#i wrote my long fics in week long crazes

[valkyyriia]

Interruptions

Words: 744 CW: Semi-Public Sex, Cunnilingus Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x Female-Bodied Reader Notes: I wrote this fic last year and posted it on Ao3 during the Hogwarts Legacy craze around when the game came out. I just never posted it here.

It's currently on Ao3 here. The work is orphaned for a few reasons I'd rather not explain in a note, but I'd be happy to answer if asked.

I know most of you follow me for otome (specifically Ikeseries) content, so I'll be forgoing my usual taglist.

You were on a desk in a classroom, legs spread wide, underwear around one of your ankles and skirt hitched up to your waist. Ominis was seated between your legs, his face between your thighs, tongue lapping at the wetness between them. One of your hands was threaded through his hair, pushing him closer to your center. 

A barely stifled cry escaped your lips as he licked a long stripe up your folds, paying extra attention to the nub at the top. You could feel a pressure rising in your abdomen with every flick of his tongue.

"Ominis," you moaned. "Fuck, love." 

Vibrations rumbled against your core as Ominis chuckled. He pulled away slightly and smirked, licking his lips. 

"You'd best watch your language, darling, if you want more where that came from." 

You whined at the loss of his touch and tried to urge him to resume, but he seemed perfectly content to wait. He was tantalizingly close to your warm heat; close enough that you could feel his soft breaths ghost over the moistened flesh. It was driving you utterly mad. 

"Tell me you'll behave, love, and I'll give you what you want." He blew a puff of air at your lower lips and the sensation made a shiver run up your spine. 

"I'll behave. I promise," you whined, aching for contact. Ominis waited one more torturous moment before burying his face against your cunt with even more fervor than before. He added his hands to the mix this time, pressing a long finger into your core.

He was eating you out like a man starved, like he hadn't eaten in a week and you were the best meal he could have ever asked for. 

You moved your free hand to your mouth, trying to hold in the obscenities that were fighting to escape your lips. It was torture. Your legs were shaking from the sheer ecstasy he was giving you. 

He added a second finger and curled them just right and you saw stars. You came with a cry, pleasure rolling down your form in waves. Ominis focused his attention on your clit, sending additional shockwaves rolling through you. 

The door opened. 

"Oh, there you guys are. Where have you -" 

Ominis froze. You looked up in shock, still riding out the end of your orgasm, eyes half lidded. 

Sebastian Sallow stood in the now open doorway, eyes wide and trained on the sight before him. He was speechless. He made eye contact with you and blushed a bright red, averting his eyes. 

Ominis, the bastard, gave one final flick against your clit, sending a shudder of overstimulation up your body, before pulling away from you entirely. 

"Did you need something, Sebastian? Or are you just going to continue to stand there and stare like a pervert?" Ominis crossed his arms and stared at the other boy. It was clearly intended to be intimidating, but it was hard to be imposing when his clothes were rumpled, hair in disarray, face shiny with your slick. The other boy got the hint, though.

"It's.. nothing that can't wait. I'll see you later. When you're both... fully dressed." He quickly ran out the door, slamming it behind him. Ominis turned back to you, running a hand through his messy blond hair. Your cheeks were crimson with mortification. 

"At least it was Sebastian," you tried to lighten the mood. "It could have been Garreth."

You reached down and pulled your panties back up, moving to get off the desk. Your legs felt like jelly and you stumbled, Ominis catching you and steadying you. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, hands holding you upright. Your own came to rest on his chest.

"The entire school would know by breakfast if it were Garreth," Ominis muttered. "But once Sebastian gets over it, you know he's going to be relentless with his teasing." 

Ominis' hands trailed down your form, smoothing down your rumpled skirt. Your own took his tie, straightening it and laying it down flat. Your fingers ran through his hair, trying to smooth it back into place. 

"I hate that we were interrupted, though," you said as you moved to your robes on unsteady legs. "You didn't even get to have your own pleasure." 

"Don't worry about that, darling. There's plenty of time for that later," he murmured against your lips. 

You were sure to make it up to him later that night. 

Taglist: @natimiles

[justmystyles]

Smoke and Mirrors

read my other work here!

pairing: Harry Styles x plus size reader

*i say it's a plus size reader, but it is not something that i focus on explicitly in my fics, because your size should not define you. it will only come up if it comes into the story organically.*

word count: 2,554

summary: Harry asks you to move to London with him, but a new opportunity for him makes things a little more complicated than you'd both expect.

a/n: first and foremost, i want to make sure that it is clear that this not me taking a stance or making a statement on the status or legitimacy of Harry's relationship. i just got inspired by all the theories and conspiracies, and thought to myself, 'hey, what if Harry was in a real relationship while he was also doing a PR relationship', and wrote this.

tags: @abby8694 @allthelovehes @ameerakane20 @ash-craze @bethanysnow @blue-ballad @blueraspberryreader @brightlightsinlife @creativelyeva @cute-as-ducks420 @deannaard @fanficismydrug @gem1712 @golden-hoax @gothmingguk @groovychaosavenue @hillzrry @iceebabies @indierockgirrl @jerseygirlinca @jng4kook @jooniesbabie @kaverichauhan @laurxn-robinson @lexiecamposv @likeapplejuicenpeach @lilfreakjez @mrs-anna-styles211994 @n0vaj3an @potterheadandsherlocked @rach2699 @ravenclawdirectioner @stylesfeverr @superchrystaldrug @tenaciousperfectionunknown @tiaamberxx @thechaoticjoy @theekyliepage @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @youknowwhaaat

You shut the refrigerator door and sigh. You weren’t even hungry, you were just bored and figured eating or cooking could kill a little bit of time. The longer things went on this way, the more you were starting to feel like a prisoner in what was supposed to be your new home. 

When Harry proposed the idea of you moving to London to live with him, you couldn’t have been more excited. You had spent the week with him when he performed four sold out nights at Wembley Stadium, it was a monumental time for him, but he seemed more excited to show you his home than to perform. You had never been to London before, and Harry did everything he could to make you feel welcomed and comfortable. Especially in his house. He had made room for you in the closet, significantly more than you would need for just a couple of days. You thought it was adorable how at home he wanted you to feel. And then, one morning, toward the end of your time there, you discovered why he had been trying so hard. 

“This is really nice.” Harry hummed as you rested your head on his chest, his fingers tracing random patterns on your arm. “Waking up to my girl, in my bed. This is what life is all about.” 

You sighed happily, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest, and the beating of his heart against your ear. 

“What would you think about doing this after tour, like all the time?” His voice suddenly got quiet and tentative. 

You looked up at him curiously. “Yeah, I’d love that baby. Anywhere I get to wake up in your arms is good with me. Where do you want to go?” 

He took a deep breath. “I was uh… thinking here. Maybe you could… I don’t know, move in with me?” 

Your eyes widen and you sit up, resting your back against the headboard. “You want me to move in with you?” 

“Yeah,” he replies nervously. “Listen, I know it’s a huge move for you. You’d be leaving everything to come halfway across the world to a country you’ve only spent a couple of days in. I totally understand if…”

“Yes,” you interrupt him.

“Yes?” He looks so confused, you’d think he’d forgotten what he asked you. 

You giggle at his reaction. “Yes, I’ll move in with you.” You smile. “When I started dating you, I knew that if we were going to be a long term thing, this would be an inevitability. I’m ready, I want to.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course,” you assure him. “But I’m going to need a tour guide, someone to help me get settled. Do you happen to know anyone?” 

He pulls you in, kissing you deeply. “You have no idea how happy this makes me, angel. I promise, I will be here to show you everything. I don’t have any work commitments once the tour is over. I’ll be all yours, I’ll show you all my favorite places, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” 

Here you were three months later, and you were still a complete stranger in the city. You managed to find your way around the block so that you could get out and get some fresh air from time to time, but that was the extent of your exploration. And it had been done alone. 

You understood that Harry liked to keep his personal life private, that you wouldn’t be walking red carpets on his arm and he wouldn’t be professing his love for you in interviews, and you were fine with that. He told you that he knew how to fly under the radar when he was home, so that you could enjoy your time together unbothered by fans and paparazzi. 

Then, he came to you with some news you hadn’t expected, news that changed your post-tour plans. 

“I’m so sorry Har, I thought I was going to have everything done in time to be with you for all of July. I’m going to have to meet you in Lisbon and go from there.” You apologized from the other end of a FaceTime call. 

You had only just gotten home from the London shows, and were determined to get your affairs in order as quickly as possible so you could get right back on the road with him, but preparing to move internationally turned out to be a bit more complicated than you had hoped. 

“It’s alright angel, as long as you’re there for the last show, and all the nights after that, that’s what matters.” He smiles, but you notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I uh… I had a meeting yesterday, about the Loewe deal. I got it.” He says, you notice he’s not as excited as he should be.

“Baby, that’s incredible! But why do you seem so sad about it?”

He lets out a deep sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “They have some stuff they need from me, I’m going to have to go out when we get back to London, be seen in their clothes, stuff like that.” 

You give him a sad smile, you know how much he was looking forward to having time off, without any work responsibilities, but you’re determined to cheer him up. “Oh you have to wear fancy designer clothes and walk around London. What a tough life.” You giggle, but you notice that his expression doesn’t lighten up. “Harry?”

“They want to pair me up with one of the other brand ambassadors, have us go around and get some candid shots out and about.” He pauses for a second before continuing. “Her name is Taylor, she’s going to be in London for a bit working on a play.”

Your face falls, understanding washing over you. “They want rumors going around that you two are together.” 

“Angel, I don’t have to. I can tell them no. I don’t want to –” 

“But you’ll lose the contract if you tell them no, right?” He nods. 

The last thing you want to do is hold Harry back, especially from something he’s so excited about. He’s been talking about this opportunity for months, you would hate to be the reason it fell through. Besides, you’re confident in your relationship, you know that this would only be for press, and that you’re the one he’d be coming home to every night. It’s no different than if he were taking a roll in a movie, he just happens to be playing himself. 

“I think you should do it.” You see him look up in disbelief. “Seriously. You’re my boyfriend, I know that and I trust you. So you’ll have to go on a couple of coffee dates, and hold hands with another girl a couple of times. You’ll just make up for it when you get home to me. In our house.” 

Adjusting to Harry’s new job was difficult, especially when Taylor joined up with him in Vienna, two weeks before you were able to get back to him, and became a part of the entourage for the remainder of the tour. You already had your own guilt about not being there in that time, that combined with the constant need to remind yourself that it wasn’t real became a lot. You were careful not to let it show when you spoke to Harry though. He had enough going on, worrying about you would just be a distraction.

You felt better once you were able to get to Lisbon. You were reunited with Harry, and you were able to meet Taylor. She was incredibly sweet, and thrilled to meet you, she said Harry had been talking about you non-stop. You didn’t need the reassurance, but it felt nice nonetheless.  

The last few days of the tour went by in an emotional blur. Before you knew it, you were relaxing in Italy with Harry’s closest friends, celebrating the end of an amazing and grueling tour. Taylor had to go straight from the last show to London to prepare for her play, which was a relief to you. 

But now you were here, in London, and Harry was spending most of his time out and about in the city, while you sayed home. Between having to be photographed out and about with Taylor, and the time he was spending reconnecting with his good friend, James Corden, now that he was also back in London, it left little time for him to spend with you. You didn’t feel you had any right to say anything about it though, you were the one that encouraged him to sign the Loewe deal, knowing that this was going to be a part of it. But you didn’t realize just how much time Harry would be spending out on the town, leaving minimal time for him to spend with you. 

Tonight, Harry is out watching Taylor’s play again. You’ve gone to bed early thinking that sleep will be the best thing to pass the time. However, sleep eludes you. As you lay staring at the ceiling, something inside of you snaps. You pick up your phone from the bedside table, and begin looking at flights. Before long, you’re out of bed, and pulling your suitcase from the closet. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Harry calls cheekily from the entryway. When you don’t respond, he assumes you’re asleep, and quietly makes his way up to the bedroom. 

He opens the door, and his soft, happy expression, the one he gets when he knows he’s coming home to you quickly turns into one of confusion and worry. 

“Y/N? Are you going somewhere?” 

You jump slightly, too focused on your packing to notice he had come into the room. You take a deep breath, knowing that this isn’t going to be a good conversation. 

“I’m going back to the states.” You reply quietly. 

He comes up behind you, placing a hand on the small of your back. “Is everything okay? How long will you be gone?”

You shake your head and take a seat on the end of the bed. “No, Harry, I’m moving back.” 

Harry’s eyes go wide and he drops to his knees in front of you. “What? Why?” He takes your hands in his and grips them tightly. 

“This isn’t working, Har. I’m sorry.” I look down at our joined hands and sigh. “I’m not mad or anything, it's just… the timing didn’t pan out as well as we thought it would.” 

“Y/N, baby, what do you mean? Please, talk to me…” The pleading tone in his voice breaks your heart, and you struggle to hold back your tears. 

You take a deep breath before continuing. “Me moving here was a great idea when you were going to have all this time, and we were actually going to get to be together, but the plan changed. I’ve been in London for a couple of months now, and the most I’ve seen is the grocery store around the corner. I spend my days home alone, trying to keep myself distracted until you get back.”

Harry moves to sit beside you on the bed, one arm goes over your shoulders. With the other, he tilts your chin so that you’re looking him in the eyes. “My love, why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Because it wouldn’t have been fair of me.” He gives you a confused look and you sigh softly before continuing. “I’m the one that pushed you to take this Loewe deal, I told you I was fine with it. I can’t just decide now that I’m not getting enough attention, because you’re making good on a deal I encouraged you to sign…” 

“Hey,” Harry interrupts you, nothing but kindness and care in his eyes. “It’s okay to change your mind about things. You didn’t fully understand how it would play out. Hell, I didn’t even expect it to be this much. But I’m not a mind reader baby, you need to tell me when something is bothering you.” 

You nod your head and look down at your lap. He immediately slips an index finger under your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“Talk to me now, you know I’m not…”

“No no no!” You insist with wide eyes, before he can even finish his sentence. “I know you’re not cheating on me. That’s not it at all. I just… I miss you.” You say softly.

“Baby…” Harry coos and pulls you into a tight hug. “I miss you too, I’m so sorry. Please, just don’t leave, we’re going to figure out a way to make this work.”

The feeling of his arms wrapped around you, combined with his reassuring words and loving tone cause you to lose the control you had over your emotions and a soft sob escapes you, and Harry feels his heart break even more. He hates when you cry, and on the rare occasion when he is the cause, it’s absolutely devastating for him. 

You stay like that for a few moments, neither of you speaking. Harry just holds you as you cry; he knows that you’ve been keeping these feelings inside for a while, so he wants to give you all the time you need to get them out. As you cry against his chest, he rubs your back and presses soft kisses to the top of your head, making sure that you know he’s there, and that you are his priority. 

When you’ve finally gotten it out of your system, you pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “S-sorry…” You say as you sniffle.

You start to lift your hand to wipe your cheeks, but Harry beats you to it, cupping your cheeks as he wipes your tears away with his thumbs. 

“Are we okay?” He asks softly. You nod in reply, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “And you’ll stay?”

You give him a soft smile. “I’ll stay.” 

He pulls you close, kissing you tenderly. “Good, now let’s get to bed. I’ll make a few calls in the morning to take care of everything, and then we’re going to spend the whole day together. I’m going to show you my London, I’m gonna make a proper Brit out of you.”

You giggle and shake your head. “Right-o, mate!” You reply in a bad British accent. 

Harry scrunches his nose in mock disgust. “We’d better get to sleep, we have a lot of work to do.”

You slap his chest playfully as you stand up, returning your suitcase to the closet before slipping under the covers with Harry. As soon as you’re both in bed, he pulls you close, resting your head on his chest. He kisses the top of your head. 

“Thank you.” He whispers softly against your hair. 

“For what?” You ask curiously. 

“For staying, for moving here in the first place, for loving me.” He says tenderly. 

You tilt your head up to lock eyes with him, and smile softly. “Trust me when I tell you, it’s my pleasure.” 

He presses a soft kiss to your lips, and you both drift off into a peaceful sleep with the promise of a new day, and a new start in the morning. 

[lovezbrownies]

I am a bit curious of the after affects of, “Thank you, cruel savior.” Of the one you wrote a while back. I honestly want to see the after events and how Gen’s reaction to us coming up as missing/successfully escaping. Whether she knows it was one of her trusted servants or not I want to see how much she looses it. Also, the long term effects to months to years afterwards to see if she will or won’t give up after still no traces

Hello! Thank you for your ask :3! I love love getting asks like this, really makes my brain start up with ideas. Rereading the "Thank you, cruel savior" fic made me realize how vague all the details are im so sorry!!!

Masterlist

Gen Ludenhart x GN!Reader

Warning: Loss of sanity, cannibalism, stalking, themes of depression, abuse of power, torture mentions (to you and others), crazy lady activites.

Gen is an important woman, so travelling every month to meet other monarch's and their subordinates and to work alongside them was a normal thing. But she had only left for a week. A week. So why was it when she returned, she couldn't find you or that rat Reina? Why are some of your clothes missing? Most of Reina's belongings were also gone. Immediately without thought she gave out many orders to close the entire country down in the name of a danger prison escapee who had taken a poor defenseless citizen hostage. Wanted posters of Reina were plastered on every surface of the empire. And missing posters of her darling.

Over the weeks Gen slowly and slowly loses her mind. She'd lash out at anyone that had incurred her wrath that day. This crazed depraved woman had damn near caused a war after insulting a delegate of another empire. Soon this behaviour ends up with her being fired. Of course this meant nothing to Gen, she was a rich noble to begin with. But now with a new Military Chief in power, all the orders she had given out to locate you had been removed. Her brother wouldn't listen to her nonesense any longer. Gen is now alone. She doesn't even have her family on her side any more. She fired every servant. She was truly all alone isolated in her big mansion, with no spouse, and no joyful kids.

Gen's manor by now has completely become delapitated, dust and grimes everywhere, some pieces of wood falling apart, and a remorseful woman in the middle of it all. She wanted to end it. Without you she was nothing. Gen was nothing to begin with until she met you. Gen needed you. You were her life, her air, her nutrition. But after a year of hopelessness and depression, Gen realized she could just look for you herself, she had so so much money, and she was incredibly strong. So with the last bit of logic and reason, Gen sought out a trip to Dacos, Reina's home country. She was sure that woman had seduced you into coming with her to Dacos. But no worries darling, your dear loyal wife is coming to rescue you.

Gen knew Reina was a village girl from the beginning, with her attitude, mannerisms, way of speech, and looks in general. Not only that, but if Reina ever bought a new house in one of the cities in Dacos it would be much easier to trace, and unfortunately for Gen, Reina was smart enough to know that. So Gen went from village to village, showing a picture of Reina or you to any villager she meets. If Reina was smart enough she would change all of your names.

Eventually, Gen reached a tiny village named Lesannea. When she approached an older man with a picture of you and Reina and he confirmed you two lived on the house on the hill to the right of the village, a twisted sickening smile spread across her face. Of course Reina was far too overconfindent with her escape. If this devil thought she can steal away Gen's darling and get away with it well she was dead wrong. Gen will take you back and kill Reina's family be as well as Reina as slow and painful as possible. Gen will make sure you don't see any of it though, but because she will cut up Reina and cook her. So she can feed you the remains of the traitor. Even if you refuse, this woman is no longer sane, she will shove it down your throat one way or another. Gen will then wisk you away oh so romantically and pamper you for a short wile. And when she's done she will regain her honor.

But most importantly. This event changed Gen tremendously, did you leave because she hurt you too much? Don't worry darling, Gen will love and coddle you so you can feel all the love she has for you, so you can never run away again. But of course, she needs to teach you one last lesson before she does that. So you can never attempt to leave her again.

[thedreamlessnights]

No Promises - Beltane

Geralt of Rivia x F!Reader (NSFW)

This is my fic for @witcherwheeloftheyear as today is Beltane! It's a little late (the fic just kept getting longer and longer) but, hey, it's very much still May 1st here. I wrote this with the game version of Geralt in mind!

Prompt: Aphrodisiac.

Warnings and tags: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, sex pollen/aphrodisiac, no use of Y/N, oral sex (female receiving), outdoor sex (sort of), multiple orgasms, and mentions of blood and corpses.

Word Count: 5.6k

Even from the very beginning, you know the contract is strange.

You must look half-crazed. It’s the middle of the night and you’re soaked, shivering in the rain as you viciously nail the paper onto the inn’s noticeboard. The board is sheltered enough from the weather that the words won’t fade - or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Deeper in your chest, there’s something else. Realism, perhaps. 

No one is ever going to answer this ridiculous thing, and you know it. There aren’t many witchers left these days, and even fewer who’ll do something like an escort service. Monsters are easy - predictable. Humans are much less so. Taking a chance like that could risk their lives.

But you have no choice. You have to try. Nailing this thing on is something to keep your hands busy, something to keep you sane a little longer. It’s the barest hint of hope that one day you’ll get out of this place, kept sacred like the jar of coins near your bedside that you’ve been slowly adding to for years now.

You need to get out of this town, and to do that, you need a witcher. No regular man will survive those monsters in the woods, much less keep you alive through it. No, you need a witcher, impossible as that is.

And, like a miracle personified, not one week later - there one is.

Out of any who could have come around this little town, it seems remarkably funny to you that it’s the most famous of them all who arrives. The White Wolf. You know the ballads by heart.

You first see him in the inn. 

Just as you’ve begun nursing a pint and mourning your current circumstances, Geralt of Rivia walks in and makes you almost drop your drink. At the sight of him, everyone in the room goes completely still, and you with them. It’s as if an icy wind has blown in and frozen you all to the bone. No one dares even to take a breath.

He’s just like they say. White-haired, covered in dirt and blood, stinking of corpses. He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

He takes a cautious step in, and everyone slowly seems to come back to life. Some ignore him as he passes by, pretending they hadn’t seen him at all. Some whisper furiously - hissing under their breath. 

“This is a respectable town,” one man says, rather loudly. Stefan, the farmer’s son. You’d recognize that reedy, whining voice anywhere. “No room for freaks like that,” he continues. “Bloody mutants. Emotionless, that lot.” 

You simply watch Geralt, entranced. The pint in your hand goes forgotten, and your heart starts thundering in your chest with a bruising pace. Don’t expect anything, you remind yourself, rather sensibly. Surely there are other contracts that are better than mine.

Still, your gaze lingers on him with pressing curiosity. There are deep slashes in his armor that concern you, but he doesn’t look pained, and he’s not favoring anything when he walks. Is that his blood on the front, or someone - something - else’s?

You study him in silence until he’s left again, presumably to go off to his room and bathe. Only then do you remember your drink, swallowing the rest of it down in one long swig. You’re buzzing with an electrifying sort of energy, and it stays as you journey home. It keeps you up all night and won’t you rest.

There it is again; that hope. It sits in your chest, and your coin jar, and the paper that, with any luck, is still on the notice board. The longer you lay staring up at the pitch-black of your room, the more that hope seems to bleed out of you into the floors. Hours pass, and hope spills through the room until you’re drowning in it. 

You should be sensible. Guard yourself from the very real, very painful possibility of disappointment. But, if you’re honest, that doesn’t even feel like an option anymore. Until he flat out rejects you, that hope will remain.

Geralt is here and real, and he might take your contract. You might finally get out of this horrid place. He’ll already know the state of the woods - he’d come through them to get here, after all. You can pay decently for what you’re asking, and you’ll even provide food for the journey.

By the time dawn comes around, bringing rosy orange skies, you haven’t gotten an ounce of sleep. Your thoughts have been far too animated for that. Still, despite your lingering exhaustion, you get yourself up and dress quickly as anxious energy starts to flow through you. It works itself out through precise motions, the mundane routine of life. Busy hands make for a calm brain, that’s what you’ve always told yourself.

It still tugs at your chest, though. It won’t be fully pushed away.

Not long after you’ve made breakfast, there’s a knock at your door. Your heart instantly leaps to your throat at the sound. Could it be him? But then you remember that Elise told you she’d be over for some of your spare flour, and your heart sinks back down to its home between your ribs.

With more than a little disappointment, you swallow hard, trying briefly to brush the wrinkles from your clothes, then open the door.

But it isn’t Elise. It’s Geralt. 

He looks a little different than he had last night. For one - he’s been scrubbed clean from the blood and dirt, handsome and rugged as he stands in front of you. His armor is also different from yesterday’s, and he doesn’t smell at all like corpses anymore. 

What does he smell like? You can’t quite pinpoint it.

At the sight of you, Geralt politely bows his head. “Greetings,” he says. “Read your contract. Mind if I come in?”

Warmth, you finally realize. That’s what he smells like. Heat.

“No,” you say breathlessly. “No, I don’t mind at all - come in, please.”

You step back to let him in, and he follows in after you, briefly glancing around at the surroundings.

He should be intimidating. He had been, just last night, even though you hadn’t been scared away in the least. But he’s not at all scary now. Instead, he has an uncertainty about him that’s almost awkward. It’s as if he somehow has the lesser ground in this conversation, and that - combined with the soft hesitance of his voice - makes it impossible for you to be afraid of him.

“Are you hungry?” you ask impulsively. “I’ve just made breakfast.” 

He looks genuinely surprised at your offer. His brows rise, and he shifts from one foot to the other. “Already ate,” he says. “Appreciate the offer, though.”

“Then I’m guessing you’d like to discuss the contract.”

He nods. “Yeah. Don’t usually do escorts. Was hoping I could learn a little more before I agree to anything.”

“Of course,” you reply quickly, nervously brushing down your clothes again. “I’ll be honest, I know it’s not typical for witchers to do things like this, but…” Your words trail off and sit thickly in the air. You’re not sure what to say. You desperately want to convince him.

Geralt raises a brow. “Don’t feel like traipsing around the forest alone?” he asks.

Mirroring his facetious tone, you shrug and tilt your head. “I’m afraid I don’t have a death wish.” 

He smiles a little at that, his eyes crinkling just the slightest at the edges. Your gaze lingers on them, golden and warm and beautiful. With the slitted pupils, they really do look like a cat’s. 

“Smart of you to ask for an escort,” he says. “Just came through those woods. Crawling with monsters. Bandits, too.”

You frown, suddenly remembering the shredded armor you’d seen last night. “I’ve heard as much. It’s the only reason I’m still here.”

He studies you for a moment, gaze piercing. Then he speaks. “I’d need half the pay first. Other half comes when we arrive.”

“Done,” you say.

This really seems to take him aback. Do people often argue with him? It only makes sense for him to get half the pay now. 

“Huh,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. Gotta be honest, you seem smart enough to know this already, but there are some rules I’d need you to follow. I go out there with you, it’s both our lives on the line. Need you to do anything I say, when I say it. Don’t want any risks.”

“Of course,” you breathe, relief flooding you. “Like I said, I don’t have a death wish. I completely trust your opinions on how to get us through safely.”

He seems to relax a little at that. His expression softens, and he nods. “Got a few things to take care of today, so it’ll have to wait. Guessing tomorrow works for you?”

The wall of hesitance you’ve been holding in shatters. “Tomorrow?” you exclaim, perhaps a bit too loud. You have to physically stop yourself from throwing yourself in his arms. “I mean - yes! Yes, tomorrow is perfect, thank you.”

There’s a beautiful flash of a smile again before he bows his head once more and takes his leave, and you start trembling with some euphoric type of adrenaline. 

You’ve had this planned out for months now - years, even. You’d had to wait until you could afford it, and you’ve always told yourself to be practical about it, to wait until you had the best chance of leaving this place and staying away. 

You don’t have much to pack. The woods require you to travel light, so you only grab the necessities. Everything else is left behind. You don’t have many belongings anyhow.

Your employer doesn’t seem to believe you when you tell him you’re leaving, but he accepts your resignation nonetheless. He probably thinks you’ll end up back here like the rest of them. Deep in your bones, you know that won’t happen. Not if you can help it.

Keeping your hands busy, you cook up some food for the journey - things that will last, store well on your back. Then you purchase a few much-needed supplies, and sew up a tear that’s needed mending. When the sky finally starts to get dark again, you start trying to wear yourself out.

The overwhelming elation you feel in every inch of your body is keeping you wide awake, and you’ll need your sleep if you’re going through the forest. More sleep means you’re more alert, and you can’t risk putting Geralt in any further danger.

Eventually, your pacing around in the chilled night air begins to work - your body becomes soft and sleepy, and you crawl into bed knowing that everything is ready. 

Finally.

Over the next week, you learn a great number of things about the woods.

For instance, you learn what nekkers look like, and how to breathe when you’re hiding. It becomes natural - slow, shallow breaths so nothing will hear you. Soon, you learn how to make your footsteps almost silent, and how to identify when Geralt is hearing something dangerous in the distance. The days become a fluid rhythm of understanding. Three days in, and you don’t even need him to tell you to hide. You just know.

From what you can tell, the two of you are lucky. A few monsters and some wolves really aren’t the worst things you could be dealing with. Most of the time, the two of you are undisturbed - but that might just be his heightened sense of hearing steering the two of you away from danger.

You also come to learn that Geralt isn’t much of a talker. His answers to your questions are often brief, but not at all rude. Laconic, rather. It’s as if he’s itching to get the conversation off of him. Which leaves the burden on you. 

He doesn’t seem to mind your near-constant chatter in the least. Sometimes you’ll get a smile out of him, and rarely you’ll even earn a laugh. Other times he’s silent, lost in thought.

What’s the most frustrating of all is that the less he speaks, the more you want to know. Your head is full of things you want to ask, but you refuse to press him. Not when he’s been nothing but polite, keeping the two of you safe.

A week stretches on in scant conversation, but you feel safe and utterly relieved to be leaving that town, so you can’t exactly complain. Geralt starts your fires in the cold nights and always takes the first watch. You take the second, and wake him at any signs of danger.

And the two of you continue on.

When the two of you are forced to lumber over a log to push on, he puts his hands on your waist and hoists you up like you weigh absolutely nothing. His hands are warm and his grip is gentle but firm, and you spend the rest of the evening dizzily thinking about his touch.

His presence feels like a slowly-growing pressure in your chest, a dam about to burst. It swells with every touch, every conversation. If the two of you don’t arrive soon, one of these days your sense might crumble. For now, it holds. 

When there are only a few days left in your journey, Geralt finally initiates the conversation. He asks why you’re leaving - why you’d wanted to get away from that place so badly. 

You readily tell him. 

You tell him about long days spent in the sun, work that never paid as much as it should, hands worn down to the bone and skin constantly cracking. You had skills to share with the world, but they were no good in the middle of nowhere.

Then you tell him of the bitter chill of winter, the sweltering heat of the summer, the seasons that never had any kind of balance.

You hadn’t fit in with the townsfolk, who were nothing but shallow, cruel, and unfeeling. You laugh to yourself a little when you remember Stefan’s words - calling Geralt emotionless. In truth, it’s clear that Geralt feels more than he ever could.

As you speak, Geralt drinks in your words - as if they’re a heady wine he can’t get enough of. His eyes stay on your face the entire time you talk, and he smiles at your jokes. You can’t remember anyone else ever looking at you like that, not even the men you’ve bedded.

When you go off to bed, he offers a hand to help you up, and wishes you good night.

Your sleep that night is feverish. 

You dream of him, nothing but him - callused hands trailing over your skin, his thumb tracing along your jaw, warm lips coaxing yours open. 

When you wake with a start, you find great relief in the fact that Geralt hasn’t seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, and that you hadn’t talked in your sleep.

In fact, Geralt isn’t even looking your way - his eyes are focused on something you can’t see, studying a dark shadow in the distance. 

You sit next to him, pretending that you hadn’t just dreamed of… what you’d dreamed. “More wolves?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Endregas.”

The word isn’t familiar to you. “Monsters?” 

He huffs. “Yeah. Big. Shoot poison quills.”

You shudder a little at the thought, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Have you fought them before?”

“Yeah,” he replies, eyes still trained on the distant endregas. “Lots. Usually don’t have someone else to worry about, though. Prefer not to fight them if I don’t have to.”

“In that case, I can take watch,” you offer. “I’ll wake you if they get any closer.”

But he shakes his head. “Don’t want to risk it. I’ll sleep later.”

You want to argue. The circles under his eyes are dark and he looks exhausted. But you don’t, because you know that he won’t budge.

While you wait, you have to fight to keep your eyes on the forest. You want to study him, want to know what he’s thinking and feeling and where he’s just come from, why he was in town. Instead, you keep your eyes trained on the forest, thinking about things you can never have. 

The endregas move on in an hour or two, and the two of you set off when they’re gone. The air is sweet and cool amid the morning dew, but it quickly gives way to the burning sun.

Geralt seems more alert than usual - there must be something he’s hearing, but it isn’t enough for him to want you to hide, not yet. You ready yourself for the possibility, but as the day stretches on you relax more and more.

Then, when the sun is orange and low in the sky, Geralt stops. 

You tense, getting ready to hide, but he doesn’t give you the usual signals. His brows pinch and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t turn to look at you.

“Endregas?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Boars, I think.”

“Boars?” You hadn’t even known they were in the area. “Are they dangerous?”

Geralt’s expression goes grim. “Think I’d prefer the endregas,” he says. He listens for a moment longer. “Shit. Gotta move.”

You fight the urge to laugh at the mental image of him battling a pack of wild boars, then follow closely behind him.

Out of nowhere, it begins to pour. 

It’s the painful kind of rain, thick, heavy droplets that soak you in an instant. You’re not sure who starts running first, but the two of you end up sprinting to a nearby cave, and you’re laughing and praying that the boars aren’t following you.

With the weather, the cave is so dark that you can’t see. You rush in and come to a halt, gasping for breath - Geralt is effortlessly fast and extremely difficult to keep up with, and you’re sure he hadn’t even been running at full speed.

Then the smell hits you.

It’s earthy and peppery - stinging your nose as you inhale. The feeling travels down your airway, and your limbs start to feel… well, you don’t know what they’re feeling. It’s uncomfortable, though.

You know something is wrong even before Geralt lights a torch, but the look on his face just confirms it. That’s not all, either. The two of you are both covered in the substance you’ve been breathing in, and… and it looks like spores. 

You’re standing right over the source - a mossy sort of plant under your feet, and the glimmering orange flecks in the air are all over you, but Geralt is coated with them, too.

You start brushing them off as fast as you can. Geralt stays frozen, looking extremely pained.

“Well?” you ask. “I’m guessing you know what this is.”

Your words seem to wake him from his trance. He blinks hard and gazes at you before finally speaking. “I… Yeah. Got some bad news.”

Great, you think to yourself. It’s poison. That must be why Geralt is looking at you so mournfully. It’s poison and you’re going to die, and his witcher mutations are going to save him from the toxins.

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything, in fact. He gently grips your arm and leads you to a nearby pond that you hadn’t seen in the torch’s dim light. Then sets down the torch, wets a loose cloth and starts wiping the substance off your skin. It feels nice - even though you’re already drenched, this cave is feeling incredibly hot.

You swallow hard, trying to process what’s happening. If he’s doing this, maybe you won’t die. Maybe it’s just… painful.

The flecks are still on him - you reach up to dust some of them out of his hair, and he inhales heavily.

“How bad is it?” you finally ask.

He takes a moment before he answers. “Depends, I guess. You aren’t dying.”

Pain, then.

His hands are shaking as he continues to wipe you off, and something about that scares you. Your body feels hot, so hot, and it feels so nice when he touches you, but at the same time you’re so afraid that you can barely breathe.

“Geralt!”

He sighs, finally relenting. “Really rare plant,” he starts off. “Never actually seen it before, only read about it. Pretty easy to recognize, though.”

“And it’s painful.” You’ve had enough of him dancing around the subject.  

His brows pinch. “It’s an aphrodisiac,” he says gently. “Pretty powerful one.”

Aphrodisiac. It takes you a moment to place the word. Then you do.

The realization must show on your face, because Geralt stops wiping you down and leans back on his heels. “Yeah,” he says softly.

The heat you’re feeling - that’s what this is? Oh, gods. It’s all over the two of you, and… and it’s… oh, gods.

“Got most of it off you,” he continues. “Thing is, it’ll still be in your system for a while.”

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “Might affect me less. Might be the same. Not really sure.”

You think of his shaking hands as he’d wiped you off, and heat instantly pools between your legs. You press your knees together, and his gaze follows the action and lingers.

Shit.

“Might… might have a book with the antidote recipe,” he mumbles distractedly, eyes still fixed on your thighs.

Taking in a sharp breath, he stands abruptly and begins sorting through his things. You want to stop him. You want to stop him, because what was uncomfortable and hot is now very much pleasant, euphoric even, and the only thing you can think of anymore is having him touch you again.

“Geralt,” you breathe.

His hand tightens on the book he’s just grabbed, but he doesn’t respond. He simply starts sorting through the pages with clumsy fingers. 

You’ve never seen him clumsy before.

Your thoughts seem to have fogged over with some sort of lustful haze, and you can barely keep yourself still. It’s almost painful, when he’s so close and you’ve been wanting him and you know how nice his touch feels.

Geralt sits down a few feet away to read, but you can tell he’s not getting anywhere. His eyes trace over the page again and again and he keeps shaking his head, as if he’s trying to shake himself into concentrating. You watch him in increasing discomfort, shifting and balling your hands into the fabric of your clothes, trying to be patient.

After a minute or so of this, Geralt snaps the book shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck,” he says softly.

You know he must want you. You can see it in the heat of his gaze when he turns to look at you, even though he’s been trying not to. You know he can hear how fast your heart is beating, and that he can smell you, you can see the way his hands have balled into fists and how his jaw clenches. You see the way eyes trail over your chest, taking in how your clothes are sticking to you from the rain. 

His gaze darkens with interest as he stares at you, and you’re staring at him, and his eyes finally meet yours. 

In a flash, you’re on your feet - and he’s somehow there, somehow already next to you. You want him so badly that when he takes your face in his hands, you let out a sob of relief.

Then he kisses you.

The kiss is hot and hungry and desperate and you’ve never known anything better, never want it to stop. His hand is on the back of your neck, needlessly coaxing you closer to him as his chest presses against you, free hand roaming down to grip your waist. 

Trying to steady yourself in his grip, you rest a hand on his shoulder. Your other one goes up into his soft, silky hair, and he groans into your mouth as you tangle your fingers into it.

Desire pulses through you at the sound - you start feverishly clawing at his armor, wanting it gone, wanting to touch him. He steps back a little and yanks it off impatiently, dropping the pieces carelessly to the floor. When it’s finally off, he kisses you harder, guiding you backwards. He wants you against the cave wall, you realize. You hit it hard. There’s no pain.

Now that he’s shirtless, you can see that his torso is just as scarred and beautiful as the rest of him, and you only want more. He presses a leg between your knees and starts to kiss down your neck, and you let out a whimper, fighting the urge to grind against him.

When he gets down to your top, his hands fumble with the lacing for a moment before he gives up and rips it. You feel the stitching tear before it falls away, and - gods, you might die here. Geralt of Rivia might kill you.

You don’t wonder about what the hell you’re going to wear after this. You barely even care. All you can think of is him, his hands, sliding down your ribs, his lips, pressing kisses to your clavicle. To hell with the clothes. To hell with anything else but him.

The way you ache for him is painful - his touch is both burning and soothing and it riles you up into a state of frenzy as you try to get him closer. Your heart is pounding in your chest with such force that it’s a wonder that it doesn’t give out, and everything Geralt is doing is making you less and less coherent  - his tongue tracing down your chest, his mouth hot against your skin. 

You let out a soft whine as his fingers find your right breast, thumb circling around your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. With his free hand, he mirrors his actions on the other side, and you start squirming and whimpering, wanting him to keep going but wanting him inside you. 

His fight against his impatience is evident. The grip of his hand on your waist is bruising, but his mouth is gentle. The longer he goes on, the tighter that grip gets. You want him to squeeze you even harder. You want him to take you, take you hard enough that you’ll feel him with every step tomorrow. 

“Geralt,” you pant. “Please.” 

You’re not even sure exactly what you’re asking for. Don’t stop, you think. Don’t stop touching me, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—

Geralt growls in response to your words, a low, feral sound that rumbles up from his chest as he kisses further and further down. You can feel the vibration of it against your ribs, and your hips instinctively rock toward him.

That action seems to wipe away any patience he’d had. His lip curls and he steps back, ripping the rest of your clothes off of you. You think he’s going to take you right then, but he doesn’t. 

He drops to his knees.

Any thoughts you’d had left die as his warm mouth finds your clit. Your mind instantly goes blank and fuzzes over with pleasure, legs shaking as you resist grinding down into his mouth, and your hand fixes tightly in his hair.

The gasp you’d been letting out quickly fades into a moan, and Geralt hums against you in response, gripping your thigh and hoisting it over his shoulder. You lean back against the wall for support, nearly mindless with pleasure, letting out soft noises you barely recognize.

Heat starts building between your legs, electrifying and so ridiculously good that you’re not even sure you’ll be able to stay upright. Your knees start shaking even more and your vision blurs and he’s licking you as if he can’t get enough, can’t stop, and he feels so fucking good, better than anything you’ve ever felt, and–

Pleasure is suddenly blinding you. Geralt’s grip tightens where he’s holding you - practically holding you up, and your ears start ringing. You shake and gasp and hold onto his shoulder for dear life.

When you finally start coming down again, you realize that the heat is still there - still as intense, and you can only think about one thing.

“Fuck me.” It’s a plea, more than anything, half a sob. 

He must either be moved by it or desperate himself, because he presses a soft kiss to your thigh before gently removing your leg from his shoulder, wiping his mouth as he gazes up at you. There’s still so much want in his eyes.

Legs still shaking, you sink down onto your knees and kiss him. His arms wrap around you, warm and strong, and his hand goes back to your neck, and you crawl on top of him until you’re practically straddling him. 

He’s painfully hard in his trousers, and he sighs in relief when you unlace them, breath tickling against your cheek. He still smells like heat, a woodsy, heady sort of heat, and he’s thick and hot when you take him into your hand. He drags in a strained breath as you stroke him, fingers tightening on the nape of your neck.

“Ah,” he gasps. “Fuck.”

That does it - you can’t fucking wait any longer. You shuffle further up his lap, line yourself up with him, and sink down on his cock.

The hand that’s not on your neck moves to your back, and his brows pinch in pleasure. He feels - he feels so fucking good, and he’s beautiful, and gods, gods. You’re shuddering around him already, clenching hard.

“Fuck,” he groans. Then he puts both hands on your hips and starts fucking you. 

Your hands end up pressed against his chest, and all you can do is moan and let him take you and watch his beautiful face as it contorts with ecstasy, completely entranced by him. His cock feels so fucking good, blissful friction that builds deep inside you, friction that’s getting him close too, and he’s squeezing your hips harder, and you’re already tensing with another climax.

His thrusts are deep and hard and, gods, you don’t even know if you can believe this is real, any of this. How is he real, so tall and gentle and strong, how is this real, how is he taking you away from that awful town, keeping you safe, fucking you like this, fuck, fuck, fuck—

You come around him and he shudders and groans and kisses you, thrusting into you even harder, fucking into you until you’re panting and clinging to his shoulders as you clench around his cock. Then the two of you go boneless and he lays back against the ground, bringing you down with him, smoothing a hand down your spine as the two of you lay there.

The heat is back. It’s a little less this time, but it’s back. Geralt is still inside you, still hard, and he grunts as you rock your hips down. Then, to your distress, he places his hands on your ribs as if to hold you still and pulls out of you, shifting out from under you and leaving you sitting on the cold floor.

You watch shamelessly as he stands and gathers something from his pack, and your heart skips a beat when you see that he’s pulled out a blanket. He lays it out, smoothes it down, then looks at you expectantly and pats the center. “C’mere,” he says.

You quickly scramble over, and he kisses you harder this time and lays you down, coaxing your legs apart as he thrusts into you again. It’s slower this time, less desperate, more intimate. That heat is still there and the two of you are still drunk on it, but it’s not so demanding, not so aching.

You stare at him like he’s come from the heavens and listen to the gradually increasing strain of his breath, and he kisses you and licks into your mouth, and his thrusts slowly get faster, and - gods, it feels so good you can barely think or breathe, and, don’t stop, you think. Please don’t ever stop. 

When he arrives at his peak, he brings you right there with him - gasping and digging your nails into his back, shivering with pleasure, and he groans and presses his cheek to yours and keeps thrusting until he’s finished and you’re both panting.

He rests his forehead against yours for a moment before kissing you again, and you wince a little as he pulls out of you. The heat is still there and, honestly, you’ll probably ending up fucking again, but for now you’re content to just lay there. 

To your shock, Geralt sits up and reaches for your ruined top, using it to clean up the mess he’s made of you.

“Geralt!” you exclaim. 

“What?” he says, smirking a little. “Ruined it already.”

You begin to laugh hysterically, and Geralt chuckles, finishing his clean up before he lays down next to you.

“Hope you have other clothes,” he says.

“Dirty ones,” you reply. “If I stink, it’ll be your fault.”

“Mm. Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Make it up to you.”

“Is that so?” you ask. “How are you going to do that?”

His hand wraps around your waist, and you let out a yelp as he pulls you closer.

“Got some ideas,” he says, nipping sharply at your ear.

Ignoring the heat building in your gut again, you lightly slap his arm. “You owe me a new outfit,” you tell him.

“Sure,” he says. “Buy you a new one when we get into town.”

“Will you, now?”

“Uh-huh,” he says distractedly, kissing down your neck. “Just gotta let me take it off you, too.”

You smile to yourself at the thought. “Don’t rip it and we have a deal.”

He laughs, nuzzling his nose against your neck.

“No promises.”

[uninspireddreamsandwhims]

Bonfire Bonding Klance Drabble

I wrote another Klance fic recently. Hoping to maybe get another one written by the end of the year. Any and all feedback would be appreciated. Thanks for reading! As always, AO3 link (https://archiveofourown.org/works/60810307) ----------------------------------------------------------------

The bonfire was well underway when the trio crested the hill shadowing the abandoned amphitheater. It had long since been converted into a thriving hang-out spot for counselors not on nighttime duty. Hunk carried a cooler stuffed to the brim with s’mores supplies concealed from the prying eyes of campers. Lance, arms still jello-y from the tug-of-war game hours ago, carried two thick blankets to keep them warm once the night’s chill sank into a freeze. Pidge, naturally, brought nothing but themself.

As they made their way down the hill, music greeted them before their friends did. Some upbeat pop song blasted indistinctly from a static-filled radio. They were too far up the mountains to get a clear signal from any decent stations, but there was something about the garbled, fuzzy-sounding pop music that made Lance feel like he was in an 80s summer camp movie. Ideally without the crazed serial killer on the loose.

Hunk’s lips split into a wide grin at the sight of Shay, who was waiting awkwardly by the snack station for him. The usual chips and cookies were spread out on some blankets, the fruits of a recent canteen raid. Hunk turned to his friends, eyes shining with excitement as he gave a quick, “See ya,” and lumbered off towards his girlfriend.

Lance and Pidge beelined for their usual log bench in the opposite direction. It was tucked just far enough in the shadows that they weren’t in the midst of the party, but close enough to still feel the warmth of the crackling fire. Pidge dropped into their seat, hands buried in their pockets, already looking bored. Lance deposited the blankets and made his way over to Nyma, one of the archery instructors, and the usual plug for any contraband listed in the camp rules. Her long blonde hair draped over her shoulder as she passed out cans to the small crowd around her.

“Anything good?” He asked as he approached. He flashed a smile and a small wave to Carleigh and Samantha, two of the arts and crafts instructors as they passed by.

Nyma’s head was still ducked when she spoke, rummaging around in what sounded like a sea of water inside her cooler. “Could only get beer this time, the cheap kind at that, and the ice bag decided to rip on the way back.” The irritation in her voice warned Lance to keep his mouth shut but he grimaced while she wasn’t looking. “So not only was there a huge mess in my car,” she continued, giving a sardonic smile while meeting Lance’s eyes, “but the beer is pretty lukewarm. Take it or leave it.” Lance sighed, accepting the two cans she offered before shuffling back to his seat.

Pidge was burrowed into a blanket when he arrived, legs tucked into the warm cocoon they’d created. They were always cold, regardless of the weather. Even now, with the warm vestiges of the day hanging around, Pidge was less than pleased with the temperatures. Lance rolled his eyes at the sight, settling down next to them, using his blanket as a cushion to make the log bench slightly more comfortable. It wasn’t until he was seated that Lance cracked open his first beer.

Nyma wasn’t lying about it being lukewarm, but alcohol was alcohol. With how long this week had been, Lance had been looking forward to the light buzz that Saturday night bonfires usually brought.

He watched as the last of the crowd trickled in, either filling up the remaining benches or spreading out on the ground. Carver, the canoeing instructor Lance was frequently stuck on lifeguard duty with, brought his guitar. Lance doubted he would play it. He wasn’t even sure Carver knew how to. It sat abandoned on the blanket next to him as he spoke animatedly to a group of female counselors. He was about 70% certain that Carver only had the thing to pick up girls. Aside from the unused guitar, Carver’s best assets were his nice hair and dimpled smile. Even that paled in comparison to the Shirogane brothers.

Shiro was, to most, the hottest counselor at camp. With his broad shoulders, deep voice, and easy laugh, it wasn’t hard to understand why. Before the end of the first week, he had half the counselors vying for his attention. Even Coran, the eccentric camp director, loved the guy. When he developed a fast friendship with the head counselor Allura, it made sense that they would become something more. So it was a complete shock to see Shiro show up to the first organized bonfire hand in hand with Curtis. Two months in and they’re still inseparable.

On the other hand, Keith was the gloomy and brooding shadow that stuck close to his brother. He had such a surly attitude. His sharp eyes and even sharper words could cut down just about anyone. Most were too hesitant to approach him, not that Keith even seemed to mind. Surprisingly, despite the negative aura he gave off, Lance had never heard anything bad about him. Lance was pretty positive that he was the only one that had anything against the guy. Occasionally, he would look up to see Keith glowering at him from afar. Despite this, Keith, whose harsh way of speaking seemed to be reserved only for Lance and the other counselors, had no problems speaking gently with campers. In fact, Keith was great with the kids. Particularly those who came to camp too anxious or too timid to join the herd during the first few days.

Plenty of people were attracted to Keith solely for his looks. With his pouty lips, pretty face, and well-toned body, it wasn’t hard to understand why. Even with all the obvious pining from others, Keith remained unattached. It was a joke around camp that people came in single, hoping to leave taken, but Lance wasn’t too sure Keith was the type.

Not that Lance really knew Keith or his type. For all he knew, Keith wasn’t even into dating. He always seemed too unbothered to care about things like that. Maybe Keith just preferred hookups. Nothing wrong with that. It wasn’t Lance’s business what Keith preferred. Definitely not. Why should he care about who Keith found attractive or worthy of his attention? Lance certainly didn’t want Keith’s dark, piercing gaze locked on him; didn’t want to feel the jolt of adrenaline or the warmth that spiked inside of him whenever their eyes met. He absolutely did not still remember the sensation of Keith’s warm, calloused hands gripping his body…

Lance ducked his head, heat blooming across his cheeks and down his neck. The memory of Keith gazing down at him, the feel of their bodies pressed together after their fall earlier, sent a shiver down his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck, messaging away the jittery feeling the memory left him with.

Pidge bumped his arm, drawing him from his daze. “Lance,” Pidge hissed, looking past him to something on Lance’s right. He followed their gaze and froze. His pulse stuttered in beat with the hiccup that burst out of him. He barely had the bandwidth to register his embarrassment because, clad in black sweats and a red hoodie, looking more like an Abercrombie model than a rugged camp counselor, Keith stood at the foot of their bench appearing vaguely uncomfortable. He was frowning at Lance, probably wondering how someone could seem so ridiculous. This time, when Pidged jabbed their elbow, it struck Lance in the ribs. He bit back a wince.

“Dude, he’s talking to you,” they hissed into his ear, eyes darting quickly between Lance and the man standing before them. His mouth was dry and his face felt hot. He took a sip of beer, the bitter taste making him choke.

“Sorry, what?” he spluttered. He had hoped to use it as a means of stalling. Now he just looked like an idiot. Keith dug his hands into his pockets, gaze flittering over to the bonfire before returning to Lance.

“I asked if I could sit…here?” Keith asked uncertainly. His gaze dropped to the can in Lance’s hand, lingering as a frown tipped the corners of his lips downwards. “Where did the beer come from?” Lance squinted at Keith, waiting for the joke to land. When silence followed and Keith’s inquisitive gaze drifted back up to Lance’s face, he realized it wasn’t going to happen.

“Uh, Nyma?” He replied, jutting his chin in the direction of the blonde who sat, feet propped up on the cooler. “She’s the one that usually supplies the alcohol,” Lance added, watching as Keith glanced over his shoulder, eyes roaming the crowd blindly. It dawned on Lance that he couldn’t think of the last time he’d seen Keith at one of these events. Hell, did he even know who Nyma was? “The blonde girl over there,” Lance supplied, pointing in her direction.

“She gets discounts because her cousin works at the liquor store at the bottom of the mountain or something,” Pidge chimed in. “Plus, she has a car. So she just takes trips down there with the excuse that she’s visiting family.”

“Or something like that,” Lance agreed with a shrug. To be honest, he had heard Nyma’s excuse to leave camp change at least three times. It didn’t matter to him who she was meeting or why, as long as she was supplying the alcohol.

“Oh,” Keith said. He cleared his throat, turning to look back to where Nyma reclined. “Just over there?” Lance nodded, brows puckering at Keith’s odd behavior.

“Cool,” Keith mumbled, his trademark scowl drifting into place. He turned on his heel and stalked off without another word. Lance met Pidge’s gaze, their faces pinched, eyes narrowed, in the perfect mirror image of confusion. They held the expression mere seconds before breaking form, dissolving into snorts of laughter.

“What was that about?” He asked, bewilderment extending the laughter bubbling out of him.

Pidge lifted a shoulder in a shrug, quieting as they pursed their lips in thought. “No clue, but that was awkward as hell.” They grunted something else, too quiet for Lance to hear, before ducking their head to fiddle with something in their lap. A soft glow illuminated their face. He hadn’t seen Pidge grab their Game Boy but was unsurprised to see it. Pidge had brought a plethora of gaming devices with them. They usually had at least one on them at any given moment; today’s game was Kirby-related. Lance bit back a question about the game, remembering the look of scorn Pidge had given him the last time he’d asked. How was he supposed to know what Pokémon was?

Choosing to ignore the topic altogether, Lance took another sip of his beer while his gaze wandered across the gathering in front of them. Hunk had not only unloaded his haul for the masses to devour but was likely in the middle of giving a passionate s’mores spiel, similar to the one Lance had heard days earlier. Lance could hear the excited rise of his friend’s voice every time he started explaining different methods to try, his hands waving exaggeratedly to emphasize each point. “Have you tried it with peanut butter? What about putting a Reeses on instead of chocolate? Personally, I like it sandwiched between two Oreos but I saw someone put them on rice krispies and I really want to try that.” The guy could talk about food for days.

Lance downed the last dregs of his first beer and was cracking open the second when someone settled into the seat next to him.

He jumped, whipping around to see Keith seated in the spot next to him, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line, almost curling into his mouth. Lance had no idea what had happened since Keith had left, but based on the slight flush dusting his pale cheeks and the Cheshire grin Nyma had, he decided he didn’t want to know.

“Uh, hi?” Lance said, drawing Keith’s gaze to him. Keith’s dark eyes made the slight buzz in Lance’s head intensify. He licked his lips nervously, tasting beer and possibly sweat on his tongue.

“It’s still okay that I sit here, right?” Keith asked abruptly, mercifully saving Lance from having to think of something more to say.

“I mean, you already are,” Lance pointed out, a smile twitching on his lips despite himself. Keith looked almost sheepish as he ducked his head, the very tip of his ear reddening. Lance didn’t know why it made him feel giddy, his stomach a whirl of fluttering anxiety in the best of ways, but it did.

“Yeah, but you didn’t say yes when I asked earlier. So I just wanted to be sure.”

“You can,” Lance allowed, voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. Keith hesitated for a moment but bobbed his head, dropping his gaze down to where his long fingers were toying with the pull tab on his can. Lance’s mind whirled, ping-ponging between trying to come up with conversational topics to ask Keith and wondering why the hell Keith was sitting here of all places. Shiro, his usual companion, was seated across the way, arm curled around Curtis’s shoulders.

“You okay?” Lance felt his cheeks burn as he faced Keith, who was peering at him with an odd expression.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Lance had meant the apology for what it was. A “sorry” for being so weird. “Sorry” for acting like he didn’t know how to be a normal person in a standard interaction. “Sorry” for feeling like he either wanted to jump out of his skin and bolt or stay and revel in the faint warmth radiating off of Keith. Not to mention, Keith smelt good. Like cedar and smoke.

Or maybe that was the fire. Lance hoped it was.

But Keith had interpreted Lance’s “sorry” as more of a “come again?” He cleared his throat and started again.

“Earlier I uh, fell on you. I was just wondering if you were okay. I wasn’t able to ask sooner because,” Keith turned to shoot a glare in the general direction of his brother, “of Shiro. I wasn’t able to apologize after the game ended.” Lance’s face reddened at the memory. Keith hovering over him, his voice in Lance’s ear, Keith’s eyes locked on him. Lance’s skin tingled, a warm flush waving over him as his stomach fluttered with a feeling Lance wished was foreign to him.

A crush. Lance had a crush on Keith. Fuck.

“Fine,” Lance wheezed out. “I’m fine. It wasn’t too bad. Sure, you’re a lot heavier than you look but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” Lance rambled, screaming internally at the words flowing out of his mouth. Why couldn’t he stop talking?

“Am I?” Keith muttered, jaw tensing and brows furrowing. “Good thing you’re so strong that you can handle my weight.” His tone carried a sharp, sarcastic edge that Lance was familiar with. Lance wanted to kick himself; him and his stupid mouth.

“I think Hunk is calling us over,” Pidge announced, jumping to their feet abruptly. “I’m gonna go grab a s’more.” Before Lance could even protest, Pidge was speeding away. Their blanket trailed like a cape as they bolted towards the bonfire and Hunk’s figure, whose back was turned away from them.

“You don’t even like marshmallows!” Lance shouted after them. There was a snort of laughter to his left. Keith was silently shaking his head, a small grin splitting his lips.

“Even Pidge has had enough of us,” he snickered. “Personally, I think this is a new record for you and me.” Keith turned to face Lance and bam. There were the butterflies again. You and I. Lance licked his lips, stalling for time as he processed what was just said.

“Record?” He croaked out.

“Yeah,” Keith nodded, something akin to amusement lightening his expression. “For the least amount of arguments. Been a whole day and you’ve barely started shit. Well, minus the part where you just called me fat.” Lance felt his face turn a new shade of red, his body freezing in horror, an apology on the tip of his tongue. “Must’ve been all that ‘bonding time’ we had earlier today.” It took Lance a moment to realize that Keith was teasing him. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the man beside him.

Firelight flickered across Keith’s face, shadows dancing around his features. The flames sparkled in his dark eyes, making them glow faintly as his smile softened his stony expression. Lance felt himself leaning closer, just a fraction. Maybe Keith noticed, maybe he didn’t. But he felt Keith press slightly closer as well, his smile fading but the softness remaining.

“Bonding time,” Lance whispered, finally finding his voice. “Definitely not. You call crushing me into the ground bonding time?” Keith’s lips twitched upwards.

“Surely I didn’t crush you. Since you said yourself that you’re so ‘strong’ and all that.” Keith raised his beer can to his lips, eyes locked on Lance’s as he sipped. He licked the residue off his upper lip, his tongue skimming across his full lips. Keith quirked an eyebrow at Lance, “Right, tough guy?”

Heart stuttering, Lance turned away from the other man. His hands shook as he raised his own can to his lips and downed the remains. His skin hummed from where their knees touched, their shared heat keeping him warm as the summer night cooled into a soft chill. His body was abuzz from the alcohol, his intoxication mixing with his nerves, causing his whole body to thrum with excitement.

Keith’s deep purple eyes rooted him in place, neither of them moving for what felt like minutes. A loud pop from the bonfire - probably due to some idiot throwing firecrackers inside again, made them jump, each spinning away in opposite directions. There were shrieks of laughter and someone shouted a name that Lance could barely hear over the pounding of his startled heart.

Lance inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of the bonfire and Keith, sweet and smokey on his tongue, as he attempted to gather his thoughts and slow his wild pulse. Another pop had him grasping for something to hold on to in his fright. His hand wrapped around something warm and soft. Keith’s hand went still in his grip. Lance froze, waiting a beat too long to remove his hand. If he did so now, it would look weird, wouldn’t it? But wouldn’t it also look weird to keep holding his hand?

Keith’s hand, cool compared to Lance’s clammy palm, eased ever so slightly. Their hands slotted together like two puzzle pieces nestling into place. Lance’s chest tensed, too scared to make any movements, however slight, in the off chance it would scare Keith off. He burned scarlet at the thought of Keith feeling the intensity of his pulse through their joined hands.

Lance pulled back first, clenching his fingers in his lap in mortification.

In the corner of his eye, he swore he could see the ever so slight lift of Keith’s lips. His ears tinted a faint pink in the gloom of the summer evening. Lance released a shaky breath, his mind scrabbling to collect his thoughts. He turned away, hiding his faint smile behind a trembling hand. His palm tingled from the memory of Keith’s grasp and he could still feel the heat of Keith’s body where their knees still touched.

[talldecafcappuccino]

14, 27, 29 for the fic writer ask meme?

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

Either my body over yours (because sexy bodyguard tropes) or things keep getting better (because I need to see Ted interacting with the Queer Eye folks for real)

27. Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why?

Probably the sequel for the bodyguard universe because I was like, “what if this isn’t how anyone imagined Ted and Rebecca’s lives to go and it ruins the original fic retroactively?” 😅

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

I randomly wrote the first third (?) of a fic a week or so ago. It’s ’s pretty low on my list to finish so…here’s a (long) bit of that:

Rebecca pokes her head into the coaches’ office and finds Beard all alone. He’s absorbed in a book about bioluminescence, his legs propped up on his desk. Ted’s chair sits empty across from him. No track jacket hanging over the back, no backpack or coffee cup to be seen.

Her stomach sinks as she realizes they’re not just missing each other this morning. He’s not here.

“Where’s Ted?”

“He’s home,” Beard replies, barely glancing up from the page he’s reading.

She frowns. “Is he sick?”

“He’s feeling a little off this morning.”

Her stomach sinks again. She and Ted were due to get drinks tonight, a pre-game ritual of sorts. With West Ham tomorrow, she’d been counting on it to take her mind off seeing Rupert tomorrow.

Except that’s not right.

Rebecca frown deepens. Ted’s not one to take a sick day from the club, especially not the day before a big game like this. Or at least not without texting her some sort of explanation. There’s something Beard isn’t telling her.

She steps further into the office, looming over him in her three inch heels.

“Feeling off how?”

Beard sighs and closes his book, his finger wedged between the pages to save his spot.

“Let’s just say you should ask before eating someone else’s food and leave it at that.”

He chuckles as he reopens the book, self-satisfied in a way Rebecca finds incredibly odd if Ted is actually ill.

He’s also being cryptic and if she knows one thing about Coach Beard it’s that once he’s speaking in riddles, he’s unlikely to explain himself.

Right. The only answer is to go see Ted for herself.

“Fine. I’ll swing by and check in on him at lunch.”

“No!” He sits up, dropping his feet from the desk and clambering into an upright position.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t!” His voice squeaks on the last word, the sentence lifting off into the stratosphere of the office.

“I can’t?” She raises a brow defiantly, but Beard shakes his head.

“No, sorry, but you are the last person who should be seeing Ted right now.”

She scoffs. Granted it might be odd for a boss to see her employee when he’s in physical (possibly gastronomical) distress, but they’re friends. Good friends. The type of friends who help one another out when they’re in pain. Emotional or . . . otherwise.

She crosses her arms over her chest.

“And who are you to decide that?”

Beard splutters, his eyes looking between her and the door. Despite the crazed look in his eye, he can’t seem to find an answer to her question.

“That’s what I thought.” She adjusts her purse on her shoulder and turns on her heel just as Beard finally finds his voice.

“Wait!” He reaches under his desk and pulls out a medium sized brown paper bag, the top rolled shut.

“If you’re going to insist on doing this, can you at least bring him this?”

She eyes the bag as she takes it from him. “I suppose I can.”

“Just don’t look inside.”

“Fine. May I just say, this is one of the strangest conversations I’ve had with anyone, let alone an employee?”

“Yeah well the conversation you’re about to have is gonna give this one a run for your money.” He shakes his and opens his book. “Tell Ted I said hi.”

She stares at him for a minute, debating if it’s worth asking what he means. It’s not. She’s better off seeing Ted for herself.

[captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship]

Thanks for the tag @shadowsxgwynriel

🍓 How did you get into writing fanfiction?

I started reading fanfics in middle school during the initial Twilight Craze (I was a MASSIVE Twi-hard). I would talk out ideas for twilight fanfics, but I never wrote them down. Fast forward to 2022, and I started beta reading for A Court of Scars and Shadows and it inspired me to write my own. I started with a headcanon that was stuck in my head FOREVER (one of Tamlin hearing that Feyre almost dies during childbirth and he rushes to Velaris to see her, only to see her alive and happy and genuinely fulfilled with life. It was a story of closure for him). Then I had an idea for FM2M, and the rest was history <3

🍇How many fandoms have you written in?

Just the SJM fandom for now. I might write some Blue/lance stuff if I am so inclined, but I have my hands full with FM2M and the subsequent spin off fics for now.

🍎Do you read or write more fanfiction?

It depends. I have a few fics that I keep up with religiously, and there are some that I will just sit and read. I have times where I am in the mode and I write. Sometimes I will read some of my inspo fics again (Mostly ACoFD by @the-lonelybarricade and There You are by SweetVillianDarlingGod). It just depends lol

🍌What is one way you've improved as a writer?

I feel like I am learning how to express my characters emotions better. I recently re-read my first fic I wrote and then read FM2M, and I saw a big difference in the sentence structures and how I worded things. I wanted to write FM2M because I wanted to hash out my writing style before setting out on writing my original WIP.

🍑Do you have any bad habits as a writer?

I have WEEKS where I do not open a doc and barely think of writing.

🍉What's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

I love them all, but honestly the super long and detailed ones of people seeing the metaphors that I put in and they put in quotes in the comments. They are my absolute favorite and it makes my day to see them.

🍋What is something you've been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

ooooh. ummmmmm, I am nervous to write LGBTQ+ couples, however that is just because of my lack of personal experience and I don't want to portray the dynamics wrong. I am excited to write Mor and Emerie to help me ease into writing more LGBTQ charaters :)

🍇what made you choose your username?

After I finished ACOSF, I read the bonus chapter and was HOOKED on Az and Gwyn. I started looking up pics of them and immediately became obsessed. I read a few fanfics and that was it, they were the love of my life. I toyed with a few different usernames, but i thought this would be a fun and cute one :)

Tagging: @vikingmagic33 @starfall-spirit @bearbluebooks @thebelladonnamoon

Answer the questions and tag five fanfiction authors you know!

Thank you @metalbvcky. NPT for @mrs-illyrian-baby @doasyoudesireandlive @km-ffluv @labella420

🍓 How did you get into writing fanfiction?

As a teen I was a voracious reader and tried to write my own stuff based on other books I'd read. I also loved ST:TNG and wanted dearly to be in an episode and had lots of the books. I wrote my own ST stories with OC's (gratuitous self inserts), but they never went anywhere. In my late teens I read some Xena fanfic on the internet. But that was it for a great number of years.

At the beginning of 2021 I sat and watched the entirety of the MCU films in chronological order (I'd seen most of them before and was mainly a Thor gal.) I fell down the Stucky rabbithole. Deep. I decided to look up fanfic. AO3 was now a thing! I wrote (a very poor) Stucky fic and here we are, almost 3 years later

🍇How many fandoms have you written in?

As my ST stuff never made it further than my parent's old PC in the days of dial-up, I won't count it.

I've written for MCU, various Chris Evans and Seb Stan Characters and one fic for RWRB. I've been toying with writing a one-off Criminal Minds fic as a gift for a friend.

🍈How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

Three in July since I first published anything on AO3.

🍎Do you read or write more fanfiction?

I try to balance it out. If I have a period of hyperfocus writing I try to then go through a period of reading. I read on both Tumblr and AO3, so try to keep that even as well.

🍌What is one way you've improved as a writer?

Getting betas to pick me up on tense changes, overuse of words and rogue commas. Reading more. Practising. Writing outlines for longer stories so I don't go off-piste.

🍑Do you have any bad habits as a writer?

Getting bored half-way through a long fic, especially if the first few parts haven't had a lot of interaction. Which is why I try to write the whole thing before I start posting.

🍍 What's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

Engineering courses at MIT and, for a separate fic, Violet wands, including the ways to use them and the differnt types of accessories you can use with them. I even watched a Youtube video.

🍉What's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

Any comment! Anything that gives me the validation I need!

🍐What's the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

I wrote a transformation into Tsum-tsum fic that was both cracky and smutty. That's pretty niche.

🥭What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

Action scenes. I loathe them. I'm constantly wondering if they are long enough, and make sense.

🍏What is the easiest type?

Short things that are either PWP or fluffy slices of life.

🍑Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

Mainly on my elderly laptop on G-Docs, and in every moment I can - normally afterwork before dinner and on Mondays when I don't have work.

🍋What is something you've been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

There are a few characters and ships I haven't written that I'd like to. And I suppose I'd like to write a proper long, over 100k fic at some point.

🍇 what made you choose your username?

When I made my AO3 account I felt as though that at 40, and only really starting in Fandom in this way, I was late to the party, so that is who I became.

[lesbiradshaw]

hellooo you’re one of my fave fic writers and i was just wondering if you have any tips for getting into fic writing? how do you find the inspiration and the motivation to write so much so well & so consistently? i’ve dabbled in writing fics before but i have such a hard time avoiding perfectionism or sticking to long projects or even developing a plot past the vibe or the message i want to convey which leads me to getting too in my head about the whole fic and never being able to bring myself to finish or publish it 😭

oh this is such a nice ask ... can’t believe i’m someone’s favorite! thank youuuu. now i feel the need to preface this by saying that i have no clue what i’m doing and i don’t write seriously (as in i try my best but i’m not concerned with being Novel worthy or anything) which is what i think a lot of people need to remember when it comes to writing fic! i do know fic writers who are more serious about the writing craft and want to become real authors but personally i am not one of them. i write for fun. i write because i love the characters and want to treat them right. i write because it’s a fun little hobby and gives me a good outlet that makes me feel productive! and a lot of my favorite fics aren’t even necessarily high quality, i just like the plots and general characterization. i make like a bajillion typos in my fics i’m always reading over again after uploading to fix and people don’t tend to point them out, so i know my fics aren’t perfect but they are still enjoyable. that’s not to say i don’t hold myself to self scrutinizing standards (i am doing that even as we speak this very second) but every so often realizing that people read and write fic for fun is a good reality check. that’s how i got into it honestly ... i saw other people having a good time but also saw that there a lot were more fics i wanted to exist so i figured why should i not be the one to write them? that’s what happened with my tangled au. nothing better than doing it yourself. as for motivation, i feel like i have a kind of odd way of writing? i’m very much a “do it now or you’ll never do it later because you’ll lose interest” person but i also love procrastination. i have to set due dates and quotas and obligations for myself in order to get the wheels turning. my method right now is setting a number of words i want to write every other day (in the beginning it was 1k, now it’s 5 because i have a lot of free time) so i can move fast but still have breaks in between. that’s probably not normal but ... well. it’s what must be done for me. like i said, it makes me feel productive (and putting into perspective how many pages 1k words make up has actually helped me so much with writing academic essays 😭). inspiration/fic planning is also a fairly messy method for me but basically here’s how it goes: i get the idea and open the notes app. i jot down the general idea/message i want to convey. then i start coming up with details i want to include, like specific items mentioned, imagery, comparisons, even full lines if i like something and it sticks out enough. it doesn’t have to be a full idea either, i have a doc made up of only singular tidbit ideas that i pull into fics upon a whim where they fit if i can’t think of a full idea to revolve around it. from there, once i actually know i’m gonna write the fic, i transfer it to a google doc and start daydreaming the entire timeline of it in my head. which scenes come first, any dialogue i can think of that i want to put in, etc. it’s usually generic but sometimes i do get overly detailed for no reason. basically by the end it’s a messy map that i try to take care of in chunks as the writing process goes on so nothing i want to include gets left out. not the most clean cut process but it works for me! i’m terrified of forgetting things i want to write about so i try and write them down before they leave me. sometimes that includes 5am wakeup moments where everything i type is incoherent. i’m still deciphering what “small soft domestic momrntts loke steve waking up and being able to hear bucky using yhe radio in the garage from the bedroom.., he cant see it but he knows buvkh js singing along” means.

anyways you didn’t request an answer this long but yk i love talking! fic writing is truly a perfect outlet for me and i’ve made so many friends along the way <3 i encourage everyone to get involved in it if they want to. publishing stuff can be scary but isn’t everything we put on the internet scary at the end of the day ...

[divinegrey]

ʙʟᴜᴇ ɪɴᴋ / ᴊɪɴx x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

to celebrate six hundred followers :)

prompt: @pinkroulette and @rosevela talked abt jinx's tattoos and how part of them are underneath her crop top, so i wrote this about it. jinx is an adult in this fic so don't come trying to bite my head off.

words: 2257

warnings: professional nudity, cursing, typical jinx hijinks

You send out your last customer with a smile after he coughs up a neat five hundred coins in payment. Now, don’t get it wrong, he’s only paying you that much because you just spent the past two hours finishing the detailing and shading on his arm piece.

You slide the pile of credits into a bag and lock it away. With an exhale, you begin your tedious clean-up process. It’s finally the end of a long day of work, and you have things to do before you can leave and walk back home to your modest apartment. Things including cleaning the chair, reorganizing the ink, cleaning out the machine…

Nobody ever said being a solo tattoo artist in the boundary between Zaun and Piltover was easy. There’s a lot of money in the business, but there’s also the constant risk of your head being shot off because a Zaunite doesn’t like their tattoo, or being sued because a Piltie doesn’t like their tattoo.

Both have nearly happened on several occasions. You’ve been more cautious since then. You go and lock the door to your shop and flip the sign on the window to closed before returning back to your original position.

You kneel behind your counter to clean up some bins you’ve been meaning to organize since you started throwing random shit in them a few weeks ago. You hate messes— it’s one of your biggest pet peeves when you see clutter, so having these junk bins has really gotten on your nerves.

“The fuck even is this?” you mutter to yourself. “Trash. Trash. More trash. God, where the fuck did I get this stuff?”

With a huff, you start tossing some things into the trash bin, completely unaware of your surroundings until you hear heavy boots and nails tapping on glass.

Didn’t I lock the door?

Maybe you didn’t lock it all the way. You straighten up, saying, “Sorry, we’re closed right now, the sign on the door said—”

You stop when you take in the woman in front of you. Powder blue hair, shining blue eyes, a grin that looks crazed and manic.

“Jinx,” you say, putting your hands on the glass counter. “You saw the sign on the door, didn’t you?”

Let’s get something straight; you’ve run into Jinx before. Frankly, you’ve known her for a while, if you can count her coming in every now and then to snoop on your stuff when you aren’t looking. You don’t remember why she ever came in the first place, but now you’ve just gotten used to her appearing whenever she pleases.

She’s a frankly comforting presence, despite what people say about her.

“Came through the vents, cutie,” Jinx says brazenly. She twists herself to sit on the counter then spins her legs to face you. She glances past you. “Looks like an empty place. Got a spot open for a tat?”

“I’m closed,” you reply.

Jinx leans closer. “I’ll pay double your rate if you do it right now.”

You cross your arms, drawling, “I’m interested. How big?”

Jinx moves her finger over her right arm, up her shoulder, over her chest, then down to her hip. She tosses you a wink. “Plus some on the back too.”

“You’ll have to cough up a lot of money if you’re paying double. This’ll be more than one session if you want it to look good,” you explain, wondering how Jinx will pay for something that’ll cost her thousands of dollars and give you rent for your shop for three months alone.

Meanwhile, Jinx just swings her legs back and forth, taking you in with a gaze that could be considered flirtatious. You just brush it off because A) she might shoot you if you don’t comply with her demands (happens often) and B) you’re a professional.

“Silco’s money, ain’t it?” Jinx retorts.

You sigh. “Fair enough. Get on the chair. Tell me what you want then pay up.”

Jinx hops down from the counter and walks past you, dragging the tip of her nail on the front of your clothes. It causes a sharp inhale from your chest; this is common behavior for her. Part of her coming around to your shop to bother you included her making flirty remarks. That is… if comments about how hot you’d look choking someone with the wire of a tattoo gun can count as a flirty remark.

Jinx lays down on the chair, moving her long braids out of the way. She starts chattering about the tattoo she wants and you take it in, absorbing the information and suggesting critiques while waiting for your coffee to brew in the backroom. You’re going to need some energy to get through this. While you’re at it, you get yourself and her a snack— the last thing you need is for Jinx to pass out while you’re tattooing her.

You get the gist of what she wants, and you begin. Large clouds on her forearms that wrap around in a wind pattern to her shoulder. Jinx, to her credit, takes it like a champ. Barely any complaints from her, though you suspect she has a high pain tolerance if the scars littered about her body are any sort of indication.

You stick to doing the linework, establishing where the tattoos are. You can fill them in when she comes back at a later time. When you check the time, you notice that three hours have passed of you and Jinx talking while you do her tattoo. Huh. It’s not common for you to feel like no time has passed at all while you’re working. Jinx is different like that.

“Alright, we can do your chest part now, or we can do it last since I still have to do your stomach and your hip,” you say, wiping her collarbone clean of any ink. Much to your surprise, Jinx just sits up and reaches behind her, unsnapping the band of her crop-top (bra?) and pulling it off.

You look straight up to the ceiling.

“Hey, I’m not shy, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” Jinx says, lowering herself back down to the table.

“Just— would’ve appreciated a warning. Do you want nipple stickers?”

You’re a professional!

“Nah, I don’t need ‘em if you don’t need ‘em. Sounds like they’d get in the way,” Jinx says. You put down your tattoo gun and peel off your gloves to make sure the blinds are closed. You feel Jinx’s eyes on you the entire time. You turn down the main lights a tad (the brightness hurts your eyes this late), prompting Jinx to comment, “Setting the mood, cutie?”

“If we’re going to be here all night, might as well,” you say. You make sure to wash your hands before pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. You take a seat on your stool and grab your tattoo gun. “You trust me to freehand this?”

“I’ve been coming to your shop for a while, I trust ya with anything,” Jinx says. You make a humming noise, gently raising her arm to get a better angle while yes, staring at her breasts. No, you won’t think about the color of her skin or her nipples. You’re a professional.

You start working.

“Enjoying the view?”

Damn it.

“I would if you would stop moving around so much,” you reply. “Am I going to have to strap you to the chair?”

“Got a safeword for that, cutie?” Jinx’s reply is immediate and frankly, you should’ve seen that coming from Jinx. With no verbal reply available at the tip of your tongue, you just huff to yourself. Keep moving. You’re going to get paid a shit ton for this.

You gauge Jinx’s reactions as you move the needle over her skin. You know fully well how sensitive this area can get, especially when it gets closer to the bonier, less fleshy bits near the ribs. Shit, when you were getting tattooed in this area, even you had to take breaks, and you’d like to think your tolerance to tattoo needles is higher than most.

Jinx’s brows pinch together, the first little noise of discontent slipping out of her mouth when you press the tattoo gun onto the side of her breast where the bone is more prevalent than fatty tissue.

“Take a deep breath,” you murmur softly. Jinx inhales, her rib cage expanding, then exhales. You don’t know what possesses you to say the next thing out of your mouth; “Good girl. Good, keep doing that.”

Jinx’s entire body shakes at that, and you’re thankful you pulled your tattoo gun back in anticipation. She takes another breath and you get back to work. You won’t admit that you listen keenly to the sound of her breathing. The linework is intricate, you have to take care to keep the pattern moving in the same motion as wind would take through the air. It’s a rhythm.

“Fuck,” Jinx whispers when you put your fingers on the side of her breast to get a better angle on her ribs. It gives you pause.

“Are you okay? Need to stop?” You pull the tattoo gun away. “We’ve been doing this for a while, we can stop. I’ve done a lot today.”

We could easily finish this in another session, maybe two depending on how long we take, you think to yourself, not realizing that Jinx is breathing fairly heavily until you take her in fully, laying down on the leather chair with her arm resting on your shoulder because you put it there to get better access. Her fingers are playing with the hairs on your neck, you notice. The feel of her nails on your skin is just barely noticeable.

“Jinx?”

“Fine, cutie, ‘m fine, just…” Jinx turns to look at you, an obvious flush on her face. “Bit off more than I can chew, I think.”

“This is your first tattoo, isn’t it?” You say, more of a statement rather than a question.

“Yup.”

“Makes sense,” you say, turning off the ink machine and putting the tattoo gun down. You get some soap. “We’ll finish this in a week, how about that? Come back at—” you quickly glance at your schedule for next week. “Three in the afternoon. I’ll book you out for the rest of the day.”

When you turn back, Jinx is sitting up. You’re eye-level with her now and your throat goes dry. She’s staring at the lines on her arm with a little bit of awe and wonder.

“You like them so far?” You ask.

“They look fuckin’ fantastic,” Jinx says, a chipper grin coming onto her face. In addition, she looks tired— anyone would be after having needles jabbed into their skin for four hours straight. You give her a polite smile before wiping down her arm and shoulder with antibacterial soap, then wrapping it in cling foil to protect it from the elements (especially the chemical fumes in Zaun). When it comes to cleaning her chest, you have to steel yourself for any witty remarks she might make but… none come.

What a surprise.

“Definitely can’t wear the crop top you came in, the fabric will aggravate your tattoo too much,” you say. “Did you bring anything loose? A shirt?” Jinx shakes her head and frankly, you’re not about to let her go walk shirtless back to wherever dwelling she lives in. With a grunt, you reach over your head and pull off the garment you’d been wearing. There are ink stains on the sleeves, and when you help put it on Jinx, it’s practically half her size alone. It’ll work. You say, “There. Just bring that back next time, it’s one of my favorites.”

“I’ll take good care of it, cutie,” Jinx says with a wink, standing up from the chair. You do the same, anticipating the wooziness before she does. Gently, you catch her by the ink-free arm.

“Careful.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jinx says, batting you away. “Now, how much of a dent am I putting in Silco’s pocket?”

“Deposit is a thousand. Plus a thousand more for today’s work.”

“Sheesh.”

“I run a tight ship, Jinx, we made a deal,” you say. To her credit, Jinx does give you the money, and lord, you’re going to be set for a while because of this. You’ve just about finished putting it away when you stand up and Jinx is still there. “Somethin’ you need?”

“I forgot the last part of the payment.”

“You didn’t—”

Your words are cut off when Jinx grabs you by your neck (probably because of the whole missing shirt thing) and brings your lips down onto hers. The first thing you notice is the taste of candy and sugar, the sweetness on her lips addicting to a level that you hadn’t expected. Holy shit, you’re kissing Jinx. When Jinx finally lets go, your mouth is slick and you can taste her on your tongue and in the back of your throat.

“Aw, you look cute, all shocked and surprised. See you next week, cutie!” Jinx pats your cheek before walking out of your shop.

It leaves you alone, recovering from the shock, and wondering how the hell did I get here? You turn to try and find Jinx, but she’s long gone before you have any words to say other than—

“Holy fuck,” you say.

A smile comes to your face without even realizing it. You’re exhausted, and you still have to clean up, but shit, you’re excited for next week.

~~~~~

A/N: this was pretty fun to write!!! i tried to do my best while also keeping it mostly sfw. tattoo artists gotta stay professional ya know?

[bakatenshii]

Flushed

Dabi x Reader (BNHA)

word count: 5.1k

TW: 18+, smut, dub/noncon, drug use/abuse, corruption, virginity, (mild) blood

A/N: I am 12 days late for Sunny’s birthday, but my heart beats for one person and one person only— the light of my life, my wife @blahkugo​, who wrote me two (2!!) Shig fics for my bday Charity & Sludge, that I reread on the daily like the morning news. Cheeky shoutout to @thisisthehardestthing​ for writing one iconic sentence in here that I would have framed if I could. 

flushed

/fləSHt/

(of a person's skin) red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.

cleanse (something) by causing large quantities of water to pass through it. 

Dabi doesn’t prowl for prey, he’s not on the lookout for fowl to take home for dinner. No, they come to him. It’s easy, always so obvious, he plucks them out like chicken in a hen house, ripe for breeding. 

It wasn’t hard to spot a desperate girl burning out, Hell, the campus’ full of them. But you had something more, something fun, something that made his lips quirk up and his dick twitch— you were uncorrupted. 

He can just tell, despite the airs you try to give, the aura of a virgin’s akin to an omega in heat to a starving alpha. Sweet, honeysuckle, the tiny flinches when a man gets too close, the breathy lilt in your voice when they propose something too risque; he inhales it all, commits it all to memory like you were desperately trying to do as you chewed on the tip of your pen and scratched out lines on the book in front of you. 

He didn’t need to push, you were already teetering the line, but he did it anyways— because it was fun. 

It was elating to watch you stumble into class the next day, eyes dark with sleepless anxiety, misery painted into every crevice of your features while your notes were tucked neatly into the drawer in his room. Really, you shouldn’t have left them so open on the lecture hall table, it’s like inviting a robber home and cooking him a three course meal. 

Finals season marked the end of your social life, and the beginning of Dabi’s career. It was almost boring, the repetitive nature of his job; too easy, too simple, a mockery of the entitled bookworms who look down on scummy repeaters like him. But the entitlement is what fuels him, over-achievers fearing for two simple digits on a crumpled sheet of paper as if it’s worse than death itself.

He thrives off of their stubbornness to accept anything below perfect; the hilarity of it all, the irony that their insurance to achieve higher standards than that of a scum like him only fuels his lifestyle, bringing him deeper down the depths of degeneracy. 

He sat behind you closer than usual, spoke a lil louder than usual, dropped in the most nonchalant comment about a study drug kids are crazing over these days. He watched as you flinched, hands stopped moving to listen in to the spiel he was spewing, the fishing hook he was dangling in front of you. 

A magic pill, one that’ll help you concentrate, kill any sleepiness, get you buzzed for hours on end— best of all, it’s totally legal, he gets it from a pharmacist, scout’s honour. 

That’s what he told you when you turned around to him at the end of class, whispering in hushed fear, nerves bouncing off your skin in goosebumps on your exposed arms.

Why he’s selling it? Because he needs some extra cash, he said. He knew you didn’t believe him, but he knew you were desperate enough not to care. 

When you met him in the dead of night at the empty carpark of his building, he knew he’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. No self-respecting girl would meet bottom-barrel trash like him in a deserted location at half three in the morning, no, you were untainted, but you weren’t pure.

He didn’t need to know it worked, doesn’t matter what your test results reflected, all that mattered was that you came back to him a few weeks later, met him at the same dingy carpark, hands trembling slightly less this time. 

He pretended to scold you, reveled in the way your lips curled into a soft pout, and warned you that tolerance builds fast. Do it in moderation, he had said— he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite. 

You came to him only a week later this time, and Dabi had pretended to be shocked. He wasn’t, he gave you a lower dosage the last time, there was no way you’d have been satisfied. Microdosing leads the unsuspecting to addiction, the one fact he learned from school. He lectured you, asked you if you’d built up tolerance too fast, if you wanted to try something different?

He watched as your eyes lit up, pupils dilating in excitement at the promise of something different, something better. It really was too easy. You were too easy. 

That night he invited himself over to yours, said he’d wanted to make sure you didn’t have any side effects. It was new, after all, and it was stronger. He’d sit there and be quiet, he promised; it was all out of the kindness of his own heart. 

It was almost embarrassing how eagerly you’d lie to yourself in hopes of a better grade.

Dabi wasn’t gonna do anything to you that night, trust takes time to build up after all. Besides, it’s no fun to pounce on the prey before they started running. You studied the nonsensical scribbling on annotated novels, he studied your tiny movements, twitches, nervous habits; etched them into his brain for future use. 

A too-long breath, a gasp, a clench of the fist signaled your come-up. He timed it, approximately thirty-five minutes for the initial peak, then smaller spikes at half hour intervals, totaling in four hours before you came down. Impressive, still, considering he’d given you the same dosage as the first time. 

He stuck to his words, staying quiet only until prompted, offered you water every once in a while, really, he deserved an Oscar for playing the best supporting dealer. It only took two more sessions before your tolerance peaked again, calculated and timed to perfection right before the next assignment.

The beauty of seeking out an English major was that they’re always searching, reaching into the void for any type of inspiration to translate into eloquently formed words. The beauty of seeking out you, was that you were already in too deep, hooked by the lil pills and plunged into the bottom of the ocean. 

Your grades rose while your inhibitions sank, a dramatic irony, isn’t that what they called it?

It’s cute, really, he only had to give you a nudge this time. Asked you how your assignment was going, played the sympathetic friend, and offered you something completely new, completely different. ‘Have you ever tried 2CB?’

Silly question, rhetorical, almost; of course you hadn’t. Innocent sweet girl like you never would’ve even touched weed, much less a hallucinogen. But he poses it to you in an eager tone like he’s genuinely waiting on an answer, like this isn’t just one big game to him. He laughed when you said no, asked him what it was— do you want him to show you?

You trust him, don’t you? He’s helped you through your exams, supported you through your assignments, honestly, he deserved a pat on the back. Don’t tell him you didn’t trust him, come on now, that’d break his heart. 

He didn’t expect you to put up a fight, but you gave in almost too easily, guess those lil pills really did migrate and nest in your bloodstream. 

The safety of your own dorm room was always granted to you, a faux-sense of security to veil you in, shield you from the true depth of depravity you’ve sunken to. He held you underwater in a net, ensuring you that he’d pull you up whenever— ‘just say the word.’

The net had long been cut, he’d admired the way you’d comforted down there, paddling aimlessly in hopeful conviction. 

It’s become routine, almost. Dabi lets himself in easily, settles into the couch across your desk, pulls out a baggy and passes it to you. “A psychedelic,” he explains, “you’ll see colours you’d never seen, find beauty in everything, an artist’s best friend,” if he does say so himself. 

He watches you pop the lil pill in your mouth, follow the stream of water pour down your throat, traveling the rips and divots of your tongue, before it drops down your throat into your bloodstream with a bob of your larynx. You’re so pliant, so obedient, he reminds himself to thank your parents for grooming such a cute lil doll.

You let out a loud gasp an hour and a half later, and he watches your fingers curl into themselves; and for the first time he speaks unprompted. 

“You good?” It’s almost genuine; the curiosity, at least. He wants to know how articulate you are, needs to know how deeply submerged your consciousness has become. 

He watches as you meet his gaze, little tongue dashing out to wet your lips, and nods once, twice, slowly. You shake your head almost immediately after, croaking out an, “I feel ill,” before pushing meekly at your desk to stand your body up. Cute, weak.

Just how he likes them.

He reaches an arm out to you, pulling you into his chest easily and nests your head into the crook of his neck. “Nauseous, aren’t you?” You nod, and he smirks. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just a rough come-up. I’ll make you feel better, I promise.” 

It’s almost believable, how sickly sweet he sounds. Too many sitcoms accumulated in recycled dialogues to woo girls in any situation; mix and match, simple yet effective. 

He can feel the restless rise and fall of your chest pressing against his, short quick pants as if gasping for air, a small hand scraping at his arm; yeah, you’re definitely coming up. 

He picks you up and nestles you into your own couch, so easily as if handling a ragdoll, then walks to the kitchen and pours you some water. The perfect friend, the perfect support, the perfect dealer. You’re so vulnerable, so exposed, you don’t even know it; it makes his brain fog over with carnal desire to pounce— but he doesn’t. Not yet.  

He lays back on the couch with you, arm snaking around your shoulder to coax you into a subdued euphoria. All the words he’s garnered throughout the years of fishing for his next meal come bubbling out so naturally in practiced scripts, “It’s okay princess, it’s a stronger pill. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” He’s promising a whole lot, tonight. 

“Hey,” he tips your face to meet his with all the tenderness of a lion stalking its prey, “I’m here, right? You trust me, don’t you? I’ve never let you down. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

It’s hard to force down the gagging noise on cue with his disgustingly fake, rom-com lines, but the way he can feel your body loosen, relax, and mold into his tells him he’s close. So close. 

This is the best part, this is what he’s good at; the last stretch of patience while stalking his prey, with footsteps so light, treading so carefully, until the air slows down around him and he can taste your scent wafting through the air.

It happens in an instant, a whole-body jolt as you tense up, euphoria announced with a sharp gasp. The smile that crawls up his face is nothing short of sinister, predatory, but he knows you don’t notice. You can’t. Your eyes are strewn shut, basking in the high, and he takes the moment to swallow the pill he’s held under his tongue. 

It’s no fun to tripsit, he doesn’t get anything out of that, and Dabi doesn’t do things for free. He feels your head fall back onto his shoulder, short breaths warming a ripple of goosebumps up his neck, and watches as you push your heavy lids open to gaze at the ceiling.  

He can feel your giggles reverberating through his chest before he hears them, innocent, pure, unsuspecting. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, because virtuous girls like you like to be treasured, made to feel special, safe— he can make you feel safe; no one’s told him not to play with his food before he eats it. 

He watches as you flutter your eyelids at him, sigh into his touch, really, you’re the textbook prototype, he doesn’t even need to adjust his tactics. “You feelin’ good?” A hot breath into your ear, and he revels in the way your lips pout to let out a soft sigh. 

Funny how differently you react when you’re high out of your mind, maybe it’s the drug, or maybe it’s just Dabi? You’ve always wanted a bad boy like him, didn’t you? Good girls like bad guys; it’s textbook cliché, and you’re the blueprint. 

He doesn’t wait on an answer, he knows it: you’re feeling good, great— divine. He’ll be right there with you soon, he promises.

“Tell me what you see, princess,” Dabi’s not listening when a cascade of nonsensical descriptions come bubbling out, he doesn’t care. It’s all to get you to keep talking, shift your attention elsewhere while his hand slithers down your arm to play with the hem of your shirt.

At the first brush of his finger on the bare skin of your waist, he feels you purr into him, eyes rolling back in bliss. It’s his cue to give you more, invitation for him to snake his other hand up your naked thigh and knead the flesh gently. 

Gentle does it, he’ll bring you higher as you go. 

He ghosts a breath just under your ear, nipping at your lobe, and admires the full body shiver tumbling through. Moans, loud and needy, come panting out past your lips and echoes off the walls before bouncing back to him. He lets you symphonize short breaths and whiney pleas with each lick and suck traveling down your neck, painting blooms of purple and red as his hand travels dangerously high. 

A firm grip is all the warning he gives you before he tucks his fingers into the crease of your thigh, laughing almost at how obediently you spread your legs. What happened to that pure, innocent girl? Guess under all that laid a dirty whore, just like the rest of ‘em. 

It was slick, so wet, pussy dripping past the delicate lace and drooling over his fingers. Lace, befitting of a slut who lured him in with the fake charms of a virgin. He slides a finger down your slit, gathering up all the juices before presenting it to you. 

“What do you see?” He holds up his finger, slick dripping down like syrup, and watches your pupils dilate in effort to focus. He can see the way your lips part, string of saliva connecting the two soft molds, before gasping out, “melting ice cream.” 

“Want a taste?” 

You clamp over his finger before he even asks you to, sucks on the digit like it’s a melting ice lolly, before your eyes shoot open and mouth twists in disgust. Of course it doesn’t taste nice, normal food isn’t even edible when you’re rolling like this. You’re sticking your tongue out, in an attempt to air out the taste, or maybe you’re just a dumb dog, a dumb bitch, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. 

The same hand, now slick with saliva, grips your chin and crashes your lips into his. His tongue finds yours first, tip licking up the crevice of yours lolling out, and he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a crime for it to be kissing the air. 

There’s no modesty, no gentleness, his tongue pries your lips open, and he feels the weakest form of resistance before he’s thrusting the muscle down your throat. He lapping over the back of your teeth, traces over each bump and rugae on the gummy sides, and snickers at your shit attempt to kiss him back with your slack mouth drooling out the corners. 

He feels a pawing at his arm— your hand meekly grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt to bring him in closer, press his chest into your soft tits, crowd him into you more, more, more. 

It’s cute; it’s stupidly desperate. 

He gets it though, it’s no worries. Human nature is all it is; the desire to climb higher and higher— he wonders if he can get one out of you before the pill hits him. 

There’s no gentleness in the way his hand slots between your legs and cups your dripping cunt this time. He wishes he has more time to admire the way your legs quiver and twitch with every firm pat against your clit, but he’s on a time crunch. There’s so much time to spare, he can play with it all he wants later.

He can feel your needy moan vibrate through his lips and reverberate straight into his brain, sloppy mouths working simultaneously together and against each other as he rips your panties and shorts off in one go. Any self respecting girl would shut their legs in shame, in embarrassment, any attempt to protect their dignity, but you don’t. He doesn’t let you, anyways. 

A hand moves under your shirt to roughly grip at your tits in the same breath he sinks a finger into your sopping hole. Inhale; squeeze, thrust, exhale— you moan. It’s tight, as tight as a virgin pussy should be, but not too tight that it fights against the foreign digit ramming into it at a relentless pace too rough and quick to befit an unexplored hole. 

He can feel the pulsing around him, gummy walls milking his finger for all its worth, and he digs his palm into your swollen bud; it’s all he needed for you to come undone. You don’t squeal, you don’t scream, the 2CB in your system rendering you incapable of anything except long breathy sobs of his name. 

His finger pops out with a wet squelch, and he brings it to his mouth to taste it; tarty, thick— he’s still sober. You’re blubbering out drivel about the stars you saw, the colours swirling around at the peak of your euphoria, you think you saw God— is Dabi God? 

Dabi had to laugh, pat you on the head with his hand covered in syrupy slick, watch it leak and clump your strands of hair. He picks you up with your shorts and panties drenched through dangling at your ankles, and walks you to your bed.

You don’t notice, still basking in the afterglow; he knows this. Not that you’d push him off, tell him to stop. Not in your state anyways. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

He drops you once the bed’s in frame at the same time he feels his pulse rise, heart palpitate, and a wave of nausea threatens to bubble over. It doesn’t; he doesn’t let it. An experienced veteran would never. It’s a welcomed sensation, one he’s all too familiar with, and he gives himself a brief minute to breathe it in, savour it, before glancing back down at your limp body on the bed. 

Is it your body? He can trace your silhouette from the dip of your waist, the full of your hips, something glistening, gleaming in the light— your pretty little virgin cunt. His eyes roll back at the next inhale before he finds himself landing on the bed on top of you, forearms digging into the soft mattress of your bed. 

He hears your voice singing into his brain, soft lulls of his name stringing out in DabiDabiDabi— the desperation and need shooting straight to his cock, he doesn’t even need to look down at your soft pliant body, welcoming him, inviting him in. 

“Feels good, yeah?” His voice comes out rougher than usual, low and strained, and laughs at how eagerly you nod, watches your chin catch the air and paint strokes of colour following the route it takes, “Who makes you feel this good?” 

He knows, he knows because it’s all you’ve been able to say the past while, the only word on your mind that you can even blubber out— 

“You, Dabi,” your pants grow heavier; his pants grow tighter, “it’s you Dabi, please—“

A hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, your soft, uncalloused, hand, and he grips it by the wrist before bringing it up to his face. He traces every line that curves and meets on your palm with his tongue, letting it be covered entirely with drool before wrenching it down under his joggers and into his boxers to cup his aching erection. 

His hips rut into your palm almost immediately as a knee-jerk reaction, every hump into your tiny hand has him panting into your face, sweat beading at his temples. His tongue drops down to lick at your lips, asking for entrance, begging for access. Your lips might’ve parted just a fraction, maybe just to let out a breathe, but Dabi takes it as permission to thrust his tongue in and prod at your dormant one.

He can feel you gag at the sudden intrusion, throat convulsing to push back the unfamiliar slimy muscle, and he briefly considers yanking your hand out and shoving his cock down that pretty little mouth of yours. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have the patience. He needs it urgently, needs your tight virgin cunny stretching and agonizing over his overbearing size, needs to feel the flutter of the gummy walls with each thrust; he needs it bad, he needs it now—

Your hand is wrenched away as he yanks both waistbands down to his thighs. He looks at you, eyes blurring through kaleidoscopic vision, and makes out your disoriented gaze staring back at him. Disoriented with toxins, disoriented with need, lust, desperation— a hand reaches behind Dabi’s neck and pulls him back down to crash bruised lips together. 

It’s all the invitation he needs, not that he needs it, no, what he needs is to sink his painfully hard cock into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. There’s a faint squealing coming from underneath him, and he thinks he can feel nails digging crescents into his nape, but all he can feel is your warm, wet walls clenching around him. 

There was no need to prepare you for any longer, there’s no point if he doesn’t stretch your virgin pussy out with his own cock; it’s wasted on fingers, his fingers don’t deserve to feel the way you walls quiver and contract around it. The pitched cries stop eventually as he feels your body go pliant and soft, and he has half a mind to realize you’re probably starting to come down soon.

He doesn’t wanna deal with that, you won’t be sober for another few hours, but you’ve peaked already, and not with him; that’s not fair, that’s no fun. His cock stills inside you with half still unsheathed and he reaches down into his pocket to take out a baggy of powder. There’s a spoon in, thank fuck, and he feeds a small bump right up to your nose. 

“Inhale,” he slots it right up your nostril, “it’ll make you feel good, didn’t you feel good?” Your head lowers to nod, bumps the edge of the spoon right into the cartilage of your nose, and inhale. Good girl. 

The baggy is tossed haphazardly before he’s working his dick into you again, cockhead pushing through the doughy walls in search of that pocket at the end of your pussy.

You don’t struggle anymore, instead clinging onto his shoulders and carving half-moons into the flesh. It hurts a lil, and Dabi doesn’t like it when it hurts, not when he’s the one hurting.

He snatches your hands off him and pushes them above your head, into the plush forgiving mattress. His teeth are back on your neck, biting over the ripples of purple and green and red and blue, reveling in your cries and moans that come out in symphonies. 

It feels good, great— divine, it’s what he deserves for bringing you to Nirvana. He’s basically your muse, after all, how can you truly describe rapture without experiencing it first? 

He can hear your moans ringing out from underneath, can see them traveling in the air in hues of reds and pinks and reds and reds— there’s red on your bedsheets, of course there is. He forgot that’s what comes with a virgin cunt; blood, mixing with the translucent coating his cock, dripping down and painting the crisp white sheet red, drifting into the air and congesting the whole room with red. 

He inhales the colour, sucks it into his lungs, and uses it to fuel the pistoning of his hips. Your breaths turn to pants, turns to sobs of his name leaving your lips again, and he thinks you look good, so good, taking his cock like this. You should thank him for bringing you to your second orgasm. 

Just look at you, crazy isn’t it? Crazy what a lil pill can do. But he’s got something better, something so much better, something that’ll bring you to a new dimension. You want that, don’t you? C’mon don’t be shy, Dabi will bring you right there, don’t you worry.

There’s still the faint cries from your orgasm when he flips you over and pushes your face into the untainted sheets. He watches as your hands sprawl up to grip and grasp at something, anything, and his hands ease up on the hold on your skull for a second to let you wheeze and greedily gasp for air.

He flickers a trail of blue down your back, watches the flames dance and rage in a mirage, every bouquet indented by the ligament of each tender rib, and there’s a faint scream. The pitch rises with the flames, taunting it to go higher, faster, paint murals in every swell of your back until he can’t see anything except ash coal char. 

Dabi blinks, squints his eyes as he throws his head back to focus on the paint chipping on the ceiling. It cracks and crinkles, shying away from his pointed glare, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks back down at you. 

There’s no ash, no char, only warm tanned flesh, pressed flush against the pristine white sheets underneath. It burns against the pads of his long fingers splayed out across your back, and he winces in annoyance at the irony.

You don’t seem to notice his pause, too fucked out or fucked up to register what’s going around you probably. A mixture of both; Dabi can’t really remember what he’s given you or how long he’s been there. 

He can’t decide if he wants to stay there anymore,  can’t make out the pros and cons of either. He counts them off with each painful yank of your hair, each harsh thrust into your abused virgin cunt— it was that, wasn’t it? 

He was there because he sniffed out a cute lil virgin, one so untainted and untouched, one begging for him to corrupt. He’s not known to be very generous, but sometimes he gets into one of those moods; it can’t be helped when there’s a desperate doll waiting to be torn apart. 

He knows what you want, can read you with his eyes closed— you don’t need eyes to feel the pulse of a greedy cunny; it clenches with every slap of the face, damn near clamps down entirely as his slender fingers slither around to the front of your throat.

Two fingers shove past your lolling tongue and yanks your head back by the digits hooked on the corner of your mouth. There’s drool, and spit, and so many fluids coming and entering all at once— and then you’re coming, again, probably, for the third time that night. Fourth? 

It’s methodical, straightforward, he reads the instruction manual once, maybe twice if the first one’s a bit faulty, and he’s got it down to muscle memory.

At the sound of heaving he looks back down again, admires the feel of two of his fingertips fucked straight into the back of your throat, and pushes down on the rugged gummy wall. You gag, and he laughs. It’s cute, so cute, you’re real cute, you know?

“Such a good lil whore aren’t you?” He digs his nails into the flesh of your hip and rams his cockhead until he can feel the kiss from your puckered cervix. “All fucked out of your mind, bet you can’t even hear me, can you?” 

He watches as you gurgle out words past his fingers wedged down your slack mouth, and choke on the pools of saliva drooling out. It’s the funniest sight, fascinates him to death, really. 

A slap to the face might bring you out of your daze, so he slips his hand back out of your sloppy mouth and revels at your body propelling forward straight into the headboard. He grasps at the tips of your hair and wrench your body back towards him before any satisfying impact could sound out. It’s a shame, but concussions are not in his agenda. 

“Been fucked so loose, filthy slut can’t even keep your body up,” he rolls your hair around his hands and yanks back until your skull meets his chin; it’s excruciatingly painful, probably, and that’s why it’s the best. 

It’s the perfect way for your mouth to fall open naturally, to scream, squeal, fluster around in attempt to be freed from the position— it creates the perfect hole for him to spit in. He watches as your face contorts in disgust, tongue pushed out to let his spit drool out the sides, but that’s no fun, not very nice of you, is it?

“Swallow,” he assists you with an extra hard thrust, and you choke on the moan coming out. His hand comes forward from your hip to rest under your chin before pushing it up so it clamps shut, “I said, swallow.”

Your eyes flood with tears that waterfall down your face, and God, he thinks you look the best like this— wrecked on his cock, body littered in purple and red, covered in sweat and blood and cum; his perfect lil cocksleeve, just for him. 

It’s emotional, almost— religious, even, he can feel the palpitations in his heart thumping against his chest echoing off the headboard banging against the wall, and lets the euphoria consume him, wash over him as he coats your walls with hot ropes of cream and white, hips stuttering with your greedy cunny fluttering and clenching around it, milking and sucking in his cock in deeper, deeper, more.

He thinks you might’ve cum, might still be cumming, but all he can hear is the Messiah calling for him, choir singing lulling him into an infinite jubilation; he closes his eyes to bathe in it, let himself be cleansed and washed over with ecstasy. 

When he pulls out, your body flops onto the mattress, and he watches as white dribbles out your quivering hole, mixing with the red on the sheets, creating a puddle of pink and magenta, before passing out in the fuschia.

[karlyanalora]

Birth of a Fanfic Writer

When I was seven, my mom bought a giant roll of perforated printer paper. I rolled it out on my cousin’s carpeted living room and got down on my belly, colored pencils in hand, and drew horse after horse. I named them all and as I drew them, I spoke aloud the story of their lives as it burst into existence within my head.

In 2005, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe came out in theatres. I watched it at home with my family. I remember being in Costco with my dad and him picking out the boxset of the books to go with the DVD, promising to read them to me. Such was the start of a tradition, but that’s a tale for another time. The important bit was dancing in the front yard under the aspen tree, imagining myself beside Lucy, Edmund, Susan, and Peter. They were soon joined by Codename: The Kids Next Door, of which Numbah Five and Numbah One were my favorite. There must have been others, but those are the only two I can remember. My first fandoms if you will.

I don’t remember how old I was when I started, but on long car rides I would be arm myself with a pencil and a brand new notebook. I started many stories that way, writing out the first few chapters before I burned out. I only remember the plot of one. I had recently found a single issue of a comic from the 2003 Teen Titans cartoon. A bad guy tried to impersonate Starfire’s long lost brother and her pet pupa didn’t trust the impersonator. That was my first introduction to superheroes and it was love at first sight. So I wrote a self-insert where my family and I were magical shapechangers and Batman wiped out my people and killed my mom because he thought we were bad guys. Robin questioned him, but Batman was sure he was doing the right thing. I was raising my siblings in a tree when I rescued Robin, who I aged down to be my future love interest, and togethe we were going to show Batman he was wrong or something. I don’t remember what I had planned. I couldn’t have been older than nine. The angstiest thing I could have possibly read at that age was Percy Jackson. I have no idea where that dark storyline came from, but it was the furthest I would get in any story until NaNoWriMo 2014.

I was determined to create an entirely original story. But I found myself writing loopholes where I could connect my characters back to the MCU and DCEU. I did finish NaNoWriMo, but I had to make the outlines for books two and three. My family likes to tease me about He-Man appearing in book three.

In 2018, my friend Annie introduced me to Voltron. I can’t remember what season we were waiting on, but in the parking lot of early morning seminary, she introduced me to fanfic. A story about Pidge getting switched with the Green Lion along with other adventures. It was Though She Be Little by TheRedScreech. I read it, enjoyed every bit, and didn’t think about fanfic again.

Some family friends tried to get us into the YouTube channel craze. My sister and I were going to make a goofy cartoon and try to make money off it. I wrote to Star Wars about permission to do so and was politely told no. I was going to do it anyway and researched fair use laws. I wrote a script. I still didn’t think about fanfic.

During 2019, through regular dog sitting during the week and a month-long stint housesitting during the summer, I watched a lot of tv. I’d burned through all the available seasons for Tales of Arcadia, season seven of Voltron had failed me, so I rewatched my beloved Transformers Animated. And then I watched Transformers Prime and even Rescue Bots. But I was still starved for more. As I lay awake in my apartment at college in the early pre-Covid months of 2020, I remembered what Annie had told me about fanfic. How if I wanted to avoid smut, I should stay away from M-rated fics and so on. Armed with that knowledge, I plunged into the world of fanfiction.net and scoured the Transformers section. I stayed up all night reading @megadoomingir ‘s Redeem the Stars. Didn’t sleep much better when I started what was then up of their Stop Me.

And somewhere during those late nights of early adulthood, I realized I could create original work. But that’s never been what I wanted. Ever since I was a little girl, I had wanted to write fanfic. So in an empty classroom on campus, I called up my sister and read her the first drafts of what would become Widow’s Legacy and the stories that would come after.

I’ve grown a lot since then. Decided to let go of my shameless self-insert, The Fossa. Let a lot of other original characters and oc-centric worldbuilding go too. Started to think critically about the canon I was working with. But I think most of that was a product of growing up. Nothing I was doing before was wrong; it was a product of a less mature me who would have been writing for an audience who was in the same mindspace. I grew up, and so did the kind of story I wanted to tell.

Where ever you are on this journey and trust me, it’s a journey, be proud of it. Maybe you still want to write original work or like me, you’re happy to write fanfic forever. Don’t be ashamed of what you wrote, dreamed up, or outlined in the past. It’s great for where you were in life at the time, a reflection of a past you who is still learning, growing, and changing. They are your five-year-old self’s scribbles, loving placed on the fridge and maybe even saved for years. They are only made more precious by the masterpieces you create today because they are testaments to your beginnings. Your old fics and ideas are the birthplaces of that story you wrote that touched that one reader and left them forever changed. Be proud, and keep writing.

[pappydaddy]

Nurse Simon (s.k)

A/N: I had absolutely no idea what to name this. This is just a quick fic I wrote up for Simon to kick off my Fear Street Masterlist so it's not very long, just a little blurb. I wrote this all last night at one o'clock in the morning because I couldn't sleep with my mouthguard in (I had to get it because I chew the inside of my cheeks and lip in my sleep when I'm anxious) and I just rolled with it. Anywho, I hope you lovelies enjoy this very random Simon fic💛!

TV Show/Movie: Fear Street: 1994

Pairing: Simon Kalivoda x Fem!Reader

Not Requested

Simon Kalivoda Taglist: @maybe-alistair

Warnings: Anxiety is mentioned, anxious tick is also mentioned (chewing the inside of your mouth). Not proofread, I'm going to read through all my fics so I will edit this better then.

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- not my gif -

Laying in bed, Y/N groaned, flipping over dramatically as she pleaded with her brain to shut up. Mouthing the uncomfortable mouthguard around in her mouth, she cursed her brain for making her this way. “Stupid Anxiety.” Her words were altered by the lisp the mouth guard gave her as she flopped onto her back once again, staring blankly up at the ceiling as the silver moonlight flowed against it.

She was still not used to having to wear the mouthguard her doctor instructed her to get after their last appointment. To make things worse, it was a random unopened mouth guard found at the bottom of her brother’s duffle bag. So there was no way of knowing the true cleanliness of the plastic guard (even though she boiled it three times just to be safe). Letting out yet another annoyed groan, Y/N forced her eyes shut, trying to manually shut her brain off so she could get at least a few hours of sleep before school tomorrow.

Just as her brain began to slow down, the unexpected draft suddenly invading her room kickstarted her brain right into overdrive. She froze, trying to figure out if the sheer exhaustion she was battling the past few weeks had finally gotten to her - causing her to hallucinate - or if there was actually a murderer climbing through her window right then and there. Both were possibilities in Shadyside.

The stumble of feet tripping over her knocked-over cardboard cutout of Nick Lachey made her blood run cold, but in a moment of sheer stupidity, Y/N shot straight up in her bed, flicking on her lamp to uncover her murderer. Stunned, she sat there blinking at her boyfriend as he blinked back at her, for some reason scared that he had been caught sneaking into her bedroom at three in the morning.

“What the fuck, Simon,” She exclaimed, her mouth guard making her talk with a lisp. She didn’t realize it was still in, instead, proceeding to grab her pillow from behind her and hurl it at her boyfriend. “You can’t do that shit in Shadyside, I thought you were a murderer.” She wished she hadn’t thrown her pillow at him since she had a strong desire right then to smack him repeatedly with it, but at the same time, she didn’t want to throw both her pillows.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized, holding one hand in the air as he bent down to grab her pillow from by his feet. “Sheesh woman, you have good aim,” He muttered, rubbing his nose after being hit square in the face by her uncomfortably hard pillow. “How do you even sleep on these things? When I sleepover, I just use my folded-up t-shirt, it’s softer than this shit.” He asked, tossing the pillow to its rightful place at the head of her bed.

“Well I’m sorry that with all the great technology of the 90s, we as a human race have failed to figure out the perfect pillow formula, Simon,” She grunted sarcastically, still forgetting about the mouth guard. “Now why are you here,” She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest, inadvertently drawing her sex-crazed, always horny boyfriend’s attention to her boobs. “Simon!”

“Huh, what?” He snapped out of it before looking at her face, jumping back with a small scream.

“What?” She asked, looking behind her for whatever scared him, but there was nothing. Looking back at him, she saw the same look of terror on his face, his shaking finger pointed right at her.

“Don’t freak out babe, but there is something in your mouth,” He whispered, stepping hesitantly towards her bed, too scared to get close to it. “It’s all over your teeth and a tail thing is sticking out of it.” He pulled his top lip up, pointing to his top teeth before swooping it to indicate a tail.

Y/N rolled her eyes, pulling the mouth guard from her mouth, a string of saliva following it. She cringed, thankful their relationship was not new or that would have been mortifying. Simon had always been comfortable around her. At first, Y/N was more careful about what she did in front of him, not being her full self out of fear of him leaving, but being in a relationship with a person for over six months changes that. “It’s my mouth guard, you Baboon.” She told him, reaching over to place it in its case.

“Why do you need a mouth guard, scared of getting tackled in your sleep?” He asked, crawling onto her bed, flipping unceremoniously into the spot next to her, winching when he landed on the hard pillow.

“No, it’s so that I stop chewing the inside of my cheek when I’m anxious.” She barked, grumpy.

“Sheesh, someone’s a little grumpy.” Simon sucked in a breath, looking at her with gleaming eyes. She glared down at him, not wanting to admit that the wide, sparkling blue eyes he was giving her broke through her grumpiness instantly.

“No shit, I was just about to fall asleep when you came falling through my window, scaring me half to death and now you won’t stop talking,” She ranted, pointing at the still open window. “And you didn’t even have half the decency to close the window after you.”

He rolled off the bed, walking over to shut and lock the window. “Well, let’s go to bed together. Might help you sleep, then we can sleep in tomorrow morning.” He suggested, picking up the cardboard cutout, standing it in the corner of the room next to her extensive Cassette and CD collection.

“We have school in the morning.” She reminded him, not looking up from where she was fixing her bedsheets from him messing them up when he rolled out of the bed.

“You’re such a nerd that you want to go to school on Thanksgiving?” Simon asked jokingly, knowing full well that her exhausted brain completely forgot what day it was tomorrow (or today since it was the morning already).

“Shit-“

“It’s all right, I have the day off so I’ll nurse you back to sanity, babe.” He pretended he was doing her a great justice as he flopped back down beside her, pulling her down with him, pressing her back flush against his front.

“That’s not an overly comforting thought,” She grumbled, but he simply shushed her, petting her hair. “Fine,” She gave up, accepting it. “But the only reason I am not chewing you out for making me think I was gonna get murdered is the fact that I am too tired to argue.” Her words slowly became slower and more slurred as being wrapped in Simon’s arms made her feel protected and less anxious, basically shutting her brain off with the feeling of his touch.

Mustering up enough strength to battle against the sudden wave of sleepiness, she reached to turn her lamp off, bathing them in darkness that only the silver moonbeams broke up. Seconds later, her eyelids drooped, cutting out all light. “I love you, Simon.” She breathed out, forgetting her mouthguard.

“I love you too, babe,” He responded. She could feel him reaching over her to her nightstand, but she was too tired to care. “I love you so much that I can’t let you forget your terrifying mouthguard.” He whispered, thinking she was asleep. Gently, he managed to wiggle the mouthguard into her mouth before settling back down behind her pulling her farther into him, snuggling his face into the back of her neck affectionately.

[welllpthisishappening]

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

[inwonderland-or-atleast-inwonder]

Wrote this in the airport because I can't get it out of my head. I love Marco and Celia and Percy and Annabeth and idk if anyone else cares about This Particular Overlap but I am not normal about it! Imagine Percy as Celia and Annabeth as Marco. Imagine them at the circus, building tents that are love letters to each other. Imagine "I wished for her." I even know exactly how the bonfire scene would go in this version. I have a crazed outline for this whole fic.

In any case, here is the prologue of a story I will probably never write.

____________

Some say the circus appears without warning.

But you know better.

For days, the wind has shifted, bringing with it the far-off scent of a crackling fire. The world itself here has been strange—you wonder if anyone else has noticed it—lightning tearing apart a still-blue sky, the rush of the river louder than it should be, owls spotted in trees that usually house no more than squirrels, new vines creeping up walls even though it is long past spring. Nature shifts, and you swear it whispers to you. Something is coming.

And then, the circus arrives.

At first you think they are not tents at all, but temples. Ivory towers frame fabric trimmed in gold and silver, towering against a cloudless sky. There are countless tents of varying shapes and sizes, but no pointed tops or bright circus colors to be seen. No color at all inside the elaborate bronze fence. Even what little ground is visible from outside is a faint silver, painted or powdered, or treated with some other circus trick.

But it is not open for business. Not just yet.

On the gate hangs a sign in gold letters, one that reads:

            Opens at solstice             Closes at daybreak or nightfall.

It seems that you were not the only one to notice the ways the world itself has been shifting. There are a handful of others, here to follow the feeling that something important has changed, that all is not as it always is in this sleepy little town. From there, the story spreads. Even those who woke up sensing nothing odd in the world, who would have been sure that all is ordinary, take notice now. The arrival of a mysterious circus cannot be rationalized away. As dusk approaches, a crowd gathers outside the gates.

What kind of circus is open only one day and one night a year?

You are at the front of the crowd, of course. You have been here all day, watching the circus, yes—but also watching the grass in the fields around it, the blue sky still cloudless for the first time in weeks. You stand in the fading light, the scarf you brought against the chill of an evening breeze hanging loosely around your shoulders, the wind surprisingly warm and soft for mid-December.What kind of circus is able can announce itself in the way that you are sure this one has—with lightning and water and perhaps the very heavens calling its name?

When the lights begin, they are small enough to go unnoticed. Tiny flames licking at the bronze fence where nothing had been there before. Several people in the crowd leap back when they notice, but you are not afraid. These flames are warm, each a tiny hearth. The crowd quiets as the flames take shape, no longer a mere constellation of light and warmth. When the last of them light in a flashing arc, you think they might be letters, but not in any language you can read:

            Ólumpos: το τσίρκο των θεών

A man with professor’s glasses and a grandfather’s twinkling eyes smiles in recognition. You are not the only one who has noticed his expression, who wishes he would explain what he alone has understood. It is a child who finally tugs on his sleeve and asks what you have all been wondering.

“Olympus. The Circus of the Gods,” comes the reply. The crowd is thoughtful. You wonder what the name means. You wonder, despite yourself, if the gods themselves have been called to your sleepy little town.

Then the great bronze gates, flames and all, shudder and unlock, seemingly by their own volition. They swing outward, inviting the crowd inside.

Tonight, Olympus is open.

Tonight, you may see for yourself.

[dameferre]

i also wanna know abt who am i really 👀

okay. so. ‘who am i really’ is the first zukka thing i ever wrote, started before i had even. finished watching the show lmao

basically i have 25k of it written, probably another 4-5k written in notes and an outline, but i am mature and knowledgeable of my own shortcomings enough to know there’s no way in hell i’ll ever finish it, because that 25k? isn’t even. 20% of the fic if i were to actually write it, like this shit would approach 200k in its final form and i very simply do not have the time to actually. write that lmao

but i’m happy to talk about it! so basically it was the whole ‘oh my god they were roommates’ premise except zuko is sokka’s downstairs neighbour, they fight over music volume, and for the first part of the fic zuko’s a bootlicking son of the city police chief and starting out at the police academy, who calls the cops on sokka for his music one night

aand i just realised how long this is gonna be so under the cut!

so we start from the ‘zuko’s a fucking asshole’ stage and move on from there, and then due to a couple of different mildly traumatic events  zuko realises the police system is inherently evil, has his whole redemption arc slash emotional breakdown and quits the force, he gets cut off by ozai and moves in w sokka for cheaper rent bc sokka is a nice person (who’s seen the way zuko has been walking around looking like absolute Death for weeks) and also needs someone to help w the rent

we also start from the point where sokka’s dating suki, and zuko’s still coming to terms with his sexuality, so there’s all that to work through

basically it just goes into the development of zuko and sokka’s friendship, and zuko’s development as a person going from an incredibly sheltered, incredibly privileged life to... the opposite of that lmao and how his friendship with the rest of the gaang grows, and his personal journey, and whatnot, just a nice little mirror for canon except w more swearing and the author talking about how all cops are bastards

it’s all self indulgent nonsense and little bits of shit that popped into my head so i wrote it down, really, but here’s my favourite bit

“So I was thinking.”

“Never a good sign.”

“Ha, ha.” Sokka deadpans. “Seriously though. I want a GNO. Drinking, dancing, questionable choices, might even get some action if I’m on my game.”

“And you think this is something I would enjoy.” Zuko, the introvert who can’t dance, responds.

“You’ll enjoy it because you’re going with your best friends, one of whom is just getting over the emotional hangover of the end of a three-year relationship.” Sokka pouts. “We can even go to a gay club! It’s been ages since I’ve been to one.”

Zuko snorts, and looks back to the TV. “I thought you wanted to get some ‘action’.”

“I mean, I would also be fine with just a fun night out with the gang. But if there are interested parties.” Sokka shrugs.

“Well, forgive me if my idea of a fun night isn’t watching Toph beat the shit out of you for creeping on lesbians at a gay club.”

Sokka makes an exasperated noise. “C’mon, you know me better than that.” He says, throwing a cheeto at the side of Zuko’s face. “I said interested parties. I can be strictly dick-tly for an evening, no sweat.”

Zuko turns, brow raised. “What does that even mean.”

“Y’know. I wouldn’t say no to a girl of the bipan persuasion if she wants to make a move, but if I’m actively pursuing anyone, it’ll just be guys. And, y’know, any non-girl people who seem into it.”

A record scratches in Zuko’s brain. “You… why would you pursue a guy.”

“I dunno, if he’s hot?” Sokka says, looking at him like he’s crazy. “Or has a nice smile? Shiny hair? I dunno, why do you usually pursue guys, Z.”

“But.” Zuko stammers, staring at Sokka. “But I’m attracted to men.”

Sokka blinks at him. “…so am I?”

What. “What.” No seriously, what. “What?!”

“Is this… are you trying to be funny?”

Zuko stares at his roommate, frantically trying to understand what’s going on. “Are you trying to be funny?!”

“No, I’m being bisexual.” Sokka says, slightly defensively. “Because I’m bisexual?”

“Since when?!”

Sokka stares at him, then gestures to wall. “Zuko, that’s been up since I moved in. I know you’ve seen it.”

Zuko turns to stare at the wall, but all he can see is- “The flag?”

“Yeah, Zuko, the fucking flag. Did you think I just thought it was pretty?”

“Is-” Zuko flounders. “Is the flag significant?”

Sokka looks intently, somewhat crazed, at Zuko’s face, like he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, he obviously doesn’t find it. His arm is still held out towards the wall, and he uses it to gesture towards the flag again, more aggressively this time. “It’s the fucking bisexual pride flag, Zuko!”

“I.” Zuko gapes at him, still confused. “I thought the pride flag was a rainbow?”

“Oh my-” Sokka starts. “Are you fucking with me right now. Is this you fucking with me.” He pauses, staring at Zuko. “Jesus fuck, Zuko, there are different flags for different sexualities. That’s the bisexual one.”

Zuko stares at the flag, then back at Sokka, then back at the flag. Then back at Sokka. “Well how was I supposed to know that?!”

“Everybody knows that, Zuko!” Sokka exclaims, then brings his hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I guess you just. Didn’t know that. Somehow. And that’s fine. Point being, I am bisexual. I am attracted to all genders, I’ve been- I thought- out since I was sixteen. So yeah. I’m bi.”

“But.” Zuko’s brain has been trying to process this information, and now rejects it entirely. “But that. You can’t be.”

Sokka gives him a weird look. “I can’t be?” His face shifts, into something sort of… defensive. Wary, almost. “Do you have a problem with bisexuals?”

“What?” Oh shit. “No, of- of course not! I- I love bisexuals! All of the- um,” Zuko’s mind races, trying to think of a bi person he knows personally, and then frantically widening its search to any bisexual human being in all of recorded history. “Jet! Jet’s bi! Love Jet, he’s, um. Yeah! Bi.”

Sokka’s face isn’t defensive anymore, but it is shocked. And- something else, Zuko can’t quite place. “You love Jet?”

“What?”

“You just said you loved Jet.” Sokka says, sort of quietly. “I just- I guess I didn’t know you guys were at that point.”

Zuko absolutely does not love Jet. Only Jet loves Jet. But Sokka’s looking at him, lit by the artificial glow of the TV, still the most attractive thing Zuko’s ever seen. So Zuko’s self-preservation instinct kicks in. “Uh. Yeah, you know.” He swallows. “It’s still pretty new, but. Yeah.”

“Well hey, that’s.” Sokka gives a small smile. “That’s great.” He places his hands on his thighs, pushing up off the couch. “I’m just gonna text everybody, see if we can get the night planned.”

He walks away, leaving Zuko to his mental breakdown in peace.

Sokka’s bi.

Sokka.

Is bi.

[later that week or some transition i haven’t written lmao]

“Zuko, you know I’m bi, right?” Suki laughs, but the grin slides off her face when Zuko hesitates. “You know that, right.”

Zuko makes a reluctant face. “I know now…?”

“Oh my-“ Suki stares at him, then looks at Sokka who makes a face as if to say ‘see, what did I tell you’. “Ew, Zuko!” She cries. “Ew, you thought- you thought I was straight?!”

“You had a boyfriend,” Zuko defends himself weakly.

Suki looks like she wants to scream. “I’ve never been so offended in my entire life.”

“Now you know how I feel.” Sokka says.

“Me! A straight girl!” She laughs, slightly hysterical. “Me!”

“Okay, I guess I just-” Zuko starts, but Suki holds out two fingers in front of his face, shutting him up.

“No no, that’s enough from you today.” She looks, wide-eyed, at Sokka. “What do I have to do, paint the fucking bi flag on my face?”

Sokka snorts. “He wouldn’t recognise it, anyway.”

Suki turns back to glare at Zuko. “I thought we were friends, Zuko.”

and then in a perfect world this would be followed by a montage of all the times sokka has definitely been openly bisexual in front of ‘still coming to terms with his own sexuality’ zuko who’d just. wrote it off as bro culture

[winifredsandersonsbitch]

“Why Not Me?”

Spike x Summers!Reader, BTVS

Warnings: angst, character death, cursing, some sexual content

Description: The reader is struggling with their sister’s death and needs a helping hand. Set between the end of S5 and the beginning of S6.

This has been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute while I’ve been working on other stuff. It’s actually one of the first Spike pieces I wrote 🙈 I’m not in love with it, but I’ve been busy with other things lately and I wanted to release some new content, so here you go! I’m currently working on figuring out how to put together a masterlist and link my stories with the read more thing that I see on other fic writers’ pages so things are a little more organized.

Also (last thing, promise), I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the likes and comments you guys leave! @kind-wolf especially has helped motivate me so much in releasing new work, even if I feel it’s not my best ❤️

The first few days are hard. You wouldn’t be able to get yourself out of bed if not for Dawn. Everyone keeps peeking glances at you like you’re broken, like after your mother died but worse.

Infinitely worse, because Buffy and Dawn are your responsibility. You’re the oldest. You’re meant to protect them, to shield them. But all you’ve ever done is watch as your sister saved the world. And now even that has been taken from you.

You keep busy. You can only take so many days off work, trade so many shifts. Soon you have to go back and Dawn has to go to school, unless you want her to be taken from you, too.

Spike watches her for you while you’re at the diner. You’ve shortened your hours so you can sometimes be there with her before she goes to bed, but you’ve still got bills to pay. And you can’t bring up downsizing like you once meant to. Not when the house is the last thing linking the formerly whole Summers family together.

Willow does her best to play therapist, considering how you can’t go to a real one. First of all, they’d probably commit you for telling them your story. Second, you don’t have the strength to let anyone else in. Expanding your world to include more people only means that you have more of them to lose.

You made some mistakes in the first few weeks. You’re not proud of them by any means, but you’re doing your best to own them.

The worst one involved Spike.

One night (or, rather, morning) after your shift was over, you had come home and showered. As usual, you cried for as long as you could justify letting the water run. Then you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel that you almost dropped when you saw him waiting in your room.

“I think we need to have a chat, Summers.”

He patted the bed next to him, just like he had when he tagged along for the first time to your diner shift all those months ago. The gesture made you want to cry again.

“Let me get dressed,” you mumbled. You rummaged through your dresser for a tank top and sweatpants, the only types of clothing besides your uniform that you had been using since the funeral. Then you locked yourself in the bathroom.

You strongly considered crawling out the window, but you were too loud when you tried to pry it open and Spike rapped loudly on the door.

“Don’t even try it, love.”

Resigned, you came out to sprawl on your bed and wait for the lecture.

Spike started in as usual by saying that you weren’t taking care of yourself. Once again, you reminded him that you were a perfectly capable adult who was keeping an entire household running and that you didn’t need him or anyone else questioning you.

“I know you’re capable, that’s not the point—”

“Then what is the point? What right do you have—”

“I’ve been right here beside you the whole time! I’m allowed to have some input—”

“I’m sorry, is your name Spike Summers? No? Then get off my ass about—”

You could see in his eyes that he wanted to shake some sense into you. He thought you were the one being obtuse. But all you were doing, all you had ever tried to do, was to hold everything together.

“Summers,” he growled. The two of you had been inching closer together during your heated argument, your voices raised dangerously, considering Dawn was still asleep. For a moment, you saw a flicker of his other face. Even knowing he wouldn’t hurt you, you gulped. “Stop being so bloody thick about everything. You’re working yourself to death, and who’s going to be here for Dawn if you’re carted off to the hospital?”

Normally, this was the point where the tears would flow against your will, but you only felt frustrated. Then Spike tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and it boiled over.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, and you still don’t know why you did what you did next. Maybe you wanted to push him away like you had been doing with everyone else. Maybe you wanted a distraction. Or maybe you just wanted him.

You kissed him.

It was an automatic reaction, but if you had to guess, you’d say it was probably because you needed to show him that you were fine at taking care of yourself. You were still an independent agent, making your own decisions, however poor they might be. But you didn’t think that was the message he got at all, because it turned needy real quick.

His hand came to the back of your head as he wove his fingers through your hair in a tender gesture, but you didn’t want tender. You wanted the pain to be blocked out. You tried to seal yourself to him, pulling yourself into his lap. You ran your nails over his jaw, his neck, and then his chest, clawing at his shirt. He lifted it halfway, enough for you to see the defined abs that waited beneath, before he pulled away abruptly and dumped you onto the bed.

“We can’t,” he said, panting. “You’re grieving.”

“I’m fine.”

You crawled over to him and slipped off the edge of the bed to press him against the wall, but he held you back.

“You’re sick. It would be taking advantage.”

He knew before the words left his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.

Your eyes widened and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly wanting every trace of him off you. You stepped toward the door backwards, almost tripping over your backpack.

“No, my mom was sick,” you said with your hand on the knob. Then, whipping back around, your face contorted like a Fury: “You’re sick, you know that? You chase after me for months, following me to work, to school, telling me you don’t want to see me hurt myself. You hold me while I’m sleeping and touch me when you think no one’s watching and joke in front of the others about how you’d like to see me naked and then I give you the chance to and what? Has mourning made me so awful to you?”

Spike couldn’t have been more shocked if you slapped him. He kept waiting for your knees to buckle, for you to break down, but you never did. Not in front of the others, not in front of him. Anyone would think you were the goddamn Energizer Bunny, if not for how exhausted you looked.

“Love—”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you said. “If you aren’t willing to ‘take advantage,’ I’ll find someone who is.”

You didn’t slam the door. Even now, you were mindful of Dawn, of how early it was. Instead, you grabbed your keys from the kitchen countertop and made it as far as the front porch before you folded in on yourself.

Not now, you pleaded, praying to a God you weren’t sure existed. Please, let me get somewhere else first.

But you couldn’t move. You kept seeing Buffy fall over and over again, tearing through the inter-dimensional portal like a silk screen, hitting the concrete hard.

You couldn’t breathe.

It was like you could see her and Dawn up top, before Buffy dived down like some kind of fucking Olympic swimmer. You had been on the ground with the others, but you could see them in that moment. Buffy taking Dawn’s face in her hands as she cried. Playing the hero. Telling your sister how she had to do this and to remember how much she loved you both.

You didn’t see or hear Spike come out on the patio or notice when he pried the keys from your hands. You were too busy sobbing silently to the point where he was worried you might pass out.

“It should have been me,” you said, not to him or yourself, but to whatever God had taken Buffy. Glory, maybe. Someone with more power than you. “I’m the oldest. I should have been there. Bring her back and take me.”

“She was the Slayer,” Spike said softly. He didn’t touch you, just sat a fair distance away and ached. “It had to be her.”

In your crazed state, you thought God was talking back, and he happened to have a British accent. You tried to reason with him.

“No, it wasn’t about that. It was about Summers blood. It could have been me, if I had gotten there in time. If—”

“You wouldn’t have made it up the steps past Glory, past the demon. You didn’t have a chance.”

“But it should have been me!” The words came out as more of a wheeze than anything else. You weren’t taking in enough oxygen to support your crying jag. “I should have been the Slayer. I’m the oldest. Why did you choose her? Was I not strong enough?”

You couldn’t open your eyes fully through all the tears. They swam in front of your vision like you were underwater, turning your car into a coral reef, the grass of the front yard into seaweed.

“Or if I couldn’t be the Slayer or the Key, then I should have been the one to jump. You know it’s true,” you pleaded. “Summers blood. It’s all the same.”

But it wasn’t. Because whatever blood was in Dawn and Buffy contained courage.

Spike didn’t know who you thought you were talking to, but he was worried you were going to knock yourself out on the steps and split your head open, with the way you were wavering back and forth, leaning forward to weep and then throwing your head back to ask why, why, why it hadn’t been you.

Finally, he had to restrain you, scooping you up into his lap and holding you tight to keep you from getting any ideas about taking a dive of your own off the porch. At first, you fought against him, thrashing like a wildcat, but you were too tired to keep it up for long.

“Why not me?” you asked him again. Your voice was muffled against his chest, but he heard you loud and clear. How could he not?

“Because you’re needed here. You’re the only thing keeping everyone sane, lo—” He cut himself off, barely remembering how much the word had upset you earlier. “You protected Buffy as best you could your whole life. And now you need to be here for Dawn.”

“No,” you said, wrestling out of his grip enough to face him. “I mean, why don’t you want me?”

Your eyes were swollen and you had just gotten snot all over his shirt, but in that moment he was so grateful that you were alive that his heart would’ve skipped a beat if it could have. He pulled you close and kissed your forehead, breathing in the smell of your shampoo, reminding himself that you were flesh and blood right before him. You were still here.

“Any other time, sweetheart, it would’ve been you,” he whispered against your cheek. You were going slack in his arms, relaxing like a kitten, unable to keep yourself upright and rigid when you were so completely spent. He could taste your tears. “I always want you. But not like this.”

“What do you��hic—mean?”

This was alright. You were a little out of it still, but you were coherent, and you weren’t trying to hurt yourself anymore. Spike resisted the urge to pull you closer, to feel your heart beat against his chest like it was his own, just to confirm you were here, solid, breathing.

“I want you when I can tell it’s real. That you don’t need someone to take your pain away and that’s it, even though I’d strip right now, right here on the porch, if I thought it would help.”

Spike thought he might get a laugh out of you there, but your eyes were unfocused. Frightening. He lifted you up like you weighed nothing, which wasn’t far from the truth now that you’d all but stopped eating, and carried you back into the house and up the stairs to your bedroom.

“I want you so much it hurts,” he promised you as he peeled back the covers to tuck you in. “Like when I’m starving for blood and there’s no one around.”

He checked your face quickly, thinking his metaphor might’ve been less-than-helpful, but when it remained blank he continued.

“I need you. That means I have to do what’s best for you, and right now that’s not sex.”

He started across the room, but you called out.

“Spike?” You sounded uncertain, fragile. “Will you stay with me? Not for... not for sex.”

“Of course I will, lo— Summers.”

He shed his t-shirt and slipped into the fuzzy bottoms you’d gotten him a few months ago, when things were not quite good but getting back to normal, and cradled you.

He gave it a couple minutes before he tried again. “Summers, you know, if you do want sex in the future and you’re not on the verge of a breakdown, I’m your guy.”

But you were already asleep.