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violetsiren90 · 1 year

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Blame Me: Chapter 1 | Jungkook/Reader

Pairing: artist!freespirit!Jungkook/noona!f!Reader

Genre: Best friend's younger brother; slow burn; friends to lovers; eventual romance; eventual smut; neighbors/childhood friends au; forbidden(ish) love; summer love.

Summary: Upon returning to your hometown after breaking off your engagement to your boyfriend of three years, you reconnect with your childhood bestfriend as you attempt to put the pieces of your life back togethe r. It seems like nothing has changed in the sleepy little town until your bestie's younger brother returns home from college - very, very grown. As the summer stretches on, the stakes get higher - can you play with fire without getting burned, or have you ignited a flame that won't be extinguished?

Chapter Warnings: All my fics are 18+ (minors, dni); allusions to an unhappy home environment/neglect; descriptive scenes of shared meals (the characters will eat together a lot in this fic, as it is part of a family dynamic); mentions of promiscuity made in jest; the accidentally-in-bed-together trope; brief panic attack symptoms; MC has some issues with guilt and feeling like a burden

Updates: When I can! Life has been crazy lately.

Author's note: This is so incredibly late in coming, and I really struggled with it for whatever reason (the initial inspo was there and then it just wasn't coming) but I am still excited to tell this story and thank you in advance to anyone who takes the time to read it!

*Inspired by "Blame Me" by Monsta X 💕

In case no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️ 💜

Tag list: @papijiminfeed @oopscoop @violeata @fancycollectormoon @fandomtales @booboobutt @jlee97 @lifeless-firefly @lovemepie67 @shaybtsforever @woomyteez @smutbangtan @raiu54288

If you want to be added to the tag list, comment or send me an ask to let me know!

You watched the shiny white Tesla that had been your Uber grow smaller and smaller down the long shady stretch of Tiger Lily Lane. You stood on the sidewalk, behind you the warm asphalt of the road and long shadows of the tall, sprawling elms, and before you your childhood home. It was a little grey house with a blue door and white trim, kitchen windows like jovial eyes, curved at the top, staring out over a lawn overrun with crabgrass and lined with bushes of pale pink roses that grew flush with the unpainted picket fence. The porch swing was beginning to show signs of rust, but the two little hanging pots of azaleas that flanked it on either side were blooming and bright. The windows and flowers seemed to loudly stare out into the street, assuring neighbors and passersby of a happy home, but you knew better.

You shifted your duffel bag on your shoulder and sighed. You weren't ready to go in. The house into which your family had moved when you were in the third grade had never really been a home to you. In fact, it had been a place you had left. By choice. Granted you had paid the occasional visit, by choice. Because visits were temporary. This wasn't a visit - and the moment you walked through those doors, you would be shutting forever a chapter of your life in which, as stormy as it had been in recent days, had rescued you from the one before it.

An ugly feeling that had been brewing in the pit of your stomach since the pilot had announced that your plane was starting its decent was making itself well known as you stood outside the gate of house number 9195.

A voice snapped you out of your nauseated reverie, and as you turned to see its owner, new feelings washed over you. Better ones. In the lawn of 9197 Tiger Lily Lane stood a pretty, slim young woman with a sharply cut, silky black bob. Her catlike dark eyes were bright and intense, her face bare but lovely, and her clothes simple but strikingly presentable.

"Y/n!" she called again, her arms extended with open palms in a gesture of embrace and inquisition.

"Jiah!" you shouted, dropping your duffel with a thud and jogging into the ungated yard where she stood.

No sooner were you within arm's reach than she pulled you into a tight hug, swaying you from side to side as she pressed out of you, along with all the air in your lungs, a muffled laugh. Suddenly grasping you by the shoulders, she jerked you back so she could look at you. You grabbed her arms to steady yourself, continuing to gasp out bursts of laughter as you protested.

"Jiah, hold on! Woah! I'm gonna fall!"

"Who cares about that! I haven't seen you since...oh my god, since the summer we finished undergrad, I think? How are you? Are you going to be in town for a few days?"

You looked back over your shoulder to where two bulging suitcases stood beside your abandoned duffel, then back to Jiah's inquisitive gaze.

"It's gonna be more than a few days, Ji."

She squeezed your shoulder as she cocked her head to the side.

"Wait, are you moving back?"

You mustered a weary, uncertain smile.

"Surprise!" you offered weakly. Her smile faded, lips drawing into a pensive purse.

"You haven't even been in there yet, have you?" she asked gravely, her eyes searching yours, hand still on your shoulder. You shook your head, lowering your gaze groundward. She sighed.

"Alright, c'mon," she said suddenly, marching toward your pile of luggage.

She grabbed the duffel and tossed it at you, wheeling the other two bags up the driveway behind her.

"You're coming with me for now. We have some catching up to do."

You didn't protest as you followed her over the threshold of the Jeon household for the first time in a long while.

Linen. Every house has its very own unique scent - one that draws you into its aura, for good or ill, and wraps you in all of the memories and feelings it has afforded you; it can take you back to a moment in time, and who you were in that moment, unmistakable and fleeting - a smoke ring of a portal to a previous reality. Jiah's house smelled like linen. And lilacs? Something floral, but even more delicate.

You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you stood just inside the door. The sick feeling in your stomach began to shrink. Every muscle in your body began to soften. You could hear the laughter of years ago. You could feel the bubbly schoolgirl giddiness of slumber parties under forts of sheets. Movie nights with cartons of takeout. Summer afternoons laying in the grass and tossing lazy wishes up at puffy white clouds.

"Y/n? Have you even been listening to me?"

You opened your eyes and blinked at Jiah, who was standing in front of you with two bottles of grapefruit IPA and a look of mild annoyance.

"Sorry," you offered with a sheepish smile, slipping off your shoes, and traded the duffel in your right hand for one of the beers in answer to the question you had missed.

You followed her into the living room and plopped down next to her on a pretty white couch you didn't recognize, taking a long, wheaty swig from your bottle. She folded her legs up under herself and turned toward you, fixing you with earnest, expectant eyes. You raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Well, aren't you gonna tell me?" she pressed.

You smiled to yourself. Always so direct, Jeon Jiah. Even with half a decade stretching between this moment and the last you spent together, things were the very same. You were the Libra - the dramatic, messy one. The one with a heart full of dreams and a head in the clouds. She was the Capricorn with the strong sense of direction and the practical perspective. You always seemed to be in a quandary and she never failed to have a hard take on the situation. You sighed, taking another long sip of beer.

"Have we really talked at all since freshman year of undergrad?" Jiah shook her head.

While you had fought like hell to get out of Bellpond - even if it meant chasing your father's dreams of law school instead of your own - Jiah, who desperately wanted to join you in New York, had set aside her own longings to attend a local college while helping the family store survive the recession. Telling her the truth of what happened was going to be painful. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to transcend the assumption that what you were about to say would let her down.

"It was a guy, wasn't it?"

You shot wide eyes up at her, mouth agape at her sudden interjection.

"What?" she pressed with a shrug as she sipped her own beverage,

"That's always what it is with you."

You blinked, trying to form some sort of protest while failing to find any evidence in memory to counter her claims. You settled for a rueful smile and a huff.

"I guess I always have had pretty terrible taste in men," you conceded.

"Pretty terrible?" she pushed, her face pinching into a comically overt censoriousness. "It's like your number one turn-on is red flags!"

"Hey!" you rebutted, launching yourself at her shoulder in a playful shove, and sloshing her beer in the process.

You froze in panic as she glanced down at her dampened cardigan, and then at you.

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

You jumped up and backed away, holding your hands outstretched in front of you as she stood up and slowly and menacingly advanced toward you.

"This is my favorite sweater," she hissed in a whisper.

"Jiah, I didn't mean too, I'm sorry!" you whined, manic laughter punctuating your words as you backed around the coffee table.

"It has lady bugs on the bottom," she hissed again, eyes narrowing as she raised the right hem to gesticulate at the embroidered insects in question.

"And they're very cute," you placated, hands still raised in self defense. "Look, I said I was - Aaahh!!"

She lunged at you mid-sentence, and you shrieked, tripping over your own feet in an attempt to flee and you toppled, one after the other, in a heap on the plush carpet. Before you could find out if your friend was in fact as strong as she had been in high school, the front door swung open and a familiar voice filled the room.

"Jeon Jiah, get up off the floor and help your imo with all these damn groceries! I had to - AHHHH!"

You looked up at the figure in the door as she let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. She was a petite bombshell of a woman in her early fifties, who, had you not known otherwise, you wouldn't have pegged for a day over forty. Bright and expertly executed makeup adorned her features - softer and rounder than Jiah's. Her permed dark hair was pulled up in a colorful bohemian wrap, and she wore compression pants, neon orange Nike's, and a crop top with a print of Joan Jett flipping the bird. She had dropped the bags of citrus and apples she had been carrying, sending the fruits rolling across the floor.

"Aebeolle!" She shrieked, running forward, and bending down to pull you up by your armpits into a half-stand so she could crush you in a hug.

"Rosie!" You propped yourself up on your knees so that you could wrap your arms around the tiny woman's middle.

Imo to her niece and nephew, she was Rosie to everyone else. While Jiah's mother had been the responsible one, staying out of trouble, and working in the family store after school, Rosie had been the wild child. Smart as a whip but with no patience for the system, Rosie had dropped out of high school at seventeen and jumped on a tour bus the following summer as the groupie of a grunge band. She hadn't looked back until Christmas Eve of 1999, when her whole world was shattered by a phone call.

She had taken the next flight back to the hometown she had promised to never set foot in again so that by Christmas morning she could have her niece and nephew in wrapped her arms. She left behind her life in the fast lane to take over running the Jeon's store and raise her sister's kids in their family home.

She had been there for you, too. On those nights you climbed out of your window, a backpack slung over your shoulder stuffed with clothes and a toothbrush, to tap softly on their front door. On the following mornings she had filled your stomach with warm, hearty dakjuk and fluffy slices of milk bread, and let you watch cartoons as she worked out the knots clinging to your neglected hair. She offered the warmest hugs, the softest words of direction, and the loudest cheers of praise. She had always called you "aebeolle" which was Korean for "caterpillar", and she had always given you the nurture you needed to survive. If she hadn't, you weren't sure where you would have come by it.

"What are you doing here? You finally paying us a visit?" she asked, clapping her hands to your cheeks.

"She was about to tell me about how some guy wrecked her life. Again."

Jiah interjected, earning herself a smack on the shoulder.

"Jiah, you brat!" Rosie chided, as she helped you to your feet.

She glanced up at you through fake lashes.

"You really do have the worst taste in men, though."

You sighed in defeat.

"Ugh, you two," you blustered, "Where is Jungkook when I need backup?"

"Headed this way, for the summer, actually," Rosie remarked as she collected the fruit strewn across the floor.

"So he decided to slum it, huh?" Jiah huffed, "I thought he was going to Ontario, or wherever the heck that last girl he met at that festival was from."

Rosie shrugged, shaking her head with a smile.

"I've lost track," she chuckled.

You blinked.

"Wait, wait, wait...are we talking about the same person?" You asked, holding a hand up in disbelief. "Jungkook. Your little brother. Tiny. Shy as hell. Looks like the weight of his head is gonna topple him over. Bunny rabbit teeth....is a lady's man?"

"Well, not strictly," Rosie hummed, hoisting a bag of produce onto the counter. "His sophomore year in Paris there was that one guy...what was his name?"

"Taehyung," Jiah offered, shedding her sweater and draining her beer.

"Right, right," Rosie nodded. "I liked him. Too bad."

Your mouth hung open. Jiah wrinkled her nose.

"You're gonna catch flies that way," she remarked sardonically.

"I...I just cannot believe what I'm hearing. Jungkook. In my mind he will forever be the tiny gremlin I have to keep bailing out of trouble."

Rosie smiled. Jiah scoffed.

"Well, he's still a gremlin, if you ask me," she sniffed, chucking the beer bottles in the recycling bin.

"When does he get back?" You asked.

Rosie shook her head as she divided the groceries between the cupboards and the fridge.

"He's on his bike so, barring any unexpected stops - which are definitely not out of the picture - he should be here in the next couple of days. Probably by the weekend."

You nodded, still trying to wrap your head around the newly acquired image of you and Jiah's childhood tag-a-long. Rosie approached you with a picture pulled up on her phone.

"Look at him," she said with a smile, sliding the device into your hand.

You blinked at the picture on the screen. There he stood - much taller than you remembered - a girl under each arm, filling out a pair of ripped jeans, a black tank, and an ascot. A fringe brushed the tops of his eyes, while the top half of his dark waves were bound back in a little bun. His right arm was covered in tattoos. He was grinning from ear to ear, with that same toothy smile you had committed to memory.

"That's just crazy," you murmured, shaking your head, before handing Rosie's phone back to her.

"He's going to be thrilled to see you. I think he has a lot of happy memories from when you three were kids just banging around town together," Rosie remarked as she continued to sort the groceries.

You smiled to yourself. You certainly did. You glanced at your bags by the door.

"I guess I should get going," you murmured without conviction.

"Not yet, not until I've fed you," Rosie responded, not skipping a beat as she began to pile the ingredients for bibimbap on the kitchen island.

You smiled to yourself. Rosie to the rescue, as always.

"Okay, if you're gonna twist my arm," you sighed dramatically as you pulled up a stool on the other side of the kitchen island, followed by Jiah who grabbed the carrots and a peeler.

You reached for a huge zucchini squash and knife. Jiah shot you some side-eye.

"You're not getting out of telling us about the big debacle, you know. Time to 'fess up."

"Yep, spill," Rosie concurred as she prepped the rice cooker.

You heaved another sigh. Might as well get it over with, you thought. But for some reason, the words stuck in your throat, unable to come out. You looked at your hands, shaking as they tried to steady the knife over the squash. You couldn't do this. Not right now. Not yet.

You let the knife clatter to the cutting board and scrubbed your hands over your face.

"Y/n?" Jiah asked, leaning over to look at you, "Are you okay?"

You drew your hands from your face and looked up at her with tired eyes. She and Rosie had traded their teasing glances for expressions of concern. You gripped the edge of the counter to stop your stupid hands from trembling.

"It's really not a fun story, you guys," you said slowly, trying your best to sound casual, "You're not missing out."

Rosie reached over the kitchen island to clasp your hands.

"No worries, aebeolle. We can talk about it some other time. For now, just stick to slicing up this zucchini and forget about that other one!"

She shot you a wink as she cracked open a tupperware of marinated beef.

"Imo! My god!" Jiah protested with a grimace as you and Rosie burst into a fit of giggles.

It was all laughter and shots of soju and teasing Jiah about being a prude until you were gathered around the table with steaming bowls of goodness in front of you. Rosie closed her eyes and threw up rock-on signs with both hands.

"May Stevie Nicks bless this food," she murmured before snapping up her chopsticks to snag a mandu and pop it into her mouth.

You took a heaping bite of bibimbap, your whole body relaxing as the flavors and warmth returned you to a simpler time. Another wave of nostalgia washed over you as images of three little hungry kids fighting over the last piece of fried chicken replaced the scene before you. Your eyes wandered to the empty chair beside Rosie. There was a missing piece in the picture of comfort you had always found in the Jeon residence - a missing piece in the shape of round head bearing a pair of giant doe eyes that would light up when he'd win and water-up when he'd lose, and little short legs that ran faster than the longer ones, and a bright smile that was all innocence and central incisors.

You smiled fondly as long-dormant memories continued to appear like little spring flowers of the mind. Jungkook had perfectly completed your little trio, because though Jiah was your best friend, you and he had always understood each other in a way that came so easily. You didn't mind that everything brought him to tears, or that he invested himself so earnestly in even the smallest of his joys. You also didn't find it annoying that he wanted to tag along with the big kids, or that he hated being called a baby despite practically demanding to be treated as one. You knew in a way Jiah would only later realize that he was caught between wanting to grow up too quickly and not at all. It was the same battle between longings that waged war in your own heart, along with so many others who in some way had to raise themselves.

"How's the oi muchim?" Rosie's question roused you from your reverie.

"Amazing, like everything," you answered, waving your chopsticks over the spread of banchan.

"I made it a little spicier this time," the older woman said, sampling the cucumbers again herself. "Trying to get these staples just right before the new place opens."

"New place? Another store?" You asked, helping yourself to more sukju namul.

Rosie's eyes shone, a proud smile tugging at her lips as she gave her answer.

"A restaurant, actually."

Your jaw dropped.

"You're finally doing it!?"

Rosie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, nodding at her niece.

"It's all Jiah's doing. She's taking care of all the logistics, I'm just figuring out the menu."

"Well, if you need help, I'm in between gigs at the moment," you added eagerly.

Rosie clapped her hands and wiggled in her chair.

"We would love the help! We've only just started hiring some staff. So far there's one person to wait tables and someone running the kitchen."

Jiah let out a huff. You quirked an eyebrow in her direction, and she appraised you with a look of wistful discouragement.

"Too bad you can't cook, or I'd boot him out tomorrow."

"Who?"

"The chef," she sneered.

"Speaking of, Jiah-ie," Rosie remarked over the food in her cheek, "How is Seokjin doing these days?"

The older woman chewed back a poorly concealed smirk as she glanced up at her niece, whose lips curled scornfully.

"One day, I'll kill him, I swear," she grumbled, shoveling rice into her mouth as if she was punishing it with every bite.

You glanced over at your friend, then at Rosie, who wiggled her eyebrows as she took a sip from her glass.

"Seokjin...not Kim Seokjin?" you asked.

"Yeeeeep," Jiah affirmed bitterly.

"He's a cook?"

Rosie nodded.

"And darn good at it. The only thing he's better at is pissing off this one right here," she remarked with a smirk as she gestured toward her glowering niece.

You smiled to yourself as Jiah started off on what would likely be a lengthy rant at the young man's expense. Seokjin, or Jin, as he was more commonly known, had attended the same small high school as you and Jiah. In a body of four-hundred students, everyone had played a well-known role - and while she had been the straight-laced valedictorian, he was the class clown. Natural enemies who found the other beyond comprehension, the bulk of the ire had always been on Jiah's side, while Jin had seemed to find her as amusing as he did inexplicable. The concept of the two of them attempting to run a business together was the stuff of sitcoms.

His ongoing feud with Jiah notwithstanding, it didn't really surprise you that he had tucked himself into the Jeons' life. His father owned most of the agricultural land in the surrounding area, and with his older brother having been slated since birth to take over the family empire, Jin had enjoyed a freedom of direction that found him often seeking out the phenomenon of being needed...and people always needed a laugh. But laughter is momentary, and Rosie, having the heart for strays that she did, always provided something more permanent.

"So now we're probably going to have to keep Jungkook at the store, because you know how they get when they're together," Jiah tiraded on.

"They don't get along anymore?" you asked, a bit crestfallen at the thought.

"The opposite," Rosie chuckled, "You put them in the same room and those dorks turn into a couple of puppies. They broke the back screen door roughhousing last Chuseok. Plowed right through it."

You snickered at the thought.

"But Jungkook is darn well gonna contribute while he's here," your friend asserted as she stood to clear the table, still on her agenda about the restaurant launch, "Not just cruise around finding pretty people to sketch between make-out sessions."

Rosie waved a hand dismissively.

"He's always willing to pitch in. But it's summer, and he's young, so don't you go all drill sergeant on him."

Jiah scoffed.

"Sure, it's summer, but there's a lot to get done between now and opening, and -"

"AND," Rosie interrupted, "I expect you to have some fun as well, young lady! Especially now that Y/n is back. You two better do a decent amount of carousing."

"Carousing?" Jiah asked with a grimace, directing horrified eyes in your direction.

You let out another laugh.

"She's got a point, Rosie. I don't think anyone has caroused in quite some time."

Rosie rolled her eyes, crossing to the sink and running the tap.

"Well," she rejoined, undeterred, "Whatever it is they're calling it these days, you two better be doing plenty of it! Give your imo some fun to live through vicariously, why don't you?"

Jiah shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And, you," she said, pointing a sudsy wooden spoon in your direction, "Should just stay here for the night. Take Jungkook's room. Then you can rest and be ready for...you know. Tomorrow."

You accepted the invitation with very little hesitation. It was a relief, and Rosie knew. She had always known. You shot a text to excuse your absence that you doubted was actually necessary and lugged your things down the hall and into the last bedroom on the left.

The rest of the night was spent stuffed onto the little couch with bowls of ice cream while the three of you shrieked and slapped each other's arms and kick your feet watching reruns of The Golden Girls. It was nearly midnight by the time you slipped under the sheets of the full-sized mattress in the smallest bedroom.

Though your eyes were heavy with exhaustion, you couldn't help but glance around at the walls and shelves, filled with scented candles, and action figures, Polaroids, and an incredible number of charcoal and graphite sketches. There were drawings of buildings, trees, cars, and people. And though there was little variation in color, the vitality and emotion that sparked along each line drew you from piece to piece. Your eyes drifted over a particular drawing - a girl's lower face - the tip of a nose, lips slightly parted, and her chin tilting upward. It might have been the delirium of your tired mind, but something about it seemed familiar. You stretched for a recollection just out of reach as you slipped past memory and into slumber.

Weight. The first thing you registered as your mind began to again become aware of its physical trappings was a heaviness. At first your hazy consciousness likened it to blankets, then to the heaviness of a sleep without dreams...safety...security...

And then something brushed the skin of your stomach under your shirt, drawing a hum out of you as your eyes fluttered open, and what they saw had you frozen in place. An arm. A large, muscular arm covered in dark ink was snaked around your waist, hand slipped under the hem of your sleep tee.

Fight or flight mode suddenly triggered, you snapped up and pushed yourself away from the body attached to the limb, letting out a shout as you kicked your legs, and only catching a glimpse of dark hair and grey sweatpants as the intruder rolled off the bed and hit the carpet with a loud thud. You jumped off the other side of the bed before you could think, tangling your legs in sheets that brought you tumbling down onto your ass. Before you could thrash free of the bedding, a groaning figure peered with large, dark eyes from the other side of the bed. Dark, wild waves framing his sleepy head like a halo, and wide, round eyes still bleary with sleep, the young man passed tattooed hand over his mouth to wipe the remnants of drool away as he blinked at you from across the room.

"J...Jungkook?!" you choked out in surprise and confusion, struggling to your feet.

"You kicked me..." he groaned, his features taking on an injured look as he stooped to rub his thigh.

"Why...when..."

"Imo told me to wake you up for breakfast," he pouted.

You scrubbed your hands over your eyes. Same damn baby-faced expression. Huge, bulky man. With tattoos...and a lip ring? This Pokémon had leveled up. Maybe twice. And that was all your brain could register as your heart rate descended from two hundred beats per minute and the heavy fog of an interrupted sleep cycle began to dissipate. You tossed the sheet back onto the bed, and as your eyes flicked back to his face you noticed his had dropped a little lower. Registering with horror that you were in a thin cotton nightshirt with nothing underneath, you snatched up the sheet again, clutching it to your chest. What the fuck was happening?

"Rosie told you to wake me up, so you decided to spoon me?" You asked incredulously as your embarrassment quickly morphed into agitation.

Jungkook's eyes widened as they flew up to yours, seemingly caught off guard by the edge in your tone.

"No, noona...it wasn't like that!" he said, standing to his full height, his brow creasing defensively.

He was pretty fucking tall. His white tee and grey sweats did little to hide the fact that he was also pretty fucking big. Exasperated by these unbidden acknowledgements that had your brain buffering, you snapped a little again.

"Then what was it like? You had your hand up my shirt, Kook!"

Your voice had unintentionally softened at his nickname, and he caught it, biting back a grin as you hugged the sheet over you just a little more snugly.

"It was kind of your fault, noona," he smirked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

You shot him a quizzical and unamused look.

"I came in here to wake you up and you pulled me into bed. You kept calling me someone else's name...and..." he giggled, "'Baby', and you kept insisting we sleep for just five more minutes."

You gaped at him in horror.

"You pulled my arm over you," he continued, now a bit smugly, "And I had literally just woken up, so...being so comfy...well, I guess I fell back to sleep with you."

You could feel the heat in your face. You had a history of pretty intense sleep talking, but you hadn't experienced it to that extent in years. You considered that you must have slept deeply as you stammered your apology.

"Oh my god, Jungkook...I'm so sorry - that's horrifying - I didn't mean to..."

The younger man just laughed in response, breaking into his signature luminous smile. His eyes glimmered.

"Didn't mean to steal my bed, demand cuddles, and then beat the heck out of me?"

You let out a sigh.

"Sorry."

He nodded, a little smile still tugging at his lips.

"I accept your apology for the bruises...but not the cuddles. Those were nice."

He threw a wink over his shoulder as he headed for the door, and you tossed a pillow and a string of expletives after him as he jogged, giggling, toward the kitchen. Still flustered and a bit thrown, you changed into real clothes before joining the others in the breakfast table. Rosie was placing mayak eggs alongside the piles of bacon and pancakes as you pulled out a chair next to Jiah.

"You slept well! You must have been exhausted," Rosie remarked, handing you a mug of coffee.

"Yeah, must have," Jungkook quipped with a smirk as he snagged three strips of bacon.

You shot him a warning look as you stabbed demonstratively into a stack of pancakes, but his grin only deepened.

"I thought you weren't supposed to be back until the weekend," you addressed him coolly.

"Mm," he took a sip of orange juice. "I actually wasn't really supposed to be back until next week. I expected to head north to see a friend but she ended up being out of town, so I just came straight back."

"A friend, huh?" Jiah crooned patronizingly, as she twirled a fork in his direction.

Her brother nodded.

"The same one you were talking to on the phone very loudly when you came in last night?"

Jungkook scrunched his nose, sticking out the tip of his tongue in her direction.

"Wow," she drawled, "How very adult of you. And for the record, friends don't call each other 'baby'."

Jungkook snickered, glancing at you again before he mumbled, "Some friends do..."

"So, Jiah - " you practically shouted, as you turned toward her in a desperate bid to change the topic of conversation, "You gonna show me the new place today, or what?"

"The restaurant? If you let her drag you out there, she'll put you to work and you'll never be seen again," Jungkook hummed over an entire egg that he had pocketed in his cheek, casting teasing eyes up at his sister, who smiled back wickedly.

"You know, Kookie, it's just so good to have you home! We needed someone who puts in those gym hours to do a bit of the heavy lifting."

Jungkook flashed another smile, puffing his chest and massaging his pectorals as Jiah feigned a gag.

You chuckled, and Jungkook grinned as he tucked into his pancakes.

Watching the two of them bicker and catch up, you realized that things felt a bit more whole again - familiar, if different. You considered that maybe the three of you could all fall back into stride. Maybe this summer wouldn't be so bad after all.

After breakfast you gathered your things to head next door. You tried to slip out quietly, to avoid Rosie stalling you any further, but Jungkook caught you as he was coming around from the garage, an oil towel in his grease-stained hands.

"You leaving?" he asked with a tinge of disappointment.

"I can't over-stay my welcome," you shrugged, smiling wryly.

His face took on a serious expression.

"You know you're always welcome here, yeah? It's good to have you back," he pressed earnestly.

You nodded, touched because you knew he meant it and that the other two members of his family shared the same sentiment. Jungkook wiped his hands on the towel casting a look over at the house next door.

"You staying there?"

You nodded. His brow creased and the corners of his mouth turned down.

"Okay. You can come here whenever."

"I know," you said softly.

His eyes looked worried and uncertain. You dropped your bag and pulled him into a hug.

"It's so good to see you again, Jungkook-ah," you murmured, dropping your head against his chest.

His arms squeezed around you in return. He had always preferred to talk with his body instead of his words. Every playful punch, or little shove, or squeeze of his hand carried a message. This one meant it was good to see you too.

As you waved goodbye you counted the Jeons' welcome among your blessings - not everything you had left behind would be so welcome to recall. But, life hadn't left you with many choices. So you began the long walk to the house next door.

-End Chapter 1-

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legstheoctomobster · 1 year

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Simon Petrikov + Fionna Campbell Agere Hcs

Simon

(Some warnings for descriptions of bladder incontinence, mental illness, and diapers (all of it nonsexual!!) If you’re uncomfortable by any of these, feel free to skip this part!!)

A flip! Has more of a caregiver lean, and is more of a periodic regressor.

Here’s what I mean!

Doesn’t exactly have an age range when he’s regressed. It just feels like an amalgamation of being an infant, toddler and small child.

Regresses involuntarily as a symptom of his mental health, and as a way to help cope with his trauma!

Really shy with others when regressed, but will be a bit more bratty and social with loved ones.

Doesn’t necessarily need a caregiver, but Fionna and Cake are both babysitters for him! He’s alright without a caregiver, but needs help coming down from episodes/meltdowns

Prismo is also a caregiver, and is somewhat strict with him. Like in that one scene in episode 4. Simon feels a bit more safer to act bratty in front of Prismo for whatever reason.

Needs diapers both in and out of regression. The Crown took away his bladder control (along with many other things), so he needs protection to stay dry. Can thankfully change himself both in and out of regression as well!

Fionna accidentally walked in on him changing in the Winter King’s castle, and was like “okay dude just do whatever you need”. Simon wanted to cry from both embarrassment and gratitude.

As for being a caregiver, he takes care of both Marceline and Fionna!

He’s a little more stricter with Fionna than he is Marcy, because usually Fionna and him are in some level of danger, especially when she’s small. He sometimes spoils Marcy a bit, and he’s not going to admit that anytime soon

Fionna

(Some small warnings for panic attacks and depression. Feel free to skip out!)

A flip as well! Usually regressor/dreamer leaning. She usually is more of a babysitter/big sister caregiver, and is uncomfortable with being called “Mama”; she likes “Fi-Fi” much more, no matter how much she makes fun of it.

Regresses to about 4 — 13 years old, usually staying around 5 — 8. (Age)Dreams to about 2-5 years old.

Regresses both voluntarily and involuntarily. It’s to cope with stress and her mental health.

Sometimes she’ll make certain dates on when she’d regress/dream, and then completely forget them and be pleasantly surprised; like “Yipee small time now! I forgot!”

Usually very energetic and talkative when regressed/dreaming. When she’s not, it’s usually after a panic attack/episode.

Gary, Marshall, Cake and Simon are her caregivers. Gary and Marshall are like uncle-ish, while Simon’s more fatherly. Cake is like a companian cg for her!!

I wanna say the first time Fionna regressed (like in canon) was in episode 6. Like after seeing the Winter King die, she was shook up and had a panic attack while in the Baby-Universe, causing her to regress. Sorta my reason for why she was in that baby mobile thingy at the end of the episode.

Also during that episode ending, the group all just regressed. I don’t make the rules here.

Anyways have some gifs as a treat :)

Bye bye!!

#adventure time #fionna and cake #fandom agere #adventure time agere #simon petrikov #fionna campbell #I’m Mr. unapologetically posts agere on main now #get used to it (/j /lh)#padded agere #agere headcanons #🪸#i remember youuu

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superbattrash · 2 years

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Bruclark Week Day 5: Touch Starved

Alternative title: Banana Muffin

Listen... is this the loosest interpretation of a @bruclarkweek prompt ever? Yes. Was it still so much fun to write drunk-ish Bruce? Absolutely.

This can’t be happening. He’s prepared for this. He knows what to look for, who to look for, but there’s been no signs and yet here he is. He’s been poisoned somehow. It may just be strong drugs, but if so, they’re unlike anything Bruce has ever come in contact with before and he can’t remember the last time someone tried to drug him in public. At least not drug Bruce Wayne in public. Ivy is still trying to perfect her pollen, but she doesn’t mess with Bruce unless he happens to be in the crowd she’s dousing; she usually goes after Batman if she wants a one-victim situation. His breathing is getting labored, and he’s been nowhere near stairs or other kinds of physical exertion; he’s not allergic to any of the food that’s been served, and it doesn’t feel like an allergic reaction anyway. He goes through the mental checklist he’s worked out with Alfred to make sure it isn’t an anxiety or panic attack. There have been no triggers, his pulse isn’t acting up, his palms aren’t prickling. His brain is working as usual so that isn’t it either. It has to be drugs or poison, but how?

Never mind the how for now; he has to figure out how to leave discreetly, but his legs have started to shake. He’s not sure he can make it to the nearest exit, never mind discreetly. What is he supposed to do? He can’t let anyone know what’s going on in case it’s a slow poison and someone has done this to Batman. Bruce Wayne falling over with the symptoms after Batman being hit would be too much of a coincidence, even for Gotham.

Lack of oxygen may be causing his brain to overthink things, but he’s still conscious enough to nod along politely to something someone said – his vision is getting blurry too.

Alfred isn’t here; he’s taking a very rare night off, because Bruce told him to. ‘Nothing is going to happen at a charity for a children’s hospital, Alfred,’ he’d said, very convincingly. Of course, this is the one time he’s been utterly wrong about the dangers of being Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t have air to call someone, even if he did want to bother Dick, or God forbit, ask Jason for help. He’s out of options – at least out of human options.

He's been working with the Justice League for more than two years now; he trusts them as much as he trusts anyone outside his family. He knows any of them would come if he called, but he can’t physically call anyone at this point. He’s even having a hard time holding onto the champagne glass in his hand.

Bruce needs to get back to the cave in record time and while Flash is the fastest man alive, he doesn’t have superhearing. Superman does. And Bruce trusts Superman to save- to help him without making a scene. The only issue is that Superman doesn’t know who Bruce is; he doesn’t know that Batman is actually Gotham’s favorite billionaire. Bruce isn’t sure he’s willing to give up that piece of information, but he doesn’t really have much choice at this point. He shakily puts the glass down on the nearest flat surface. He’s relieved when it doesn’t shatter; he really isn’t sure what he put it on.

Civilian identity be damned, he can’t waste any more time thinking this through.

“Superman,” Bruce chokes out. “Immediate extraction needed.” He coughs into a handkerchief to hide most of the syllables, but he really doesn’t have to bother. He’s not sure even Superman’s otherworldly hearing can pick up the sound, but he has to try, even if it is more wheeze than words at this point. “Banana muffin,” he adds with difficulty, despite hating the damn ‘safe word’ Kal came up with, just in case it isn’t clear that he needs assistance now. He’s suffocating and he can’t even conquer up enough air to excuse himself from the group crowding against him.

He expects the doors to slam open, the roof to save in, anything, but nothing happens. Perhaps Superman really hasn’t heard his call for help. How the hell will he get out of here when he can’t even make out the faces surrounding him? Even Bruce Wayne doesn’t get this drunk at a charity gala. At least not this quickly. Panic is slowly starting to creep in; he hates being this useless and without options.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I-” a gentle voice breaks through the whooshing in Bruce’s ears. “Yes, my apologies, I just- Bruce, hi,” the voice says and on pure instinct Bruce plasters his signature smile on his face as he nods at the blurry silhouette in front of him. The voice said Bruce, not Mr. Wayne, which means they’re comfortable with him. Or the image of him they’ve decided he fits into anyway.

“Can I steal you away for a minute?” the voice asks. Bruce has to crane his neck up to look in the vicinity of the man’s face. It’s still mostly just a blur but Bruce notes dark hair and broad shoulders.

Bruce really doesn’t want to be “stolen away” by anyone other than Superman or maybe Alfred at this point, but he doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to decline. He blinks, trying to focus and keep his breathing shallow to allow some type of air to get through. The blurry figure sharpens a bit but Bruce blinks a few more times. He could’ve sworn he saw Superman, but in front of him is a stranger in an ill-fitting suit, pushing a pair of thick frames up his nose. Does Bruce know this man?

The crowd doesn’t let up until the stranger says, a little too loudly: “You promised me a minute to ourselves, remember?” He pushed his arm underneath Bruce’s, making Bruce grab hold of his forearm by instinct. There’s a private tinge to the guy’s voice that finally gets through the people wanting a piece of Bruce to themselves. They know well enough what kind of minutes Bruce gives people. At least attractive people. Bruce thinks this man is attractive; at least he’s freakishly tall and the arm underneath his hand is firm.

Bruce has enough mind left to nod. “Of course,” the last drop of air is forced out through his lips but it’s enough to get them through the crowd.

Bruce knows his oxygen is low, he’s not getting enough through to his brain and he’s starting to feel lightheaded, which is the only reason he lets this stranger carry most of his weight. It seems to help his lungs expand better, now that he doesn’t have to focus on both breathing and standing up straight.

He tries to call for Superman again – a last ditch effort; he has no idea how he’ll explain why he’s calling for Metropolis’ golden boy, but he has to do something. He has no idea where this man is taking him, although he trusts himself enough to get out of any sticky situation – even if he’s been drugged. He vaguely registers that the stranger has no issue holding him up and guiding him through the hall, despite Bruce being well over six feet and on the heavy side of the 200 pounds. He would’ve been impressed if he wasn’t trying very hard to keep his head still enough to have his tongue work on pushing a single word out of his mouth. It feels heavy and swollen in his mouth.

“Kal,” he manages to half-whisper, because it’s much easier to say than Superman – and to explain if the stranger holding him up asks. It’s barely even a word, easy enough to brush off a drunken muttering, especially in the state that Bruce is in.

“Right here, B,” a voice close to him says. Too close, actually.

Bruce frowns and tries to focus his swimming vision. Something isn’t right. This isn’t the bright blue and red he’s been mentally preparing for. The material is all wrong and it feel scratchy brushing against his skin. Superman’s suit isn’t scratchy. It’s smooth and comforting to touch; whatever he’s touching isn’t. This isn’t Superman, this is that stranger and his weird suit. It’s- it is-

“So ugly,” Bruce mumbles at the offending greyish brown fabric he’s got his cheek pressed against. When did his head fall to the side? Probably about the same time an arm wound around his back. He must really be out of it if he hasn’t registered the stranger wrapping an arm around him.

“Excuse me?”

“Superman would never,” Bruce finds himself muttering because he really wouldn’t. Kal would make a grand entrance, make sure to get Bruce to safety. This person – whoever this tasteless man is – might be tall and sort of handsome if Bruce focuses hard enough on his face, but he’s no Superman.

“Pretty sure he would,” mutters the stranger but it’s clear from his voice that he’s smiling, which confuses Bruce. Did he tell a joke?

Oh God, this poison is worse than he thought. His breathing is easier now that he’s got some support, but there’s pain blooming in his chest and he’s pretty sure he’s starting to sweat. What in the world has he ingested? He would’ve felt a needle, it must’ve been in the food. Is anything else affected? He tries to straighten up and look around but all it does is make him dizzy and he slumps even heavier against the broad shoulder.

“How am I going to get you out of here,” the shoulder mutters. Or the man probably does the muttering. Bruce is slowly losing his mind. “There are paparazzi everywhere outside.”

“Alley,” Bruce’s last brain cell offers. He feels off, almost like he’s drunk but with more respiratory difficulties.

“Alley, yes, that’s good,” the voice says, and Bruce is almost sure he lifts both of Bruce’s feet of the ground to get him out the double doors. They might not be double. Is he seeing double? Were they double when he got here? “Won’t they follow us though?”

“Agreement,” Bruce explains, very eloquently. “No nudes.” He’s pretty sure he’s got more words than that, but his tongue is once again not cooperating, and he really needs to get more air into his lungs; he sounds like an old smoker walking on stairs. “Kisses,” he adds, because that’s the agreement. They don’t publish naked photos of him if there are other people present and in exchange Bruce does his best to give them plenty of opportunities to capture him with a new beau on his arm.

Speaking of…

Bruce squints at the giant next to him. He is rather handsome, isn’t he? There’s something familiar about him too, about his silhouette. He’s about to open his mouth and ask – what’s the harm in asking? It’s not like it’s weird of him to ask to know the name of the guy dragging his heavy body outside – but before he can force words out of his mouth, they pass through the doors and are assaulted with flashes and yelling.

“Oh God,” the stranger says, and the arm around Bruce’s back tightens minutely. “It’s even worse like this.”

Bruce wants to comment on this man’s experience with bright lights and screaming journalists, but he really does not want to waste oxygen by talking when he won’t be heard over the yelling anyway. He’d much rather think of a way to get rid of this guy – even if they make it to the alley, Bruce can’t call for the batmobile with him there.

One problem at a time though. They need to get past the sea of reporters wanting quotes or pictures or whatever else they usually get out of Bruce by the end of the night. Granted, he’s leaving much earlier than expected, but they don’t seem to mind.

“Mr. Wayne, over here, look this way!”

“Bruce, Bruce, who is this?”

“Is this your partner, Bruce?”

“You haven’t dated men in a while, what’s changed?”

“Mr. Wayne, how long have you been seeing each other?”

“Bruce, is this another one-night conquest?”

It looks like the stranger is getting upset by the questions – they’re not the worst Bruce has ever gotten honestly, and they’re somewhat fair questions knowing what they usually scream at Bruce at the end of the night – so Bruce gathers what little of his brain still works to smile at the crowd.

“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” Bruce slurs – and hopes it sounds more coherent to their ears than it does his own – as he pets the stranger’s chest. Jesus, how buff does someone have to be? It’s like petting concrete. As soon as he speaks, the questions stop; they’re all dying to hear what the prince of Gotham has to say. He doesn’t even have to pretend to be drunk at this point, he’s pretty sure the only thing holding him up is the arm around his waist. The flashes hurt his eyes, and he shuts them before reaching up – and up, how tall is this guy? Bruce isn’t short by any means – and grabbing a very strong and square jaw. He pulls down with his hand as he stretches onto his toes.

He presses his lips to the stranger’s and tries not to be offended when he freezes up. Bruce should’ve known there was a possibility that this guy was straight – or even homophobic; smallminded people still exist, after all – but his brain isn’t really working on full power at the moment. Even just pressing their lips together feels like running a marathon with Croc on his heels. He’s also fairly certain kissing someone he doesn’t know in front of a bunch of other strangers wouldn’t be his first choice of action if his brain was functioning properly. Although it's not the craziest thing he’s done in front of paparazzi and he has to admit landing one on a tall beauty is much better than, say, swimming in a fountain or purposefully getting caught in a supply closet with a member of the staff.

Bruce is about to lean back properly onto his feet when the slack arm around his back tightens and brings their chests together. Bruce nearly yelps from the sheer force of the movement. Another hand sneaks up and holds his face close. His own hands scramble to grab more firmly onto a shoulder, and he holds on for dear life as his lips are parted by a warm tongue. He tries not to moan as his head is pulled to the side, bringing their mouths closer together.

Oh, this guy can kiss.

And evidently, he doesn’t need to breathe because he keeps kissing Bruce, not even stopping for a second of air when he runs a hand down to cup his neck. Great kisser or not, Bruce didn’t have a lot of air to begin with – he should’ve thought this through before grabbing and kissing a stranger, but alas, even Batman has off-days, especially if they involve getting drugged – and he has to pull back soon enough. A shame, really, he can’t remember the last time he was kissed with such passion.

A thought for another day because when he opens his eyes, he wants to claw them out of his own skull. The camera flashes are torture for his senses, and he tries his best not to flinch. He’s got to get home in the next couple of minutes or he’s pretty sure he’ll suffer permanent damage – if not from the poison, then from his own actions; he has no sense of boundaries left as he barely stops himself from squeezing the stranger’s left pec.

“I fear-” Bruce tries to play the gasp for air off as excitement instead of the actual need for air. It’s not a hard sell after that kiss. “He’ll keep me busy. All night.”

There are some oh’s and ah’s in the crowd – Bruce has no idea how they keep this up; he’s been in the public eye for as long as he’s been alive and yet they’re always somehow baffled and impressed by anything he says or does.

“Lesgo,” Bruce says in the general vicinity of the stranger (despite still clinging onto his shoulder) and more or less stumbles down the two steps from the building. He wonders where his t’s went as the paparazzies make room for him and his companion. Always so polite. He’ll have to give them a proper show some other day. That thought has him stop, effectively making his makeshift cane-slash-crutch halt in his steps as well. Is he really so intoxicated that he’s starting to rely on and appreciate reporters of all people? That can’t be a good sign.

The stranger tugs on his arm and Bruce follows obediently. He’s still trying to work out how he’s going to get rid of him by the time they’re nearly at the alley. He’s losing precious time rearranging and overanalyzing his own thoughts. He’s been poisoned, there’s no rhyme or reason to his mind right now, but he doesn’t have time to be slow. He needs a plan. Now.

“You said they wouldn’t follow,” Tall-and-handsome hisses and Bruce wonders why he’s so panicked. Who wouldn’t want seven minutes in heaven with Bruce Wayne? He rolls his eyes at himself. Splitting his person up this much in his own head can’t be healthy.

He does however see his savior’s point when he glances over his shoulder. There are indeed cameras and people following them. Huh. Well, he knows how to get rid of just about anybody at this point in his life, whether it be reporters, colleagues or whatever falls in between. He twists around to wrap his arms around the stranger’s waist and hook his chin over his shoulder so he’s facing their admirers. He has to stop himself from frowning when he once again is forced onto his toes to manage the maneuver. He hopes it looks like an intimate embrace and not just him draping himself over someone he doesn’t know.

“Warm up show,” Bruce stage-whispers at the crowd of paparazzies and they all laugh and shake their heads at him. Good, old Brucie Wayne. He hopes they don’t notice how muttered his m’s are sounding. First t’s and now m’s? He needs an out before the rest of the alphabet goes the same way. Bruce throws a wink their way – at least he hopes it’s their way, he really can’t see much anymore – and then staggers the rest of the way into the alley with the help of his new friend. This time they’re not followed.

“Clever,” Mystery-Man says quietly.

Bruce would smile at him, but he’s finally run out of ‘power through’ juice. His eyes are throbbing and he’s approximately four minutes and twenty-five seconds away from vomiting up what little food he’s eaten today. He’s shaking and his knees feel like that one time he had to jump off a roof without his grappling hook and he landed awkwardly on his feet like an untrained moron. He’s acutely aware of how much of his weight the stranger is holding up.

Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s had someone this close for this long – at least not anyone who isn’t family – without it involving less clothing and less panting. Okay, maybe the same amount of panting but Bruce isn’t usually the one gasping for air. Not always, anyway. What was he thinking again? Ah, right, getting rid of the man-tree holding him up before he either a) vomits all over him or b) faints in his arms. Easy peasy.

“’hanks for ‘e assis’,” Bruce says and frowns. Those damn t’s. Is his tongue really swollen? He can’t tell with the saliva starting to fill his mouth. There are too many conflicting symptoms, and he can’t gather his thoughts enough to analyze them. “Imma l- l-” Stupid e’s. “Imma go.”

He manages to wiggle out of the stranger’s arms – oh, it’s so cold out here, how did he not notice before? – but somewhere along the way he’s miscalculated because either the oaf-man has just kicked at his feet or he’s falling over them himself.

Either way, not good.

Clark watches as Bruce takes a wobbly step and then promptly tilts to the ground. This is Batman, there’s no way he’s letting himself fall to the wet concrete of a dirty alley, no matter how much of a drunk he supposedly is. Clark has never seen Batman like this before and he’s starting to get worried. He knows he’s not acquainted with Bruce’s public persona, but even as far as drunk people go, this isn’t right. Bruce is making no sense at all and it’s quite frankly terrifying to witness. Clark is still waiting for Bruce to stop the charade, but he also knows that Batman is always several steps ahead of everyone around him and maybe they’re being watched. Clark would like to think he’d notice something like that but he’s humble enough to admit that it’s possible for him to miss something Batman has noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Which is why Clark doesn’t immediately run to catch Bruce when he falls.

When Bruce lands – more luck than skill – with one hand under half his face, Clark has a moment of pure shock. He knows he should rush to Bruce’s side, but he’s just witnessed Batman – the Batman – fall gracelessly on his face. He’s torn between wishing he’d caught him and wishing he’d gotten that on film. Bruce groans and Clark is snapped out of his own thoughts. He’s by Bruce’s side in seconds.

“Are you okay?” Clark knows the answer before he’s even asked it. Of course, Bruce isn’t okay. Clark can’t help him if he doesn’t start talking, but from the looks of it it’s more likely that Bruce is going to be sick than he’s going to start talking like he usually does. ‘Talking’ might be too extreme of a word seeing as Batman mostly communicates in scolding, grunts and huffing sounds, not to forget his patented Bat-Glare.

If the situation was in any way different Clark would have been laughing his ass off. Bruce has rolled over to sit up; the right side of his face is smothered in dirt, and he looks like a disgruntled kid. It’s sight Clark is sure he’ll never forget. He does, however, have enough self-control to push his initial amusement aside for now.

Bruce tilts to the side a little but Clark is there to catch him this time. Bruce looks at the hand on his shoulder like it’s personally offended him.

“I’ve been drugged,” he says to Clark’s hand, words a little jumbled together.

“I gathered that much.” Clark doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a close call. Bruce’s brain must be affected by the drug. This isn’t the man he’s used to dealing with and he’s starting to worry that something’s really wrong with him. Something permanent. Luckily Batman is always prepared – even for situations when he can’t be prepared himself.

Clark reaches into his jacket to withdraw the small vial he always keeps on him. Batman has given antidote vials to everyone on the Justice League – it’s just a small concoction, it’s not a miracle, but it’s enough to hold off nearly every drug known to man until you can bring the victim to safety. Clark is probably the only one who keeps his in his civil identity’s suit, but Superman can fly someone to a hospital in the same time it takes to pop the cap off the vial, while Clark might need a little more time to help out.

Clark puts the cap between his teeth and pulls it off. Seeing as Bruce is still holding a staring contest with his other hand, he swiftly jabs the needle into his upper thigh. No air bubbles, Batman made sure to design the vial and cap perfectly – at least that’s what he told Green Lantern when Hal had the audacity to ask how to make sure they wouldn’t inject air into someone’s veins.

“Ow!” Bruce exclaims and finally turns his face towards Clark’s. If Clark isn’t entirely mistaken, he’s actually tearing up a bit too. God, did he just make Batman cry? “Why’d you do that?”

“You- you told me to use this if you ever got poisoned somehow,” Clark explains, like Batman isn’t the one who forced him to carry the vial in the first place. “And I seriously doubt this is how you usually behave at these things.”

“What,” Bruce says as he rubs his thigh with his bottom lip sticking out. He looks like a pouting child. It’s kind of endearing.

Clark finds himself glancing at Bruce’s lips and licks his own. There’s a faint taste of champagne on his tongue. He hasn’t had any champagne tonight. He wonders if Bruce can taste him on his tongue as well.

Clark shakes his head to chase those particular thoughts away and waits for the rest of Bruce’s sentence but apparently that’s it.

“You called for me,” he says slowly. Perhaps the drug has reached Bruce’s mind and that’s why he isn’t making much sense. “But I couldn’t exactly fly through the room dressed like this, you know. I always bring that with me though, because you made a point to tell me how important it is and-”

“What,” Bruce repeats. At least he’s looking at Clark this time although he’s still pouting – it’s an odd mix with the way he’s frowning. Clark tries to focus on the conversation and not on the fact that Batman looks like an angry child.

“You- you said banana muffin,” he explains. For Batman to ever utter those words the situation must be really bad – he’s always sworn he wouldn’t use their safe word even if he was dying. Batman does have a habit of being slightly dramatic, of course.

“I did.”

Clark cannot for the life of him tell if it’s a question or a statement and even his patience has its limits. The antidote seems to have done nothing but make Bruce act even more drunk but at least his breathing is sounding better.

“You’ve been drugged,” Clark says and rearranges his hands. He’ll have to get a proper grip on Bruce before he can fly them out of here and he really would’ve liked some other way to do this, but at least the paparazzi seem to have moved on. He can hear them asking questions near the entrance again and this might be the best chance they’ll have.

“Poisoned,” Bruce corrects him, because of course he does.

“Poisoned, okay, that’s not any better.” Clark rolls his eyes and ignores how dirty his hands are getting from holding onto Bruce’s suit. God, the cleaning is going to cost a fortune with a suit this nice. Clark’s happy he’s not the one footing the bill but he also feels bad for Bruce – he’s clearly not aware of how damp his pants are getting; he’s sitting right in a puddle. “You called for me, B, do you remember?”

“I Superman’d,” Bruce says so eloquently. He wraps his arms around Clark’s neck without any prompting which is a nice touch – Batman never lets Superman carry him anywhere unless it’s a life-or-death situation – but also makes alarm bells go off in Clark’s head.

“You sure did, buddy,” he says gently as he lifts Bruce off the ground.

“What do I call you?” Bruce asks suddenly. His speech seems to be better now, which must be a good sign. Clark still wants to get him somewhere else though. No reason to delay any longer.

“Kal is fine.” Nobody can hear them in the alley.

“Is not your nam’ though,” Bruce says as a matter of factly and then reaches up to grab the glasses off of Clark’s face. It feels like an oddly intimate gesture and Clark blushes.

“It’s-” While Bruce is technically right, he’s also technically wrong. Batman always sees three steps further ahead than anyone else, so Clark decides to trust him on this. If anyone made the connection between Kal and Clark, he’d be in trouble. “Clark, then.”

“Mark’s good,” Bruce nods as he pushes the glasses up his own nose. He frowns – probably at the lack of prescription, but even Superman gets a headache if he has to wear prescription glasses all day when he doesn’t need it.

“It’s-” Clark starts and then sighs. Why bother with correcting him when Batman is clearly not in his right mind. “You know what, let’s just get you somewhere safe.”

He waits for a moment, but Bruce doesn’t seem to notice as he keeps fiddling with the glasses. Clark holds him a little tighter to get his attention.

“Where do I take you?”

“Wherever you like, handsom’,” Bruce grins and bumps his head against Clark’s shoulder. The plastic of his glasses creak as it’s squished into firm flesh.

“Jesus,” Clark mutters and ignores the way his stomach flutters when Bruce rubs his cheek on his shirt. “I mean, where do I take you to, B? Is- is the manor safe?” Everybody knows where Bruce Wayne lives but Clark can’t be sure that’s where his Bat-base of operations are. “Do you have somewhere else we should go? You need some kind of proper antidote or treatment.”

“Second star on the right and straight ‘till mornin’,” Bruce says very seriously as he points in the general vicinity of Wayne Manor. At least Clark hopes that’s what he’s pointing towards because there’s no way he’s flying Bruce to Neverland.

“Oh God, okay, the manor it is.” Clark does one final scan of their surroundings before he shoots up in the sky. The wind is a little strong and he wishes he’d had the chance to change before flying Bruce home. At least then he could’ve wrapped his cape around the shivering man in his arms.

“Cold,” Bruce mutters and presses his face into Clark’s neck. He’s still holding on tightly and Clark can’t help but notice how Bruce squirms in his arms as if he wants to be even closer. It makes something fluttery move in his stomach.

“We’ll be there in a moment,” he says to distract himself from the butterflies and to reassure Bruce. “Close your eyes and hold on.” He doesn’t have to give Bruce any directions; he’s carried Batman to safety many times the past year alone (albeit not as willingly), but he can’t quite seem to fit Bruce and Batman together into one person when Bruce is rubbing his cold nose again Clark’s collar.

He tries desperately not to think of how young Bruce looks, especially all cuddled up to him like this. They’re not that far apart in age, but he’s always thought Batman to be much older and wiser, because of his ‘when you’ve been in the business as long as I have’ speeches.

Clark flies as fast as he can while still making sure Bruce doesn’t get any colder than absolutely necessary. It’s not a long way to Wayne Manor despite the slower flight but Clark does keep holding onto Bruce even as he asks where to go from there. He doesn’t want to wake anybody up inside Bruce’s home, but he needs to make sure Bruce is safe. It has nothing to do with Clark wanting to be close to Bruce a little longer, it really doesn’t.

Bruce – somehow, miraculously – makes enough sense to guide Clark through a hidden entrance (did Bruce really line his cave with led or is there something else disturbing his vision enough that he didn’t notice the giant void beneath the manor?) and into what he so eloquently calls the Bat Cave. Clark doesn’t laugh but only because he doesn’t wanna offend Batman while he’s vulnerable like this.

Clark sets them down in the cave, careful to keep an arm around Bruce’s middle even as he lowers his feet to the ground. For a moment or two he waits to see if Bruce can stand on his own and when the Gothamite stalks out of his arms towards a table in next to a computer, Clark lets him, although he does follow closely behind.

Bruce runs his hands over little instruments Clark doesn’t even know how to begin to describe (most of them look bat-themed though), and then he jerks upright like he thought of something that needs his immediate attention. He wobbles through the cave towards what looks like a fancier version of a gym changing room but instead of stopping, he goes straight for the showers.

Even with all the superspeed on his side Clark does not expect Bruce to turn on the shower and so he’s a second too late to stop the downpour of water falling over his face. He does get there just in time to accidentally duck his own head underneath the stream before he shuts it off.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he gently wrestles Bruce out of the stall.

“I’m hot,” Bruce complains even though his lips have turned blueish. The glasses – Clark’s glasses, and okay, that makes something else flutter in his chest that Clark chooses to ignore – on his face are fogging up from the combined temperatures.

“You were cold not even a second ago,” Clark mutters as he looks around for a towel or anything else to wrap Bruce in. He didn’t get himself completely soaked but his jacket and shirt are wet, and he needs to get out of them before the poisoning will turn into pneumonia. He peeks through the many lockers and locates the towels. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

A hand on his chest stops his movements and Clark looks from the strong, calloused hand to Bruce’s face. He looks surprisingly sober.

“You’re Superman,” he says.

“I’m- yes, Bruce, you already know this,” Clark responds slowly. The poison must really have reached his brain for Batman to be this slow in his responses. Clark reached up to grab Bruce’s hand. “You-” he starts but is interrupted by a very solid weight smashing into his shoulder.

“That’s hot,” Bruce says into his suit. Clark is now absolutely certain that his glasses are broken. At least it doesn’t look like Bruce’s nose is.

“W-what?” Excellent hearing can’t save Clark from nearly missing what Bruce said because, well. Because it doesn’t make any sense.

“You’re hot,” Bruce declares when he un-smushes himself from Clark’s body.

Once again Clark is left rather speechless. There shouldn’t be any danger here, so it isn’t Bruce trying to keep his cover. There’s no way he’d say these things if he was of his right mind though, so Clark answers the best way he can around the butterflies trying to fly out of his mouth.

“I’m- uh. Thank you?”

Bruce smiles at him and it’s such a carefree and warm smile that Clark can’t help but smile back. Then Bruce pats him on the cheek and says: “I need you to stab me.”

“What?”

“Antidote.”

Oh. Clark hopes Bruce can’t see the blood rushing to his face and he thanks God that he isn’t his usually attentive Bat-self, otherwise Clark would’ve had to explain why he’s blushing like an idiot.

“Of course. We need to get you out of these clothes though. Where’s the antidote?”

“Second shelf, third cabinet, don’t touch anything blue or green and don’t jostle the purple,” Bruce says as he’s making his way out of the shower area. At least his speech is getting better, but his balance is not. Clark has to keep an eye on him and fly back and forth from the cabinet three separate times to make sure he doesn’t fall over on his way to the stairs.

With the antidote securely in his hand Clark makes the executive decision to live through the inevitable Bat-glare he’ll be on the receiving end of and wraps his arm around Bruce’s waist to hoist him up the stairs. They’ll never make it to the top if he leaves Bruce to walk by himself; it’s like watching a newborn fawn take its first steps. Repeatedly. On ice. Up several flights of stairs.

“Alright,” Clark says when they reach the top. “Where do we go from here?”

“Bedroom,” is Bruce’s very thorough answer.

Clark is becoming an expert at ignoring his body’s responses to Bruce’s words, because hearing that dark voice say that exact word when Bruce is leaning his entire body up against Clark’s is… evoking quite a few reactions. All of which Clark ignores, obviously. He does swallow with difficulty though. His mouth is suddenly dry.

“Yes, right, but where is your bedroom?”

“Superman it,” Bruce says and throws his arms around Clark’s neck. “Why aren’t you holding me? Aren’t ya savin’ me?”

Ignore, ignore, ignore. Clark does as he’s requested and pulls Bruce into his arms once again. It feel rather natural at this point but he’s not about to voice that out loud. Bruce might be out of his mind right now, but Clark has no illusions; somehow this will come back to bite him. Batman won’t let him live this down, his pride would never let him.

Clark ‘Supermans it’ and locates what he guesses is Bruce’s bedroom. It’s the only larger bedroom with a full closet so he figures it’s a safe bet. He gets them there with no incidents, despite the fact that he’s pretty sure his heart is ready to leap out of his chest because of his Bruce is holding onto him and rubbing his damp hair all over his neck.

“Okay, you need to get into dry clothing, Bruce, you’re shaking,” Clark says as he settles Bruce down on the bed. He’s still dripping but his pants weren’t drenched, and he figures it’ll be okay as long as Bruce is comfortable.

“Okay,” Bruce agrees easily – too easily, Clark doesn’t trust how pliant he is like this. It might be endearing but it’s also so far from how Batman usually acts that it’s worrying to witness.

Then – because the universe doesn’t think Clark deserves a break – Bruce falls off the bed trying to get his suit jacket off. How he manages it, Clark has no idea, but he’s fast enough to make sure Bruce doesn’t knock any teeth out or break any bones.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before. Batman is human. Sometimes he needs help peeling off a broken piece of his uniform if he’s been particularly badly injured. But he’s always had that skintight black undersuit on and this isn’t exactly like helping out a teammate. Clark licks his lips and takes a calming breath. Of course, it is. This is Batman. It’s just like when he’s physically incapable of moving a broken arm and needs Superman’s help wrestling out of the batsuit.

“I’m gonna help you,” he says, just to make sure Bruce knows what’s going on. He shouldn’t have worried because Bruce actually looks relieved to not have to fumble anymore with the single button on his suit jacket.

Undressing someone else isn’t that big of a deal, Clark tells himself as he gets Bruce out of his suit. The shirt is easy enough to unbutton, as soon as they get Bruce onto the bed again. Then comes the pants and Clark- Clark hesitates. Not long enough for Bruce to notice, he doesn’t think, but long enough that he starts overthinking. It doesn’t take long for Superman to do that in situations like these. Has he ever been in a similar situation though? Usually he doesn’t have to actually be this close to Batman for this long after he starts noticing how his body reacts when he’s near.

Clark might not be an expert on crushes, but he’s (almost) human, he knows what they feel like. And he knows he should’ve probably had someone else from the League help Batman tonight, considering his feelings, but Batman used their safe word. Not the emergency comms, not even a regular call for help. No, he called for Clark and Clark alone.

Clark’s not above feeling flattered even if the situation is more life and death than Bruce actually wanting to see him.

He’s getting off topic. Thankfully Bruce is so far away still that he hasn’t noticed Clark’s hands hovering over his belt for a few seconds. One last breath of air that he doesn’t actually need and then he pulls at Bruce’s belt and gets his pants off. It’s a little awkward but that’s mostly because Bruce tries to help by standing up and Clark nearly faceplants into his crotch. All in all the undressing is a success when, a moment later, Bruce falls back onto the bed.

He wiggles around on the maroon sheets like a lazy cat and Clark’s mouth could rival the Sahara. Until it can’t because Bruce is reaching for him and he still needs to jab him with the needle and God, is it getting hot in here? Clark fumbled with the antidote for a second because he can’t help but notice how Bruce’s boxers match the sheets and he really should get on with it but Bruce keeps staring at him.

“Be gentle,” he says, and Clark nearly swallows his own tongue.

Bruce has to be doing this on purpose. Perhaps he knows about Clark’s crush and is teasing him but then again most of his brain doesn’t seem to be working so it might just be coincidence and Clark really needs to move. He isn’t as quick as with the first antidote, but he knows to be swift, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the needle as he pushes it into Bruce’s skin. The skin on his thigh. His very naked thigh.

The maroon is a nice contrast against Bruce’s legs; silken and dark against rough and pale. Clark snaps his head up to focus on Bruce’s face.

“All done,” he says and hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Bruce mutters.

He reaches out towards Clark and who is he to deny Bruce some comfort? He rests a knee on the bed and takes Bruce’s hand gently. He tries for a reassuring smile – even Batman has to be scared sometimes, right? – but it’s quickly wiped from his face when Bruce wraps his fingers around Clark’s wrist and tugs. He’s pulled forward and lands on his free hand to avoid crashing into Bruce’s chest.

God, he’s strong…

“Ya wanna check for yourself?” Bruce asks with a half-smile as he presses Clark’s hand to his chest. His skin is warm to the touch, his chest hair coarse but soft. Clark’s right pinky is right by an old scar, resting gently on the raised skin. Bruce’s fingers around his wrist feel cold and the contrast to the skin of his chest is fascinating to Clark – or would be, if he wasn’t doing his best not to squeeze Bruce’s pec.

Bruce’s words are a little slurred together. The antidote seems to be working and it’s making Bruce blink slower, like he’s trying not to fall asleep. Sleep would be good for him though after the night he’s had. Sleep would also mean that Clark could get a moment to himself to make sure his face isn’t actually on fire.

“Uh,” he says, eloquently. “Better, yes, I would say you- you’re better.”

“The betterst,” Bruce agrees and finally lets go of Clark’s wrist.

It takes Clark just a few moments too long to remove his hand and sit back on his haunches. If Bruce is this intoxicated and vulnerable it wouldn’t do to leave him on his own. Clark can hear another heartbeat in the house, but he doesn’t feel right leaving. It has nothing to do with the fact that he wants to see Bruce’s face in the morning. It’s his duty as Superman and as Bruce’s teammate.

While he’s doing his mental gymnastics to make excuses for himself, Bruce has somehow managed to wiggle underneath the sheets and is yawning loudly. He blinks his light eyes up at Clark and squints.

“Kal,” he says, very seriously. Clark moves a little closer to give Bruce his full attention.

“Would- would you still love me if I was a worm?” If it hadn’t been for his blank face Clark would’ve thought Bruce was joking. But he’s waiting patiently for a reply and Clark has none to give him.

“What?”

“If I was- worm, if I was a worm-” Bruce falls over his own words and he’s getting frustrated judging by the way he’s clasping at the sheets.

“No, yeah, I heard you,” Clark reassures him quickly.

“I heard Timmy ask Bern- Bernd- Bernrd the other day and it seemed significant,” Bruce says meaningfully.

Let it be Bruce Wayne who can’t say Bernard when he’s drunk but has no issues with significant. Clark isn’t sure which one of the boys is Timmy but he’s fairly certain it’s one of Bruce’s kids. The fact that Bruce feels comfortable enough to share this – even if he has been poisoned to do so – with him makes Clark smile and relax. He’ll go through his own mental chaos later; right now he’ll just sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand through Bruce’s hair.

“Significant how, B?”

“Like. Close. They’re, y’know, they’re not friends,” Bruce says with a flourish of his hand. Or what is supposed to be a flourish. It gets stuck in the sheets and Clark has to help him untangle himself before he can continue. “Friends aren’t them, ya know? They’re- it’s the worms, ya know?”

“I’m not sure I do, honestly,” Clark says as he pulls the sheets up over Bruce’s shoulders. He’s not tugging him in, per se, but it keeps Bruce from moving around too much.

“Worms, Kal,” he repeats seriously even through another yawn. “Ther’s the yes. To the worms.”

“Okay, alright,” Clark says and tries not to laugh. He can’t help but brush the hair away from Bruce’s eyes. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes, Bruce, the worms.”

“’hat’s right. Worms.”

Bruce wakes up to a pounding in his head. He can’t remember ever feeling this shitty after a charity gala, not even the few times he’s actually let himself drink. He doesn’t open his eyes but he can still feel the light from the sun burn into his skull. He turns over and buries his face in a pillow as he groans. Why is everything so loud and bright? Alfred would never do this to him unless he’d done something wrong. Has he done something wrong? He can’t quite gather his thoughts long enough to figure it out.

Wait. He got poisoned. If anything, Alfred should let him sleep in, not try to kill him with natural sunlight. Something isn’t right. It takes him far longer than it should to notice that there’s someone in the room with him – someone who isn’t Alfred. This person’s breathing is odd; purposefully loud like they’re trying to make noise.

“Good morning,” a warm voice greets him and Bruce freezes.

Kal. Superman. Clark Kent? Memories floods his mind and Bruce wants to die. Being poisoned can excuse many things – even some generally unforgivable things – but this? Exposing his identity, possibly making the front page of the gossip magazines, showing Clark the cave, on top of acting like a drunk child in front of an esteemed colleague? He squished his face further into the pillow but doesn’t scream despite the overwhelming need to do so.

“Or maybe just morning then,” Clark says.

There’s laughter in his voice and Bruce is too curious to keep hiding. He pokes his head up and squints at Clark where he’s standing by the window. Of course, it’s him who’s pulled the curtains back to torture Bruce. And to top it off, he looks immaculate as always, stupid alien with his stupid hair and his stupid face. Stupid, attractive, smiling face. Looking at Bruce like they’re friends, like this experience has brought them closer.

Bruce needs coffee.

He rolls over and stares at the ceiling. His head feels less fuzzy but there’s a bitter taste in his mouth and his upper thigh is weirdly achy. Ah, the antidote vials. Good thing he forced the team to carry those around with them. This will be a learning experience for the entire League. Unless Bruce accidentally makes sure no one ever knows what happened. That sounds reasonable too.

“The answer is yes, by the way,” Clark says conversationally.

“What?” Bruce grumbles. He hasn’t asked any questions and he’s not in the mood for games.

“Yes,” Clark repeats with a broadening smile. He’s walking closer to the bed, but at least he’s blocking out most of the sun from reaching Bruce’s tired eyes.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’d still love you if you were a worm.”

“Oh God.” Bruce throws the comforter over his face. He really wants to die. Can he somehow in the span of a day conquer up a Kryptonite cocktail laced with drugs strong enough to cause amnesia? Nothing too pungent, obviously, just enough to erase the last twenty-four hours from Clark’s mind.

“Coffee?” Clark says. When Bruce glares at him he tilts his head towards the door, indicating that no, he isn’t offering to bring Bruce some, it’s already brewing in the kitchen. Bruce’s kitchen. Which Clark shouldn’t know about.

“As long as there’s food too,” Bruce mutters and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. No time like the present to have the awkward conversation.

But Clark doesn’t ask about yesterday; he doesn’t even try to discreetly bring it up. He simple turns back to the windows to let Bruce have a moment of privacy. When Bruce goes to the bathroom, he half expects Clark to be gone by the time he comes out but no such luck. Clark is still there, all smiles and warm eyes and soft-looking curls.

Bruce clears his throat as he wraps his favorite rope around himself. Even he is allowed to have comfort clothes and he is not ready for any type of pants right now. Maybe after coffee. And food.

“I think I smell eggs and bacon,” Clark says like he’s reading Bruce’s mind.

“You think.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“There’s eggs and bacon on the stove,” Clark amends. Bruce huffs but doesn’t reply.

When Clark follows him to the bedroom door, Bruce turns around to look at him. Clark lets him look all he wants which... isn’t exactly the reaction he was expecting. Then again, he hasn’t really had the opportunity to stare at Clark before – when they’re on missions he can’t be distracted by Superman’s bulging… arms or his bright smile. He’s barely ever noticed either before, actually.

“You’re staying,” Bruce states. He knows he should phrase it more like a question, but this is Superman – he knows Batman better than most people and this is how he speaks. Clark doesn’t seem to mind, at least judging by the smile that grazes his very handsome features.

The poison must still be messing with his mind.

“Obviously,” Clark answers Bruce’s bat-question. “After the evening I’ve had, you owe me at least dinner and a movie. Not to mention a new pair of glasses.”

“Alright,” Bruce agrees far too easy. It must be the guilt. He did break Clark’s glasses, but still. He should object; why would he let a stranger eat with him even if that stranger more or less saved his ass the day before? Except that this isn’t a stranger, is it? This is Superman. Bruce trusts Superman, albeit begrudgingly.

Clark, a voice in his head reminds him. Not just Superman, but Clark Kent. And isn’t that a fascinating thought? Bruce may have exposed his identity, but in the midst of it all he got to know who Superman really is. Because there is no question about it – this, right here, this is who Clark is when he’s comfortable and safe. This soft spoken but confident man standing in his bedroom, smiling at him like Bruce is something spectacular to witness.

“Will you be staying after breakfast as well?” Bruce asks because he’s already taken the leap.

“Oh,” Clark says, clearly surprised. “What did you have in mind?”

“I think we have some things to talk about,” Bruce says because ‘I just want to spend more time with you, preferably without being poisoned out of my mind’ just doesn’t sound as cool and collected. Not Batman enough.

“I agree,” Clark says instantly. Perhaps he wants to talk about the dangers of being a public figure or maybe even what to do about the identities.

Bruce lets the tiny hope flutter in his chest despite knowing better than to do so. “It’s a deal then. After breakfast.”

“There won’t be any more stabbing involved, will there?” Clark jokes.

“I won’t promise anything,” Bruce says with a genuine grin. You never know in this family.

#misha writes #bruclarkweek2022 #superbat fanfiction #superbat #Superman/Batman #Clark Kent/bruce wayne

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wannab-urs · 8 months

Text

Pedro Pascal Character Fanfiction Recs | Vol 33

AO3 | Kofi | Main Masterlist | The Spreadsheet Masterlist

Howdy!

Welcome to the Spreadsheet Digest, my weekly(ish) fic rec list. This is two weeks worth of reading, but still fairly short. Animal Crossing had me in a chokehold lol.

All info provided by the author unless it was blank, in which case I filled it in.

Fic Recs Below!

The only time we have

Din/Poe one shot by @nerdieforpedro

Summary: Is taking care of physical needs all Din and Poe doing? All they're capable of? Only the darkness and walls know.

Tags: anal sex, cum worship, body worship, rough sex, semi-public sex, cockwarming

do i really have to chart the constellations in his eyes?

Frankie/Santi series by moonknightly (AO3)

Summary: "Neither of you want the night to end. That’s the only reason it takes you ten minutes to put your clothes back on and the only reason he offers to share his tequila after he’s gotten you out of them."

Tags: Cheating, Infidelity, Post-Break Up, Angst, Smut, Cuckolding, sloppy blowjobs, Dom/sub, Threesome - F/M/M, Spanking, Pain Kink, Choking, You're mostly fucking Santi here

Down the Rabbit-Hole

Jack series by @absurdthirst and @wardenparker

Summary: When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.

Tags: mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing, Canon typical violence, Death, gun use, angst, Jack has a temper and Tequila has a dumb first name, Making Out, a bit of groping, heavy flirting, sexy shower time, a whole truck load of anger, Fisticuffs, a bunch of angry people being upset with each other, Kidnapping, Torture, burning victim with cigarettes, Broken Bones, a whole lot of gun pointing and talk about murder, medicine by injection, oral sex (f and m receiving), Outdoor Sex, Public Sex, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, Cream Pie, Cum Play, Anxiety, Accidental Hurt, panic attack (symptoms based on my own personal experiences), intrusive/racing thoughts, physical symptoms of anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Guilt, Possible Unwanted Pregnancy, Lies, Nausea/Illness, Talk of Abortion, canon typical injuries, Family Planning, Mentions of Sex Toys, Lingerie, Spanking, rough sex, Flirty and somewhat explicit banter, Pregnancy, Discussion of symptoms, Mood Swings, cemetery/deceased loved ones, speaking to deceased loved ones

Are You Alright, Honey?

Javi G one shot by @javigutierrez

Summary: You’re going on a long weekend with your gorgeous new boyfriend, and after a day of unresolved sexual tension out on a roadtrip you’re ready to jump him the second you get home. Unless he finds a movie at the gas station he had been looking for for years and he wants to watch it with you. Will you be able to mask your desire for him, to enjoy a movie that means so much to him? *(Spoiler alert no you won’t)*

Tags: fluffffff, freshly established relationship, pining like *whoa,* very explicit smut, f!oral, f!fingering, *tons* of nipple play, non-penetrative sex (sumata ig?), unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, allusions to squirting, pleasure dom!Javi vibes, tw alcohol, tw food mention, Javi is a *major* dumb of ass but he makes up for it, reader has female genitalia, some boobs, and long enough hair to tuck it behind their ear but no other descriptions (let me know if you find anything else!), no age references

Come here often?

Javi P one shot by @dancingtotuyo

Summary: fucking men in bathrooms of dirty bars isn’t your usual cup of tea, but sometimes you make exceptions.

Tags: strangers, alcohol consumption, sex (p in v), unprotected sex (wrap it up), mirror sex, dirty bathroom, rough sex, mentions of bruising, hair pulling (reader has hair long enough to pull), degradation, 1 slap on the ass, Javi is a menace, Javi touches reader in flirtatious ways without consent, hints of exhibitionism, use of “good girl”, dirty talk, aftercare, soft! Javi at the end. Let me know if I missed anything.

Just Dumb Enough to Try

Javi P series by @whatsnewalycat

Summary: In 1993, you met Javier Peña in San Antonio. You made an emotional and physical connection with him. Now it’s 1998 and you’re starting a new chapter of life in Laredo with your fiancé. And who else walks back into the picture, but the man who left you high and dry five years ago.

Tags: alcohol use, Binge Drinking, Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Cigarettes, Voyeurism, Smut, Bisexual main character, Touch-Starved, Female Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Flirting, Mutual Pining, Cheating, Infidelity, Sexual Tension, Attempt at Humor, Soft Javier Peña, Movie Nerd Shit, use of daddy in a sexual context, Vulnerable Javier Peña, Angst and Feels, Family Issues, Mostly Post Season 3, Existential Crisis, Banter, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, friends to lovers to friends to lovers, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Humor, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, No beta idk I just got here, Fluff and Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Impact Play, Pain Kink, Domestic Violence, Praise Kink, Unplanned Pregnancy, Breeding Kink, Blood and Violence, Mild Gore, Kidnapping

Online Friends

Joel series by @walkintotheriveranddisappear

Summary: hot single dilfs in your area want to chat, and you're more than willing to comply (aka: anonymous sex chatting with joel) -- and then all the stuff that comes after

Tags: dom!joel and sub!reader, heavy dirty talk, degrading language, joel is a little mean but like in a sexy way, use of 'daddy' like twice, talk of p in v penetration, mutual masturbation, fingering, pillow humping, sex toys, sending nudes, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, exhibitionism, public play, a bit of bondage, semi-public, some face slapping (in a consensual, sexual context)

Put it in, coach

Joel one shot by @magpiepills

Summary: you are an 18 year old high school senior on the cheerleading team, and Joel is the beloved and successful football coach. He helps you with some stretching after practice.

Tags: SMUT!! This is just porn. The girthiest age gap (18 & 56), consensual but extremely unethical sexual relationship, pervert Joel, power imbalance, dubcon (due to said power imbalance) but I assure you reader is of legal age and enthusiastically consents! Unprotected piv, oral (m receiving) fingering, dirty talk, innocent reader, spanking, minor pussy slapping, blackmail, creampie, twist ending, possibly dark Joel. Could be more, I don’t remember. No use of y/n, no physical description of reader, This is a good example of things that are GOOD in FICTION and BAD in REALITY.

Lovesick

Joel one shot by @prolix-yuy

Summary: You've been greedy for Joel for too long.

Tags: descriptions of wound care and blood, allusions to dubcon due to drinking and drug use, no actual smut

One Night

Marcus P one shot by @secretelephanttattoo

Summary: You get one night with Marcus Pike.

Tags: Implied/referenced smut but nothing is explicitly described. Smoking and alcohol. Angst because they only have one night together. Marcus is a flirty menace. House party nostalgia. Heavy petting in a stairwell

I'd also just like to call out some fics I've been reading for a long time that finished up recently and that I loved: Psychomanteum - Dieter Series by @whatsnewalycat and Whistle in the Dark - Joel series by @gasolinerainbowpuddles.

My most recent fics ( I have not been writing much lol)

Ravage - Ezra x f!Reader - saltburn AU, vampire scene

Only Good Girls - Dave x f!reader - D/s, punishment, mirror sex

Happy Reading!

#fic recs #the spreadsheet digest #fanfiction recommendations #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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twsthc · 1 year

Text

scarabia angst headcanons 🌞💔

⚠️ warnings: food anxiety, self destructive behavior, possible OCD triggers, kalim

last updated: july 30, 2023

KALIM AL-ASIM 🦦

has C-PTSD from the constant threat of death

mostly gets nightmares, flashbacks, anxious, etc of when he was poisoned and kidnapped or when jamil was poisoned "for" him

has coughed up blood, has seen jamil cough up blood

really tries to hide how much it still gets him so he doesnt worry anyone

super light sleeper. a cockroach tap the wall and his eyes would fly open

has food anxiety

needs someone to test the food before he does, or he needs to know jamil prepared it or he wont eat it

after his first time getting poisoned he wouldnt eat jamils cooking either

after jamil's OB, he stopped cooking and contacting kalim and things really spiraled out of control

stopped eating/drinking anything until he was forced to

was literally bmi 0.001 until a teacher had to step in and force some goat cheese down his throat

parents would pay for material items for their kids but not therapy

i think kalim might have done some crazy shit to make his parents notice him out of the quintillion other kids they have

also he was raised by servants instead of his own mother

because of all this Mental Illness (specifically C-PTSD) he does get panic attacks, as one with anxiety disorders does

he uses pain to ground himself in stressful moments (mostly his nails)

digs them into his palms or thighs, whatever hes closer to

or he scratches himself until he refocuses

got especially bad after jamils ob. imagine the person who kept u safe and basically raising u coming out and saying he secretly hated u

me personally i would kms

probably cries himself to sleep

type of fellow to be super happy one moment then hear a sad/soft song then become svicidal (me when im having a great day then hear any song by Lamp)

JAMIL VIPER 🐍

fully believe jamil has NPD

after growing up in an environment where he was put behind everyone else, his brain desperately needed to be put first

its really hard to find good symptoms of this disorder without seeing bullshit like "10 signs your partner is a narcissist" omfg

some ACTUAL symptoms of a narcassistic disorder (for jamil):

he has poor coping skills, often projects his anger onto others, has trouble maintaining relationships, often requires praise or he might feel obsolete/depressed

too good at hiding his feelings even in shitty situations

has boiling anger issues but is able to keep them repressed (at his own cost)

after his OB, he distanced himself from kalim to process

after 2-ish weeks, they talked it out and set some boundaries

the first week jamil didnt force-wake kalim up, kalim was consistently late to all her earlier classes and struggled a shit ton with work loads

she couldnt even pick out her own outfits without jamil going "that ones fine, now hurry up" every few seconds

had to establish that kalim needed to learn how to live without jamils coddling

kalim agreed ofc but still felt a little lonely without her usual schedule

also has anxiety from being poisoned, and still has lingering memories of being so worried when kalim was kidnapped

i also think jamil has OCD :3

"if i dont do ABC then kalim with XYZ"

has other impulses (flicking lights on and off, needing to feel "even" on both sides)

i hope someone w ocd reads this and understands wtf im talking about

when someone steps on your foot so you have to step on the other one or youll throw up because you dont feel the same amount of pain on both sides

#twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #kalim al asim #jamil viper #scarabia #angst #ocd girlies wya #twsthc

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vikingnerd793 · 4 months

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I've had such a good symptom week and today has been the best I've felt in months

I've been able to swallow without much issue, even if I do feel slightly fatigued in my jaw after. I've been able to walk around as I see fit without worrying my legs will give out. I've been able to talk without my larynx feeling like it is being squeezed.

I even sat up on a client call in a gaming chair and had real energy!

My neck is still super fatigueable but for the first time since February, I can turn it when standing and it feels like there is real muscle tension there.

Honestly, this level of strength I am at today is very reminiscent of my strength level in 2020 when I had enough symptoms to be able to game in a recliner, and maybe go for a brief walk. I have my neuro appointment on Monday and it's starting to feel like I am coming out of some kind of acute disease flare of whatever is yet to be diagnosed (thanks, fucking infection, surgery, three antibiotics with two allergic reactions, panic attacks and new medication that caused a further exacerbation!!!) .....my hope is this goes the way of 2020 and I return to a normal-ish baseline. But this time, the disease gets a diagnosis and an actual treatment instead of me waiting for the ticking time bomb of the next flare once every few years.

Fingers crossed I continue to improve and can return to a life where I can game, work, maybe lift even, and eat normally so I maintain muscle mass I have left.

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kaitidid22 · 2 years

Text

Fanfic: Family (Conrad/Billie)

Summary: Gigi feels very comfortable expressing her wants and desires, while stirring up Billie's baby feelings and a panic attack. (Canon friendly to date & set post-DevonxLeela's wedding)

A/N: She's alive! This one went sideways on me for a while, and I couldn't get it to gel. And then I realized I was trying to write three stories in one, which was a bad plan, clearly. Working on the other two next!

Family

Billie picked up her coffee and gave the barista a polite smile. As she turned to leave, she heard a tiny voice yell, “Aunt Billie!”

As always, a well of love and happiness rose in Billie’s chest at the sound of Gigi’s voice, with an extra little hiccup of pleasure at the sheer unexpectedness of getting to see her in the middle of the day. Scanning the café, Billie spotted the little girl sitting with A.J. at a table outside, double-wide stroller parked next to them, and they waved at each other. Before Billie could take more than a step or two towards their small group, Gigi had hopped out of her chair and run over to throw her arms around Billie’s middle.

Billie gazed down at the crown of Gigi’s head and noted that the French braid Billie had put in that morning was showing amazing endurance.

Nice work, Dr. Sutton, she thought smugly.

“Hi, sweetie,” Billie said out loud.

Gigi raised her head to grin up with big eyes that were starting to look exactly like Conrad’s, right down to the note of mischief always lurking behind them. Billie ran a thumb over Gigi’s soft cheek and felt a lump rise in her throat when Gigi snuggled her face closer into Billie’s palm.

Abruptly, it occurred to Billie that it was Friday, and Gigi should be in school. Billie had, in fact, dropped the six-year-old off that morning at her grammar school with Conrad on their way to work. And, yet, Gigi was in the hospital café at—Billie glanced at the clock on the wall—seven after eleven in the morning.

“Are you on recess?” Billie asked, doubtful. Wasn’t recess at ten? Ish?

Gigi shook her head. “I got sent home, and Uncle A.J. said he could watch me until Daddy’s done for the day.”

“What?” Billie asked dumbly, taken aback.

Gigi never misbehaved, and Billie felt her hackles start to rise in the little girl’s defense. If Gigi was being blamed for something another kid had done, Billie was going to—

Nothing, she told herself sternly. You’ll do nothing.

Because she was an adult, and Conrad had incredible relationships with Gigi’s teachers. Billie was never going to jeopardize that in any way. So, she would do nothing about this transgression. But she was going to resent the hell out of it. Quietly.

“Why, sweetie?” Billie asked belatedly.

“Emmett tested positive for COVID,” Gigi said. “So, we all got sent home, and we have to get tested for three days.”

Oh, Billie though to herself, slightly ashamed of her own vicious response.

It still didn’t answer the lingering question of why Conrad hadn’t called Billie. Or texted her. Or had Hundley call her. Something. Her schedule was light. She could have driven back across town to pick Gigi up, especially if A.J. was only tasked with bringing Gigi back to the hospital. Billie could have taken Gigi for part of the day. It was performance review season, and Billie was scheduled to be reading boring forms all day.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Billie said, forcing herself to focus. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, no symptoms,” Gigi said, sounding entirely too knowledgeable on infectious diseases for a six-year-old. “A.J. took me for my test. The rapid came back negative.”

Billie bit her lip to keep the smile from crossing her face at Gigi’s serious tone. Gigi was very clear with everyone who would listen that she was going to be a nurse practitioner just like her mother. And she had an uncanny understanding of medical issues, given that she couldn’t even read a chapter book yet.

“That’s very good news,” Billie said, she slid her hand over Gigi’s shoulder and began to lead her back to the table where A.J. was still sitting. “And at least it’s Friday. So, you’re not missing much school at all.”

“Yeah, I like school,” Gigi said, a little glum.

“I know you do,” Billie said as they reached A.J. and the boys. “Good morning.”

“Billie,” A.J. greeted her.

He had taken one of the twins out of the stroller and was holding a bottle at the baby’s mouth. Billie squinted but couldn’t tell which boy it was. She thought it might be Arjun, given the scowl on the face of the baby still in his stroller seat. Elijah was the grumpy one. But she had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, so she wouldn’t even be impressed with herself if she was.

“I didn’t know you were running a daycare today.”

A.J. shrugged a shoulder. “It’s my day off, and I had the boys anyway. What’s one more?”

“That’s the spirit,” Billie said.

She took a sip of her coffee as she watched him switch the baby. His movements were deft, practiced, and she nodded in approval as he got the baby settled and buckled in without a single fuss.

“Impressive,” Billie told him.

A.J. smirked. “I know.”

Gigi began to gather up her belongings, and A.J. said, “Whoa, kid. Where ya going?”

Gigi pointed at Billie. “With Aunt Billie,” she said. Then Gigi looked up at Billie with concerned eyes. “Can’t I?”

Billie started to say of course, you can, and then she stopped. Was this something she still needed to ask Conrad about? Technically, if the school hadn’t been able to reach Conrad, they would have called Billie as Gigi’s emergency contact, and she would have taken Gigi for the day anyway.

But that wasn’t what had happened. Conrad had asked A.J. to watch Gigi for the day. And the decision of who would be watching his daughter was Gigi’s father’s to make. If he wanted Gigi with A.J., then who was Billie to come along and scoop Gigi up? And, on a more basic note, Conrad believed Gigi was with A.J. If Billie was going to take Gigi, didn’t she need to tell him first? What if he came looking for her? Did he even know A.J. was at the hospital?

Billie turned uncertain eyes to A.J., who looked surprised. “Yeah. Can’t she?” A.J. asked, keeping his voice sedate.

“I’m sure it’s fine, sweetie,” Billie said finally. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her ID card. “Why don’t you go order yourself a hot chocolate, ok?”

“Okay!” Gigi shoved the rest of her school supplies into the backpack and dashed off, blonde ponytail streaming behind her.

“Conrad is always fine letting you take Gigi. Always has been. You’re Super Auntie,” A.J. said, pointed. “Why would today be different?”

“He didn’t call me,” Billie said. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

A.J. gave her a disbelieving look. “He only called me because I had the day off, Billie. You are definitely overthinking this,” A.J. said. “Is this because you won’t move in?”

“He told you about that?” Billie asked.

“The man was terrified he had run you off,” A.J. said. “Needed someone to talk to.”

Billie was ashamed that hearing A.J. describe Conrad as terrified to lose her made her chest warm and her hands shaky. Sometimes her relationship with Conrad—as joyful as it made her—didn’t quite feel real. Like it was still three years before, and she was living in a prolonged dream that she might wake from at any second.

Billie turned slightly so she could keep one eye on Gigi at the counter. The barista was smiling at the little girl, using Billie’s ID to ring up the hot chocolate.

“I know,” Billie said again.

“Did he?” A.J. asked. “Run you off?”

Billie hesitated.

“Oh wow,” A.J. said, with what sounded like genuine concern. “He almost did.”

“No,” she said, realizing she had given him the wrong impression. “I love Conrad. I want to be with him. I don’t think there’s anything he could do to run me off. Ever. If he had made it an ultimatum—”

“Which Conrad would never do,” A.J. pointed out.

She nodded in concession. “But if he had, I would have moved in a heartbeat. But that would have forced some issues to be worked out a bit faster than I was ready to face them.” She sighed and muttered, “Apparently, I’m still not ready to face them.”

“So, if he had forced you, then you would have moved in with him? But because he respects you and your boundaries, and he’s waiting patiently, you’re avoiding the conversation. That makes no sense.”

“It’s complicated,” she said on a sigh, eyes locked on Gigi. “I almost wish he had forced it.”

“That is not the Dr. Billie Sutton I know,” A.J. said.

Which was entirely fair but slightly judgmental, and Billie gave him a quelling look. A.J. was unfazed, staring her down with disapproval.

“It would have given me an easy out. Which, you’re right, I should not want. But the thing is, in my head, if I make the decision to move in,” Billie said, “then it’s a conscious decision that Nic doesn’t factor in anymore. And I know that’s not fair, but I can’t get past it either.”

She could see from A.J.’s face that Conrad hadn’t told him this part. Or maybe Conrad had only spoken to him during the limbo weeks when Billie had been lost in her own head.

“Billie—” A.J. began.

“It’s okay,” she said, with a wan smile. “Conrad knows. And I’m working on it.”

A.J. nodded and, for once, let it go.

“I need to text him that I’m taking Gigi,” Billie muttered, pulling out her phone with more nerves than she should be feeling.

“It’s going to be fine,” A.J. said, still sounding confused about her hesitation.

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed.

She quickly typed out a text, Ran into A.J. Taking Gigi to my office., and shoved the phone into her pocket again with more force than necessary. Gigi dashed up next to Billie and held the ID badge out. Billie clipped it back on her white coat and ran an absent hand down Gigi’s hair.

“I’m going to take her upstairs,” Billie said to A.J. “We’ll see you at brunch this weekend, right?”

“Family brunch!” A.J. said. “I am honored and will attend.”

Affection swirled through Billie, and she shook her head on a chuckle. “Devon and Leela land the night before. The sleep deprivation and lovey-dovey time will be real.”

“Ah to be young and in love,” A.J. said with a smirk. “No, thank you.” But then he followed it up with, “It’s all right if the boys and Padma come, right?”

“Of course,” Billie said, hiding her smirk.

“Good because I already invited them.”

Billie laughed.

“Arjun and Elijah are coming?” Gigi asked excitedly.

“Seems like it,” Billie told her. “And Sammie.”

Gigi squealed. “I like the boys,” she said when she had calmed. “Babies are great.”

“Babies are great,” Billie agreed, smiling so hard her face hurt.

God she loved this kid.

“Auntie Billie, can you have babies?” Gigi asked.

The question was a sharp left hook, sideswiping Billie and knocking the wind out of her entirely. Once Billie was able to move again, her eyes jerked to A.J., who immediately looked away. Suspicion set in, but she had to deal with Gigi’s questions first.

“That’s a really good question. Why don’t we talk about this on the way to the elevator?” Billie asked. “Say goodbye, sweetie.”

“Bye Uncle A.J. Bye Arjun! Bye Elijah!” Gigi cried as she slung her arms through the straps of her backpack.

Then she followed as Billie led the way from the café towards the elevators. Billie cleared her throat, wondering what A.J. could have said to prompt questions about Billie’s fertility in a six-year-old.

“So, let’s talk about babies,” she said, trying to sound like a professional doctor, detached and unaffected. “If someone is born female, they often have the ability to produce eggs. And we usually think that’s all it takes to have a baby.”

“Egg and sperm!” Gigi said.

Billie bit back a smile as a few people glanced at them, startled. “Indoor voice, sweetie,” Billie reminded her.

“Egg and sperm,” Gigi said, more quietly.

“Exactly,” Billie said. “But it’s much more complicated than that.”

The elevator opened, and Billie urged Gigi inside and to the far back corner, pausing to press the button for the surgical floor. They settled against the wall in the corner while other people crowded into the elevator with them.

“What else do you need?” Gigi asked, sounding like she was making a grocery list.

“Well, a woman’s uterus needs to be able to carry a fetus to term. Not every female body can.”

“Why not?”

“A lot of reasons,” Billie said with a shrug. “Sometimes the placenta isn’t able to attach to the lining. Sometimes the uterus can’t form the plug that keeps the baby inside until it’s ready to be born.”

“Do you have any of those reasons?” Gigi asked.

“Not that I know of, sweetie,” Billie said. “And, remember, I’ve had a baby before. I had Trevor.”

Gigi nodded thoughtfully. “But you’re old, right?”

Billie could feel the amusement wafting off of the other people in the elevator and wanted to glare at them all. She took a deep, silent breath.

“It’s very common for women in their forties to have children. It’s just harder to get pregnant.”

Gigi narrowed her eyes. “And you get a period?”

“I do, sweetie.”

Though she was on a miraculous birth control that only required she get a period every three months. Modern medicine was spectacular.

“And that means you still have eggs,” Gigi said.

“Not necessarily,” Billie said, wrinkling her nose in apology at Gigi.

“More complications,” Gigi said on a sigh.

“Yes, sweetie,” Billie said, hearing someone in the elevator chuckle and hide it under a cough.

Belatedly, she remembered she had never checked if Conrad had responded to her text. She pulled out the phone, and, sure enough, he had reacted to the message with a heart. The sight of it should have eased her nerves.

It didn’t. He hadn’t sent anything else.

As they left the elevator, Billie glanced down at Gigi, offering her hand. Gigi took it.

“Did that answer your questions?” Billie asked.

Gigi nodded. “Can we color?” she asked.

Billie smiled. Curiosity assuaged. Nice work, Dr. Sutton.

“Heck yeah, we can color,” Billie said.

~*~

That night, in bed, Billie found herself lying awake, wishing she had just asked Conrad about A.J. But she had told herself not to be so insecure—Conrad had been very clear with her that he was in love with her, had taken every opportunity to remind her that she was it for him. It didn’t feel fair to constantly make him reassure her, just because he had done the whole life partners thing before and she hadn’t.

She rolled over while Conrad was sleeping and watched his chest rise and fall. He looked so peaceful asleep, younger and lighter. And the memory of A.J. telling her Conrad had been terrified no longer made her chest warm. It made her throat clench and eyes burn.

She scooted over closer to him, so that she could rest her head in the soft place where his chest met his shoulder. The divot seemed to fit her cheek perfectly.

Conrad stirred, his head turning so he could blink open bleary eyes and look at her. Then he smiled sleepily and rolled to curl around her. His prickly cheek brushed against hers as he wrapped her in the approximation of a bear hug.

“I love you,” he mumbled.

Billie wondered if he was even awake. “I love you, too.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

He hummed in her ear, then pulled back to look at her again. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you can’t believe I’m real.”

“Oh, that look,” Billie said, dry. “I wasn’t aware you knew that look.”

“It’s a great look. I mean, I am amazing,” Conrad said. “It’s perfectly understandable.” He sounded more awake now, and his smile died. “Are you okay?”

“Why did you have A.J. pick up Gigi today?”

His brow crinkled. “They got sent home because of a COVID scare. She didn’t tell you? Sorry, I assumed she explained. She loves talking about medical stuff.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Billie asked, ignoring the rest.

“Because you had to work, and A.J. didn’t.” His eyes studied her face. “Has this been bothering you?”

Yes. So much. But she didn’t say the words out loud.

“We’re okay, right?” she asked.

“We’re more than okay.” He cradled her face in his hand, thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Why would you think we’re not?”

“Because I’m scared.”

That this is a dream.

That I’m going to lose you.

That I only half have you.

That I’m going to ruin this.

He nodded, like that made sense, even though she knew she had explained nothing. “I called A.J. because he was free, and he likes having Gigi around. That’s all. I was really happy when you texted, and I knew you two were together. You’re always my first choice, Billie.”

She squeezed her eyes shut hard. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he whispered back. “I love you.”

And, this time, instead of answering, she kissed him.

~*~

The next morning, Conrad was up early, rousing Gigi and Billie was just enough time for them to head to the hospital for another set of COVID tests. When Billie and Gigi returned, Billie joined him in the kitchen, and Conrad had the oven, broiler, and three burners going.

“We could just take everyone out,” Billie said, stealing a piece of bacon.

“Sacrilege,” Conrad told her, leaning over to sneak a kiss despite her mouth being full.

“Gross,” she said on a laugh.

“You,” he said, punctuating the word with a kiss to her nose, “are never gross.”

“Not me,” Billie said pointedly. “You. Who kisses someone with a mouth full of food?”

Conrad closed in again, and she squealed, laughing. “No! Go away!”

Kit and Bell arrived first, with Jake, Gregg, and Sammie in the car behind them. Gigi thundered to the front door as soon as she spotted them through the windows.

“My rapid was negative again!” Gigi said, instead of greeting them.

“That’s great,” Bell said.

“So was her full PCR from yesterday,” Billie said. “I took her for a second one this morning to be sure.”

“And we’ll take her again tomorrow,” Conrad called from the kitchen.

Sammie and Gigi ran upstairs while Bell, Jake, and Gregg wandered into the kitchen to meet Conrad, who was still stationed at the stove. Kit and Billie were left behind in the foyer without so much as a glance. The men all peered in the various pans and dishes Conrad had out, clearly discussing food strategy.

“How did we get so lucky?” Kit asked, tilting her head to the side as she gazed at her husband.

“Well, you are a badass boss lady with a gigantic heart,” Billie said.

“Pot meet kettle,” Kit said to her and laughed.

Billie chuckled in response, liking that Kit saw her that way. “You want some coffee?”

“I would kill for coffee,” Kit said. “Murder. Mayhem. Cause a riot.”

Billie nodded calmly. “Good thing Conrad already started a pot.”

“When are you moving that wonderful espresso machine in here?” Kit asked. “I dream of that thing, but Randolph is so attached to his ancient one, I can’t bear to make him get rid of it.” She paused and added, “To be honest, he might divorce me if I tried.”

The question was innocent enough, almost absent really, like Kit was just making conversation. But Billie felt her stomach twist at the second reminder in twenty-four hours. She knew the exact spot she would put that espresso machine, and she would send Conrad’s trusty Mr. Coffee straight to the garbage dump.

Or could you recycle coffee machines? They were glass and metal and plastic, right? All of that was recyclable, wasn’t it?

“That’s… a touchy subject,” Billie told Kit.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kit said, surprised. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

But Billie just smiled and shook her head, picking up speed to the kitchen. “It’s fine. Cream? Sugar? How do I not know how you take your coffee?”

“Black like her soul,” Bell said, with a grin.

Kit gave him a salty look. “Two lumps and a generous topper of plant-based creamer. Any one you have. And milk is fine if not. Thank you, Billie.”

As soon as she had grabbed a cup for Kit, and made sure Gregg had an extra-large cup of his own, the doorbell rang. Billie smiled at everyone. “Let me just get that.”

But she was beaten to the punch by Sammie and Gigi, who came careening down the stairs yelling, “The babies are here! The babies are here!”

“Aren’t they a little young for baby fever?” Bell asked as the adults watched them open the door and swarm Padma and A.J.

“Peaks and valleys through life,” Kit told him. “They like them now, and then they won’t, and then they will again. And then they might not. But then they do for sure, and it just doesn’t go away. That’s when you know you’re old.”

“Ah,” Bell said.

“Good morning, family,” A.J. boomed, the boys each cradled in one arm.

“Perfect timing,” Conrad said. “We’re just about ready to sit down.”

“Wait,” Padma said, looking around the room. “Did we beat Leela here?”

“She texted that she and Devon are running a bit behind,” Billie said. “They wanted us to start without them.”

Padma smacked A.J. on the back lightly. “You are allowed to bully me into leaving early any time.”

“We left exactly on time, Padma,” A.J. said, firm.

“I am going to lord this over her for years,” Padma said.

“We set up a blanket for the boys outside next to the table,” Billie said. “Let me help you get everything down the stairs.”

“Oh, we’ve got it,” Padma said, breezing through the back door and down the wooden steps to the garden.

A.J. stared after her, a resigned expression on his face. Then he glanced down at the boys in his arms.

“Why don’t you let me take one of those?” Bell asked.

“Thank you, Bell,” A.J. said, snuggling the baby in his left arm close to him as Bell slipped the other from his grip.

“And we can take these platters down,” Kit said, picking up two of the serving dishes.

“Happy to,” Jake said and nodded to Gregg.

They each grabbed a dish and followed Kit outside, with Bell and A.J. close behind with the babies. Sammie and Gigi dashed after everyone else, and Billie and Conrad found themselves alone in the kitchen.

“That was surprisingly efficient,” Conrad said.

“I’ll get the plates, if you get the silverware?” Billie asked. “They arrived together,” Conrad murmured in the higher pitched voice he used when he was being silly.

“Right? I’m not crazy,” she murmured back to him, as she gathered the plates out of the cabinet.

“So,” Billie had said, nonchalantly one night after Gigi had gone to bed.

She and Conrad had each been stationed at one end of the couch reading the latest issues of their favorite medical journals, highlighters and pens discarded next to them, legs intwined in the middle.

“Padma and A.J.,” she had said, glancing at him from under her lashes.

Conrad had lowered his reading to look at her, a guarded edge to his gaze. “What about them?”

“I mean… they could be cute, right?”

His eyes had studied her for a long moment, and then he had chuckled. “You know, don’t you?” he had asked.

“You know!” she had said.

They had both straightened on the couch, throwing their respective journals to the carpet.

“I can’t believe you know,” he had said, still laughing.

“Of course, I know,” she had said. “Did A.J. tell you?”

“Devon,” Conrad had said.

Billie had gasped. “I can’t believe he outed his sister-in-law’s friends with benefits situation with our colleague.”

“To be fair, he didn’t tell me until after they stopped sleeping together,” Conrad had said.

She had made a face of mild distaste. “I really can’t believe that he told you.”

“Yeah, never trust Devon with a secret. He will always tell me. Whether I want to know or not.”

“What is it with you two?” she had asked, poking him in the thigh with her toes.

“I’m sorry, Billie,” Conrad had said. “Our relationship predates you. You’ll always have to share me.”

Ignoring that comment, she had nudged him with her foot again. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” Conrad had said, catching her foot in his hands and squeezing lightly, teasingly. “They called it off, what, two years ago?”

“And you never said anything to me?” she had asked, pretending outrage. “I cannot call you my best friend.”

“It was none of my business!” Conrad had said on a laugh. “Besides, you didn’t say anything to me either.”

“Like you would have cared,” she had said, dryly. Then she had remembered the look on A.J.’s face when he had told her about the arrangement with Padma ending. “I think he actually liked her. But he didn’t really know what to do about it.”

“Yeah,” Conrad had drawled. “I think you’re reading into it. He hasn’t been interested in anyone since Mina.”

Billie had wrinkled her nose. “That was years ago. You think he’s still pining?” Before Conrad had been able to respond, she had said, “No. I think he likes Padma, but she’s completely different from anyone he ever pictured for himself, so he’s avoiding.”

Conrad had shrugged, still rubbing her feet absently. “You could be right. I mean, no one would have guessed that we would end up together, Miss Button-Every-Button.”

“Yeah, okay,” she had said. “Mr. I-Rappel-Down-Buildings-And-Climb-Into-Exploding-Buses-To-Save-Patients.”

“That’s a terrible nickname,” he had pointed out. “Does not roll off the tongue.”

“Words are not my forte,” Billie had admitted.

“And you have to admit you love all that about me. It’s kinda hot.”

She had rolled her eyes. “But what do you think? It’s the way they look at each other, right?”

“I don’t know. A.J. is a careful dude,” Conrad had said, almost warningly. “And he risks losing a lot if things go south with Padma.”

“We had a lot to lose,” Billie had pointed out.

Conrad had smiled down at his hands on her feet. “True.” Then he had squeezed her toes again and met her eyes with a serious expression. “But I almost screwed this up. A couple of times. And A.J. watched that happen up close and personal. So… I don’t think he’s going to take a chance on love with the mother of his children.”

Billie had sighed a little at the sad look on Conrad’s face. Then she had pulled her feet out of his hands so that she could crawl across the couch to straddle his lap. His arms had come around her, and his head had tilted back to look up at her as her fingers had lightly scratched the back of his head.

“You didn’t screw this up,” she had whispered.

“Almost,” he had muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“But you didn’t,” she had said. “Neither did I, despite my best efforts.”

He had swallowed audibly. “No. It wasn’t you.”

“You have to let that go, baby,” she had whispered. “We’re here, together. And I love you.”

But it had become an old refrain by then, and Billie had known he wouldn’t listen if she tried to argue him out of believing he had hurt her unnecessarily. So, she had pressed a kiss to his forehead and gotten back to the topic at hand.

“A.J. can’t avoid love forever. You don’t have control over that. You’re in it or you’re not. And Padma is amazing with the boys.”

“Does it make me a bad person that I’m really looking forward to giving him a hard time about this?” Conrad had asked, squinting sightlessly somewhere in the vicinity of her neck. “If it happens, that is. Which I still don’t fully believe it is.”

“Not at all,” Billie had said. “I am going to tease him daily. I might start popping in on his surgeries just so he can’t escape me.”

“Vengeful,” Conrad had murmured with some surprise.

“Do you know how hard he pushed me to tell you how I felt, even when you were with Cade? It was nonstop. I swear.”

Conrad had scoffed. “I probably do. Because I’m pretty sure he was giving us the exact same advice. Probably the same lofty speeches even.”

Billie had sat back slightly, and Conrad’s hands had trailed down to her hips. “Wait. So… if we had just listened to him and told each other, then…”

Conrad’s eyes had locked on hers. They had both sworn under their breath.

Gigi insisted that she and Sammie should take the heads of the table Conrad had set up in the backyard, and, so, Conrad and Billie seated themselves across from each other on either side of Gigi. They had just started dishing up food when the backdoor slid open and Devon and Leela appeared.

“Welcome back to beautiful Georgia,” Conrad called to them.

“Trinidad was gorgeous,” Leela said, with a broad, dreamy grin on her face.

“Sorry we’re late,” Devon said, as he and Leela slipped into the empty chairs at the table.

“They don’t care,” Leela said, smile dying. “It was, like, ten minutes. And I texted Billie.”

Billie frowned at the harsh words, but Devon didn’t seem bothered.

“We’re newlyweds,” he said, as if that explained everything.

And maybe it did, but Billie really didn’t want to know. Leela groaned and shot Billie an exasperated look.

“He loves saying that word. It started on the honeymoon and just hasn’t stopped.” Leela turned to Devon with a glare. “Why won’t it stop?”

He smiled at her, unbothered and completely besotted. Across the table from Billie, Conrad smiled at her. A small, secret smile that had her body threatening to melt into the chair.

“What’s a honeymoon?” Gigi asked.

“The single greatest vacation of your life,” Devon said.

Conrad shot him a warning look, and then turned back to his daughter. “It’s a vacation you take after you get married.”

“To celebrate?” Gigi asked.

“Exactly,” Conrad said. “And because it’s your honeymoon, people give you extra stuff. Like champagne or bigger hotel rooms.”

“Chocolates,” Kit said. “Cheesecake. Dinner. A hotel once gave me a whole pig. That was my second marriage.” Then she paused to consider. “I think. Was it third?”

“I love you so much more for the fact that yours are all food related,” Bell said.

“A girl’s got to eat,” Kit said defensively.

“Massages,” Leela added. “Roses.”

“Where did you and Mommy go on your moon trip?” Gigi asked.

Billie hid a smile behind her water glass, eyes laughing at Gigi’s word choice as they met Conrad’s. He was gazing at Billie when he answered the question.

“We went to Key West, Bubble. Beautiful beaches. Lots of seafood.”

“And margaritas,” Billie added, with a teasing smile.

A reluctant, slightly embarrassed smile twisted at Conrad’s mouth. He shook his head, as if only just realizing that Nic had spilled on their honeymoon shenanigans. Billie wasn’t quite sure why that would be surprising. Of course, Nic had spilled to Billie. Nic had told Billie almost everything.

“What free things did you get?” Gigi asked.

“I’m sorry, Bubble. I don’t remember,” Conrad said, shaking his head. “It was seven years ago. A lot has happened since then.”

“I think Nic mentioned a bottle of champagne,” Billie said, shrugging one shoulder.

Conrad looked off into the distance. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “The first night. When we got to the hotel, they had covered the bed in rose petals and had a bottle of champagne chilling for us.”

“Wow,” Gigi squealed.

Billie studied the bittersweet edge to Conrad’s smile. Then his eyes met hers, and his face softened—only slightly, though, before all expression disappeared. And, suddenly, she couldn’t read anything there, like he had blockaded her out. Her heart rate increased as her skin went cold.

“We’ve really been missing out on this whole honeymoon thing, A.J.,” Padma said.

A.J.’s head jerked around to her, but she’d spoken thoughtlessly, more interested in Arjun in her arms than the adults at the table. Billie flicked her eyes back to Conrad, who had clearly clocked the same exchange.

A.J. totally has a crush.

His eyebrow quirked at her—message received—and she dropped her eyes to her plate, worried she would start to giggle. Billie relaxed, at ease now that she felt she could read Conrad’s mind again.

“When you and Billie get married, where would you go on your moon trip? And would I go? It sounds fun.”

Of course, you would. Billie shoved the thought away to examine later and swallowing the spurt of panic at her own easy reaction.

Her eyes flew back to Conrad and found him staring at his daughter, lips parted, but no words escaped. The side conversations had ceased at the table. Even baby Elijah had stopped fussing in his father’s arms.

When another few moments of silent staring from her father passed, Gigi’s face began to crumple in confusion. Billie decided it was time to step in and ran a hand over the little girl’s soft hair.

“Not everybody gets married,” Billie reminded her. “Remember, we talked about this?”

“I remember,” Gigi said.

Her big brown eyes shot sideways to her father, who finally regained movement, leaning back in his chair. Billie wanted to check in, put a hand on his chest and feel his heart beating, strong and sure. But he was on the other side of the table, too far for that to be an option. The distance across the table suddenly felt like a lightyear, and Billie found herself utterly disconnected from his shuttered expression again.

“But?” Billie asked to prompt Gigi.

“But what about babies?” Gigi asked.

Billie heard someone choke. “Babies?” Billie asked. “What do you mean, sweetie?”

“You said you can have babies,” Gigi said.

Billie’s mind raced. She hadn’t mentioned the conversation to Conrad. Gigi had always brimmed with questions about medicine. The curiosity about Billie specifically had just been because Billie happened to be female and still of child-bearing age. Billie had told herself it had been just one more set of questions about bodies, and she had assuaged Gigi’s curiosity, so why mention it?

But the truth was that Billie was a big chicken. She hadn’t wanted the innocent curiosity of a six-year-old to raise the topic between her and Conrad.

Part of her was convinced it was a moot point. Conrad would never consider having another child. He had done that. He had Gigi. He was content. And that would be okay, whenever Billie got around to broaching the subject. She didn’t want a baby more than she wanted to be with Conrad, or more than she loved Gigi. They would have the conversation, she would know for sure babies weren’t in her future, and everything would be fine. A bit sad, but fine.

This—at brunch with their friends and colleagues and his daughter interrogating them—was not how Billie wanted to have the discussion. But she also never wanted to make Gigi feel like a topic was taboo or inject the idiotic concept of “polite company” into Gigi’s mind. So, Billie swallowed her discomfort.

“Well, sweetie, remember I said that was in theory. I should be able to. But I don’t know if—”

“I want a baby,” Gigi said. She pointed at Arjun and Elijah.

Billie took a deep breath in through her nose, but Conrad was still silent on the other side of the table, stunned. Billie was on her own.

“They’re so cute and sweet, right?” Billie asked. “I’m sure if you wanted, Auntie Padma and Uncle A.J. would let you spend more time with them.”

“That would be fine, Gigi,” Padma said gently. “All the time you want.”

And for all Billie thought Padma was a little off-kilter and a lot selfish, she was grateful that Padma was the most tolerant and accepting person Billie had ever met. Maybe even more so than Nic. Padma had an uncanny ability to roll with other people’s foibles, even when she lambasted herself for her own.

“I’d like that,” Gigi said.

Everyone at the table relaxed.

“But I still think you and Daddy should get married and have a baby.”

“A lot to unpack there, Bubble,” Conrad said, finally recovered and rejoining the conversation.

Billie was happy to let him take over for a while. Picking up her juice glass, she chugged some of the orange-mango juice.

“This is the greatest brunch of my life,” Leela said to Devon.

He shushed her.

“You can hear just fine,” Leela hissed at him.

“Not with you talking,” he said in an undertone.

“Yeah,” Jake said in a drawl. “We can all hear you two, though.”

“They don’t care,” Devon said. “I’ve been telling Conrad to marry Billie for two years.”

“I’ve been telling Billie to marry Conrad for a similar span of time,” A.J. said in a booming, jovial voice. “What an amusing coincidence.”

Devon grinned at him. Leela rolled her eyes.

“If only they had taken our prestigious advice.”

At that, Billie found herself compelled to address A.J. “Prestigious?”

“He went to Harvard. And I am me. Prestigious we are.”

“Okay, Yoda,” Conrad said. “Bubble, you know a couple doesn’t have to be married to have a baby, right?”

“Padma and A.J. aren’t married,” Gigi said dutifully. “And they have two.”

“Exactly,” Billie said. “So, when you say you want us to get married and have a baby, which do you really want?”

“Both,” Gigi said simply.

A thought suddenly occurred to Billie, and she put a gentle hand on Gigi’s. “Sweetie, is this you angling to be a flower girl again? You’ve done it twice in a year. That’s a lot.”

She didn’t miss spotting out of the corner of her eye that Conrad’s shoulders eased at the cute explanation. Hurt stabbed at her, and she reminded herself sternly that the reaction wasn’t fair. They weren’t even in private, and the topic had been thrust upon him with no warning—

It was thrust upon you, too, a nasty voice pointed out. And you’re not relieved it’s just Gigi wanting a pretty dress.

Of course, I’m relieved. We don’t even live together, Billie told the voice. Pipe down.

And whose fault is that? the voice asked.

“That’s not why,” Gigi said. “I just want you to get married.”

“She’s always wanted you to get married,” Sammie said. All the adults turned to look at her. “Well, not always,” she amended. “But since last year, at least. Maybe the year before. I wasn’t there for that wish.”

“Wish?” Billie asked, turning back to Gigi.

Gigi was staring hard at the table.

“What does she mean your wish, Bubble?” Conrad asked.

“Her birthday wish,” Billie said.

Gigi’s face jerked up to look at them, suddenly crestfallen. “You’re not supposed to tell anyone your wish. Then it won’t come true!”

“It doesn’t count if someone guesses,” Padma said, calm and tranquil.

Gigi looked immensely relieved. “That’s good.”

Meanwhile, Billie’s mind raced, trying to piece it all together. At least two years, she realized. It’s been her wish for at least two years.

Because Gigi had refused to tell Billie her wish at her fourth birthday. That was the first time in her whole life that Gigi wouldn’t tell Billie the wish she had made. Until she had turned four, Gigi had even whispered her wishes in Billie’s ear right after making them, as if Billie needed to keep them safe for her.

Gigi wants you to get marry Conrad, her brain helpfully reminded her.

And Billie knew how Gigi knew about marriage, obviously, even at four years old. But Gigi had never once mentioned her father remarrying. Neither before nor during Cade, who remained his longest relationship to date—except the one conversation with Sammie, but Sammie had asked if Conrad would marry again, not Gigi. And Gigi had just rolled her eyes at the idea of Cade, unconcerned, and then asked Billie if the girls could help pick out her dress.

Oh, Billie thought. Then, No.

Gigi couldn’t have meant Billie marrying Conrad. But Billie could remember Gigi’s small voice saying it wasn’t like her Mommy with Cade, and had she meant for herself? That Cade wasn’t like a Mommy? Or had she meant with Conrad? That Conrad didn’t care about Cade like he had cared about Nic?

He wasn’t in love with Cade, her brain pointed out.

And little kids were very intuitive, Billie had learned through her time with Gigi. Gigi always knew when either Conrad or Billie were sad. Gigi had that same level of extreme empathy that both Nic and Conrad had always possessed. So, Billie supposed it would make sense if Gigi had simply been reacting to the love she could sense in Conrad for Billie, long before he sensed it himself.

Love equals marriage, Billie realized, wondering how long it had taken her to get to the crux of it.

“People who are in love don’t have to get married,” Conrad was saying to Gigi, having reached the same conclusion at the same time. “It doesn’t mean they love each other any less.”

Billie cleared a suddenly achy throat and forced herself to deal. “Sweetie, what would we have if we get married that we don’t have now?”

“We’re already a family,” Conrad said.

“And we love you. So much,” Billie said.

“I know,” Gigi said.

But she wouldn’t say anything else, and Billie couldn’t tell her yes, of course I’ll marry your father because she really hadn’t even thought about marriage. It was marriage. It was huge. It was something she had never wanted.

Amazing that she could easily picture sitting on the porch swing, old and gray, with Conrad’s arm around her. But she couldn’t picture a ring on her finger. Or maybe she just couldn’t picture one on Conrad’s again, even though he had stopped wearing it years before.

Besides, Conrad was already married. And maybe that shouldn’t be a factor in the decision, but it was. It was.

Billie could hardly get past his desire to move her in, let alone anything beyond that. She still owed him an answer almost five months after their first conversation. And he had been patient. So patient that sometimes she would think he had forgotten all about it, but then he would work it into conversation again.

“Why don’t we spend the night at your place?” Conrad had suggested as they slid into the car, ready to head to the grammar school to pick up Gigi after their Friday shifts.

Billie had given him a look. Ever since Trevor’s visit had necessitated a sleepover at Billie’s, Conrad had been working the offer in at least once every couple of weeks.

“I never promised not to try and convince you,” he had said, with a cheeky grin as he put an arm around the back of her seat and leaned in.

And his cheekiness, paired with an adorable determination to win her over to the idea of cohabitation, had made her grab the front of his shirt and pull him into her body.

“Is that a yes?” he had asked, holding his mouth back from her.

“Fine,” she had said. “Yes, let’s drag poor Gigi to my boring house with no furniture.”

“Gigi likes tumbling around your empty den,” Conrad had said against her lips. “And I find it very encouraging that you haven’t bought any yet.”

And the words had stuck in her mind as a strange thing to say, though they had been shoved to the back so that she could fully focus on the feeling of his tongue sweeping into her mouth.

But the words replayed in Billie’s mind as she watched the disappointment on Gigi’s face and felt an echo inside herself. What could he have meant? She didn’t have furniture because she was busy. She spent most of her time at the hospital, and she tried to spend the rest with Conrad and Gigi—wherever they might want to be. She had been telling herself for five months that it was the only reason.

But the pang in her chest at Conrad’s stunned, panicked reaction, and her knee-jerk assumption—fear based, she knew—that the door was completely shut for him on babies, was making Billie rethink that.

She definitely needed to talk to Conrad before she answered anymore of Gigi’s questions.

“Sweetie,” she said to Gigi. “Can we talk about this some more tonight? We’re definitely going to talk about it, as much as you want, but we only have a couple of hours with everybody. Do you want to spend your time with Sammie and the boys talking about this?”

Gigi looked reluctant, but her eyes flew to Sammie, who waved at Gigi from down the table. And Gigi nodded. Billie ran a hand over her soft blonde hair again, desperate to feel connected to the little person who owned Billie’s entire heart. Gigi didn’t pull away, and the tight knot inside Billie’s stomach loosened.

“So, I’m thinking we’re long overdue for one of our spa trips,” Kid said in a cheerful tone.

“Please go,” Bell said to the table at large. “If you don’t, she makes me.”

“Relaxation and self-care are the best medicine,” Kit said.

“So I’ve heard,” Bell said. “And been told. Many times.”

The rest of brunch was a blur for Billie. She knew they discussed the spa trip. She was relieved that Gigi had started to come back out of her shell after some talk of mud baths. The idea of getting muddy on purpose was just too intriguing, Billie supposed. And she knew that everyone stayed long past when they had planned to leave. But the details were foggy at best in Billie’s brain as everyone piled out the front door.

And when Conrad and Billie started cleaning up the kitchen, Gigi climbed onto the sofa, quiet as a mouse. Conrad was silent, too, as he loaded dishes in the dishwasher. But Billie wouldn’t let herself think about that.

One sad Hawkins at a time, Billie reminded herself.

And then a sad Billie. Because she was definitely in need of some alone time to think and process after all of that.

“That’s a lot to unpack,” Conrad had said.

Too true, my love, Billie thought at him silently, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on her.

But, first, Gigi. Nothing in the world was as soul-crushing as a sad Gigi.

“Sweetie, you want to put on some music?” Billie asked, pulling out her phone.

Gigi nodded, taking the phone without a word. She opened Spotify, knowing the apps by their thumbnails, but then she stalled.

“Want me to help you find some Miley?” Billie asked.

When Gigi nodded again, Billie clicked into recent plays and opened a new radio channel using “Party in the U.S.A.” (Because of course Gigi only enjoyed teenager Miley.) And then Gigi set Billie’s phone on the side table and hugged a pillow to her chest.

“I love you, sweetie,” Billie whispered and pressed a kiss to the top of Gigi’s head.

“Breaking out the big guns with the Miley,” Conrad murmured as Billie came to hover a few feet away from him.

They were the first words he had spoken since their guests had left. Billie wasn’t sure what to say to him.

“It’s her favorite,” she said. “This week anyway.”

“And you hate old school Miley Cyrus,” Conrad pointed out. “I believe your exact words were ‘It’s like she’s throwing up in my ears.’”

“I said that about Hannah Montana.”

“What’s the difference?” Conrad asked, confused. Then he held up a soapy hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. I think I’m happier not knowing.”

“Likely,” Billie said. Silence crept back between them, and Billie couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m going to take a bath.”

Without waiting for his response, Billie glanced at Gigi, who was pretending not to pay any attention, and made her way up the stairs. The sound of Miley blared from the surround sound speakers, drowning out her steps on the stairs. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that Conrad followed her, but somehow when she pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom, she assumed she was alone until he spoke behind her.

“Can we talk about this?” Conrad asked, pushing the door shut, quietly enough Gigi wouldn’t hear over the music.

She opened her mouth, intending to tell him that yes, of course, and it was up to him. She hadn’t realized that other, different words were bubbling up inside her until they began to spill out.

“I haven’t bought furniture because it doesn’t make sense to,” Billie said, as if continuing a conversation that they had already been having. “You already have a house full of furniture, and we’re going to move in together.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’ve been so calm about you going dark on it for five months. If it wasn’t a done deal, you’d at least have a desk by now.”

“I just need to get out of my own way,” Billie muttered.

“You’re taking your time on a huge decision,” Conrad said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m the one leaping in with both feet.”

“I love that about you,” she said in a chiding tone.

“I know,” he said, with a semblance of his usual cheeky grin. Then it faded away. “Billie, you’re it. We’re it. There’s no rush on anything other than me wanting it all to happen as fast as possible.”

Then why doesn’t he want to marry you? the nasty voice said, rearing its ugly head again.

Because that would be batshit crazy, she told the voice. We’ve been dating for seven months. Shut the hell up.

Conrad’s voice was thick. “What are you thinking about?”

“I never wanted to get married,” she said.

Conrad winced and dropped his gaze to the floor. She couldn’t tell if the wince was because he dreaded discussing this, or if her phrasing had been harsh.

In case it was the latter, she corrected herself. “I mean, I never actively wanted it. Even when we were little, we planned Nic’s wedding a thousand times, and she married my stuffed panda, Jorge, about seven hundred. He was huge. He made a great groom. But I never wanted to plan mine.”

“Who did she marry the other three hundred times?” Conrad asked, crinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

“She had this elephant,” Billie said. “I can’t remember his name.”

“Too bad.”

She licked her lips. “Similarly, I never wanted kids. The experience with Trevor probably had a lot to do with that,” she admitted. “But then I met Trevor. And I got to have Gigi in my life. And, suddenly, that wasn’t such a firm stance.”

His hands found his hips as his eyes locked on her face with an intensity that should have been daunting. But it wasn’t.

“I’ve been hesitating because I don’t want us to live in my house,” she said. “I want us here, but I can’t seem to get past thinking of this as Nic’s home. Even though it feels like my home, too.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“Being with you has made me… not as opposed to marriage,” she said. “Not that I was opposed before. I just never really saw the need.”

Conrad’s lips quirked, and his eyes danced at her. She thought she saw a bit of giddy relief in his face. “I get that,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” Billie said on a relieved laugh of her own. “You planned two weddings. You always wanted to be married.”

“That,” he said with wide eyes, “is not true. Katherine… well, that was… I’m going to stop talking. Please finish.”

“Good call,” Billie murmured.

But he knew she was only joking and would let him talk through the debacle with Katherine whenever he wanted. And he had, both when they were still just friends and after they were together. Billie and Conrad were very much on the same page about their pasts. So, he sidled a few steps closer.

“I know that you married Nic believing she was end game. That there would never be anyone else,” Billie said, softly cradling his gaze with hers.

His eyebrows came together. She heard him swallow.

“And I just want you to know that it’s not some sort of expectation with us. I want you, and I want Gigi. That’s my whole world.”

His face melted a little, and he opened his arms wide for her. It only took her two steps to cross the distance between them. He put a hand on the back of her head and pulled her as close as he could get her and still be two bodies.

“I have absolutely no idea what I did to deserve you,” Conrad said. She opened her mouth to argue, and he cut her off, saying, “It’s my turn.”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Let’s sit,” he said, letting go of her, but entwining their fingers together.

They settled at the foot of the bed, inches apart.

“I mentioned kids once,” he said. “And you told me to put a pin in it because it was a long way off, if ever.”

As he said it, a vague memory surfaced. She had been so caught up in the piece about the house that the mention of “more kids” had barely registered at the time. She couldn’t even remember what she had said back.

“Oh right,” she said, squinting into a middle distance. “Huh.”

Conrad’s smile was fleeting. “I love you,” he muttered. “You’re right that I thought Nic was it, forever, the last woman I would ever love. But she wasn’t.” He shrugged, a sad but affectionate twist to his lips. “I fell in love with you. And every piece of me loves you, even the part that loves Nic. I know that sometimes makes you uncomfortable, and I get that. I’m so sorry. Maybe if Nic hadn’t loved you as much as she did, I would find it uncomfortable, too. But it would still be true.”

God she loved this man. It hurt how much she loved him.

“I would happily marry you,” he said simply. “But I couldn’t even get you to agree to alternating weekends at your house, so I figured I’d put a pin in that discussion, too.”

Billie stared at him in shock. “You want to marry me?”

“Billie,” he said in that gravelly voice that did things to her insides. “I am making up for lost time here. We’ve talked about that.”

They had. They had talked about the intensity of his feelings once he had let the floodgates burst open—he had needed to talk about how overwhelming it felt and, in turn, make sure he wasn’t overwhelming her. He hadn’t been, but she had appreciated the check in.

And he had gotten very lucky that night.

Billie knew Conrad considered them forever. She knew that like her heart knew how to beat. They said it to each other all the time.

But… marriage? She had been so convinced he would never even consider it. And, yet, they were talking about it a mere seven months into their relationship. Somehow a baby was way less daunting, and that was a whole human life.

Conrad’s voice interrupted her spiraling thoughts. “See, that look of dread and panic on your face? That’s why I didn’t want to have this conversation yet.”

She couldn’t help but burst into laughter at that. He laughed along with her, though his had an edge of nerves to it that made her shore up her own spine.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know,” he said, then acquiesced and added, “I love you.”

“No. I love you,” she said into his shirt. “I love you like… big, epic love.”

“It’s disconcerting, right?” he said, unfazed.

“Very.”

“You get used to feeling a little dizzy and shaky every now and then,” he assured her.

She hummed and breathed in the scent of him—pine, musk, and home.

“Now, about those babies,” he said. “How many are on the table?”

A floaty feeling of weightlessness swirled around in her chest. “Why do you think any are on the table?” she asked, striving for a teasing tone.

“Because I’m sensing a lot less hesitation about the babies, and I could definitely do all of this out of order. That would be totally fine with me.”

“You really want this?” she asked, not quite letting herself believe it.

“Are you kidding? We’re so great at being parents.”

“We?” she asked on a scoff.

“Yes,” he said. “We. You and me. We’re Gigi’s parents, Billie.”

Between the two Hawkins, they were going to kill Billie. Like each of them was inflating little balloons of hope and love and wonder inside of her that might burst her open. And they were going to talk about that another time because she didn’t want to cry right then, not when he wasn’t finished talking.

He rested his cheek on her hair. “I really, really want this with you. As fast as possible. But as slow as you need to go.”

She nodded, thoughtful and introspective.

“You still with me?” Conrad asked.

“I want that,” she said simply.

Conrad stiffened, and she swore he stopped breathing. Then he said, “We could start trying today. Do you want to start trying today?”

“We’d need the addition,” Billie said instead of responding. “I don’t want Gigi sharing a room with a baby.”

“Two hundred thousand. Give or take. And they always take,” Conrad said ruefully.

She raised her head to blink at him. “What? To build it?”

“I had a contractor come out after you mentioned it. I wanted us to have all of our options.”

“That’s fine,” she said faintly. “I’m rich, remember?”

He laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear, thumb brushing across her cheekbone, calm and sure.

Billie stared as it started to sink in just how seriously he had been taking all of this, quietly in the background by himself. Conrad had a game plan, and that game plan involved babies. Plural. And he wanted to marry her, which she really wasn’t very sure about. The fact that he wanted it this badly, though, and was still more than willing to wait for her to catch up with him was so heartwarming and wonderful. It was…

So damn hot, she thought to herself.

Joy set off inside her like fireworks in her chest. She was going to get a baby, and Gigi would get a little sibling. And Conrad loved them both, and they were going to change the house and fill it with kids and make it theirs. And Nic would still be there, with them, but they would make it Billie’s, too. Everything was good in the world.

Conrad looked amused. “Are you thinking about taking my clothes off? You’ve got that look.”

“Do you think if we’re really quiet then we could—” She let her eyes slide to the bathroom door.

“Make love in the shower?” he asked. “Definitely. Let me just go start a movie for Gigi.”

“Lilo and Stitch,” Billie said, standing to pull off her shirt.

“And I will hurry,” Conrad said, stalling out as he eyed her lace bra.

“Conrad?” she asked, amused.

“Yes, right. Hurrying.”

~*~

“We need to talk to Gigi tonight,” Billie told him as they were toweling off.

Or, rather, she was toweling off. Conrad was dragging slow, sensual kisses over her neck and shoulders.

“You’re very distracting,” she said, as his hands got in the way of wrapping the towel around her body.

“Good,” he mumbled against her skin. Then he sighed. “I know. I don’t know how to explain all of this to her.”

“Me either.” She took a deep breath and said, “So, let’s start with facts.”

“Which ones?” he asked curiously.

“Fact, nothing is happening right now.”

Conrad followed closely behind her as she walked into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel. “But soon,” he said, pointedly.

“Fact, we don’t know if I can have a baby. So, first step is getting fertility testing done.”

“I bet I can get one in there,” he said, hand sliding to her belly. “With enough practice. Lots of practice.”

“Hilarious,” Billie said dryly.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But you know the chances of conceiving after forty only decrease. They don’t disappear entirely. It’ll probably just take longer. Which implies that we should start right away.”

“Didn’t we just do that?” she asked, pointing back at the shower.

“Yes,” he said, smug. “Yes, we did.”

You could be pregnant right now, the nasty voice was back.

That’s not how it works, Billie snarled back at it. I’m still on the depo.

But the voice had gotten under her skin. Her temperature dropped as her brain began to whir through all the stages of fertilization and implantation, all of which could legitimately be happening in her uterus.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “We’re going to try to have a baby.”

“Yes,” he said, bemused. “I thought we agreed. Did we not agree? Are we still talking about it? Because that’s fine, but we did just have sex without a condom and birth control has been known to fail. You look green. Are you going to throw up?”

Depo is really reliable, Billie told her brain before the nasty voice could chime in again. It takes months to get pregnant after going off birth control. Sometimes over a year. Calm down.

Billie shook her head. “No, I’m fine. We agreed. I just can’t quite believe our six-year-old is who convinced us to try.”

“I keep saying that I can only hope Gigi continues to use her powers for good.”

“I’ll call my doctor tomorrow about fertility testing.”

“In the meantime,” Conrad said in a serious voice. “I think it would be beneficial to do more testing of our own.”

Because Conrad was somewhat of a jack-of-all-trades, who could absolutely be planning a round of blood tests and sonograms, it took Billie a long pause to understand that he meant sex. She huffed out an amused breath and shoved his shoulder.

“And move in together,” he added, like ripping off a bandage.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “We should get some quotes from movers.”

“Because if we’re going to have a baby then—”

Conrad cut himself off as her agreement sank in. Then a megawatt smile broke out over his face, and he wrapped gentle arms around her.

“Gigi and I should move in with you while we get the addition put on,” Conrad said. “Lord only knows how long that will take. They quoted six months.”

“You think Gigi would be okay with that?”

“We’ll soften the blow somehow,” he promised, amusement making his voice deeper.

“That’s where we start with Gigi,” Billie pointed out. She pulled back and clutched his shoulders. “We tell her that we might not be getting married, but we’re all moving in together.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, honey,” Conrad murmured to her. “But how is that going to be different than things are now? You’re here every night.”

“And we have to tell her it’s not forever,” Billie said. “That we’ll move back in here once the extra rooms are done.”

“Because heaven forbid we live in your big beautiful house,” Conrad said with a grin.

And she knew he was teasing but she was legitimately worried about Gigi. Their house was the only home Gigi had ever known, and Billie felt like she was yanking Gigi from it.

“Oh, god, Gigi,” Billie said, as she suddenly realized what was at stake. “What if I can’t get pregnant? And then we’d have broken her heart.”

“Gigi would survive,” Conrad said, kissing her on the cheek. “Plus, we could adopt. Or use a surrogate. We have options.”

Her heart squeezed. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, blithe.

The joy was back, coursing through her veins and spreading through her limbs.

“I want seventeen,” he continued. “But I have a feeling you’ll cut me off at five.”

“Two.”

“Four,” he countered.

“Three,” she said, indignant.

“Works for me. I’ll quit my job and become a house husband. I’ll moonlight with search and rescue, and you’ll be CEO.”

“Not that you’ve given this much thought at all.” She dropped her eyes to his chest. “But you’re okay if it’s just one more, right?”

“Of course,” he said, soothingly. “And I’d be happy if it’s just us and Gigi. But the more the merrier in my opinion.”

“I can’t do more than three,” Billie said, firm. “Total.”

Then she pictured them—three little girls with the same chins and noses, with big brown eyes, and cheeky grins. The floaty weightlessness was back in her chest.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he murmured. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and moved to the dresser to pull out clothes.

She took a moment to anchor herself.

“And you’re okay putting a pin in the whole marriage thing?” she asked.

Conrad gave her an amused look as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “Are you?”

Relieved, she thought. To him, she said, “I don’t know if I want to get married.”

But she couldn’t quite decide if that was because she had never particularly wanted to, or if it was because he had already done it. Or it was a complicated mix of both. And her brain was tired, so she shoved the conflicting emotions away.

“That’s fair,” he said, voice achingly gentle.

We’re going to have a baby, she thought to herself. And they might have Conrad’s eyes. Or his hair. And they would definitely have his kindness and probably his sass—because even if they weren’t born with those, they would definitely learn those qualities quickly between Conrad and Gigi.

She had been watching him throw his jewelry back on, eyes roving over his bare chest and shoulders as the muscles rippled beneath his skin. She hadn’t realized she was so obviously drooling until he spoke again.

“One more round? Of fertility testing.”

“Yes, please,” she said in the prim voice she knew always turned him on and made him want to muss her up a bit.

He tackled her to the bed, mouth catching hers even as she laughed. When they were both breathing heavily, he pulled back and asked, “Hawkins-Sutton? Or Sutton-Hawkins?”

“I’m not hyphenating,” she said, dazed and panting against his face.

He sucked a kiss onto her neck, and then shushed her gently when she moaned just a little too loudly. They paused, straining to listen. No footsteps came up the stairs, so they relaxed.

“No, I know,” he said belatedly responding to her. “But for the baby.”

“Why would we hyphenate hers?”

“Hers?” he asked.

“You’re a Girl Dad, honey,” she said. She felt drunk. Was that from the feel of him against her? Or was that the happiness? “It’s your fate.”

He pondered that. “That sounds nice.”

“Exactly,” she said primly and watched his eyes darken in response. “Girl Dad.”

Conrad tugged on her towel and then growled when she giggled and held onto it. “Give me that,” he said, and she let go, letting him toss it across the room.

“But we should have her name match Gigi’s,” Billie said.

“But she needs to match you, too,” he said agreeably. “Sutton as a middle name?”

“Sure. And maybe, if we have the baby, I’ll take Hawkins.”

He stilled and pushed himself up on his forearms, hovering half over and half on top of her.

“You’d take my name?” he asked gruff. “I didn’t think you would do that.”

“I’d still use Sutton professionally,” she said. “I just like the idea of all of us matching. It’s cute.”

“You’d take my name?” he asked again.

“Yes, Conrad. I’d take your name.” She felt him shiver against her, and her brow furrowed. “Conrad?”

“That’s so unbelievably hot,” he said.

“I never thought you were that traditional,” she said, the words stilted in her astonishment.

“I’m not,” he said.

Billie eyed him. “Are you okay?”

“Today has melted my brain,” he said, dropping his face into the pillow her head was resting on. “I’m getting everything I want,” he said, voice muffled.

“I’m getting everything I want, too.”

He rolled his head, so that his lips brushed her ear. “Except the name. I don’t care about that.”

“Clearly,” she murmured.

“I just like that you want it.”

“If we have the baby,” she insisted.

“When,” he said.

Then, at the mention of this hypothetical baby, for whom they had already assigned a sex, Billie went icy cold again. “Oh my god. We’re going to have a baby.”

After a second, she realized Conrad was shaking on top of her. She reared back, terrified he was having a seizure, only to find him silently laughing.

“Excuse you,” she said.

“Today melted your brain, too.”

“I never thought I would be here,” she said.

“Happy?”

And she knew he was asking Are you happy? But the other meaning was true, too. She never really thought she would be. Content, yes. Fulfilled, yes. But she never dared to imagine happy.

“Perfectly,” she said.

“If we want to get a round of fertility testing out of the way, we better hurry,” Conrad said, looking at the clock. “Stitch has probably just been re-kidnapped.”

“You better work fast then, doctor.”

He smirked, leaning down and settling his lips on hers in the world’s most gentle touch. Three slow, lazy, languid kisses later, though, he raised his head again. She chased him for a moment, then let her head collapse back on the pillow.

“I’m going to call the contractor in the morning. I’ll get quotes on moving companies, too.”

Impatience swept through her. “Conrad, I am so glad you’re excited. I’m excited, too. Now shut up and kiss me before Stitch goes home.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hawkins.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered. “Now I’m not taking your name just to spite you.”

“That’s fine. Because I’ll always know you wanted to.”

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her.

#the resident #billie sutton #conllie #conrad x billie #cobillie #fanfic #gigi hawkins #billie x conrad #conradbillie

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