#only three quarters because the last quarter hasn’t finished the second game yet

[is-your-name-anronpa-cause-dang]

Remembering that time I told my boyfriend I needed to show him a VERY specific edit that is the driving force to most of this fandom, and is known as the illusive ‘nagito edit’.

[college-girl199328]

Joel Embiid should be far past the point of feeling like he has anything to prove during the regular season. Embiid is one of the very best players in the NBA, a title he’s earned by finishing top-two in MVP voting each of the last three seasons. Embiid finally won MVP last year, but the award didn’t bring him the validation he desired: his main peer, Nikola Jokic, won his first championship, while Embiid’s Philadelphia 76ers were again eliminated in the second round of the playoffs.

There was an easy lesson to learn from Jokic’s title run: he essentially bowed out of the MVP race last season by taking it easy in the second half of the year to make sure he was fresh for the playoffs. The Sixers could have tried to follow the same path this year with Embiid, yet the chase for another MVP award feels like it played a prominent role in the superstar big man going down with a scary injury on Tuesday night. There’s one notable difference in the NBA MVP race this season: the league’s new Collective Bargaining Agreement put in a 65-game minimum for all end-of-season awards. Coming into Tuesday night’s game against the Golden State Warriors, Embiid could only miss five more games all season and still win the award. Embiid was considered a sizable front-runner to win his second MVP this season as long as he played enough games.

Embiid was listed as questionable going into the Warriors game with knee soreness. He had originally tweaked his knee on Jan. 25 against the Pacers, yet stayed in the game. Embiid then missed his nationally televised matchup with Jokic in Denver — where Embiid hasn’t played since 2019 — as the national media moaned about the Philly star “ducking” the matchup. The Sixers lost to the Nuggets, then lost again to the lowly Portland Trail Blazers two nights later as Embiid sat out again. The Sixers already knew they were going to be without Tyrese Maxey, De’Anthony Melton, Nicolas Batum, and Robert Covington against the Warriors. With the New York Knicks on their heels for the No. 3 seed in the East, Embiid gave it a go after warming up against Golden State. It was clear from the start that he was playing hurt.

The Warriors beat the Sixers, 119-107, for Philly’s fourth straight loss. The bigger news is that Embiid went down with a knee injury in the fourth quarter. All of Philadelphia is anxiously waiting for the next update about his health.

Embiid was clearly hobbled well before he was knocked out of the game. He wasn’t able to generate any lift off the ball, settling for mid-range jumpers most of the night on one of his least efficient scoring performances of the year. At one point, Embiid fell to the ground just trying to contest a shot. As the Warriors held a double-digit lead for most of the second half, it would have been easy to rest Embiid and waive the white flag. Instead, head coach Nick Nurse kept Embiid in the game, and the injury eventually occurred.

All of this was totally unnecessary: it should have been obvious Embiid needed to rest after going through warmups. Instead, the desire to play enough games to meet the criteria for MVP, as well as media pressure applied in the wake of his decision to sit out against Denver, led to Embiid playing hurt in a mostly meaningless regular season game. Now, the Sixers have nothing to do but hang on the MRI.

Embiid was most likely pushed to play vs. the Warriors. It’s the 76ers’ job to tell him no. By failing to take the long view, Embiid may have permanently ended his MVP chances this year, and more importantly, made it more difficult for him to truly be healthy for the playoffs. Embiid should have taken more precautions himself, too. Embiid had a streak of 30-point, 10-rebound performances that hit 22 games during the loss to Indiana. Some believe Embiid re-entered that game to keep the streak alive when was clearly hurt early in the night.

The NBA should feel some heat, too. The league put in the 65-game minimum for MVP because it wants its stars to play to sold-out crowds every night, especially when those games are on national TV. The downside of pushing hard in the regular season comes with risking the ability to be fresh for the playoffs. Would Embiid have played vs. the Warriors without the 65-game MVP minimum this year? We’ll never know, but it does feel like it played a role in his decision to give it a go especially after the discourse coming out of the Denver game. All of this is incredibly stupid. Embiid is one of the best players of his generation — right up there with Jokic and Giannis Antetokounmpo. Jokic and Giannis each have an NBA championship to their name. Embiid does not. That should be the priority above anything else.

After the loss to Golden State, the Sixers are now suddenly the No. 5 seed in the East if the season ended today. That makes their path to a championship so much tougher because it means a potential second-round meeting with the Boston Celtics. Who knows how far Philly will drop if Embiid misses a big stretch of games because of this injury. The Sixers should have learned that another MVP won���t bring Embiid peace — only a ring will. This was handled poorly from every possible side.

[hookingminor]

close quarters - andre burakovsky

a/n: started this fic based off this prompt I did. burky is like my fav player I love him so much

word count: 2,100

summary: and they were roommates

PLEASE READ THIS PROMPT BEFORE! THIS FIC IS BUILT OFF IT!

part two

-

It only took a few days for you to settle in comfortably. The first couple of days were spent unpacking the few clothes you brought with you and trying to find a routine to slip into. You didn’t want to annoy Andre or step on his toes. He clearly had enough on his plate with hockey and road trips; he didn’t need you making a fuss around the apartment as well.

Well, he said he didn’t mind you hanging around, but you took that as him being a hospitable host rather than him actually meaning it. For the most part, you remained in your room, only coming out to lounge on the couch when you knew he would be gone for a few hours.

The first morning after you moved in, you woke yourself up extra early to make him breakfast as a thank you, though you weren’t quite sure when he’d have to leave for practice. Andre walked in about ten minutes after you finished frying some bacon and were in the middle of flipping the last few pancakes.

“Uh, what’s all this?” Andre asked hesitantly, confused at the large amount of food you’d laid out on the countertop.

“Oh!” you jumped, not hearing him enter the kitchen. You turned around to face him, gesturing towards the counter with your spatula. “I just wanted to make you breakfast to say thank you, you know, for letting me stay and all. I wasn’t really sure what time you woke up, though.”

“You really didn’t have to do this. Seriously, Y/N, thank you,” He said in awe, grabbing a piece of bacon off the plate.

“I also didn’t know how much you ate, so I kind of went a little overboard,” you chuckled awkwardly, now finally noticing just how many pancakes you’ve made.

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll all get eaten, I promise,” he replied, piling four onto a plate. He dug in shortly after, demolishing half the stack before you’d even sat down to join him.

“Is practice usually at this time?” You asked, pouring two glasses of orange juice.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Typically, it runs for about three hours but game days are shorter.”

“Oh, that reminds me! Would you mind sending me your schedule for the next month or so? I wouldn’t want to disturb you or anything,” you said.

“I’ll grab a calendar at practice today and put it on the fridge later,” he agreed, finishing the last strip of bacon. Grabbing both empty plates in his hands, he walked over to the sink and turned on the water.

“I’ll get those!” You said quickly, rushing to take over from him, “You’ve got to get to practice anyway.”

Andre gave you a sideways look as if he wanted to start an argument or tell you that you weren’t his maid, but he knew he couldn’t. He was already running late, the impromptu breakfast took some extra time he hadn’t planned for, and knew he needed to get out that door before Nate ripped him a new one for being last on the ice. He also wanted to tell you to not touch the dishes and that he’d do them when he came home, but he had a feeling you wouldn’t listen anyway.

-

The next few days got a lot better. You seemed to fall into a routine together, you making breakfast before he had to hurry off to practice. When he had games, you made sure to get out for the day to leave him alone for whatever pregame rituals he had. The couple days he was gone on a short roadie, you spent the free time cleaning up around the apartment while also searching for a place of your own.

You hadn’t expected the search to take this long, but every place you’d seen had been too inconvenient, too expensive, or too dirty. You wanted to get out of his hair as quickly as possible, but it was starting to look like your planned two weeks would turn into a month.

You familiarized yourself with the facilities in his complex, making sure you were taking advantage of the luxurious amenities while you still had access to them. God knew you wouldn’t have this high class of a gym at your new apartment; hell, yours might not even have a gym.

You had just finished up a workout when you walked in to see Andre on the couch, looking at his phone

“Hey, Andre. I didn’t know you were going to be back this early,” you said, removing the airbuds from your ears. It was when you took them out that you could hear he was clearly on the phone with someone.

You whispered a ‘sorry,’ not wanting to interrupt his call. Andre looked back from the call when he heard you talk, his eyes drinking in your sweaty and spandex clad body in the kitchen.

“Hello, Burk?” the voice asked, snapping Andre out of his trance. His eyes flickered back to the phone screen, to you, and back to the screen quickly as he let out a strained cough.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. Y/N, just walked in, actually,” he said hurriedly, his voice low.

“Y/N’s there? Get her over here,” the voice said louder, and you immediately recognized it as Tom’s.

“Is that Tom?” You asked in an excited voice, rushing over to stand behind Andre on the couch. You didn’t wait for his answer before you shoved yourself into the frame to wave at him.

“Hey, Tom! How’s it going?” You asked with a bright smile, “Sorry, I just got back from the gym so I look disgusting.”

“You look great,” Tom said with a smirk, “Doesn’t she, Burky?”

Andre’s cheeks heated in embarrassment, but you were too caught up in seeing your friend to notice.

“How’s Taylor doing?” You asked instead.

“She’s doing well. How are you enjoying Denver? How’s apartment hunting going?” He asked.

“Denver’s great! Still looking because everything nice is way out of my price range, but I’m going to more showings next week,” you replied, draping yourself over Andre’s shoulder to see Tom up closer.

“Burky why don’t you help her out? You gotta have some connections to finding apartments,” Tom insisted with a shit-eating grin. Andre made a non-committal sound of agreement, but you were talking again before he could reply.

“Andre’s probably busy anyway,” you said, leaning back, “I gotta go take a shower, but it was nice talking to you, Tom! Tell Taylor I said hi and that I’ll call her soon!” You finished the last before disappearing down the hallway.

“Oh, boy, I bet you’re loving life right now,” Tom said, laughing a few seconds after he heard a door shutting in the distance.

“Shut up,” Andre grumbled, the same blush still burning on his face. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, his hand disappearing for a split second.

“Go beat it off in the shower, lover boy,” Tom said, “Oh, and Taylor told me to remind you to not touch.”

-

Two weeks had passed before you finally had a visitor at the apartment. Well, visitors.

It was a Sunday morning, and you were in the middle of making, yet another, breakfast. This time you had baked some cinnamon rolls, though this was more for your pleasure than Andre’s; you’d been craving cinnamon rolls for a week now and decided to go crazy with the baking this morning.

Andre had yet to come out of his room, but you knew he didn’t have practice this morning. It was in the middle of icing the freshly done rolls when you heard loud pounding on the front door.

“Burky, open up!” You heard a loud voice shout from the otherwise. Quickly wiping off the icing sticking to your hands, you hurried to answer the door, and on the other side stood three tall men.

“Well, I can see why he wasn’t answering his phone,” the curly haired boy muttered under his breath.

“Oh, I’m not— I’m crashing with Andre for a little bit while I find an apartment,” you explained, your cheeks heating up slightly at the insinuation.

“Ah, so you’re the favor he’s doing for a friend,” the blonde one in the middle said. You nodded your head.

“Come on in,” you said after a second, opening the door wider, “I don’t think Andre’s up yet, but you can go check. I was just in the middle of making cinnamon rolls if you want some?”

The boys followed you into the kitchen, the blonde one saying he was going to wake up Andre. The other two sat themselves at the counter and looked at you expectantly while you served the cinnamon rolls on a plate.

“Thank you, these look delicious,” the dark haired one said when you set the plate in front of them.

“So, what’s your name? What brings you to Denver? Andre mentioned someone was staying with him for a while, but he hasn’t told us anything about you. I’m Tyson, and this is Naz. The other guy’s Gabe,” the curly one explained.

“I’m Y/N,” you answered, “I’m a friend of Tom Wilson’s, and when I said I was moving to Denver, he told me of this friend he had that I could crash with until I found a place.”

“Well, I can see why he’s been keeping you a secret,” Naz said, mouth full of roll.

“Oh, I’m sure it probably slipped his mind. It’s not that big of a deal,” you said.

“So, have you found an apartment yet?” Tyson asked, picking up a second roll.

“Not yet. It’s been a lot harder than I expected, but hopefully I find one next week.”

“If I were Burky, I’d never want you to leave. These cinnamon rolls are mouthwatering,” Naz complimented.

You blushed at his comment, thanking him silently before you all heard a commotion coming from the hallway. Andre and Gabe appeared a few seconds later, Andre still looking a little sleepy but dressed and ready to go.

“Where are you guys going?” You asked, noting the preppy way they were all dressed.

“Golfing. We go to a country club about half an hour outside of the city. You should come with us next time,” Tyson asked, smile appearing on his face as he glanced between you and Andre.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to pass,” you chuckled, “No offense, but golfing sounds like my worst nightmare.”

“Your loss, but that’s okay. We can always do something else together,” Tyson offered with a smirk. You blushed at his forwardness, laughing lightly since you couldn’t think of anything to say.

“We gotta get going,” Andre mumbled from beside Gabe, glaring at the grins on his teammates’ faces.

The group shuffled around to get up, clearly not wanting to challenge Andre. The blonde’s gaze lingered on you a little longer than the rest before he flickered it to Burky. A sly smile formed on his face before he grabbed a cinnamon roll to go.

“Thank you for the breakfast, Y/N,” Naz said and was echoed with ‘thank you’s from Gabe and Tyson as well. Andre reached the door first, opening it way before the guys had even left the kitchen. The three guys exchanged a funny look before shrugging to exit the apartment, Andre giving you a quick nod of recognition before he shut it behind him.

You twisted your face in confusion at Andre’s odd behavior, but you shrugged it off, attributing it to his lack of sleep instead.

-

“So… Y/N… you didn’t tell us your temporary roommate was a hot girl,” Tyson said as he and Burky watched Gabe take a swing.

“No,” Andre said gruffly, not even bothering to look at his friend.

“Are you planning to do something?” He insisted further.

“No,” he repeated in the same fashion.

“If, you’re not going to, can I—”

“No.” Andre wasn’t even allowed to touch her himself, and he’d be damned if he let any of his teammates try.

Tyson stared at Andre now, a wide smile spreading over his face at Andre’s callousness about the situation. Tyson had him pinned right where he wanted him, and there was nothing Tyson loved more than causing a little drama.

“Ah, buddy, but you totally want to, don’t you?” He asked, turning his body to fully face his friend now with his arms crossed and brows raised.

Andre shifted his gaze to glare into Tyson’s eyes in response, but the hard set of his jawline told Tyson all he needed to know.

[chrisevansgoodgirl]

feels like we're dreaming, we're tripping and reeling

summary: requested: andy barber being obsessed with the thought of reader being pregnant and wanting nothing more than to be a dad. being the most doting, caring man throughout the whole pregnancy, rubbing reader's feet and going out to get all her cravings and rubbing her stomach constantly. crying when he feels the baby kick. painting the whole nursery himself and spoiling the hell out of their little bundle when it arrives. andy barber being domestic and soft as hell in general gets me so weak.

warnings: some smut. pool smut. not the same pool bc that was a public pool but it needed to happen so. andy being cute, as cute as i’m sure he was when his wife was pregnant. (my proof: that smile every time someone asks him if he’s jacob’s dad)

word count: almost 10,000. honestly, i was going to keep going but jesus 10,000?!

pairing: andy barber x reader

How many brands of pregnancy tests existed in this world?

Honestly, beyond 5, what the fuck was the point? They measured the same shit, did they not? You didn’t care enough to find out, but during the period of painful silence, you thought about googling the answer.

You were in the tub, wrapped up in one of Andy’s hoodies, just watching him. He was at the counter, looking at the timer. He’d gone out to pick up the tests for what you guys had decided would be your new routine.

You’d always had sex a lot, but lately, Andy didn’t want to go a night without. Not because he was under the impression that would be a more effective method, he just literally could not keep his hands off you anymore. He asked you that morning if you wanted to make Friday night the test night. It made sense, he had his weekends off and that meant he could skulk around the house if it didn’t happen.

Most tests took 2 to 3 minutes. Some took 15 for whatever fucking reason. He wanted to wait for all of them, so for a quarter of an hour, you were just stuck there. Waiting. With him. Which shouldn’t have been so stressful, but it was.

The day you told him you wanted to try for a baby, he didn’t let you out of bed. Even though he knew it wasn’t going to happen for a while since you needed to finish your last week and a half of birth control. He had just been so happy, any attempts made to hide his obsession with you getting pregnant were tossed out the window immediately.

He’d thought about it before you, he’d wanted it before you, but hearing that you finally wanted it too just triggered something. He bought parenting books because he figured during your pregnancy, he wouldn’t have that much time to read. He bought this huge ass book of names and after he fucked you, he liked to bring it out and try to talk you into names he wanted while you were in such a blissful state.

Every second of trying had made you fall in love with him more. Yes, you wanted kids, but honestly, babies didn’t much appeal to you. You understood that to get to kids, you had to deal with the babies and you were okay with that, but mainly, you wanted to make Andy a father. You knew he would be good at it, possibly the best in the world.

And even with all the wanting, he never put pressure on you. The morning you told him you were done with the birth control, he sat you down and had the longest talk with you just to make sure that he hadn’t done anything to make you think he was losing patience with you. He wanted a baby, but he needed a happy wife. He didn’t want any part of something that you weren’t completely on board with.

But with wanting to try, you needed to make some changes. You were always fairly active since Andy had his busy days and you didn’t like just sitting and doing nothing while you waited for him to get home. With trying to conceive, your workouts had to be a little more basic. Longer, but less intense runs, some yoga. Andy had read that cardio was important, you thought up swimming. The very next day, he was already making plans to expand the house and add an indoor swimming pool. When you gave him a look, he pointed out that the kids would love it when they were old enough to swim. How could you possibly say no?

Caffeine was next on the chopping block. Andy, the sweetheart that he was, knew how much you loved coffee and tried his hardest to cut it out as well. He wanted to show you that you weren’t in this alone. It was your body, yes, but he would make sacrifices, too. The first time you caught him falling asleep at the dinner table, you had to tell him to end his noble support. With a job like his, he needed his coffee. The compromise was that he wouldn’t drink it in your presence.

He also did insane amounts of research. Even after you stopped the pill, he insisted on using condoms for a month after so you could start getting some folic acid before ending up pregnant. That was quite the sacrifice. One of your favorite things on this planet was when he finished inside you. Not a fucking condom. But you were trying this thing where you didn’t express negativity because with Andy as your husband, there was no way not to feel like a brat. How was someone so perfect?

Your period hadn’t returned yet but that didn’t mean you were incapable of getting pregnant. Hence the random, shot-in-the-dark pregnancy test Friday plan. You didn’t feel pregnant and you knew that was stupid. Some didn’t know they were pregnant until they were giving birth. And you’d never been pregnant before, so how would you know what to look for? You just couldn’t stop thinking about how you didn’t feel it. You also didn’t want to tell Andy because you hoped you were wrong.

It had been a week short of two months without the pill and three weeks since he stopped wearing condoms. The chances of it just falling into place were slim—you didn’t have research to back that up, just some deeply-rooted cynicism. Maybe it was your defense mechanism, act like you saw it coming and you wouldn’t be disappointed. Right?

Wrong, which you discovered when you saw Andy’s face after he turned over one of the tests. You wouldn’t cry because it had been a total of 5 seconds and some people had to try much longer, and you didn’t want him to have to put aside his feelings to then console you. You did, however, want to cry.

“We should see a doctor,” you said.

He scoffed. “We haven’t really been trying that long.”

“But we can, why not?”

He finally turned to you, forcing his expression into something that didn’t break your heart just to see. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Andy, I told you that I’m ready.”

“I know, and trust me, there’s nothing that I want more. I just also think there’s still some romance in being old fashioned and just letting it happen.”

“Google is your new best friend, Andy. Why not consult an actual professional?”

“We can, if you want, but like I said, it hasn’t been that long. Besides, until you start your period again, it’s probably just a waiting game. Not always, but it can be. We should be realistic about this. I don’t want to waste a visit down to the doctor just so they can tell us what my new best friend already has.”

“Okay,” you shrugged, “if that’s what you want—”

“None of that. What do you want?”

“I want to be the mother of your children.”

He sighed, crouching down to your side. “You will be.”

“You don’t know that—”

“No, I do,” he insisted. “Because I’m not going to stop fucking you. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll go see a doctor. If there’s a problem, we will fix it. If we can’t, we will adopt. Are we clear? There is no way, Mrs. Barber, that you will not be the mother of my children one day. And because I damn well know that I deserve it, I will have the great honor of being the father of your children.”

You sighed and melted, but you hoped that much wasn’t apparent. “You’re so lame.”

He smirked. “Wanna get out of that tub so we can have sex?”

“Why can’t we have sex in the tub?”

“Do you want to?”

“Maybe, but no water.”

“Okay, that’s weird.”

You shrugged. “Fine, I’ll get out of the tub.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He went to stand up but you caught his arm before he could. He took one look at you and was already shaking his head. “Don’t even say it—”

“I am, though.”

“I don’t want to hear it. Ever.”

“I feel bad.”

“You shouldn’t. It could be me. It could be nothing. Baby, it is too soon to start worrying about anything. Avoid stress, that is what you need to be doing.”

He could say it a million different ways, you were still sorry.

It was troubling how excited you were to get your period back. Honestly, when the birth control had finally taken it away, you cried. Tears of joy. To have the same reaction over getting it back felt weird.

Andy also seemed excited until you outlined just how inconvenient the whole thing was. Okay, that was being negative, but you were kind of in a bad mood. Something he was not at all bothered by. Because of course. He hadn’t been bothered by a single thing since you told him you wanted to start trying.

Officially, four months into wanting a baby and the only thing keeping you holding on was your beautiful, loving husband. He always knew when you were feeling down, so he would talk about the future and how nice it would be when you could finally take the kids out on family trips. How great taking them to school would be. All the fun things you would get them into, dance, sports, anything that you both could go and support. You were completely lost on how he was so positive all the time.

You needed to keep going, though. Like he said, you guys had options. It was better to know sooner rather than later, so you pushed forward. Sadly, your periods were irregular so you would probably ovulate irregularly. And you weren’t even aware of when you were ovulating because Andy still wanted this to be “natural”.

The second Friday with negative results was clearly taxing on both of you. He decided to end it immediately. That was why you had taken to sneaking pregnancy tests any chance you got. You didn’t like not telling him but you always felt like a failure every time it came back negative. But life went on, that much he made sure of.

The pool was finished and he seemed to like it more than you did. In fact, your liking it extended only as far as getting to see him wet and shirtless. But you were still in there 4 to 5 times a week for 30 minutes after you got home from work on weekdays and early on weekends. Because you did everything you were supposed to do. Because you didn’t want to feel like this was your fault, like there was something you were doing that would prevent this.

He came in one Saturday morning just as you were getting out. “Done?”

“Yeah, I served my time,” you joked. “I should get started on lunch. Any requests?”

“No, whatever sounds good to you.”

You went inside, fully intending to make lunch. But something that just didn’t make sense was how much you craved sex with Andy. It seemed like the more you had, the more you wanted. You guys were always sexual. At the start, after a month or so, every date ended with sex. When you moved in with him, it was more nights than not, even after you got married. But this was every day, numerous times a day.

He was turned on by the idea of getting you pregnant. He was insatiable for that reason. Sex this often wasn’t normal and it probably wasn’t raising your chances of conceiving since you weren’t being too methodical about it, but you were thrilled with this change. You worried about how much sex you would have once you were pregnant anyway, you figured you should start preparing for the long months ahead.

You were only in the kitchen for three minutes, trying to find food that would interest you more than what was currently on your mind. It didn’t work.

You returned to Andy. He was swimming his laps, completely oblivious. You stripped out of your bathing suit where you stood at the edge of the pool. He only made it three more times back and forth before he must have sensed you there.

He turned up, brushing his wet hair out of his face. When he saw you naked, his eyes widened. “Here? Now?”

“Well, unless you want me to wait for you to finish. I could just sit and watch, take care of myself until you can.”

“Here,” he decided. “Now.”

You smirked, sauntering off to the right where the stairs were. He made his way to you just before you descended the last step. He wrapped his arms around your waist and you took your cue to jump up and wrap yourself around him.

He carried you further into the water, lips moving against yours. You clung to his shoulders and your legs locked around his hips. “You are wild and demanding,” he accused.

You scoffed. “Me?”

He pretended to think about it. “Well, I guess it was me who stopped dinner last night, me who couldn’t wait until we left the grocery store, me who had you pull over while we were driving a few days ago, and me who came in here naked—oh, wait—“

You laughed. “Well, I’m just trying to prepare myself for when we’re hardly doing this anymore.”

“When we retire?”

You snorted. “No. You know, when I’m pregnant.”

He scoffed, pressing you against the side of the pool. You felt a hand moving between you, working his shorts out of the way. “You think I’m not going to fuck you when you’re pregnant?”

“Well...I assumed, yeah.”

He nudged your chin with his nose until you tilted your head back, offering him your neck. He kissed you softly as he indelicately pushed into you.

You clutched at his shoulders harder, whining his name.

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to be able to refrain from touching you. Especially while you’re pregnant.”

You angled your head so you could see his face. He looked downright amused at what you were saying.

The pace and pressure of his hips immediately became punishing. He held you tight, hands on your hips as he fucked you. “You don’t even know how hard I get thinking about you carrying my child.”

Maybe it was what he was saying, maybe it was that you had wanted him inside you since you woke up, but it wasn’t taking long to get you there. You brought one hand up to the edge of the pool for a little more support.

Andy began kissing your neck and nipping at your chest. “I think about how beautiful you’re going to look, I think about how I’m going to have you riding me every day.”

You could picture that. Fuck. You were rarely on top now because you loved being underneath him and he loved pinning you down to the mattress, but when you got bigger, you would have to adapt. It didn’t sound as boring as you’d had yourself convinced it was when he said it.

“Every morning before I go to work, I’ll wake you up with my mouth between your legs.”

You let out a shaky breath. “What’s stopping you from doing that now?”

“You,” he promised. “I can barely open my eyes before you’re telling me to get inside you. You’ll be slower when you’re pregnant, less of a predator, more of a prey.”

You scoffed but it became a moan. If he kept talking like this, you were going to come soon.

“Some women are more sensitive when they’re pregnant,” he asserted. “I bet you will be. You’re already so sensitive. I’m going to spend every weekend fucking you until you’re begging me to stop.”

“Andy.” You turned your head toward him and he kissed you. You whimpered when you felt his hand at your cunt, fingers pressing against your clit so gently.

You finished first but he was close behind, turning his head down to groan into your shoulder.

He rode out his high slowly, kissing any part of your skin that was in his reach. He lifted you out of the water, onto the tiled floor surrounding the pool. He kissed both of your knees, then your calves, all while keeping his eyes on you. “Sound like a plan?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “Really, I should make lunch.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You headed out, back to the kitchen.

“You’re not getting dressed?”

“Nope.”

Four months, one week, and six days later, you were pregnant. You’d felt weird, it was 3 in the morning, Andy was asleep, and you knew you weren’t going to be able to rest until you found out.

Technically, you hadn’t missed your period yet. Sometimes you started on the 17th, others the 22nd through the 24th. Oh, but there was also the wonderful time you had started on the 5th. That time, you did cry. He might have too, but never in front of you because he was trying to be the most positive man on earth.

You only took two tests, the ones with the least amount of wait time. The results came back positive and for a moment, you just sat there. You had been terrified that it wasn’t going to happen. You worried about how much that would hurt Andy. You also stupidly worried about the possibility that he would leave you over it.

But that didn’t matter anymore. You were pregnant and he was going to be thrilled. After being a little annoyed that you took the test without him, you assumed.

You weren’t sure how to tell him. When to tell him. It was 3 in the morning and he had to work. Maybe after he got home. If you told him when he woke up, he was just going to want to stay home.

Logically, you knew false positives were not the same as false negatives. But it was just like when you were in junior high and you didn’t get your period so you were convinced you were pregnant even though you were very much not having sex. Yes, you were paranoid but you just wanted to be sure. The only thing worse than not getting pregnant would be getting Andy’s hopes up.

You waited until he was at work and then made an appointment. This would also annoy him because he wanted to do extensive research when selecting a doctor. You weren’t robbing him of that, you just wanted to have confirmation. The second you did, you would tell him and start looking at doctors.

You had it scheduled four days out, Thursday. You could get in on your lunch hour. It was odd going and explaining to the nurse your thought process and why you couldn’t schedule a follow-up appointment after the confirmation. She must have thought you were an idiot, you possibly were, but you were a happy idiot.

That night, when Andy arrived home, you were waiting on the couch for him. Once again, unclothed. You’d gotten quite used to being nude, having him undress you every time either of you wanted sex was just ridiculous. There wasn’t a word said as he laid over you on the couch, not bothering to get undressed. He just moved his pants and then he was inside you.

He didn’t move at first, instead, he rubbed your clit until you finished around him.

You draped a leg over his ass. “Andy, fuck me.”

“Not yet, baby.” His fingers circled over your clit again, his eyes fixed on yours and wanting to see pleasure on your face. He was in a mood and that meant the sex was going to be exhausting. Worth it, but very unlike the easy and quick routines you’d gotten used to in all of the chaos of trying to get pregnant.

When he would join you in the shower because usually, you woke up earlier than him even though you went to work later, he would wrap his arms around you all sweet then shove you against the wall and make you come with him. When he would find you making dinner and fuck you over the counter. When you were up later than he wanted so he would just fuck you wherever you were until you were so exhausted that he had to carry you upstairs. No other married people had as much sex as you guys, you were almost certain.

You’d made a complete mess of his pants but he didn’t seem concerned about them. He sat up and set you on his lap, holding you in place as he thrust his hips up. There was always something amazing about sex with him still in his suit. It wasn’t like his clothing left much to the imagination anyway, you could see and feel the muscles in his arms and chest.

He continued fucking you until he was close, then he settled you flat against him and used his fingers to make you come again and again. Until he was sure he had come down enough from his almost-finish. Feeling your pussy move around him, the way you would tighten when you orgasmed, the way you continued to get wetter and wetter, he was addicted.

You grabbed his free hand and placed it on one of your breasts and he closed his mouth around the opposite. Again, he held you up so he had enough room to drive his cock into you, hard and deep, and so painfully slow. It must not have been the best day. He loved being in absolute control of you when he couldn’t be at work.

Once more, just as he was about to finish, and you could tell because his hands would tighten and his hips would start to stutter, he sat you on his lap.

You curled your hand under his jaw, pulling him from your breast up to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy, all tongue and desperate moans from both of you.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he directed as he pulled away.

Your fingers instantly dropped to your clit and you began drawing yourself toward another end. He wouldn’t let you stop, not after the first, the second, the third. Your hand was shaking, you were shaking, he had to hold you by the shoulders otherwise you would have fallen back. The entire time, he remained buried in your cunt, hard and not doing a damn thing about it. He was using you to edge himself and that made you impossibly wet.

He repeated this, more times than you could count. He didn’t say a word either, just led your hand down to your clit or used his own when he knew you couldn’t. Sometimes the sex was like this, he was working through something and he didn’t want to talk at first. It was about proving to himself that he had enviable control, and he definitely did because it wasn’t like you made it easy for him.

When he laid you down on the coffee table, he began pounding into you. You could tell when he was almost there because he was getting louder, grunting into your skin, or groaning as he bit down on your shoulder, your breast, your neck.

He pulled out before then and you felt inclined to put a stop to this madness.

“Andy.”

His hand made its way back to your pussy as he stroked his cock with his opposite. Moments later, he was spilling out onto your skin. As he continued fucking you with his fingers, you ran your hands over your stomach, spreading his cum along your body until you reached your breasts. You loved having his cum on you and he loved seeing it on you.

After your orgasm, he sat back on the couch as he worked to catch his breath. “Sorry, that was kind of a waste.”

“Not really.” You continued teasing him with your hands on your breasts and these small mewls that you knew he was already getting worked up over again.

He probably didn’t even realize what you’d said, too focused on watching you pinch and pull on your nipples.

You turned down a few minutes later, meeting his eye.

He kept his eyes on your hands as he spoke. “Wanna get in the shower while I make dinner?”

You moved off the table, legs shaky as you made your way to him. You caught his hand before he could sit you on his lap and sat down on the couch at his side. Leaning over, you took him in your mouth.

“Jesus,” he hissed.

After swallowing as much of him as you could, you set one of his hands on the back of your head. He knew what you wanted.

Holding you in place, he began rolling his hips. It wasn’t too forceful but you could feel him in the back of your throat. He was hard again in a matter of a few moments.

“God, your mouth is fucking perfect, baby.” He was losing his steady pace, his hips jerkier, slower sometimes. “All I could think about today was you. Your beautiful cunt, your fucking mouth. I’ve wanted to see you covered in my cum for so long, but...” he didn’t finish his sentence, you knew why he hadn’t.

You weren’t satisfied until you’d swallowed every drop of him. As you pulled off, he grabbed your hips and brought you onto one of his thighs. He kissed your forehead and began running his fingers through your hair.

“How was work?”

He shrugged. “You know.”

“Rough day?”

“It usually is,” he attempted to dismiss.

“Sounds like you could use good news.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You have good news?”

“Well, I’m pregnant.”

He blinked slowly, then abruptly sat up straight as his hands dropped to your hips. “What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, okay,” he blurted out. He moved you onto the couch, standing and tucking himself back into his pants. “Do you want to take a test?”

“I already took the test.”

“Without me?” he demanded. “How many?”

“I took two, but I went to the doctor to get it confirmed.”

“Without me?!” he repeated.

“Don’t be mad, I just wanted to make sure.”

“I am mad.” But then he leaned down and started kissing you so you figured he was going to get over it fairly quickly. He pulled away, both hands coming up to your face. “I can’t believe you. How long have you known?”

“I took the test 4 days ago. Went to the doctor today.”

“4 days?!”

“Andy, I didn’t want to get you excited if I wasn’t actually pregnant.”

“Well, can you take another test so I can see it? We have a billion upstairs.”

You scoffed. “Do you want me to? I will.”

“Yeah, kind of. I know it’s stupid—“

You shook your head. “It’s not, I can do it.”

He got on his knees on the floor, gently pressing you back to the couch. “I knew it would happen, I just didn’t think it was going to happen this soon.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still okay? You still want this?”

“Of course.”

He leaned forward, kissing your throat all the way down to your stomach. You shivered at the sensation of his beard prickling against your skin. He continued kissing you and you ran your fingers through his hair.

He turned up to you, lips still pressed just below your navel. “It’ll be a girl.”

You scoffed. “Andy, you don’t know that.”

“I do,” he insisted.

“You never said you wanted a girl.”

“I want any baby you can give me.”

“Even if it was a demon baby that turned out to be a cannibal?”

“As long as it had your smile, yes.”

You snorted. “And your eyelashes!”

“And your cheekbones.”

You ran your finger along the bridge of his nose. “Your nose.”

“Is it red like all the other demon babies?”

“You’re in too good of a mood.”

“Impossible, no mood is too good considering you’re carrying my daughter.”

“Stop,” you scolded half-heartedly. “Look, you have a total of at least 15 weeks before you find out whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

“You have 15 weeks.”

“Andrew Barber,” you scoffed, “stop.”

“Let’s bet.”

“No!” You laughed.

“Scared?”

“Don’t even try that with me.”

He shrugged. “You sound scared. I never knew that the woman who gave me a hand job in a movie theatre would be such a baby—“

“Andy, if you don’t stop talking, all of this pregnant sex you’ve been fantasizing about is not going to happen.”

With a small smile, he shut his mouth.

“Upstairs? You want me to take the test?”

He scooped you up off the couch and headed toward your bedroom.

The next day, Andy was already working on all those grand promises he’d made. You woke with your calves draped over his shoulders, his lips wrapped around your clit, his hands folded over your hips to hold you down, and his beautiful blue eyes looking up at you.

Then he wanted to go shopping. He’d already called into work, not even bothering to lie about being sick. He was thrilled to let Lynn know that you were pregnant and apparently, she knew how big of a deal that was so she let him off the hook after making him promise to take pictures of what he was intending to do to the nursery.

He wanted to paint. You had wanted to leave it white. Gendered colors were stupid anyway. He’d said the same at the start, but he was currently waving pink swatches in your face.

“Andy, what if it’s a boy?”

He shrugged. “Then he’s going to have a pink nursery. Pink sky or pink pearl?”

You spared the colors a glance. “Pink pearl. Why can’t we just do one of those gender-neutral colors?”

“Because yellow is ugly and purple is loud.”

“Green.”

“Reminds me of spring.”

“Orange.”

“Pumpkins.”

“Red.”

“Blood.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, why not dark blue? I was kind of hoping we could do, like, a constellation theme.”

He thought for a moment. “Let’s do both. But instead of blue, we’ll use pink.”

“Okay,” and you were excited again. “You are insane, though. Just so you know.”

“Hardly. Do you know how behind I am? I wasn’t expecting this to happen so soon. I haven’t found the doctor yet, I’m just barely starting on the nursery. We don’t have a name, we don’t have a crib. Essentially, we have nothing.”

Was he seriously already stressing about this? And that probably wasn’t even a fourth of what was going through his mind.

You reached over, finger tapping on the only pink color you’d seen that you liked enough to put on the walls. “We have a paint color. If you like it.”

He glanced between you and the color twice before nodding. “Okay.”

Walking through the aisles, you decided to take over. You threw all the tools he could possibly need in the cart and didn’t stop until you spotted the glitter. You stared straight at it until he got curious enough about what you were so focused on that he made his way to you. Adding glitter to paint was difficult, you knew because you had attempted before. Your friend’s sister’s kid was turning 7 and wanted to redesign her bedroom and you tagged along because glitter. It ended in tears and Andy buying you ice cream to make you feel better.

He sighed. “You want the glitter?”

“I simply cannot live without it.”

With another sigh, a much more resigned one, he started tossing in bags of the glitter additive. “You know you’re not helping, right?”

“What? Because of last time—?“

“No, because you’re pregnant.”

“Andy, it’s not even a baby yet. It’s a fetus. Can’t I just do what I would have always done up until the point that I can’t get an abortion?”

“That is not funny.”

You snorted. “It kind of is. Stop worrying.” You rolled onto your toes and kissed the tip of his nose. “Otherwise, you’re going to look like a grandfather instead of a father. And hey, I’d still be pretty attracted to you but we have more kids to make, so calm down.”

He banned you from the house. Yep, you had a total of one friend who was currently married and interested in children. That was the friend he wanted you to focus on, not the others, he said, that they meant well, but couldn’t possibly be supportive at a time like this. In reality, he never liked most of your friends. You kept them out of college and he always thought they liked to go out and drink too much.

Your friend was excited when you asked if you could stay with her for a bit. Andy wanted to paint immediately and then make sure all lingering traces of the paint were adequately gone from the house before you returned.

Painting took two days. He called you both mornings, brought you lunch at work, took you out to dinner, and made sure to call you before you went to bed.

Then he checked you both into a hotel for 3 days. You had to force him to go to work on Monday, pointing out that he really needed to be making money. You loved your job but it wasn’t as if the salary was sufficient to raise a baby on.

Andy let you revel in the beauty of the nursery up until the weekend. The constellations were a soft champagne color and the glitter was mixed in perfectly, evenly. It looked professionally done, but you weren’t surprised. He was perfect and everything he did for you and his child would be perfect as well.

Next, his mission was to find a crib and pick the doctor. Something that kept him on his laptop most of Saturday while you slept soundly next to him. You were already beginning to feel tired and you weren’t sure if that was because of him or your baby.

Time went by in a blur. He’d fallen into a routine effortlessly. He would wake you up as he told you he would, eating you out, then he would get you in the shower with him, and make sure you ate a good breakfast before he headed off to work. He would call at lunch, just to make sure you weren’t too exhausted to be at work. You always felt inclined to tell him stories about working pregnant women every time. He would come home and fix dinner and wouldn’t let you lift a finger to help. At night, after he thoroughly fucked you, which honestly didn’t take much, you would fall asleep together. It was a great first two months.

At the start of your 3rd month, you were already showing. It seemed like it was the best day of Andy’s life. In fact, he wanted to start a scrapbook. He wanted to document everything and you didn’t have the heart to tell him he was absolutely crazy. Besides, it was pretty cute.

It was around this time that you had the most absurd craving for almond butter. He loved almond butter so it was always in the house and you never once wanted any part of it. Randomly, you thought apples and almond butter sounded great and you finished the entire jar before he got home. Something that amused him greatly, he promised he would get more on his way home the next day. That new obsession lasted for a week and a half, and you had yourself convinced that it was going to be the worst of it.

No. Swap out apples for Cheetos. Seriously, you wanted to eat Cheetos and almond butter. You were downright ashamed so you didn’t even ask him to get you anything, you just snuck out to the store before he got home one night and bought yourself a sufficient stash that you kept hidden in the very back of the pantry. This wouldn’t work for the entire pregnancy but until you were further along, you intended to hide these horrible cravings.

Well, as well as you could. He was anticipating more after the almond butter so he always texted and asked if you wanted him to bring something home. So far, your genius combinations had been tacos and chocolate, macaroni and cheese and sour patch kids, cashews and Doritos, French fries and hot chocolate, and orange chicken and lemonade. Andy drove everywhere at any given hour. If there was a store open, he would go. If it was closed and you couldn’t wait that long, he would go to a 24-hour fast food place. He’d started stocking your favorites as well, and hiding them until you really needed them.

The day before you were set to find out the sex of the baby, he went shopping. You were far too tired to try to leave the house, especially since Andy could shop. You thought he would come home with more for the nursery. Since he’d found the crib, he’d started looking at bedding and the other matching furniture. You knew it would be extreme since you weren’t there to stop him. What you did not expect was that he would sneak in and take full advantage of your unconsciousness. If he hadn’t dropped something, you never would have caught him.

When you found him in the nursery, he was in the closet. Hanging up clothing. Pink clothing. For a girl. “Andy.”

“We are having a girl,” he stated simply.

“Oh, my god,” you muttered to yourself.

“Sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be, I’m glad I’m witnessing this insanity.”

He gave you a flat look, fully turning to you with a tiny black bodysuit with white hearts printed on it. “This could be for a boy, I don’t know what you’re so upset about it.”

You smirked. “Anything can be for a boy if you try hard enough. Look, if you wanted a girl so bad—“

“I wanted a baby.”

“Andy, you bought girl clothes!”

“Because we are having a girl.”

“You’re going to have this child alone if it doesn’t stop making me crave the most ridiculous things.”

He hummed. “Is that why you’re up here?” Smirking, he made his way to you. As usual, his hands went straight to your stomach, he had to feel any movement and it was driving him crazy that he hadn’t. “What do you want?”

You scoffed tiredly. “A lot of things. Yogurt, peach and blueberry. Something lemon, lemon squares, lemon cake. A lot of pasta, I really want spaghetti. And despite your incorrigible behavior, I want you.”

“You do mean sexually, right? Because I read sometimes pregnant women want to eat things that aren’t food—“

You placed your hand flat over his mouth. “I take it back, I just want the food.” You turned away to escape from the room but he was right on your tail. “Andy, I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get you the food,” he promised. “Let’s just make a quick stop to the bedroom first.”

You didn’t put up much resistance as he began leading you that way. He had been correct about one thing, you were so sensitive. You’d given up on wearing bras or underwear, and your clothes had to be loose. Especially given the dreams you were having. Much to his simultaneous joy and dismay, you would send him pictures and videos of certain sexual situations at least twice a week just a couple of hours before he got home.

That cocky bastard was correct. A fact that had him beaming the remainder of the appointment, all the way home, and even in his sleep. You weren’t upset that you were having a girl. It wasn’t that you thought you had a right to be picky, but very simply, you wanted a girl more than you wanted a boy. You weren’t even sure why. Gender wasn’t real and it wouldn’t upset you if someday in the future that little girl told you that she wasn’t a girl at all. Logically, you knew there was no point. But you didn’t have to be logical, not while you were carrying a baby.

Even though Andy was annoyingly smug about the whole thing, you were excited. You finally got to take a look at the closet and discovered yesterday was not his first time buying clothing. You wanted to be mad at him but he had the softest look on his face. This was everything he wanted and you liked that you were able to provide it for him.

At 5 months, he absolutely needed to feel her kick. If he wasn’t fucking you or feeding you, or shopping, or at work, his hands were on your stomach. One of his favorite things, when you got out of the shower, was covering you in lotion, something you were supposed to do to prevent stretch marks, not that either of you much cared. During that time, he would speak to her, try to get her to give him any kind of movement. Or sometimes, you would wake up and he was just level with your stomach, whispering things to her.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you’d felt what you presumed were “flutters” and maybe one good kick a couple of nights ago, but you weren’t certain. You sort of enjoyed that she didn’t just give in to his murmurings of “come on, baby, give daddy a kick”, or “if you kick, I’ll never tell you no”. That line was dropped from rotation after you pointed out you would be holding him to that when she wanted to start dating.

She seemed to like his voice, you could admit. Sometimes it wasn’t him that woke you up, it was her responding to him. They weren’t fast movements, they weren’t particularly forceful either, but they were there. You didn’t understand how he’d yet to feel anything. And since you were still telling him you hadn’t really felt anything, he brought it up at the next appointment. The look of pure horror on his face when the doctor told him the likelihood of fathers never feeling any movement was sad, in a funny way. Kind of. Being pregnant had made you a little meaner.

He was pouting about it all night but you told him you were sure he would feel something. You told him you wouldn’t have her until she kicked for him. He knew you couldn’t control that, obviously, but it made him feel better.

At 5 months and 2 weeks, it happened. You were failing at staying awake and trying to read a book when you felt an abrupt tap. You startled awake, discovering the book on the floor. That had to be it, you just dropped it on yourself. But then it happened again, a bit harder and a tad painful.

“Andy!”

He bolted to your side in a matter of seconds. Seriously, he had to have broken world records with that trick. “What? What’s wrong?”

You grabbed his hands, pulling his arms over the back of the couch, and placed them over your stomach.

“Are you okay? Do we need to go—?”

“Shut up,” you ordered.

After a couple of minutes, he sighed. “You felt an actual kick?”

“Sorry, she tends to move more when I’m so still.”

He moved around the couch and sat on the floor. “It’s going to happen. I’m not going to feel her.”

“No,” you argued. “Are you working?”

“No, just scaring myself with more books.”

You held your hand out to him and he helped you up. You crouched down to pick up your dropped book and handed it off to him. “Read it, she seems to like your voice... I’ll fall asleep, see if that works.”

You were settled in bed next to Andy, his one hand pressed to the side of your belly as he read the book aloud. You were trying to keep still but also trying to stay awake, you wanted to see his face when he felt it. That was out of the question, Andy’s voice was like honey, or a fall morning, or the feeling of being home after a long day. You were out after a few paragraphs.

When you woke up, you weren’t sure why. You saw Andy hovering over you fully with wet eyes and the softest smile you had ever seen. “Baby?”

“I felt her.”

You scoffed. “I told you that you would.”

He kissed all over your stomach, lingering each time. “Maybe she finally knows I’m her daddy.”

“She always knew.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Truth?” He glanced up at you and you explained, “I’ve been feeling her for a while now. That’s why I knew she liked your voice... I have some bad news, Andy. It seems like she already knows you’re wrapped around her finger and she is going to enjoy making you jump through hoops.”

“Just like her mom.”

You smirked. “Guess so.” You reached out to touch his face. “What are you thinking?”

He shrugged. “Every morning, I wake up and I’m so sure that my life couldn’t get any better but every day, it does. I didn’t know it was possible to love as much as I love you and as much as I love her.”

You turned to mush instantly.

“I didn’t have this growing up, you know. I didn’t have a dad but I’m going to do it right. I’m not going to be like him. I don’t understand how he could just walk away from his child, I would never do that. I could never do that. Or from you, my beautiful wife. For a long time, while we were trying, I just hated him so much. More than usual. I hated that we had to try so hard and that he was given a family that he just tossed away.”

“Well, he was an idiot. You are truly the best man I will ever know, possibly the best man that there is. And you’re going to be the best father, too... Okay, maybe second best after Ryan Reynolds, but still pretty high up there.”

He scoffed.

Feeling her kick was another addition to his day. Lips and fingers brought you to orgasm before taking you to the shower where he carefully wrapped his arms around your shoulders and fucked you from behind. He would dry you off, lay you out on the bed, and cover you in lotion and pay a lot of attention to your feet. His hands all over your body never failed to make you want him, but he had to go to work. You both knew if you started, he was going to end up being late. After breakfast, he would say goodbye to you, then he would lean down and ask his little girl for any kind of movement. She’d began to indulge him at least twice a day, when he was leaving and when he would say goodnight.

He’d always let you sleep in on Saturdays and even stayed with you for a great deal of it. Mostly because he knew you could sense when he wasn’t in bed and that would wake you. But with time, you were becoming less tired. Not entirely, you still were out like the dead at 9 every night, but sometimes you woke up actually feeling rested.

Saturdays were what he intended them to be. This particular Saturday had him wrapped around you, hands flat to your stomach, chin atop your head. You had another fantastic dream, one where you weren’t pregnant.

You loved your baby and you loved that you were able to carry her but you missed how hard he fucked you sometimes. You just couldn’t wait until he could pull your hair, choke you, spank you, tie you up, all of the things he loved to do to you. More importantly, you couldn’t wait until he was on top of you, pinning you down and leaving bruises.

Those dreams were why you woke up wet more often than not. Why you never hesitated to take his hand and slide it lower but you didn’t need that today, you just needed him. For you, he’d adapted to sleeping without clothes. It was easier that way and he’d never complain about you doing the same. Besides, the heat was getting the best of you the bigger you got.

You reached back with your heel, tapping his shin several times. “Andy?”

He hummed.

“It’s Saturday. Wake up.”

He scoffed, eyes still closed. “Yeah, it’s Saturday. Sleep in.”

“Fuck me,” you whined.

“I wish I could say that wasn’t enough to get me hard.”

“You were already hard,” you assured. You could feel him against your hip.

He grabbed your thigh and draped it over him. “You know, my love, when you’re not carrying our baby, I am going to have a lot of fun making you wait for it. I am indulging you now simply because you are giving me the greatest gift anyone could. But when I can tie you up, when I can fuck you, that is what I’m looking forward to.”

You moaned as he unhurriedly slipped inside you. “I miss your hands around my neck, that’s what I’m looking forward to.”

“So, I suspect you’ll continue being a brat long past your due date.”

“Yes, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” you taunted.

“Not right now, just you wait. You’ve been bad ever since you told me you were pregnant. Laying on the couch, naked. I know you had been touching yourself. I’ve been keeping track and your ass is probably going to be getting spanked up until you’re pregnant again.”

You snorted, turning your head back slightly. “Oh, and is that going to be immediately after?”

He kissed along your jaw. “Up to you.”

“You want another girl?”

“Yeah,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly.

You scoffed.

“But I wouldn’t be let down by a boy,” he promised. He started delicately rolling his hips, one hand coming to your center to rub your clit.

Watching you fall apart like this was something else. Andy found you utterly beautiful, your cheeks would flush, your eyes would fill with such desperation for him that made him feel wanted. The moans that spilled from your mouth were sometimes animalistic, inspired only by how much you needed him to give you what only he could.

Now that you were pregnant, he could cover you in his cum. He always loved doing that, an interesting discovery he’d made very early in your relationship. After you decided you wanted to try for a baby, he would often come inside you and tell you to leave it there, which was pleasing as well. But this. This was simplistic, classic beauty.

He pulled out, fingers filling you instead. Your hips moved frantically, seeking the pressure of his palm against your clit. Angling your head back, his lips hungrily met yours. You reached down and took him in your hand, he turned his head slightly to hiss a curse.

Once he looked at you again, you pretended all you wanted was an innocent kiss. Something you kept up until he was just about to come, and then you bit down hard on his bottom lip. He had no idea how to retaliate and seeing the frustration play out on his face was almost as satisfying as your finish.

You laid next to him patiently as he came down, anticipating his reaction. It was always funnier when he had time to dwell on the situation. For several more weeks, you had complete permission to be as bratty as you wanted. You couldn’t believe you hadn’t been taking advantage of that more.

He turned his head to you and you smirked. “That’s going on top of the list. You will regret that.”

“The look on your face was so worth it.”

“Teasing is also going on the list,” he warned.

The day your water broke was just a normal day. Of course, not your due date. No, this baby had been torturing you since the very start, why stop now? You expected it was just something in the Barber blood. Strong-willed, complicated, and the tendency to be a complete pain in the ass.

Regardless, your husband was at work. If everything went well for him today, there was one last case that he was going to tie up, and then he was yours and hers until he was ready to go back. You figured that wouldn’t be for a long while and that was exciting.

You would think that this would have been too much by now. You guys didn’t really have your friends, or regular company that you kept. No one had been in your home, save for Lynn who you insisted he invite over so she could see the nursery in person.

She’d also given you a gift and you wanted to receive it from her in person. You knew there was a special friendship she had with Andy. A woman in a position of power, you figured she didn’t have time for many. And Andy wasn’t a typical friend, a low-maintenance guy who was kind and smart. They just went together well, and you wanted to encourage him to let her in at least a little.

He answered your call on the first ring because he’d been glued to his phone for these past three months every time that he had to leave the house. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Are you busy?” you worked to keep your voice level. No need to rile him up before he could get home.

“No, not really. I just stepped out of a meeting with Lynn. We were talking about the last case she thought of giving me. She’s wondering if three days is—”

“She should give it to someone else.” You had taken to rubbing your stomach, mentally pleading with your baby. Please, baby, just wait for your daddy. I’ll never hear the end of this if he doesn’t see it.

“Are you okay?”

“Well, I’m fine…but my water broke—”

“What?!” he yelled. You distantly heard him yelling then, “Lynn, I gotta go! My baby is on the way and she was a bit of a jerk at the start, wouldn’t kick for me. I think she’s missing all those times she killed my soul and I’m terrified she’s going to show up before I make it.”

You could only imagine the look on Lynn’s face. Or the look on his face. A cross between terrified and thrilled, he probably looked like a serial killer.

“Can you wait for me to get home?”

“Did you just call our daughter a jerk?”

He huffed. “Baby.”

“I think so. I haven’t started having any contra—nope! No, there it is.”

He talked you to through breathing until it subsided. “Okay, listen, this is very important. I’m across town right now and there’s going to be some traffic at this hour—”

“Please don’t drive crazy.”

“I won’t, I promise. But first, I need you to get the timer…where are you?”

“On the couch.”

“Great, get the timer under the table.”

“There isn’t a timer under the table.”

“There is, I taped it there.”

“For what?” you pressed.

“This, obviously.”

“But why would you tape it?”

“There are about twenty timers all over the house, hidden so you couldn’t find them and move then.”

With a deep sigh, you leaned forward slowly to search under the top of the table for the timer. Yup, he was being serious.

“Okay, just keep track of them. And now, the second thing, I need you to promise me something. The neighbors, if you need them to drive you, they will.”

“What?”

“I’ve been creating these backup plans ever since you told me you were pregnant.”

“Oh, come on,” you complained. “I thought you were being nice to them because you liked them.”

“I mean, it’s not as if anyone in our neighborhood would ever say no to taking you. I just had to make sure that they were good drivers.”

You didn’t know how to respond. You had hoped that having a child was making him see the importance of social ties. These people lived by you, they were all having kids, most of them would probably end up in the same school.

“Honey?”

“I thought you wanted them to be our married friends. She just had her baby 8 months ago—”

He snorted. “Yeah, in addition to that other one.”

“Are you talking about Charles?”

“I know he’s 5, but he’s evil—”

“Andy!”

“Baby, listen. I’m getting in the car now. If you need to get to the hospital before I make it there, go left first. If they are not home, then go to the right. Left then right. Left first, right is the second resort.”

“You dragged the Johnsons into this, too?”

“Dragged ‘em all in, baby. Gotta go, stay calm and don’t move unless you need to. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You hung up and laid back against the couch. It felt like all there was to do was wait for your next contraction, something you did not enjoy the first time. They were just going to get worse, you needed your husband here.

You heard Andy pull up a little over half an hour later. He charged into the house like a maniac, showing up at your side, hands immediately going to your stomach. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve had a couple of contractions,” you reported. “They don’t last long and they’re pretty far apart.”

“Okay, let’s go.” He helped you off the couch, bringing the timer along with him. He let you control the pace to the car. You’d gotten bigger than you thought you would and walking three steps was nearly a minute-long ordeal.

Halfway there, you noticed the bag over his shoulder. “Don’t you have a bag in the car?”

“I packed the car bags sometime last week. Who knows what state of mind I was in? I can’t trust my competence.”

“Are you implying that there has been a moment during these 40 weeks that you haven’t been out of your mind?”

“I’m going to pay for this neighbors bit, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” you promised.

Labor wasn’t a long process. Painless as many women had told you it was? Fuck no. It hurt, a lot. But Andy was there and he was all you needed. He talked you through the breathing, he never stopped touching you, your arms, your face, your stomach. He liked to make plans when neither of those things worked. He reminded you about all the great things you guys would get to do with children, and it was enough to get you through it.

You thought you knew what love looked like, because you loved Andy so much. But when he saw your baby for the first time after she’d been set in his arms, he looked at her in such an intense, breath-taking way.

Any uncertainty you might have been playing with in your mind was gone in that second. You’d gotten a bit paranoid over time. Wondering if you guys were just going to have the same marriage as everyone else. Like, you started in love and ended with affairs and really hurtful words. But you knew then that this was not a normal family. This was true, unconditional love.

[yourfangirlfriend]

Wiring Issues

Multi-chapter

Rating: E! After chapter three

Chapter One

You’re a mechanic, not a therapist. Or a priest. Or whomever their creed confides in.

Besides, you like to work in silence. Sometimes there are electrical pops or malfunctioning gears that would be otherwise drowned out by music or small talk.

People talk too much anyway. Not comfortable in their own heads. They’re not a slick as they think they are when they try to fill the air with talk talk talk to drown out their own anxiety. Noise, it what that is.

But now you’re trying to think back to the last time you even opened your mouth, and, truthfully, it may have been even before he hired you weeks ago. Everything was over messages- Kreed recommended you, looking for a mechanic, I can pay- before he touched down outside your dilapidated hut a week later to begin your employment. You don't even remember if you waved at him or not. Once you got on the ship it was like you walked into a monastery. He disappeared up into the cockpit and you set about working on the problem in the hull. That’s been every day practically.

Maybe he said something that first morning, but you're not sure. The first week was a blur, most of it spent untangling the mess of wiring in the hull he had made trying to fix it himself. By the end of those first few days, your fingers were singed so badly from these messy nest you finally just decided to cut your losses and replace half of them. Sometimes he would pass by you, hovering just for a moment, but never said anything. Other than that, the only social exchange between the two of you was taking turns making caf and leaving the pot half full for the other.

The only other notable encounter happened in the second week when the hammock you had strung up in a little, out of the way nook had fallen right on your tool kit in the middle of the night with you in it. Before you were even fully awake, there he was at your door (er, curtain), blaster in hand and flipping on the light, ready to shoot the intruder. But it was just you, groaning on the floor, rubbing the part of your spine where you had landed on a wrench. Did he mumble an apology before leaving you to privately writhe on the floor? Or the next morning, when you had been checking out the bruise in the fresher when he walked in to see you crouched on the sink, lifting your shirt and contorting your body around to see your lower back in the mirror. He had left pretty quickly after that, but he must have gotten a good look and the large, angry mark because there was bacta gel left on your newly re-strung hammock that morning. It helped.

So, the routine went like this: he piloted, he went out to hunt, and he polished his guns. You kept the systems working, the lights on, and made the caf in the mornings. Most days he took the drink back up into the cockpit with a little nod of thanks. Sometimes you’d join him, and the two of you would sit silently, sipping the oily, black tar together before a little bell went off in both your heads to get to work. He’d go out, you’d stay in. When he returned and dealt with the bounty, you’d nod at each other like spice dealers in a back alley.

You’re here.

I am.

Still alive.

So are you.

Then up he went again, into his little hiding place, leaving you in a mess of wires.

Three more weeks into the usual, though, and you were getting bored. There was always something to fix, but lately, your jobs had become more cosmetic, and what monotony was broken up by your silent companion were few and far between, as his jobs took him away for increasingly long stretches of time, leaving you to your little projects. Once you had gotten the door to stop making that awful noise every time it opened, you had begun buffing out the dents and scrapes on the wall. When that was done, you fixed the bum lightbulb in the fresher and the track lights that ran through the ship, up until you got to his quarters. Then, you went to the cockpit and, using some old paint you had found in the ship's storage, that you had nearly pulled a muscle stirring with water it was so old, you color-coded the buttons. Yeah, the fucking buttons. When you decided to join him in the cockpit the next morning, the two of you silently drinking caf together, he pointed to them. You shrugged. You try being on a ship with nothing to do for weeks.

Maybe it was because you were so starved for any kind of interaction, but you began to sit with him in the cockpit more. Morning caf quickly became a routine, the two of you sitting and staring out into space together as you tried to wake yourselves up. Then, when your projects were small enough, you'd haul them up and deposit yourself into the co-pilot's chair, tinkering mindlessly as the two of you cruised through the infinite. In turn, sometimes during the evening, he would sit with you at the table as you ate. He never ate with you, but you always made extra in case he wanted to. Most mornings you'd find an additional empty dish in the sink, and smile in spite of yourself.

Maybe it would have kept going like this, this socializing like house cats, content to just be doing things around each other, you finding odd jobs and him continuing to do his broody badass thing if you hadn’t brought the caf up to the cockpit this morning and saw him with his head – his actual head- in his hands.

To be fair, you were usually noisier when you clambered up the ladder. And, also to be fair, he didn’t act like it was a big deal. But you nearly dropped the cups. Six weeks working for the guy and you had just kind of assumed the helmet was a permanent thing. Like, maybe he was disfigured or scared underneath that visor, or a breathing apparatus. Hell, you kind of had a running bet with yourself that he might just be a droid. But…ah, nope.

So when he turned to you and you met those big brown eyes for the first time, you jumped, like he had just caught you watching him undress. Hot caf spilled on your fingers.

“Fuck!” You rush over to the chair and set the mugs down before pulling the injured finger to your mouth and sucking.

“So she can talk.”

You swivel around and shoot him a look. He’s sat up now, reaching for one of the cups.

“I thought you were mute,” he says before taking a sip.

“Me?” you talk around your finger before remembering it was even in your mouth. You pull the digit out and move to take the other cup before taking your seat. “I thought you didn’t have a face.”

He puts his drink down and gestures with his palm under his chin as if presenting himself. “I do,”

“Yeah, and I talk.” You say before taking a sip. The two of you fall into an easy silence again.

“You snore.” He says.

“So do you,” you counter. “Shake the damn walls.”

There a flash of a smile before he finishes his drink and places the mug down again. Before you know it he’s pulling the helmet back on and standing.

“I’ll be gone a few days,” he says. “I left some credits in the cooking area. Not much but enough to buy anything we may need from the market.” He strides past you and makes for the ladder. It feels strange, not acknowledging how your silent routine has just been unceremoniously upended. But you don’t want him to stop talking.

“Any requests?” you ask just as his shiny little head is about to disappear down the ladder. He pauses.

“…yeah.” He says. “There’s these…blue cookies.”

“Blue…cookies…” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says. “like little sandwiches.”

When you don’t immediately respond, he speaks up.

“Just if you see them,” he grunts. Then he drops down before you can open your mouth.

“Aye aye,” you call after him, but the bull door is already opening, and it’s still a much noisier operation that you’d like. You doubt he hears your before it shuts behind him.

Alone in the cockpit, you smile to yourself.

The big, scary Mandolorian likes cookies.

The market ends up having the cookies, which makes you a little happier than you thought it would. The market also has whiskey, which definitely makes you happy. It’s a little pricey, but you plan to tell him to take it out of your pay – which he hasn’t given you yet. So, really, it’s fair game. You keep to yourself as you wander down the stalls picking up the random things you can justify purchasing – soap for the laundry, more ground caf, some produce. You don’t realize until you’re nearly back to the ship how little you talked. It surprises you.

Thought you were a mute.

Why does that annoy you?

“Not a mute,” you say to yourself as you key in the door’s code. When you deposit your haul on the table, you hum to yourself, if only to remind yourself that you can.

"Mute. 'Oh I'm the big scary Mandalorian with my secret pretty face and I never thought to start a conversation with the woman who fixes my piece of shit ship'." You begin to put the goods away. "'I don't appreciate good button paint jobs, stock the kitchen with shit caf, and snore LOUDER THAN A BANTHA.'  " You huff as you close the cabinet before stomping over to the table and grabbing the whiskey by the neck. You're just about to put it away before the thought occurs to you.

You hold the bottle up and bite your lip.

Well, buckethead isn’t here to judge you, and a clean ship is a clean ship.

Fuck. Alright.

Fuck.

You didn’t mean to get this drunk.

You had taken maybe two shots before you began to scrub up the cooking area and for fifteen minutes you thought you had just bought some shitty juice – your Jawaese isn’t great, maybe you misread the label – but now.

Hoo boy.

“You’re good,” you tell yourself. You squeeze the sponge out in the sink and momentarily become amazed just by how much water it can hold. You do it again. And again. “You are sooooo good. You’re just a little drunk and you’re on a ship,” you fall into a sing song rhythm.

Yeah. You’re drunk.

“Yeah, you’re just a little drunk and you’re on a ship, bada bah bah,” you drum on the counter before sashaying over to your little nook to collect the dirty clothes from the shameful dark corner. With more pageantry than is necessary, you swing the door to the washer open and throw the pile in with a flashy swish of your wrist. “you’re doing laundry because you smell like shit, bah dah bah bum” you skip into the corridor and head to the fresher. There’s an extra basket in there that you know is filled with towels, and in this very heady musical moment you’ve decided that you are just the best housekeeper. Gods, he’s lucky to have such a considerate employee.

“You’re doing the launnnnndry,” you sing as you kick the door open. The lights come on and you shimmy over to the basket. “Cause you’re just so connnssiiiidddeeerrrATE! Bah dah bum!” you bap the top of the basket. You haul the whole thing from the fresher and skip to the washer, banging the bottom against the floor in time.

“Uh! Uh! Yeah!” you crouch in front of the washer and begin loading in the towels, trying not to think about which ones are from you and which are from him. You are not going to think of him naked. “They don’t quite smell, but they need a cllleeeeAAAANNNN!” You reach for one last towel.

This is not a towel.

Oh Maker, if this is his underclothes-

Well, you’d just have to leave then, wouldn’t you? It took six weeks to see his face and hear him speak, for fuck’s sake, if this is what you think you’re really rushing down the hill of intimacy.

Feeling brave, you pull the garment up from the pile and glance down.

Oh god it’s brown –

And….not underclothes.

It’s…a tiny robe?

Before you can even begin to worry if this means he has a secret doll collection presented proudly somewhere in his room –

“What happened to the singing?”

-you nearly shit yourself.

“What the fuck!” you kick back from the washer and land hard against the counter.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

It takes you a minute before you put two and two together. Your eyes flick up to the comm box on the wall.

“Are you- have you been – are you listening to me?”

“Are you spending credits on booze?”

You huff and pull yourself up to stand.

“This is a glaring invasion of privacy,” you say, crumpling the small article in your hand.

“Don’t worry. I just turned it on to tell you I’m coming back early. But seems like I caught you in the middle of the show.”

“Ha ha,” you say. “He’s got a face and he tells jokes.”

“I’ll be back after sunset. Don’t dent anything drumming” And with that you hear what you think is the click of the comm turn off.

“Hello?” you call. Nothing.

“Are you still there?” you try again. Silence. Well, now you’re angry. “You asshole. What if! What if I had been…” you reach for the bottle on the counter and begin to unscrew the lid. “…having a private conversation?” you pour a small amount into the glass.

“What if I had been actually singing? I’m a good singer when I try, you know.”

(you’re not).

The comm is quiet.

“I think this merits a serious discussion about boss and employee trust!” you screech up at the box.

Nothing.

Maybe that’s what makes you bold.

“What if,” You put the glass to your mouth. “I had been loudly masturbating, huh? Just really going to town, thinking of your stupid, surprisingly sexy face? ‘Uh! Uh! UH! YEAH! Keep the gloves on!’”

Smiling to yourself, and blushing just a little, you take a sip.

“Would you have drummed just as loud?”

You spit whiskey over the counter.

[bts-story]

5 n C with jk plsss

5. I’m going to kill you

C. Shadows

It was so late that it was a miracle to still be awake. The moon was shining brightly in the sky, only the stars were difficult to see -- but perhaps that was due to the pollution blurring the sky. Only Jungkook couldn't see much, only the glare of the computer caught his attention.

He could have been playing any gory and violent game, he could have been watching any crime or fantasy movie, but Jungkook promised himself that he wouldn't leave the studio until he had finished composing that damn song. And he'd been working on it for a while, but he couldn't seem to get it right. It was a difficult song, with difficult lyrics, and he wouldn't even tell you about the dance that would follow. Anyway, he was so focused that he couldn't hear someone knocking on the studio door.

It should have been Yoongi, or maybe even Namjoon because he had promised Jungkook to come by and check on him after he finished working on another song of theirs. But it wasn't either of them. Actually, it was Jungkook's girlfriend. Well, no, not really. She wasn't his girlfriend, not yet anyway (Jimin would have loved to be there to tease him and talk in a high-pitched voice about how piqued Jungkook was for her). "Jungkook-ssi?" she asked in a small voice, after softly opening the door.

Jungkook didn't notice the halo of light disturbing the brightness of his computer. No shadows behind him disturbed him, let alone the sounds that emanated from behind.

Quietly, the girl approached, trying to make herself heard without startling Jungkook. But he was too immersed in his song to be aware of anything around him. She tried to clear her voice, to close and reopen the door a little harder -- she even tried to walk heavily but nothing helped. Her shadow should have disturbed anyone, her breath or even her smell. But no, not Jungkook.

So she put her hand on Jungkook's shoulder to get his attention, and immediately he jumped, knocking over the cup of coffee he had forgotten about an hour before. "Jesus Christ - hyung, I'm gonna fucking kill you - what the f-"The last word died on his tongue in a high-pitched sound, far from confident. It sounded more like a cry of surprise, and the way Jungkook's eyes suddenly widened testified to his surprise.

"I'm so sorry, Jungkook-ssi, I didn't mean to scare you," she tried to hide her laughter, only it was far too present to hide anything. The studio was dirty, well, there were approximately five or six empty coffee cups, a couple of half-finished noodle boxes, and a few other things she couldn't necessarily identify.

"It's alright - I, I'm sorry, I thought it was Yoongi-hyung or... someone else," He really did look disappointed that he'd sworn at her, but the smile she gave him indicated that she wasn't mad at him at all. She'd been working at the agency for about three months, and Jungkook had been interested in her for the same amount of time. He'd stammer from time to time when she'd brief him backstage at a show, he'd blush when she'd cheer him on just before a concert, and he might get sweaty when they were in the same room.

This tended to annoy him because he considered himself a young adult, far removed from all that teenage nonsense when millions of girls were chasing after him in the hope of crossing his eyes. "It's a quarter past seven in the morning," she said as if that information alone would wake something in Jungkook. But nothing. He was only lost between his thoughts and his song, which he was finally starting to forget little by little. He looked at her with eyes that were just as round as they were confused, which earned him another one of his little laughs, (he tried not to blush at the sound) "Which means everyone's waiting for you in the conference room to discuss the restrictions for the trip to Japan." No answer. "Tomorrow? You're going to Japan, remember?"

Japan. Yes, yes. Osaka. Tokyo? No, no, no, Fukuoka. That's it. And then... then it must be a two or three day stopover in Thailand. Something like that. "Yeah, I remember, I just didn't see the time. Sorry."

She offered him a smile just before she said, "Don't worry, Hoseok-ssi hasn't arrived yet either. I heard he's stuck in the underground." There was a moment of silence (or Jungkook would have said a moment of awkwardness more than anything else) where neither of them moved a muscle. "Uh, I... I'm getting off. We'll wait for you." And she disappeared.

He was so stressed that he almost forgot his own name. After a minute he finally came to. Jungkook saved his progress on the computer after wiping his hands on his trousers. It took him about three minutes and thirty-five seconds to get downstairs, and when he got to the front of the meeting room, he straightened his hair with a shaky hand and cleared his throat to sound a little more serious.

"You can do this," he said to himself before entering, "she's not going to eat you. It's okay."

I'm the admin who comes back once every six months

I miss writing, and I have NO TIME to do so ottokeeee

I love you <3 don’t forget me please 

- Nageoire

[hobiwonder]

Workaholic | (m)

Genre: Smut, pwp. fluff if you squint.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Warnings: language. foreplay, descriptions of unprotected sex, dirty talk, object insertion, cum eating, creampie.

Words: 10k

Summary: Yoongi needs to relax and Hoseok has many tricks up his sleeve to make him. None of them Yoongi thought included hiring a hooker to pay him a visit one stormy night. 

You were only trying to escape a crazed man chasing you down on a stormy night. Never was your intention to end up in an attractive man’s house. Definitely not one who thought you were a hooker. 

a/n: i read a little novella like this a while ago but it was about vampires. I cannot remember the name but here is my twist on it kwhduebgjswbvhw. enjoy. Plz validate me with comments thank u. 

(he’s adorable omg)

“You really need to take a break Yoongi,”

“I’m fine,” he may be able to fool himself in to thinking he’s fine just because there isn’t any immediate struggle, his mental state was far from it. Still, didn’t stop Hoseok from barging in his office like he owned it – he only owned part of it – and demanding that Yoongi take a rest.

“no you’re not. You’re so damn bitchy all the time. Take a damn break. This isn’t a case of working hard to make it somewhere in life. You own the fucking company.”

“I’m a Partner. Not the actual owner.” Hoseok is waving his dismissal as he crosses his ankles on Yoongi’s desk.

“Same shit. You’ll be the sole partner in a few more years if you keep going at this speed. It’ll be MinKim Inc than just Kim.”

That was the goal, yes. Currently, Kim Seokjin, Yoongi’s close friend, was the heir to the corporation.

“You’re a partner here too you little shit.” There is no point in trying to kick his Italian loafer clad feet off because he just crosses them over the desk again.

“Yes but at least I’m not slaving over at my office to acquire more of it. All good things come in time.”

“Exactly. So leave me alone, I’ll have my rest when it’s time.” He had emails to respond to and his head had already started pounding. He was so damn tired all the time despite sleeping at least 7 hours. What use was there to sleep anymore if it didn’t provide the relief he needed?

“Bro you’re really fucking things up for yourself. You need to get laid.”

This makes Yoongi snort as he continues typing. Hoping Hoseok didn’t notice how his finger halted for a quarter of a second before he kept typing.

“I did. Or tried to, I guess.” Hoseok’s eyes have widened like saucers for some reason. Always so dramatic.

“Wait, by any chance… was it with Mina?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi’s eyebrows drop in to a furrow at his question like this was some sort of mystery he was about to solve. But Hoseok just sits back with a ‘thump’ before breaking in to fits of laughter like he couldn’t believe it.

“So it’s true. Damn. I really didn’t think she was telling the truth.” Now he had Yoongi’s full attention.

“Who?” Abandoning his email, he turns to Hoseok’s still shaking frame.

“Mina. That’s who. Do you have any idea what tales that tattle tale has been telling about you lately?”

“No. And I don’t care.” Women tended to exaggerate things.

“Oh but you should, brother. Apparently you can’t get it up. And now I know she wasn’t lying about everything.”

“What?! What the fuck? Has she been mouthing off about me like that?” There is an ever present annoying, self-satisfied smirk on Hoseok’s face. But Yoongi couldn’t care less. His manhood was at stake.

“Got your attention didn’t I? Yes sir. At the lounge yesterday she seemed rather devastated. Did you really not show her a good time?”

“Well,” Yoongi tried to salvage his brain for some plausible explanation. But it was true. Mina was one of the sexiest women in his circle and yet, last week he could not stay hard for the life of him. “In my defence, I got her off three fucking times with my damn mouth. Ungrateful.”

While Yoongi is shaking his head in disappointment, Hoseok seems to be rather occupied with something going on his little scheming head. “What? Why are you spacing out like that?”

“Just thinking. Has this been going on for a while?”

Snorting, Yoongi pushes off Hoseok’s feet for the hundredth time. “You’re not my therapist Hoseok. I’m sure I just need more,” Yoongi grits his teeth and swallows once, twice, just to get the words out, “rest. I’m not about to pop Viagra because one girl isn’t satisfied with not having my dick. Though I can understand her pouting.”

Yoongi was allowed to be cocky. His dick game was pretty good. You obviously need to have a reputation to actually save it.

“Hyung, you need both. You’ve been stuck in this office for months and you barely do anything exciting. When was the last time you went out just because you wanted to let off some steam?”

The bastard knew the answer and just wanted to humiliate Yoongi. So he stays silent, watching Hoseok as he straightens up.

“At least you got your feet off my damn table.” Yoongi mumbles to himself, hoping he’ll drop it. No such luck.

“You know the reason you can’t even enjoy the simple things in life anymore is because you don’t even go have a meal at a restaurant just to have an enjoyable evening anymore. Remember when we used to have lunch at the Shaw’s every week?”

Those were good times. It was fun, that’s what Yoongi remembers.

“You want Hyung to take you out on a date? Is that it?” Yoongi’s little jab at humour doesn’t faze Hoseok as he continues to stare down the elder. Which Yoongi would smack him for any other time but this time, he was right. Hoseok only said it all because he cared about him.

“Well, it has been a while since I ate something other than takeout in my office….” Leaning back in his chair, Yoongi can’t help but let out a groan as his muscles get a break from their punishing position that Yoongi kept them in to stay alert and focused.

“Great!” Hoseok has all but switched from the utmost serious face he had been showing Yoongi and back to his chirpy self. It almost gave Yoongi whiplash. Something didn’t smell right with how quickly he was satisfied.

“Hoseok, what are you planning? I can tell you’re up to something.” Yoongi stares up at his retrieving figure, almost a dance to his step.

“Don’t be so vigilant hyung. We’ll just have dinner on Friday night and some drinks at the bar, that’s all.” His smile is too big for Yoongi to continue staring at him to sus him out. So he lets him go.

“Whatever, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye boss! I’ll see you Friday. Get ready to party baby. Whoo!” His loud scream is obnoxious and nothing out of character and Yoongi won’t lie; He’s sort of excited about Friday.

Maybe listening to Hoseok wasn’t such a bad idea. Not when Yoongi just had the best steak he’s had in years.

“Damn. This was good.” Hoseok is still dabbing at his mouth with the napkin while he just nods his agreement.

“See? I told you that you’d have fun. Plus, I know the chef here so you my brother, got a $400 steak for free,” He drops the napkin in front dramatically as if he’s won some medal.

“Yeah yeah, thanks for getting your hyung steak. Now let’s get out of here.” Yoongi is already up and brushing down his suit but Hoseok seems to be in no rush.

“No. We’re going to the bar, remember?”

“Really?” Yoongi doesn’t want to sound like he’s complaining since a night out is the most fun thing he’s done in a while where he hasn’t pretended to have fun. He genuinely felt more relaxed and almost looked forward to spending the weekend home. Or… trying. He’s never not worked on a weekend before.

“Yes. Now stop your whining and lets go.” Yoongi knew better than to argue with Hoseok. At least he didn’t have anything weird planned like Yoongi had thought earlier. There was no telling with Hoseok around.

“Two whiskeys please. Neat.” The bartender shoots Hoseok a nod before he starts pouring the drinks. Yoongi sweeps his gaze across the floor of the upscale bar. He couldn’t remember the last time he visited here with Hoseok or any other office friend really. But after a whole day of outings with his best friend, an amazing dinner and now this, he was starting to remember how much spontaneous fun he used to have. He wasn’t 21 anymore and going to clubs and spending his hard earned money on lap dancers wasn’t exactly his forte. But enjoying a top quality Whiskey definitely was.

“Feels good doesn’t it? Drinking in peace and not worrying about going somewhere tomorrow so you have to stay completely sober?” Hoseok’s grin has Yoongi relenting his facial muscles as well as he just nods.

“Yup. Thanks for today. It’s been a while since we came here, huh?”

“I’ve been here plenty hyung. Just not with you in a while so I have to admit, you’re probably the best company.”

“Well shit,” Yoongi can’t help but laugh, “Even better than that Irene chick?”

“Even better than her.” Both of them chuckling in unison, clinking their glasses. “Cheers.”

“Remember when we first came here?” That was all it took for Hoseok to start laughing uncontrollably.

The rumbling thunder was making you nervous. You were supposed to finish a bunch of file analysis today and submit it to your supervisor before you left. It was already well past 9pm and you still had three more manila folders to go through. There was no room for you to mess this up. You’d just been hired in their college graduate program, earning the position through the diligent work you’d done during your internship. It was rare that Kim Inc hired staff through their internships. They were merely a gateway platform for students to try and earn a position elsewhere with their name on the resumé. Which wasn’t difficult after having spent even a few weeks at the company.

Their reputation was nothing short of ruthless. Hard work took up a whole another meaning and you had discovered that yourself when more than once your colleagues had cried in the bathroom because of the pressure. It was a cutthroat business and your supervisors in each department you’d worked at had let you know exactly that. Still, the extremely work-orientated mannerisms of your superiors around you only pushed you to do better yourself. If you were on top of everything, the rewards were plenty. Only ones who couldn’t handle the pressure really felt like everything was unfair. Because that had been you at first. Now you knew better than to complain about the company that would help you pave the way for yourself. You needed this job to create a picture perfect record of your work ethics and achievements so you could one day work for yourself. One day at a time right?

Glancing at the clock however, the minutes were escaping you quicker than what you would’ve liked. You had recently been transferred to the materials department. Where all the products your company made were designed and their prototypes developed before being transferred to other departments. You’d been told too many horror stories about the head od department, Mr. Min, to act like this was just like any other job. His department was infamous for producing almost perfect prototypes that when they were sent to be assembled and polished, the other departments rarely had to do much else. And because of that efficiency and work ethic, Mr. Min was praised countless times a day by your superiors while the common employees were scared shitless of the guy. Though you’d never actually seen him in person, you believed when your supervisor, Ilhoon had told you to not be mistaken and slack off.

So here you were, slaving away at your desk, typing your analysis in to the computer furiously while trying to glance outside the massive glass walls at the same time. It seemed like it was going to rain heavily and your time was running out. It was almost 10pm and that was the deadline you’d set for yourself. You didn’t want to cut corners but you also didn’t want to push your luck with the storm. The offices were in the middle of the city while you lived in a more modest part of town so it would take you at least 30 minutes to get home on public transport. You’d just started working at your current job so you hadn’t been able to save much for a car when you always ended up spending your money on decorating your apartment.

“Crap.” Muttering all sorts of prayers under your breath, you finally start on the last report, just shy of 20 minutes until 10pm. Thankfully, your increased fervour to have everything finished before you left must have paid off – or maybe your prayers answered? – and you were running the report through the spell check before sending it to Ilhoon and scurrying out of the floor. As if sensing that you were just about to head home – the storm has all but started raging hard, raining mercilessly and swinging the trees in all directions with the force of the wind. Even the elevator lights were flickering occasionally.

You really needed to get a move on if you were to get home. Running in heels wasn’t your strong suit but you managed the best you could. Thankfully your skirt wasn’t a flowy one today but a more pencil shape so you wouldn’t have to worry about holding it down because of the ferocious wind. The security guard at the front door bids you good bye after asking you if you needed a taxi – which you stupidly declined. Too ambitious thinking you could make it to the bus on time. But that shouldn’t have been the only problem you should’ve thought about. At 10pm, there weren’t that many people using the buses as their preferred commute. And definitely on such a stormy night. Which meant that the only other person on the bus with you was a greasy looking man that looked older than he probably was because of his blackening teeth and matted down hair. His clothes weren’t faring well either but you still clung on to the tiniest bit of hope that he wanted nothing to do with you.

Of course that was stupid to think because ever since you’d gotten on, he had been staring. Did he really not have anyone else to bother tonight? You were starting to get nervous and somewhere deep down you knew he was waiting to get off where you were. And letting him know where you lived wasn’t something you were too keen on. To make matters worse, just 10 minutes in the ride – with many stops because of the traffic in the rain – the man had gotten up from his seat at the back and started walking towards you. Your heart was thumping loudly and the nervous edge was becoming sharper and sharper. Making you feel entrapped. But not just metaphorically when the man sits right behind you, not faltering with his eye contact.

Okay you needed to do something now. Maybe pretending to text will make him lose interest? If he knew there was someone who knew where you were right now he’d maybe leave you alone. Quickly, you rummage through your bag, taking out your cell phone from the bottom of it. The relief is short lived when you punch in your passcode and see that it only has 5% of battery left in it. You try not to look panicked, still glancing out the window to just see a bunch of pouring rain and the trees dancing in it. There was no time to preserve the battery, you just needed to look like you were conversing with someone.

It works fine for a few minutes until your phone gets stuck, making your heart drop when you sense the inevitable. Just after a few seconds, it shuts off completely and right then, from the corner of your eyes, you can see the man watching your downfall. He’s been on the bus for god knows how long and now that he’s been watching you for the last 15 minutes, there is no way this is just a coincidence. He was following you. Without thinking, your panicky brain has decided that you needed to get off and maybe catch the bus after this. You could wait on the bus stop until the next one arrived which shouldn’t be too long but at least there was a chance of more people being present on the bus. Or not at all. You didn’t care as long as you were away from the foul smelling man sitting right behind you.

“Hey there pretty woman. You headed to Marsden Park too?” The beating of your heart was so loud in your ears after hearing the familiar name of your suburb that you wanted to jump out right that instant. It’s then you realise he’s seen the name of the suburb on your ticket and definitely knew where you were going.

“N-No. I’m going to see a f-friend.” Without wasting anymore time, you’ve pressed the stop button on the bus, getting off at the next stop. Surely you weren’t too far off from your suburb? You’d been in the bus for ages you must be a little far from the city. To your total and utter dismay, you haven’t even left the area that qualifies as the actual city. All this time on the bus and you were stuck a mere few miles from your office?

However, you’ve been shaken out of your meltdown when you notice the same man you’ve been trying to avoid, get off the bus too. “Oh god, no.”

You’re walking fast, not even thinking about the fact that the rain is soaking you from top to bottom. You couldn’t exactly stay at the bus stop! He would probably rape and kill you right then. There was no sign of anyone else around. Especially since this neighbourhood seemed to be filled with endless number of mansions. You could hear his footsteps on the side walk as your heels clicked, the rain not drowning out its sound completely. Maybe you could just knock at one of the doors and someone would answer? But you knew it would be not in your favour since none of the houses had even the front porch light on. Were all these people dead? Why wasn’t anyone home damnit!

You glance back and see the man not too far behind and decide to cross the road. There was an intersection coming ahead so maybe you could dodge him by walking to one of the streets. At this point, you were soaked. Your blouse and skirt completely stuck to your body, making the fabric heavier and harder for you to walk in. Walking faster, you curse yourself for wearing heels. They practically gave away where you were heading! Looking back, you see the man stopped in his tracks, seemingly trying to tie his shoelaces and you see that as an opportunity to make a run for it. Quickly, you cross the road, heels clicking and alerting the man as he tries to get up and run after you. However an oncoming car right as you’ve crossed the road to a street filled with even bigger houses, races down the road, splashing water almost violently on to him and you can hear him yell.

“Motherfucking rich bastards! Fucking racing their fucking cars!” His voice is even more threatening and scary than you remember and your fight or flight instincts finally help you make a decision for the better. Reaching down you take off your heels, chucking them on the opposite side of the road towards the other street before you make a run inwards, hoping to find a house that will let you in and call your friend or police or something!

“Where are you bitch?! You can’t run away from me just yet pretty lady.” Bitch and pretty lady in the same sentence? If you weren’t scared to death you’d laugh at how much of a ladies man he is.

You must have thrown him off at least a little because his voice sounds a bit distant now. You take this as your que to try and find someone who actually lives here. God must have listened to your prayers as you see sliver of light filtering through from a house right towards the end of the road. You run like hell towards it, hoping and praying that someone is actually home. Another obstacle you didn’t think about was the fact that before getting to the front door, you would need to get past the security cameras. But it was a matter of your life at this point so you just keep running, coming to stop before what seems to be a CCTV camera and a touchscreen pad that shows you standing in front of it. There is an option to ring inside the house and you frantically try to press it. Or you think you pressed it? It’s all touchscreen and you assume that it must be able register a touch even through water.

Finally, a light turns on after your endless smashing on top of the ring button. The light is flashing right across your face, momentarily blinding you with its brightness.

“H-Hello?! Is anyone listening?! Help me, please!” You’re almost in tears at this point, glancing around you. Your voice had been loud and there was a very possible chance that the man chasing you could have heard.

“Do you not see the sign? No sales person.” A deep, lazy drawl comes through the speakers and you’re enraged. Did you look like you were here to sell something? You needed help!

Right on cue, you can see a figure walking fast inwards to the road. It was raining so hard you couldn’t even see properly. But all you cared about was getting inside somewhere safe. So swallowing your anger, you try to plead your way in.

“Please. Help me! Someone is following me.” Your eyes try to portray your desperation and fear. There was no part of you acting at this point as a sob escapes your lips that have started to tremble from the cooling temperature of your body. There is a silence for the next few seconds and you can’t help but look down. He wasn’t going to let you in, was he?

“Seriously? You want to leave now? At,” Hoseok makes a show of glancing down at his Piguet watch, “Half past 9?”

Yoongi doesn’t have time to argue with him. He felt deliciously tipsy from the Whiskey and wanted to relax in his massage chair at home, make some beats, play piano or whatever the fuck he pleased to do. He was on this ‘rest’ high and wanted to ride it as long as he could before his brain manipulated him into going back to work.

“Yup. Hyung had fun but now I need to get home. Enjoyed wasting time with you Hoseok.” He pats his back while Hoseok only shoves him playfully, muttering a ‘shut up’.

“I got this.” Hoseok had shouted him dinner, it was the least he could do for his best friend.

“Look at you. Taking care of me for once.”

“Don’t mention it. I know you’re poor right now.” Hoseok just rolls his eyes at Yoongi’s attempt at humour. Waiting to drop the bomb on him just as they’re both leaving the bar.

“Well, I’m not too mad. I’ll send your gift home then.” And there it was. Hoseok had been up to something. Yoongi knew it!

“What did you do, Hoseok? I swear to god if it-” Hoseok only pats Yoongi’s shoulder, winking in his direction.

“Relax. It’s just a little something to get you little guy stirring.”

“Fuck you there is nothing little about my dick.” He’s immediately ashamed at how juvenile that response was. Whiskey really turned down his inhibitions.

“Then enjoy the damsel in distress I’ve sent for you.” Yoongi shrugs off Hoseok’s hand off his shoulder. That little shit. Strippers again?

“Seriously? You’re sending me a stripper as a ‘gift’?” Yoongi just waits for his response, about to clock him so Hoseok just makes a run for his car as he shouts.

“This one is something else hyung. She’ll fix everything, trust me. Now have fun and you’re welcome!”

“Hoseok you dumbass! I wanted to relax not babysit a 20 year old that needs to pay her college fees!” No luck. Hoseok has already slipped in to his car as his driver takes off while Yoongi’s waits patiently.

“Would you like me to take you to a hotel, sir?” His staff knew him too well but glancing at the impending storm, Yoongi decides it’s probably best to head home in case she’s already waiting. Didn’t want a prostitute dying at his door. That will definitely crush any hopes he had of being a sole owner of the company.

He sighs, looking at his driver. “It’s alright. Take me home so I can at least have you drive her back since it might start raining.”

“Right away.”

The car ride is long and Yoongi is home even before the thunder starts. He lived close to work, in a more quieter neighbourhood to relax in peace. He had tried living in the heart of the city but it didn’t work out with the amount noise he lived in. Still thinking about what Hoseok had said and wanting to call him just to curse him out and hang up. There was no stripper or lap dancer or a damn prostitute out there that could fix his problem. He’d tried and it hadn’t worked. No point in humiliating himself even further. Mina going around town to spread the news about his failing genitals was enough. He just wanted to spend time by himself now. Sure, he might not be that old but his soul already felt like it. He just wanted to maybe watch TV or have a nap.

Damn, he really was that old. By now, the rain was in full swing. Thundering outside like no tomorrow. Turning on the sound system to some beats he’d worked on a few months back that suited just right with the weather, Yoongi exchanges his suit for a more comfortable cotton t-shirt and his lounge pants. His body was considerably toasty after the night cap and he was too relaxed to be worried about anything. Until there is a ring. Many rings to be exact. It’s like whoever was at the main gate had the patience of a five year old. Figures, if that’s the stripper. Because they were all rarely above 21.

He gets the call directly transferred to his phone and after a few rings, he picks up. Immediately, he can hear distressed breathing before the person speaks up. “H-Hello?! Is anyone listening?! Help me, please!”

It’s unmistakably a female voice. Particularly sounding like a damsel in distress – just the way Hoseok had described. Fucking hell, role play? Really? Whatever she was doing, she was selling it quite convincingly.

“Do you not see the sign? No sales person.” Yoongi felt a smidgen of regret when he said the words out loud on instinct. It wasn’t her fault that his best friend was a dumbass and decided to hire a hooker on the worst night of all. He could hear the thunder and the rain in the background and the way her next words were shaky and pleading, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

“Please. Help me! Someone is following me.”

Someone following her? That was creative, he’ll give her that. Sighing, Yoongi has to summon all the energy from each limb of his body to get up and walk towards the intercom after contemplating whether he should let her in or just send his driver to drive her home. Quickly, Yoongi hangs up before dialling Hoseok’s number. Which of course, goes straight to voicemail.

“Hoseok you asscrack. There is a girl very ‘distressed’ and claiming someone is ‘following her’. I don’t know whether to applaud you for finding someone who is half decent at acting or ring your neck the next time I see you, freak!”

He’s quickly hanging up, when he reaches the touchscreen intercom, pulling up the CCTV camera to see the person outside his house. Which is a big mistake. His original plan had been to send her straight home, already calling his driver – which he abruptly hangs up on. The woman on the other end looks nothing short of a wet dream. Literally. You’re soaked from the rain, your clothes cling to your frame enticingly and your bambi eyes are staring up at the camera so earnestly Yoongi wonders if this is what you’ll look like on your knees when you beg for him to let you have his cock.

Said cock twitches. Hardening so rapidly in his pants that he actually looks down like it’s the strangest thing. Yoongi almost forgets to open the main gate and finally notices you looking down as if defeated.

You really were good at acting out this role. It almost seemed real. Whatever it was that you were doing; it was working. Yoongi felt hot in his pants already and that was saying something.

“Come in.” He can see the sheer relief in your eyes as you mutter ‘thank you’ over and over. A few more seconds later, there is a knock at the front door. Yoongi walks towards it, hesitating before cracking the door open and finally facing his downfall.

There you were, clinging to yourself as your clothes dripped at his front porch, nipples poking through the fabric of your blouse as the skirt showcased the curve of your supple ass. Your teeth were clattering, shaking Yoongi out of his fantasies enough to let you in. Maybe Hoseok’s idea wasn’t that bad aftercall. He’d be smug about this. Bastard.

“M-May I?” Yoongi just steps to the side, making you stare at him for a little while longer before you walk past him and inside.

His reaction to your body was instant and scorching. He felt hot all over and all he wanted to do was lick the rain drops off your skin, hating the fact that you needed a towel so his furniture wasn’t ruined. Buying new furniture was a hassle.

You’re looking around his large living room like you’ve never seen anything like it before. And perhaps you hadn’t. He couldn’t of a strip club that looked like his house. It was a shame he was having this reaction to a hooker and not someone he was actually in a relationship with. But oh well. At least he’ll get laid tonight. Retrieving some towels from the guest bathroom, he walks back to the living room where you stood in the corner like a timid mouse, still clinging to yourself protectively.

“Here.” Yoongi clears his throat when his words come out too gruff. He needed to top acting like a damn virgin. You grab the fluffy towel from him with the smallest, prettiest hands he’d ever seen. They’d look even smaller with his in them. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to have you. You needed to hurry up before he prematurely ejaculated in his pants.

“T-Thank you. I really appreciate y-your help. I won’t stay long. Just until the storm subsides.”

Wow, you were really going to play the game to completion, huh? Every expression, every nervous shuffle of your feet was so genuine he couldn’t even tell that this was all some sort of play. Hoseok probably had you dropped off outside his house. But no worries, he’ll play along with you.

Yoongi can’t help the smirk that fights its way across his mouth, body buzzing and mind more stimulated than ever. “I’ll get you some clothes, how about that?”

Your head shoots up at his voice, watching his mouth move as he tilts his head backwards, gesturing towards where his room was probably.

“Oh uh… T-Thank you.” You could use some warm clothes. It was starting to get frosty in these cold, wet clothes.

Yoongi has to adjust himself as he walks back to his room, shaking his head at the prospect of playing along to whatever script you were following. But enough games. He needed to have you soon. Taking a white shirt like the one he wore, he noticed the length of it should cover your bottom too. He walks back to the living room where you stood drying your hair with the towel.

It looked so silky and inviting. Inviting his hands to thread through it and grab a hold of it until he brought your mouth down to thrust his cock in to. Fuck he was so hard. You don’t seem to notice his state though. Or you’re amazing at playing innocent. You must be a pro then. Having done this many times. But he tried to keep the inner monologue to a minimum as he hands you the shirt, never wavering his gaze from your body.

You bow towards him in gratitude, keeping your gaze lowered unlike his. “T-Thank you.”

Your pretty hands grab the garment from his hands, noticing the obvious lack of pants but you try not to show it.

What the hell was happening? How did you stumble upon a mansion that apparently belonged to the most handsome man you’d laid your eyes on in a while? And why was this hot, sort of kind, stranger just handing you a shirt? You didn’t want to come off as ungrateful to someone who’d let a complete stranger in their house.

But the way he looked at you, with such carnal lust, had you feeling dizzy. Why did he look at you like he expected something? Your body was warming up considerably whenever you took a chance to look up and see him staring you down like he wanted to eat you. There was no way your hot mess self looked attractive to this man, right? Your hair was a mess, your clothes were sticking to you unattractively and you were shivering still. The inside of his house was definitely warm. But you needed to get warmer. So you had no choice but to at least change your shirt.

He continues to kneel against the wall, inspecting you like you were a puzzle to be solved when it should be the other way around. “Um, do you have p-pants?”

What a stupid question to ask. Of course he did! But it was too late. He was already looking away, obviously trying to hide a smile and you curse yourself inside your head. “All in the wash, sorry.”

And that’s it. He nonchalantly shrugs, pursing his lips like he’s sorry while appearing to be completely non-apologetic.

Yes you’ve walked in to a complete strangers house. You didn’t even ask his name. But somehow, you didn’t feel the creeping fear that you had in the bus. In fact, you almost felt… relaxed. Not scared, just shy. Not every day you meet men as handsome as him.

“O-Okay. I’ll just change-”

“Here. I’ll turn my back.” He takes his sweet time, turning around and ever passing second makes your body temperature climb higher. Why weren’t you running out of the door? You’ll probably die of pneumonia outside so might as well stay here.

You turn yourself around as well, not about to give him a show even if he was looking away. You make haste of your blouse and bra, rolling them in a pile before slipping on the white cotton shirt – that was the softest thing you’d felt, by the way. When the shirt falls below your butt, you decide you can take off the skirt as well and just wrap the towel around your waist. Just when you discard the skirt on to the pile of clothes, you hear him speak up.

“You’re good.” A beautiful, deep chuckle follows his remark and you can’t help but spin around to face him – and he’s leaning against the wall like previously, staring straight at you.

“E-Excuse me?” What was he talking about?

Stalking forward slowly, he doesn’t stop until he’s only a mere metres away from you. “No one has been able to get me this worked up in a while.”

His breath caresses your cheeks with each whisper and you’re so enchanted you don’t even thin to question whatever the hell he’s talking about. Though you’re standing only in a think white t-shirt in front of him, hair wet and soaking through your t-shirt – your body felt like it was on fire. A nervous excitement ran through your shivering frame and you weren’t even sure if it was from the cold or just him. Your nipples had pebbled even harder at his close proximity.

Suddenly, his hand had slid around your waist, gripping it tight while the other cupped your cheek. “I’ll thank Hoseok later for you. Right now I need you.”

“W-What? Who-” You don’t get an answer but you do get his tongue. Forcing it’s way in your mouth, hot and searing. The moan that leaves you is involuntary and you curse your body for giving in to a stranger so quick. Why were you even letting this man kiss you? Did he mistake you for someone else? That must be it. You had no idea who this Hoseok was. But not all of it is his fault when you’re not even trying hard enough to break away from his mouth. He’s pulling your mouth in deep kisses. Kissing you until you feel light-headed and breathless and only then does he break away to let you breathe.

“S-Sir I’m not-” But he only interrupts you before covering your mouth with his own again.

“Call me Yoongi baby.” Yoongi. Why did that sound familiar? You didn’t have the brain capacity to think about anything other than his mouth right now. His hand on your waist had pressed you even tighter against his frame that you could feel every ridge, every curve on him. That also meant the impossibly hard cock that protruded heavily between his legs, pressing against your lower stomach. Due to your not so large of a height difference, you could almost feel him pressed right to your center.

His hand cupping your face was roaming all over your body, down your sides, across your chest to fondle your nipples and making you arch your back further in to him. It took you ages to warm up while it only took Yoongi a few kisses. He finally breaks away, only to pick you up by the waist and walking towards the couch to sit, making you straddle his waist. Thank god you still had your panties on because if your sensitive clit felt even an ounce of friction from his sweatpants, you would cum right on the spot.

“I’m n-not who you think I might- oh.” Your mouth falls open in a silent scream when Yoongi starts to move your hips on to his erection – slowly torturing you to your end.

“And I’m not usually this hard from just a kiss baby. No need to play games anymore. I’ll be taking everything you’re here to give.”

You don’t even know what he means anymore but the way he growls out his words has you shaking from nervous excitement. And this time, your fear isn’t for your life but for your lady parts. This man looked beyond even his own control and you don’t know what he thinks you’re here to give him. But you might just be willing to give him everything when he rolls his hips up in to yours, his hard length nudging squarely on your clit making you shout.

“Yoongi!”

“That’s it, y/n. There you go baby.” You’re too far gone to even question how he knows your name. You’re only trying to hold on to your sanity or what’s left of it as he batters your clit each time he pushes you down while simultaneously pushing his cock up.

“I’m going to make you cum so hard you’ll forget all the other men.” You’d only had one boyfriend in college, so you’re not sure what men he’s referring to but you don’t care. You’d be whoever he wants at this point if he’s going to make you cum.

“Ah Y-Yoongi, I’m g-going to cum.” You’ve started to push down on him, chasing your own high as your mouth falls permanently open while tears sting your eyes at how intense the sensations are. It really is different when someone else makes you cum. This definitely wasn’t anything like your own hand.

“Then cum. Soak my lap and show me what a dirty girl you are. Want you squirting over my cock.” His filthy mouth was your downfall and you were throwing your head back in no time as you screamed out your climax. Riding the waves as Yoongi continued to grind his cock in your pussy long after the aftershocks pass, making you a twitching mess on top of him.

“O-Oh,” you’re flinching away when the sensations become too much and yet, Yoongi doesn’t let up. Slipping his hand inside your panties to lewdly rub them over your cum soaked labia, spreading it even more.

“Look at that. You’re so wet. You came so much baby.” Yoongi’s voice is low and he stares at your face that’s staring down at his hands inside your underwear. It doesn’t help that his arms are incredibly veiny, pushed in your tiny panties. When he slips his fingers between your pussy lips and runs the pad of his thumb over your entrance – you both hiss. You from the sensitivity and him for entirely different reasons. He almost seems angry. Infuriated at what he finds.

“Your pussy is so tiny. Fuck. Tell me how am I going to fit in there, hm?” You can’t do anything but cry out through your tears when he slips two fingers in from the get go. Squelching noises sound obscenely as he scissors your pussy with his index and middle finger. You’re so wet you’re making a visible mess on him, staining his sweatpants further.

“At least you’re wet enough so I can slide my cock in without worrying about tearing your little pussy up.” He’s gritting out between clenched teeth, jolting your body with each thrust of his hand. Your shaking frame is anchored to Yoongi by your hand fisted in his own shirt while the other slips down to try and get a feel of him. Beneath you, he felt so mouth-wateringly hard but you needed to cop a real feel of him. To which he swatted your hands away.

“You’ll get to feel plenty of my cock sweetheart. Be patient for now.” And you just whined at his scolding. Not being able to wait in order to feel his cock inside you. Your entrance clenched every time you even thought about having him inside and each time, Yoongi gave a loud spanking to your ass for trying to lock his fingers out.

“I-I just need you so bad.” You’re bordering at desperation with the way you whine and plead with him. Moving your hips with each thrust of his digits. “Fuck. Oh god.”

Your head is thrown back, your mouth is open as you pant without shame, nearing your orgasm again. But Yoongi jolts your body in surprise when he takes in your hardened nipple between his teeth before sucking on it worshipfully right through it. You must look like a picture out of a porno magazine as you continue to shout with your head throat back, having your pussy fingered like no tomorrow and now – Yoongi sucking on your tits through your shirt, patching it with wet spots of his saliva.

“Ah, ah, ah,” A symphony of high pitched moans – uncontrollable in your defence – fall from your lips as you stand at the edge of your peak, right there. You needed no more than a mere few seconds to reach that blissful high again. Until it’s ripped brutally from you with a loud squelch.

“Fuck… look at that.” You’re trying to gather your breath while from you peripheral vision, you can see admire his soaked hand. Your essence dripping down his wrists and your whole face warms up at the lewd image. You knew you got a little too wet. The brat in you wanted to cum and she claws at Yoongi’s shirt as you whine your protest.

“You can’t even catch your breath and you’re complaining about wanting to cum? Filthy, nasty girl.” His growling only makes you wetter, didn’t he notice?

Or maybe that’s why he does it. Who knows.

Your face is buried in his neck, trying to catch your breath as your pussy continuously clenches, so swollen and ready to cum again that you don’t notice the skinny perfume bottle he’d grabbed from your bag that was on the couch. What was he doing with that.

“Lean back, y/n.” You muster up all your energy, pulling away from the warm crevice of his neck and leaning back until you notice the predatory glaze over his eyes. Yoongi watches you shift backwards on his lap, glancing at the perfume bottle in his hand and then back to his face.

He brings your head forward to push his tongue inside your mouth, kissing you in a sloppy, hot mess before pulling back. “Open.”

Without question, you open your mouth before he shoves the cold perfume bottle inside your mouth. “Hmphf.”

Immediately, you moan and lick around it, making it wet with your saliva. Almost sensing what he was about to do. And you’re right in your suspicions when Yoongi pulls the object out of your mouth and pushes it between your labia to coat it in your sticky arousal.

“So damn wet. You’re leaking like a broken fucking tap y/n. Do I turn you on his much.” You just moan out your reply as he massages all around your sensitive pussy with the object. Right before he pushes the object the length of his hand, inside your clenching pussy.

“Yoongi, oh god. P-Please fuck me. I need you so bad oh god.” Your begging had started already and he hadn’t even pushed the bottle all the way inside you. The cool glass bottle felt so nice against your burning hot skin. And when Yoongi pulled it out just to thrust it back in, you felt the tears escape the corner of your eyes from the sheer pleasure. The bottle was thicker than his two fingers and the slight burn of the stretch had you gasping.

“And you will have me baby. I just need to stretch your pussy out. You don’t want Oppa to tear your pussy now do you, hm?” Oh you wanted that so much. But you could only look down at his vascular hand working in object is and out of your squelching pussy. His lap was almost soaked all the way through with how much you were dripping on him. Even while insanely hard beneath you, Yoongi possessed such control over his own desires that it made him that much more attractive to you. You couldn’t believe he was holding out this long.

“I-I wa-ah-ant oppa to fuck me, please.” Tears were stinging your eyes again and you had lost any semblance of shame. With shaking hands, you took off the cotton shirt, baring your breasts to his eyes as you thrusted them in his face. Hoping to entice him in to ending this torture.

And it seemed to have worked when he shoves the bottle all the way up your pussy before growling at you again. “Get on your knees.”

Your legs were jello but you weren’t about to pass up on the opportunity to taste him just like he was tasting you. Licking up your slick from his fingers and his wrist. Quickly, you slid down to your knees like shapeless matter, plopping down as he watched you.

“Take off my pants baby. Get me ready for your little pussy.”

With trembling hands, you take off his sweatpants, eyes bulging out of your head at the sheer sizeable girth of him. How did he contain that monster? Even just in the sweatpants? He looked painfully hard and you felt bad for having all the attention on you. This couldn’t be pleasant for him, waiting out this long.

“Go on, baby. Get me nice and wet like your pussy.” One thing was definite – his dirty talk had you acting more depraved than you ever had before with someone. You were never the one so readily and brazenly sinking to your knees to in turn sink your mouth down someone’s cock.

Him forgoing underwear was the best discovery because now you could go straight to stuffing your mouth full of his cock. Which you do. Licking from the bottom to the top like some icicle, you wet him thoroughly with your saliva before attempting to sink down on his length. Yoongi was started to breathe heavy, threading his fingers in your hair to slowly guide you over him all the while he cursed under his breath about how hot you looked.

“Fuck, I want to cum all over your pretty face, your tits, over your pussy, in your pussy.” He looked like he was losing control with each word that slipped his mouth, watching you moan around his length while you grasped the base that didn’t go in to your mouth. Yoongi clearly didn’t seem happy since he grabbed your hair in a tight hold, pulling you back from his cock – only to slam you down, filled to the brim until your nose rested against his pelvis.

“Fuck. Yes. Just a little bit baby. Let me fuck for mouth just a l-little.”

All you could do was hold on to his thighs for support as he thrusted his hips in to your mouth over and over. His pace pushing your body back each time he thrusted forward, making the bottle of perfume still inside your pussy, rub against your falls. You well clenching so hard on to the object, trying to move on it to get some sort of relief.

“Don’t. You better not cum unless it’s on my cock. Do you understand?” He doesn’t give you time to respond as he keeps assaulting your mouth – filling it with pre-cum each time he pulls back.

After a few more minutes and a lot of crying – Yoongi finally takes mercy on you, pulling his cock out of your mouth with an obscene ‘pop’. His cock is just as red and angry and your pussy is even more wet. You’re sitting on the floor, legs spread with the bottle of perfume shoved deep inside your pussy. Yoongi takes in your form, cursing under his breath as he looks you over, again and again.

“Come here y/n.” You pull yourself up, shakily getting on the couch where Yoongi lays you down before hovering his body over you.

“I’m going to fuck you until I cum inside your little pussy and have it flowing with my cum so good. Is that okay baby? That I fill you with so much cum your belly swells up? I don’t think there is another option.”

He says it all while looking you dead in the eyes like he’s helpless. Rubbing his cockhead on your enflamed pussy lips. He glances down once before pulling out the perfume bottle with a ‘pop.’ You’re breathing heavy and feel like you might hyperventilate. The anticipation so much for you to handle you wanted to reach down and shove him in already.

Just when you’re about to whine again, Yoongi pushes inside shallowly, fucking only his head inside your clenching entrance in short strokes.

“Yoongi,” you whine like a spoiled brat, “Fuck me already. I’ll d-die without your cock. I need it.” You’re clawing at him again, trying to take off his shirt. Which he does thankfully, chuckling at your desperate behaviour.

“I might need you around more often. Just so you can beg for my cock looking at pretty and pink. So fucked out you probably don’t even know what to do with yourself.”

He needed to shut up and screw you already!

He’s only pushing the head of his cock inside before pulling it out and shoving it back in again. And somehow even that has you so close to cumming you need to bite Yoongi’s shoulder to stop yourself from finishing before the main event. Finally, after what felt like eternity, Yoongi stops torturing you both and pushes himself rest of the way in.

“Oh fucking hell.” He’s glancing down at your enjoined bodied like he can’t believe what he’s feeling.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go slow babe. Your pussy is too good. Fuck I want to fuck the shit out of you.” And he does exactly that.

You can’t even scream as your mouth falls open when Yoongi starts to set a pounding rhythm. Slamming his hips in to yours that his cock nestles deep inside, tickling that spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah. Your pussy is weeping for me baby. You ever felt this good before?” You shake your head frantically, a sob falling free from your lips as you make the first sound since Yoongi started pistoning his hips inside you.

It felt like your pussy was made for his cock. Moulding so perfectly to every ridge and every vein as his naked skin slapped against your ass. Yoongi hikes your legs over his shoulders, almost folding you in half while pinning your hands above your head, completely trapping you. Not that you were going to run away. You could barely moan, only whimpering and sobbing as his cock continued to batter your core over and over.

“Is baby crying because it feels so good? Hm? You want my cock in your cunt forever?”

You nod, hiccupping with every word and every thrust, “ F-Forever-a-and e-ever.”

Yoongi coos at your wet face and contorting face as grinds his hips to hit a different angle inside you, making you scream.

“Then be a good girl and milk Oppa’s cock for all its cum. Come on. Cum and make me cum.”

His words make your pussy clench around him involuntarily, making him curse under his breath. Suddenly, his pace gets even faster, slamming his cock inside you in quick thrusts, battering that one spot over and over as all sound leaves you.

“Right there baby? Fuck you right there?” Your body arches and responds for you. A couple of more rapid slams later, you’re consumed by such intense pressure that finally erupts – it blacks you out for a second.

“Fuck, yes. Squirt for Oppa. All over his cock.” You realise what’s happening and realise it hasn’t stopped yet. You’re still cumming on to his cock, gripping him tight that Yoongi is faltering in his pace.

“Shit. You’re going to make me c-cum light that. Oh god.” Your orgasm is finally subsiding and your vision is clearing enough that you muster all your strength and clench around his cock before pushing yourself up on to it – making the fit even tighter that Yoongi is cumming on the spot.

“Fuck!” The sensations of his orgasm kick start his ministrations again, slamming his cock in you a few more times before his body collapses on top of you. He’d cum so much inside you that you could feel it trickle out around his length.

Both of you are panting hard. Bodies shaking while you hold on for dear life by hanging on to Yoongi. He seems so exhausted as he nuzzles his head in your breasts, hands wrapped around your waist as he pushes himself to the side so he isn’t crushing you. As he pulls out of you, you can see the white ring around the base of his cock that formed after he fucked in to you as he came, making your face heat up so much you thought you would catch on fire. Yoongi had seen it too and he only dips his fingers in the mess leaking from you before bringing it up and smearing it all over your nipples. You watch him as he leans down, softly taking the cum covered tit in his mouth before sucking it slowly. When you’re thoroughly clean, he sends you a mischievous smile before laying besides you.

It’s a comfortable silence and you’re just revelling in the post coital bliss until he speaks up and asks you a bizarre question. “So, what’s your real name?”

You just turn to face him with your eyebrows furrowed. “Y/n. That is my real name.”

When he continues to stare at you, you ask him a question of your own. “Who exactly do you think… am I?”

Yoongi turns to face you completely. Looking very much intrigued. “A… woman who was sent to service me by Hoseok?”

Trying to hold in your laughter, you try to respond. You should be angry really but the way his lips are set in a pout and he’s inspecting your face like he’s so utterly confused is the most adorable thing – and a vast contrast from the man who just fucked your brains out.

“I don’t know who that is. You have me confused with someone else.”

“So…. You really were being chased last night?” A grim look has taken over his features and without thinking, you slip your hand in to his own before you answer.

“I believe so. This grotty old man followed me all the way down to this street. But thanks to you I’m okay.”

You might be playing down the incident that had you sobbing and running across the street but really, you were safe and you had met Yoongi. You couldn’t be mad even if you tried to. Yoongi on the other hand, is already on the phone with someone.

“Yong-Chol, please have the street cams pulled and find any trace of a man running after a young woman last night around 10pm.” He hangs up right after.

“I’m fine! You don’ have to do this.” Gripping his face, you peck his lips shyly – not sure if he wanted you to do that when he thought you were a Hooker not even ten minutes ago.

Thankfully he just grabs your hands in his before kissing your fingertips.

“I know. I want to. Frankly I want to wring that bastard’s neck for making you so upset.” Your heart was bleeding at how sweet he was. “Speaking of wringing, I need to make a call.”

You just law on the comfortable couch, still entangled with him as he calls Hoseok. Who picks up almost immediately.

“Hyung! Finally you picked up.”

“Hello to you too.”

“So uh… who did you exactly fuck last night? Because Leeane never made it.”

Yoongi can’t help but snort as he looks at you when he answers. “I figured. And who I’m with is none of your business. Now leave me alone. It’s my day off.”

“Damn hyung. I love it-” Yoongi just hangs up, rolling over to your side.

“So… I know I’m doing this backwards but, let’s go on a date on Monday? What do you say?”

Crap. You had to be at work extra early in the morning to be present at the analysis presentation of your entire department to the head, Mr. Min.

“I can’t,” you wrap your arms around his lithe torso as he does the same. “I have to be at this big meeting that we have where we present our work to our apparently big, meanie of a boss.” You pout for effect and Yoongi just pecks your lips.

“Where do you work baby?” The nickname has you blushing again and Yoongi just chuckles.

“Kim Inc.”

There is a silence so profound you wonder if you said the wrong thing. Until Yoongi breaks out in to the most beautiful, body consuming laugh.

“I’ll have a word with your big, mean boss. Come here.”

He just pulls you in another breathtaking kiss while you’re just wondering…. How?

Oh how naïve you were.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [943]

“Alright, I'll bite. What's wrong with her now?” Sera gestures out of the kitchen and down the hallway. From here Sera can see Ellana in the living room, who's lying down, one arm covering her face, the other hanging off of the edge of the couch. She hasn’t moved or otherwise spoken since Sera got here to help Bull set up the touch screen interface with his laptop to the newest add on to his ridiculous gaming table in the garage. Granted, Sera and Bull have been in the garage for most of Sera’s time here so Ellana could’ve moved then. But Sera’s willing to bet money she hasn’t.

“Ah. Finished a video game,” Bull says, handing Sera a can of beer.

“Okay. And? I was under the impression that you nerds finish a lot of video games. What’s she upset about now?”

“She has to replay it.”

“What, was it that shitty of a game that it’s made her like…immobile thinking about playing it again?”

“Nah. She loves the game. Loves the mechanics, things the story’s okay, and really likes the artistic design choices.” Bull starts to wash an apple.

“Okay. Explain to me why she looks like she’s trying to will herself to die on our couch.”

“Every time you play the game you can choose a different route. She’s played every route but one. The one featuring the character she dislikes the most in the entire franchise. She’s been avoiding it this entire time but now there’s only the one route left before she can start the hidden routes that only unlock after you complete all the other routes in the main campaign,” Bull explains. “And the worst part is that this last route would put her at odds with her absolute favorite character in the entire game. She’s been stalling by doing side quests and mini games that don’t count towards the main game’s progress but really there’s nothing else she can do. Time for her to bite the bullet, choose the one she hates, and kill the one she loves.”

“And she’s all theatrical about that? She can just play it again later with her favorite in it or whatever.”

“Every time she runs into the character she’s about to choose for her last route she has to break off to mock him,” Bull says. “It’s not going to be good. She can barely stand to hear him talk. Honestly? I’m surprised she hasn’t asked me to play it for her and give her a summary when I’m done. She’s a completionist, so. I guess that’s what’s got her trapped in this one.” Bull shakes his head. “Leave alone. She’s come around eventually. Hey, what time is it?”

Sera checks her phone. “Quarter after two.”

“Mahanon’s got a raid scheduled at three so he’ll be in any second to kick Ellana off the couch,” Bull says. “Either that or she’ll have to mope while he’s in the middle of his raid-mode which’ll definitely put her into action just listening to him. Yeah. This is about to run it’s course. Come on, I want to do some more color tests on the screen and your eyes are really good at picking up color variation.”

“Sure thing. Can’t wait for you to start using this thing in our campaigns,” Sera says. “How many upgrades are you gonna add to this table? I feel like you could’ve bought a new car at this rate.”

“Not that much money,” Bull says. “Besides, a lot of the actual physical upgrades I ask Blackwall for help for. Gotta put his carpentry to use somewhere that isn’t children’s rocking horses.” - “I was at the shop the other day picking up the new handbook I ordered for Malika and some new minis. Ran into some guys. Must be new in town because I haven’t seen them there before. Gave me a bit of trouble which is new and exciting. I don’t normally get people trying to fuck around with me, least of all in a game shop,” Bull says as Ellana’s stacking dishes in the sink, “I think people think that there’s an age limit on enjoying DND.”

Ellana almost drops several glasses.

“Are you trying to tell me someone tried to gatekeep you?” Ellana boggles at him, jaw hanging open. “You? You?”

She gestures to all of him.

“Someone tried to harass you?”

“I know. It was weirdly exciting,” Bull says as he rearranges their refrigerator to make room for tonight’s left overs. “I mean. Yeah that’s shitty. But also. Wow. People these days are getting bold. Kudos to them for having the guts to try it on me. Most people, I think, would look at the six foot plus tall guy with horns almost wider than a doorway, one eye, and eight fingers, and think — yeah. Gonna leave that fucker alone. These guys? Nah? They saw me and the slight wrinkles around my eyes and my tatts and went, yeah, this one can’t be into DND, he’s got too much jock energy. Self preservation went out the damn window there.”

“How many were there?”

“Three. I think the rest of the people in the shop — all regulars, I think you know some of them — were so shocked at what they were seeing they couldn’t react.  Actually, Merrill was there in the back playing rounds of magic.”

“And where was Daylen for all of this? I don’t imagine Daylen just standing by and watching this happen.”

“Amell got in a new shipment of dice that he hadn’t gotten around to putting out yet but he was getting me a bag to show me what they looked like. Came back to absolute carnage because Faren — you know, the guy who runs the CrossFit two blocks over? — was there to pick up some new map building sets and man did he fuckin’ unload on those two suckers.”

“Shit. I wish I could’ve seen it — now hold on a second. They chose to pick on you, but not Faren? Same energy! The only difference is that Faren’s a dwarf. Otherwise? Exact same energy.”

“Yeah, but Faren wears glasses, so. I guess it cancels out sort of.”

[butterflydreaming-writes-fic]

*sweats* I'm excited to offer a gift fic for @imthatpeculiarone in this round of the Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion. 

Title: This Wheel's on Fire 

Word Count: 3,419 

Fluff, Rated Gen

An old Lincoln Continental with faded paint nearly hits Baby in the supermarket parking lot. Dean slams the brakes. His untasted coffee takes a dive, and Dean is quickly slapping take-out napkins from the glove box stash even as he slides into an open parking spot. He takes a minute of the limited time he has for this errand to get himself calmed down.

His temper flares up again when he sees that he’s parked next to the gold Continental. He doesn’t have time to move the Impala to another spot, so he slides over the bench seat. The Fiat on that side is crookedly parked but still leaves enough space for Dean to open the door more than four inches.

Phone in hand,  he scrolls through Jody’s text messages for the list. While he was driving to the store, she’s added more. He grabs a shopping cart on the way in, notes where the freezer with the ice is, and speeds up an aisle toward the bakery section, where he almost collides with a guy striding through the T-intersection.

“Shit! By bad,” Dean says, stopping short of running the startled man down.

The man squints. His blue eyes burn brighter. “That would be the second time today,” he accuses.

“What?” Dean asks.

The man rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he gripes as he beelines for another section of the store.

Dean doesn’t have time either. The cake is ready when he gets to the bakery counter, but they’ve written “Congratulations Kelsy” instead of “Kelly.” To fix it, Dean would have to wait for the only person on staff with the rare skill of being able to write with decorator gel to get back from a break of unknown duration. He takes the cake as-is and a tube of Cake Mate. He rattles through the aisles for the rest of the supplies, eyes the coffee cart, but opts to get in the shortest of the long checkout lines instead.

The cranky guy gets in line behind him.

Their eyes meet and lock. For a second it looks like the guy might yield and move to another line, but as Dean is starting to unload his items onto the belt, the guys interrupts.

“Can I go ahead of you? I only have three things.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean says. “I’m on a clock.”

“I’m not your buddy,” Blue Eyes snipes. He eyes Dean’s purchases, expression a mix of irritation and confusion.

“Man, what is your issue with me?” Dean protests. “Look, I haven’t had my coffee yet, so maybe I’m missing something. But I’ve gotta finish shopping and be gone in sixty seconds, OK? There’s a pregnant lady waiting for her cake and baby shower games. I’ll be out of your life in five minutes.”

The man’s face suddenly brightens. “You’re going to a baby shower.” The brilliance of his smile is like white sparks. Dean feels his body respond to the warmth of that smile even though the sudden transformation from pissy to friendly throws him.

The checker has started scanning Dean’s purchases. He gives her the sticker with the barcode for the cake. “And six bags of ice,” he tells her.

Blue Eyes asks, “Is the party for your partner?”

That startles a laugh out of Dean. “No,” he answers, a drawn out negation. “My friend is hosting. The mom-to-be is from her church.” He adds, “I’m not seeing anyone currently.” He gives the guys his own friendly smile.

Dean’s lure lands, because the man extends a hand. “I’m Cas. By the way.”

“Dean.” They shake hands. Cas has a strong grip. In the fleeting skin to skin contact notes the slight callous and Cas’s long fingers. He has good hands.

“It's a happy occasion.” Cas sets down his purchases: a guinea pig plushie, pack of gold gift wrapping tissue, and a glossy white bag decorated with rainbows and unicorns. A tween must be having a birthday. 

Dean reaches for his wallet to pay. It’s not in his pocket. “Crap.” This grocery store isn’t set up to take pay apps.

Cas catches on. “Dean, I’ve got this,” he says. “It’s just,” he gestures at the bags, “diapers and candy bars.” 

“It’s a lot,” Dean objects. “I’ll Venmo you the money right now.”

“I don’t know Venmo,” Cas says. He tells the cashier, “I’ll pay for mine with his.” To Dean he says, “Let’s exchange phone numbers and we can settle up later when we’re not holding up a checkout line.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks.

“I believe in trusting people.” Cas nearly bumps Dean’s hip putting his card into the payment terminal. When the path is clear, Dean pushes the shopping cart past the checkstand, but for a long moment Cas and Dean are crowded into each other’s personal space. 

“You said you haven’t had coffee yet. Can I buy you a cup?” Cas points to the coffee cart. “I know you’re short on time, but we can get each other’s contact info while they make our drinks.”

They both order drip coffee, black. The barista doesn’t have any brewed, and offers a choice between Americanos or a five minute wait.

“We can blame our delay on traffic,” Cas suggests.

They opt for the wait.

“OK, give me your number,” Dean says after they take a table in the tiny dining area. “If you want I can bring you cash after I drop off the party stuff.”

The cart is too big, so Dean takes out the bags and sets them on the table, leaving the cart parked out of the way. He’ll need it when he gets the ice on the way out. They start out chatting about movies and end up in an oddly intense discussion about social justice and the existence of a benevolent God in the minutes until the barista calls out that their coffees are ready.

Dean takes the lid off and slugs the coffee. He can’t help the sound that comes out of him, even though it is borderline inappropriate for a grocery store. “That’s scalding,” he says, eyes watering, “but so good.” Cas is smiling at him. “My friend woke me up with the shopping emergency,” Dean explains. He gestures to his coffee-splattered clothes. “And then some dick in a crappy Continental makes a illegal left on the way in here — “

“Excuse me ,” Cas interrupts with flashpoint ire. “That turn was both legal and clear , and if your boat hadn’t been taking up two lanes we would not have had that near miss!”

Dean takes a long swallow of hot coffee before he gets in a fight over Baby’s honor. He takes a mental half-step back as he realizes that Cas was the driver earlier. Dean has a bad temper, he knows it, and he’s learned to be better about it than he was in his twenties. Cas had saved his bacon with the money thing, and he had done it in spite of thinking Dean was in the wrong.

“Look. Thanks for the help,” he says. He’s sincere but somehow it comes out sounding aggressive. “I mean it. Thanks.” Without saying anything more, he grabs his bags and stalks out. He makes it all the way to Baby before he realizes. He gets the shopping bags in the trunk and goes back for the forgotten ice.

Cas is walking directly toward him. For a solid three strides across the asphalt it is a game of chicken. They stare daggers at each other, oblivious to any traffic around. Nearly simultaneously, they both realize that Cas is walking to his car, which is parked right next to the Impala, and Dean is walking back into the grocery store. They pass each other; the absence of acknowledgement is an acknowledgement in itself.

Dean makes it back into the store, loads up a shopping cart with the ice Cas paid for, and pushes the rattling cart out the door and across the lot to his car. The Continental is still in its spot. Cas hasn’t left yet; he is sitting in the driver seat. Dean can’t get into his driver’s seat until Cas leaves, so he loads the ice into the trunk slowly. He finishes his coffee.

When Cas still hasn’t left, Dean walks around the Lincoln’s large ass end and raps a knuckle on the back window to get Cas’s attention. He waits for Cas to roll down the window a few inches, before pitching his voice to him. “I can’t get in my car until you pull out,” he tells him.

“Your shopping cart is in the way. I’ve been waiting until it’s safe,” Cas informs him.

Dean just shakes his head and walks away, dragging his cart to the corral at the end of the parking row. He lobs his empty paper cup into the same trash can he dropped the mess from his spilled coffee into. He watches Cas back out of the space, smooth and easy, the engine of the Continental bumbling like a contented bee as he drives away. Dean jogs back to the Impala and slides into the driver seat before a car can take the newly empty spot, not that anything would fill the space like that late ‘70s Lincoln Continental Mark V. 

He gets a weird feeling looking at the empty space. It feels like a missed opportunity. He wishes he’d kept his mouth shut about the left turn. How many times had someone cut him off in traffic or made a bad lane change, and how many of those times mattered after? None. He and Cas had been having a good conversation, connecting.

Dean tunes the radio to the classic rock station, relaxes with the comfortable and familiar, and heads out. Kelly’s address is less than five minutes away, but too many of the residential streets dead end, and by the time he finds the right path through, it’s been a quarter hour. there is space for him in the driveway, though, and he pulls in so that he can unload the ice bags. He tosses one on his shoulder and knocks on the unfamiliar door.

* * *

“I should have handled that better,” Cas says to the stuffed animal, his last minute gift for Kelly’s baby-on-the-way. Her house is close by and he knows the way, so he finds himself thinking about Dean, feelings a mix of irritation and deep attraction. Dean, who he will probably never see again.

Because he knows that quite a few guests will be attending her party, he parks the Lincoln around the block to leave space along the street in front of her home. Kelly Kline-Rooney and her husband Jefferson have a newly remodeled, two-story Craftsman home with a large yard and back garden. Cas drew the plans for the remodel, and over some difficulty with the contractor, he and Kelly became friends.

He’s arrived early to help with set up, but Jody, the organizer — who he meets for the first time — shoos him out of the kitchen, so he gets to spend the time with Kelly. “How are you,” he asks her, “and how’s the baby?”

“I’m good,” she says, “we’re both good.” She heaves a little sigh and fidgets in her armchair. “Actually, I’m a little wound up. I haven’t finished painting the mural in the nursery, and all of a sudden I feel like there won’t be enough time to get anything finished before my baby gets here.” She smooths a hand over her belly. Her expression changes and she gasps, “Oh! Give me your hand.” She takes him by the wrist and pulls his hand toward her baby bump.

He feels her baby kick, all that life, gearing up to meet the world. Cas has to admit, because Kelly has enthusiastically roped him into the experience of her pregnancy, he has become more interested in the idea of having children. It has broadened his outlook.

“Kelly,” he finds himself saying, “I met someone today.”

Her eyes sparkle with interest. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet!” she laughs.

“I met him at the grocery store,” Cas says, shrugging. He smiles, thinking about Dean. His smile breaks as he recalls how it played out. “Unfortunately,” he confesses, “we didn’t part on good terms.”

“Cas,” Kelly mourns. “What happened? Tell me all about it?”

“This beautiful man,” he starts, thinking of Dean, his deep voice and the way he spoke with conviction and certainty. The way he made direct eye contact. The sexy freckles and the shape of his lips.

“Yes?” Kelly prompts when Cas gets lost in thought.

He laughs. “He is… very attractive,” Cas emphasizes. “You know I’m not overly focused on appearances, but Dean.” He shakes his head and looks heavenward. His eyes fall to his hands. He picks at his fingernails. “We almost got into a car accident, and that’s what we ended up fighting about. But before that, we got coffee together and talked, and we exchanged numbers.”

“Well that’s good!” Kelly encourages. “Something sparked between you. You can call him and smooth things out.”

“I wasn’t in the wrong,” Cas grumps.

“No, sweetie. I’m not saying you have to apologize or anything. But you can talk. You only just met. Sometimes first meetings don’t go all that well because of sparks.” She gives him a robust pat on the knee. “I’m rooting for you.” Inching forward in her chair to get up, she sighs, “I miss drinks with booze in them. How about we get some fancy lemonade and pretend it’s rosé?”

“I’ll get it,” Cas says so that Kelly doesn’t have to rise. He enters the kitchen with a hello for Jodi and gets introduced to Patience a moment before she leaves to answer the front door. Cas can hear her greeting the newcomer, and he stops mid-pour when he hears the deep timbre that answers. He finishes pouring Kelly’s sparkling pink lemonade before he musters the question for Jodi, “Is that Dean?”

“You know each other?” Jodi responds with cheerful curiosity.

Patience comes back in, holding up a grocery bag. “Dean came through. I’m going to help him bring in the bags of ice — “

“I can help with that,” Cas interrupts.

“Would you? Thanks!”

The look on Dean’s face when he sees Cas is… not what Cas expected. Dean’s eyes light up, and there is a genuine wonder in his surprise.

  * * *

Missouri’s granddaughter, Patience Turner, waves for Dean to come inside. “Hi Dean! Jody’s in the kitchen.”

“Hiya, Patience. Where can I put the ice? I’ve got five more bags like this.”

“There’s a big cooler out on the barbecue patio,” she says. “Through the living room. I’ll get you some help unloading the car.”

The living room already has a dozen people in it. Dean exchanges salutations with the people he knows and exudes charm at the rest. He shakes out the bag of ice into the cooler, which looks big enough, and scopes out the landing spot for the cake. There is a long table already stocked with plates and plastic cutlery; it has some gifts on it that will need to be moved to join the pile of gifts on the coffee table. Dean registers that one is a white gift bag with unicorns and rainbows on it, stuffed with gold tissue.

Patience is in the entry with Cas.

For a solid beat, Dean doesn’t know what to think, because something in his chest turns over like a big engine revving up. Once the wheels of his mind get going, he still continues standing there like an idiot. “Hey, Cas,” he says.

“Hello, Dean.”

Cas turns and goes out the door. When they reach the Impala, they are alone together, and it is awkward. It is definitely awkward. Cas stands by the trunk, expectantly.

“Here, let me get that,” Dean says. As he unlocks and lifts the heavy lid of the trunk, they are standing too close again. Dean should mind that Cas’s keeps getting into his personal space, but he doesn’t. He wants to get closer. This level of attraction makes him stupid, and he feels the urge to make an offhand comment to sabotage himself.

But then Cas says, “I’m sorry we parted on a bad note.”

“Yeah, um,” Dean answers, “me too.” He knows it’s not enough, not when he’s gotten a second chance. “I mean, I’m sorry, too.” It’s hard to believe it can be that simple, but Cas’s face lights up with hope, so maybe it is. 

“Between the two of us, I’m sure we can get all of this in one trip,” Cas says, and now they have to get moving. Apparently, he is also a pro at self-sabotage. It’s weirdly comforting.

They don’t get much of a chance to talk alone after that. Dean fixes the writing on Kelly’s cake and catches up with Jody, while Cas makes party talk with the people he knows. They chat, but not alone, not until Dean is volunteered to fire up the barbecue and Cas escapes outside with him.

It’s a gas barbecue, and clean. There isn’t much to do while it heats up. “How do you like your burger?” Dean asks, because food is an easy topic.

Cas shrugs. “Well done?”

Dean shakes his head. “A good cut of grass-fed beef, medium rare — that’s a burger to sink your teeth into. Juicy, fresh.”

“I don’t eat much red meat anymore,” Cas says. “I sneak a trip to White Castle once in a rare while.”

“White Castle? You’ve gotta let me make you a real burger, Cas.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Trust the Meat Man,” Dean says, pointing both thumbs back at himself.

Cas squints at him. “You’re very confident in your opinions,” he says.

Dean’s not sure how to take that. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“There’s more than one side to things,” Cas answers.

“A right side and a wrong side?” Dean teases.

“Dean.” Cas gives him an eye roll and a look, a real cut the crap look that delights Dean. He knows he likes arguing with someone who can hold his ground.

“You’re easy to get riled up, y’know that?”

“Am I.” Cas’s tone is flirty.

“Or maybe it’s just easy for me to get your wheels burning,” Dean flirts back.

“How, by disparaging my car?” Cas asks.

Dean blinks. “Your car?”

“You called it ‘crappy’.” He does the air quotes. “It’s not. There’s a lot to love about an old car. As I would think you would know, since you have one yourself.”

“Did you just compare my Impala to your land yacht? How does a guy like you even have a car like that?”

“I like it,” Cas defends.

“It’s still not a Chevy,” Dean says.

“I have never understood the Ford - Chevrolet rivalry,” Cas comments. “They’re not sports teams. It’s bizarre.” He’s serious.

“OK, OK,” Dean responds. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he says. He adds on, “It just comes easy to me.”

“So we should just kiss and make up?” Cas asks, making eye contact.

Dean licks his lips. Damn, if that isn’t an invitation.

They both glance at the sliding glass doors and the potential audience inside. “Ah, the garden shed,” Cas starts. “There might be some needed equipment.”

“Yeah, barbecue stuff or,” Dean agrees.

As soon as they are inside the painted shed, they are in each other’s personal space again. There is nothing accidental about the kiss that follows. Cas’s hands grip Dean at the hip. Dean puts his hands on Cas’s jaw. He holds his head and kisses him deeply, eager to feel him. He gets Cas’s lower lip between his own and gently lingers as they explore each other’s mouths.

They make out for as long as they think they can get away with. But the barbecue is unattended, and they know someone will wonder where they’ve disappeared to if they are gone too long.

Dean makes the moment they have last as long as he can. “I guess we should get back,” he murmurs, nuzzling at Cas’s neck.

“Mmh,” Cas makes a noise that could be agreement.

“What are you doing after the party?” Dean asks.

“Probably helping clean up,” answers Cas.

“Funny, me too. What about tomorrow?”

“Well, tomorrow I have to run some errands after work. Grocery store shopping.” Cas’s eyes are twinkling.

“Oh. I see. How about I do the shopping, and cook you a nice dinner? My place?”

“You’re on, Meat Man,” Cas agrees.

* * *

[13-reasons-ideas]

Finding Peace In Another- The Party Monty’s POV

A/N: I wasn't expecting for this to go quite this way, but I like how it has turned out. We learn some more about Becca. I hope you guys like it. Likes and reblog are appreciated. As always, much love. 

On the way to Bryce’s after the game, I checked my texts. Becca had texted me halfway through the third quarter. I hope you’re having fun babe. Wish I could have been there tonight, but I’m swamped with school stuff. See you in a while. Rather than respond, I decided to swing by her place with Scott. “Hey, stop at Becca’s. I want to see her.” “You’ll see her in like twenty minutes, dude.”

“I know. But I want my post game hug.”

Scott laughed, “she’s really doing a number on you, isn’t she?”

“Maybe she is Scotty. Maybe she is.”

Scott parked in front of her house and we walked to the door. We could both hear arguing inside and Scott and I shared a look. It didn’t seem overly loud or anything, so Scott shrugged and knocked on the door. A minute or two later, Becca answered the door. Her face was beginning to turn pink and she had a glint of anger in her eyes.

“Hey guys, it’s not really a good time.”

“What’s up?” Scott asked.

“Who’s at the door Rebecca?” Her dad called from behind her.

“Just a friend from school.” She called back to him. “I have to go but I’ll see you in a bit okay?” She said quietly.

“Is everything okay Rebecca?” I asked, concerned. She had never mentioned fighting with her dad before.

“Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll explain later. Bye guys.” She replied shortly and shut the door before we could answer her.

“Um. What the hell was that?” Scott turned to me.

“I have no idea.” I shook my head.

“Do you think she’s okay?”

“I don’t know Scotty.” I doubt it. Without discussing it more, Scott and I left her house and drove to Bryce’s.

The party was just getting underway when we arrived. “Hey, you guys are later than I expected.” Bryce called to us when we got into the kitchen.

“Had something to take care of.” I responded. Scott knew better than to tell Bryce details about our activities that didn’t include him, so he didn’t add anything. He merely nodded at him and we shared another look. Becca was still on both of our minds

“Alright, well do you guys want a drink or are you going to stand there all night eye fucking or whatever that is?”

We tore our eyes from each other and grabbed a couple of beers. The three of us wandered around the house for a while, whilst people showed up, filling the space. Zach found us not long after with Justin in tow. I had agreed to be nice to her friends, so I shared common pleasantries with Justin, even if I still didn’t really like him all that much. We ended up congregating near the stairs, close to the door. Bryce wanted to keep an eye on the entering guests all of the sudden or something. I couldn’t focus on the conversation. I was busy thinking about Becca and what was going on with her. She was different recently. I couldn’t place what it was or when exactly things started changing, but there was something different about her.

“What about Alex?” Justin asked me.

“What about him?” I asked, confused. Guess I should pay more attention.

“Has Becca talked about him at all recently?”

“Not really, why?”

“I was just wondering. Zach and I were talking earlier.” His eyes motioned to Bryce quickly. What the…?

“Oh, well no. She hasn’t really mentioned him outside of basics.” We abandoned the topic of Becca talking about her friends and moved onto more mundane things.

The sound of angry footsteps caught our attention. Becca marched over to us and grabbed my cup without a word and pounded the half a cup a beer back in one go. My eyes widened at her. Where the fuck did that come from? I briefly looked around our circle and they all wore variations of the same the fuck was that look. She began speaking to Bryce angrily. “Do your parents try to parent you when they get home from their trips?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Is it as infuriating as what I just experienced?”

“Sometimes.” He turned to Zach and I, furrowing his brow. He had no idea what was going on.

“What happened Becca?” Justin asked.

“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching for my cup to take it away from her gently.

“Fucking peachy. And what happened Justin, is my dad got home last night. And today he decided to go off on me for no fucking reason. By the way, he knows you spend the night now.” She told him, motioning to me. My eyes widened in fear. Fuck. I don’t want to meet the parent. Not yet and not now that he knows I sleep with his daughter. “I told him to deal with it. He’s the one who made me move here and decided to leave me home alone all the time.”

“You got into that bad of a fight because Monty spends the night at your place?” Scott asked, scratching his chin.

“No. We got into that bad of a fight because he proceeded to try and play father of the decade and ‘talked’ about Jake. He was hardly around when we were kids. He didn’t know shit about him. That’s why I’m infuriated with him.”

“Holy… I’m sorry Becca.” Zach said, pulling her into a hug and rubbing her back.

“Do you need a place to crash tonight? I’m sure Mom and Dad would have no problem with you sleeping in Clay’s old room for the night.” Justin offered. I tried to ignore the crappy feeling in my chest at Justin having to be the one who offers her a place to crash.

“I don’t know Justin. I don’t want to impose.” She replied, rubbing her arm.

“It wouldn’t be an imposition. I’ll call mom and we can stop to grab your bag on the way to my place.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around her waist, and she leaned back against me. I kissed the top of her head gently, trying to comfort her and get her to calm down a little. “This is nice and all, but that beer was terrible. I need a real drink.” she told me, sighing.

“Okay, let’s get you a drink then.”

I took her hand and we walked to the kitchen. I poured her a single bourbon and Coke at her request not her usual choice but okay. She drank it slowly. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to savour the burn or build up to more or what, but it didn’t do much to quell my anxiety about where her head was at. I watched her drink it but didn’t try to talk to her. She didn’t make me talk when I went to her, so I won’t make her talk now.

When it was empty a while later, she left me in the living room to get another drink. I had a clear view of her, and I watched as she poured what looked like at least a double vodka Diet Coke. That one didn’t last as long as the bourbon. I felt a pit forming in my stomach.Something is wrong.

Not long after her second drink was finished, she went back for a refill. And then another when that was done.

She had left me alone after she had had her second drink. The look she gave me, made it clear I was not to follow her. As much as I didn’t want to leave her alone, I wasn’t sure how to proceed with her. She didn’t look like she had had so much to drink that she couldn’t stand on her own or anything, so I respected her request. I did make sure to keep an eye on her at all times though. This is really weird. This isn’t like her.

I went in search of Zach and found him in much the same state as I was. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I asked when I reached him.

“Yup. Do you know what’s going on?” We watched her as she poured another drink. At least that one looked like a single. Maybe she’s slowing down.

“I don’t know. Scott and I went to her place before coming here, so I could get a hug. It sounded like her and her dad were fighting about something. And I know she said they fought, but I really don’t think the fight could have been so bad that she’s just drinking like its water. Has she mentioned anything to you about her dad and her fighting a lot?”

“No. She doesn’t really talk about her family much. I think Jake was really the only family member she cared about. Maybe she cared about her mom, but she doesn’t talk about her, like… ever.”

“I wasn’t sure if it was just a me thing. As awful as it sounds, I thought it might have been because I haven’t lost a parent.”

“No, I get it. It’s a club you can’t be in until you’re in. The most she talks about her dad is in regard to the fact that he’s never around.”

“Yeah.” I trailed off as I watched her pour yet another drink. I started to step towards her, but Zach pulled me back.

“I know you want to intervene but just hang on a second. I can’t just watch this anymore so I’m going to call Bailey.” He said, pulling out his phone. I nodded and watched him type in Bailey’s number. We walked to a quiet area of the main floor that still allowed us to keep an eye on Becca. Bailey answered on the third ring.

“Hello?” He asked, groggily. It was obvious the call had woken him up. I checked my watch and noticed it would be around one o’clock there.

“Hey Bailey. It’s Zach.”

“Oh, hey Zach. What’s up?”

“I need to ask you something about Becca.”

“At one in the morning?”

“Yeah. It’s important.” I listened as it sounded like he was sitting up. He was a lot more alert when he responded.

“What’s going on?”

“How long have you known her?”

“God. I don’t even know, years? We grew up going to school together.”

“In those years, how often was her dad around?”

He barked out a laugh on the other line. “Aside from Christmas? Not a whole lot. Her parents had a rule that he was always home for Christmas.”

“Do they fight a lot when he’s home?”

“Not really, no? What’s going on Zach? Did something happen? Did he do something to her?”

“I don’t think he did anything aside from piss her off. I wouldn’t be calling you if he had. They got into a fight before she came over to Bryce’s and now, she’s drinking vodka Diet Cokes like they’re water. I’m worried about her. She said he was talking about Jake.”

“What a fucking idiot. How many has she had?”

“At my last count, at least 6. It looked like a few were doubles. She also stole the rest of my beer.” I responded.

“Hey Monty. Well, your beer won’t do much of anything to her. American beer is basically just piss water. As for the other drinking, she generally does choose that hard stuff, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drink that much. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen her drunk.”

“Great.” I muttered.

“There has to be something more than just a fight with her dad and him talking about Jake.”

“I don’t know Bailey. She had to drink when she told me about what happened.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything but the day she told me, she had been drinking before I got to her place.”

“Either of you guys think she has this much to drink then?”

“No. She seemed fine.”

“Something I forgot to tell you about Becca is that when she gets stressed or has to talk about hard stuff, she might have a half a glass of wine or like half a beer. It’s legal here for her to drink. I’m not saying it’s healthy but it’s not a problem.”

“Not a problem? That sounds like the makings of a drinking problem.” I said, my brow furrowing.

“Monty, I get it. It sounds bad. But if it was a problem, don’t you think I would have said something? Or that Jake would have said something to her about it? It’s not a regular thing at all. Consider it like the equivalent of smoking a joint when you’re stressed. And before either of you give me the ‘we are athletes and don’t do that’ crap, I know people who smoke when I see them. And I know all about synthetic pee. She doesn’t have a problem with weed, she just doesn’t smoke period.”

“Okay. But what is happening now is a problem.”

“Yes. It is.” He said.

“Thanks Bailey. I’ll text you when she leaves and Justin texts me that they’re home, so you know she’s safe.”

“Thanks Zach. I appreciate it.”

After we ended the call, I walked over to where Becca was pouring another drink. I took the cup from her and kept it out of her reach. “I think that’s enough for now Becks.”

“But-.”

“No buts. Come with me.” She thought for a moment, but the look on my face said there would be no use in arguing. I took her by the hand, giving her drink to Zach as we passed him, and led her towards the master bedroom. I chose it because it was an empty, secluded area, away from people.

I sat on the floor in the hall and patted the spot next to me. I rested my elbows on my knees and she reluctantly sat down cross legged. “What’s going on Rebecca?”

“Nothing. I’m fine Montgomery.” She told me. Fine my ass.

“No, you’re not. I’ve never seen you drink like this before. Zach called Bailey. He told him he’s never seen you drunk before. He has known you for years. And don’t try to say you weren’t allowed to drink at home until you were fifteen, because my point stands.”

“He called Bailey? Why?”

“Because he’s worried about you Becks. I’m worried about you.” She looked down at her feet. Instead of responding, she leaned her head on my shoulder. I placed a hand on her knee, and we sat in silence for a while.

While we sat, I drew random patterns on her knee. It seemed to calm her down and give her something to focus on.

“I love you.” I heard her say, softly. What? She… she loves me? Did she really just say she loves me?

My hand stopped drawing for a few seconds while I thought about what she had just told me. I must have been quiet for a while because she followed it up with, “you don’t have to say it back though. No pressure or anything.”

“I love you too.” I said, equally as quietly. She lifted her head from my shoulder, and I moved to cup the side of her face with one hand. She leaned in and kissed me, before pulling away and repositioning herself.

The alcohol was clear on her breath and I pulled her in closer by her waist. We pulled away and leaned our foreheads against each other. She giggled, giddily. I smiled, widely back at her. Neither of us could really form anymore words.

“Becca? Monty?” We heard Justin’s voice from around the corner.

“I guess that’s our cue that it’s time to get up and get you to bed.”

She nodded slowly. I stood first and offered her my hand. I pulled her to her feet as Justin came around the corner.

“There you are. Do you want to head out now? Mom said it is no problem for you to spend the night tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll just write dad a note saying I’m staying with a friend tonight.”

“Sounds good. I’ll let you know when we get to my place Monty.”

“Thanks Justin. Have a good night beautiful. Take some Advil before bed.” I suggested to her, gently. Now probably isn’t the time to start telling her what to do.

“I will.”

The three of us walked to the door and she tried to give me a bear hug. She is adorable. “I love you.” She said into my chest.

“I love you too.” I spoke into her hair. I spent the rest of the night drinking water, waiting to hear from Justin. Got her home safe. I gave her a couple of Advil’s and she is in bed. I left the lamp on for her in case she wakes up in the night. She will text you tomorrow. I decided to crash on Bryce’s couch for the night. Whatever she remembers tomorrow will be tomorrow’s issue.

[daisyfornost]

fanfic tag game

I was tagged by @greenapricot, and I feel so honored, not just because she’s wonderful and amazing and I’m in awe of her writing, but also because I’ve never written much myself and recently... almost nothing.

Ao3 name: daisynorbury, which I chose when I got involved in the Tolkien online fandom around 2002. “Norbury” is the Westron name for the old Arnorian capital of Fornost, north of the Shire. When Sherlock s4 happened suddenly that name conveyed something rather different, so I switched the second half to Fornost on tumblr. If it were less of a hassle I’d switch it on Ao3 too, but... hassle. Daisy’s just a nickname.

Number of fics: 18

Fandoms: Inspector Morse (1), which I’m putting first because it’s the only fandom I’m still writing in and even that’s just one, slooow, curatorial-rather-than-creative wip; Lewis (3), Lord of the Rings (7), M*A*S*H (3), Sherlock Holmes - Granada/ACD (3), Being Human UK (1)

1. Fic you spent the most time on: Aulë’s Gift, by far. Everything else took a few months at most. Aulë’s Gift took me 11 goddamn years. Eleven. Years. Which, at the time I finished it, was more than a quarter of my life. And it’s only 54k. I had one novel in me and that’s it. I like it and I’m proud of it, but to this day when I try to read it the formatting makes me CRINGE. Someday I’ll go back and fix it. *sigh*

2. Fic you spent the least time on: Dunno, maybe Lamedon Abandoned (LotR, L/G. 2.8k) but it was so long ago I don’t remember. I also feel like Fair’s The Last Thing It Is (M*A*S*H, gen, 3.1k) came pretty easily and quickly.

3. Longest Fic: Aulë’s Gift by a long shot. (LotR, L/G, 54k) See above.

4. Shortest Fic: Solid Choice (Lewis, Robbie/James, 1099w) because it was designed as a series of double drabbles. And from that experience I learned that I hate a word-count limit. Never again.

5. Most hits: As Yes To If (Sherlock Holmes - Granada/ACD, Holmes/Watson, 3k), probably because it ended up on a few tumblr fic-rec lists shortly after I published it.  Although somewhere along the line, someone miswrote my name on a rec list as “staceynorbury” and that name is still floating around the interwebs. Cracks me up.

6. Most kudos: Again, As Yes To If.

7. Most comment threads: Aulë’s Gift, but most of those are just me and @roselightfairy yelling back and forth at one another. Second-most: Silver Gaze, which is the sequel to As Yes To If. The one where H&W stay at an inn on Dartmoor after the Silver Blaze case. And there was only one bed.

8. Fave Fic you wrote: That’s very hard. Gonna set aside Aulë’s Gift just because there’s so much more of it than everything else that it’s unfair competition. Uh… maybe Hit What’s Pitched? (M*A*S*H, Hawkeye/BJ, 4.3k) Though some of my warm feeling for it is my readers’ reaction to Charles. Everybody loves my Charles. And after re-reading Venus the Bringer of Peace... gosh, I’d forgotten how much thought I put into that one.

9. Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: Venus the Bringer of Peace (Lewis, Robbie/James, 6.1K) is currently two chapters and officially “complete”, but was originally intended to be five (culminating in the night after Falling Darkness, when Robbie and Laura and James all go home together, because of course they do), and I still have a bunch of notes for the last three chapters. I hope to get around to writing them someday. Indeed, sometimes I even open my notes and, like, look at them. (And as mentioned, Aulë’s Gift needs some serious reformatting, but I don’t plan to edit the content. Happy with it as is.) 

10. Share a bit of your WIP or share a story idea that you’re planning: I just published the most recent chapter (12: The Infernal Serpent) of my episodic review of Inspector Morse, and I haven’t started working on the next one yet so there’s nothing to share. And beyond that, my muse is pretty much dead. Menopause really axed my brain.

Buuuut… I could open my Venus The Bringer of Peace notes and see what’s there.  *pokepoke*

1. “There are things about me that are... latent. Without you. I can’t find them on my own, and I’ve never found them with anyone but you. You showed me who I can be. I can’t even see that version of me without you to bring it out. You make me more myself. More…  real.”

2. ... James doesn’t notice that Robbie’s returned from the loo until he feels a hand on his shoulder. James looks up, indicates the sleeping Laura with a dip of his head, and mouths “This should be you.” And Robbie misunderstands. He hasn’t been privy to James’ line of thought, and interprets his remark as James saying “It should be you, here, curled up on my shoulder, sleeping.”  And because Robbie is very tired, and wrung out, and freshly grieving the pain and awful injustice of it all, and despite Laura’s trauma and his fervent wish for her to feel safe and loved and held right now, for a second he imagines himself there in her place, and all he can think is “Yes, Christ, yes it should be, please.”  He stares down at James. He can’t make sense of what he just said. He thinks it should be me? He thinks it should... be me? He wants to be holding me? Now? James stares right back. Looking up at him like… like he means it. Like he’s both telling Robbie that he wants to hold him and unashamed of laying himself bare.

Robbie blinks a few times, then feels his hand drift up from James’ shoulder and two fingertips brush his jaw. He can’t seem to stop himself. He swallows, feeling immensely guilty, and whispers, “Ah, lad. She needs you more than I do just now.”’

[etraytin]

Quarantine, Day 89

June 8 

Another Monday, the start of another business week, and a very busy day! Today was full of many adventures, such as achieving a new high score in Gardenscapes, being yelled at by an elderly person, and not going to Lowes. Quite the whirlwind! The kiddo has not quite gone to sleep yet, but I have bought time out of his room by telling him I was going to make some tea (which is technically also true). I am hoping that by the time I check on him in ten minutes, he will have fallen asleep cause he was pretty tired. 

First thing this morning was the meeting with the attorney. It was a Zoom visit, and my goodness, aren't we all getting good at using Zoom now? It's practically old hat. We had a list of questions and were able to get some useful answers, as well as start to make a plan going forward with handling the estate. Apparently the office now does drive thru will signing and notarization, which is very funny to me but makes sense since you need two witnesses in person for a will signing and I don't think anyone has tested whether videoconferencing is in person enough. (I think it's gonna happen soon though, and I think the answer will be yes.)  After the meeting, I spent much of the rest of the morning making a list of what entities will need a copy of the death certificate when it arrives and where that certificate will need to be sent. I am hoping we can stay long enough that the certificates come in the mail, but they are apparently kind of backed up right now. 

While I was working, the kiddo seized control of our little iPad (we have many iPads in the house right now, there is the big iPad, which was Papa's, the medium iPad, which is Nana's, and the little iPad, which we got when Papa got the big iPad because he couldn't read the little iPad) and used it to spend all my Gardenscapes stars. I like the match-three game that is Gardenscapes and pretty much ignore the metagame of furnishing the garden except when I need to get extra lives. The kiddo doesn't like the actual game very much but gets a real kick out of furnishing the garden, so he spent all 1400 of my accumulated stars, finished four or five areas, and bumped my coin total to an all-time high of 105,000. I am like unto a god among gardeners, fear my pecuniary might! Upon finishing spending my stars, he gave me back the iPad and insisted I needed to earn him more stars, so that's what I did during podcast time tonight. 

For lunch my husband made mozzarella stick grilled cheese, where he made grilled cheese sandwiches, then rolled them in breading, then pan-fried them crispy golden brown and served them with marinara sauce. They were very, very good and I should probably not eat them more than once a year if I value my coronary artery health. After lunch MIL and I went to the drive-thru at the drugstore for her medicine, and then I tried to go to Lowes for a new outdoor garbage can and garden hose. I figured midafternoon on a Monday shouldn't be too busy, but the place was packed! What the hell is everybody doing at Lowes, anyway? I decided to come back later after noting the number of people not even wearing masks. 

The afternoon was pretty sedate, husband and kiddo took the other guitar, this one a regular size wooden acoustic that FIL made from a kit back in his early retirement days. FIL was a hell of a woodworker at one time, he also built a grandfather clock from a kit that still stands in the living room and keeps good time. MIL wasn't sure that the homemade guitar could be tuned, but the guy at the shop said that while it wouldn't be quite perfect, he could get it sounding good. The kiddo is very enamored with the guitar and spent his creative arts half hour today just playing with it and making fairly musical noises with it. I can already understand why the guitar is a better instrument to have your kid learning than any of the brasses or woodwinds. This bears thinking about. 

The meal train from MIL's church started today. People will be bringing us dinner every other night for the next two weeks, which is very nice of them and gives us dinner and MIL the feeling that people at her church have not forgotten her. FIL had an extremely hard time getting around this past year or two and was often hard to rouse and dress in the mornings, so they weren't getting to church nearly as much even before the virus. I can tell she is happy to know that people still know her and want to help her in a time of need. I suspect, I hope anyway, that within the next year or so she is one of the people signing up to help others, as well as joining committees and groups again. She thrives on being involved in things, and she hasn't been able to do it in a long time. 

Anyway, two people brought stuff over today, one of them a backstop when she saw that the person who signed up was bringing imitation crab salad and sweet potato pecan salad as the main dishes. The second person very tactfully  contacted us directly and offered to bring us a pork tenderloin, which we gladly accepted. The pork tenderloin lady arrived at 5:30 and dropped off the food with a little doorway conversation and condolences, very nice. Half an hour later, I was playing Gardenscapes in our room (the kiddo is a harsh taskmaster) when MIL shoved the landline phone into my hands and said "here, you're good at giving directions, the meal train lady is lost." 

Before I could protest that I don't even go here, the rather elderly lady on the other end of the phone was telling me about how she'd gone from X road to Y road and ended up back on X road and had no idea where she was and was driving around randomly. By a small miracle, I was able to figure out where she actually was and try to explain to her what she needed to do, only for her to interrupt me four or five times to tell me I wasn't making any sense, and also accused me of not answering the phone the first time she'd called. At long last I managed to get her to a landmark that put her back on the correct road and gave her the rest of the turns, then sent the guys out to the end of the driveway to flag her down. When she arrived, I tried to apologize for the confusion and explained that our GPS was also confused for a long time by the fairly rural route, she told me I ought to remember that not everybody has a GPS! It was like getting Tumblr-privilege-checked IRL by an old woman and was rather offputting. But hey, at least it was me and not MIL. Who the hell scolds the bereaved family they are bringing food to because they themselves had shitty directions? I don't even know. 

Anyway, the pork tenderloin was very good, the crab salad was a small container of crab salad, and the sweet potato salad was incredibly weird. it was like a vinegar based potato salad except instead of tiny chunks of white potato it was quartered sweet potatoes and also red peppers with pecans dumped on top. There were also brownies that we could not peg the flavor on but were something in the blonde peanut butter-chocolate chip-possibly dates or raisins category. And man, I know it's extremely gauche to bag on food people bring you out of the kindness of their hearts, but come on, don't both yell at me and bring me weird potato salad, that's not very nice. 

The kiddo has indeed gone to sleep in the time I've taken to steep my tea and write this, so that is excellent. Tomorrow I need to look into the financial advisor stuff some more and hopefully actually arrive at Lowes long enough to buy my items. For now, though, I have some stars to go earn. 

[indigosandviolets]

Confessional

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x OC x George Luz

Word Count: 3,610

Summary: Andrew and Liebgott get drunk. A secret is discovered. After Sobel makes a reappearance, Easy Company takes Eindhoven, where a secret is revealed.

TW: Violence, mentions of period-typical transphobia + past period-typical homophobia

Notes: so this is WAY longer than i expected it to be. I was aiming for a about 2,500 and this thing just kinda took on a mind of its own.

Part Eight of We Happy Few

September 13, 1944

Aldbourne, England

The game of darts across the bar was very enticing, Andrew had to admit, but the current pint in his hand was even more. Andrew very rarely got drunk, but that didn’t mean he rarely drank. Andrew enjoyed it, but he would feel terrible to get drunk around the other men. It was just something he couldn’t do.

So, Andrew decided to stay in his seat, think, and drink his beer as he watched the game take place. Buck was a pretty good shot, so that’s who he figured would win.

“Why the long face, Drew?” Andrew looked up to see Liebgott, who was standing in front of his table. “Don’t tell me you’re a sad drunk.”

Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m not even that drunk. Just thinking, I guess.”

Liebgott pulled out the chair beside Andrew, sitting down. “About what?”

Andrew looked away from the game of darts and over at the three replacements sitting just a few feet away from them. “Randleman’s crew.”

“Can I ask why?”

Andrew sighed. “They’re all kids, every last one of ‘em. They’ve...they’ve replaced our guys with kids.”

“I thought you didn’t mind the replacements.”

“I don’t unless they’re actual kids,” Andrew told him, taking a sip of his beer. “These guys are nineteen, twenty at most. They should be in school, they should be in college instead of being over here.”

“Andrew, you were nineteen when you enlisted,” Liebgott reminds him.

“That’s because I couldn’t go to college. No college was gonna take a nineteen-year-old from the middle of nowhere who doesn’t have the greatest reputation because he’s-” Andrew cut himself off, taking in a deep breath. He was getting frustrated with himself, far more than he should have been. “No one was gonna take me, Lieb.”

Andrew looked back to Liebgott, who looked concerned. Very concerned. “Andrew, is there something you need to talk about?”

Andrew looked back at his pint. It was almost empty. “Not now,” Andrew replied before finishing his pint, pushing the glass away from himself. “Bad company.”

Liebgott nodded slowly, sipping his own beer. “When do you want to talk about it?”

“In a little bit,” Andrew says as Smokey stands up on a chair. “I think we’ve got another retelling of ‘The Night of the Bayonet’.”

“Fantastic,” Lebgott replied.

“Hey, ya all! Listen up! I got us an announcement to make!” Smokey starts, pulling in Lipton. “This here is Carwood Lipton.”

“He’s already married, Smokey,” Andrew can hear Malarkey reply.

“This here is Carwood Lipton, the new Easy Company first sergeant!”

A cheer sounds out through the bar. Andrew lets out a whistle as he claps, making Liebgott chuckle. “What? We’re celebrating!” Andrew tells the older man.

“As befitting his position,” Smokey continues, “He says he has to make an announcement.”

Lipton’s smile becomes a bit more strained as he gets to speak. “Well, I hate to break the mood here, boys, but we’re moving out again.”

And that’s just what Lipton did. He broke that happy mood shared by the men. It didn’t help that he stepped out of the bar after he made his announcement, but Andrew knew that Lipton was just doing his job.

Liebgott sighs, getting out his pack of cigarettes. He hands it over to Andrew, who takes one, before speaking. “More beer?”

Andrew nods. “More beer.”

More beer meant three more pints for them each, and while Andrew did think that he would feel terrible if he did get drunk, he had to admit that it was pretty fun. Andrew wasn’t drunk enough for him to start slurring his speech, but he was drunk enough to start laughing at everything Liebgott said. Liebgott, also, was only a little bit tipsy.

“Drew.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Drew.”

“Yeah?”

“Andrew.”

Andrew finally looked over at Liebgott. He wasn’t quite sure what he had been looking for. “Yes, Lieb?”

“You’ve been staring at Grant’s back for five minutes.”

“I have?”

“Yeah,” Liebgott says, laughing. “If you weren’t talking to me the whole time I would’ve thought you wanted to kill him.”

Andrew shrugs. “Nah, Grant hasn’t pissed me off yet. Cobb, though…” Andrew moves his head so he can find Cobb. “That guy’s a prick. He doesn’t know how to shut up. I mean, honestly, who the hell does he think he is? He’s just another chauvinistic asshole who complains about other men getting the unit merit badge when he didn’t even fucking drop on D-Day. He wasn’t even in France period and yet he still has the nerve to act like that.”

“Alright, settle down, Drew,” Liebgott says, making Andrew turn towards him. “Sounds like you’re a very honest drunk. A very honest, wordy drunk.” They lock eyes, and even though he’s drunk he can still sense that little burning he feels whenever he’s near Liebgott.

Andrew looks back at his empty glass before he meets eyes with Liebgott again. “Bathroom?”

Liebgott nods. “Bathroom.”

Andrew got up first, standing by the sinks as he waited for Liebgott. There were a few stalls, but no one was there. Then, Liebgott came in five minutes later. Enough time to allow for no suspicion from any of the other men. When Liebgott entered, he saw Andrew, walked up to him, and he had this particular look. A look that was almost asking Andrew if he was sure. Then, of course, Andrew nodded.

That’s all the situation needed.

Liebgott’s hands were on Andrew’s hips in a few seconds, pulling him closer and they kissed. Andrew ran his hands through Lieb’s hair, tasting the beer they had just drank. It was the first thing to fully cover up the cigarettes.

Liebgott broke away from Andrew’s lips, moving down his jaw and to his neck. Andrew’s hands dropped, holding onto the sink behind him as if he was bracing himself.

“Fuck, Lieb,” Andrew breathes out as Liebgott pulls away from Andrew’s neck, returning his attention to the younger man’s lips.

This attention, of course, was ripped away when the door to the bathroom opened.

Liebgott pulled away and stepped back quickly as Andrew’s head, snapped to the doorway. There, standing in the frame, was Babe Heffron. He was drunk, a giggly drunk. A very giggly drunk. Based on how much he was laughing, Andrew wasn’t quite sure if he had seen what had happened, but Andrew was very sure that he was very sober.

But, as the laughs dissipated, Babe began to look confused.

“Marin, what’re you doin’ with Lieb?”

Andrew and Liebgott exchanged a quick look as Babe stepped further into the bathroom, the door closing behind him. “Nothing,” Andrew said. “Just, uh, talking.”

“Are you two-” Babe paused, swallowing, “ Were you two, uh, makin’ out?”

“No-” Liebgott started, but Babe continued on.

“On the sink? Andrew, you’re gonna break your wrists!”

Andrew stopped, utterly astonished. How was Babe not freaking out? Maybe he was just that drunk, or just not drunk enough to register what was happening.

“Babe, how many pints did you have?” Andrew asked, and Babe brought his hands up to his face. He started counting on his fingers, one hand with four fingers and the other with three. Andrew had no idea why he had split it up like that, maybe he really was that drunk.

“Uh, nine,” Babe answered, putting his hands back down.

“That’s not what you held up.”

“How many did I hold up?”

“Seven.”

“Oh.”

Liebgott sighed, walking over to Babe’s side. “I think you need to get to bed, you’re gonna have a killer headache in the morning.”

Babe shook his head. “I’ll be okay. A-okay. Okey-dokey.”

Liebgott looked back at Andrew before speaking. “Where are you quartered, Babe?”

“Why?”

“Cause we’re gonna take you back,” Andrew tells him. “I don’t think you’re in any state to go home by yourself.”

“But you’re in enough of a state to kiss each other,” Babe replies, and Andrew moves quickly to cover up Babe’s mouth with his hand.

“Babe, you didn’t see a thing, okay? Not a damn thing.”

-

Andrew knew Babe had remembered when he saw him at the Market Garden Briefing. There was no way around him not forgetting. Yes, he was drunk, but not that drunk. The look at Babe had when he saw Andrew was one that was almost embarrassed, but he put a finger up to his lips and “zipped” them shut.

The pit that had been resting in Andrew’s stomach since they had walked Babe home wasn’t alleviated, but it wasn’t as bad as it was. So, he focused his attention on Winters and Nixon.

"As you can see, this is called Operation Market Garden. In turns of airborne divisions, this one's even bigger than Normandy. We're dropping deep into occupied Holland,” Winters announced as he stood in front of the giant map.

Bigger than Normandy, damn, Andrew thought. How the hell are we supposed to get through this one?

"The Allied objective is to take this road here, between Eindhoven and Arnhem, so the two British armored divisions can move up it toward Arnhem,” Nixon explains, pointing out the locations on the map. Andrew didn’t realize just how big Holland actually was until he started following Nixon’s hand.

"Our job is gonna be to liberate Eindhoven, stay there, wait for the tanks,” Winters continues.

Andrew swears he hears something about the tanks in Carentan but he doesn’t bother to check where it’s coming from.

"The entire European advance has been put on hold to allocate resources for this operation. It's Montgomery's personal plan, we'll be under British command. The good news is, if this works, these tanks will be over the Rhine and into Germany. That could end the war and get us home by Christmas,” Nixon starts again, and Andrew almost smiles. Almost.

Home by Christmas. Maybe we’ll get it done early and I can spend my birthday outside of Europe.

"It'll be a daytime job, intelligence doesn't expect much opposition. They think the Krauts in Holland are mostly kids and old men. And we should take them by surprise,” Nixon keeps going, but he pauses for a second. "In any case, say goodbye to England, I don't think they're gonna call this one off."

If the briefing hadn’t been enough, what came after made everything worse for Andrew.

Or, perhaps, who came after.

Riding in on a supply truck, Popeye standing up behind him (probably on account of getting shot in the ass) was Mr. Dickwad himself, Captain Herbert Sobel.

Andrew pulled on Luz’s jacket, jerking him to see Sobel.

“Son of a bitch,” Luz says.

“I thought we got rid of him,” Andrew replies, and suddenly, everything he’s ever done is gone through his mind. Every time he slipped on Currahee, each time his hand faulted a bit on the wall, each shot he took that was just a hair away from a perfect bullseye went through his mind as his eyes locked completely on Sobel.

Sobel, of course, was walking away from Malarkey now, probably after talking to him over something ridiculous.

“Private Marin, Luz,” Sobel said as the two men saluted the captain. “You two seem just as close as ever.”

“Guess so, sir,” Andrew replies. There’s something about Sobel, something more that makes it seem like he knows something that they did.

“Tell me, Marin, where did you get that brandy from for your dear friend’s birthday?”

Andrew swallowed thickly, fighting the bile that surged in his throat from his nerves. “France, sir.”

“That so?”

“Yes, sir,” Andrew says as Sobel takes a better look at Andrew, looking closely at the side of his head.

“What happened to your ear, Private?” Sobel asks, pointing to Andrew’s left one. It had healed up better than Andrew had expected it to, but there was still a whole chunk of flesh missing from him.

“France, sir,” Andrew said again. “During the assault on Brecourt. It was just before we pulled out.”

“I take it it wasn’t enough to actually pull you out of fighting,” Sobel says. “That’s how you got your other medal?”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, sir. I hit again in Carentan.”

Sobel pauses and takes in a breath. “You need to learn when to stop, Marin.”

“I will try to, sir.”

Fuck. You.

-

September 17, 1944

The green parachutes were a stark contrast against the bluish-gray sky of Holland. The day jump was less chaotic that Andrew had first thought, but he still felt the fear as he dropped his chute and met up with Luz before getting on the way to Eindhoven.

Walking through the field to the town, Andrew felt it was just a bit too quiet for it to be ignored, so his finger didn’t keep very far from the trigger of his M-1, but he didn’t think it was enough of a danger for him to put on his bayonet. Then again, Andrew rarely put on his bayonet, so it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Jesus, Luz, it’s quiet as hell,” Andrew tells him. “No artillery, nothing. I think we jumped into a training field.”

Luz nods. “I dunno. Maybe. It’s quiet enough.”

“Maybe it’s Sobel fucking with us.”

Luz let out a chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”

Andrew’s eyes then flickered to a bright orange against the gray of the town. His arms almost immediately knew what to do, bringing the M-1 up to his face to take aim. His eyes caught on a woman in a window sill, tying the orange flag to the window. Andrew dropped his gun from his face and looked over to Luz.

“Jesus H. Christ, Luz,” Andrew almost laughs. “They’re with us.”

The once quiet town was now joyous, almost boastful with the celebration of their liberation. Women cheered and danced with the men of Easy Company, men laughed and offered what they could, children laughed and grabbed at their ankles. It was so happy, so compelling, it was almost like Holland wasn’t crawling with Nazis.

One little boy came up to Andrew in particular, hugging him and making what Andrew could only describe as a child’s “grabby hands” up at Andrew. So, of course, Andrew complied.

He picked the boy up, sitting him on his shoulders, much to the little boy’s delight. “Danke, Danke!” He said, his hand holding on to the top of Andrew’s head as Andrew held him in place by taking a hold of his legs on his shoulders.

“Never took you for a family man,” Luz says as Andrew walks over to him.

Andrew makes the closest thing to a shrug as he can manage. “I’m not, not really, but this little guy looked too damn happy.”

The kid laughed, but Andrew wasn’t sure if he knew any English. Andrew felt like his Uncle Andy -- a man of no children but one who managed to make Albert and Andrew feel like the best kids in the world.

“What’s his name?” Luz asks, snapping Andrew out of his little daze.

“I’m not sure,” Andrew says, tilting his head up a bit as he tried to remember a little bit of German. Something he thought he had heard, maybe from Webster. Nothing came to mind. “Name?”

“Wil,” The little boy said, and Andrew smiled.

“His name is Wil,” Andrew tells Luz. “I think it’s short for Wilhelm.”

Luz says something, but he doesn’t quite catch it. It’s not because it’s too loud, it’s because someone knocks into him. He would’ve ignored it, but his eyes caught on who did it.

It was two men and a woman -- well, two men holding a woman by her shoulders, dragging her to a circle. Andrew turned, watching as they threw her into the middle. Andrew stepped closer, pushing through the crowd as Luz called after him, still saying things that Andrew couldn’t hear.

In the circle, there were women, clothes ripped off and swastikas drawn on their foreheads. They cried as they were hit. Then, Andrew saw the woman who they had drug past him. She wailed and sobbed as they pulled her hair before taking a pair of clippers and beginning to shear it off.

Andrew’s breath caught in his throat as he froze. Andrew felt Wil being lifted off his shoulders as someone touched his arm, but he couldn’t look away. Some of the women were bleeding from where the clippers had gotten too close to their scalp.

“Andrew!”

Andrew was finally able to look away and at Luz, who must’ve been calling out his name the entire time. His face was hot, wet with tears. Wilhelm was gone now and Luz placed both of his hands on Andrew’s shoulders, shaking him back to reality.

“Andrew, what the hell’s going on with you?” Luz asks. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Andrew couldn’t get out any words, only choked sobs that only made Luz more concerned. He pulled Andrew out of the crowd, sitting him down in a chair that was outside of a building. Andrew felt surrounded by people, and his chest cramped up and his ribs protested against his crying. It hurt, it almost hurt as much as getting shot. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally.

Andrew could still hear the women crying, and it only made him collapse further into the pain.

He didn’t even register he was being brought inside until Luz had started to wipe away Andrew’s tears.

“Andrew?” Luz asked, and Andrew felt Luz holding onto his hands. “Andrew, tell me, what happened out there?”

Andrew sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, but he couldn’t.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, just breathe,” Luz says. “You need to breathe.”

Andrew followed Luz’s breathing, matching with him as best he could manage. Then, once the tears finally started to slow, he sighed.

“Fuck, Luz,” Andrew says, wiping his eyes. “Those women.”

“Did they say --”

“Their hair.”

Luz paused and Andrew wiped his eyes again before sniffing. The mucus crawled down his throat as he tried to think of a way to explain.

“What happened with their hair?” Luz asked.

“The same thing that happened to me,” Andrew says in a voice that Luz can barely register as a whisper.

“What are you talking about?” Luz almost immediately asks, and the lump that was ever-present in Andrew’s throat got harder.

“I wasn’t,” Andrew starts, “I wasn’t always like this.”

“Like what, Andrew?”

Andrew held back another sob as he forced the nest words out. Luz had a right to know. “Andrew.”

“I wasn’t always, uh, Andrew,” He explains, looking away from Luz. He can’t bear to face him, but he had to tell him. It was only right. “I knew that I was, but I wasn’t born Andrew. My parents didn’t like that, but I told them every day. Well, when I was about twelve, my father got sick of it. He pulled me out of school one day, told me to get in the car. I asked why we weren’t getting Albert, but he didn’t say anything to me. He just took me home and made me sit on the back porch in a chair. Then, he grabbed my hair, pulled it until it started to rip out of my scalp, and he cut it all off in chunks. Large, large chunks. He told me th-that no one would ever accept me as Andrew, even if I looked the part, because deep down, I wasn’t, and that I would never be.”

The memories that Andrew had tried to deeply to resist came flooding back in a wave of emotion, and more tears fled to his eyes as he clenched his fists, angry with himself, but also at his parents for what they did to him, what they put him through, but also to Albert for not stopping them from doing it.

“Andrew, what’re you saying?”

Andrew was almost furious as he finally turned back to Luz. “Think about it for Christ's sake!” Andrew snaps. “Why wouldn’t I shower with the rest of the men? Why is my voice still as high as a 14-year-old’s when I turn twenty-three in a few months? Why do I never need to shave like everyone else?” Andrew asks in a rapid-fire. “Fuck, Luz, do you really think that I’ve had to wear a posture brace for two goddamn years straight?”

Luz’s face showed that he couldn’t find the words, that he couldn’t begin to comprehend what Andrew was really saying. Andrew had no idea how to judge Luz’s thoughts, his ideas, or anything, simply because he couldn’t hear them.

“You’re still--you’re still Andrew, though, right?” Luz asks. He’s just about knocked off his feet.

“Yes.”

“But you weren’t always Andrew?”

“No?”

“Then who were you?”

Andrew sucks in a breath. The name stings his memory like a wasp sting to a child who got too close to its nest. “I can’t, Luz. I don’t -- I can’t say it.”

Luz sighs. “That’s okay.”

“Luz, I’m sorry for the--I can’t--, oh, fuck,” Andrew says, trying to find the words. “I didn’t want to tell you like this. I’ve been meaning to tell you for the longest time but I haven’t-”

“Andrew, just calm down for a minute,” Luz says, and his hands are back on Andrew’s shoulders. “You’re gonna start crying again.” Andrew nods and Luz continues. “This doesn’t change anything, okay? You’re still Andrew, right? You’re not with your family anymore. They can’t hurt you.”

Andrew nods again, calming himself down. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Albert and Lorena,” Andrew tells him. “No one else can know.”

“Then we’ll keep it like that, alright?”

“Alright.”

-

tag list: @alienoresimagines @fromcrossroadstoking @ghostyroses if you’d like to be tagged, please let me know!

[thecollinhartman-blog]

Collin’s Coronavirus Thoughts

Corona Diaries

 I know what you are thinking. It is Day 4 of the Quarantine and Social Distancing and Collin has gone so crazy without all the busy-ness of life that he is writing a blog post. And you would be absolutely correct. Like every other millennial twenty-something, I have a lot of really great ideas that haven’t quite come to fruition. By now I thought I would be operating a volleyball facility, or traveling the US in a VW van driving for Uber, or pursuing a PhD program in England while playing volleyball, or coaching a small college team in Southern California.

All this to say I’m a big-time dreamer and a mostly incredibly poor “executer”. I often mistake my busy-ness for full-ness. I have seven unread books on my night stand, I haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks, I never got around to painting the trim in the bathroom my dad and I remodeled, my phone hasn’t been at full charge since November, and there has been an overflow of recycling sitting outside my house from the garbage disposal and mattress I got for Christmas… and now it’s March. Welcome to it, friends.

 Let’s start here: I stopped by my parents’ house this week to print something – which I often do because I have a lot of printing needs but haven’t ever purchased a printer. It’s nice because I can print some papers I need AND I can always count on cool ranch Doritos and a Mango Orange Crystal Lite…. that I’ll likely take one sip of, leave on the counter, and finish when I’m there 4 days later.

 Anyway, here I am printing in my dad’s office and running late for a meeting  (all because I napped for too long). I rush out the door of the house, accidentally leaving one document on the printer, pens and paper everywhere, and a cupboard desk drawer open. A few minutes later, my dad sends me a picture of his office, which was without a doubt entirely put together five minutes prior to me being there. The tone of his text is sarcastic but loving but semi-annoyed which I can handle. I spend six seconds feeling bad about my reckless and disorganized self until Hillsong’s Highlands comes on the radio and I turn it up. I don’t spend time reflecting on things that would make me sad, I’m a 7.

 In the midst of my frantic printing and meeting prep, my dad told me he was going to call me “F-5”as my new nickname. By the look on my face, he could tell I was confused as to why. He begins to tell me that tornados are classified in F-0 through F-5 categories, with an F-5 tornado being the wildest in nature. My quick google search defines an F-5 tornado as the most “violent damage, homes lifted off foundation and carried considerable distances, autos thrown as far as 100 meters.” I think what my dad was trying to say is that my general way of life is to rampage my way through different spaces, groups, situations… often times in an assertive, proactive, somewhat wild, chaotic way and then just… leave (I think this how I drive too). Stop go stop go stop go. I go from this thing right on to the next without pause. I show up, jump out of my car, race to wherever I’m supposed to go, be (mostly) present there until BOOM, it’s a Monday evening and I’m in the Eagle gym, shutting off all the lights, gathering volleyballs, turning on the alarm, leaving for Young Life – all in an attempt to get there three minutes before it starts so I can prep items for the game I’m leading ALLLLL before being interrupted in the parking lot by a mom of a U11 kid who is reminding me (probably for the 3rd time) about the t-shirt they ordered and are waiting on. Following? Me neither.

 In short – my life actually is like an F-5 tornado. I run run run from one thing to the next, filling my world to the brim with as much as I possibly can all until I arrive back at my house at 10:30 pm, gas light on, eat whatever I can find in the fridge before my head hits the pillow 4 minutes later, only to set my alarm and do it again.

 I’ve been living my life like this for a really long time until…. well until Sunday when we got the news that school is cancelled, which means volleyball activities are all cancelled too, and Young Life gatherings paused and suddenly my wild Monday is WIDE OPEN.

 This blog post / journal / diary is my attempt to articulate from my squirrel brain some things I’ve learned about myself in the last 48 hours since this craziness called coronavirus officially stopped my (and probably your) collective world right in their F-5 tornado tracks.

 First, let me tell you about my day today paint a picture of how my world feels just a bit (LITERALLY ENTIRELY) different…..

 1)    I didn’t set an alarm and I woke up at 8:30 am.

2)    Shortly after, I went on a quick walk to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a Misto: I am on my journey to black coffee and I just graduated from a latte to this half coffee half milk concoction (with caramel) and I feel accomplished.

3)    I stopped by my neighbor friend’s house to say hello.

4)    I got home, cleaned a couple things around the house, washed a couple plates in my sink, and went on a bike ride to downtown Boise where I enjoyed a takeout lunch from Whole Foods. I would like to tell you that I rode my bike home, but a friend happened to see me and my girlfriend (she is working remotely from Utah and visiting right now) saw us and somehow realized the journey completely uphill from downtown to my house on the bench might not be all that fun so we piled our bikes in her car and she took us home.

5)    I took a 20 minute snoozer.

6)    I got up and did some yard work outside, gathering pine needles from underneath my big backyard tree and finally broke down those big boxes that have been sitting outside my house for months and was able to fit them all inside my recycling can.

7)    It started to drizzle so I came inside, crawled under a big blanket and read the first couple chapters of Prodigal God by Timothy Keller.

8)    Kinslie and I then stopped by the store to pick up some things for dinner and I grilled some steaks and shared a giant salad and some grilled asparagus.

9)    After a few girl scout cookies (they stopped by yesterday), we watched the last half of Ellen’s Game of Games and picked a movie on Netflix.

10) Now I’m lying in my (perfectly made) bed (because I had the time to make it) writing all my thoughts down in a word document wondering if I’ll actually post this or if there is really anything of worth that I’m typing. I think there is but not sure yet.

 Well, friends of the interwebs, you might be wondering why you just read a detailed list of my day from start to finish. Here’s what I want you to know.

 1)    Upon arriving at the coffee shop, I had a cheerful silly conversation with the barista about what drink I should order as we laughed about me wanting to eventually enjoy drip coffee. We engaged in authentic dialogue for a few minutes and on the way out I thanked her for the drink recommendation.

2)    Before leaving for our bike ride, my tires were flat so we walked them to the gas station and filled up with six quarters before we went on our merry way. I empathized with the Chevron employee as we talked about coronavirus and how it might impact our lives. I wished him well and went on my way.

3)    While bikeriding downtown I noticed there are five…. FIVE… different types of massage or spa places between my house and Curtis, which is the next main stop light.

4)    At Whole Foods, I asked the clerk their favorite pasta salad as she walked over and told me all about the 2 for $6 deal. I noticed the different textures of the floor and the neatly stacked chairs and how the vegetables were perfectly arranged in their place.

5)    While doing yardwork, I stopped and looked at Kinslie as she was raking leaves into a pile. I went over and looked, I mean REALLY LOOKED into her eyes and noticed how the Irish green edges melt into a light sky-ish blue before meeting her pupil. I noticed the way she parted her wavy blonde hair and the way it fell just barely over the sweatshirt she was borrowing of mine.  I noticed how thankful I was I had someone to share this day with and even more thankful for her idea to do this yardwork that surely wouldn’t have been started for maybe forever.

6)    While reading, I noticed the way the soft sunshine pressed through my semi-open blinds onto my page and made the black ink pop off the page. I contemplated Keller’s words of Pharisees and tax collectors and a story of two sons on their journey of deeper understanding of God’s steadfast love and grace in the midst of their own struggles.

7)    While making dinner I couldn’t help but take just a little extra time to delicately cut each cucumber and carrot slice with care as I heard sounds of clattering branches from my cracked window as dusk began to settle in.

8)    And while writing this blog post, I can’t help but notice all the things I noticed in my own world for perhaps the first time.

 While I can’t be sure what life will look like in a few short days, weeks, or even months, and while I’m not positive what my income will be, and what daily routines or rituals will be impacted, or how our schools and communities will be changed – I can be sure of this: I hope in the midst of my crazy F-5 tornado life that surely will be back in busy routine before I know it – I hope for a couple things.

 I hope I can continue notice the little things. To notice the wildly interconnected, perfectly-timed, awe strikingly beautiful, crazy detailed, little details of this world like the way I noticed the lines on the fresh steaks as I pulled them off my garage sale grill.  

 I hope to breathe deep and see, I mean REALLY see the world around me, to engage in relationship in more authentic and honest ways, to stop for a moment wherever I am to truly connect with the people around me.

  I hope to take my time through a home cooked meal, and to not be so filled with anxiousness and fear of the future and unknown that I my eyes are blinded to see the way God is working in and through my (and our) world, possibly even through something like the freaking COVID-19.

 While I’m sure there will be more lessons to be learned in the next little while, I challenge you to take a couple moments to really press in and reflect upon the way this Zombie apocalyptic ish tirade is impacting your world. I truly hope in the midst of empty toilet paper shelves and hand sanitizer hoarders there is something beautiful in your world that you’ve noticed, too.

[sarsaparillia]

title: dreadfully unsolicited advice summary:  Leandra Hawke invites Grand Enchanter Fiona to join her for a cup of tea. — templar!au coda; Leandra, Fiona.

rating: t+ word count:3700+ genre: gen/family/angst sort of notes:   anyway i love leandra hawke and you all can just deal with that. here’s part... ix holy shit

AO3 | FFN

—

.

.

.

.

.

The reports come in from Adamant nearly too fast for the Inquisition’s spymistress to keep up.

But only nearly.

Sister Nightingale burns oil ‘til midnight, and oftentimes much later. Thre news out of Adamant is grim; down near half the numbers they’d gone in with, which is still better than she had expected. Down to half is better than down to a quarter; she’ll have to send Charter on recruitment again.

(Wasteful, but necessary. Charter has a decent sense about people, and the Nightingale learned her lesson with Painter. Close, but not too close.)

She is halfway through skinning the next report when she almost spits out her wine for the laughter.

Oh, but the Maker has a very queer sense of humour.

Nightingale reads through the missive a second time, pleased when the letters don’t change. She cannot say she is not amused by the though, and she smiles an old killer’s smile.

She does owe Lady Leandra one back for that little stunt the Hawke matriarch pulled with the apprentices. While it had been a stunt that Nightingale agreed with in theory, it had still made her life markedly more difficult, and if anyone can appreciate how difficult Nightingale’s life already is, it is Lady Leandra Hawke.

Things used to be so simple, Nightingale reflects.

But maybe they had never really been simple, and had only seemed to be so, and the Maker has always been a cruel taskmaster. She thinks of her love, sequestered away in Denerim at the behest of another monarch, and does not have to reconsider.

Sister Nightingale yawns, stretches. Her spine pip-pop-pops, and the hour burns so late. Her eyelids droop.

But still: one last letter to write and send across the Waking Sea, and then she will rest.

—--------------------------------------------

Skyhold is much as Leandra Hawke had imagined it would be: a could draughty castle in the middle of the mountains, with a quickly-growing village sprung up at the bottom of the valley for trade, a truly impressive dearth of structural integrity and sense, and a very large number of Carta dwarves whom Leandra eyes shrewdly and thinks loudly in their direction, don’t make me write to your mothers, because I can and I will, do not test me.

(The Carta dwarves shuffle off. Leandra is appeased.)

But for all its drawbacks, Skyhold is big enough to house a proper mage tower, and has plenty of space for Leandra’s own charges. When they’d been riding up, the youngest of her templars had shuddered and shaken her head. Sommat’s not right here, m’um, she’d said, and Leandra had been inclined to agree.

However.

Her charges will be safe here, and there is no Divine to call the Exalted March that Leandra has spent more months than she can count dreading. Skyhold itself is walled in from all sides, which is both a blessing and a curse; they’ll see their enemy coming clear for leagues, but they’ll have nowhere to run if it comes down to it. And—

Well.

Leandra has missed her grandchildren.

“Liana, darling, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Leandra reminds the oldest of said grandchildren.

“S’rr’ee Gran,” Liana says, with a full mouth. All three of Leandra’s grandchildren eat as though they’ve never seen food in their lives before; if Leandra’s daughter was anything but what she is, Leandra would think that she were starving them. But the truth of the matter is that really, they’re simply all growing children, and they need energy to continue doing that.

Leandra reminds herself of the regular bill to feed fifty-odd mage children and six teenage templar-initiates, and tries to count her blessings.

Carina seems to have finished, because she’s started to push her food around her plate in a gesture very reminiscent of her mother. Leandra thinks that this is fitting: if Carina is Bethany in miniature, then Liana is Alistair, and Malcolm, for all that he is the youngest of the three, is Leandra’s own Marian exactly.

Her daughter’s children all each have their own mannerisms, but it’s rather amusing to see which one fits where, all the same.

And oh, but she does love them so dearly.

“What is it, Rina, sweet?” Leandra asks. “You look like you’re thinking about something.”

Liana looks at her twin, just as she always has done whenever anyone is addressing her twin. They exchange wordless glances, and then Liana opens her mouth.

Leandra holds up a hand.

“Lia,” she says, only a little stern. One day, they’ll learn. “Let your sister speak, please.”

Liana slumps backwards, put out. Leandra knows that she’s truly the one who forces them not to communicate in tandem as they prefer, but she also does think that Carina needs to learn to use her own words, and not always rely on Liana’s ability to interpret her ever thought.

They won’t always be able to do that, Leandra knows. She thinks of Revka only for a moment, and then she puts the thoughts away.

“…Are we going to keep staying with the Grand Enchanter?” Carina finally asks. She pushes the food around her plate some more, brows furrowing together with the concentrated effort of it. “Or are you going to look after us, Gran?”

The Grand Enchanter.

Ah, Leandra thinks.

The Grand Enchanter is the reason, no more and no less, that Leandra has made the whole long trek all this way, to this godforsaken, better-forgotten place. Her grandchildren are part and parcel to it, certainly, and the scolding that Marian and Carver are both going to get, as well, but—

Grand Enchanter Fiona is Alistair’s mother, and Leandra wants to know why on the Maker’s green earth she’s only learning about this now.

“I think we’ll share that, darling,” Leandra says, lightly. “There’s no reason to uproot, not when your mother and father will be back so soon. How does that sound?”

All three of them brighten. Leandra isn’t offended; they’ve been uprooted enough, her grandchildren, and there’s no reason to do it with exception for her pride.

Leandra has never put much stock in pride. It only ever makes a mess, does pride.

“Thanks, Gran,” Carina says, very softly. She wiggles a little in her chair, reaching over to throw her arms around Leandra’s side in a haphazard attempt at a hug.

Leandra smiles. They really are a very wonderful set of grandchildren, and they’ll grow up to be wonderful adults, too; they’re shaping up for it already, Liana and Carina, and Malcolm is going to put Marian to shame with the trouble he’s going to manage to stir up, in all likelihood.

If Leandra were a better person, she’d probably try to put a stop to the trouble bit.

But she is not a better person, and Leandra privately thinks that frankly, the world could use a little more trouble, so long as it’s the good kind. Malcolm isn’t likely to try to set Orlais on fire, overmuch. And really, the Orlesians could probably use some well-planned ruckus.

It would certainly shake up their little Game.

Never let it be said that Leandra Hawke is not a petty person. She is. She simply hides it better than most other petty people do. Orlais is Val Royeaux is the Divine, and despite the fact that Justinia is dead, Leandra still hasn’t forgiven her yet.

Perhaps it is unhealthy, to enjoy spiting a dead woman so.

But Leandra is perfectly aware that the Divine had had the power to have stopped Knight-Commander Meredith in her holy silverite-greaved tracks, and she did not.

There are many things that Leandra cannot, will not, forgive, and this is among them.

And so, for the issue at hand: if Malcolm starts another holy war, it won’t be anything that Leandra’s oldest hasn’t already done first. She supposes that really, it could be far worse; Malcolm is arguably less feral than Marian ever has been in her entire life.

Leandra can hold her peace.

Right now, she has bigger things on her mind.

For example: how in the Maker’s hallowed name to convince Alistair to even speak to the Grand Enchanter once he finds out, because he will find out, and Leandra knows her son-in-law; the boy balks the second anyone so much as brings up the breath of who his parents might have been. This only gets worse, when whoever it is brings up who Alistair might have been. It would be adorable if it weren’t so frustrating.

Other lives, Leandra thinks, bemused. Other worlds. Perhaps what it would like to be dead; she wonders, sometimes, about how that long, nightmarish stasis down in the dark of the foundries would have gone, had her youngest not been there.

Yes, dead and dying and drowning all the time.

But—

She banishes the thoughts. This is not the time for them. She is here with her grandchildren, her little monsters, and they are not anywhere else. There is no loss to them. There is no pain. There is only bright clean joy, and love, a thick smear of love.

Leandra returns her attention to the table.

She can think on the little deaths of her own life later.

—------------------------------------------------

When the Grand Enchanters knocks on Leandra’s chambers, she leaves the letter she’d been writing at the desk with the ink still wet, and pulls the door open with a flourish and a smile.

An accepted invitation to tea, albeit a strange, hesitant acceptance all the same; this is far more pleasant than the alternative.

Leandra had prepared herself, for the alternative.

“Lady Hawke,” Grand Enchanter Fiona says. She is a slim woman with a low, musical voice that would be very lovely to listen to read. Her skin is pale, and her eyes are very, very dark.

“Oh, Grand Enchanter, please, come in! I’ve made tea,” Leandra says, gestures inside gently enough to coax a recalcitrant cat. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would have the time, what with looking after the children.”

The Grand Enchanter relaxes minutely, and steps inside. “They have been no trouble.”

“No, I can’t image they would be,” Leandra pronounces, as she leads the Grand Enchanter to the parlour. “At least, not Liana and Carina. Malcolm—he’s very much like my eldest. Too much, perhaps. But I am glad they’ve not turned you off them entirely. They can be a bit of a handful, but I suppose you’d know that.”

The Grand Enchanter shrugs delicately. “Less than most.”

Leandra laughs, very softly. The tea set sits low on the trolley, laden with little teacakes and a large teapot that steams thinly. The cups are bone-china, brought from her Leandra’s own mother’s collection; Kirkwall’s dwarven artistry, again. “Give Malcolm a few years. I think he’ll give the Carta a run for their coin. Rina’s too shy for it, but Lia’s like her father.

“Is she?” the Grand Enchanter asks, perhaps a little too quickly, as they sit.

Leandra pours. Guests first, as she was taught. Pearlescent tendrils of steam drift through the air.

“Mmm,” Leandra hums into her tea, when they’ve both settled at last. “She is, yes. Less self-sacrificing, of course, but that’s not a bad thing. Alistair is liable to get himself killed, I don’t know how my daughter puts up with it.”

The Grand Enchanter’s knuckles are white as she sets her teacup down in lieu of an answer.

Leandra smiles into the brim of her cup, to hide.

Got you, she thinks.

“‘Ow so, may I ask?”

“Alistair? Oh, it’s simple, really. He loves my daughter more than life itself,” Leandra sighs. Truths. All truths. “It’s why I never objected, you know, even when he was still a templar.”

“I assume ‘e was not a very good templar?”

“My daughter is a mage,” Leandra says, a little wry. “He can’t have been that good at it, as they did end up married. Chantry law doesn’t mean much to either of them, I’m afraid.”

The Grand Enchanter makes a tiny noise, like a broken heart.

“I’ve been told he takes after his father,” Leandra continues, pretending blithe obliviousness to the Grand Enchanter’s growing melancholy. “But, you know, I don’t think that’s quite right. I met Maric, once, and they’re nothing alike. Frankly, I think Alistair takes after you.”

Leandra’s tea freezes in its cup.

(Oh, what a waste.)

“I am sorry, Lady Hawke, I do not follow,” says the Grand Enchanter, voice frosty.

“He has your eyes,” Leandra says, easily. “Liana and Carina do, as well. I’m sure you see the resemblance far more clearly than I, but it is there.”

“‘Ou told you?”

“A little bird,” Leandra tells her. “Oh, do sit down, Grand Enchanter, I didn’t invite you here to threaten you.”

The Grand Enchanter sits.

Slowly, jerkily, but she sits.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that Alistair loves my daughter more than life itself,” Leandra says, lightly, as she pours herself another cup of tea. She’d had the foresight to keep more than two cups on hand, and thank the Maker for that. It is a truly lovely Rivaini blend that Isabela ships out special from Llomeryn. That pirate of Marian’s is really the girl’s saving grave; Leandra doesn’t know what Marian would do without her. “I would never do anything to put them in harm’s way. Threatening you would be profoundly counterproductive! What would be the point?”

“Then why?”

Leandra sets her teacup down, very, very gently.

“You’re their grandmother, too,” she says. “I thought you might want to get to know them, as such.”

The Grand Enchanter slumps back into the striped salmon-and-cream silk of the pillows. “I do not have the right.”

“Of course, you do,” Leandra says, breezily. “They are your grandchildren.”

“I should not, then.”

“That’s a different thing,” Leandra says, delicately drinks her tea. “Please, Grand Enchanter, drink your tea. I only have so much, and it would be an atrocity to let it go cold and then have to get rid of it. It’s darling, I promise.”

The Grand Enchanter sips hesitantly from her cup.

Leandra smiles at her.

“There,” the Hawke matriarch says, all well-pleased when startled pleasure flashes across the Grand Enchanter’s face. It is very good tea, if Leandra does say so herself. “Now, tell me, why should you not?”

And, haltingly, the Grand Enchanter spills out the whole sorry tale. It’s a long one, and a sad one, and Leandra gasps and exclaims at all the appropriate parts. Even as her voice grows hoarse with use, the Grand Enchanter continues; she could give Varric a run for his money if she wanted to, Leandra thinks.

“But that—that is why,” the Grand Enchanter croaks the words, has to clear her throat. “He was better off without me.”

“But that’s untrue, isn’t it,” says Leandra, raising her eyebrows.

“Pardonez moi,” says the Grand Enchanter, and Leandra’s tea freezes over a second time.

(For burning Andraste’s sake, Leandra thinks. Orlesians.)

She pours herself yet another cup of tea; it pours still steaming. Thank the Maker for a good old-fashioned flame run. She’ll have to see if Sandal can’t do something about reinforcing this one, it has been such a delight.

“He’s not been better off without you, has he? It’s untrue to say he has,” Leandra says. “And rather silly, if you think about it.”

“I am an elf, Lady Hawke.”

“Yes, and he spent ten years in Redcliffe living with the mabari in the kennels and in the kitchens like a servant, and then he was sent to the Chantry to become a templar,” Leandra says, flatly. “Which was the worst thing for him, if I may say so. No child is better off without parents who want them.”

Grand Enchanter Fiona presses her lips together so hard that they turn white and bloodless. “You do not have any understanding of what it means to be a half-breed. He—non. You do not.”

“No,” Leandra readily agrees. “I don’t.”

“But?”

“No buts,” Leandra says, for this is true. She has no concept of what life would have been like for her daughter’s husband if he had grown up in his mother’s care, and she will not pretend that she does. “I have no idea what that would be like.”

The Grand Enchanter’s shoulders loosen infinitesimally. The acknowledgement seems to be enough. “I did not—I wanted to keep him. More than anything.”

“But?” Leandra echoes.

“But it would ‘ave been very selfish of me. Ferelden—” the Grand Enchanter closes her eyes, and her accent comes a little thicker than a moment ago with the pain, “—Ferelden gave ‘im a chance to be happy. And ‘e is ‘appy, is ‘e not? I cannot ask for more.”

Leandra looks steadily at the other woman for a long, heart-rending moment. There are so many things that Grand Enchanter Fiona missed; the twins, Kirkwall, Malcolm. They’re memories that Leandra wants for her to have, because they’re memories that she ought to have.

The question, as always, is about where to begin.

But—

Ah, Leandra thinks. There.

“Do you know how I knew that your son loved my daughter?”

Grand Enchanter Fiona lifts her head. Her eyes swallow all the light in the room, and Leandra adjusts her mental moniker: Fiona, now. Only Fiona.

“How?”

“I eloped when I was twenty-one,” Leandra says. “He was an escaped Gallows mage. Quite the healer, in fact, except when it came to healing himself. And do I promise, this is important—” Leandra breaks off to smile at the confusion on her companion’s face, “—because half the Hinterlands knew that my husband was the only healer worth a sovereign between Lothering and Kinloch Hold. They even had a special knock.”

Leandra pauses to exhale a dagger of pain. Think of Malcolm hurts, even after all these years. It might always hurt; she sees so much of him in Bethany. “Bless her heart, my daughter isn’t half so good as he was. but it happened sometimes after he died, even still.”

“And?”

Leandra laughs. “And one day, when Alistair came to walk Bethany to the Chantry for services—because they’d taken to doing that to have more time together, if you can believe it—we had one of those visitors. A dying little boy. Alistair walked in without knocking, and my daughter’s magic was everywhere. I thought my heart was going to stop. A templar in my house and my mage daughter, with her hands glowing on some boy’s chest!”

Fiona inhales like a knife-cut.

Leandra sips her tea, continues. “He looked at her, and all he said was, what can I do?’.”

The remembering doesn’t hurt so much, Leandra realizes. Somehow both the most transformative and the most terrifying moment of her daughter’s life, she’s sure, and now it only makes her smile. She shakes her head, the crows’ feet at her eyes creasing deeper. “But that’s when I knew. He’d have done anything for her.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because that little boy’s mother was an elf,” Leandra says. She wonders, idly, where they are now. “Perhaps it still matters to some people, but it doesn’t matter to my daughter, and I doubt even more it matters to your son.”

“What is your point, Lady Hawke?”

“My point is that you ought to give them the chance to decide for themselves, rather than just pretending that it all doesn’t exist. You don’t stare at Alistair, I would hazard, but you certainly do stare at the twins, and you’d let Mal get away with murder. It’s very telling, Grand Enchanter.”

Fiona manages a smile at the mention of Leandra’s grandson. “He is very solemn, for someone so small.”

“He’s going to drive them stark raving mad, I think,” Leandra says dryly. “He really is just like Marian was, when she was that age. Poor dears. They have no idea what’s coming.”

“Would it not be better to warn them?”

Leandra laughs again, eyes sparkling. “No, I don’t think so. Learning each other through it is half the fun!”

Fiona is very skeptical of this. “I truly do not think so, Lady Hawke.”

“Call me Leandra, please,” Leandra says, smiling out of the corner of her mouth. “But stories aside, we do have a practical matter on our hands, and it does need an answer.”

Fiona tilts her head in question.

“Do you want to tell him, or not?” Leandra asks. “It does change where we go from here, after all, and it’s no small decision.”

Grand Enchanter Fiona makes a noise like a wounded animal. A flicker of regret goes through Leandra; regret, and pity, and yet—resolve. They all deserve a denouement, and Fiona, in particular, deserves to call her grandchildren her own.

But—

“Not yet,” Fiona says, whispers, an endless maw of grief inside of her. “I cannot—not yet.”

“Yes,” Leandra agrees. She pulls herself back from the brink, because she is not Marian, and she understands that sometimes, people need time to come to terms with what they are. “Perhaps not yet.”

—----------------------------------------------

Leandra’s children return from the desert more or less in one piece, which is nothing less than she’d expected. Marian’s run off without even saying hello, and Carver is apparently the new Warden-Commander of Orlais—Leandra is going to have some words for the First Warden, when she gets around to penning the self-important twit a letter—but Bethany and Alistair seem to be alright.

This lasts all of a day, and then Leandra finds out that Sister Leliana has taken it upon herself to make Alistair aware that he is not, in fact, an orphan.

Leandra would applaud the Nightingale for her impeccable timing, except that Alistair is not, actually, an adversary!

That girl, Leandra sighs.

Knives before niceness. It never works the way a person expects it to. The Nightingale might be the Inquisition’s spymistress, but she still has so very much to learn. The only thing to do, now, is to find Fiona and to inform her of the coming ballistae. There is not much time; they need to decide how they’re going to go about this, and they must do it quickly, before the news hardens Alistair to the possibility of a reconciliation, entire.

They are all, Leandra thinks, so very, very young.

(Timing, Nightingale, Leandra thinks, wearily. Timing!)

And as such, Lady Leandra Hawke gets up from her desk, and makes her way outside.

—

.

.

.

.

.

fin.

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CaptainCanary fic: (I Don’t Believe in) Destiny (ch. 9 of 11)

Leonard Snart is back, finally pulled from the timestream where he's spent the last four years. But he wasn't alone, and the repercussions of that will echo through the Legends, the Time Bureau, and beyond.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll bring everything around full circle.

Can also be read here on AO3 or here on FF.net.

Continued thanks to Pir8grl!

*

Ch. Nine: With Every Door That We Opened

The atmosphere on the Waverider that evening can’t decide if it wants to be a party, a last-minute planning session, or a possible farewell. Although, Sara thinks, it almost seems as if only she and Leonard are really feeling that last one.

Charlie and John are matching each other drink for drink—they’re clearly in the first camp. Mick’s had a few with them, but he’s more firmly in the second…and given how he keeps glancing at Leonard, maybe he does have a foot in the third. Zari, their teetotaler, is clearly with him, checking over all their notes and diagrams of the Vanishing Point and muttering to herself.

Ray, Nate, and Nora have all had a few drinks too, although after some discussions on the plans for tomorrow. They’re all sitting together on the sofa, leaning together and chattering, and Sara, watching, idly wonders if this will be the night a little too much is imbibed and they go for the threesome. She hopes not. She needs the whole team on point tomorrow, not having second thoughts or recriminations—or hangovers. They can take the leap—she thinks it might be good for them—some other day, preferably without alcohol involved.

Gideon’s part of the ship again, which Sara finds a little odd, given how much she likes to be part of things when the crew is socializing. But perhaps the AI has qualms about this too, despite how well her words of advice had helped Leonard.

The crook himself still has the same glass of scotch he’s been nursing for an hour in his hand, his eyes running over the crew and the ship like he’s trying to memorize them. Maybe, Sara thinks, watching him, he is.

And then he looks at her.

Sara stands abruptly, putting her own glass down half-full. “Gideon, last call,” she announces. “Everyone’s cut off after this one.”

That gets catcalls from Charlie and John and a chorus of very mild protests from the three on the sofa. Zari and Mick just exchange looks.

“Got it, Boss,” Mick rumbles after a moment. He looks at Leonard. “Snart. I want a few minutes.”

Leonard inclines his head. Mick nods back, then scans the rest of the team, sighs, and vanishes down the hall toward his room.

Sara watches as the others do the same—Ray and Nora on their own, fortunately. Zari rolls her eyes at Nate’s unsteady wobble, then ducks under his arm and steadies him, hissing to Charlie to sober herself up and get some rest. The shapeshifter gives her a cheerful one-fingered salute that seems more a suggestion than an insult, but follows.

John, rumpled as always, studies Sara and Leonard for a long moment, then seems to decide that it’s definitely not the time. He raises his glass in salute and saunters off.

Sara turns with a sigh, seeing Leonard getting to his feet and draining his glass. His eyes slide off hers, though, and he glances toward the corridor leading to most of the crew quarters.

“Be back in a bit,” he says quietly.

Mick deserves his few minutes and more. Sara nods and watches him go.

*

"Gary!”

The time agent jerks his head off his fist, blinking, as Ava hisses at him. He’s stationed at the computer that’s keeping an eye on the Waverider, though they can’t track it again. Given that the only thing he can do is make sure that it doesn’t vanish, it’s boring work—which is probably why he’d been engrossed in a comic book.

“Director...Sharpe,” he says, lowering his voice and glancing around dramatically even though the rest of the room is empty. “Um. What’s going on?”

Ava eases into the room and takes a seat at the next computer, turning it on. If someone comes in—unlikely at this hour—she can pretend she’s doing something there. She stares at the brightening screen a moment, marshalling her words.

“I think Druce is staging a bit of a coup,” she says finally. “He’s handpicked agents for this trip to the Vanishing Point, and they’re all higher up, but not the ones I would have selected, not at all.” She glances at him. “He’s deigning to let me be one of them.”

But Gary’s reaction is not the horrified shock she’d imagined. Instead, the agent gives her almost a sad smile, glancing at the blip on his screen that’s the Waverider before looking back at her.

Ava stares at him, putting pieces together. “It was that obvious?” she asks faintly.

Gary rustles the pages of his comic book with a thumb. “Yeah,” he says finally. “He’s been...insinuating himself with some people for a while. Always the ones who think the bureau should be more heavy handed. And with a lot fewer rules.” He shakes his head, looking a little miffed and a little proud at the same time. “He didn’t bother with me. I mean, I wouldn’t have anyway, but...”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?” It’s hard not to feel betrayed. Again.

The agent—really, her first friend at the bureau—looks at her, wide-eyed. “Oh! Um...I...well, I thought...”

His pause is so long that Ava comes to the obvious conclusion.

“You thought I knew.”

“Yeah.” The look is apologetic. “You seemed so pleased by the whole Oculus idea, all the people it could save. And, I mean, he was never going to let you control it. Not a guy like that. I figured you...”

Ava finishes the sentence yet again, numbly. “Had turned the bureau over to him. Of my own will.”

“Well. Yeah.” Gary swallows. “I guess maybe...maybe I thought you thought it was worth it?”

Ava stares at the screen where the tiny, blinking dot that represents the Waverider hovers.

A choice to make.

More than one, really.

And not so hard to make, in the end. Ava nods, firmly, and looks back at her friend. “Gary. This isn’t necessarily going to be easy, but I need you to do it. OK?”

He gulps, pushing away from the computer. “Yes, Director Sharpe.”

“We’re taking off soon, on the bureau mother ship. Per Druce’s plan, there will be only 12 of us. But...”

She lowers her voice. Gary leans in to listen.

*

The captain’s quarters feel...still. Empty. Sara looks around the room, noticing all the things she’s sure Ava did earlier. The jacket slung over a chair. The black boots underneath it. Shaving materials on the top of the dresser Leonard uses, and sandalwood in the air.

If she has any consolation at all right now, it’s that they hadn’t taken too long to—as Mick had said what seemed like years ago now—try to make up for long time. Not so long at all, she thinks, smiling a little as she remembers that first night, comfort given and received in the dark of the safehouse.

But she wants more time. Wants a lot of it. Wants a future, and a life with Leonard—she’s sure of that now. Right when it might be taken away.

He’s gone long enough for her to visit the bathroom and wash up, to return and change into a silky blue nightgown. Nothing too sexy—that doesn’t seem quite right for the night-before-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it vibe.

Then, in a stage of mental bargaining she hasn’t hit since those first days on the Amazo, back when she hadn’t yet known better, she stares at herself in the mirror so long that she’s still standing there when Leonard slips in the door.

She can see him clearly in the mirror as he closes the door behind himself, watching her, but she doesn’t say anything. What can she say? Oh, hey, this might be our last night together before you go running off to sacrifice yourself again? Before it’s all done, game over, have a horrible life if you have one at all?

Because if he doesn’t succeed, she’s realized, not only with she lose him, but the Legends will lose, period, because Druce will be able to use the Oculus to create the time loop in which they do so. In which she loses Leonard, loses Martin, loses Rip. Loses Nyssa and Ava, though not to death. Loses Laurel. Loses her father.

Loses everything. Again.

So, in the mirror, Sara watches Leonard regard her steadily for a moment, then reach down to take off his boots. Then he takes off his shirt, and undershirt, skin gleaming scarred in the mostly dark room.

That trust, that he’ll do anything other than go from one kind of cover to another, honors her, she thinks, eyes on that marred, beautiful skin instead of on his eyes. They’d kind of thrown themselves into this without perhaps as much thought as there should have been, two damaged people like themselves, but that’s OK, that’s good. If they’d waited, thought, overthought, maybe they’d still be staring at each other across crowded rooms, hiding behind card games and booze and words they didn’t acknowledge later because they’d come with the faint burn of scotch and the unreality of the timestream.

Leonard walks up behind her, and Sara stays still. Now, though, now she lifts her eyes to his, meeting gazes across mirrored glass, blue on blue.

His gaze still seems to be hot enough to burn holes in her. Sara shivers as she watches him lift his hands, calloused and scarred and always unexpectedly warm, and put them on her shoulders.

“OK?” he asks, voice completely unaffected, without that bedamned drawl or anything at all but his usual gorgeous, low voice.

And Sara starts to lie. Starts to tell him that she’s fine. That of course she is, that they have this, that Druce is a goner and that of course Ava isn’t a Time Master. She’s tough, she’s the captain, she’s Sara Lance, who’s lost, and lost, and lost again, and kept moving. And they’re going to have plenty more nights, plenty more days. A lifetime’s worth.

The words won’t come out.

She can’t. She just can’t. It’s too much, and she wants to be optimistic, she wants to say the words, but…

She doesn’t know. She can’t know. And it’s just too much.

Leonard sees her face, and his own goes still. Sara, frozen, watches him. If he offers sympathy, or reassurance, or anything else that he can’t prove to her, there in that room on the Waverider, she might lose it. After everything she’s been through, all these miles and years, she might finally lose it.

He doesn’t. He watches her for a long, still moment, and then his hands tighten on her shoulders, turning her, drawing her toward him, and Sara tilts her head up toward him, wondering, and…

This kiss is as scorching hot from the start as their first (second, if you count the one at the Oculus wellspring) was gentle. Sara gasps in reaction, and Leonard gives her no quarter, tongue swiftly finding entry and caressing hers, as he presses her backward, against her dresser, his hands moving downward to her waist, pulling her against him hard, not so much as a millimeter of space between them. He moves his hips against her, and he’s still wearing those tight jeans, and there’s immediately a warmth in Sara’s belly that demands swift action on her part, any other drama be damned.

Oh. Oh, yes. This is what she needs. After a heartbeat of stunned desire, she lifts her hands to his waist, copping a rather nice feel before swiftly moving them around to the front of his jeans. Meanwhile, Leonard’s managed to turn her, them, around, backing Sara toward the bed, his own hands down at her rear again, rocking her against him.

The backs of her legs hit the mattress before she can do more than pop the button to Leonard’s jeans. Sara momentarily ponders whether to try to keep her balance, but decides promptly against it, mostly because Leonard’s right hand is now low on the small of her back, lowering her more or less gently to the soft surface with him, their bodies still as close as possible given inconvenient clothing.

She tries instead to tug down the zipper and then the jeans, but…

“Damn it, Len,” she mutters breathlessly against his still-seeking lips, “yes, you have a lovely ass, and these jeans showcase it very nicely, but do they have to be this tight? Aren’t you worried about, I don’t know, doing yourself damage?”

That gets a chuckle, and Leonard pulls back, getting to his feet while Sara lies there, breathing hard, just now realizing that he’s managed to get her silken sleep shirt mostly unbuttoned as well as thoroughly rucked up about her hips. She moves up onto her elbows, smirking a little and enjoying the view as he smoothly manages zipper and jeans and briefs, shedding them and then kicking them away.

“You were saying?” comes the drawl.

Sara runs her eyes over the…scenery. “OK, I stand corrected. No damage. None. Perfectly…undamaged.”

That draws another chuckle, a low and sensual sound that makes Sara shiver again. Leonard moves on to the bed, on hands and knees over her, running those icy-hot eyes down the river of skin showing through the gap of the sleep shirt. Sara shudders as he ducks his head to claim her lips again, but this kiss is intense and brief. He moves his mouth to her jaw, then, and her collarbone, and, moving the blue silk aside in a thoroughly slow and arousing fashion, one breast…and then the other, insistent suction and the gentle scrape of teeth making her gasp.

At that point, she’s panting, barely crying out, and jerking her hips almost involuntarily. “Len,” she says, fighting back profanity, “I want…”

“Hmmm?” His eyes gleam at her, now about over her belly button. “What do you want, Sara?”

He says her name in that damned-sexy drawl, and Sara loses the battle with her language. Cursing helplessly in multiple languages, she reaches for him, but he evades her, moving lower, only to look up at her again.

“I don’t care what happens or doesn’t happen at the Vanishing Point,” he tells her, tone smoldering, so low it’s nearly inaudible, “you are never going to forget this.”

And by the time she starts to drift off to sleep in his arms, a good deal later, tired and thoroughly replete, Sara’s pretty sure he’s right.

*

It’s later, well after Sara’s sound asleep, that Leonard finally moves from his position besides her.

He pulls slowly, regretfully, away, pausing as her breathing shifts, then moving away again as it settles. When he’s finally climbed to his feet, he reaches for briefs and jeans and sweater, black leather jacket and the cold gun. All his armor, for the battle he’s going into.

Clothed and armed, he stands there a long moment, watching Sara as she sleeps, trying to impress the image in his mind. And then he turns for the door, opening it silently, stepping outside, and closing it behind him.

And then he stops in his tracks.

Mick and Raymond are standing there, both leaning against the wall opposite the doorway. Both with arms folded. Both watching him.

Mick grunts as their eyes lock. Then he glances over at Raymond.

“How,” he asks the scientist, “did the selfish bastard I used to know wind up becoming this dumbass with the obsession about sacrificing himself?”

Raymond shrugs. “I don’t know,” he tells Mick in return. “I mean, he always kept repeating that he wasn’t a hero. He doesn’t act that way, though.”

Leonard opens his mouth to retort, then stops, wondering just how long they’ve been here.

Mick smirks at him. “Don’t worry, lover boy,” he rumbles. “We ain’t been here very long—and the Waverider soundproofing is a helluva lot better than it used to be. But I know you, Snart. You always think you know best. Better than me. Better than anyone who tells you otherwise.”

He points at his former partner, then, as Raymond nods earnestly. “None of this goin’ it alone crap,” he barks. “This is a team. We act like one.”

Leonard knows he probably looks a little nonplussed. Mick, he’d already known, had changed…but this much?

“No one else needs to get in the line of fire,” he starts heatedly, grip tightening on the cold gun despite himself. “Mick…I’m telling you…”

Mick laughs at him, stunning Leonard into silence. Then he glances at Raymond. “You took our death—mine and Haircut’s, even if it didn’t wind up being death after all—before. You ain’t going off on your own this time.”

Leonard blinks, but Raymond nods.

“We’re not letting you, Snart,” he says, his own tone oddly gentle. “I’ve changed a bit in the past four years too, you know. I get it, you do what you have to do…but you don’t have to do this. Not alone.” He pauses. “You’ve got a team.”

A team. A family.

A good crew planning a heist.

He’s silent so long that Mick takes it as tacit agreement, nodding. “Now, you turn your ass around and go back in that room with Blondie,” he says gruffly. “She deserves better than you runnin’ off in the middle of the night to do stupid shit. Ain’t no faintin’ flower. She deserves to be fighting at your side.”

Leonard stares a little more, at a loss for words. And then he turns around, and he opens the door, and he goes back inside.

Sara lets out a sleepy mumble as he slips back into bed with her, snuggling in. Leonard, bemused and touched and just a little disbelieving, holds her close.

Yes. They’ll do this as a team.