jaebeom #jaebeom fanfic #got7 fic

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fanfiction-fanfictioneverywhere · 5 years ago

Text

Bite Me

Pairing: Poe Dameron x reader

Prompt: Prompt 88 "bite me." "eat me." "kiss my ass."

Tags: bratty Poe, lil bit of sexual tension

A/N: a little long but I’m happy with it. There might be a second part

“I don’t know how you of all people, I got stuck getting paired with you for this mission.” Poe Dameron huffed as he fiddled with the controls of an enemy ship.

You rolled our eyes, “I’m not too thrilled about it either.”

“Would you two stop flirting? Or at least turn your team comms off.” Finn begged. “We’re almost done and I’m ready to be done being the third wheel.”

“Shut up Finn.” You both exclaimed.

“As if I’d flirt with you.” Poe mumbled.

You didn’t answer, movement caught you focus. “Shut up. We have company.”

Poe’s sharp gaze snapped up, following the motion of your head. “Can you buy me a few more minutes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” You hurried in the direction of the troopers you saw moments before.

You joined the rebellion when your sharpshooter skills were noticed by an undercover agent. It didn’t take long for you to meet Finn and Poe. You and Finn became quick friends, Poe on the other hand… was less trusting. Healthy skepticism he called it, but you and Finn called it paranoia. You could still hear the blowout argument that Poe had with Finn, we don’t know anything about here. How are we supposed to trust a stranger?

You snapped back from your thoughts as you rounded the corner and come face to face with your targets.

They were fast but you were faster.

“Few minutes bought, you done yet?” You asked, eyes peeled looking for any surprises.

“Yeah, we’ve got what we were looking for.” He said. “Meet you back on the ship.”

“No. Wait there. I’m supposed to watch your six.” You felt like something was off.

He scoffed, audible through the comms. “I don’t need your protection. You’re not the only one good with blasters.”

“Finn, talk some sense into him.” You jogged toward where you left the pilot.

“I can hear you; I don’t need help.” Poe snapped. “And I’m not waiting for you.”

You break into a run toward the control room. This was too easy. His dumbass was going to get killed.

Suddenly you froze as a group of troopers rounded the corner with nonother than Poe shackled between them. You hadn’t even left him alone for more than 5 minutes, less than a minute ago he was bitching at you.

Your hand had already been at your hip on your blaster. Before they even had a chance to lift their blasters you had them on the ground.

“What was that about not needing help?” You smirked.

“Bite me.” He replied.

You rolled your eyes, pushing him back in the direction of the escape ship.

“Hey, hey, hey, take the cuffs off.” He whined.

“Get them off yourself.” You huffed.

~~*~~

“Stop pouting Poe. You deserved it.” Finn chuckled.

“She could’ve taken the cuffs off.” He grumbled.

The boys were playing a round of Dejarik. Poe had been refusing to acknowledge your presence as you sat across the room from them cleaning your blasters.

You had remained relatively quiet after you had gotten onto the ship, you doubted Poe noticed but the frequency of Finn’s glances meant that he did. And like a good friend, he was letting you have your space. You were stewing, angry that Poe’s stubbornness almost got him captured.

“You were the one being a smartass.” Finn laughed. “You just got what was coming for you.”

You put your blasters into their case and loudly closed the lid.

Poe glanced over at you for the first time to see you shooting daggers at him.

“What?! What are you still mad about?” Poe exclaimed.

Instead of fighting you got up and walked into the cockpit, joining Chewy. Sitting in the copilot seat, you rested your head in your hands, rubbing your eyes. Something about that damn pilot got under your skin so easily.

Chewy purred next to you, asking what was wrong.

“Nothing buddy. Poe is just… Poe.” You chuckled breathlessly.

The Wookiee nodded in understanding. You both sat in silence until you dropped out of hyperspace, arriving at Ajan Kloss.

You could hear Finn asking for a status update on Rey from the cockpit. Poor guy, that’s all he seemed to care about nowadays. As both boys exited the ship, Poe paused at looked up at where you still sat. Sighing you followed Chewy as he got up.

“Ah Y/N, for a second there I was worried you had gotten left behind.” General Organa smiled, and extended her arms to you.

You happily embraced her. Human interaction wasn’t something you got to experience often in your line of work.

“Hey General Organa, you should hear what Poe pulled to piss Y/N off.” Finn chuckled.

She sighed. “What is with you two?”

Before either of you could respond, she raised her hands.

“I think we need to address this before it gets any worse. And if you two are going to act like children, I’m going to treat you like children.” She motioned you two to follow her.

Thirty minutes later, you two were cuffed together in the back of the Millenium Falcon.

“Was locking us on the ship necessary?” You asked to no one in particular.

Poe huffed, yanking against the cuffs, pulling your arm back with it.

“Stop it twirp. We’re both in the same situation. Don’t dislocate my arm.” You growled.

“Eat me.” Poe snapped back.

“Kiss my ass.” You cracked back.

The crackle of the intercom interrupted your banter.

“Hey you two, play nice. That means no mean words.” Finn’s voice held a smidge of smugness in it.

“Are you going to watch us the entire time?” You asked.

He chuckled. “Nah, I have better things to do. I just wanted to rub it in.”

“Screw you Finn.” You both shouted back.

“Second time in one day, I think you two are warming up to each other.” He laughed before you hear the click as he hung up.

You both sat in silence for what felt like hours. The sun was starting to set.

“Do you think they’re going to leave us in here all night?” You asked.

Poe sighed, “probably.”

“Can we at least move over to the holograph table? Those seats are cushioned.” You suggested.

“Sure.” He said and stood.

You sat next to each other for a few minutes before Poe turned the table on.

“Round of Dejarikk?” He offered.

You cracked a smile, “Sure but I’m by no means good at it.”

“I’ll teach you.” He smirked back.

You glanced at him, “are your game skills better than your direction following skills?”

“Listen here smartass.” He turned to you, meeting your gaze.

“Listening.” You whispered.

His body heat was getting to be unbearable; you could feel your face flushing from it. His gaze didn’t waiver, as he leaned in, pausing a few inches from your face.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

You raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Having my six. I wouldn’t have made it off that ship without your stubborn ass.” He murmured.

“You’re the stubborn ass. I told you to stay put!” You exclaimed.

“Shh, shh, okay, you’re right.” Poe raised his free hand in defeat.

You raised both brows at that.

“Did the infamous Poe Dameron, pilot extraordinaire just–.”

“Say you were right? Yes. And I’m about to also apologize.” He leaned into you.

You smirked, “alright let’s hear it.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been an ass; I was just being skeptical.”

You frowned. “There’s a big difference between skeptical and hostile.”

He snorted.

“Okay. You’re right. But normally beautiful women don’t join the losing side.”

Before you could open your mouth again, he leaned in and rested his forehead against yours.

“If you don’t stop me in the next few seconds, I’m going to kiss you.” He whispered.

You leaned in before he had a chance. His lips were soft and tasted like caf. You pulled away from each other just long enough to make eye contact. Poe grabbed the back of your head, crashing your lips together. His lips were hungry against yours and fuck, it felt good. Your free hand went to his waistband.

Poe backed away, his free hand on yours.

“As much as I like where this is going. Finn will never in a million years let us live it down.” He chuckled.

You smiled, knowing he was right. Reluctantly moving your hand away.

He leaned in and kissed your shoulder. “After this is over, meet me in the cockpit.”

#poe dameron #poe x reader #star wars imagine #poe imagine #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x reader

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amnachil · 5 years ago

Text

The College Society Chapter 3 Part 2

Did I skip a week ? Yes. Was it on purpose ? No. Will it happen again ? Maybe.

Sorry :s

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey Monday January 21

He tried his best to stay calm. Why would he be mad ? It wasn't something important at all. And he had his cock in Amber's pussy right now. He couldn't be mad. Not before he came. Screw it. I'm mad. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey stood up, enraged.

"What are you doing ?" asked the cheerleader's captain. "We ain't finished yet. You promised me ten orgasm in one go, I got only nine."

"It was before you ruined everything." he replied. "Stupid bitch."

"Don't be vulgar. It makes me hornier."

This fuckin' little scumbag. She dares. He decided to ignore her. He put his briefs and his pants.

"C'mon Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey." she begged with a sweet, touching tone. "I'm sorry if it piss you off, but it's done now."

"You gave to this shitty Theophile your bmw and three tickets for the incoming big musical festival ! I mean, why the fuck ?"

She lowered her eyes. I don't like this. At all.

"Some people think you might be... out of touch with the prey. Look, we all know it had always been easy for you to hunt. And maybe, just maybe you got a bit overconfident and lost some skills."

The Dean's grandson hesitated. Should he strangle her or just beat the shit out of her ? He slowly put his shirt. This asshole, after all the things he did for her.

"There are bets among the hunters." she confessed, a bit scared by his attitude. "Most of us think Theo will win this. But hey, you're still the best in bed. Girls, boys, trans, you're our favorite when it comes to sex."

"You gambled against me." he realised. "That's why you helped Theo. And that's why you're distracting me here. You little dirty toad. I'm not a gigolo you can call when you want."

"To my opinion ? You should withdraw and just enjoy your already well developped sex life. Your pathetic strategy is working too slowly. Did you kiss him once already ? Theo will have him in bed wednesday night, whatever you try."

It was enough. All those stupids jerks thought he wasn't able to win the hunt ? Let's have some fun.

"Who's organizing these bets ?" he asked.

"Obviously Steve. Who else ?"

He left without a response.

When he arrived at the music club, it was running late but they were still playing some dumbshit music. Most of them were off-key, and it sounded horrible. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey waited outside until Steve noticed him. The conductor decided to make a break, and came closer.

"You want something ?"

"Hell yeah. I'm here to make a bet."

"A what ?"

"Don't make yourself dumber than you already are porker. Listen carefully jackass. I'm betting 1000$ that Theophile will just fail like the contemptible shit he is, and I'll catch the prey. Do you understand ?"

Steve blinked, shocked. Stupid pitiful bonehead. You wanted to bet, we're betting.

"Okay..." he eventually whispered. "But I can't tell you who already gambled and..."

"Don't bother cretin. I know them by heart. Theo himself, you of course, Amber, Sam from the Beta Omicron, and the professor Linda Webers, all against me. Archie gambled for me. Am I right ?"

The dumbass's eyes spoke for him. All the greedier and most sutpid hunters, except Archie. The clevers didn't gambled yet. They're too cautious. He was glad to know Summer did nothing yet. The girl might be useful soon to get rid of those hyenas.

Damian Nicholas Smith Carrey then headed straight to his apartment. At the moment, Theo probably had already invited Liam for the festival. And my baboon of a boyfriend said yes, for sure. But what about the third ticket ? Not for Laura, it wouldn't make sense... It's for Nicolas. The fatty roommate. Oh man, this greedy Theo, he wants both of them. The blond lad looked at his phone. Zack had called him twice this evening. He would talk to him later. First, the business. He dialled Nancy number and waited.

"Geek to best dick in the world, what's the matter ?" she answered almost immediately.

She had her own way to communicate. I like it anyway. My cock is one of my favourite subject.

"I need a ticket for the festival of wednesday. I know the sales are off but can you find one ?"

"Of course sir. Send dick pick or butt pick and you'll be fulfilled."

He quickly and gladly sent both. He was still a bit hard from Amber's session, Nancy would like it.

"Nice." she appreciated. "I'm adding those to my collection asap. Damn, now my ceiling is almost covered like my walls. I have too many screen of your body dude."

I wonder what would happen if someone entered her room. It wasn't his problem anyway.

"Okay... I found someone selling his ticket for 250$." she announced after a moment. "Let me see if I can do better. By the way, it seems your ass is getting rounder again."

"Yeah, I overindulged in pastries lately. Long story."

It wasn't much, but Nancy was good to notice small detail.

"Oh, there we are. A moron who wants a revenge against his girlfriend and... whatever, we don't care about the story. Ticket is bought sir. You owe me 100$, but you know how I am, you can pay in kind."

"So nice of you milady. Send the ticket and let's have some fun."

Liam Wednesday January 23

His shrink Ms. Hang and him were on their third session. They hadn't talked much during the previous one. Mostly because he wasn't inclined to. He came only because he liked the couch. And I'll have to go soon, because Nick, Theo and me are going at the festival. He intented to protect his friend, because he knew the ogre was up to something bad.

"Tell me Liam." spoke eventually Ms. Hang. "What are your favorites hobbies ?"

Sleep. Going to the gym. Sleep again. Talk with the unicorns. He didn't answer. (Now that he thought about it, there was another thing he liked lately : make blowout with Dami's bakes). (His boyfriend, even if they never really formalized the thing, was a damn good baker, and cook in general). (They had only three more date after the movie, and each time, Liam ended up stuffed like a turkey).

"You know silent is an answer ?" asked Ms. Hang. "It help me to understand you. And there is a piece of advice I can give you."

"What ?"

"You should act more like your father."

Liam feigned to sleep. I didn't hear, nanana. It was the worst advice he ever heard.

"I don't mean to do the bad things he did." she insisted. "But you sure could use some of his confidence. He's a successful millionaire, known and respected. And you are the complete opposite, a shy, dreamy young adult who flee from his problems. You can learn some stuff from him."

"It's not a good idea." he contradicted. "And I'm sorry, but I need to go."

"Of course. The session is over anyway. But think about it Liam."

He went back at his apartment as fast as possible. And he tried to not think about it at all. Be like his father ? Learn from him ? I'm pretty convinced he's with the forces of evil. I think he and the witch made an alliance to fight us. (By us, Liam meant mainly the unicorns who lived under his bed). Anyway, he changed for more causual clothes, sweatpants and pullover, and then joined Nick.

"I've a bad feeling about this." confessed this one. "I mean, why Theo invited both of us to a music festival ? Where's the catch ?"

Make you eat your content. Kidnap you. Eat you. The ogre probably planned this. But Liam would protect his friend.

"I don't know why I'm asking you. I'm guessing you didn't even realised you put your pullover backwards..."

Theo picked them up in a nice car, and they arrived five minute later. The festival took place in a vast shed and all around. Quickly, they got lost in the crowd. The junior led them towards the center, and bought them food. (Obviously he did). (Greasy, rich food). And they started to dance, and listen to some bands. Nothing seemed to happen, and Liam started to feel reassured. After all, maybe Theo was just nice ? At some point, Nick whispered to his roommate :

"You know, I'm supposed to lose weight but fuck, if Theo keep feeding me like this, I'm gonna burst."

Liam himself had to admit, he had eaten a lot too. (But far less than he could handle).

"Maybe we should go somewhere less noisy to rest a bit." suggested the chestnut lad.

He expected to put some distance between them and the ogre. If we have to run, bloated like we are, it'll be fun to watch. (He pictured to stuffed turkeys running, and it made him laugh). Anyway, they found themselves next to the toilet area.

"Good call buddy." congratulated Nick. "I'll be back."

He entered in one cabin. Liam waited a bit, looking at the crowd. There were spotlight of several colors. People were dancing with ardor. He glanced at what looked like fairies and human-butterfly. (It was a real thing).

"Baboon !"

The lad turned his head. He glimpsed Dami coming closer.

"Dude, I'm calling you for almost ten minutes now." he said once here. "Are you deaf ?"

"Maybe." conceded Liam. "Sometimes I become blind and I can't see. Sometimes I can't hear. I don't know why."

(In truth, it probably was because he just went out of touch with the real world). (Literally in fact).

Dami tried to say something, but suddenly, a girl grabbed him and kissed him with passion. She shouted :

"Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey, where have you been ?!"

And then she kissed him again. For a long, very long time. Liam watched them, a bit surprised. He didn't know how to react properly. She is... Dami tried to do something. His eyes were burning with a mix of anger and surprise.

"Let's finish what we started." continued the girl.

She tried to pull off the boy's pants, apparently ready to do... Liam couldn't stand it. He just ran. Even his slow brain could understand what it meant.

Barbara Thursday January 24

She closed a book with a sigh of relief. Military stuff could be so scary sometimes. But also very instructive. The conquest of power wasn't an easy path, but Barbara was confident. The queen of this college, this Summer, she wouldn't be a problem. Then, she would've to get rid of this abusive king, Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey. Not easy, but one thing after another.

"Can you give me the plate ?" asked Jessy. "I'm still hungry."

Yeah, of course she was. Back in highschool, Barbara had saw her grade fall into decadence. Several people became greedy fatties. Even now, she was still wondering if it was Raphaël's doing ? Did he have manipulated people in order to make all his rivals become worthless ? You can't be at the top when you're too fat. People judge you only by your look. A bit of chub was the sign of a weathly life, but too much was just a proof you ain't able to control yourself. If you're not the master of your body and your mind, you can't be the master of the other. Jessy just let herself go for two years now. She wasn't in the race anymore.

"So... are you seriously gonna meet the football team captain today ?" asked Jessy. "When did you became so important ?"

"Well, you know, it just happenned."

"And what about Colton ? You said you would arrange a date between us."

I said it, right. She had planned to find a cover for her since the very beginning of their relationship. When she had met Colton in 12th grade, she knew they weren't meant to be together. Unlike Raphaël, who she never truly understood, he was a simple-minded lad. Since then, she had been searching someone to replace her when the time would come. Because she didn't need him under her feet, and neither his sister, Leila.

"I'll go see him." she assured. "Don't worry, he'll like you."

"I know, everybody likes me."

In your dreams maybe. Barbara just smiled and then left. She had an important appointment after all.

She met Oliver Thompson, the football team's captain, in the library C. He was a man of culture as well as a athlete. He was famous in the university and the town, because his team had managed to go the the national each year since he was captain. That was why Barbara needed him in her side.

"Hi." she greeted and sat in front of him. "Nice to meet you."

"Same."

The lad was tall (187 cm or 6'2") and corpulent. A mix of fat and muscle very imposing. She honestly looked like a tiny little girl in comparison. I'm 151 cm (4'11") and weight around 44kg (97 pounds). Of course I can't impress people with my stature.

"You probably know that I'll be the next head of the student union." she smiled. "I'm gonna make some important change, and first of all, I want to support our most important clubs."

It was the weird thing about this college. Fraternities and sororities weren't as powerful as she thought. Many student didn't even joined them. But activities's clubs were the center of the power. If I control them, I control the university.

"It's nice." admitted Oliver. "Summer's giving us a considerable budget already, but more is always welcome. But sorry, I'm not sure you'll have the real power to do it, even as the head of the student."

"I know what you mean. It depend of the hunters right ?"

The hunters. The women and men who chased for power and sex. As far as I know, they rule the university. Summer is one of them. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey is one of them. I'm one of them.

"Exactly. Trust me, we all know the next general assembly is coming soon for the budget of the second semester. We all want our slice of the cake. But it's the community who prevails. The better hunter you are, the better are you chances."

"Even for me ?"

"Even for you. Maybe you think you'll be head of the student, but you'll have zero power if the community is with Summer. She's good ya know ? As long as the hunters respect her more than you, she still have the power."

Make sense. Barbara thanked the football player, and left, her head full of thought.

The petite blonde then attempted to her lessons. And this evening, she headed towards the pool. She had no interest at all for swimmers. They were only a few and in great majority useless. Especially this bastard, Liam. She hated him with her body and soul. To be honest, she only knew the story from Jessy, but it was enough. The chestnut brown lad had always been a bit weird. It wasn't surprising that he had tried to kill someone eventually. Anyway, she was here for Colton. Her ex-boyfriend had joined the swimming club when she had left him. A bit pathetic to my opinion, but whatever. She glanced him. Sadly, he was with this damn Liam. For a moment, she looked them do lenghts. They were both good. Colton was a bit shorter and thinner. More athletic. Liam was thicker, with a flat but slightly soft stomach. He had quite an ass, she noticed. What am I doing ? I'm not here to covet this dumb guy. Eventually, she decided to come closer.

"Colton." she hailed. "Can we talk ?"

The dark-haired lad glanced at her with a strange look. Next to him, Liam closed his eyes, maybe in order to disappear. But I can see you idiot.

"I won't be long." she assured. "I just want to introduce you to a friend of mine. I think you'll like her, and it could be good for you to be distracted. Why not next week ? I'm only worried for you, of course."

"Okay, I'm fine with it but only if I can bring a friend. Nick for example ?"

"Whoever you wants except Liam."

This latter pouted. Jessy doesn't need to see you. In fact, she might try to kill you if you two meet.

To be continued

Barbara’s pov help us to discover more about both Liam’s past and the hunter community... Where a war is starting. Will Theo surpass Dami ? Or maybe Liam will not fall for either of them. Right now, is main goal is to protect his fattened roommate anyway.

#the college society #cs #Damian Nicholas Smith Carrey #Liam #Barbara #weight gain #stuffing #Nick is fattened by Theo #Liam the hero is here #Barbara is ploting something bad #She hates Liam #Chapter 3 #Part 2

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years ago

Text

The Period of the Long Change (6/15)

It’s quick. One second she’s standing there and everything is fine and then Emma looks up and it’s not. It’s awful. And the lights are too bright and there are too many rooms and too many opinions and her phone won’t stop ringing because everything seems to be changing all at once. She’s never been great at coping with change. But, maybe, if she can just figure it out and stay right where she is, with Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, at her side, it’ll be alright.

It’s slow. One second he’s standing there and everything is fine and then Killian’s breath catches and it’s not. It’s terrifying. And the noises are too loud and there are too many questions and he can’t find the right answers to any of them, not sure how to cope with everything changing all at once. That’s never really been his forte. But, maybe, if he can just figure it out and stay right where he is, with Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations, at his side, it’ll be alright.

It’s another season and another challenge and Emma and Killian are both struggling to get over the boards.

Rating: Mature Word Count: A lot happens this chapter. There are a lot of words. AN: Today’s update also comes with some promises that what you’re about to read absolutely, one-hundred percent happens in real life. But! If you’re like Laura, that is absurd, these are grown men, not idiots, I would say, au contraire and then present you with these links. One, from the Rangers last year. And the second from the Blues this year, a team that not only got a puppy after this incident, but is now in the playoffs. So, yeah, this happens. I promise. If you’re still reading and clicking, I can’t thank you enough. It’s real nice.

Also on Ao3 and FF.net and Tumblr if that’s your jam.

“Go back to sleep.” “I can’t.” “Swan.” She flipped, hair flying everywhere and almost getting in his mouth, and Killian winced when her knee collided with his shin. “Ah, shit,” Emma mumbled, untwisting the blanket that had, somehow, moved in between them. “I wasn’t trying to do that.” “You mean to tell me you weren’t actively attempting to incapacitate me?” Killian asked, and he knew the joke didn’t land before he’d even finished making it.

Emma laughed, but it was more an exhale and a sigh, and she licked her lips quickly, like she was being timed and that was kind of true because it was Saturday, but she still had meetings with Zelena and Aurora and something with Sam and Joe about MC’ing an event they’d done for the last thirty years.

And Phillip’s memorial or whatever.

That wasn’t the right word at all, but it was some kind of celebration because, it seemed, setting a of rookie scoring record was a pretty good starting point for a career and Phillip had reached three-hundred points before anyone expected him too and, apparently, that meant there had to be some sort of ceremony.

That was the word for it.

It also meant Emma had to plan it and he knew there were, at least, fifty-six post-it notes detailing the breakdown of the whole goddamn thing on every inch of her desk.

She’d run out of floor space two days before. And Merida had to get her a new chair the day before that because Emma kept piling paperwork in her own seat.

Killian wanted to go back to sleep.

“We’ve got time,” he muttered, ignoring whatever the air was doing around them. Filling with tension and bad jokes and he was so goddamn tired of being worried and, generically, tired.

It was a miracle their bedroom door hadn’t been knocked over yet.

Or at least slightly checked against.

Matt liked to try and check the door.

“I have no time,” Emma argued. “I have, like, negative amounts of time. I should be in the shower already.” Killian grinned, tongue against the inside of his cheek and eyes a bit wider than usual, and Emma’s laugh sounded genuine that time. He swore he could feel it, fixing the air and probably all of the greenhouse issues on the entire planet and she closed her eyes when he pulled her against his chest.

“That could be very easily fixed, you know,” he muttered, mostly into her hair. Her whole body shook against him, which wasn’t really helping their cause or his desire to go back to sleep because it was Saturday and there wasn’t a game, and they should be able to linger in each other’s space for awhile.

“I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“How do you figure?” “Are you kidding me?” Emma asked, propping her head on one hand and her hair fell over her arm. “I’m counting the actual seconds until someone throws something at that door.” “I really doubt Peggy’s got that kind of upper-body strength yet. Maybe if we add some weights to her workout.” “Really confident in your own sense of humor, huh?”

Killian hummed, smirk back on his face and something that might have actually been butterflies in his stomach, which didn’t make any sense at all because he was flirting with his own wife and talking about their thirteen-month-old attacking the half-closed door on the other side of the room, but it was nice in a way that home was nice and comforting and safe and maybe he could hide Emma’s phone.

That seemed kind of immature.

“Occasionally,” Killian said, dropping his hand to trace over the curve of Emma’s hip. Her eyes fluttered again, teeth finding her lower lip and the butterflies disappeared almost immediately.

“Sometimes,” Emma amended, and her voice was just a bit breathless. He was going to count that as several different victories. “You know she almost kept her balance without holding onto anything for, like, a solid two seconds yesterday afternoon.” “What?” Emma nodded, smile wide despite her obvious efforts to stay cool and Killian was only slightly worried that his heart was going to do permanent damage to his chest cavity. Ariel would be pissed about that.

He’d walked too quickly on the treadmill yesterday, so she was out for blood.

“Yeah,” Emma continued. “You were making jokes about upper-body strength, but that kid is ridiculously strong. Like He-Woman or something.” “Is that a compliment?” “It is when I’m saying it.” “Ah, of course,” Killian chuckled, kissing between Emma’s eyebrows before he could stop himself. Maybe they didn’t have to go back to sleep. Maybe they could just evolve into some kind of picture-perfect family of his fluff-type dreams and he wouldn’t miss Peggy’s displays of upper-body strength because he was trying to keep his heart rate at a medically approved level.

It wasn’t at the moment.

He was sure.

“So, we were in my office and Zelena was waxing poetic about food choices, which is absurd because we’ve done this before and the food is always the same and Gotham has, like, one catering option and--”

“--Focus, Swan.”

She stuck her tongue out. He kissed her jaw. He kind of wanted to kiss everywhere else.

“You are impatient,” Emma accused, and Killian couldn't really argue with that. “Anyway, we were in my office and I was ignoring Zelena and Pegs totally pulled herself up, waddled around for approximately two and a half seconds and then promptly fell over. But it was a very impressive two and a half seconds.” “Two and a half, huh?” “Eh, maybe closer to three. We'll round up for the kid, you know?”

“Naturally,” Killian muttered, but he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening to his entire body and it felt like a mix of happiness and disappointment and a little frustration and he wished he could just pick one emotion and stick with it.

He wished he hadn’t missed that.

He wished he didn’t have more PT that afternoon.

“Hey,” Emma said, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt she could tug on. She settled for brushing her fingers over his forehead instead and, that time, it was Killian’s turn for his eyes to flutter shut, a ragged breath falling out of him and he wished he had the answers for several dozen questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask. “You ok?” “You keep asking me that, love,” he muttered. He hadn’t opened his eyes.

“It’s because I’m consistently curious. And worried. Probably more than curious.” “I know, Swan. I don’t want you to worry though. You’ve got enough to think about already. Zelena shouldn't be talking about the food. It’s the same every year.” “That’s true,” Emma agreed. “But, strange as it may seem, I’m almost ok with worrying about you. It’s part of the deal.” Killian opened his eyes, arching an eyebrow and he wasn’t entirely prepared for the slightly nervous look on Emma’s face. “The deal, huh?” “Yeah, you know, indefinitely or whatever. For concussions or worse.” “I don’t think that’s exactly what we said.” She couldn’t shrug when she was on her side, but she certainly made an effort and Killian briefly wondered if maybe that was where their daughter got her distinct lack of balance from. Emma wobbled a bit, eyes widening a fraction of an inch and it was all green and emotional and for concussions or worse didn’t really sound that bad.

“Semantics,” Emma mumbled. “Worrying about you isn’t...it’s not a job. It’s instinct or something that sounds way less lame than that.” “That doesn’t sound lame,” Killian said, and he probably shouldn't have responded that quickly or that enthusiastically, but he’d kind of lost control of everything and the world consistently felt as if it were spinning out of orbit, even when he was walking as slowly as possible. So, really, shouting emotions in Emma’s face was kind of a return to the usual.

She laughed softly, a sound he would have been more than willing to hear for the rest of forever if that weren’t even more lame than what Emma had just said.

“When’s the last time you had a headache?”

Killian clicked his tongue, trying to think back through the last week and they’d played in Vegas the night before, a loss that was dangerously close to a blowout and Jeff had broken his stick after the final whistle and Arthur had, undoubtedly, broken several whiteboards, but Husinger had gotten another point and it was a good assist.

They were going to be back on Garden ice that afternoon.

Will had texted him when they landed.

Robin complained about Husinger talking loudly on the flight.

“Not in awhile,” Killian said when Emma made an impatient sound at his silence.

“That’s not a date.” “I’m not writing it down, Swan.” “Shouldn’t you be?” “Those weren’t part of the instructions. I was told to stay off the ice and not walk too quickly and take medicine. I’m doing that. I was not told to document symptoms.” She didn’t say anything immediately, eyes tracing over his face as soon as his jaw snapped closed and the whole thing had been kind of ridiculous. This wasn’t the doctor’s fault. Well, not completely. It wasn’t even that kid’s fault – even if he’d led with his shoulder and he probably should have gotten fined. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

It had happened.

And he hadn’t done anything about it because he was…

It was fine.

That Husinger guy couldn't get a point in every game. That was impossible. And he talked too loudly on the team plane. Arthur wouldn't let that happen on another road trip.

He wouldn’t be first line very long.

And Killian couldn’t get playoffs, at the earliest, maybe out of the back corners of his brain.

It was fine.

“You know I bet we could get Pegs to weeble around the apartment for a little while,” Emma said. Killian grinned. And kissed her. Again.

“Weeble?” “Yeah, you know, weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. She kind of looks like a weeble in a ridiculous amount of Jones-branded merchandise.” “Jones-branded?” “Please,” Emma scoffed, sliding across the bed and slinging one arm over his middle. It was difficult to keep up with what she said next when her fingers started tracing over his spine, drawing patterns that weren’t much more than straight lines, but felt a bit like vaguely emotional brands and it was way too early for those kind of pointed thoughts.

“Neither one of them realize there’s another person on this team,” she added. She’d moved again at some point, legs tangled with Killian’s and head tucked against the curve of his neck. He could feel her breathing, not entirely sure if the brush of her lips against his skin was wishful thinking or actually happening, and it didn’t really matter because Matt had thrust a piece of paper into Killian’s stomach when he picked him up at school the day before.

Of the New York Rangers winning a Stanley Cup.

And Killian in the middle.

Next to Matt.

They were stick figures and not quite an exact likeness, but there was some dark hair and a few shakily-drawn twenties drawn in open space and he’d folded it up and put it in his wallet.

He didn’t think he’d ever take it out.

Maybe he was just thinking pointed thoughts at all times now.

“He told me about the picture,” Emma whispered. Her lips were definitely touching his skin. “He was super proud of it. Wanted to make sure I knew it was him and you and Uncle Will. Robin will probably be very disappointed he wasn’t included.” Killian laughed, but it turned into a bit of a grunt as he snuck his arm around Emma and she mumbled a quiet apology when she landed on his chest. “I’m totally going to brag about it to Locksley.” “I mean, he’s your kid, and your his hero, so I think you’re getting a bit of an unfair advantage.”

Killian didn’t say anything, wasn’t entirely sure he could over the rather large lump of emotion that had landed in the middle of his throat, and Emma’s fingers had moved to his stomach, dancing over skin and muscle and an appendectomy scar that she always liked to linger on when they had a few moments to breathe.

He wasn’t sure he’d really, truly breathed in the last two weeks.

“I love you,” he whispered, finding his voice and Emma’s fingers froze. “Just...more than anything. You know that, right?”

Emma tilted her head up, lips brushing across his collarbones and the scruff he’d been far too lazy to shave. His hand shifted again, flat against her back like he was trying to keep her there or next to him and it was decidedly possessive and a little absurd because he knew neither one of those things were in danger of changing. There were several different and meaningful things to prove that, least of all the name he could feel on her back and the Stanley Cup ring currently pressing into his sternum, but the world was still out of orbit and not skating felt a bit like not breathing and, well, he was kind of a selfish asshole.

He wanted to win.

Again.

Indefinitely.

God, he hated that word.

“I know,” Emma said, voice a little shaky and eyes a little glossy and he wished he could stop making her cry. They were both going to be late. And something was probably wrong because no one had attacked their door yet.

Killian nodded, clenching his jaw and the question had been lingering on the tip of his tongue since Wednesday, but Emma hadn’t wanted to talk and didn’t have time and he hadn’t really forgotten, but then their kid started drawing Stanley Cup stick figures and he’d missed their other kid weebling and it kind of felt like something short circuited.

Her breath caught when he moved, flipping on her onto her back and moving into the cradle of her hips and her fanned across several different pillows at once.

“And here you were advocating the benefits of going back to sleep,” Emma muttered, and he didn’t have to look at her to hear her smile. It was another absurd thought, but that seemed to be par for whatever course Killian’s life had become, and he nipped against her neck when her fingers found his hair.

She rocked up at the same time he moved down and it was all friction and heat and something that might have been desperation, but that sounded decidedly negative and that wasn’t what this was. At least not entirely.

This was how much everything had been out of control and out of their control, a slim difference that seemed to make all the difference and Killian was more than willing to suffer through an entire PT of Ariel cursing him to a variety of different hells if it meant Emma made that noise as her right leg wrapped around his calf.

The bruise on her thigh had long since disappeared, but his hand drifted toward the spot anyway, some type of feelings-based magnet and how much he wanted her to be ok, and Emma inhaled sharply when his fingers grazed over the jut of her hip.

“It’s fine,” Emma muttered, the words sounding bigger than that and they weren’t talking about some ridiculous mechanical bull anymore.

She probably knew he kept the picture in his wallet.

She definitely knew he kept the picture in his wallet.

“That’s true,” Killian agreed, chuckling when Emma tried to swat at his shoulder. He caught her hand mid-air, brushing his lips over her knuckles and lingering under her ring She pulled her lips behind her teeth, tension almost visibly disappearing and back arching slightly and he was only ever going to be able to think about whatever the hell her leg was doing for, like, the rest of his waking days and possibly several lifetimes after that.

So, really, it didn’t matter where Ariel cursed him because he’d have this to remember and think about and he probably shouldn’t have been thinking about PT while trying to actively undress Emma.

“That wasn’t even clever,” she accused, nails scraping lightly on the back of his neck. Killian hissed, gaze meeting hers and she looked almost triumphant, smile wide and eyes unfairly bright. “And I really don’t think this is part of the post-concussion--”

“--Fine, Swan,” he interrupted.

She stared at him, like she was waiting for a different brand of honest or the actual reason he’d never told her about the headaches and the terror that seemed to rise up his spine and linger in the forefront of his brain every single night, like some kind of twisted hockey-future clockwork, but she either didn’t find it or wasn’t willing to wait any longer and Killian exhaled when she tugged him down and kissed him.

Hard.

And, really, that should have been it. It should have been kissing and getting rid of t-shirts with his name and number on it, but they were both kind of worried about the inevitable four-year-old attack and looming schedules and budgets that were probably changed, again, and the question seemed to fall out of Killian before he’d really decided he was going to ask it.

He’d been thinking it.

And Emma had been avoiding it.

“What exactly was the job?” he asked, leaning back to meet her slightly stunned and clearly frustrated gaze.

“What? Why aren’t you kissing me still?” “You’ve got to shower.” “And you made some terrible joke about showering with me before trying to take your shirt off. I thought we’d moved passed the shower thing.” “My shirt?” Killian asked, and Emma squeezed her eyes closed.

“It is kind of weird that you own t-shirt jerseys, but I was changing last night and you and Matt were watching film and it was the first thing I grabbed. You really couldn’t tell? It’s way bigger than usual.”

“I wasn’t really concerned with the size, honestly,” Killian admitted. “My mind tends to go blank when I realize the name on the back.” Emma opened her eyes, gaze a bit softer and eyes just as green. “Seems kind of clingy, Cap.” “Yeah, a little.” “A very quick agreement.” “No point in arguing that when I was making veiled allusions to showering together, right?” “Were they veiled?” Killian shook his head, nosing at the bit of skin just behind Emma’s ear. “You’re avoiding the question, love.”

“That’s because you’re a really bad interviewer. Maybe you should get Rubes to give you some pointers or something.” “I don’t think Red would appreciate her interrupting PT like.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Emma mumbled. “And I’m not avoiding. Technically. I’m trying to deflect and distract with your own name.” “Yours too.”

He kind of shouted those words too, but it kind of felt necessary and another instinct because he wanted everything with Emma, including hockey and whatever promotion she could get with the league and maybe if he just followed Peggy around with his phone all day, she’d wobble or wobble on camera and he’d be able to see it.

“Ah, that was stupid romantic,” Emma said. Her fingers carded through his hair again, moving across his shoulders and another scar, courtesy of a particularly hard check when he was fifteen and some kid from at the Team USA camp didn’t appreciate how good Killian was at scoring.

“Charming,” he corrected softly. “We’ve been over that so many times, Swan.” “True. You’re not going to let the job thing drop, are you?” “I don’t know why you want me to.” Emma sighed, but she didn’t try to push him off her and he was more than content to linger on top of her while discussing some nebulous future that was only sort of overwhelming. He really wanted to shoot at something.

“It’s not so much that,” Emma started. “It’s just...there’s so much here and so much to do and I really think Mer is sleeping in her office again.” “I doubt that.” “Have you met Merida?” “Strangely enough, I have,” Killian nodded. “And I know she’s not sleeping in her office because she told me that she was going to Gristedes last night to make sure there were bags of dried cranberries in your office for the next week.” “Did you ask her to do that?” Killian glanced up at the sound of the question, Emma’s voice shaking slightly and cracking a bit and his mouth dropped when he realized what she was doing to her lower lip. He moved his thumb over it, doing his best to pry it away from her teeth without causing any more damage and it wasn’t that big of a deal.

He’d been telling Merida to make sure Emma ate since he got hurt, and even before then – when playoffs got crazy or she ordered the same salad from Pret the entire time she was pregnant with Matt and that was just part of the deal, slightly different versions of vows he’d promised twice.

And she still looked kind of stunned.

He needed to get back on the ice.

He needed things to be normal again.

“You’re deflecting again, Swan,” he muttered, and not kissing her was a very specific type of challenge. “What did Tink say?” “C’mon answer, the question. And please don’t talk about an attempted set-up while you’re also being charming. It’s a lot of mixed signals.”

He chuckled against her hair, fingers working back under her shirt and maybe he was the one deflecting. “What was it you said? I wanted to have kids with you, so I think you won, Swan.” “Ah, it sounds crazy when you say it like that.” “Maybe a little clingy.” “Oh my God.” “The job, love,” Killian said, pulling back and he wasn’t sure if he appreciated Emma’s laugh.

“You went all dad face on me. I couldn’t take it seriously.” “That doesn’t bode well for the future.”

Her expression changed again, a blink and a twitch of her lips and it would have been great if the Earth’s atmosphere stopped abruptly shifting like that. It wasn’t helping his lungs at all. Or his head. Tuesday. That was the last headache he’d had.

“That’s not true at all,” Emma said softly. “And, uh...the job is basically what I’m doing now, just...everywhere.” “Everywhere?” “This would probably be easier if you didn’t just repeat everything I was saying.” Killian rolled his eyes, but Emma was smiling again and her fingers were incredibly distracting. “So, the idea is to kind of grow the fanbase I guess. Especially the youth fanbase. Which apparently, rumor has it, I’m great at.” “But,” Killian prompted.

“How do you know there’s a but?” “Swan.” She stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes and it looked a bit like Peggy when she didn’t appreciate that they were were feeding her cut up sweet potatoes again. Emma Swan and Peggy Jones both hated sweet potatoes.

Killian didn’t say that out loud.

“It’s just a lot,” Emma said, probably waving her hands through the air over his back. “There’s a lot of kids and a lot of would-be fans and...I don’t have time to think about that now. I can’t think about that now. Not when everything is so…”

She gritted her teeth, the rest of that sentence practically flashing on a neon sign above her head. It was a pretty good imitation of what her desk phone usually liked.

“Emma,” Killian said, and she groaned loudly, an arm draped over her face and a pillow falling on the floor and they were on borrowed time already.

The door swung open, slamming into the wall hard enough that it probably left a mark and Killian winced when a four-year-old threw himself at his left leg.

“Dad, Dad,” Matt yelled, somehow getting the sound to move directly into Killian’s ear at the same time he dug his feet into his calf. “Are you awake?”

Emma laughed, turning her head into a pillow so it wasn’t incredibly obvious, but Killian was still half on top of her with his hand under her shirt and they were going to have to come up with a better way to avoid ruining their kid’s psyche.

Maybe after they dealt with everything else.

He still needed to get a tux for Casino Night.

“We’re very awake, Mattie,” Emma promised, twisting around to tug him further up the bed and Killian was sure one his kidneys suffered for the effort. “The real question is why are you awake? And what are we going to make for breakfast?” “I’m hungry!” “Yeah, I kind of figured that’s what this was about.”

Emma glanced at him, lips ticking up and whatever they’d been treading towards with the job discussion had been appropriately deflected. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to regret that as much as he did.

“What do you say we make breakfast today, Mattie?” Killian asked, sitting back on his heels and it was a precarious position, but that felt like a metaphor and he ignored it completely.

Matt jumped up, just barely missing both of Emma’s knees in the process, and Killian could hear Peggy yelling a few feet away and they were going to have to buy a real bed eventually because that kid really did have an absurd amount of upper-body strength.

“Yeah,” Matt yelled, but it came out a bit like a question and Killian was almost ready when a head collided with his shoulder. “Mattie, be careful,” Emma chastised. Her hand moved, hovering over Matt’s back and another Jones-branded t-shirt, but Killian shook his head deftly.

Another deflection.

Another slightly selfish move because that seemed destined to end with him half choking to death, but he hadn’t had a headache in days and maybe indefinite could end a little earlier than scheduled.

Probably after they ate their weight in chocolate-chip waffles.

“It’s fine, Swan,” Killian said, pleasantly surprised when he absolutely meant it and none of his joints cracked when he stood up.

Emma stared at him incredulously. “He’s gone full koala on you. I really don’t think that can be healthy. Physical activity was, like, at the absolute bottom of the list.” She groaned when he grinned, eyebrows twisting and there were so many pillows on their bed. He barely heard when she fell back against them. “You know what I meant,” she mumbled.

“I did. But I’m not all that concerned with the list at the moment.” He took a step forward, Matt still clinging to his side, and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She smiled. “Go shower, love. We’re going to eat way too much chocolate.”

They did, in fact, eat way too much chocolate, Matt’s lips covered and, somehow, his chin had gotten into the mix, perched on the counter next to a bowl of batter with even more chips in it.

“Dad, can Mar have some too?” Matt asked, trying to yank the spoon out of the bowl and Killian wasn’t sure what his plan was, but he assumed it was flinging waffle batter at his sister. It’s probably what he would have done.

“Hey,” he said sharply. Matt’s shoulders slumped. “What did we say about sitting up here?” “Not to touch.” “Yuh huh.” “And not to swing.” Killian nodded, eyeing Matt’s swinging feet intently. They sounded incredibly loud when they collided with the front of the cabinet and he thought he was being very impressive when he snuck his hand into the bowl, grabbing a few chocolate chips that hadn’t mixed in yet.

“You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are,” Killian muttered, and Matt widened his eyes in a way that was equal parts familiar and entirely uncharted territory. And it probably counted as physical activity, but his kid was laughing and smiling and happy and it didn’t really take much to sling Matt over his shoulder, socked feet bumping against his chest and fingers gripping at the back of the shirt he’d finally put on.

He hoped they didn’t burn the waffles.

Matt kept laughing and Killian, somehow, managed to get Peggy to eat a handful of bananas, some of which inexplicably ended up on his elbow, but it was good and healthy and-- “Dad,” Matt asked, moving to hang off Killian’s back and he’d gotten surprisingly good at that in the last few months. Maybe all their kids were just ridiculously strong.

“Yeah, kid.” “Did you like your picture?”

He wished he didn’t have banana on his elbow for this conversation.

“Of course,” Killian said, hoping his voice stayed even and confident and Matt wasn’t done. It was, he assumed, because they’d lost last night and Matt probably had the Rangers practice schedule memorized at that point and the prospect of hanging out with Leo Nolan that afternoon wasn’t nearly as fun as taking slap shots on Garden ice with Roland.

“Do you...do you think you’ll win?”

Killian had to take a deep breath before he answered, closing his eyes and trying to remember all the good things and the confidence he’d been flushed with that morning.

No headache since Tuesday. Good heart rate on the treadmill. Minimal glares from both Ariel and Regina in the last week.

Husinger’s pass had been ridiculous.

“Dad,” Matt whined, tightening his hold.

Killian flinched when someone knocked on the door, biting his tongue in the process and he never actually answered Matt’s question, peering through the peephole to find it covered with what looked like a handmade sign.

He knew who it was when she kicked at the door.

“Oh my God,” Killian muttered. “Mattie, don’t try and climb over me when I open this door, ok?”

It was a pointless request – Matt was four and had no control over his limbs ever and he probably should have been more concerned about Anna anyway because she practically leapt at Killian as soon as there wasn’t a door in between them.

Killian groaned when her body collided with his, arms around his middle and more hair in his face. He stumbled backwards, wincing when Matt likely did permanent damage to his right eardrum.

The shower turned off down the hallway.

“KJ, is that banana on your elbow?” Anna asked.

“Did you bring a sign?” he countered. “This is not JFK. A sign seems unnecessary.”

“Ok, this is super cute and you know it. So don’t try and tell me that you’re not charmed. I can see it in your face and your banana elbow.” Killian rolled his eyes, but Anna was, well, Anna and she was already talking to Matt. “My guy,” she grinned, trying and failing to pry him away from Killian’s back and that was only because she didn’t have the kind of upper body strength either of the Jones kids seemed to possess. “You trying to choke your dad?”

“Anna, Anna, Anna,” Matt chanted. She beamed at Killian. And let go of him so she could crouch to Matt’s level and hug him tightly, peppering his head with kisses until he found that decidedly unpleasant.

“What are you doing here, Banana?” She laughed, tilting her head up to him and he was, somehow, holding her sign. “It’s almost like you planned the food shenanigans to match up with even more absurd nicknames.” “Several habits make it a difficult habit to break.” “That’s kind of my excuse too, honestly.” “What?”

“Anna?"

Emma was standing on the edge of the kitchen, hair still in a towel and bare feet and it took less than a full second for even more hugging and questions and Zelena’s meeting schedule was going to be completely pointless after this.

Killian looked at the sign in his hand, biting back a smile and a laugh when he processed the words: HERE TO FIX YOUR LIFE, KJ.

They didn’t burn all the waffles, cleaning Matt’s face and Anna kept Peggy on her knee the entire time they ate, updates on several different mountains and a spread in Condé Nast, because that was the kind of person she was and she hadn’t been to New York in months.

She’d come to New York to fix his life.

The sign wouldn’t have lied.

Anna wouldn’t have lied.

“Alright,” Emma said, nearly an hour and two slightly dramatic baths for both kids later. “Let’s move out, team.” “Where are you going?” Anna asked, and Killian knew he didn’t imagine the disappointment in her voice. He smiled.

“I’ve got forty-two Casino Night meetings and I’m sure Aurora has opinions about Phillip’s ceremony she hasn’t actually voiced yet and--” “--God, there’s more?”

Emma made a face. “So I’m going to bring Mattie and Pegs to Reese’s and David’s because he’s got a day off for the first time in forever and--” “--Why can’t KJ and I watch ‘em?” “I’ve got PT in an hour, Banana,” Killian explained, but Emma’s shoulders sagged a bit. “So you better explain yourself pretty quickly or Red will throw a treadmill at you too.” “Yeah, I’d like to see her try.”

“Wily.”

“Don’t be a jerk, KJ.” He flashed her a grin, turning back to Emma when she grabbed her keys and two different phones, one of them already lighting up in her hand. “Hot chocolate later?” she asked, a note of something in her voice that didn’t sound like confidence and he was nodding before she closed her mouth.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Swan.” “Good,” she said, kissing him quick and leaning towards him so he could make a face at Peggy and Anna might have awed when he worked a rather loud da out of her. “See you later, Anna.” Anna hummed, waving and settling herself into the corner of the couch. She dug her heels into Killian's thighs. And, to her credit, waited for the door to close before she started talking.

“I brought chocolate,” Anna said, and that might have been the last thing he expected her to say. She smiled when Killian blinked. “Yeah, not what you were thinking, right? Teach you to assume you know my conversational tendencies. I figured it was about time I repaid the favor or something.” “It wasn’t a favor Banana. It was a very vocal demand of yours for fifteen years.” “Not that long.” “You’re right, longer.”

“Don’t be like that. I made you a sign.”

“A rather opinionated sign.” “Liam yelled at you over the phone!"

“Not really,” Killian argued. “He advocated for making out and dates and getting away from practice.” “You follow through on any of that?” “At least the first two.” Anna clicked her tongue, another heel press and expressive look and he kind of expected her phone to ring earlier, honestly. “Is this why you came here?” Killian asked, swatting at her leg when her feet started masquerading as fifty-pound weights. “God, move your legs, Banana. I am on IR.”

“Because of your actual brain, KJ,” she countered. Elsa sighed on the phone screen.

“Are we fighting already? That was not part of the plan.”

“The plan was unnecessary,” Killian growled. “I’m serious about your feet, Banana. Did you come here just for this? That’s worse than the sign.” “The sign was nice!” “The sign was kind of judgmental. And kind of backed you into a corner. Here to fix my life?” “Aw, Anna,” Elsa groaned. Anna blushed. “That’s not what we agreed on KJ. Although it’s nice to see visual proof that you’re alive. How’s your head?” “No headaches in awhile,” Killian said, and Anna was never going to move her feet. Like, ever again. “So as good as can be expected.” “You snuck on the ice yet?” “Who do you think I am, El?” “I know exactly who you are, KJ,” Elsa answered evenly. She was in her office. There was snow on the mountains behind her. “Which is why I’m asking that question.” “Rude,” “Honest,” Anna corrected. “And I’m not totally here because of you. It’s been a while since I’d seen Kris and we’ve been talking about…”

Killian snapped his head around so quickly, he was sure he’d need PT for that too and Anna’s cheeks were red enough that it was difficult to differentiate between her face and her hair. “Talking about?”

“Not that.” “You haven’t actually said anything, Banana.” She groaned, slumping in the couch and he should have made her get the chocolate first. He couldn’t eat more chocolate. “I’ve just been thinking about home, and missing home and Mattie’s a cute kid and,” she rolled her eyes, “shut up, KJ.” “I didn’t say anything.”

“Nah, you’re really bad at lying KJ,” Elsa muttered, and he jerked back when Anna thrust the phone in his face. “And Anna’s even more sentimental than you are and totally homesick. It just helps that you’re part of home so now we can tag-team you.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Anna groaned.

Elsa shrugged. “You weren’t supposed to make a sign.”

Killian chuckled, some of his frustration dissipating and it might have been because of the copious amount of chocolate he’d eaten that morning, but he was fairly certain it was also because Elsa and Anna Vankald resolutely refused to let him be anything except happy.

“You guys know you’re kind of late to the intervention party, right?” Killian asked. “I really haven’t gotten on the ice.”

“That’s actually pretty impressive,” Elsa said, ignoring whatever he did with his face at that. “But, uh...not entirely, no.” Killian tilted his head, eyes flitting from the phone to Anna and her pursed lips and Elsa looked nervous. “What’s this actually about?” “The plan kind of evolved in the last few hours,” Anna muttered. “Although there really is an offer to watch your painfully cute kids because Emma sounds super stressed out in the group text and you’re not great at dealing and--” “--How can she sound stressed out in a text?” “It’s a feeling, KJ.” “A feeling?” “Killian,” Elsa snapped, and he nearly jumped off the couch. Anna hissed. “This really isn’t about the semantics of the text messages.”

“Although you should really be aware of how stressed out Emma is,” Anna mumbled.

“I know, Banana,” Killian said. The frustration was back. It kind of felt like fury.

And he didn’t hear Elsa at first.

There was probably a scientific reason for that.

Complete and utter denial and the desperate desire to deflect this entire conversation.

Probably.

“I said, have you seen The Post today?” Elsa asked softly. Killian shook his head. “You, uh, you might want to look at it.”

It took a moment to find it – searching and scrolling and his phone had been off, his quiet fuck when he landed on the Q&A sounding impossibly loud in the now-silent apartment.

He’d seen the feature before, a Saturday spread two pages from the back with a color headshot for the columnist and splashy photos for the subject and he’d answered those questions more than once in the last decade and a half.

It was the headline, really, that got the laugh out of him, slightly manic and a little surprised and he knew Elsa tried to glance at Anna through the phone.

Harping on Husinger: How the Rangers call-up is making this his team

“His team?” Killian asked. He didn’t take his eyes away from his phone, grip tightening and the words felt like acid working out of him. He was glad he didn’t melt. That’d probably ruin the couch. It’d at least scandalize Anna.

“So he says,” Elsa muttered. “Several times.” “He says this shit more than once?”

She made a noise, an agreement and a slight whimper and Killian’s lungs had never collapsed before, but this kind of felt like that. Or the world falling into a black hole.

Anna sniffled.

“He’s a dick, KJ,” she shrugged. “Just...forget the goals and that pass last night. He’s...trying to make it sound like you know you won’t come back and it’s his spot and his playoff run and..”

She didn’t finish. Killian wished she finished, but his eyes were scanning sentences and proclamations and promises, swallowing when they landed on my line’s been great, it’s been so easy to settle into the scheme and Arthur’s an incredible coach, and I can only hope I keep finding the back of the net. This is the moment I’ve been waiting my whole career for, I don’t intend to backtrack.

“This is bullshit,” Killian said, voice low and he kept shaking his head like that would get rid of the ringing in his ears. “It’s not his team.” “We know, KJ,” Elsa promised. “He’s just trying to get his five minutes.” “Or his minutes until the playoffs.” “What?” “That’s as soon as I can get back. Maybe.” “Maybe?” “That’s what they told me, El,” he growled. She widened her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I just...how did you find this? Were you looking for headlines? And why didn’t Lucas tell me?” “I don’t think she knew Husinger was going to say all that. And you’re kind of terrifying, KJ.” “And Belle texted me,” Anna added. “That’s why the plan changed. I think she was trying to talk Scarlet out of killing this guy at practice.”

There wasn’t much thought after that.

It was just anger and red on the edge of his vision and Killian stuffed his phone in his pocket, mumbling I’ll be back later when both Anna and Elsa questioned where he was going.

He left his wallet in the bedroom.

“Hey, uh, you see that story this morning, Cap?” the driver asked, and Killian grunted or nodded and neither one of them said anything else the entire drive down Columbus Ave.

He didn’t say anything to the security guard either, just tugged up the collar of his jacket and kept walking, eyes on his shoes and mind nowhere near rational. He could hear pucks hitting the boards already.

The tension was obvious, even through Killian’s own cloud of anger and fury and several other words that were equally irrational. Will was standing on the far edge of the ice, helmet off and stick clutched in his hand tight enough that Killian would have bet him several different things his knuckles were white under his gloves.

Robin was taking faceoffs, Husinger just outside the circle and neither of them looked particularly pleased to be sharing the same few feet of space. Phillip kept glaring at them both.

Arthur blew his whistle.

“Again, Locksley,” he growled. “And try not to fuck it up this time. You looked like shit last night.” “He won more than half Arthur,” Will pointed out. Another whistle blow.

“I’m not paying him to win half. I’m paying him to win seventy-five percent. At least.” “You’re not really paying him at all, you know, unless you got a promotion none of us heard about.”

Arthur let go of his whistle, the stupid bit of plastic landing on his chest with a soft thump and Husinger chuckled. And, for half a second, Killian was worried the whole goddamn team was going to kill him.

Phillip’s eyes narrowed and Will dropped his stick, Robin standing up to his full height and rolling his shoulders – the same exact way Roland did when he didn’t like a call on the ice.

Arthur skated across the circle.

“You want to try that again, Husinger?” Arthur muttered. He laughed. Again.

Killian swallowed. And swung his legs over the boards.

He was always better on ice than he was anywhere else, more confident and more controlled, and, admittedly, more talented, but in the moment, he was simply thankful he kept his balance, a distinct lack of traction that may have been due to the excessive beating of his heart.

“Cap,” Will gasped. “What the hell. Get off the ice?” Killian shook his head, certain he would fall over if he stopped moving and Husinger stopped laughing when he saw him.

He hadn’t actually seen him in person yet.

He wasn’t that big, no taller than Killian and a little stockier, leaning on his stick with half a smile on his face and a confident attitude that was treading dangerously close to complete and utter dick. He clicked his tongue when Killian was a few inches away, jaw tight and eyes tracing across his street clothes and sneakers.

“Looks like you’re still not quite ready to suit up, Jones,” Husinger grinned.

Will nearly jumped forward.

Killian shook his head, crossing his arms lightly and he still couldn't really come up with any coherent thoughts. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked, ignoring both Robin and Phillip when they mumbled Cap under their breath.

Arthur looked torn between blowing his whistle and making them all skate blue lines.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do,” Killian muttered. “Or you wouldn’t look that nervous.” Husinger blinked, smile wavering for half a moment before he schooled his features and pursed his lips. He shook his gloves off. “I’ve never met you before, man,” Husinger continued. “All I know is the legend.”

“There’s no legend.” “Ah, sure there is or you wouldn’t be here to defend it. You worried about your squad? Is that what it is?” “It’s not your team.”

“Not yet. You see that pass last night? Rocket right across the ice. That’s what they were saying on all the talk shows this morning.” “A spot on SportsCenter’s not going to get you a Cup.” “And yet you’ll still be on the bench no matter I do, won’t you?” Husinger asked. Killian fisted his hands at his side, biting on the inside of his lip and he could hear Will breathing behind him. “It’s a talkative team. Not really like that in Hartford, but they do talk about you Hartford and you’re out of commission for awhile.” “Seriously, what is your problem, man?” Phillip balked, huffing when Robin pushed his hand into his jersey.

Husinger shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care about Jones. I don’t care about his fucking brain or his cognitive reasoning or the kids everyone keeps talking about. This is a a hockey team. And it’s supposed to win. I’m here to win. I don’t care about anything else.” “That’s not how this works,” Killian muttered, voice barely audible and Arthur stared at him. “You can’t win if you’re just here for you.”

“Did you miss the part where I don’t care?” “Nah, I heard you. Strangely enough the concussion didn’t affect my hearing.”

Will tried to turn his laugh into a cough, but he was grinning when Killian glanced at him and he’d never picked up his stick. “That was funny, Cap,” he said. “You hear that Locksley? Cap’s making jokes about concussions.” “Don’t tell Emma,” Robin yelled.

Killian rolled his eyes, but Husinger was still standing there and, presumably, still a piece of garbage, absolute dick looking for a moment in the spotlight and they all really should have expected it.

It had already been in print.

“This is my spot now, Jones,” Husinger said, shrugging like it was obvious and Arthur put the whistle back in between his teeth. “And I’m not going anywhere. You can come back and it won’t matter. You’re gone. Might as well get used to it now. Make it easier to explain to your kids next season.”

It wasn’t really red.

It was kind of like...magenta. Burning and searing and so goddamn hot Killian had to glance down at his hands to make sure they hadn’t exploded into flames.

And Killian barely heard Will, a quiet “ah, fuck that guy,” in the background when he walked forward, lifted his hand and punched.

A right hook, straight to the jaw.

Everything went to shit after that.

Killian landed another two punches before Husinger reacted, a fist in his stomach and the side of his cheek and he swore he heard something crack, the pain rushing straight through him. He was never entirely sure how he kept his balance, slipping and sliding and gripping the front of Husinger’s jersey like a goddamn anchor.

He didn’t stop.

He felt an arm around him, trying to pull him away and he didn’t know if it was Will or Robin, didn’t particularly care either way, particularly when another blow landed on the side of his ribs. That made it more difficult to breathe.

And keep fighting.

Arthur blew his whistle.

Phillip cursed when Husinger elbowed him, trying to fight him off as he worked to stay on his skates and there was blood dripping into Killian’s mouth.

He could feel the bruise blooming under his eye, and it was a bit like being thrown into ice-cold water. His legs shook under him, suddenly incapable of supporting his weight and Will mumbled something he couldn’t understand.

Arthur was shouting, yelling instructions and something that sounded a bit like get this asshole the fuck off my ice and Killian exhaled, desperate to blink away the spots in front of his eyes.

Will kept mumbling ambulance.

“No, no, no,” Killian argued, shaking his head. That was a mistake. Weebles wobble and they absolutely fall down.

“Cap.” “No, no, just...just go find Emma.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #blue line change #hey remember how much canon!killian jones loves his pirate ship?#think about the rangers like that pirate ship

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ephrampettaline · 6 years ago

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If his parents were rich AU, how different do you think Ephram would be? How do you think his relationships would differ with those he's closest with?

OOC: Ephram would likely have grown up in a family coven, which would have made him less vulnerable to Anaxis -- he probably would have told the elder witches about what was happening, and they could intervene before it got too far. He also would have a deeper sense of self-confidence because he wouldn’t have grown up impoverished, he’d have gotten more of an education and probably become a teacher or something.

With Bellamy he might be more fractious about her behaviour, since he’d have his own ideas of what responsibilities wealth brings with it. But he’d also be more comfortable going with her to certain places where rich people hang out, and occasionally doing a full-on blowout of profligate spending then feel guilty about it the next day (#Baptist) and insist that they do something charitable to make up for it. They would fight a lot, but about really frivolous things, and they’d enjoy the fights b/c they’d be sluts for the dramz.

With Ruby he wouldn’t feel the class division as sorely as he does now; he mostly feels it with Ruby because she’s Southern like him but their experiences were very different and he gets prickly when they’re equated as similar. He’d probably be less prickly with Ruby overall, although he might also love her less. Rich Ephram isn’t quite as intense and passionate as poor Ephram.

With Freddie oh my god. He wouldn’t have needed Freddie’s encouragement and boosting quite as desperately as poor Ephram does, and he could match Freddie’s wealth, so it would be a whole new dynamic. I’m not really sure what that would look like, to be honest; part of the reason they work so well is that they’re opposites and they each bring something entirely foreign to the other to their relationship. If Ephram were rich and had that sort of confidence already, their relationship might not have taken strong enough root. Or they might decide to be wealthy roues and travel around the world being trampy and magnificent, who knows XD

With Faye it would be a constant balancing act of how much he could get away with spending on her/giving her, and he’d probably just funnel it all through Eowyn. He’d be annoying to Faye though because he’d be one of those well-intentioned but wishy-washy types when it comes to certain subjects, and she’d be pissed every time he refused to take a side or commit to an opinion.

Ciara he would’ve given wide berth to, probably even turned her in to the cops/whoever if he found out she was a blood witch.

With Cassie he would have basically been her somewhat fey pansexual roomie, because rich Ephram wouldn’t have done any manual labour or time in prison so he’d present as much more genderfluid than poor Ephram does. He would have slept with Cassie still, but he also would’ve been more domestic with her and more bookish.

(I feel I’m forgetting people? Send an ask if you want to know what rich Ephram would be like with your character lol)

#pettaline answers #thisbrutalbelle

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geekmama · 7 years ago

Text

Beautiful

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018, Day 1, Teen!Lock / Uni!Lock / Early Friendship

With many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for Brit-picking and general suggestions!

He was, she thought, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Well, boy. Or young man, she supposed. William Holmes, a graduate student in his last months at their university and assigned, apparently much against his will, to work as a teacher’s assistant in Molly’s mid-level organic chemistry class.

Most of the class consisted of students in their third year of pre-clinical studies, but Molly was only in her first and had been allowed to skip ahead in this particular area, having proven herself in an elite symposium the previous summer, straight from completing her grammar school career and A levels with top marks in both biology and chemistry. It was a bit extraordinary, and she believed it was this circumstance that had brought her to William’s attention.

Or she hoped that was it, and not the fact that she barely looked old enough to be attending university at all, much less such an advanced class.

She had to admit, his initial reaction to her presence had not been entirely positive. In fact, the first time he’d really looked at her he’d had the oddest expression on his face, rather as though she were some insect sitting atop his order of chips: horrified fascination coupled with a strong desire to flick her away without more ado. But after some weeks, during which she had shown she was not only capable of doing the work, but of excelling, he had at least seemed willing to concede her right to be there.

And now, months later, he merely ignored her. Which was fine, since it gave her more opportunity to look at him.

He was beautiful. Handsome, but in an oddly different, almost unearthly way. Quite tall and almost too thin, but with a grace and hinted musculature that spoke of the accomplished athlete. Not team sports: the narrowed eyes and curled lip he displayed at the mere sight of two of her fellow organic chem students, star rugby players Glen Harrison and Colin Whitcomb, told her that much. William Holmes was rumored to have been one of the more valued members of the track and field program at one time, and she knew he boxed (dreadful sport, once he’d come in with a split lip and a plaster adorning an elegant cheekbone, and had given a wry, rather crooked grin at her gasp of horror), and he fenced as well -- she had heard Glen and Colin jeering about the latter…

Thinks he’s in one of those bodice-ripper novels, or all set to slay a dragon!

This remark had the opposite effect to that they’d presumably intended, for from that day Molly had been afflicted with a vivid, ongoing fantasy in which William Holmes was, indeed, a hero straight from a romance and she was the most appreciative heroine. She had the wit not to indulge in these daydreams too often -- she was a sensible girl, and had goals. Plans for the future. But when she was tired, or feeling low, or overwhelmed, she sometimes allowed herself to contemplate the delicious (and often embarrassingly explicit) scenarios that seemed to rise unbidden from her hormone-addled brain.

Hormones could certainly do strange things to one -- particularly with the person of William Holmes regularly on hand to provide inspiration.

“Meena, you know I hate this sort of party. I won’t know anyone!” Molly complained as they crossed the street toward the house where said party was going forward, full-blast.

“Bollocks. You know me!” Meena retorted, and grabbing Molly’s wrist, she virtually dragged her along to join the throng of students queuing to enter.

It was an old Victorian mansion, a private dwelling, located perhaps a mile from campus, but the upkeep was no doubt horrific and as a result, the couple who owned it occupied only one wing, the remaining rooms being let to older university students. It was not at all notorious as a party venue, though that might change after this night’s doings. The owners had flown off to the U.S. to attend the graduation of their son from some American university and they had foolishly left the running of the house to a couple of their tenants, one of whom was a most enterprising economics major. He was actually selling tickets to this illicit blowout, and was obviously doing very well for himself, Molly thought, as she and Meena finally got in the door and shouldered their way through the throng, deafened by music that precluded any chance of real conversation.

“Come on!” shouted Meena. “Tracy and Steve are over by the bar.”

They entered a big room that ordinarily might have served as a quiet common area for the house, but was now heavily populated with noisy drinkers. They were served from an enormous makeshift bar that had been set up across one end of the room and stocked with libations of all sorts. Meena whistled and waved to a small group of boys and girls gathered at one end of the bar, and contrary to her expectation. Molly recognized several of them, including Tracy and Steve, who, lacking much sense, could be expected to be among the most riotous guests. Molly also noticed one other familiar face: Glen Harrison was one of a knot of fellow rugby players, all of them well on their way to being completely pissed, and unfortunately he happened to look up just as Molly and Meena were passing by. Molly looked quickly away, but not before she saw his sloppy grin and rising brows.

Bloody hell, she thought, feeling annoyed with Glen, Meena, and most of all herself. She should have stood firm and refused to come -- but then Meena would have had a days-long sulk and Molly would have felt guilty and cowardly, both.

Perhaps she could escape before long. She’d have a drink with Meena, then make some excuse and take her leave…

“Molly!” came Glen’s familiar and unwanted voice.

Molly turned and pasted on a smile. “Glen! Thought I saw you over there. Having fun?”

“Yeah, but you need a drink!”

Molly winced as Glen shoved his way to the bar to order, not bothering with such niceties as Excuse me! or What would you like, Molly?

“We need a G&T over here, stat!” Glen demanded.

Molly sighed. She would have preferred a cider. And a Please to the bartender might have been nice.

Glen Harrison wanted to show her his etchings.

“Seriously, Molly, one of the blokes who lives here’s an art history major and his room’s great, loads of interesting stuff -- you’ll love it!”

“Thanks but no,” Molly said, shaking her head -- which was a mistake, that G&T had been far too strong, too much, and she was actually feeling the slightest bit queasy, light-headed… just a trifle pissed herself. She began to giggle, thinking how Mum would approve of her being such a cheap date -- showed her inexperience with such matters, certainly.

Well, at least she knew not to trust a reptile like Glen farther than she could throw him.

However, two things then occurred.

First, Glen said, “C’mon, Molly, you’ll like it. And I think you need to sit down for a bit, out of this noise, don’t you?” This consideration seemed… nice… if out of character, and she peered at him (a trifle blearily), really looked for the first time that evening. He was smiling… friendly. He did seem sincere. And he was very fit, if a bit on the beefy side.

When Molly replied, “Well, yes. Maybe just for a few minutes,” and Glen chirped, “Good girl!” and grinned and put his arm around her to lead her away, the second thing happened. She caught sight of something… someone… out of the corner of her eye… someone beautiful…

She frowned and tried to turn to see, and just caught the straight set of a slender back, a ruffle of dark curls… and then a glimpse of profile as the dark head bent to hear what some other girl was saying. The girl was laughing…

But then Molly lost sight of him, her insistent escort leading her away and up the wide, ornate staircase.

It was somewhat quieter upstairs, and quieter still as Glen led her confidently down the hallway to the room he wanted to show her. They weren’t quite alone, other couples seemed to be taking advantage of the less raucous atmosphere and relative privacy afforded by various alcoves as well as the bedrooms, though certainly not to look at art.

“This is it,” Glen said, opening the door of a room near the end of the passage, charming indeed, with pictures of all sorts covering the walls, just as he’d averred, and featuring a round study alcove, part of one of house’s several towers. There was also a big brass--framed bed situated against the wall, and it was toward this that Glen led her.

She tried to tug her hand away, dig in her heels. “Wait, we’re here to look at the art!”

“Hell with the art,” Glen said with a leer, though he did stop -- but only to pull her into a rough embrace.

“Stop it!” she protested, but then could say no more beneath a shockingly horrid, beery kiss.

She struggled, shoving against him, but that only made him laugh.

He loosened his hold just enough to say, “C’mon, Molly, I know you’re up for it. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“I do not!” she exclaimed, outraged, but then gave a little shriek as he tipped them toward the bed where they landed with a bounce in an inelegant heap. “What are you doing?” Angrily, she tried to knee him where it would do the most good, but he foiled her efforts with ease and rolled on top of her. “No! Glen--”

But her strained attempt at a scream was stopped by another messy kiss, and his weight, and the strength of him were terrifying. She squirmed frantically, feeling decidedly sick, no possibility of escape--

And then, to her astonishment, his weight was suddenly gone, hefted up and away from her -- and by William Holmes!

“She said no, idiot,” he snarled as he shoved Glen away, toward the door.

But Glen was big and lithe, and though he staggered back, he didn’t fall, and, with his surprise quickly replaced by a look of sheer hatred, he sneered, “Well, if it isn’t the bloody freak!” and Molly gasped in horror as the bigger man launched himself at William. Yet, before she could scream, something happened, almost too quickly to take in. Holmes dodged and struck, not just once, but two or three times, with efficiency and an utterly effective economy of motion. It was astounding, like something from a Bond film, and just like that, Glen was laid out on the floor, groaning faintly, incapacitated.

William sniffed, glaring down at his victim with distaste, a slight, not entirely pleasant smile playing on those beautiful lips. And then he looked up at Molly, who was still on the bed staring at him, the dregs of her fear now tinged with wonder.

His smile disappeared. He stepped over the prone carcass on the floor, saying, “Let’s get you out of here.”

He reached for her and those elegant fingers gripped her upper arm and summarily hefted her off the bed, too, rather more easily and quickly than had been the case with Glen. She got a glimpse of an odd light in William’s eyes, and realized he wasn’t entirely sober, either. But she had no chance to say anything, for he did not let her go, but on the contrary, pulled her along after him, though he did let his hand sllde down to grip her wrist, which looked a trifle less manhandley (and was that even a word?).

Out the bedroom door, down the hall, down the stairs, across the wide foyer. The music was blasting loud as ever, or louder, the booming bass making her head throb, but even so Molly thought she heard Meena call to her as they approached the front doors that now stood open, letting in blessed fresh air and a glimpse of the star-strewn night sky. She started to turn in Meena’s direction, but William Holmes snapped some indecipherable admonition and tightened his grip, pulling her out the door, across the wide porch, down the three steps…

“William, wait!” she finally half-shouted (the music wasn’t quite as deafening out in front of the house, but close). To her surprise he did stop, and he turned to her.

“What? Do you want to go back in?”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. And then said, “No. Of course not.”

“Didn’t think so,” he said, mildly, and started off again.

“Wh-where are we going?” Molly managed to ask between great gulps of cool night air.

“I need a smoke. We’ll go down by the river. And then you’re going home.”

And she laughed. For the joy of being away from that horrid party and the horrid Glen, and all through the agency of the most beautiful man she knew.

He glanced at her, and his stormy brow cleared. He slowed his pace. His grip on her wrist loosened, then released. He said to her (or drawled, really), “Speaking of idiots, what possessed you? You did everything wrong tonight. I won’t be there next time, you know.”

“There won’t be a next time,” she said with conviction.

He gave a chuff of laughter, but nodded. “Good.”

After that, they walked along side by side in silence. But it was a comfortable one.

He lit a cigarette, offered it to her (she accepted), then lit another for himself before flopping down on the grass under the warm night sky. She sat down cross-legged beside him, the better to see him. His eyes were unfocused, looking up at the stars. The river murmured it’s quiet music. It was a perfect May evening -- now.

“You’re leaving soon?” she finally asked, after a few minutes.

“Mmm. Next week.”

“What are you going to do?” She couldn’t imagine him settling into any ordinary job.

“Dunno. My brother has a couple of things for me, and then… who knows?”

“Does your brother own a business where you can use your degree?”

He laughed. “Not exactly. Interesting work, though. I won’t be bored.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“God yes!” He looked over at her. “It’s the very heart of the matter.”

She frowned, wondering a little what he might mean.

They smoked in silence for a couple more minutes, and then he sat up, stubbed out his cigarette, took hers (without asking) and did the same. Then he rose to his feet with that easy grace that always made her heart still and held out his hand to her. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Ten years later, in her first month at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, Molly was processing a series of slides in the lab when her supervisor, Mike Stamford, came in, accompanied by two other men. She looked up with an enquiring smile as Mike spoke.

“Dr. Molly Hooper, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of NSY, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. They’re investigating Mrs. Johnstone’s death. They’ve seen the report, but can you take them down and show them the body, and give them any other help they might need? Within reason, of course.”

Mike turned a wry look on Sherlock Holmes, who merely raised a brow.

Molly was standing now, a bit pale as Lestrade smiled at her and shook her hand. Sherlock Holmes also murmured a greeting, surveying her without much enthusiasm.

There was absolutely no recognition in the piercing, pale eyes.

She pulled herself together. “A consulting detective?” she managed to ask without either stammering or squeaking.

But it was Lestrade who replied, in a teasing voice, “Only one in the world, as he’ll point out at the drop of a hat.” He grinned as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him, and added, “Seriously, though, he’s cracked some seemingly impossible cases for me.”

Well, that must keep the level of boredom to a minimum, she thought. But she only said, “I’ll be happy to help you both in any way I can.”

Lestrade nodded. “If you’ll lead the way, then, Dr. Hooper?”

She did, feeling awkward, elated, and disappointed, all at once. But after all, why should he remember her?

And since he brought up the rear as they headed down to the morgue, neither she, nor anyone else, saw the curve of those beautiful lips as Sherlock considered the person and the vast new potential of Dr. Molly Hooper.

~.~

#sherlollyweek2018 #Sherlock #sherlolly

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thisspiritsgarden · 6 years ago

Text

Hair Like Mine

I have struggled with my hair since I was a young girl. I’m not exactly sure what grade of hair I have but I’m sure it is a 4-something. It is kinky, unmanageable, and frustrating. Learning to embrace such a grade of hair has been a lifelong struggle for me. I was in Elementary school when I realized my hair was different from the other students in my class. Their hair was straight and blonde. It blew in the wind and they could easily sling it back into ponytails without a brush or a comb, or grease. My hair was a polar opposite. As I got older I realized that my hair was different from my own sister’s hair. I realized that she had “good hair” and I did not. When I finally did learn to embrace my natural hair I realized how confused people can be about what it means to be a Black woman with hair like mine.

My hair was relaxed when I was younger, and was that way for as long as I can remember. I don’t remember when my first perm was or even what it felt like. I do remember that getting ready in the morning required at least thirty minutes of hair grooming. My mom used to sit me in a plastic white chair. She used to use those hair bows with the big balls on the end of them that make a “clanking” noise if you play with them (which I did often). My mom had a plastic bag filled with these hairbows. My favorite one had some sort of Pokemon painted on the balls. My mom used to create these weird ponytail hairstyles with them. Sometimes she would do “plaits” (or twists), carefully parting my hair and greasing my scalp as she would do them. Her parts were always perfect and I could always see the white of my scalp when she was done. I very rarely wore my hair straight down when I was young. My mom always added some sort of braid or ponytail that hung over my face. I did not know how to recreate my mom’s hair styles so I had to be sure not to touch my hair when I was in school.

The hot-comb was also a staple in my house. My mom had the plug in eye and everything. That comb burned my ear so many times, but I used to love hearing the grease on my relaxed hair fry when she would run the comb through it. I still remember the smell of frying hair and the sound and feel of her breathe blowing against the steaming comb to cool it down. I remember flinching when I could feel the heat of the comb nearing my ear or my scalp. I remember the very few, and very painful times my mom would accidently put the comb to close to my scalp. She would always apologize and try to rub it or put cold grease on it.

Despite the hard work that my mother would put into my hair every morning, growing up I was a “tomboy.” I used to run around the playground hitting boys, and pissing them off. It was my favorite thing to do. If my mom did any sort of ponytail with my hair, that pony tail was guaranteed to be a mess when I got home. Strands of hair were guaranteed to be sticking straight up from my scalp and that is only if the hairbow didn’t fall out of my hair.

As I got older, around eight or nine, I stopped caring about my hair looking nice. Picture day was always funny. The photographers would have their combs out, ready to comb some blonde hair out of the faces of pretty white girls. Then there was girls with hair like mine. The photographers didn’t know what to make of my hair, especially if my mother had done my hair in some weird ponytail style. There was no hope for me as far as picture day came if I had ruined my hair at any point during the day. We would also have wacky tacky day at least once a year, and I loved it because it meant that my mom did not have to do my hair that day. My hair could be a wild mess, it could be free. Or so I thought. A memory still lingers in my head. A male student told me “Your hair looks wacky tacky everyday.” At the time, I thought I didn’t care about that comment.

I can’t remember how old I was or why I started to hate my hair. Maybe it was the fact that I used to play with Bratz dolls, and every single doll had long straight hair? Maybe more people said hateful things to me about my hair? I just remember thinking to myself that if I had longer hair, more manageable hair, that I would be prettier, and that boys would like me more. I used to flip through yearbooks and imagine I was a pretty girl with long straight hair. Sometimes I would pick a random girl from my sister’s old yearbooks and pretend I was her in my daydreams. I would change my name and everything. Sometimes they were a different race from me but they always had long, straight hair.

When I got to middle school my mom still did my hair, albeit, she no longer did the pony tail styles. Instead she started using a curling iron and curling my hair into these unflattering old-school...shapes. My hair started breaking off in middle school too. It was long when I was in Elementary school but it started getting shorter and shorter the older I got, and probably the more relaxers I got.

At the start of seventh grade, I had cornrow extensions. The extensions were long and for the first time I actually felt pretty and boys were actually starting to like me. I used to sling my long, fake braids around one side of my shoulder because I thought that made me look prettier. Then I met a group of girls who decided to make my life a living hell in seventh grade and what little bit of confidence that I was gaining in myself faded away. The extensions also had to go. I had left them in for too long which caused further damage to my hair, but my hair no longer mattered in seventh grade because I had much bigger worries.

When I started the eighth grade, I desired to reinvent myself. My mom would always get me one professional perm per year, usually before the start of the school year. All of the rest of my perms would come out of a box. I loved the way my hair looked after a fresh perm. It was still short, but atleast is flowed freely through the air, and didn’t stand up in the back if I leaned my head down. I looked pretty with my hair straight too. The perms usually only lasted a week or so and then I would be back to trying to straighten my hair to manage it.

It continued to break off throughout high school. The only time I ever truly liked my hair was when I would get a fresh perm. I remember my mom applying vaseline to the edge of my face in case the lye fell on my skin. I learned to keep the perm on my hair for as long as possible in order to achieve the best results. My scalp would be on fire before I would tell my mom to start dunking my head under the running sink faucet. I spent so much time under the faucet in my parents kitchen. That is what I remember the most about box perms. Salon perms didn’t require as much head dunking but hair stylists are not as gentle, (or caring) as a mother is. Once, one of the women who did my hair dropped some of the lye onto my bare forehead. She wiped it off with her finger and kept it moving. My forehead had a nasty, crusty red bruise on it for weeks.

Growing up, I never paid attention to the fact that my sister and I had two different hair textures. I didn’t realize this until I started wearing the cornrow extensions. My sister was rather condescending about me wearing those. I remember once she teased me for wearing “horse-hair weave” My sister never needed to wear a weave. She has some kind of three-something hair. Her curls are pretty and bouncy. When we were younger she wore it straight often. She endured the hot comb and perms too, but not nearly at the rate that I did. My mom didn’t spend hours trying to get my sisters hair to cooperate. My sister, even though she didn’t have hair like the blond white girls I went to Elementary school with, had manageable hair. I wouldn’t learn that my sisters hair was considered “good hair” until I was in my late teens.

When I was a senior in highschool, my sister called me to tell me that she was going “natural” with her hair. This was in 2010 and going natural wasn’t nearly as popular as it is now. I, like so many others, thought she was going to cease washing her hair. She explained to me what natural really meant, and I began to ponder if this was something I should do. I was getting ready to go to college in the fall of the next year and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do my hair. I never figured out how to properly straighten my relaxed hair. I didn’t know how to curl it and it was too short for a ponytail.

There was another girl at my highschool named Brianna who had went natural with her hair. Her hair was like mine, thick and kinky, but it looked nice. She used to do nice updos and blowouts and I started thinking that maybe I can get my hair to look like that. I told my mom I was thinking about going natural with my hair and her response was “So you going to walk around with an afro?”, as is if both her and my dad didn’t walk around with an afro when they were my age. My dad even has pieces of his afro taped to the back of one of his pictures in our family photo albums.

I had made up my mind. In February of 2011, my parents and I visited my sister in Raleigh and we went to a natural hair salon so that I could get the “big chop”. When I stepped in the salon and told the stylist what I was doing and she recoiled. She told me that I should just go to a barber shop because I would look like a little boy when she was through. My sister had noticed the woman pull me aside and she text me to tell me not to let that woman talk me out of getting my hair cut. Another stylist cut my hair for me and afterwards my family and I went to buy me an onslaught of natural hair care products.

My hair grew fairly quickly. By the time I attended undergraduate school it was a TWA. I used to buy flower accessories to put in my hair to make myself look less boyish at this stage. I liked that I no longer had to worry about strands of my hair sticking up or relaxers. My TWA was surprisingly simple to manage and I was not in a rush for it to grow long and full. Nevertheless it did, and by the time I graduated from undergraduate school it was long, big, and fluffy. It was still hard to manage, but I was beginning to accept my hair the way it is.

“Good hair” is a rather interesting concept. The Elementary school I attended was majority White. Both my sister and I are very light-skinned and we were never considered to be just Black. Indeed we are not, because I took an Ancestry DNA test this year and found that I do have a substantial amount of European ancestry despite the fact that both my parents are African-American as are their family members. We didn’t know this when we were younger and our parents (who most likely did not know either) always told us that we were just Black. As I grew up, I realized that the only thing people used to identify me as Black was not the color of my skin but the texture of my hair. Even in its relaxed form it was thick enough for people to know that I was Black. As for my sister, her hair is an anomaly. It is an indication that she is mixed, but I am not sure how many people assume my sister is actually Black. Both her and myself, have gotten Mexican, Puerto Rican, Dominican, and the occasional Islander. I get these assumptions, but everyone knows I have some kind of Black in me, especially now that I am natural. I am not sure how often people assume my sister has any Black in her at all. It is entirely possible for her to pass as White-Hispanic or some other mixed race woman. She doesn’t do this on purpose, but it is just a consequence of being an African-American woman with “good hair” because people on the outside looking in do not think it is possible for an African-American woman to have “good hair”.

There is no clear definition of what “good hair” actually is. It is a social construct most likely started by White people to divide African-Americans. Hair that isn’t blonde and straight is usually not considered good hair in White communities. If you are Black, however, and you’re hair is long and manageable like that of my sisters, a white person may consider that you have good hair for a Black person. It isn’t as good as theirs, but it’s better than Black people with hair like mine

It is clear that hair like mine never was and never will be considered “good hair” in the White community or the African American community. When my hair was relaxed it wasn’t considered “good hair” to White people because it was still nappy. It also wasn’t considered “good hair” to the African American community because it was chemically processed… and still nappy. My relaxed hair was never good hair to begin with because it was unhealthy and dry and was breaking off my scalp like a Nature Valley granola bar. Now that my hair is natural and long, it is still not considered good hair in either community. I know that wearing my hair natural curbs my dating potential. African-American men would much rather date a woman with hair like my sister’s or a white girl with flawless blonde hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through and hair they can play in. You can do both of those things with my hair on a good day, but they don’t know that or care to find out.

Older Black women also do not enjoy the natural look. It doesn’t fit in with many of their “respectability politics.” I straightened my hair for my graduation from graduate school because I highly doubt I will go back to school and I wanted to know what it was like to wear a graduation cap the “normal” way without the use of bobby pins to keep it on my head. I went into work with my hair straight for about a week and an older black woman who worked with me told me that I should keep my hair that way. Truthfully, many people told me that I should keep my hair straight, but it always cuts the deepest when a black woman tells you should wear your hair straight.

Another thing that happens when you have hair like mine and you wear it natural is that White people view you as defiant or believe that you are making a political statement. I live in a rural, majority white town for now, and I wear my hair out in a afro most times. People here stare at me as if am walking around butt naked. They look up at my hair as they talk to me and they think that I don’t notice it but I do. I will admit, sometimes I do wear my afro out on purpose, just to trigger them because it is not my fault that they view my hair as some sort of political statement. It is not a political statement but it is the way my hair naturally grows out of my scalp. It grows horizontally instead of vertically. Us Black folks didn’t make our hair into a political statement, White people did that. If they don’t like the way our hair grows out of our scalp then they need to take it up with God.

Finally, there are the every day trials and tribulations of having hair like mine. The hair straightener kiosks at the mall never bother to approach someone with hair like mine. They know their stragtheners won’t work on my nappy ass hair. There is the ever present worry of going on a job interview with my natural hair and fearing that the interviewer will deem me unprofessional for wearing my hair the way it naturally grows out of my scalp. Both my Dad and my sister recommended I keep my hair straight for interviews but I can’t afford one hundred dollars per interview. I worry how my hair texture will affect my dating life if I ever do decide to date. I know that many African-American men are not fond of hair like mine, and I am willing to date outside my race, but I don’t know how many non African-American men are fond of hair like mine. There is also the ridiculous personal anxiety of a bug falling into my hair and eating through my scalp. The other day I picked a bug deep out of afro and flung it into the street. Then there's the realization that there are some styles I will never be able to do without having to pay an arm and leg and a torso. Doing a simple bun takes time and patience. Living in a rural area also means that most stores do not sell the products that I use frequently. I am no longer a product junky but I still have to drive an hour into the city to find some of the products I use to deep condition because a rural white town is not willing to accomodate the few people here with hair like mine.

I am 24 years old now and I am still learning to love my hair. Sometimes it still frustrates me because I think of all the ways the texture of my hair has held me back in life. I think of how much prettier I would be with straight hair, whether or not boys would have liked me more if I had “good hair” in high school. I still like to imagine what my life would be like if I had gotten my sister’s grade of hair. How much easier it would be for me to love myself. I didn’t get to pick my hair texture. It’s one of the things God gave me to work with but unfortunately the world isn’t so accepting of a person's natural God-given attributes if they do not understand it.

Still, I am proud of my natural hair and I do appreciate it and like it most days. Some days I love it. It suits my face better than straight hair does. It is long and I love to wear it big and blown out whenever possible. It reminds me that I am a Black woman. It reminds me of who my ancestors might have been. In a lot of ways, it reminds me of where I might have came from. It reminds me of where my original home might be.

I don’t know when or why my mom started relaxing her hair, but I still remember the annoyance she displayed when I told her I was going to go natural. After I cut all my hair off she gave me one of her old, black, plastic afro picks. A few months later she started transitioning to go natural with her hair. She has been natural for several years now. I have been natural for seven years. Whenever I go home, I look on my moms vanity mirror in my parents room. She has a metal afro pick with a black power fist on the handle of it. I don’t know when she got it but I like to imagine that she got it back when she was my age and that she kept it all these years. I don’t care for metal afro picks, but sometimes I am tempted to steal it. I always decide against it because I’d like to think that this pick is special to her. I’d like to think that this pick reminds her of her home. I’d like to think that this pick reminds her of who she is and who she was created to be.

#natural hair #personal writing #personal #African-American #writing #good hair #afro hair

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elliyoyo · 7 years ago

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Getting Lost In The Mall (Steve Rogers/Reader)

I’m not super proud of this one, mainly because I had no idea what to do for it, so here today’s is! I hope you enjoy it even though it was the hardest one to do for me!

Warnings: Some swearing, a semi-intrusive cashier, I kind of made the reader a bit of an asshole but shshshh, and mentions of proposals and marriage.

Words: 1126

You had just wanted to go Christmas shopping with Steve, nothing more, nothing less. However, Christmas shopping quickly turned into mayhem when people realized that Captain America was in the same mall as them. There was quickly a crowd formed around him and, even though he tried to keep a grip on your arm, you were eventually pushed to the outside of the group.

Babe, I’m sorry, let me just deal with them and get security and we can get on with shopping.

it’s fine. im gonna go do shopping anyway so i can say i got something done. meet me in the food court when youre done, okay?

You put your phone in your pocket, determined to not let it bother you that you were no longer accompanied by your boyfriend. At least you could get his present now. You walk into the jewelry store, mentally chanting his ring size to yourself so you would get it right and not have an embarrassing moment on Christmas morning.

“Hi! How can I help you?” The woman behind the counter smile brightly, walking over to where you were.

“Hello! I wanted to get my boyfriend a ring. So I could, uh… you know… propose n’ shit.” You mentally reprimand yourself for sounding so awkward, but she smiles and nods.

“I love how you’re going against stereotypes,” she says, still nodding. You keep a smile forced on your face, but your eyes betray you, the death glare beginning to form. You clear your throat and continue on, just wanting to get this done.

“His ring finger is a size 11 and I wanted to get him something with his birthstone— a ruby— on it. I need this to be really special to him.” Your eyes shift down to the display of rings beneath you, scanning for some type of red. They land on a beautiful golden ring with alternating rows of rubies and diamonds that immediately caught your attention with how sparkly and beautiful it was.

“Ah, that? A beautiful choice! May I see a picture of your boyfriend?” She tilts her head, bending down to unlock the display and take out the ring so you could be sure you liked that one. Little did she know…

“Uh, you probably actually don’t need a picture. He’s kind of—,” you stop yourself, not wanting to say that he’s famous or a celebrity so you don’t sound like a showy asshole. “He looks like Captain America if that helps at all. He gets mistaken for him all the time.”

“Ooh, you got lucky, didn’t you?” She gives you a smirk and sets the ring down on the counter so you can look at it up close.

“Um… Excuse me?” You try to not look as offended and pissed off as you are in fear of having security called on you for going off on her, but it’s a tough task.

“Well, it’s not exactly easy to get someone so attractive— if he really is like Captain America. Just a congratulatory thing.” She shrugs, looking you up and down again. “So, anyway— it’s rubies and diamonds set in 14 karat gold and white gold. It’s around Christmas so we’re having a bunch of huge blowout sales to get rid of excess product.”

“So how much is this?” You drag a finger over the gems, knowing immediately that Steve would love it.

“Only $169.99. Do you want to do a—”

“No, I’ll be paying for it upfront, I saved up some money. Can you please just ring me up?” You don’t look her in the eyes, pulling out your wallet so you could hand her the money and go to the food court to meet up with Steve.

“Well, then… That’ll be $183.59,” she mumbles, beginning to sound snooty as she realizes that she did something wrong. She scans a barcode on a piece of paper she pulled from beneath the register and goes to ask something else, but you cut her off.

“No, I don’t want any insurance guarantee crap for it, I just want the ring and to get back to my boyfriend. Please and thank you.” You hand her the money, down to exact change, and look up at her with the most tame glare you could muster.

“Here, uh… have a nice day.” She hands you the bag with the ring and receipt in it, letting her fake smile stay on her face until you walked out of the store. You don’t look back once you’re out, quickly walking to the food court in hopes that Steve would be there.

in the food court. you in there too? want to eat here or make something at home?

You put your phone away after sending the message and finding a place to sit down. You sit there for awhile, pretending to look through something on your phone until someone speaks behind you.

“Is this seat taken, ma’am?”

“Uh, kinda? My boyfriend isn’t back yet s—” You turn back to look at whoever it is and the corners of your mouth turn upwards for the first time that day as you see Steve with the same stupid smile.

Pressing a kiss to your head, he takes a seat next to you. His eyes drift over to the bag and he quirks an eyebrow at it, knowing the label from somewhere. “Uh, what’d you get? Or are you not gonna tell me because it’s mine?”

“It’s yours and if you go snooping to try and find it, I’ll play frisbee with your shield again,” you nonchalantly mumble, biting your lip to hide your smirk.

“No, no you won’t.” He rolls his eyes, looking at the text you had sent him. “Last time you almost broke three windows and took Thor’s head off.”

“Ugh, fine. But seriously, I’m kind of hungry, what do you want to do for dinner?”

“I found this really nice recipe online that I wanted to try, so I’m thinking we go home and have a little date night. What do you think?”

“Sounds perfect to me.” You stand up, grabbing the bag in the hand that was farther away from him.

“Alright, let’s go, then, babe.” He holds his hand out, which you take with a small thank you, and begins to walk towards the exit. You hold on tight and pull down a bit so he bends to the point where you can kiss his cheek.

That was one thing off your checklist. The only other things were to enjoy dinner with Steve, wrap everyone’s presents, and finally, and most importantly, figure out how the hell and when the hell you were going to propose to Steve.

If the fangirls didn’t spoil it first, that is.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #captain america #captain america imagine #captain america x reader #marvel #mcu #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel cinematic universe #avengers #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #cap #fluff #12 Days Of Christmas Challenge #save me #i had no idea what i was doing #tbh

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auburnfamilynews · 4 years ago

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Nelson Chenault-USA TODAY Sports

You ain’t seen bouncin’ back!

Alright, well let’s dust ourselves off and get back out there. At least most of us nailed the under! This is a bounce back opportunity for Auburn. Arkansas is coming off of their first conference win in 20 tries, but that’s what happen when you let BERT run your program.

What’s that?

No, I really don’t think they ever really gave him a chance. What was he supposed to do with all of two years to recruit to a completely different system?

Anyway, Auburn needs this game to work out offensive line issues, especially in the run game. Unfortunately Arkansas appears to be strong against the run. This might be one where you challenge the fortitude of your football team and make them guy through it. How do we feel it will go?

Note: Most of us started to pick this before Hurricane Delta started to move the line a bit. There’s a decent chance one of the bands could hit during the game, so that could affect scoring. I updated to what Bill Connolly used to judge SP+.

Auburn (-14) vs. Arkansas (O/U 46.5)

SP+ Pick: Auburn -16.6; Total 49 (OVER)

Yeah I’m still boiling over last Saturday’s abject failure and now am even more enraged at the notion that if we coach/play like we did in Athens in the middle of a hurricane on Saturday that we could end up losing to this team and ultimately wind up with a $50 million+ decision to make in a pandemic. I am not ok and will not be ok regardless of what happens Saturday.

Still, we should beat this team and cover this spread. Don’t let Mississippi State looking like ass fool you here, Arkansas is the worst team in this league, and the only debate to the contrary involves Vanderbilt. The problem is they are very well coached, WHICH MATTERS WHEN YOU WANT TO BEAT A MORE TALENTED TEAM ON THE ROAD IN THIS CONFERENCE NOT THAT I AM REFERENCING ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR NOPE JUST THROWING OUT SOME RANDOM BIT OF ANALYSIS HERE.

/takes a deep breath and attempts to rationalize anything in this stupid year…

Auburn needs to run the football 35-40 times. Not a single one of those carries should be a called run by Bo Nix. They will not be given a better opportunity to use a game to get better than this one. They need to figure out run blocking regardless of how tight that keeps the score. And it’ll mean a sloppy game where things get weird, but it can pay dividends in the coming weeks. They absolutely must use this game to settle the offensive line and get some confidence, because if you don’t you’re going to get bullied by Alabama, LSU, Tennessee, and probably be dared to get into a shootout with the Mississippi schools.

I think the offense looks rough as hell thanks to the weather and a need to grind through the deficiencies up front, but ultimately eek out an ugly win that feels similar to Ole Miss a year ago, where the game is in question on the scoreboard and the stats don’t align with it.

Auburn 27, Arkansas 10 (Auburn wins and covers; under)

—Josh Black

I am still pissed about last Saturday & will remain so for quite some time. The Tigers had a golden opportunity to change the AU/UGA narrative & establish themselves as a legitimate CFP contender. Instead, they got their butts beat & looked outclassed from head coach to student manager. It was embarrassing.

But despite the hopeless feelings of this week that AU fans have expressed quite verbosely on the internet wherever anyone would listen, the season isn’t over. The Tigers still have a chance to put together a season of football to be proud of but it has to start this weekend.

Auburn must win this game. That’s obvious but I’ll go a step further. Auburn must dominate this game. This team needs an emotional kickstart just as much as the fanbase. No, winning Saturday doesn’t make last weekend any better. It doesn’t even mean this team will end up being any good but a win at least gets this team going back in the right direction. A dominating win let’s this group feel like a GOOD football team again. I still believe the ingredients are there to be a good football team but it’s going to take some players at key positions elevating their play.

The weather might be nasty Saturday which could force both offenses to the ground. In the past, that would be a very good thing for Auburn. But I don’t feel as comfortable in 2020 about that situation. Still, despite the Hogs capturing their first win last week, they haven’t necessarily looked like an elite squad. It took 4 turnovers including a pick 6 for the Hogs to pull off last week’s upset. Their offense has yet to cross the 300 yard threshold & are averaging a pretty terrible 4.2 yards a play. If they win Saturday it will be because the Tigers turn the ball over too much & aren’t able to mentally shake last week’s loss.

However, I think this team shows up Saturday and plays better football. Specifically, I think Saturday becomes the Tank Bigsby show with the Tigers leaning on their explosive freshman and he responds by going over the century mark and putting some TDs on the board. On the other side of the ball, I expect the Hogs offense to make some big plays but struggle to finish drives. Franks can be turnover prone at times & I think a couple of picks turn this game into a blowout in the 2nd half.

Auburn 48, Arkansas 17 (Auburn wins and covers; over)

—AUNerd

Arkansas fans haaaaaaaaaaaate Chad Morris. Arkansas fans haaaaaaaaaaaaaaate Gus Malzahn. I don’t think our head coach much cares for Arkansas, either. These revenge games haven’t worked out for Arkansas very well. Auburn’s got some stuff to work out Saturday. If this game is close, Auburn has some soul searching to do. But this game won’t be close.

Auburn 56 Arkansas 3 (Auburn wins and covers; over)

—Josh W

I think this is a case of two teams who need a win desperately for various reasons. Auburn needs to win this game to prove to itself that it isn’t a bad football team, it just had a bad game. Arkansas needs to win because they got bad blood, but they used to have mad love. Now they got problems and I don’t think they can solve them, etc.

If Auburn and Chad Morris drop a fifty-spot on the hogs, they would be so angry they may never recover. However, if Gus has proven anything to us it is that he is vindictive.

Auburn 55, Arkansas 17 (Auburn wins and covers; over)

—Son of Crow

Man, I’ll admit, my confidence is shot after last weekend. It is really hard for me to trust Auburn beating anybody, much less by 18, right now. Nevertheless, this is the type of game Auburn wins big time under Gus, with the fanbase already too ticked off to be able to enjoy it. Auburn has a severe talent advantage, and even though we’re nicked up with some injuries, I expect the Auburn offense to come out with their hair on fire. Down KJ Britt, I do worry the defense may struggle, but I don’t think Arkansas has the ground game to take advantage of it. Tank Bigsby becomes the first Tiger to break 100 yards rushing since Boobee Whitlow in the Iron Bowl. 38-13 Good Guys. (Auburn wins and covers; over)

—Ryan S. Sterritt

If there was ever a weekend that could make me not want to watch football after the extended sports break we had with COVID, it was last weekend. I don’t need to tell you the myriad of ways in which Auburn sucked, but it was disheartening as hell. Now, we get to play a team that might actually be just what the doctor ordered. Gus and Chad clearly don’t have any sort of sentimental feelings toward the Pigs, but I think this is going to be a little tougher than the past few seasons have been. Still, there may be two teams each season that Gus saves a little fun for, and it’s Arkansas and Alabama.

With an impending deluge, we might not be as crisp as we’d like to see, but I can only imagine that the team got its ass kicked in practice this week. Not having heard any “good week of practice” quotes coming from the head man may indicate that we did indeed have a good week of practice. We still need to work on the run game, and I’m definitely not alone in believing that it’s going to be an emphasis this weekend. Pound it and don’t stop until you get it right. Tank shows us more from last weekend, only this time he won’t be alone. Auburn 34-10. (Auburn wins and covers; under)

—Jack Condon

I am really between a rock and a hard place. I am so hurt and disheartened that I am drifting into crazy fan territory of “JUST LOSE SO WE CAN BE DONE WITH THIS”. Auburn will win this game, more than likely. The talent is just there and this is the path Gus takes, looks terrible against the upper tier of the conference (because Auburn is not part of that this year), and then dominate the lower half (the Mississippi’s and Arkansas) of the conference. I don’t know what to expect or what we will see but Auburn should win. I will take the piggies and the points because...this offense isn’t good. Auburn 28-17 (Auburn wins, Arkansas covers; under)

—Drew Mac

The Tigers come into this game on the lowest of lows while Arkansas comes into this game on the highest of highs. Auburn has blown out Arkansas the last 2 times the Hogs had come to the Plains, but after what I saw last week, my confidence in this group has been shaken quite a bit. The lines on both sides of the ball need to take a major step this week as last week was just brutal to watch. With KJ Britt out, it’s time for someone to step on the defensive side of the ball and become the leader of this group. The hope is Auburn will have Jaylin Simpson back this week and not have anyone get thrown out for targeting 5 minutes into the game.

I think Auburn wins this game but it’s going to one of those that will frustrate the fanbase. Auburn 27 Arkansas 13 (Auburn wins, Arkansas covers*; under)

—Dr. Will (*-pick was made with previous line. This is a push on the new line)

After what we saw last week, it’s hard to imagine this Auburn team beating anyone. I’m now convinced You could take any auburn team from the past 15 years and have them play a Pop Warner team in an empty Sanford Stadium, and the Auburn team just wouldn’t win. That said, this Arkansas team is like one of those houses you see from war movies has been shelled, burned, and barely even has a foundation to speak of. We have some serious problems on our hands if we can’t beat this team, especially at home, where over the last 14 months, Auburn has been much better than when they are playing somewhere else. I look for Bo to bounce back from last week’s struggles and see us to an ultimately comfortable win. Auburn 38 - Arkansas 12 (Auburn wins and covers; over)

—Chief

Are we sure we still have to do this? The Panthers have shown signs of life. Everton haven’t lost in what feels like months...because it has been. The Braves won a post-season series for the first time since I was in high school, and then they won another one for good measure! Do I still have to watch Gus and Chad try to get this offense out of first gear against Arkansas?

YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I DO! This game is “get-right” city. Arkansas is good against the run, and they don’t give up big plays. So guess what, it’s time to put up or shut up with Bo throwing the ball 5-15 yards downfield and over the middle. If you’re going to do it, Saturday is the day. Work those tight ends early. Get your timing down on RPOs. Feed the Tank!

I think things look a little out-of-sorts for the first half, and the defense bends a little more than we like. Then Auburn breaks out in the second half. Think a better version of the Kentucky game. 10-6 at the half, but the final is Auburn 34-9 (Auburn wins and covers; under)

—James Jones

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2020/10/10/21508523/staff-picks-13-auburn-vs-arkansas

#IFTTT #Blogger #auburn #auburn fast #wareagle #AuburnFamilyNews #war eagle #sec #football news #aubu

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