#school has been on the down low for now so i have time to putter around and do silly things

[tophthedaydreamer]

so cracked i've already made my annual halloween picture

you all have to wait until oct 31st to see it tho mwahahaha!

[voiceless-terror]

Perchance to Dream

@aspecarchivesweek Day Three: Drinks

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Jon comes out to Martin. Twice.

(Ft. Kiss-Averse Jonathan Sims and Hamlet References)

__________

“Ugh, no thank you.”

Martin pauses. Sasha and Tim titter behind their hands.

And Jon, well. He’s got a look of vehement disgust written across his features, not unlike when he’s laying into what he claims is a fabricated statement. Martin can feel his face turning red at the words.

Getting Jon to come out for drinks had been the hard part. It’s one month into his tenure as Head Archivist, and everyone’s starting to feel the scope of the task ahead of them. Tim thought a ‘monthiversary’ drink was in order, and the only way to get Jon to come out was to threaten him with some sort of ill begotten information, the likes of which Martin couldn’t hear behind the closed door. Ten minutes later, Jon emerged, looking grumpier than usual (and very dashing) with a scarf around his neck. And now he sat next to him in the cozy pub booth, Martin trying very hard to remain stock-still because Jon’s leaning into his side. Perhaps he’s cold? Either way, Martin isn’t going to discourage it. 

But then he’d had a few drinks and they all loosened up; even Jon’s laugh came easier. And Martin- well, Martin’s opening up a bit more than usual, chattering about his time in the library and bolstered by the smiles he receives in turn. Tim changed track to the personal, regaling them with his latest outdoor adventure while Sasha and Jon gave witty, sarcastic commentary. But then Tim directed the conversation towards him, and they seemed relatively interested in his poetry. He even felt comfortable enough to rattle out a few lines from his phone in a desperate hope to impress, and he stupidly chose one that referenced ‘lips like a rosebud’ and Jon reacts like he’s read a particularly saucy bit of a smut novel aloud. How embarrassing. 

“Whew,” Tim whistles lowly, folding his arms behind his neck with an exaggerated wince. “Harsh, boss.”

“No, that’s not it,” Jon says, shaking his head and putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand- “Martin, your poetry is fine, if a bit derivative.” Jon thinks his poetry is fine and he’s got his small, fine-boned hand on Martin’s arm and god, he’s got a poem about that too, somewhere in his phone-

Tim guffaws, slamming a hand on the table and startling Sasha. “What a compliment!”

“It’s just…kissing. Lips. Ugh.” Jon smashes his fork rather violently into a dumpling, sending bits of food flying across the table, one of which hit Tim directly above his eye. “I eat with my mouth.”

“Wise observation.”

“Very astute of you.”

Martin would join in on the banter but Jon’s hand is still on his arm and his warm weight is pressing into his side. Honestly, what’s Jon playing at? He could rip the poetry to shreds in front of him but as long as that hand remains on his arm he’d just sit there, not saying a word. Hell, he’d probably even agree.

“So the bossman doesn’t like kisses,” Tim says, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of whatever fruity beverage he’d decided on. “Is that why you ripped down all of my mistletoe back in research?”

Jon. Mistletoe. Hand still on arm.

“I don’t like any of it,” Jon says, removing his hand from Martin’s arm to make a decisive gesture across the table which nearly sent his drink flying. He instantly misses the pressure but the warmth is still there, burning through his sleeve. Jon looks incredibly drunk, now that Martin’s got a better angle to view his flushed cheeks and bright eyes and lips- “All that touching. I don’t understand why everyone’s so hung up on it. No thank you, not for me.”

A brief flash of understanding lights Sasha’s eyes but Martin’s not in a place to decipher it. He’s not sure if it’s the drink or the Jon-of-it-all that’s impeding him. He’s never seen him so relaxed, so animated about something that’s not work. He can’t even focus on the words coming out of Jon’s mouth at the moment.

But Sasha leans forward- once she’s got an idea in her head, she won’t let go until she’s seen it through. Martin recognizes that look. “You’re asexual, then?”

“Mm,” Jon mumbles, his head tilting back dangerously as he puts on an affected, exaggerated voice. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.”

And then Martin’s gone, suddenly struck by a vision of teenage Jon, silhouetted on a stage by a dramatic spotlight, reciting Shakespeare like a born thespian- look, Martin despises theater, but even he’s not immune to Hamlet. In a dream world he’d be Ophelia, no, not Ophelia, idiot- maybe he’s a stage hand, or no, he helps Jon with his quick changes, that’s a job, right? So caught up is he in this pseudo-high school fantasy that the words being said don’t actually dawn on him until a full minute later, when Tim’s laughter reaches a crescendo.

“Boss, did you seriously just come out via Shakespeare?”

Jon’s not even denying it, giving a lazy, good-natured smile in response. Fuck. Here he is, having some stupid fantasy over his boss who is very much right next to him and very much not interested. God, is he taking advantage? He jumps to the side, trying desperately to put a few more inches of space between them for Jon’s comfort when that small hand comes back to his arm, the sudden and strong grip stopping him in his tracks. 

“No!” Jon’s voice is low, those dark eyes so intense. Martin can feel his face go scarlet from his gaze alone. “This is nice. I like it.”

Tim and Sasha share an evil little smile and Martin’s out of commission, the night’s revelations and Jon’s insistent snuggling having taken their toll. He couldn’t tell you what happened after that, how many drinks were shared or how he got home. All he remembers is the feel of Jon’s hand on his arm, his insistent closeness, and the sound of his laugh whenever Tim teased him.

The next day Jon comes in late, looking about as bad as the rest of them felt. From the way he interacts with them, it’s likely that he doesn’t even remember last night, what he did or what he said. Martin tries not to let it sting, and goes back to work, knowing there’s a side of Jon that he’ll likely never see again.

__________

“Martin, we have to...talk, if that’s alright.” 

Martin pauses, a lump building in his throat. “Okay.”

He settles in on Daisy’s lumpy couch, trying not to let his apprehension show. It’s been a week since Jon got him out of the Lonely and they’re still adjusting, but Martin likes to think they’re settling into a nice routine. There’s such a natural ease to their domesticity; they had their differences, sure, but he’s never seen the man so soft and unguarded, puttering around the cottage, making sure everything’s nice and comfortable for the two of them. And of course, there’s the bed situation. Only one, like in all the cliché fanfiction Martin had taken to reading back when he lived in the Archives and his biggest problem was worms. Maybe Jon doesn’t want to share anymore? He’s been strangely distant the past day, keeping space between them and hovering about in a nervous manner. He goes back through their interactions, trying to think of what he could’ve done wrong.

Jon sits down next to him, his face showing his own apprehension. “I know we’ve been getting...close, this past week. But if we’re going to ah, have an, er- well, you know, relationship- there’s some things you need to know.” Relationship. Jon thinks they're in a relationship. Martin didn’t want to put a label to it, too afraid it would shatter the fragile trust they built. But to be in a relationship with Jon, well, that’s something he’s always dreamed of, right?

So he relaxes minutely, tries not to show the utter joy he feels at the words. “Alright. What’s up?”

Jon takes a steadying breath, looking so oddly grave that Martin immediately wants to take him into his arms. “I don’t...well, I’m asexual. So I’m not really interested…” he makes a vague gesture down towards Martin’s crotch and then freezes, clearly embarrassed by the crudeness of the action. “I’m not interested in all of...that. Or kissing, for that matter. It’s just a personal boundary for me, if that’s alright.”

Oh. Martin blinks, taking in Jon’s serious countenance and hopeful eyes and while he wants to match it, he can’t control the laughter that bubbles out of his throat. “Oh-oh Jon-”

Jon immediately blanches, his brow furrowing in confusion and probably hurt. “W-What? What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck-it’s, it’s not that, that’s fine, it’s just-” Martin tries desperately to keep his laughter under control and fails. Christ, he can’t breathe. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither!” 

“Why are you quoting Shakespeare?” Jon’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.

“Because you did, you daft thing!” Martin’s shoulders shake with the effort of containing himself, and he wipes a tear from his eye. He immediately puts a hand on Jon’s arm, a mirror’s reflection of that night at the bar and yet it’s still his hand that burns. “Jon, it’s fine. I already know. You told us over drinks my first month in the Archives.”

Jon’s face takes on that peculiar look of confusion and concentration that Martin loves, as if he’s searching his mind or maybe even the Eye for information. “I-oh. Oh!” He puts his head in his hands with a groan, ignoring Martin’s comforting pats to the back. “How embarrassing.”

“It was adorable.”

“No it wasn’t,” Jon whines into his hands even as he leans into Martin’s touch.

“It was,” Martin assures him, drawing him close to his side and letting him lean his head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I laughed- you were just so serious, I couldn’t help it-”

“Yes, well,” Jon sighed, settling into his arms, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “It’s fine. As long you’re alright with…”

“More than alright.” It’s Jon, of course it’s alright. Being here with him, in their little shabby oasis- well, it’s more than enough. They sit there in silence for some time, Martin enjoying the closeness of the man he’d fought so hard to protect finally in his arms. He’s starting to think they just might be alright. He smiles to himself, perching his chin on top of Jon’s head.

“To be or not to be-”

“Shut up, Martin.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741983

[captainkappa]

Fanfic:: What the Water Gave Us

Din can tell something is wrong the minute he walks off the ship. Luke and Grogu meet him on the landing pad as always, but there’s something in the way Luke holds himself, the simple way he says “Hey.”

Din doesn’t run down the gangway, but it’s a near thing. “What’s wrong?”

In which Din and Luke deal with some of Grogu’s more recent trauma, Din gets wet, ripcords are abused, and both of them are trans.

So this was supposed to go up for dinluke week day 6... and then day 7... and now it’s now ^^; BUT I’m still really excited for it and I hope yall are too!

Title inspired by Florence + The Machine’s What the Water Gave Me

AO3 Link

-=-=-=-=-=-

Din can tell something is wrong the minute he walks off the ship. Luke and Grogu meet him on the landing pad as always, but there’s something in the way Luke holds himself, the simple way he says “Hey.”

Din doesn’t run down the gangway, but it’s a near thing. “What’s wrong?”

“I-” Luke sighs. “Nothing’s wrong, I’ll tell you later.”

“Tell me now.”

Luke doesn’t say anything as he passes Grogu to Din, letting Grogu get settled in his arms before continuing, “Grogu is fine, there was just… an incident. He fell into the lake and got… really scared.”

“Oh.” And Din immediately realizes the reason for that. When he had first gotten his quest, his focus had been on finding Grogu a teacher and he hadn’t considered the long-term effects of the events of Trask. Whenever he wakes up from dreams of water pooling up under his helmet, he considers it a good night and waits for sleep to claim him. He hadn’t considered…

But Luke is still talking.

“…so, I feel the easiest way to help him would be to teach him to swim but…” and now Luke looks embarrassed. “I can barely tread water and Grogu is so scared so… would you be able to help?”

“How?”

“I think you being there to show the water is safe would do a lot. Plus, if you knew how to actually swim, that would just seal the deal.”

“I… don’t.” And there are a lot of reasons for that. The main one being the Creed. All those years ago, Xi’an had made a quip about beskar bikinis and… yeah, the crew wrote a lot of terrible jokes. The second reason is that buying specific swimwear for him was never a priority. They had felt like a frivolous expense in the face of the Covert’s financial situation. As the covert’s bounty hunter and main source of income, he had limited all expenses on himself.

“But,” he continues before Luke’s expression can crumble further, “I want to help.”

“Okay that… that’s good. You’re not afraid of water, are you?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be good.”

“I don’t think it’ll take that much to help him. We could try tomorrow? Forecast says it’ll be hot, we could go to the lake after lessons?”

Din nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

He smiles like the sun. “Great, let me show you to your room.”

Din knows where his room is, he’s been here a couple of times, but he doesn’t comment as he follows the Jedi.

-=-

As he gets ready on the next day, for the first time in maybe ever, Din thinks about what he’s going to wear, which is a futile effort. He doesn’t exactly have… clothes, just beskar and flight suits. He leaves the armor in his room save the helmet. He’s been slowly trying out not wearing his helmet in front of people, but he only lasts maybe a half hour around people and situations he knows, so the helmet stays on.

Midway through zipping up the flight suit, he pauses, considering his compression top. Wearing it wet is never fun, but he also doesn’t need to disappear in his head when he’s trying to help Grogu. He keeps it on, figuring he’ll just endeavor to stay dry above the waist. Most of his weapons he leaves behind as well, except one blaster and a knife. Weapons are still his religion, even if he’s spending most of the day at a lake.

The sounds of Luke and Grogu leaving the Temple filter past his window. It’s a normal routine; Luke and Grogu doing their lessons, leaving Din to putter about for the day, and then they rejoin for the evening. He and Luke agreed he could come for some lessons, but Grogu should learn to control his powers independently of Din being there.

Thankfully, there was enough broken in the temple to leave Din’s hands busy. By the time he’s gotten the basement lights to stop flickering, Luke has lunch packed and Grogu in a sling at his side.

“I figured we could end lessons early to go to the lake,” he explains. Din nods, trying to take in the words and not be distracted by how Luke looks in a birikad.

It’s a longer walk than Din expected to the lake. It’s less than an hour away from the school, but between maneuvering the wild forest and the sun beating down, he’s actually looking forward to going for a dip. He guesses it wouldn’t make sense to have a large body of water near little kids.

When they arrive, Din can’t help but take a moment to admire it. The lake is a dark blue color, nearing green by the rocky shore’s edge, but the sun still makes it sparkle. Low hanging branches edge over the lake, casting shadows in the water. There are some large rocks to the far side as well as other clear pieces of shore.

They settle on a dry part of the shore, putting both picnic basket and Grogu down. The child immediately toddles towards Din, one hand gripping his flight suit, looking warily out at the water. Din leans down to scoop him up.

“It’ll be okay, ad’ika,” he says, “The water can’t hurt you.”

Luke chimes in, “Your dad’s right.”

Grogu doesn’t seem convinced yet.

With lunch set away, Luke pulls off his robes and then his tunic and oh- Din hadn’t been expecting that.

The other man looks up at him, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, I hope you don’t mind? I’m baking under all those layers.”

Din stumbles through telling him it’s fine, hoping Luke doesn’t realize his gaze is at the twin incision scars on his chest, somehow drawing his eye more than the fractal scars that span the rest of his chest. It’s not a rarity to find others like Din in this wide galaxy, but it’s an unexpected familiarity, especially to find with his son’s teacher.

Luke pauses, still holding his tunic. “Are you okay? I don’t want you getting heatstroke either.”

“I-I’m fine!” he stammers out. Maker, he’s met other trans people before, why does it feel so different with Luke?

“Well, don’t feel obligated to take anything off,” Luke says, folding his robes. He pauses to look Din up and down. “Well, maybe your shoes if you plan on going in.”

Din takes the opportunity to set Grogu back down on the rocks, forcing himself to tear his gaze away. He kneels down to fumble his way through untying his laces.

“So, what is the plan?” he asks, gaze firmly on his boots.

There’s a thump of fabric. “I figured we could start by just getting the two of us in the water, show him it’s safe. Then we’ll just… play it by ear?”

Din looks up once he has his boots off and flight suit pulled up to his knees. Luke looks… nervous? That’s not the word, but there’s something in the expression that Din recognizes as Luke picks up Grogu, speaking softly to him and pointing across the way at the lake. He wants to get this right.

Grogu is still looking at the water hesitantly, big brown eyes threatening to wobble, ears pressed tight against his head. Din walks up and strokes one of them.

“Grogu,” his son picks up his head to look at him, something Din doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. “I’m going to go in the water, but I’ll be fine, okay? You can just watch.”

He tilts his head, considering him for a moment and when there’s no resistance, Din walks into the water.

He bites down on the curse threatening to escape when his bare feet touch water. It’s cold, despite the sun beating down. He looks behind to see Grogu staring at him wide eyed.

“I’m fine, ad’ika. See?” He waves his hands in what he hopes is reassuring.

He walks deeper into the lake, water halfway up to his calves before he hears Grogu’s whimpers. He turns, but his foot catches on a rock and suddenly the ground isn’t firm beneath his feet. The world goes sideways as he loses his balance and cold water is pouring through his helmet.

He scrambles up into a seated position, thankful beskar doesn’t rust. His chest feels tight with the compression top soaked though, which he files away to take care of later. He lifts the helmet just enough to spit out the water, to catch his breath. It’s only then does he hear the kid’s cries, Luke’s attempts to settle him.

“Grogu, Grogu, I’m okay, see?” But something tells him Grogu doesn’t care about his words right now. He sighs, soft enough for it not to be picked up by the voice modulator, and gets out of the water. He slogs through the water, happy that his son doesn’t seem to be reacting in any more dramatic way beside crying.

That is, until he reaches shore and the tide comes in with him. He sits none too gently besides Luke and his son. Grogu immediately holds his arms out to him.

Din takes him, only considering for a second before taking off his helmet. His son touches his face none too gently, grabbing and pinching with those tiny nails of his.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m safe, Grogu,” he says, softly.

He doesn’t rush Grogu, letting him touch his face, feel the breath escaping his lips, touch the wet flight suit. He doesn’t think about Luke being right there, able to see this moment between them, able to see his face.

Grogu settles in his arms, head tucked between his shoulder and chin. Din turns just enough to catch Luke’s eye

“Call it a day?” Din asks, not being able to calm the annoyed feeling in his heart.

Luke shrugs. “We still have lunch.”

They do, so they settle a couple feet farther from the shoreline, Luke offering his robes by way of a blanket. He hands out the food he made for them. Grogu still seems scared for a couple of minutes, but then he’s wolfed down his food and found an insect to follow in and amongst the trees. Din knows he should stop him from then trying to eat the creature, but he doesn’t have the heart. Neither, it seems, does Luke.

The two of them eat in silence, eyes on the still lake or Grogu running around. Din can’t help but berate himself for such a simple slip-up.

He sighs, no longer hungry, as the question that had been on his mind since yesterday bubbles over.

“Did Grogu show… Did you see…?” He doesn’t understand the Force enough to begin to ask the question, but Luke, whether because he’s a Jedi Master or just a good person, seems to understand.

“He… showed me what happened. He was unharmed, but I think he was just… scared.”

“I should have realized he would remember that.”

“You had – have a lot on your plate.”

“But he’s my kid.”

“And I’ve met plenty worse fathers than you,” Luke says with an easy smile that betrays the weight of his words. “But really, you were trying to get him to safety. If we’re going to play a game of what ifs, then I should have gotten to the cruiser faster.”

“You got to us just in time,” Din says, the hint of a question in his tone.

Luke shrugs, “I was too far away. If I was closer, I could have stopped him from experiencing all of that fear and anger.”

Din’s heart clenches, remembering those few days between losing Grogu and getting him back, those sleepless nights, unable to think of anything but the worst possible scenarios.

“Maybe we should stop asking these questions.”

“I agree.”

The conversation dies down after that.

With his heart marginally calmer, Din finds himself better able to appreciate the space around him. The sun’s rays feel like a physical thing against his face. Has he ever had a moment like this? Was this what he was missing when he never took off his helmet. Can he say he missed it when this is the first time that he’s experienced it?

Grogu walks back a little later, dirty with an insect leg poking out between his teeth. Din and Luke share a look before they start packing up.

When they get back to the temple, Din is suddenly made more aware of his wet compression top, clinging to his skin like a vice. He also suddenly doesn’t feel like wearing his flight suit, like a too-small second skin.

Luke seems to notice some of this, because when they get back to the temple, he scuffs his foot on the cobble and asks, “Do you need a change of clothes? We’re not exactly the same… build, but I should have something that fits.”

Din thinks about how long it would take to dry out his clothing, whether he’s even done the laundry yet.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

Luke nods, beckoning him forward to a set of rooms he hasn’t been to before. They’re no bigger than the rest of the temple’s rooms, they honestly might be smaller, but that might be the clutter of droid parts scattered around the floor with every flat surface available covered in objects of strange shapes and yellowing books. It’s not at all what Din expected, but that seems to sum up his entire experience with Luke.

He stands there as Luke pushes aside machinery to open a set of closet doors. He roots around in there before pulling out a couple of black garments.

“These will probably do fine! Just let me know if they don’t.”

Din takes them and thanks him, but he stays where he is, a battle warring in his throat. He’s hyperaware of his chest and while he knows the robes will probably flow well enough to hide, he still feels the need to say something. He knows he doesn’t owe Luke or anyone an explanation, be he wants to.

“I… Back at the lake, I wasn’t staring at you… I mean… I’m trans too.”

“Oh, okay,” his smile is bright enough to fill his chest. “Will you be fine while Grogu and I finish up his lessons?”

Din nods and his heart feels a little more at peace.

The robes are indeed too short, leaving his wrists and ankles completely exposed. He’s not used to the extra layers, how it flows behind him, but the layers help hide his chest, so he’s able to get through the rest of the day.

Any initial discomfort is worth seeing Luke’s face when he comes back in from afternoon lessons. He tries to hide it, but Din spots how he pauses in the doorway, looking straight at Din as he cleans his armor. It only lasts a second before Luke is distracted by Grogu again, so Din files it away for later and goes back to rubbing out the lake smell from his helmet.

-=-

It’s the day before he has to go, but Din feels more restless than normal. Every day since they went to the lake, it’s rained, a downpour that soaked them to the bone if they had to leave the temple for anything.

Din turns to watch Luke and Grogu out the window, meditating in the rain, twin domed force shields above their heads to stay dry. His HUD lights the two of them up in bright reds and yellows as compared to the calm blue of everything else.

He turns back to the lamp he’s been trying to fix for the past hour. He just can’t stop thinking about that day on Trask, how he hadn’t seen the obvious trap, how he’d been unable to rescue his son, how his son still remembers that.

He has to make it right.

When the two come back inside to start their lessons, Din unceremoniously takes Luke by the elbow and brings him into the kitchen. Starts thank Luke, he doesn’t question the sudden detour and just stands there, waiting for Din to put his thoughts into words.

“Can… I borrow Grogu?”

Luke gives him a look. “Of course? He still has time between lessons so, yes?”

“No, I-” Din sighs, “I need both of you… for something.”

Luke tilts his head to the side and Din explains, haltingly, not knowing if this is the right course of action, but it feels necessary. Luke just smiles.

“I think it’s a great idea, and I’d be honored to help.”

They wait until after dinner, when they’ve cleaned up. Grogu just looks at them as the tree of then sit on the couch in the common area. Din’s heart has been jackrabbiting since he and Luke agreed to this, most of his afternoon taken up by what exactly he was going to say, what would happen if it went poorly.

He takes off his helmet, setting it on a side table. Grogu looks up at the movement and is already reaching for him. He can’t help the smile as he lifts him up. He glances over to Luke, who gives him an encouraging nod.

“Grogu?”

He looks into his eyes at that and Din feels his heart break a little more.

“I… I don’t want you to feel bad for being afraid of water. It’s understandable considering… everything. Luke and I will help you be less afraid if… if you want. I should never have put you in danger like that on Trask. I will always prioritize your safety. Ni ceta. Can you forgive me?”

Grogu stares at him with those big brown eyes before reaching for his face. Luke’s ungloved hand comes up and touches his son on the back.

Luke opens his eyes and gives him a smile.

“You were already forgiven.”

Din pulls his son in for a tight hug. If tears form at the corner of his eyes as he thanks Luke for his help, Luke doesn’t say anything.

-=-

The next day was supposed to be Din’s last day, but early that morning, when he wakes up and sees the rain has stopped, he calls Bo-Katan. What he wants to say is that he can come here to collect the damn darksaber because there’s nothing more he wants to do than stay here. He doesn’t say that, but he does tell her he’s staying a few days more. He hangs up on her before she can reach a fever pitch.

At breakfast, he just tells Luke he can stay longer. Then he recommends they try going to the lake again.

The walk to the lake isn’t any more tense, but he can feel Grogu curl up tighter against his chest as trees give way to the lake. The lake is bigger than last time, much of the coast now disappeared under the water.

“Why don’t you go in this time?” Din offers.

Luke smirks at him, “Now are you afraid of water, Mando?”

On instinct, forgetting he’s at a bright lakeside and thinking he’s in the sewers of Nevarro, he punches Luke’s shoulder like he would’ve Paz’s. Luke goes careening to the side, only barely keeping himself on two feet. His expression is shocked and there’s an apology on Din’s tongue until Luke bursts out laughing.

“Maker, if you wanted me in the water that badly, you only had to ask!” Luke says, punching Din back. The flight suit lessens the blow, but Din still feels as knocked over as Luke was.

“S-Sorry,” he manages to get out.

Luke waves him off, still smiling. “If I couldn’t take a punch like that, I’d never survive being Han’s friend. You just surprised me.”

He removes his robes again and Din is thankful he thinks to avert his gaze beforehand.

Luke walks in, hissing at the chill. He only goes up to his ankles, before kneeling down, black pants growing darker by the second as water laps around him.

“See, Grogu? The water’s fine.” Luke splashes his hands gently in the water, creating little ripples.

Din looks down at Grogu, still in his arms. His head is ducked into Din’s shoulder.

Din kneels down so they’re more at eye level.

“Grogu? Look, what’s Master Luke doing?”

The child turns and watches. Luke has the same kind smile on his face the whole time. Grogu watches, ears twitching the whole time.

And then a different expression comes over Luke’s face. He shifts his position, now sitting with legs crossed, his hands held out above the water and eyes closed. Din is just about to ask what he’s doing when the water around him moves and rises.

Individual balls of water lift into the air, surrounding Luke. A couple are as big as Grogu’s head, some are as small as a pebble, a multitude of sizes. Sunlight reflects off their surface so that it looks like crystals. Then they move, gently circling around Luke.

Luke cracks open an eye before smiling. “See, Grogu? Water can be scary, but it can also be beautiful.”

Din can’t get his mouth to work, still trying to put these two images together, of a man with a bright laugh and a decent punch, and this ethereal wonder.

He manages to break his gaze and look at Grogu, who for the first time this whole visit, looks at the lake with awe instead of fear.

-=-

The next time Din is able to make it to Yavin IV, after a long quest to retake a minor city in Mandalore, he’s met with smiling faces at the end of the ramp.

“C’mon!” Luke says with no preamble. “We have something to show you!”

It’s not the first time Luke has led with that. Grogu likes showing his progress and Din is the best audience, being impressed with whatever Grogu has to show.

Instead of the Temple or the usual outside training ground, Luke heads straight for the lake. As he follows, Din can’t help but spot how there’s more of a path worn in through the grass and plants. He can even see straight to the dirt in some areas.

The lake looks the same as ever, clear water, low hanging trees, a rocky coast.

Luke doesn’t bother shucking off his robes, just walks in the water with Grogu still in his arms and kneels down. Luke lowers Grogu down into the water and Din is glad his helmet doesn’t pick up his gasp when Grogu doesn’t fuss. He just stands there, waist deep, looking up to his teacher.

“C’mon, Grogu,” Luke says, smiling, “like we practiced.”

Grogu nods before taking a deep breath and blowing out air before slowing lowering his head into the water. Small bubbles escape the water where his mouth is. It feels like Din’s heart has grown in his chest.

“Good job, Grogu!” Luke exclaims as Grogu stands up straight.

Din rips off his boots before joining the two in the water. Luke picks Grogu back up so he’s not overwhelmed by the waves Din makes. He settles in beside Luke, sides brushing as he takes a knee.

“That was really good, kid!” Din exclaims, picking up his son and holding him tight.

Grogu burbles happily. Luke catches Din’s eye and he can’t help but smile more.

-=-

Trips to the lake become a regular occurrence when Din visits. Yavin IV is temperate, so if the sky is clear and the day warm, the three head out to the edge of the lake. Grogu is happy to chase frogs near the edge, less scared of falling in now, especially with more lessons in blowing bubbles and painstaking lessons in floating.

Din has since picked up swimwear of his own, after he couldn’t get the lake smell out of one of his flight suits. It’s a tank top that still functions as a compression top and board shorts. He still brings his helmet with him, but he finds himself wearing it less and less by the lake, especially when he gets in the water.

It’s… nice. It’s one of the nicest things Din has had in a while. It’s a sanctuary from the stresses and pain of life in the galaxy, something for just the three of them, even if three sometimes becomes four when Artoo gets bored, and sometimes four becomes seven or eight when Luke’s friends make supply runs and then linger after. Even still, Din thinks of that spot as “theirs;” him, Luke, and Grogu.

The thought frightens him sometimes.

What also frightens him his how his heart rate continues to skyrocket when Luke takes off his robes to bask in the sun, this time not because of that twinge of familiarity at seeing the incision scars. His heart also can’t calm down on the day when Luke explains how he feels more attune to the Force when he feels the sun beat down on his bare skin, how it almost feels like home.

Din doesn’t know how to respond, especially when he realizes in some way, he understands, so he can only nod.

-=-

Late one day, when Din is underneath his ship, tightening up a part that got loose the last time he jumped through hyperspace, he hears the familiar pat of feet against the launchpad.

“I was out by the lake late at night,” Luke says.

Din grunts in response.

“It was really beautiful. Felt like there were thousands of lightning bugs out there.”

“I bet it was.”

“I’d like to show it to you… tonight… alone.”

That gets Din to roll out from under the Crest.

“What about Grogu?”

“The Temple has a state-of-the-art security system and Artoo can keep watch.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Tonight.”

“Yeah, once it gets dark enough.”

And suddenly anticipation fills Din’s stomach for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t know what “dark enough” means, the sun’s barely set by the time he’s done with the Crest and he can see two lighting bugs blinking by the Temple Garden. Luke waits until after dinner and after Grogu is fast asleep to walk Din out, gloved hand in gloved hand, even though they both know the way there. Neither of them makes a move to disentangle themselves.

The lake is both gorgeous and terrifying at night. There are just as many lightning bugs as Luke promised, lighting up the area. Even still, the water is as dark as space, and looks just as infinite.

Din is thankful he kept his helmet on. He’s glad Luke doesn’t comment on it. In fact, Luke doesn’t seem to mind at all.

They only go up to their knees in the dark water, looking out at the dancing light show and just talking. Their hands keep finding each other, after taking off their shoes, after releasing a lighting bug that’s landed on one of them, after righting oneself after nearly slipping.

Din tries not to think about how perfect this feels.

-=-

It’s a couple of days later that they are able to go back to the lake. It’s another washout, but none of them particularly mind. Din finds himself bumping into Luke more and more, the physical contact a welcome novelty.

Neither of them talks about the night at the lake. They don’t have to.

Once the rain stops, they wait a couple of days for the waterline to recede before going back to the lake.

And he has to assume it was because of being cooped up in the temple for a couple of days that causes Luke to ask him, “Have you used some of those tools for… non-bounty hunting purposes?”

Din tilts his head in Luke’s direction and takes longer than necessary to respond. He knows its rude to watch Luke squirm under his gaze, but after a question like that, he has to.

“What do you mean?”

“I just… see that tree branch?”

Din looks in the direction where Luke is pointing and spots a tree hanging over the lake. He nods.

“I bet you could use your ripcord and swing into the lake.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Seems fun, I assume kids who grew up around water would do that. Seems like the kind of thing.”

It does, like when he and the other foundlings would climb the pipes in Nevarro before an adult found them out.

“I don’t want to be a bad influence.”

Luke gives him a look. “Grogu has seen you fly out of the mouth of a greater krayt dragon, which I still need more details on.”

Din snorts, before considering it. All of these days by the lake means he actually is a somewhat passable swimmer. He can’t swim fast, but he can hold his breath and maneuver pretty well.

Plus, the more he thinks about it, the more it does sound like fun.

“Fine.”

“What?”

“I’ll do it.”

“I mean… don’t feel pressured.”

“Nope, I have to now.”

Luke looks at him before cracking into a smile. Din just shakes his head as he divests himself of unnecessary gear. He takes only the gauntlet that contains his ripcord, leaving his helmet and everything else safely on the coast before walking in the direction of the tree.

He climbs through the thrush, glancing over to make sure Luke is still looking at him. Why does he care that Luke’s looking at him?

He has to circle back to find the tree Luke had spotted. He steps around roots poking out through the soil and into a flat rock. The tree itself bends over him, a couple of lower branches nearly skimming the water. He jumps up and grabs into the tree, making sure it can hold his weight and won’t snap when he’s airborne.

It feels solid enough, but he pulls on a few branches before spotting what looks to be the best for the job. He lets out the ripcord, tugging on the branch before disengaging the chord from the spinning mechanism.

He glances to the shore, where Luke and Grogu are watching him. Din shakes his head, why does he feel so nervous for something like this? Then he gives it a test swing, gripping the rope and running to the edge of the stone before jumping off.

He doesn’t let go just let, more focused on making sure the branch doesn’t snap as he swings back and forth. He lands back on the rock, firm ground beneath him.

He looks at the window of clear blue surrounded by leaves and trees. Something flies through his heart like hope, like joy, and he doesn’t think anymore. He grabs the rope, runs forward, swings out and lets go.

A whoop comes unbidden from his chest and soon he’s flying, but unlike those precious moments where he had the jetpack, he can feel the wind flow around all of him. He crests in the air and the weightless feeling lingers for a moment longer before he’s being pulled back down to the lake and is suddenly plunged into cold.

He takes a moment just to let the cold settle over him before searching out the light of the sun and kicking off a rock to shoot upward toward the surface.

He breeches the surface to twinned cheers and rapid beeping. He shakes the water from his eyes, peeling curling hair out of his eyes to see Luke cheering, with Grogu clapping on top of Artoo’s head. He waves, the grin on his face threatening to break.

Maker, he wants to do that again.

But with the buzzing on insects, the gentle lapping of the water around him, and the sun beating down above him, he can’t help but roll onto his back and float, his eyes sliding shut as the sun lands on him with warm pressure.

It only feels like a few seconds have passed when a loud and clear voice rings out tough the clearing.

“Look out below!”

Din opens his eyes and sees Luke, mid arc. He’s stripped off to his basics and he is soaring, arms spread wide, whooping and hollering as he flies.

He crashes into the water mere feet from Din, the waves he creates overturning Din. He tumbles briefly in the water before he’s able to resurface, coughing out a small mouthful of water.

Luke is beside him, golden hair clinging to his forehead, chest glistening, and absolutely beaming.

“Having fun?” Din asks, voice rough from the water swallowed.

“We have to do that again.”

“Where’s Grogu?”

“On the shore, being watched by Artoo.”

Din looks and sure enough, Grogu has attached himself to one of the droid’s legs.

“Race you back?” Luke asks, already turning in the direction of the rock.

“Wait!”

Luke turns back, an eyebrow raised.

Din pushes himself to close the small distance between them. “Can I kiss you?”

Luke smiles. “Yes.”

Din could count on one hand the number of kisses he’s had, and he’s definitely never been kissed while treading water. Their legs bump against each other and Luke has to steady himself on Din’s shoulders. Both of them taste of lake water and it’s hard to get a grip on Luke’s torso, but when Din lets himself forget about how they’re probably sinking a little, and just enjoy the press of their bodies, the glide of their lips, it’s everything he didn’t know he needed.

[wheresmynaya]

Hate to Date Ch.8 | Brittana

A/N - These next two chapters are probably some of the more difficult ones I've written so far for this story so be gentle LOL. Also, I've noticed readers saying in their reviews lately that these weekly updates are like waiting for a new episode of a fav tv show and I love that. One of the things I miss about Glee or whatever show I’m obsessed with is having something to look forward to each week so I'm really happy this story offers you all that kind of comfort! Hopefully I can keep it up 💙

Before you read on, consider treating your local fav fic writer with a coffee through Ko-Fi!

Available on ff.net (x) ao3 (x) & under the cut!

When Saturday rolls around, Santana putters around the apartment attempting to busy herself with meaningless tasks – anything that’ll keep her from anxiously watching the clock. She lounges in her sweatpants and a tank top all day, switching from vegging out on the couch to catching up on some coursework, but it gets harder for her to resist the urge to check the time the later it gets.

No matter what she does, no matter the many distractions she tries piling on – she can’t help but cave.

She can’t help but think about Brittany.  

When Puck gets home a little later from hanging out with a couple guys from his team, he finds Santana close to falling asleep on the couch. He takes in the lazy clothes she wears, the messy hair, the sea of snacks that surrounds her and lifts a brow.

“What’s this?”

“What’s it look like?” Santana snarks.

“It looks like you’ve just gone through a rough break up.”

Santana shoots him a look, “I’m clearly having a lazy day.”

He glances from her to the tv screen and back to her again, “Is that what you call it?”

“Yeah,” Santana replies and averts her eyes as she tugs on her blanket. “You can either join or scram.”

Puck rolls his eyes and reaches for the remote. When the screen shuts off, Santana lets out a huff but Puck only crosses his arms.

“What the hell?” She snaps. “I was watching that!”

“So?” Puck challenges.

“So turn it back on.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll kick your ass.”

Puck barks out a laugh, “I’d like to see you try. Go ahead.”

Santana doesn’t move, “I don’t have the energy for this.”

“You’re so damn frustrating,” Puck shakes his head.

The comment makes Santana falter a little; it makes her think about Brittany again, it makes her think about how she let her down, it makes her think about how it made her feel to watch the blonde run away.

But Brittany isn’t here, it’s Puck and Santana knows he doesn’t scare off too easily.

“Just leave me alone,” Santana grumbles.

Of course, Puck doesn’t.

“Are you seriously not going tonight?”

Santana clenches her jaw as the anxious feeling returns. It didn’t take much but she’s wavering and she knows it. Puck probably knows it too or else he wouldn’t be here pressing her buttons still.

“I told you I can’t go,” She tells him defiantly. “I’d only ruin her night. She doesn’t need that, no one does. It’s better if I stay here.”

“Bullshit,” Puck disputes. “You don’t know that.”

Santana stays quiet, she can feel her foundation cracking.

“I do know that,” She says. “You saw how pissed she was when she left. I’d just make things worse if I go.”

Puck sighs tiredly, “Why do you always do that?”

“What?”

“That,” Puck tries to explain. “It’s just like high school – you’re taking yourself out of the game before you even play it.”

That strikes a nerve with Santana, “That’s not what happened and you know it. This is so much different.”

“You gave up then,” Puck tells her. “And you’re giving up now. Why? I don’t know. This should be way easier for you. There’s no scholarship on the line or this big scary secret you need to help hide. You’re not even in love with the girl this time but here you are sitting on the damn bench.”

Santana shrinks back. She doesn’t want to talk about the past, she doesn’t want it mixing in with her present so she deflects, “Can you stop with the ridiculous sports metaphors?”

“No. Now get your ass up,” Puck huffs as he pulls off the blanket Santana covers herself with.

“Goddamn it, Puckerman! Cut the shit!”

“You first, Lopez!”

This time, Santana rises to her feet. She faces Puck head on and glares. Her fists are tight and her chest aches with rage and something else, something she’s tried so many times to push away.

“You know what you have to do,” Puck says. “Stop with the excuses and just go do it already. Quit being a little punk about it.”

“I’m not being a punk,” Santana grumbles.

Puck laughs as he waves his hand at her mess, “All this because Britt finally called you out on your shit? Come on, you’re better than that.”

Santana tenses her jaw again but Puck only softens as he puts his heavy hands on her shoulders, going into total pep talk mode. Santana tries to squirm away, but Puck steadies her like always.

No one would ever expect that this guy, the one with a ratty mohawk, could be the voice of reason for Santana but he’s never failed her before. Just like her, he doesn’t back down. He sticks by her even when she’s being a stubborn dumbass and if anyone needs someone in their life like that it’s Santana.

“I know you,” He says solemnly. “Going to this thing tonight is a piece of cake, all you have to do is quit selling yourself short and go.”

Santana’s shoulders drop even further as Puck continues.

“Prove yourself wrong and kill it,” He says. “You owe it to yourself and you owe it to Brittany.”

There’s an uneasiness still but Santana can’t lie and say Puck’s words didn’t ignite something within her. It goes without saying that his words have had an impact. She bats off his hands and glances at the time, frowning when she sees how late it has gotten.

“I don’t think I can make it in time,” Santana says. “I can’t get ready in forty minutes. My hair alone takes at least an hour.”

“Well what’s that saying?” Puck questions. “Better late than never?”

Santana sighs through a small smile, “I mean, I do like to make an entrance.”

Puck smirks, “Then you better get going.”

\\

Santana’s used to walking into parties like she owns the place, but she finds herself struggling as she approaches the entrance of the Brainiacs’ Ball. She stares up at the prominent steps flanked by solid columns and has never felt so small in all her life. She’s way out of her comfort zone, but she takes the first step anyway.

Slowly, she puts one foot in front of the other. She can feel the low thrum of the bass from the music inside before she can actually hear it. At least that’s something she’s a little more familiar with and with that in mind, she continues her journey.

Maybe Puck was right? This is a piece of cake!

When she reaches the top and looks back, she finds Puck still waiting at the bottom of the stairs watching on like a proud soccer mom. He catcalls at her loudly and it causes the last of the guests making their way inside to stare.

Santana scrunches her face and waves him away, not wanting to be embarrassed by how he sticks out like a sore thumb in his ripped jeans and jersey. He gets the message though and gives her one last round of thumbs up before heading off.

Though she tries to play it off like she can’t stand his dorkiness, she’s thankful for that little bit of extra support and finds enough courage to walk into the building with her head held high.

She might not feel like she owns the place right now, but that’ll change by the end of the night!

\\

Santana knew it was a black tie affair, but she really didn’t expect such extravagance.

There’s a great crystal chandelier hanging from above casting iridescent shadows across the lobby, spotless marbled floors speckled with flecks of gold, the ruby red carpet leading the way into the grand hall where guests dressed to kill mingle with champagne flutes in their hands.

All that’s missing are the annoying paparazzi and the blinding flashes from their cameras and she’d feel like she was at some gaudy Hollywood party.

It’s like she just walked into one of the parties Maribel’s firm throws for holidays and she so wasn’t expecting that. Although she’s been to many of those, she still feels a little out of place as she makes her way through the double doors.

“Good evening,” The doorman greets politely before extending a gloved had to the party. “Welcome to the Brainiacs’ Ball.”

Santana smiles in return and heads in. She tries to keep an eye out for Brittany all while trying to wrap her head around the fact that all of this is in celebration of a handful of academic decathlon clubs.

Who the hell knew they got down like this? Even their DJ has great music playing! Santana’s so surprised, almost distractingly so but then she spots a familiar someone in the crowd.

Brittany

There’s a sudden sense of relief but it’s soon replaced with a frown as Santana finds that the girl isn’t alone. She’s with some tall guy; Santana can’t really see that far to tell who it is or if she knows him. All she knows is that Brittany is standing with him and she’s laughing.

He’s making her laugh.

Santana’s frown deepens before she squints her eyes, trying to get a better look at the guy. Like the others here, he’s dressed to the nines in a dashing suit with his black hair slicked back.

Okay, whatever – he can clean up well. Santana can too! But the important question is, what’s he doing with Brittany?

She ducks behind a vase of flowers, peering through the gaps in the leaves so Brittany doesn’t spot her. She only briefly thinks about how ridiculous she must look before other guests unknowingly happen to block her view.

Frustrated, she tries ducking and dodging them but even in her stilettos she’s just too short. She’ll need to get closer if she wants to see what this guy’s deal is, but as she makes her way over she can’t help but think: did Brittany really replace her?

Surely not, that would definitely raise suspicion. She wouldn’t do that.

Would she?

Suddenly, a waiter dressed formally in a suit and tie steps in Santana’s path. There’s a silver tray full of champagne flutes atop his hand and he looks to Santana expectantly.

“Champagne?”

Santana takes one last look at Brittany and that guy and goes for a glass.

“Yeah, sure.” She takes one and downs it in two gulps.

The waiter raises his brows in awe and quickly goes to turn away, but Santana stops him.

“Hold up,” She says and puts down her empty glass in favor of taking two more. She smiles sweetly at him in thanks before getting her game face on. She finds herself thinking about what Puck said before and starts to fill with confidence – no more sitting on the sidelines for her!

Santana saunters over to Brittany with determination in her eyes.

It’s go time.

\\

“There you are!” Santana greets cheerfully as she reaches Brittany with a champagne flute in each hand. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Brittany stops mid-sentence, her face pale as if she’s just seen a ghost.

“You’re here.”

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss it,” Santana replies as she hands her the spare flute before pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. She looks up at pretty blue eyes and adds, “I know how important this night is for you.”

Brittany blinks, it’s like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Santana thinks she’s off to a good start so far – naturally – and sizes up the guy Brittany was talking to before she came over.

“And who are you?” She asks with a slight bite to her tone as she wraps her arm around Brittany’s waist.

He falters as he looks back and forth between her and Brittany, “I’m Mike.”

Santana lifts her brow challengingly, but Brittany steps in to add.

“He’s a friend of mine.”

Santana continues to stare at the guy, “Friend.”

“Yeah,” Brittany glances at her with slight confusion but it quickly disappears as she slips into character too. “I was just telling him you weren’t feeling too good and that you probably wouldn’t make it tonight.”

“Right,” Santana replies. Her smile turns devilish, “Well I appreciate the concern but I’m all better now, Mike.”

He looks a little nervous but nods, “That’s good to hear.”

“Mhmm,” Santana brings her glass to her lips. She maintains eye contact with him while she threads her fingers with Brittany’s and sips her champagne slowly.  

“Well Britt, I’m gonna go,” He says hesitantly to Brittany before jutting a thumb over his shoulder. “I want to make sure we grab a good seat. I’ll see you over at the table.”

“Okay cool,” Brittany smiles. “See you there.”

“It was nice finally meeting you, Santana,” Mike says kindly to the brunette before disappearing into the crowd.

Santana watches him go as she takes another sip. This Mike character really changed up his tune once Santana was around – all nice and polite. He wasn’t fooling her though! Trying to steal her fake girlfriend, not today!

“He’s gone,” Brittany says gruffly. “You can let go of my hand now.”

“Oh sorry,” Santana pulls away and glances in the direction Mike went. “So he’s attractive…what’s he doing at a place like this?”

Brittany doesn’t even smile, “You know not everyone with a brain looks like Steve Urkel.”

Santana doesn’t notice Brittany’s dismissive tone as she looks around. She’s still mind blown by the atmosphere and the people and everything.

“Clearly,” She replies. “I mean, did you see that man’s jawline? I’m a lesbian, but I can still admire a good looking – “

“What are you doing here, Santana?”

Brittany’s curt tone pulls Santana right back to the other day where they sat together at her tiny dining table and she watched as Brittany grew more and more disappointed in her. There’s a hardness to her, an annoyance, that doesn’t go unnoticed. It makes Santana shrink back, that confidence before taking a big hit, but she stands her ground – even if Brittany makes her feel shaken.

“I’m here to be your arm candy,” Santana says in return – attempting to make this exchange lighthearted.

Brittany’s not having it though as she says bitterly, “I don’t need it.”

“Sure you do.”

“No,” Brittany admonishes. “I don’t so you can leave now.”

Santana slips up out of frustration, “Are you really going to make this difficult for me?”

That sets Brittany off once again, the bitterness intensifying.

“Seriously? You did not just ask me that. After everything you said the other night, after the way you just put your foot down and refused to budge? You want to talk to me about being difficult?” Brittany lets out a dry laugh, “You’ve got some nerve.”

Santana cringes as she takes a subtle look around to make sure no one notices them arguing, but no one pays them any mind. It’s a relief, but it doesn’t offer Santana much comfort with the way Brittany’s still glaring at her.

She was a little prepared for the backlash, she just wasn’t sure how bad Brittany’s words would sting. She isn’t used to the harshness in Brittany’s tone and she kind of hates that she’s the reason for it.

Still, she pushes forward. She’s determined to fix this, no matter how hard Brittany fights her.

“Okay,” Santana’s voice is meek. “So that was a poor choice of words... ”

“You think?” Brittany replies, her tone thick with sarcasm.

Santana’s instincts have her wanting to retreat. She has clearly messed up big time and everything in her is telling her to just listen to Brittany and leave – yet her feet don’t move.

Maybe she’s hardheaded, maybe she’s too damn stubborn for her own good; whatever it is, she continues to stand her ground.

“I’m here now,” Santana says earnestly. “That has to count for something?”

Brittany shakes her head, “It doesn’t.”

Santana lets out a laugh out of aggravation. Who knew the girl could be just as stubborn as her? Talk about grudges, no wonder no one ever gets on Brittany’s bad side! It’s damn near impossible to get off of it! But Santana’s made proving she can be there for Brittany her new mission so she’s not going anywhere just yet.

“What do you want me to do?” Santana asks dejectedly. “Get on my hands and knees? Beg for your forgiveness?”

“Save your breath,” Brittany replies briskly as she sets down her glass. “I don’t want to be here with someone that would rather be elsewhere and I’m tired of trying to force you to care.”

That one surprisingly hurts a little more than Santana expected, but it doesn’t top the feeling that quickly follows as she watches Brittany begin to turn her back on her.

“Brittany,” Santana finds herself calling out. When the blonde doesn’t stop, Santana calls out to her again. “Britt – “

“No,” Brittany pauses as she looks over her shoulder at Santana. “You were right. You’d just ruin my night. Go home, Santana.”

It’s another blow to the chest as the blonde turns to walk away again. Only this time, Santana kicks into gear. She’s got something to prove and she’s not leaving until she does! She quickly sets down her glass too and reaches out, catching Brittany by the wrist before she gets too far.

“Can you just wait?” Santana pleads.

“What?” Brittany snaps back.

Santana softens as she tucks her tail between her legs, “I’m sorry.”

Brittany looks a little taken aback by the relaxing of her tensed jaw, but it only last for a moment as she looks down at Santana’s hand still around her wrist.

“Okay, great,” Brittany says sarcastically. “Now let me go.”

Brittany doesn’t wait for Santana to loosen her grip and instead shakes Santana off of her. The brunette doesn’t try reaching for her again, but she does take a step closer.

“Hold on,” Santana urges again. “I’m not finished.”

Brittany pauses, taking a wary look back her. Santana can see that she’s wearing her down, but who knows how long it’ll last. There’s no reason for Brittany to give her another chance after having so many, so she has to make this count.

“I thought about what you said,” Santana tells her. “Like I really, really thought about it and I think you might be right.”

Brittany remains looking indifferent and that makes Santana nervous, but she continues on.

“You’re right about this being one sided. You’re right about you putting in most of the work and doing things that benefit me,” Santana says. “You’re right about it all – minus one thing.”

Brittany quirks her brow, “What’s that?”

“I’m not selfish.”

“No?” Brittany scoffs. “Then you must not know the meaning of the word because your past actions would say otherwise.”

Santana sighs, “Yeah, I know but I guess that’s why I’m here…to prove that you’re wrong.”

Brittany softens in the slightest as she listens.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Santana explains. “You always go above and beyond. I mean, you climbed through a window for me and you’re learning Spanish to get on Abuela’s good side! Like what the hell? Who does that?” Santana pauses when she realizes she’s veering from her point.

“I know I’m still not on your level when it comes to doing the most,” She continues. “But I figured it’s only fair that I do something that I normally wouldn’t just to show you that all you do isn’t for nothing. By coming here tonight, I’m trying to return the favor. This is my metaphorical window and I want to climb through it for you.”

Santana pauses when she realizes how lame she sounds, but maybe this huge fuck up calls for a little lameness. Maybe a lot; whatever works at this point!

Brittany watches Santana for a moment as if she’s trying to decide whether or not Santana’s words have any weight to them. It isn’t the first time she’s said she’d do better, so it’s no surprise Brittany isn’t as quick to accept her apology.

“I don’t really know if I believe you,” She finally says. Her tone has lost most of its bite but Santana knows she’s not in the clear just yet.

“That’s fine,” Santana replies. She stands a little taller, puffs out her chest and says, “I’ll just have to spend all night trying to convince you. You want a perfect fake girlfriend? Well Britt-Britt, you’ve got one.”

There’s the slightest hint of a smile that graces Brittany’s lips and it makes the dimming beacon of hope in Santana begin to shine a little brighter.

“That is,” Santana adds. “If you want me to. I know this night is important for you. I can go if that’s what you really want.”

She bats her eyelashes for the extra touch – because if after all of that Brittany still makes her leave…well that would just be embarrassing. Surprisingly though, it makes Brittany’s smile grow. Santana can tell she’s fighting to keep it small, fighting to keep from giving in, and she takes that as a personal victory.

“You can stay,” Brittany says after making Santana wait a little longer.

Santana beams, “Okay gre – ”

“For now.”

“Okay,” Santana’s grin softens. “I can handle that.”

“I don’t want to fight with you here,” Brittany tells her firmly. “I only want to have a good time and if you try to mess that up then you’re out of here.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Santana replies.

Brittany holds out her pinky, “Promise?”

Santana eyes her skeptically, “Are you trying to make me pinky promise? What are we twelve?”

“It’s a yes or no question,” Brittany replies flatly – still holding out her pinky.

“Promise,” Santana sighs and curls her pinky around Brittany’s.

Satisfied, Brittany nods and pulls away. While Santana chuckles, she looks over to the direction Mike left.

“So I guess you can go ahead and tell Hot Stuff over there that he doesn’t need to be coming around here anymore too.”

That pulls a genuine laugh out of Brittany who can’t help but smirk at Santana’s comment.

“Shocking; you’re the jealous type.”

Santana lifts her brow, “I’m not. I’m just saying – his assistance as interim date is no longer required if I’m here.”

“I said you can stay for now. I can change my mind at any time.”

Santana’s shoulders droop as she’s once again put back in her place. Brittany notices and smirks.

“He has a date already,” Brittany continues. “His girlfriend. You know her. Tina?”

Santana’s jaw drops a little, “No shit, really?”

“Yeah, they’ve been together for awhile now.”

“Wow, I had no idea. Well good,” Santana lifts her chin. “He can carry his fine ass on over to her and stay there then.”

“You’re really hung up on how people can be both smart and hot,” Brittany points out with a laugh. “Like you and I aren’t also examples of that being a thing.”

“Hold up,” Santana starts to smirk. “Did you just say I’m hot?”

Brittany rolls her eyes, “I mean, you do look nice.”

Santana frowns, “Just nice?”

Brittany eyes her up and down slowly before shrugging, “Yeah, nice. I’m actually surprised you didn’t wear one of your stripper dresses. Guess you won’t be making it rain tonight.”

Santana lets out a laugh. She’s glad Brittany��s back to bantering with her instead of the heavy intensity from before. Maybe they’re not completely back on good terms, but at least it’s better than what it was.

“We’ll see. Those moves are for later,” Santana winks jokingly before giving her compliments. “You clean up pretty good too. I like what you’ve done with your hair. It’s cute.”

Brittany gets a little bashful as she fluffs her softly tussled hair, “Thanks.”

Santana only nods, “Now where’s this elusive open bar I’ve heard so much about? I needs me something other than champagne.”

“Ah, so that’s the real reason you’re here,” Brittany quips.

Santana feels like Brittany’s testing her although her tone remains playful.

“Yeah, but I’m mostly here for you,” Santana replies super sweetly. “I mean, how can I say no to an open bar? I am a broke college student after all.”

Brittany chuckles, “I see your priorities are straight.”

“It’s the only straight thing about me,” Santana jokes before hooking her arm with Brittany’s.

\\

After getting their drinks, the couple roam around the room arm in arm. It’s mostly to keep up appearances; a way to make up for Santana arriving late and to show that Brittany really isn’t here all alone.

She’s surprised by how many come up to greet them – well, greet Brittany. Santana guesses the blonde really is a big deal here after all and everyone happily chats away with her. Who can blame them though? Brittany’s probably the friendliest person Santana knows.

They bump into Mike and Tina again near the giant owl ice sculpture while they make their rounds – because yeah, of course this party has one of those – but the conversation is kept brief with Tina trying to get in as many interviews with everyone before dinner.

Mike tags along after her with a proud smile on his face as he offers to hold her drink and for a second Santana kind of feels a little guilty about having her claws out when they first met. He seems kind, happy to be alongside Tina and Santana finds herself wondering if people get that vibe when she’s with Brittany.

While Santana and Brittany linger by the ice sculpture, Santana notices a small group of people that look a lot like the guys from Brittany’s team. At least the one in the center of it all is for sure. They stick out to her because they’re probably some of the lasts who haven’t come to greet Brittany which seems odd considering she’s their teammate.

Wouldn’t they have been the first to see her? Maybe Santana missed that part since she arrived late, then again judging by how they seemed to shun her at the match they probably haven’t come to say hi on purpose.

Santana quietly watches them though as Brittany chats with another guest about robotics or whatever nerdy talk that goes completely over Santana’s head. She notices how they all gravitate to the one guy in the center and it’s like they hang on his every word. They laugh when he does, they nod when he nods – they’re puppets and he’s the puppet master.

Santana doesn’t realize she’s pulling a face until Brittany bumps her with her elbow.

“Quit it,” Brittany chastises. “People can see you.”

“My bad,” Santana fixes her face and gestures over to the group. “He’s on your team, right? The one in the dusty grandpa sweater.”

Brittany glances in the direction and nods.

Santana wrinkles her nose, “He seems like a tool.”

“He’s not,” Brittany’s quick to defend before softening. “Not really.”

Santana doesn’t looked convinced so Brittany adds.

“He’s a pretty big deal to this community. People say he has one of the most gifted minds in our generation.”

Santana picks up on Brittany’s tone, but she can’t tell whether it’s envy or something entirely different. She knows one thing is for sure though.

“People say that about you too,” Santana tells her honestly. “The whole gifted mind thing.”

Brittany shakes her head and looks to the ground, “No they don’t.”

Her dismissiveness confuses Santana. She’s never not seen Brittany confident in how intelligent she actually is. If there’s one thing Santana knows the blonde is sure about, it’s her smarts. They argue about it all the time! That’s the very foundation of their rivalry, but apparently here that’s not the case.

“Word about his work has travelled all the way to MIT,” Brittany adds. “It’s so impressive.”

“And yet, he never went there. You did,” Santana reminds her as she continues to stare down the guy. She glances to Brittany again skeptically, “Or is he a transfer too?”

“He’s not. But I’m sure he would’ve gotten in easy. His work is…it’s legendary.”

Santana watches Brittany, trying to figure her out. It sounds a lot like admiration rather than envy, but why? How great can this guy possibly be if he has Brittany doubting herself?

“I didn’t know you were such a fan,” Santana comments.

“I just admire him is all,” Brittany says, confirming Santana’s thoughts.

Santana still doesn’t get it though and frowns around the word, “Admire…”

The both of them watch the man chat with the others silently for two very different reasons. The longer Santana stares, the more she kind of wants to punch him. He just has a very punchable face she supposes, especially when he laughs louder than anyone else in the room.

The sound makes Santana grit her teeth while it has the opposite effect on Brittany.

“He’s kind of cute too,” The blonde admits.

“Cute?” Santana raises both brows and laughs. “We looking at the same guy?”

Brittany shrugs, “He’s cute in that boy next door kind of way.”

“Seriously?” Santana snickers. “That Mike guy was kind of cute. Him? He ain’t it.”

Brittany suddenly hardens, “Well it doesn’t matter what you think. Does it?”

Santana’s taken aback.

“It’s not always about looks,” Brittany further chastises. “There’s more to people than that.”

Santana keeps quiet and nods, not wanting to piss Brittany off again. Afterall, her presence is completely dependent on whether or not Brittany wants her around. She can revoke the privilege at any second and Santana would hate to be kicked to the curb because she once again can’t keep her opinions to herself.

“What’d you say his name was again?” She asks a moment later.

“Artie.”

Suddenly something clicks. She remembers the conversation she had with Brittany’s parents at Brittany’s last match and the comment about someone named Artie.

“So that’s who your parents were talking about,” Santana hums.

“Wait what?” Brittany whirls on her. “I’ve mentioned him like twice. What’d they say?”

Santana shrugs, “They said dating me is an upgrade.”

Brittany gives her a look and slumps, “They didn’t say that.”

“No, but it’s true.”

“They clearly don’t know you well enough.”

Santana cringes, “Hey, I’m trying. At least I’m not a tool like that guy.”

“Debatable.”

“Rude.”

They settle into silence again. Santana goes from scanning the crowd to glancing Brittany’s way. She notices how the blonde continues to gravitate towards Artie too, just like one of his puppets. Santana finds it so odd and the curiosity begins to get the better of her.

“So what’s your deal with him?” She asks. “He an ex I need to worry about?”

“No. It’s nothing like that,” Brittany replies.

Santana doesn’t believe that for a second though.

“I sense a story.”

“There isn’t one,” Brittany says with a shrug. “We were friends and now, I don’t know what we are. Things got weird after I was asked to join the robotics team and he wasn’t. We used to study all the time together, but after that happened he kind of kept me at a distance.”

Santana struggles to mask the disdain she has for this guy. He really is a tool if that’s how he acts. But she fights the urge to speak on it, sensing Brittany still has some kind of connection with him.

“Do you like him or something?” Santana wonders.

Brittany shrugs again, “It’s complicated. We’ve got history I guess.”

Santana nods; she can oddly relate to that.

“You know, he was the first friend I made here?” Brittany smiles at the memory. “I was so freaking nervous – you know, new campus and all. I spent extra time trying to get my bearings the day before but I still ended up getting lost on my first day. Artie was the one who took the time to show me around.”

Santana quirks a brow at that, but notices Brittany’s melancholy even more.

“Don’t tell Tina that,” Santana tries to joke. “We’ll have some conflicting stories.”

When Brittany barely gives her a smile, Santana tries again.

“I thought Puck was the one who showed you around?” Santana asks. “That’s how you guys became friends?”

“He was, but Artie was the first.”

“Huh,” Santana glances at the guy and laughs. “He must not have done a very good job then if you still ended up getting lost.”

This time there’s a small that graces Brittany’s lips, but it’s not nearly as big and bright as Santana’s used to. She’ll just have to try harder.

“He also introduced me to the Brainiacs,” Brittany tells her. “It was pretty cool of him. When I was at MIT, it was hard to get into any clubs. Everyone was kind of cliquey, so it was nice to see that things were different here. Everyone on the team was super accepting at first.”

“At first?” Santana questions.

“Yeah,” Brittany starts to frown. “When I first joined, the team was mostly girls and they were really great – super smart and so lovely – but they graduated last year. Now the dynamic’s changed a lot because of all the new people who seem to worship Artie. That’s probably part of the reason for his ego boost.”

Santana turns up her nose at that, but Brittany’s quick to return to the positives.

“But when it’s just us, he’s not so bad. He really looked out for me when I first came to Columbia. He introduced me to the Brainiacs and recommended me for the tutoring gig,” Brittany tells her. “We used to work together all the time until I got into this fake relationship with you.”

“Sorry not sorry,” Santana quips, but Brittany doesn’t really laugh at that. So Santana softens, a little intrigued by Brittany’s past, “So after all that time spent together, nothing ever happened between you two?”

“No,” Brittany replies. “I don’t think it ever would anyway.”

“Because you’re taken or…”

Brittany sighs at the joke, “Like I said, things got weird after I joined the robotics team. It was like the first time I did something for myself without his help or recommendation and I guess it rubbed him the wrong way?”

“You’re friends, aren’t you?” Santana questions. “Why would he feel some type of way about you branching out?”

“I don’t know,” Brittany shrugs. “Maybe I’m looking too much into things? Maybe he really doesn’t feel the same way about me.”

Santana shakes her head and stares at Artie again, “Well it looks like on top of being a tool, he’s an idiot too.”

Then almost as if he was summoned, Artie looks their way.

Santana finds herself straightening up, trying to stand taller, trying to seem more intimidating, but it doesn’t look like it deters the guy as he begins his journey over.

\\

“Brittany,” Artie greets with a nod. “Hi.”

Brittany smiles, “Hey Artie.”

He then looks to Santana and gives her a curious look full of judgement. It has Santana clenching her teeth, trying her hardest to maintain character when all she wants to do is roll the guy into the giant owl ice sculpture.

“Who’s this?” He asks Brittany as if Santana can’t hear.

Santana breaks slightly and scoffs, “You know how I am.”

Artie raises his brow and looks expectantly to Brittany.

“This is my girlfriend, Santana,” Brittany introduces. “I’ve mentioned her to you before.”

“Right,” Artie looks to Santana again. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

Santana stares back challengingly, “I bet your hear that a lot.”

Artie sits back in his chair with this smug look on his face, “Funny. She’s funny.”

“It’s one of my many top notch qualities,” Santana fires back before looking to Brittany. Her arm goes around her waist, “Ain’t that right, babe?”

It takes a moment for Brittany to play along, but then she’s smiling and melting into Santana’s side, “Yeah. Totally.”

Artie only eyes the two though, out of suspicion or jealousy – Santana’s unsure. She’s hoping for the latter, because it seems like no one’s ever put him in his place before. Santana’s just the girl for the job!

“So do you think the team is going to get the top spot, Artie?” Brittany asks, trying to keep things light. “It was a lot of close matches this year, I hope our percentage is enough to pull us through.”

Artie shakes his head, almost like he’s disappointed. “I don’t know. Several of those matches shouldn’t have been that close. You really should’ve spent more time studying.”

Santana’s brows rise, but she remains quiet – looking to Brittany to see her reaction. To her surprise, the blonde looks just as remorseful.

“Yeah, you’re right. I think I was having an off day.”

“I think you had a lot of those,” Artie quips. “Too busy with the robotics team maybe?”

Santana scoffs, “Is he joking?”

But Brittany doesn’t say anything so Santana keeps quiet too.

“Some competitors take a little while to warm up,” Artie continues. “You just aren’t a seasoned contender like I am. You know I hold the record for fastest buzz in during my rookie season?”

“I know.”

“No one’s come close to beating it,” Artie flaunts. “We might’ve made state if you didn’t botch the science round during the last match. Maybe I should’ve taken the turn instead.”

Brittany nods and Santana can tell she’s trying to take his criticism constructively – only problem is that it’s not constructive at all. It’s completely condescending and uncalled for.

“Hold up, no,” Santana finds herself interrupting which seems to surprise the pair. “Brittany killed it during the finals or whatever you call it. She was buzzing in when no one else on your little team was. Not even you knew those answers, so what I think you need to be doing is thanking her.”

“For what?” Artie challenges.

“For carrying the team obviously. No way you would’ve gotten far if it wasn’t for her.”

Brittany looks a little shocked by the way Santana stands up for her, but Santana barely notices – too busy willing Artie to step out of line again.

And he does, with an arrogant laugh, he brushes Santana off.

“But the time it took her to buzz in is what we lose points for,” Artie explains. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand how academic decathlons work. They’re not like your cheerleading competitions, we actually have to use our brains.”

“Artie,” Brittany chastises but he’s unfazed.

Meanwhile Santana’s eyes are wide with surprise. The nerve, the audacity – it’s unbelievable!

“I’m sorry,” Santana starts to lean forward, getting down on his level. “Are you jealous that you can’t possibly possess both brains and brawn?”

Artie shifts in his chair and tries to evade Santana’s eye, but she’s so close now that he can’t avoid her.

“Or do you feel threatened by it?” Santana presses. “Threatened because this cheerleader’s GPA is something you’ve only dreamt of having and I didn’t have to waste away in a musty old library to get it? Tell me, Wheels, who was it again that was on track to be valedictorian until Brittany came along because I don’t remember seeing your name anywhere on the list.”

Artie’s face goes a little red that time; out of embarrassment or anger, Santana doesn’t care. All she cares about is making sure that he knows he isn’t shit and there’s no way he’ll talk to Brittany like that while she’s around.

There’s only one person in the world that can pick on Brittany and that’s her.

“The keyword is was,” He retorts.

“The keyword is you’re a prick,” Santana bites back just as fiercely.

“Okay,” Brittany cuts in. She gives Santana a little tug until she can curl an arm around her waist, “I think that’s enough of that.”

Artie continues to look shaken, but he does his best to mask it. Trying to be as macho as he can while in that turtleneck sweater he must’ve stolen from his grandfather’s closet. Safe to say it doesn’t fool Santana one bit.

“Well, I can see why you like her, Britt,” Artie comments with a glance in Santana’s direction. “She’s fiery.”

“She’s also this close to going all Lima He– “

“Santana,” Brittany scolds again.

There’s a pleading look in her eye that has Santana softening. She remembers what Brittany said earlier about tonight being fun and not wanting to fight, so Santana let’s Brittany pull her back. She settles, but it feels like it’s only the calm before the storm.

Artie notices too and puts on a smug grin, “Come to think of it, I have heard your name floating around on campus. Santana Lopez; the girl can’t be tied down to save her life.”

“Well Brittany’s changed that,” Santana quips. “Hasn’t she?”

“Hmm,” Artie nods but the stare he gives her is almost analytical. “It’s not really a pairing I would’ve pictured considering your history.” He then looks to Brittany and frowns, “I’m pretty sure you once told me that she couldn’t possibly have any redeeming qualities.”

Santana tries looking unfazed, but she can’t lie and say that comment didn’t sting. One look at Brittany and she can sense the guilt, but she keeps it hidden from Artie. Santana can’t hold it against Brittany though if she did say something like that about her, there’s been many times she’s complained about the blonde to Puck too.

But that was before they got to know each other, that was before they had to work together to emulate this perfect couple.

“Looks like I was wrong about that,” Brittany replies behind a smile that’s directed at Santana. She squeezes a little at the brunette’s waist, “Who would’ve known, opposites really do attract?”

Santana chuckles, remembering saying something similar during a conversation with Tina months ago.

“It sure took me by surprise,” Santana adds before glancing to Artie. “Guess I have some pretty redeeming qualities after all.”

Artie hums again with this contemplative look on his face, but he doesn’t rock the boat any further. He just nods and says, “Well this was fun. I guess I’ll leave you two to enjoy the Ball.”

Santana sneers at him while Brittany bids him goodbye.

“Oh. By the way Britt,” Artie pauses and glances back. “You look really great.”

Santana raises a brow at the compliment.

She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but there’s the slightest little smirk on his dumb face as he says it and it has Santana feeling hot. Even if Brittany isn’t her actual girlfriend, what the hell? Who compliments another person’s date right in front of them? It seems as though Artie knows exactly what he’s doing, but given her promise to Brittany she’ll bite her tongue – for now.

While Brittany ducks her head in thanks, Santana stays quiet – waiting until Artie is out of sight before she can finally let down her guard and say what’s really on her mind.  

[djarinvibe]

Shooting Stars (Din Djarin x F!Reader) Pt. 2

A/N: I apologize this is took so long to get out. Life is mad against me right now and I’m just trying to stay afloat- anyways heres wonderwall...

Warnings: MODERN!AU, mentions of child abuse but not detailed

Words: 3.1K

Summary: Din comes over to help with a project, bringing along someone you didn’t expect.

Master List

October

“I’m sure you're aware as to why I called you into my office…?” Dean Karga’s voice echoed throughout his boring, run-of-the-mill office. You furrowed your brows and shook your head, watching the man in confusion. He sat leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, mindlessly twirling a pen between his fingers and looking up at you expectantly. 

“I am not,” You answered with a chuckle, sitting in one of his guest chairs. The man had summoned you without warning; you had just dismissed your last class of the day when the announcement happened. 

“The Halloween Formal…?” The man trailed off in question again. His expression was excited, as he shrugged out his arms with glee, however you still couldn't get a read as to whatever the hell he was getting on about. The Halloween Formal is a dance the school puts on every year; usually organized by a sorority of students and the secretaries working together.

“What about it?” You shook your head in confusion, studying the man's face for any answers. He took his feet off the desk, leaning towards you in his chair with a growing smile. 

“I want you to put together the Formal this year.” Karga grinned, arms stretched out in exclamation. You grimaced at the offer, quickly shaking your head. 

“Me? What happened to the sorority girls and the secretaries?” You questioned, “Like, a whole team of people?” 

“Right,” The Dean sighed, dropping his arms to his lap, “The sorority decided they didn't want to do it this year, and the secretaries agreed... However, Omera suggested you.” 

“Or, maybe you could hire an outside source?” You suggested, prompting the man to give you a pursed-lip glare. Also, why would Omera call you out like that? You’ll have to speak to her later.

“It’s not in the budget.” He coyly responded, triggering your eyes to roll. “Look, I’ll give you an extra week of vacation as compensation? I just need someone to plan this damned thing.” 

You paused before speaking, casting your arms up in defeat, “Alright, fine. Can I at least recruit some people to help?” 

“Yes- But don't tell them about the vacation days…” The Dean quickly spoke, giving you a look. You sighed with a nod, prompting the man to chuckle with glee and clap his hands together; probably ecstatic he didn't have to plan the Formal himself. 

--

The afternoon sun blared into the windows, casting a golden glow across your emptied classroom. A groan passed through your lips as your eyes scanned the list of essential items for the Formal. Your feet anxiously tapped the ground below your desk as you chewed your cheek.

It’s been one week since the Dean gave you the task of planning the Halloween Formal, and honestly, you've got nothing done; your helper hasn't exactly been much help. Omera, who you recruited out of spite, hasn't done her tasks yet leaving you a week behind from where you should be. You would ask Din for help, but it’s his first year here and you honestly don't want to scare him off with such a tedious job. 

Ever since his personal introduction in your classroom just a month a few weeks ago, your friendship has blossomed. Never have you gotten along with a new teacher so fast, but you love it. However, you've noticed that he isn't as social with the other teachers. He mostly tends to just hang by himself unless people engage him. It makes you curious as to why he was so eager to introduce himself to you.  

A quiet, repeated knock echoed throughout the room, startling you. Chuckling to dismiss your scare, you called for whomever to enter the space. 

“Hey,” Din’s low, gravely voice caught your attention, and you looked up to greet the man. He had just closed the door behind him, beginning to pad over to your desk. 

“Hi,” You smiled at the man, biting your lip shortly after. He donned his signature gray suit, with dark brown shoes to match. His hair was loose and curly, splaying across his forehead and curling around his ears. You noted his stubble had grown in a bit, appearing more dark against his tan skin. 

The two of you haven’t spoken in person for a couple days, as he had gone out of town. He never told you why, and you didn't want to pry either; Though you were very curious. You know that he has an adopted three year old son, and couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with him. 

Din mentioned his son to you a few weeks back. The two of you had somehow managed to find yourselves alone in the teachers lounge. You told him your life story, while he remained relatively quiet; but you managed to find out some things about him.  

“How have you been?” He questioned, mindlessly grabbing a spare chair from a stack in the corner of the room, which you keep for meetings, and placed it down in front of your desk.

“The usual,” You chuckled lightly, shrugging afterwards. “How were your days off?” You added, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your desk.

“Oh, I just took my son out of town for a couple days.” Din shrugged off your intrigue, clearly not interested in sharing more details. 

“I'm jealous, getting out of town sounds like a dream right now.” You sensed the man's hesitation for detail, and began to shift the topic to the Halloween Formal. Grabbing the paper from earlier, you groaned looking at the list.

“The Dean told me about that,” Din chuckled, reaching down and grabbing the to-do list from your grasp. His eyes scanned the paper before he shook his head, handing it back.

“It’s in less than three weeks and I’ve got nothing done.” You groaned, resting your head into your hands. “And my helper, Omera, has been… well, unhelpful.”

You could hear the man across from you release a humor filled snort before he spoke, “I’ll help you.” 

Your head raised at his statement, looking at him with hope. “You will?”

“Yeah, you seem like you could use it.” He smirked in return, watching as your whole demeanor changed.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” A sincere grin crossed your cheeks at the statement. 

--

Streaming sunlight illuminated the small living room of your house as you sat on the couch, fingers flipping through papers for the Formal. The TV hung above the fireplace quietly played some show to fill the silence, one you haven’t bothered to pay attention to. The repeating ‘Tik’ of the clock felt like it was pounding at the same beat as your heart.

An anxious sigh passed your lips as you jotted down a note to call some company about DJ-ing the Formal. You are honestly just trying to distract yourself from the nerves in your belly. Friday afternoon, before you left work, Din had suggested he come over to help with planning the Formal on Saturday, which you accepted. You know you should invite Omera over too, as she is the one who got you into this, but you really just want to spend time alone with Din; outside of school.

In all truth, the two of you haven't been alone together save for that rare moment in the teachers lounge, and the small talk you exchange in your classrooms. But you want to get to know him better. The man is mysterious, and rarely speaks unless spoken to. You notice that he hardly interacts with your colleagues, mostly just you or the Dean. It drives your curiosity, how secluded the new teacher is. 

A knock at your front door caught your attention, making your stomach drop. Swallowing, you set the papers onto the coffee table and stood up, padding over to the entryway. Pulling open the heavy slab of wood, Din’s handsome face came into view as he stood on your porch. However what you weren't expecting was his three year old son to be in his grasp. The child was asleep, his small face tucked into Din’s neck. 

“Hi,” You whispered breathlessly, stepping aside to let him in. He gave you a half grin and a nod as he tread inside, setting his satchel onto the couch.

“Sorry to bring him, my sitter dropped.” Din’s voice softened when he spoke about his son, “Is there somewhere he can sleep?” 

“Oh, of course, there's a guest bedroom down the hall and to the left.” You whispered, pointing to the area. Your colleague thanked you silently before disappearing into the bedroom.

You took the moment to compose yourself, puttering around the living room. You spent the entire morning cleaning, but still couldn’t help yourself from straightening a few items while waiting for his return. When his footsteps finally echoed back down the hall, you settled.

“Sorry, again.” He apologized quietly, grabbing his satchel from it’s spot on the couch and sitting down. 

“Please, don’t apologize, he’s allowed to be here,” You chuckled, dismissing his apology with a wave of your hand. The man thanked you with a soft nod, opening up the bag in his lap and pulling out a small binder.  

Din quickly jumped into work mode, focusing on the project at hand. The conversation died, both of you choosing to stay in silence as you worked on planning. Though you felt more inclined to remain silent due to his silence. The butterflies still haven't left your stomach, every time he would shuffle or clear his throat, they regained activity.

It felt silly to be so flustered over a man you’ve barely met and is also a colleague. There have been moments where your breath has literally caught in your throat at his sight. Someone even caught you doing it last week. You were walking by his classroom during your free period and couldn’t stop yourself from halting in front of his door and watching him teach through the small door window. It wasn’t until a student noticed you watching did you scurry along, heat radiating from your cheeks. 

Omera was aware of your crush, having spoken to you about him multiple times since the morning he started. Whenever she sees the man around school, she finds the time to gossip about it later.

It’s endearing that she’s invested, but sometimes you avoided her around campus for that very reason. You love the woman, but recently she’s been driving you crazy. Hence, why you didn't invite her over; besides your want to spend an afternoon alone with Din.

-

“Did you call the DJ yet?” Din’s low voice caused you to jump slightly, interrupting the silence that shrouded your living room. The two of you had remained quiet for about half an hour now, merely making small talk about the Formal here and there. 

It’s frustrating however; you want to get to know more about him, like, for example, where did he move from? And what did he do before teaching? Also, you had questions about his son, like his name, and if there is a mother figure in the picture? Yet, you can't seem to get the questions to form. 

“No, not yet.” You answered with a slight chuckle, dismissing the scare. You could feel his eyes studying the side of your face, only making the heat return to your cheeks.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” You then asked, setting aside the papers in your hand and standing up from the couch. Din shook his head, and you gave him a curt nod before stepping into the kitchen, out of his eyesight. Taking a deep breath to release the tension in your shoulders, you grabbed a glass from the cupboard before filling it with water. However, just as you were about to take a sip, you felt a slight tug on the bottom of your pants. Looking down, you met the sight of Din’s son. 

He is adorable, to say the least. He wore a little green, knitted beanie with bunny-like ears sticking out side to side, and was dressed in a tan jacket that was long enough to cover his body down to his feet. He looked up at you with dark brown eyes filled with tears, his bottom lip trembled as he was on the verge of crying.

Without a second thought, you set down the glass of water and picked the boy up into your grasp. He immediately tucked his face into your neck, little sniffles sounding from his throat. Rubbing his back, you made your way back to the living room. 

“Uh, Din?” You questioned, causing the man to turn around. His eyes widened for a second when he realized his son was in your arms, before jumping up and making his way over.

“What’re you doing up?” Din questioned, peeling the boy from your chest and settling him in his arms. The small child only sniffled instead of answering, pulling at your heart. The man didn't say a word, only holding his son tighter while tucking his head against his chest. He mouthed a silent ‘Sorry’ before turning on his heel and sitting on the couch. 

Following timidly, you bit your lip unsure what to do. Truth be told, you don't have much experience with young kids. Young teens and up? No problem. Elementary age and down? Well… you teach college for a reason. Growing up, you didn't have any cousins who were around. Your family lived across the country from your aunts and uncles; and to make it worse, you are an only child. Needless to say, you're not much help in the babysitting department. 

“Um, is there anything I can do?” You questioned, watching the man stroke his child's back soothingly. A pang formed in your belly as you thought about him doing that same thing with you, but instead cuddled in bed talking about your day.

“No. Thank you, though.” Din murmured, his dark eyes greeting your own for a moment. You nodded, joining him once again on the couch. Focusing back on your work, you figured that was easier than fawning over the man soothing his child. Even though you struggle with children, it’s hard to not be attracted to a man taking care of one. 

A quiet hum sounded from the man adjacent you, filling the silence of the room. Swallowing dryly, you tried your best to look at the paper in your hand, however his voice was too distracting. It sounded like a melody, one a parent would sing to soothe their distraught child. His low alto added warmth to the tune, and your chest. 

“I’m going to get a drink.” You quickly cleared your throat, standing up from the couch. You heard the man mumble something, but didn’t quiet catch what it was as you made your way to the separate space. Approaching the cupboard, you grabbed a glass before hastily filling it with water and taking a sip. 

Taking a deep breath, your eyes turned to look at the back of Din’s head. Butterflies stormed your stomach at the sight of his son’s head tucked into his neck; the boy’s green beanie acting as a pillow. The faint sound of his humming could still be heard from the kitchen, but it wasn’t as overwhelming from a distance. 

You finish the full glass before returning to the living room, deciding it was best to let Din get his son back to sleep; and to slow your beating heart. You don’t realize how much time had passed, but you notice that Din has stopped humming, Instead replaced by little snores coming from the child snoozing in his lap. 

“I’m sorry about the kid.” The man whispered once you sat down.

“I already told you it’s okay,” You cleared your throat, looking back towards him. He remained silent, his eyes cast down towards the child.

“I’m still new to all of this.” The man chuckled, but you could still read the uncertainty in his voice. He is a new father, which is scary by itself, but he’s doing it all alone. 

“Can I ask… What made you decide to adopt?” You formed the question carefully, unsure of how to articulate without your curiosity sounding like a jackass.

The man was quiet for moment before he finally spoke, “It kind of just happened.” He began, “Before working at the university, I was a bounty hunter. I mostly brought in criminals who had debts, traveling around the country in an old RV. Then, I got an odd job. I was tasked with finding a child and returning him to the client…” Din trailed off afterwards, his hand protectively settling on his son’s back. “They were going to kill him... I couldn’t allow it.”

“Oh,” You murmured, studying the side of the mans face as he stared down at the boy. It’d harded over the course of the story, voiding all emotion, the happening clearly still weighing heavy on his heart. 

“He’s gone mute from the torture they put him through.” Din added, his gaze greeting yours once again. A stale sheen of tears stained the bottom of his eyes, but he was quick to blink them away once you noticed. Your chest clenched at his words, sorrow filling your throat as you looked at the sleeping child. Three years old... and to have faced such horrors… 

“I fled with the kid after that. We’ve hidden a few places, but we ended up here back in August.” Din paused, catching your attention once again. “Greef hired me as the Astronomy teacher, aware of my situation. He’s an old friend.” His eyes held a shimmer of hope, though it was dim. Him entrusting you with this information felt exhilarating, but to hear of such things existing in the world seemed unbelievable. And who would have to heart to harm a child? No matter, you felt the need to aid him and protect his son.

“Din, I-” You paused to swallow, his soft, brown eyes peering into your own, “You can trust me.” You finished, reaching across the couch and gently placing your hand on top of his own. The warmth of his hands mixed with the cool touch of your own felt electric, sending your heart into a frenzy. The man didn’t respond, instead he adjusted your hands so your fingers intertwined.

“Thank you.” His voice was low, filled with sincere emotion. You didn’t dare look up into his eyes, afraid of sending your heart into overload, but you felt them peering at the side of your face. God, what have you gotten yourself into?

--------------------------------------

TAGLIST:  @snow30285​ @mack4676​ @remmysbounty​ Thank you for reading!! <3 <3 <3

[welcometophu]

The Meaning of Home, Chapter 2

The Meaning of Home Chapter 2

Tags for all Welcome to PHU novels will be available at the PHU tag list on Pillowfort. This list is under construction as of Sept. 5, 2021.

[ Previous |  First | Next ]

Pawel spends much of Monday lounging around the house. He gets up to help get Conor and Emma on the bus, so his dad can leave on time for work. After meeting the bus in his pajamas, he walks back to Dad’s house and lies down on the couch. He doesn’t really need a blanket, but he pulls it up to his nose anyway for the comfort factor and spends the day dozing and streaming old movies on his dad’s TV.

He never makes it as far as thinking about cooking anything for dinner, so he treats Dad and Conor to a night out. It eats up more time than he’d like, and it means Conor needs to scramble to finish the last of his homework once they’re home, but it’s nice to spend an hour letting someone else do the cooking.

Later that evening, after Conor goes to bed, Pawel and Dad spend the next couple of hours finally talking through everything that’s happened. Pawel doesn’t want to leave things out, but there are a few things he avoids for Dad’s safety, like the government involvement, and one thing he just doesn’t know how to explain.

He hasn’t seen Chelsea in a while. She’s relearning how to work within the world without draining souls to stay alive. He highly doubts she’s planning on stopping by his father’s for a visit, and even if she did, Dad never got to meet her as anything other than one of Pawel’s friends a decade ago.

Yeah. That is a complicated mess that he has no desire to go into detail about.

They go to bed late, but Pawel still wakes early on Tuesday to get his own kid on the bus. He figures it’s the least he can do, letting Dad get to work on time on a regular basis again.

Alone in the house again, Pawel feels refreshed and awake.

And bored.

He puts the phone on speaker as he putters around the kitchen, pressing to dial the number for Pels. She picks up after two rings, her voice gravelly and low. “What? Did we burn your house down?”

“I’m assuming you would have called me, rather than the other way around, if you burned my house down. Since you’re the one staying there.” Pawel rifles through his father’s cabinets until he finds a slow cooker. It’s dusty, but he’s pretty sure it’ll be functional. There should be enough ingredients for chili around. 

He looks into a cabinet, and nearly bare shelves stare back at him.

Okay, maybe not.

“What?” Pels asks again. “You woke me up. Are you looking for my mom? I thought you had her number.”

Pawel finds tomatoes and beans, and starts emptying them into the slow cooker. “I do. I thought she’d be at work, so I called you instead.”

“It’s too early and—Dad, Dad, no, I’ll talk to him. Give me back my phone.”

“Hello, Ammon.” Pawel might not be able to hear Pels’s father, but he’s well aware by now that the ghost can hear him.

“He’s leaving, and I’m not putting this on speaker,” Pels mutters. “I thought he was going to start spending more time with Mom now, after the whole unbinding ceremony last weekend, but apparently she told him not to follow her to work.”

“Can she see him now?” That would be an interesting development. Pawel sets the empty can on the counter and reaches for a pad of sticky notes so he can scribble a reminder to himself to look into more detailed information about the ritual that the Burlington community performed for Pels and her mother in order to remove the bindings from their Talents.

“I think so. I mean, I’m pretty sure she can, but we’re not really talking about it. But seriously. Did you call for a reason? Cheyenne’s got these final projects to finish up since she left school a couple weeks early, so she’s not bothering me. Dad wasn’t bothering me. I was sleeping.” Pels grumbles under her breath.

“I just wanted to see how things were going.” Pawel peels off the sticky note and tapes it to the fridge, where he might see it later. Another search of the cabinets turns up chili powder and a few other seasonings. “Now that you’ve had a chance to settle into the house.”

“We’re fine. We’re figuring out how to be a family again without Peter.” Pels hesitates. “I’m learning how to see the world a whole different way now that I can see everything my Talent lets me see. Shane and Jess and I are talking a lot, and I’m going to figure this Mage thing out. So… thanks. For everything. Including letting us stay in your house while you’re gone.”

Pawel shakes some cocoa powder into the slow cooker, before adding a handful of dried onion. “Someone’s got to water the plants.”

“The plants were already dead when we got here.”

He laughs at Pels’s dry words. She’s not wrong. Pawel was gone for a month; everything went to hell, while his son went to stay with his dad.

Which, yeah. That brings him right back around to where he is now.

Pawel stares at the slow cooker. “If you need anything, you’ve got my number.”

“I’ll tell Mom to check in with you periodically. Oh and—” Pels hesitates before asking, “Cheyenne wants to know if it’s okay if she uses your backyard to practice flying?”

Pawel thinks of the time they used Alaric’s dragon to summon a Shadow in that same backyard. “That would not be the strangest thing the neighbors could have witnessed. But she should try not to break anything, including herself.”

“I think we can do that. Gotta go. Dad says there’s someone at the door.”

The line goes abruptly silent, and Pawel looks down at the screen of his phone as the connection is lost. “Okay, then.” He gives the vegetarian chili a quick stir, then puts the lid on, plugs it in, and switches the appliance on to cook on low. “That’s set, at least.”

He feels a little better, knowing that his home is in good hands, or at least, it’s not burning down. It sat empty for a month before; having someone live there for the summer should be better.

As long as none of the newly powered Mages set the place on fire.

Fire.

That reminds him.

Pawel checks one more time to ensure that the slow cooker is on and set to low, then heads back to the living room to dig out his laptop. He starts it up and finds the tab he’d left open for the outdoor music festivals, with a list of dates.

That’s what he thought: the festival that Rory and Thorne’s band, Phoenix Rising, is touring with will be in Buffalo this weekend.

Pawel buys four tickets. He figures Dad will come with them, and Conor will want to bring a friend. Probably Alan. And if Dad doesn’t want to go, Alan’s mom, Emily, might join them instead. He’s not worried if the tickets don’t all get used; he just wants options.

Conor will be pleased by the surprise, anyway.

He closes the laptop and looks back to the kitchen.

How the hell does his dad live like that, anyway? And what has Conor been eating?

No, he saw the answer to that this morning. Toaster pastries and cereal, and Pawel’s pretty sure that the last of the eggs were finished off as well.

Fine.

If Pawel’s going to be here all summer, squeezed into his dad’s small space, the least he can do is lay in supplies.

Pawel spends the day scouring the cabinets, making a long list of everything from prepared garlic and ginger for easy seasoning, to pantry staples like pasta, to critical items like various forms of protein for the freezer. His dad has a standing freezer in the garage, and even that seems woefully empty.

He loses time going through the sites online for each local grocery store, poring over the ads to determine which store will have the best value for this shopping trip. He types up the list to rearrange it by food type, so that as soon as Conor’s home they can head out and maybe they’ll be organized enough to get the trip done quickly.

“Dad!” The door bangs open. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving and something smells really good.”

“It’s not dinner time.” Pawel folds up the printout of the list and shoves it in his pocket. “We’re going shopping. Grab a snack.” His own stomach growls and he’s not sure how he made it from early morning to half past three without a meal. “I think I saw a box of granola bars.”

Conor lifts the lid to the slow cooker, inhaling deeply, while Pawel finds the last two granola bars. He tosses one to his son.

“Let’s get some food.”

“Can we get meat for the chili? That looked like it was all beans,” Conor grumbles. He buckles his belt, then directs Pawel to the grocery store. 

Pawel already knows how to get there, but he’s not going to tell Conor that. Not when Conor seems comfortable in this place and is enjoying showing off that comfort level. He stays silent while Conor points out the entrance to the parking lot, then finds them a space close to the door.

Conor grabs a cart from the corral and pushes it into the store. “Emma’s Papa picks her up after school, so she doesn’t have to take the bus. She said they’re doing stuff today, so she couldn’t come over. I thought we could work on our—Emma!!” 

Pawel catches the cart, stopping it from rolling when Conor takes off into the produce section. Emma’s answering shout is sharp and loud as Conor skids to a stop near a display laden with peaches. Pawel pushes the cart there, half an ear listening to the kids talking as if they weren’t together a half hour ago in school.

“Dad!” Conor waves at him, so Pawel picks up the pace.

He’s not sure who Emma is with. She stands next to an almost empty cart, except for a bag of peaches sitting in the seat. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of an adult.

“Emma’s shopping.”

Emma rolls her eyes, pushing braids back over her shoulder. “Obviously,” she says quietly. “Jennie had to pee. He’ll be back soon. She forgot to go before we left school.”

“Does your Papa have two carts? We can help you,” Conor offers. “You and me can do one cart, and Dad can do ours, and your Papa can do the other one.”

“You can call me Leo. I don’t think your dad would like it if you started calling me Papa like the rest of the kids.”

Pawel knows that voice.

He hasn’t heard the voice in a very long time, but there are certain phrases still etched in the deep recesses of his memory. 

He exhales, and very deliberately makes himself look at the man who has joined him.

He looks good. Older, yeah. It’s been more than ten years since Leo graduated and left town for college. Apparently he’s back now, and from the police uniform, this would be Emma’s foster father that works for Pawel’s dad.  He has the name ‘L. Papa’ embroidered on his uniform, just above the pocket, and his badge is still visible. Leo stands with one hand on the handle of the cart and reaches without looking to take a package of donuts out of the hands of the small girl sitting in the basket of the cart.

When he smiles, Pawel’s heart twists.

“I was glad to hear you reappeared,” Leo says quietly. His voice is a warm, low tenor, as careful and even as Pawel remembers.

“You’re fostering a Weather Witch.” It’s maybe not the best reply. Pawel refuses to wince when Conor snickers.

“I told you he’s single-minded sometimes,” Conor whispers loudly to Emma. “He’ll help find your parents. I know your Papa’s a police officer, but Dad’s a Mage.”

Emma’s brown eyes are furrowed and dark. Her lips purse, but she doesn’t say anything.

Leo takes two sheets of paper from his pocket, then hands one to Emma. “You know which cereals the boys like best. Pick one for yourself and Jennie that they won’t eat before you get a chance. Since you’re the one with me, you get to pick the pasta. I know it says twenty boxes of mac & cheese, but we only need ten. We’ll be shopping again next week.”

Emma takes the list and reads it over solemnly. “Nevaeh said we need more tuna, but it’s not on the list. I’ll get that, too. C’mon, Conor. There were some cookies on sale. Help me pick out ones that the boys won’t eat before we can.”

“Popcorn,” Conor replies. “Remember, we used the last of it last weekend? Did that get on your list?”

They roll away with the almost-empty cart before Pawel can protest.

The small girl in Leo’s cart has the box of donuts in her hands again. She opens the plastic carefully and takes one out.

“Jennie,” Leo says softly.

“I need sugar to sparkle,” she whispers around a mouthful of chocolate cream.

Speechless feels so strange. Pawel can’t remember the last time his tongue has been this tangled. “I—” He tries to break his own silence, and fails miserably.

“Things get chaotic with five kids in the house,” Leo says. When he smiles again, his pale green eyes crinkle around the corners with tiny lines that definitely weren’t there before. They match the faint hints of salt in his dark hair. “Conor’s got a lot of energy. He probably keeps you on your toes.”

“Dad says I’ve been cursed with a kid that’s just like I was,” Pawel says. He pushes his hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to recover his balance. “He didn’t tell me you were one of Emma’s foster fathers. Just that she had two of them. Foster fathers. And two missing parents.”

Meeting his ex-boyfriend shouldn’t be this unsettling.

Pawel blames it on the fact that he’s probably still in a sleep deficit—two weeks is not enough time to catch up on missing sleep for several months.

“There’s a local teacher who works with a group that finds placements for Talented kids who need Talented families to stay with.” Leo has the second page of his list in his hand, and he refers to it while picking out produce.

Right. Shopping.

Pawel looks at his own list and tries to focus on that to give himself a little distance and wrangle his brain back into working order. Salad. They definitely need things for salad. And fresh vegetables for roasting wouldn’t be bad.

“Alice asked Colt if he knew anyone who might be able to take on kids about four years ago, and when he said we would, she put us in touch with Lucy and Rowan, and that’s how we got Matt, our first foster kid.”

Leo’s voice rolls over Pawel, dropping tidbits of information that he struggles to grab onto.

“Matt’s not bad,” Jennie says around a mouthful of donut. “Sometimes.”

Pawel latches onto the names, his fingers closing around a broccoli crown and holding it a little too tightly. He fumbles with the plastic bag. “Lucy and Rowan? And… Colt?” He had to have heard those wrong.

He manages to get the bag open and shoves two broccoli crowns into it, dropping them in the basket of his cart.

Leo is silent.

When Pawel looks at him, Leo stands with his fingers wrapped around the handle of the cart, his grip tight. “Colt Harrison,” he says. “My husband. You—”

“Dated him in high school, yeah.” Pawel finishes Leo’s sentence for him.

That’s… too much information. Pawel is struggling to assimilate it.

“Dad did not mention that,” he mutters.

“This doesn’t have to be weird.” Leo grabs the container of donuts and moves it to another area of the cart. Jennie could still get to it, but she pouts instead, slouching down in one corner of the basket, her lower lip sticking out and flecked with chocolate. “Colt and I met when he was interning at the law office where he works now. We’ve been married about three years. We didn’t even know each other back in high school.”

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” Pawel echoes. He’s right, of course. It shouldn’t be weird. It’s not weird at all. People meet. They fall in love. They get married. They have kids. Sometimes there’s a small world effect and it turns out that they may have already been connected beforehand.

That’s all Pawel is in this; an ancient history connection.

“Your dad talks about you all the time,” Leo says. He pulls a napkin from his pocket and cleans Jennie’s fingers. “Try not to touch anything else,” he admonishes gently before tucking the dirty napkin back in his pocket. 

He’s so careful with her. Pawel remembers when Leo used to take care of his younger siblings. It only makes sense that he’d be good with kids now. As big and scruffy and rough looking as he is, he’s gentle, too.

“I need to—” Pawel holds up the list, showing just how long it is. “Dad’s cupboards are empty. I’m not sure what he and Conor have been eating, and I get the feeling that it’s takeout so I really don’t want to know. I need to stock up.”

“So do we. Matt’s eleven and Clan, and Duke’s fourteen. We go through a lot of food in our house.” Leo heads toward the back of the store. “Come on. We’ll catch up with the kids if we get moving.”

Pawel exhales and trails behind Leo. Jennie peeks around him, her thumb in her mouth as she looks at Pawel. Small brown brows furrow deeply before she turns away and curls up.

Her snores are adorable little rasps of sound. He can’t think how she’s sleeping through the rattle and squeak of the cart she rides in. Still, she’s silent as they work their way through the aisles, collecting items from their respective lists.

They turn down one aisle and spot Conor and Emma from a distance. Conor has sparks around his hand while Emma reaches for something falling from the shelves.

Pawel coughs, and Conor turns to give him an innocent look.

Wait. That reminds him.

“You’re taking in Talented kids,” Pawel says slowly. “So you or Colt must be—”

“We both are,” Leo says, glancing at him sideways. “I grew up Clan. Colt’s Emergent, but that’s his story to tell. I heard about you being a Mage from your dad. He’s proud of everything you’ve done at PHU.”

Pawel waves that away. “Youngest dean. Newest department. Only real expert on Talent as a whole because I’m the only person who’s bothered to go down the rabbit hole far enough to study it formally.”

“It’s still impressive.” Leo huffs.

“I just… I never knew.” Pawel thinks back and tries to catalog Leo’s family based on what he knows of Clan. He didn’t interview them for his thesis; they weren’t on his radar as a large Clan community. They grew up as a part of the town.

“You weren’t meant to.” Leo dips into his pocket and hands the napkin back to Jennie, who has somehow woken from her nap and polished off a second donut while they weren’t paying attention. “That was before the Emergence. We took a lot of care to be able to live here without anyone knowing.”

“But your community—”

“Widespread and buried within this town and the surrounding ones. We never really wanted to withdraw from the rest of the world. Which is what makes us good candidates for fostering. We don’t have those same prejudices that some might have.” Leo drops a hand to the top of Jennie’s head, and she looks up at him, smiling brightly.

There are, indeed, sparkles all around her, the air shimmering with her contentment and happiness.

“Conor wants me to help find Emma’s parents,” Pawel says quietly. “At the same time, I’m not sure if he really wants me to get involved, after everything that happened this last year. What do you—”

“I think they’re dead,” Leo says quietly. His hand still rests atop Jennie’s head, but his gaze is fixed on Emma. “I can tell you what little we know, but everything points to them being dead. The question is what happened to their bodies.”

Unfortunately, Pawel’s had experience with issues like that and can think of at least one scenario.

Which might mean they’re not dead.

They also might not be prepared to be parents anymore, either.

Leo pitches his voice louder. “You should come over for dinner some night.”

Both Conor and Emma turn to look at them. Emma grips the side of the cart, stepping up and holding on while Conor gives it a good push before jumping up himself. It sends them racing towards Leo and Pawel, until Pawel puts up a hand, throwing out a gentle cushion of magic to stop them before they crash.

“Yes!” Conor yells. “Dinner!”

“You could come over and meet everyone. If you want to.” Emma’s gaze drifts away, like she really doesn’t care about the answer.

“They’re like my second family. Third, maybe, because of Alan, but my second one here,” Conor insists. “And Emma’s dads are really nice.”

“They aren’t my dads.”

“I’m sure Colt would love to see you, too,” Leo adds.

Thanks for the gut punch.

“He says yes,” Conor says quickly. “Right dad? You say yes.”

What else is he supposed to do?

“Yes.” Pawel fishes out his phone, unlocking it and staring down. He doesn’t resist when Leo slips it from his fingers, opening up his text app and sending something.

Leo places the phone back in Pawel’s hands. “The first number is mine, the second is Colt’s. In case you don’t still have them.”

“I fried my phone and lost everything,” Pawel admits. “Back when I Emerged. So. Thank you.”

“It’s good to see you.” Leo’s touch is heavy and warm where he claps his hand against Pawel’s shoulder, then squeezes. 

Pawel could hug him, but he thinks that might be awkward. He’s never had this situation. He has three exes—two of them he hasn’t seen since they broke up, and the other one is Chelsea. Which is just complicated.

“Yeah, you too.” He watches as Leo walks away, Emma pushing the second cart beside him. Pawel wonders just how distracted Leo must feel since Jennie looks like she’s grabbing her third donut.

Or maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe he spoils his kids with plenty of sugar.

It’s not like Pawel knows anything about how Leo’s life is now.

Conor tugs sharply at Pawel’s shirt. “Dad. When are we going to dinner over at Emma’s house?”

Pawel looks down at his phone, at the new conversation sitting there. All it says is, this is Pawel.

He locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket. “I don’t know yet, but not tonight. Let’s go find that meat you wanted for the chili. Chicken might be good. We could sauté it up quickly and add it so it’ll get a couple hours in the slow cooker with the rest. Or we could cook it up with spices and add it afterwards.”

“You’re just saying that because chicken is healthy,” Conor grumbles. “I got more toaster pastries. Dziadziu lets me eat them.”

“I let you eat them, too, just possibly not in the same quantities,” Pawel protests. It’s not an argument he’s going to have right now, anyway.

He’s going to focus on finishing up the shopping, and finishing cooking dinner.

He’s going to focus on anything other than the fact that somehow both of the boys he dated in high school grew up to meet each other and end up married.

Yeah, he’s going to do his damnedest to focus on anything but that.

[ Previous |  First | Next ]

Want to support me? – Patreon | Ko-Fi | Reblog & Comment

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Hello Tumblr

The subreddit has directed me here to promote my realfic(s) about actor Richard Armitage on Ao3.

I do not know the etiquette of doing this, but here I am...

Here’s the first chapter of the ludicrous romcom I’m writing right now...

°1° ­~Victoria~

Victoria, Vic to her friends and Vicky to her father and Tory to her ex-husband, walked briskly towards the little café at the end of her street, lifting her shoulders to her ears to shield herself as much as possible from the wind that cut into her skin and made her face flush an unflattering shade of windburned red.

She had no idea what Angie and Liza were up to, but apparently, she was to have high tea today, which in itself was not a reason to distrust her friends, but a little voice at the back of her head told her quite clearly that this was not going to end the way she had anticipated, and she was already annoyed before even knowing what they would spring on her.

As her heels clacked on the pavement in an impatient staccato, she yanked her handbag that kept sliding off her shoulder a little harder to wrestle it back in place and slammed it into her face with full force.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She cried out in the middle of the street, rolling her eyes at her own incompetence.

When she pushed open the door though, the warm smell of cinnamon and coffee wafted into her cold, numb face and she relaxed a little, especially as the young girl behind the counter gave her big, beaming smile and took the dark grey coat from her with perfect understated courtesy.

Victoria loved this place, she had loved it from the very first time her former husband had taken her here to introduce her to the owner of the little shop for whom he had a strange fascination (which turned out to be run-of-the-mill horniness, as Angie was a lesbian).

Once, this had been a townhouse much like the one Victoria lived in now, and the old doors were still clearly visible in the bright, open room where polished white tables and dainty chairs with faded blue upholstery invited for a quiet sit-down with a good book and a steaming cup of coffee or tea.

On the old mantlepiece over a disused fireplace, daisies and peonies smiled at her from a slightly kitschy, ornate vase and her favourite spot, right next to the huge windowfront looking out on a neat little courtyard with wrought-iron tables and chairs in impeccable white, was waiting for her.

Angie had worked wonders with the small, crowded rooms, making them appear more spacious without losing the cosy feeling they had once held, and every artfully decorated plate hung on the wall had a special meaning to the dreamy, romantic woman who was the owner and boss of the establishment.

As far as middle-aged women went, Victoria was a good enough catch with her reasonably attractive physique and her actually very pretty face, not to mention her considerable smarts and her undeniable wealth, BUT Victoria was also notoriously stubborn and easily angered.

Most importantly though, at least that was what Angie and her beloved Liza thought, Victoria had taken the ludicrous and completely insane decision never to date another man again after her divorce and they were having none of that nonsense.

Hence why they were about to have high tea with her to gauge how hot her distemper was still burning after months where she had shut herself away in that little house she had taken to spite her family and avoid her ex-husband, refusing to take most calls and only ever coming to the tearoom to read a script.

As a member of a highly successful production-team, Liza had decided to offer Vic a spot as proof-reader of scripts, as her friend seemed particularly good at finding mistakes or inconsistencies. Also, Liza was convinced that Vic needed a few stories in her rather dull life after the childhood and youth she had had.

Vic took her new job as seriously as she did everything else in her life, her existence as a hermit included, and this made Angie’s plan to find her nice man to at least bed increasingly hard.

“She doesn’t want a man.” Liza had rolled her eyes at her, but Angie was convinced that it was not good for a woman to leave home and hide somewhere in London in a tiny townhouse and refuse to meet any kind of new person. It made people bitter, and she definitely didn’t want Vic to become bitter.

“Jesus, Angie, listen, I see bitter old men every day at work.” Liza had laughed, but when her girlfriend’s eyes flashed a feline green, the idea had taken hold in her own head to convince Vic to change her mind after all.

Only, not only did Vic not want to meet any men, no, she had made it very clear that there was a certain type of man that she would never ever exchange a single word with again: wealthy, suave, and handsome men, which was exactly the kind of men Liza had to sell a dime a dozen.

In this very second, she watched Vic settle down in her usual spot, waiting for her friends to arrive, her eyes narrow, suspicious slits as she surveyed her surroundings with hawk-eyed distrust.

~Richard~

He was surprised to see his phone light up and when he saw the name on the screen, his amazement only grew. There was no good reason why Martin would call him up just now as they’d meet a few days hence for one of those terrible meetings where all the rich and beautiful would stand around, bored to tears.

“Hey, what’s up?” He picked up his phone, nonetheless, curious what his friend could want from him.

Martin droned on about all kinds of things before making sure that Richard would indeed show up on that fateful evening, he had just been musing about a few minutes earlier.

It was vital that the man would be there for the success of the plan that he had hatched out with a dear friend of his, which consisted of getting two boorish, middle-aged twats to have a roll in the hay.

Maybe that hay would be pure spun gold, but the roll would be the same as it was everywhere else on this planet for all kinds of people. As far as he knew, the woman Liza had pitched had been made a millionaire by her divorce…and an emotional cripple.

After having married her high-school sweetheart, she had been replaced by a woman 10 years her junior as soon as the money and the fame started rolling in. If Liza was to be believed, she had put her heart and soul into that marriage and into the platform she now owned 50% of, which made of this banker’s daughter a good catch…Only, she apparently hated all men with a burning passion now.

Enter stage left, a rather underwhelming specimen of said population: inveterate bachelor, notoriously shy and often awkward and still stunningly handsome artiste extraordinaire Richard Armitage.

Martin had no idea how much he and Liza had drunk that evening to really believe, even for a single moment, that it would be a good idea to pair a hissing, angry, and disillusioned divorcee with a man who had not even been able to convince wide-eyed ingénues of his merit, but for some reason, they had shaken hands on their game plan and he would be damned if he was the one to drop the ball on this one.

“Yes, I will come. Why?”

That makes two of them being suspicious from the get-go, Martin thought, feeling the challenge raise his hackles and light a fire within his chest. This could be great fun if they managed to pull it off.

“Just checking in on you, old horse, don’t get your panties in a bunch over it.” Martin chirped cheerily, rubbing his hands noiselessly as he popped the earbuds in to move around the house while being on the phone like the puttering busybody he was.

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose in silent exasperation, he worked too much and socialised too little, he was well aware of that, but God, what did people expect of him? Secretly, he HAD thought about ducking out of this function on the down low, but now, that was virtually impossible as at least one person would indeed be looking out for him to show up.

There was an edge to Martin’s voice that he didn’t like all too much either as it announced some mischief he could not yet fathom, but already, he could feel the shadow of those dark rainclouds falling on him and it made him frown impatiently.

He had no time to be the butt of a joke or the unsuspecting victim of some cruel prank that had been hatched in good faith, he had no doubt whatsoever about that, but he was too old to be made a fool of in public and he hoped that his friend would know that, and respect his boundaries.

Poppycock, the hell he would, Richard thought with a sigh, rubbing his forehead to dispel the headache that was building constantly behind his eyes. He really should be wearing those glasses more consistently, but he tended to forget when he was sitting around at home, lounging comfortably around with a good book and planning a productive, prolific future that would keep him from thinking too much about the things he had missed out on.

“I’ll be there, don’t you worry.” He grumbled, hoping that there would be enough mainstream artists so he could blend into the background and slip out of the crosshairs of those who were after some funny business.

“Then I’ll see you there. I’m sure you’ll look ravishing.” Martin chuckled and earned a disgruntled growl from his friend and colleague which made him laugh silently. Oh, he was smelling that something was up, Richard was too smart to be taken unawares, but he was also adorably easily to get flustered sometimes, and, if he was honest, Martin enjoyed that a great deal.

For a second, he pondered if it would be cheating to pull Ben into the fray, but he knew that he’d need help to steer poor, old Richard into the right direction and there was only so much a single man could do.

[thebisexualdogdad]

Something new (Fangs x Kevin x Moose x male reader)

Co written with @inhumanshadows

You and Fangs have been dating for a while now when you were transferred to Riverdale High where you met Kevin and Moose and started going out on double dates. 

You had discussions in the past with Fangs about being open to a poly relationship so when you both started having feelings for Moose and Kevin it was easy to talk to each other about it

Fangs head was in your lap as you hung out in his trailer when you brought it up to him. 

“Whatcha think Fangs? They’re both very cute...”

"You know I'm game," he responds. 

Meanwhile Kevin and Moose are having a much more awkward conversation back at Kevin's. 

"Kevin do you think Fangs and Y/N are like... Into us?" Moose questions. 

"I sure hope so why else would be friends?" Kevin says confused. 

“No I mean like into us," Moose reaffirms. 

“Moose what are we five? But maybe?” Kevin shrugs. 

"Are you okay with that?" 

"I know they're polyamorus and relationships come in all forms so why not," Kevin replies. 

The next time you guys go on a double date is when you decide to confront them. 

"So there's something Fangs and I wanted to talk to you about... We like you guys a lot and well... If you're open to it we'd like to try being more than friends," you tell them. 

Kevin and moose share a look and you're afraid you overstepped. 

“No pressure guys,” you add, "and look if this made you uncomfortable we can pretend like it never happened." 

Kevin squeezes Moose's hand and he nods. 

"I think this is something we'd like to explore," Kevin says. 

"Great," Fangs smiles. 

"And we're not just gonna jump in head first, we'll take baby steps so everyone can figure out how they feel," you assure them. 

Moose is still learning to be confident in his sexuality so adjusting to this is more of a struggle for him then it is for Kevin. 

For your first official date you invite them all over to your place for movies and pizza so they can be in a more private and relaxed environment. 

You’re laying on Fangs while Moose is leaning against Kevin with the movie playing. 

You really want it to feel natural so you don’t push, just a nice relaxing night.

The second date you get more physical gestures from them, Kevin kisses Fangs on the cheek and Moose holds your hand. 

Moose eventually falls asleep against you which Kevin teases him about later making him blush.

You decide to go on separate dates to help build your own dynamics as well, the first night Fangs goes out with Kevin and you go out with Moose, the second night you go out with Kevin and Fangs goes out with Moose

The first solo date with moose was at pops figuring a familiar setting would help his nerves.

He was quiet at first but you got him to open up and he was feeling much more comfortable by the end of the date.

You took Kevin to play mini golf so you could do something active but still be able to get to know each other better.

“So Kev... tell me about you," you say hitting the green ball with your putter down the course. 

"Well my mom has been deployed in Afghanistan for the last year and it sucks, my dad just got remarried and now i live across the hall from Josie McCoy and my ex boyfriend is in juvie... You know the usual," he says casually. 

“Wow... that’s a lot...”

“What about you?” he asks. 

“Oh I’m wanted for murder," you joke. 

“What?" He says shocked. 

“Kidding,” you tell him. 

Kevin texts Moose and makes sure it's okay for him to kiss you and that night when you take him home you kiss him goodnight for the first time. 

Later on you and Fangs are in bed talking about how each date went. 

"I think Moose is finally starting to open up," Fangs says happily. 

"That's good, Kevin and I kissed," you smiled.  

"Is he as good of a kisser as he looks," he grins. 

"Better."

“Damn,” Fangs says as you put your head on his chest. 

“I wonder what kissing moose is like?”

“He’s like a puppy," Fangs chuckles. 

"Did you kiss him?" You ask in surprise. 

"Maybe" he grins "yeah i did." 

"Fangs you sly dog," you laugh playfully hitting your hand on his shoulder. 

A few weeks later is when your relationship goes to the next level and you end up giving Kevin a handjob in your car

Kevin came hard and was worried about making a mess.

“Trust me this car has seen its share,” you laugh. 

Soon after Moose gave you a blowjob while you were watching a movie at his place

“I’m telling you Fangs those boys are huge and Moose has a very very good mouth,” you smirk.

“I heard you gave Kev a handy in your car,” Fangs 

"And when did you hear that?" 

"While Kevin was giving me one," he states. 

"That's my boy," you smile. 

"So do you think it's time to bring up trying penetration?" He asks. 

“Maybe... or at least one or two more dates,” you respond. 

“Okay.” Fangs kisses you while palming you through your pants.

"Good thing I've got you to take care of me in the mean time… what about sexting?” You ask as you straddle him.

"Take a picture and we'll find out," he grins. 

Fangs grabs his phone and snaps a picture of you on top of him still fully clothed and sends it the group chat

Kevin: “fuck!!”

Moose: “damn wish I was there”

With them being into it you go a step further, taking your shirts off and sending another pic with Fangs hands on your ass.

You unbutton fangs jeans and take a pic with your head at his crotch.

You guys then get a photo of Kevin shirtless followed by a photo Moose grabbing himself through his shorts

It’s an ongoing sexting battle until you and Fangs are naked with pillows on your crotches, Moose is in his boxers and Kevin is commando in his wrestling singlet.

You:  “reveal all at once?”

Kevin: 👍

Moose: sounds good

As soon as you send the explicit photo you get the photos of them as well which you and Fangs get off to.

You send one last photo of the aftermath and then one of you and Fangs in the shower.

“See ya tomorrow boys. ;)”

The next day at school is when Kevin and Moose both agree they are ready to go further than just a handjob so you and Fangs plan the very special night at your place that weekend.

You make sure your house is well stocked with supplies and food. 

You and Fangs are both more than happy to let Kevin and Moose take the lead and discuss safe words so they feel comfortable. 

Kevin and Moose make out first, you and Fangs watching as they work each other up.

You get behind Kevin and remove his jacket while Fangs is practically drooling.

Kevin pulls away from Moose and kisses you, Fangs beginning to palm himself through his jeans. 

Kevin runs his hand through your hair, Moose watching tentatively as you take Kevin's shirt off, yours quickly following. 

Moose undoes his jeans and starts touching himself, groaning low and deep. 

You push Kevin onto his back and kiss down his chest making him moan in time with Moose. 

“Why don’t you give Moose a hand Fangs,” you wink at him. 

Fangs kisses Moose and strokes his cock while you make your way down Kevin's body until you're tugging his remaining clothes off of him.

Kevin then tugs your pants off and gets smacked in the face by your dick.

“Sorry not sorry Keller,” you chuckle. 

Kevin takes your cock in his mouth and the sight makes Moose cum in minutes. 

"We haven't even gotten to the best part yet Mason," you mutter, moaning at the sight of his release in Fangs' hand. 

Fangs finishes getting undressed and flings his underwear at your face.

“Always a great look for you babe,” he grins. 

You laugh and toss them to the floor telling Kevin to get back on the bed while you grab the condoms and lube.

Fangs takes Moose in his mouth and bobs his head to get him hard again.

You come back and toss the condoms on the bed, shaking the lube. “Who wants to fuck me first?”

Kevin voices interest as long as Fangs is okay with it.

“Sure Kevin. But I get to prep his pretty ass.”

Fangs comes over to you and bends you over, wasting no time letting his tongue find your hole.

You’re moaning as his tongue swipes over your hole and Kevin puts your cock in his mouth. 

Once you're thoroughly worked up Kevin puts a condom on and gets behind you, easing his cock inside.

“Fuck Kevin!” His thick cock stretches you wide open. 

Kevin bottoms out and stays there, “Damn Y/N... your ass feels amazing.”

He makes a steady rhythm and Fangs starts prepping Moose.

You’re moaning with each thrust, “Oh fuck Kev.” 

Looking over you see Fangs lay on the bed and Moose sit on his face.

“Enjoy him Moose," you tell him. 

Moose quickly learns how expertly Fangs can use his tongue and reaches down to stroke Fangs' cock as he's bouncing on his face.

“Fuck Kevin... look at our boys. They’re working well together... now pound me.”

Kevin eventually makes you cum, Moose cumming for the second time. 

When Kevin pulls out of you Fangs grabs a condom and has Kevin laying on his back as he fucks him. 

You and Moose cuddle and come down from your highs while watching Fangs fucks Kevin.

“You should ride him Kev,” Moose says.

Kevin rides Fangs until he cums and after he does you jerk Fangs off until he cums too.

You put your mouth on him at the last minute and swallow just like he likes. 

You throw the condoms away, doing a quick clean up before all of you fall onto the bed.

“That was fun right?” You ask already knowing the answer. 

[spnwatch]

Season 2: The Rankings

Whew. Oh boy.

They were still puttering about in season 1 to an extent. But now? Now they’ve really hit their stride. This season was a veritable chocolate box of delights and I ate my way through it. The overall myth arc was kind of nonsensical, but that emotional throughline? Christ. Spn buries SO MUCH emotional complexity into its leads, and they cashed in every cent in that two part finale. It packs one hell of a punch. And yeah, okay, I knew the broad strokes, the twists and turns. It’s hard not to be spoilered for a season of tv that aired over a decade ago. But reader! It mattered not!! I. Still. Wept. That’s when you know it’s the good kush.  1.) 2x12: NIGHTSHIFTER. This one just snagged the top spot by merit of its sheer ambition. Supernatural often feels like a very empty universe to me, just two guys and one car drifting from place to place. Which is fine, it makes for compelling TV, but they totally flipped the script here and this episode really dazzles precisely because of that contrast. It’s a huge, cinematic episode, a metropolitan setting full of uncontrollable elements, and it’s great to see Sam and Dean so profoundly vulnerable. The outside world is pressing up against the windows. They have sniper dots trained on them! They are, literally and figuratively, out of their depth! We’re not in Kansas any more, baby. God, I haven’t even mentioned the supporting characters. The entire mandroid rant deserves an Emmy. Victor Henrickson’s entrance! Heist movie antics! Agh!  10/10  

2.) 2x07: THE USUAL SUSPECTS. Again this episode was a cut above precisely because it showed us what the brothers look like from the outside: sketchy as all hell. It’s so good when reality ensures, because it’s great to be reminded they lead objectively insane lives! Through Linda Blair’s eyes we get to see just how unknowable, feral and amoral they appear to the eyes of polite society. Put under a microscope like this, they’re scary guys! They’re just not socialised like normal people. They don’t really care about being arrested, or about the felonies. Getting arrested is an irritant above everything else. They’re still working the case from the inside. They’re professionals; excellent liars, and totally in sync with each other. The handwritten notes they pass, like delinquent school kids! A delight! The thrill lies in watching Blair slowly unwrap their strange logic, and unravel the mystery of both the brothers and the ghost. Ugh, what a great perspective shift. I’m 100% here for it. 10/10 

 3.) 2x09: CROATOAN. Ugh, this setting. Small Town Gothic, complete with eerie mist, hostile locals and creepy Stepford vibes. Sam really shone in this episode. He’s so soothing and giant, and it made his suffering at the end all the more devastaing. The real reason this episode ranks so highly is their conversation in the surgery. It just killed me. Dean’s sheer, bone-deep exhaustion, his admission that he’s tired of the life. Sam’s despair, because he knows Dean won’t leave. The performances were so steller. I can’t even really think too deeply about it because it makes me too crazy. 10/10  

 4.) 2x21: ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE: PART ONE. I loved this finale so much more than the finale in Season 1, LOL. It might just be because I’m more invested now, who knows. The opening of this episode is a piece of art: Boston playing on the car stereo, the rain, the small cafe, the lighting. Gorgeous. I love when they have to interact with ordinary people! It adds so much: texture, humour, personality! It draws things out of Sam and Dean that we just don’t see when they have each other to bounce off of. It was so good to see Ava and Andy again. “I just woke up in freakin’ Frontierland!” The gang’s all here, folks! This episode would rank higher, but recieves minus points for the long boring speech the demon gives Sam, and killing off the first gay in the show 0.2 seconds after her introduction. Anyway. The ending of course unzipped me; Dean cradling Sam’s dead body, muttering “It’s okay, it’s not even that bad.” The elation of their reunion, so devastaingly cut short! Sam, twenty two years old, bleeding out in the mud. The sheer, hopelessness of it all. The horror. My notes for the end of the episode simply read: “Dean oh Christ. Oh my God. Oh no.” It’s just one of those scenes that stay with you long after the credits start rolling. 9/10   

5.) 2x20: WHAT IS AND WHAT SHOULD NEVER BE. I never thought I could be so profoundly upset by watching a man happily mowing a lawn. Dean’s trauma over the loss of his mother has undercut the whole show up until this point, and here it bursts to the fore. What really got me was the simplicity of it all. Just a sit-down dinner, an engagement. A beer on the porch. Fuck, he deserves it. He deserves everything. All the performances were great, they really served to show there’s a whole life in these AU characters. The fact it wasn’t all perfect was bizarrely more devastating. AU Sam’s weird straight hair and dorky jacket sealed the deal for me, as did his baffled terror in the warehouse. But even here, with no training and no idea what’s happening, he gets into the Impala! Because that’s his brother! Because I’m a huge baby I had to remove points because of how upsetting I found Sam’s quiet hostility towards Dean, HA. But that’s really just a testament to how well-realised their dynamic has become by the second season. 9/10  

 6.) 2x15: TALL TALES. Every single thing Sam does in any of Dean’s memories. Also alien slowdance set to “Lady in Red.” Also Bobby breaking them up like they’re petulant children. Gold, all of it gold. 9/10 

 7.)  2x11: PLAYTHINGS. So I’m a slut for a cool setting, obviously. Turns out, Supernatural did The Haunting of Bly Manor fifteen years ago. The swimming pool! The attic! Creepy dolls! The weird little playground! This episode has it all! I loved the saga between the ghost sister and the old lady, which would honestly make a killer movie in its own right. But I’m digressing. The main star of this episode was, of course, Dean’s profound and escalating sexual insecurities. “Well, you are kinda butch. People probably think you’re overcompensating.” FATALITY. I would’ve placed this one higher but the weird incestuous undertones kinda squicked me out... however, I did think we were meant to be creeped out by it, which is more than I can say for some other uh. Instances. It was, after all, beautifully paralelled at the end with the two sisters reuniting in death. “I can’t leave here, and you can’t leave me.” SHUDDER. Also, honestly, can Sam have one (1) breakdown on his own without Dean’s own emotional baggage taking over? Older siblings, smh. 9/10

8.) 2x22: ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE: PART TWO. This one ranks lower than part one purely because I thought the yellow-eyed demon’s overall plot was kinda nonsensical, and I cared not for John’s weird deux ex machina moment. Like do you expect me to feel sorry for that bitch? I don’t! Anyway, that being said, let’s move on to Dean’s eyes in the junkyard when Bobby asks him, “do you have that low an opinion of yourself?” They’re so flat. So dead, like a shark’s. He doesn’t need to say anything back, because it’s all over his face. That non-expression says it all. This is the culmination of the emotional arc that began with his savage beatdown of the Impala in episode 2x02. To call it survivor’s guilt wouldn’t even begin to cover what Dean goes through this episode. It’s all in Ackles’ performance; in the the way he yells, “What am I supposed to do now, Sammy?” The complete claustrophobia of it all. There’s nothing for it but to make the deal. Dean’s been moving inexorably towards this moment for the entire season. 9/10   

 9.) 2x13: HOUSES OF THE HOLY. What a kooky little episode! Magic fingers! Sam’s costcutter seance purchases! The scooby-doo placemat he uses as a makeshift altar! I love him, your honour. Obviously this episode has a lot of *~dramatic irony~* in it because of the later seasons, but it stands alone as a total banger. I was so gutted for Sam when the "angel” was revealed. So many good little Sam moments to be found in this episode. His soft, quiet little revelation that he prays every day. His awkward, earnest explanation to the horrified priest! Dean gets some great moments chasing down the would-be rapist down those dark, snow-covered streets. His speech to Sam where he explains his lack of belief is brief, but it’s a total gut punch. Rounding it off with Knockin on Heaven’s Door was just the cherry on top. 9/10 

 10.) 2x14: BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN. Ahaha I love the way Dean acts whenever Sam’s psychic powers come up. He treats him like a rebellious teen, it’s so funny. “What’s going on with you, Sam? Smokin’, drinkin’?” As if Sam’s behaviour was a) at all under his control or b) anything Dean wouldn’t HIMSELF do. Dean’s just like, this isn’t how I raised you! Truly hysterical. The whole sequence between Meg!Sam and Jo was fantastic and horrible. Sam’s huge physique is never threatening, but it really was in that moment. The interplay between them was totally spine-tingling. Meg’s impression Sam slowly crumbling away over the course of the episode was so compelling and I’m sure it will be a really fun rewatch now I know the *twist*. 9/10  

Favourite lines this season: 

The way Sam says “black cat’s bone” in 2x08

“You’re not gonna go kill somebody because a ghost told you to, are you insane?!” - Dean, 2x13

“Dean, this is a very serious investigation, we don’t have time for your blah blah blah blah.” - Sam (according to Dean), 2x15

“I’m fine, except for every single thing that’s happening.” - Ava, 2x21 

[linebreaker]

Birthmark

Also on AO3.

Warnings: light angst; brief mentions of past violence; mentions of past discorporation; discussions of historical anti-Semitism and violence against Jewish people.

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=

Aziraphale first noticed the mark one morning when Crowley was puttering around the kitchen. The buttery sunlight was filtering through the herbs in the cottage window and fat bees were bumbling about outside, bumping against the glass in their search for flowers.

Crowley had just awoken from one of his week-long naps and stumbled out into the kitchen. Aziraphale regarded him over his reading glasses. He looked soft and sleep-worn, red hair flattened charmingly on one side. His yellow eyes were half-lidded and he was rubbing at one of them with his knuckles.

“Coffee?” he grunted.

“Afraid there’s nothing fresh, dear, but I can—” Crowley flapped his hands at him when Aziraphale went to snap his fingers.

“No, no, no. No. I can get it,” he muttered and then promptly banged his hip against the table corner as he made for the kettle. “Shit!”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath of laughter. “If you insist. That’s what you get for doing it the hard way.”

“It doesn’t taste the same when it’s miracled.”

Looking no more alert—but decidedly more aggravated—than he had before, Crowley went about preparing the kettle. Aziraphale’s morning paper was open in front of him, but it was mostly for show now. He enjoyed watching the demon do mundane things like cook and tend to his garden, so he took ample time to glance up and observe between each line he read.

—carry out services themselves rather than employ private firms, the chancellor has said. John McDonnell said he—

Crowley was still in his sleep clothes. He normally kept to his waistcoats and jackets and sinful trousers, but he’d been noticeably more lax in his apparel over the last few months of their retirement. Aziraphale didn’t mind.

—wants to limit the outsourcing of services such as bin collections by obliging councils to run them—

His loose-fitting pyjama bottoms were slung low on his hips. The long-sleeved grey shirt he wore looked soft, its collar wide enough to drape aside and expose a portion of the demon’s shoulder. Aziraphale let his eyes trace along his skin, forming constellations out of the freckles there.

—when existing private contracts expire. Cleaning and school dinners could also be taken back under the plans. The government—

Crowley was barefoot. As he filled the kettle, Aziraphale watched his toes curl against the tile. He rocked up onto the pads of his feet, exposing their delicate arches briefly, before settling again.

—said decisions should be left with local councils. The Confederation of British Industry said Labour’s proposal was “an extreme move devoid of evidence yet—

He managed to get the kettle on without further incident and turned to rest against the counter. With his back to the window, the morning light streamed in around like a halo, silhouetting him. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams of sunlight.

—dripping in dogma.” In a speech on Saturday, Mr. McDonnell said outsourced contracts were costly and lacked accountability as decisions—

“What’re you looking at, angel?” Crowley asked when he glanced up again. The sunlight made it hard to see his face, but Aziraphale thought he sounded amused.

He smiled and, heart stuttering, answered, “You.”

Crowley froze momentarily. Aziraphale watched as his entire frame went rigid, his edges rippling like a mirage in the desert, before he relaxed again. He scoffed and grumbled something incomprehensible, then turned away again.

Something small and fragile unfurled in Aziraphale’s chest like a blooming flower. He smiled to himself and went back to his paper.

It wasn’t much longer before the kettle started whistling. Crowley moved to take it off the flame and go about preparing his coffee. It was while he was reaching to retrieve (see: steal) Aziraphale’s novelty angel mug off of the top shelf that his shirt rode up to reveal a band of skin. Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn briefly to the divots at the base of the demon’s spine, a little thrill running through him at the sight of them.

Then he noticed the mark.

It was a swath of skin—paler than that which surrounded it, a small swirl of white—that sat just above the jut of Crowley’s hip. Aziraphale squinted, but the shirt fell down and obscured it from view before he could get a decent look.

“Crowley, what is that?”

“Hm?” He was distracted adding heaps of instant coffee to his mug. Personally, Aziraphale detested the stuff, but Crowley was unaccountably attached. Probably because he’d had a hand in inventing it. “What’s what?”

“That mark—there, on your side.”

Crowley finished his preparations and took a sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction. Then he seemed to take in Aziraphale’s question. He paused, rim of the mug pressed against his mouth, and blinked his reptilian eyes at him. “Huh?”

Aziraphale scowled at him as he made his way over to the table—he had a feeling that the demon was being deliberately obtuse. “What is that mark? I don’t think I’ve seen that before.”

Crowley looked bemused as he took his seat across from Aziraphale, mug firmly clutched between his palms. “Never seen it before? You’ve seen me without my clothes on, angel.”

He lifted one eyebrow suggestively and Aziraphale felt his face go hot. Images flashed through his mind—Crowley beneath him, his sweat-slicked thighs up around Aziraphale’s hips, his body arching up like a bow and his slitted pupils blown wide as he came—and he quickly looked away.

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat and focused on folding his paper for a moment. “I was rather preoccupied at the time.”

When he glanced up again, he noticed that Crowley was sporting a lopsided grin and there was a rather fetching shade of pink staining his cheeks. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well that I was, you wicked thing, so stop trying to distract me. What is that mark?” he asked again, pulling off his reading glasses and pointing them at the demon. He knew he sounded petulant, but he was terribly curious.

Crowley’s grin faded slowly, an ember burning out until it curled black and lifeless at the corner of his mouth. He shrugged and the wide neck of his shirt draped further down his shoulder. “That mark’s the reason I hate the 14th century.”

Aziraphale, whose gaze had been inextricably drawn to the gentle slope of demonic clavicle that was now on display, blinked and looked back up into his eyes. “What?”

“Well,” Crowley quickly amended, “it’s the main reason, anyway.”

“I thought you once told me that you hated the 14th century because of the Papal Schism?” Aziraphale asked.

“That was certainly part of it, yes,” he confirmed and took a sip of coffee. He looked more alert now. The soft, sleep-mussed air that hung around him after his naps was quickly dissipating. “As well as that Hundred Year War thing and The Plague.”

“As I recall, those were both terrible things that you took credit for,” Aziraphale reminded him with a quirked eyebrow. As much as Crowley seemed to despise the 14th century, it hadn’t been all fun-and-games for Aziraphale, either. Three simultaneous popes, millions dead, revolts and uprisings—it was all enough to make an angel crazy.

“Yes,” Crowley whined, slumping forward in his seat dramatically. “It was full of terrible things and I was terribly busy.”

“Oh, well, you poor dear.”

Crowley scoffed. “Angel, I get the distinct impression that your sympathy is not entirely genuine.”

“My sympathy for devils—you or otherwise—is limited, but I do genuinely adore you, so do with that as you will.”

“I shall,” Crowley said with an absurd waggle of his eyebrows. Aziraphale’s stomach swooped and he rolled his eyes with a fond tolerance.

“Crowley,” he said mildly and tried again. “The mark on your side?”

The demon’s bright yellow eyes regarded him over the top of his mug and, for the first time, Aziraphale could see weary resignation in them. It suddenly struck him how difficult Crowley was making this. A frisson of worry ran down his spine.

“Is—is there something you don’t want me to know? I mean, if so—” he hastened to say when Crowley’s mouth opened. “—that’s perfectly fine. We don’t have to tell each other everything. I just—Well, I just thought—”

“It was an exorcist.”

The rest of Aziraphale’s sentence died in his throat. He felt it whither and turn to dust, coating his tongue with bitter ash. He coughed and asked, “I, uh—beg pardon?”

“An exorcist gave me this mark,” Crowley repeated calmly and gestured towards his left side with a nod of his head. He’d put his mug down and was now focused on Aziraphale. “Back in 1349.”

Aziraphale’s mind began to race. 1349? Where did this happen? Italy? It must have been. Wasn’t I in Italy around that time? Why didn’t he call me for help? Unless—no, we still weren’t really considered acquaintances then, were we? Let alone friends. I don’t think The Arrangement was even in place for another few hundred years—

“Stop.”

The gentle command cut through his increasingly distressed train of thought and Aziraphale jerked in his seat. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and blinked up at Crowley. At some point, he had gotten up and come around to stand beside Aziraphale’s chair, half-sitting on the edge of the table.

“W-what?” he asked, thrown by the demon’s sudden proximity and still reeling from his confession. An exorcist. Why would—

“I said stop.”

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley crossed his arms with a beleaguered sigh and stared down at him. He’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and Aziraphale’s heart gave a squeeze at the dusting of light freckles he could see across his skin.

“I know your brain,” Crowley said. “I know it’s going hell for leather right now trying to figure everything out and I’m sure you’ve somehow managed to blame yourself.”

Aziraphale swallowed and looked away, his eyes lowering to study the wood grain of the table.

“Angel, we weren’t even friends back then,” Crowley said in exasperation, echoing his earlier thoughts. Aziraphale looked back up at him. “You thinking that you were in some way responsible for a run of bad luck I had nearly 700 years ago is just your—” He stammered briefly, jostling his shoulders like he was trying to knock the right words loose. “—angelic guilt or whatever.”

“You saved me more times than I can count and I couldn’t even—”

“I saved myself,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You shouldn’t have had to,” he said softly, heart fluttering like a wounded bird within the cage of his ribs.

Crowley made one of his incoherent little noises and then turned away, casting his angular features into profile. The corner of his mouth was pulled down in a frown, jaw grinding back and forth. Aziraphale wanted to reach out to him—to press love in the shape of fingerprints into his warm skin. However, he didn’t think his touch would be well-received at the moment.

Instead, he asked, “Will you tell me about it?”

Crowley looked at him out of the corner of his eye, seeming to consider him. “I think it’ll just upset you,” he finally said.

“I’m afraid that ship has sailed, my dear,” Aziraphale told him. His throat squeezed around the words as he spoke them, rasping against them until they were little more than a whisper. “Please tell me.”

The sigh that passed Crowley’s lips was an ancient thing—something he’d been carrying around for nearly a millennium in his chest. He rolled his neck back and forth. Then he said, “It was in Basel.”

“Switzerland?” Aziraphale asked, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t Switzerland at the time, but the sentiment is the same. That’s where it happened. Y-you remember how, after The Black Plague, there were—well, um, there was a lot of hatred towards the Jewish community?”

Aziraphale nodded once, a grim set to his mouth. “I remember,” he said. “The pogroms.”

The Jewish Black Death massacres. They’d started up in 1348 as a result of the plague sweeping across Europe and had lasted for a few years. Christians killing Jews because they thought they were somehow responsible for the disease that had ravaged the continent—that they had invoked the wrath of God or were poisoning the well water. Ridiculous, Aziraphale thought viciously.

Crowley uncrossed his arms so that he could gesticulate while he spoke. “Right. It was a crazy time; everyone was dying and people wanted someone to blame.”

“They usually do,” Aziraphale said without humor. He reached across the table for Crowley’s abandoned coffee, brushing his arm against the demon’s hip. “Human nature.”

“There’s nothing natural about wanting to wipe out an entire race or religion.”

“I don’t disagree.” He took a tentative sip of the coffee and grimaced, quickly holding it out to Crowley. “That is terrible,” he coughed, smacking his lips to try ridding himself of the burnt flavor.

“You just don’t have my exquisite taste,” Crowley sighed, taking the mug out of his hand. His fingertips slid across Aziraphale’s knuckles and an involuntary shiver ran up the angel’s spine. “Anyway, that’s what I was doing in Basel. My people had sent me there a few days before the massacre—I didn’t want to be there and I didn’t have anything to do with the previous pogroms in Savoy or Erfurt or Toulon, really. I think they just assumed I had.”

Aziraphale believed him. Though Crowley had definitely softened during the course of their 6000 year acquaintance, he had never seemed the type to tempt people into mass-slaughter. He was more the inconvenience-people-into-sinning kind of demon. He’d said so himself that, many times, the humans basically took care of the big stuff themselves. No tempting needed.

“And Basel is where you met the, uh, exorcist?” Aziraphale asked.

“Mm-hm,” Crowley mumbled, staring down into his mug with pursed lips. “And, really, I use the term exorcist extremely loosely. He wasn’t what I would consider a professional by any means. I think he just got lucky.”

What Aziraphale wanted to say was that, if the man had truly been an amateur, maybe it was Crowley who had gotten lucky. He bit his tongue, though. Crowley’s posture was hunched, defensive—his shoulders curled forward and his back bowed. His eyes had a distant, vaguely haunted look to them. So Aziraphale swallowed down his anxiety and waited.

Eventually, Crowley blinked like he was coming out of a trance and looked over at him. His yellow irises were blown out, encompassing his eyes. “He got me the day after the riot. There was still ash in the air from, um—from where the townspeople had locked the adults up and set the building on fire. There were kids that the Christians were forcibly converting and I was—I had been drinking. I just, uh—” Crowley paused. Took a breath. “I just don’t like it when they get kids involved.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, infinitely gentle.

“Anyway, I think my—my glasses slipped and he saw my eyes or—I dunno, he smelled sulphur on me or something—”

You don’t smell like sulphur, Aziraphale thought, but didn’t dare interrupt. You smell like frankincense.

“—but I p-passed out or he knocked me out and the next thing I remember is that I was strung up somewhere. It was dark and smelled like—like hay and shit. Probably a barn. He, uh . . .”

Crowley trailed off, looking away again. He was running his nails along the rim of his mug, filling the silence with a low, chittering resonance that set Aziraphale’s teeth on edge. He longed to reach out and lay his hands over Crowley’s—to still them and imbibe some comfort. He linked his fingers together on the tabletop instead.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked in an even tone, trying to sound as though he wasn’t crawling out of his skin.

Crowley’s eyes skittered back over to him. Tension was evident in the set of his jaw and the stark whiteness of his knuckles where he gripped his mug. “Do you want to hear about it?”

Aziraphale frowned, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. He’d been present at an exorcism before. Rome, around the turn of the 19th century. He’d stood back and observed as two Catholic priests attempted to drive the demon Leraje from the body of a young woman.

It had laughed and snarled threats, and Aziraphale had felt its opalescent eyes rake over him. Then Father Cancio had begun chanting his Latin phrases and Father D’Agostino had thrown blessed oils and holy water in its face. The demon’s skin had split and steamed, blisters forming over blisters as Leraje writhed and shrieked. Its dirty fingers had gouged marks into the arms of the chair it was tied to, blood pooling along its cuticles as the nails snapped off, its joints buckling. It bit off the woman’s tongue—spat it onto the floor at their feet—and blood had boiled in its mouth as it shouted obscenities at them.

It had lasted for hours. In the end, Leraje had been exorcised and the woman had died in the chair. Aziraphale could still smell the blood; could still hear her skin sizzling under the holy water.

Then he imagined Crowley in Leraje’s place and his stomach turned so violently that he nearly threw up.

“I never want to hear about you getting hurt, my dear,” he eventually whispered. “But I am here if you want to—”

Crowley waved a hand, cutting him off. “No, I, uh—I’d rather not discuss the details of that, if it’s all the same to you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s breath left him in a messy rush and he felt lightheaded with relief. He had asked Crowley to tell him. He would listen if the demon wanted to explain what had happened to him during his own exorcism attempt, but Aziraphale would rather peel his own skin off than have those images in his head.

“Of course,” he said, voice weak.

Crowley set his mug down on the table behind him, then folded his arms across his midsection, hands grasping loosely at his own elbows. “In any case, after—after everything, I managed to get loose and kill the silly bugger.”

Good, Aziraphale thought viciously.

“I was in pretty bad shape,” Crowley continued, staring blankly off into the middle distance. There was a fine sheen of sweat glistening at his temple and Aziraphale watched his throat move with a swallow. “I got out of Basel and only just managed to make it to the next town before I collapsed. The exorcist—he didn’t have any holy water, thank Somebody, but he did have this, uh, I dunno—a coin or a pendant. I didn’t get a good look at it. It must’ve been a holy relic or something, because it burned like a blessed sonofabitch; left welts all over that I couldn’t heal.”

Crowley reached down absentmindedly and touched his side where Aziraphale knew the mark to be. “This one was the worst. It got infected and I got a fever. I’m sure you can imagine what that looked like back in 1349.”

A lump of dread settled in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach, poisonous apprehension seeping out into the rest of his body like lead into drinking water. “Like you had the plague.”

Crowley clicked his tongue and said cheerlessly, “Got it in one, angel.”

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley sighed wearily.

“The fever wiped me out—put me into a coma, most likely. The townspeople thought I had died, so they buried me in a mass grave with other plague victims—”

“What?” Aziraphale gasped, horrified.

“—and I don’t remember much after that. I discorporated at some point; wound up back in Hell. After lots of paperwork and whatnot, I got back topside around 1378.”

“Y-you discorporated? How—how did I not know that? You, erm—” Aziraphale stopped. Drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to center himself. When he opened them again, he found Crowley’s gaze on him. The yellow of his irises had retreated back to their centers. “You don’t look any different,” he told the demon. “You got—what? A-a copy of your body?”

“Did I mention: lots of paperwork,” Crowley said and Aziraphale was relieved to hear humor in his voice.

“1378?” he asked, then sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just in time for the Papal Schism, I see.”

“Three popes are three too many, angel.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he said lightly, letting a small smile pull at his mouth. Then he amended, “In this case.”

Crowley chuckled and the pressure seemed to ease off of his shoulders, the tension that had gathered around him like graveyard mist breaking apart and abating. The soft morning sun had transformed his hair into a coppery halo; it caressed his face, highlighting the delicate lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.

Aziraphale watched him for a few moments, then asked hesitantly, “And, um—the mark was, uh, still there when you—when you came back?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “It was the only one. Everything else hadn’t left so much as a scar, but this one—it stayed. Dunno why. Maybe because it was the deepest wound or maybe because it was the one that eventually discorporated me. Or maybe Hell just left it there as a reminder when they remade my body.”

“A reminder?”

Crowley shrugged, the loose nonchalance he was trying to affect ruined by the way his eyes flitted away from Aziraphale’s face. “A reminder that I’m weak or—or maybe reliant on them?”

Aziraphale ached for him. His heart was a crushing weight in his chest. You aren’t weak, he thought.

He swallowed and lifted a hand towards Crowley, hovering just shy of touching him. “May I see?” he asked in a quiet voice.

There was a moment when he thought that Crowley would refuse; would push himself away from the table and disappear into the bedroom; would hole himself away and sleep for a hundred years. But then Crowley sighed, resigned. He reached down and lifted the edge of his shirt, pivoting slightly so that Aziraphale could view the back of his hip.

The mark was obvious, but Aziraphale let his eyes drag over the rest of Crowley’s golden skin before he examined it. He ran his gaze along the shallow dips between each rib, counted the lumps of his spine. Patches of freckles stood out like tiny galaxies.

“You’re beautiful,” he said absentmindedly. Then he blushed.

Crowley huffed out a laugh, relaxing. “Thank you, angel. You’re not so bad yourself.” Aziraphale looked up at him just in time to catch a cheeky wink. He rolled his eyes.

“You’re also ridiculous.”

“You like me.”

“I certainly do not,” Aziraphale said airily and his heart gave a little flutter when Crowley chuckled. With a smile, he returned to his perusal of the warm skin before him, finally letting himself look at the white mark on Crowley’s side.

It was smaller than Aziraphale had initially thought—no bigger than a two pence—and was almost perfectly round. He suspected that whatever had made the mark had been intricately decorated, but the curving lines it left behind were now blurred and he couldn’t make out any details.

“You didn’t try to miracle this away?” he asked.

“Oh, I did,” Crowley said, sounding resigned. “No good. It’s one scar that I can’t make go away.”

It doesn’t really look like a scar. More like a patch of vitiligo, he thought, reaching up unthinkingly to touch the mark. He laid his fingertips against its edge and Crowley hissed out a shocked breath.

Aziraphale jerked his hand back, distraught. “Oh, I’m sorry!” he stammered. “I-I didn’t—”

“You’re fine,” Crowley said, a slight tremble in his voice. His shirt was still pulled up, but he’d reached down to cover the mark with his own hand, rubbing at it. “Just startled me is all.”

Aziraphale watched him run his fingers along the skin, worry gnawing at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You can touch me, if you want.”

“Well, dear, I always want to touch you,” he said without thinking and with far more levity than he felt. Crowley lifted his eyebrows at him and Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, hush. You’re hardly scandalized.”

Crowley grinned. “Here,” he said with a little sigh and reached over to take ahold of Aziraphale’s hand. His grip was a loose circle around his wrist, fingertips stroking over his pulse point and sending frissons of pleasure up his arm. Crowley pulled and Aziraphale went willingly, his heart in his throat. He let the demon press his palm against the mark, his own fingers smoothing over the back of Aziraphale’s hand before he let go. 

His skin was warm and pliant, and Aziraphale let himself enjoy having it beneath his fingers once again before he really focused on the mark. He ran a thumb along its edge. It was smooth, not raised like he expected a scar to be—more like a birthmark.

And then it struck Aziraphale. That’s exactly what it was: a birthmark. Crowley had been tortured, branded, killed, and then had carried the mark into his new body after his resurrection. A reminder of his failings.

Before he could think about what he was doing, Aziraphale leaned forward. He placed his lips over the mark, sucking a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the white skin. Above him, he heard Crowley hiss in a startled breath. Fingers wove through his hair, caressing his scalp.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, sounding breathless.

He kept his mouth where it was. Using his tongue and teeth and lips, he pressed love and reassurance down into the skin, marking Crowley’s side. The demon’s ragged breaths filled the kitchen and his fingers dragged through Aziraphale’s curls when he pulled back to examine his handiwork. Where the white birthmark had once been, the skin now stood out red and blotchy.

“Did you just give me a hickey?” Crowley asked, sounding equal parts offended and impressed.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said and passed a thumb over the red mark. Angelic power tingled like a static charge as he miracled the erythema away and Crowley gave a little jolt.

“Hey! What did you do?” he huffed and craned his neck to take a look.

Then he froze.

Aziraphale watched him, his pulse thrumming like hummingbird wings in his throat as Crowley touched the skin where the mark had once been. In its place, a mass of dark freckles now stood.

An angel’s kiss.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Aziraphale told him, his voice reedy. “I just—I adore you. I worship every inch of you. And if there is a part of you that causes you pain—a mark that reminded you of an event so traumatic you would despise an entire millennium because of it—Well, if I could take that mark away . . .”

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes wide, but said nothing. Aziraphale swallowed down the worry that threatened to choke him and continued.

“You aren’t weak,” he told Crowley. “You are wily and resilient and you care so much. I know that you’re a demon and you don’t want to hear it, but I see so much good in you that naming everything I love would be like counting the stars. I can’t do it. You are made of starlight. I wish that I was half as strong as—”

He didn’t get to finish. Crowley swooped down and caught his mouth in a bruising kiss. Aziraphale gasped into it and reached up to catch ahold of Crowley’s shoulders, hanging on. The demon’s fingers traced over the tops of his ears and down along his jawline as he kissed him, eliciting tiny shivers from Aziraphale.

It lasted only for a few seconds before Crowley retreated, playfully nipping at Aziraphale’s bottom lip as he went, but the angel was left winded. Crowley smiled at him, looking beautifully rumpled, and said, “Thank you, angel.”

It sounded remarkably like I love you, too.

Aziraphale grinned back, relief and happiness pouring out of his bones like sunlight and warming the garden blooming in his chest. His heart pounded. “You’re quite welcome, my dear.”

They spent a few moments quietly regarding one another, Crowley absentmindedly touching his side through his shirt. Then he reached out to Aziraphale, laying a hand against his cheek.

“I,” he said in a gentle voice, drawing out the syllable as he swept a thumb across the skin just beneath Aziraphale’s eye, “am going to take a shower.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Been asleep for a week,” Crowley said by way of explanation. He dropped his hand and pushed himself away from the table. Aziraphale watched him go, eyes drawn to the sway of his hips, and tried not to feel disappointment that Crowley was walking away instead of kissing him.

He sighed and mumbled, “Well then, I suppose I’ll make some tea.”

“Or you could join me?”

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley. He was standing in the kitchen entrance, leaning heavily against the doorframe. There was a smile on his face, and he looked soft and vulnerable in his too-big shirt and bare feet. Then his eyelids fluttered and his smile morphed into a predatory grin, lips curling up to reveal his straight, white teeth. Arousal dropped into Aziraphale’s stomach like a lead weight; his breath shuddered out of his lungs.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley said, his voice a deep rumble like the beginnings of a summer storm. “I’ll put marks all over your skin this time.”

Then he disappeared through the doorway, leaving Aziraphale gaping in his wake. The angel sat there for a moment, listening as Crowley moved about on the other side of the small cottage. The shower started up.

Aziraphale thought about Crowley’s naked skin; about steam curling up around his legs and hips and back; about water beading along freckles instead of white birthmarks. He smiled and stood.

The tea could wait.

=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=  

Based on the prompt: “Why does Crowley hate the 14th century?” Requested by @needscaffeine. This took FOREVER, as I had to wrestle it to the ground and get it back on track several times.

[bixgirl1]

New Fic - Glompfest!

Title: Life Lessons Author: Bixgirl1 Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy Rating: Heh. Explicit. Word Count: 68k Content/Warnings: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Wandless Magic, Banter and flirting and snark - oh myyy - UST!, accidental kissing, intentional kissing (just really a lot of kissing), Epistolary elements, Auror Harry, Humor, dancing, weird plotty stuff ‘cause I can’t help myself, mentions of childhood trauma and previously-made sexual threats, wanking, oral sex, anal fingering, anal sex, rimming (omfg I just realized I forgot that in my AO3 tags!), intergluteal sex, semi-public sex. Summary: On the cusp of a promotion, Harry needs a little help with his image. Enter Draco Malfoy — who doesn't really do that, Potter — to whip him into shape… and make him feel things he hasn't for a very long time. Featuring: odd jobs, surprising chemistry, lots of accidental kissing, the Prophet living up to type, owls exhausted by the carrying of dirty letters, a secret no one can talk about, a merry band of Slytherins (none of whom really approve), and an enchanted mirror (who really, really does).

Author’s Notes: For @m4g0rtz. I’ve wanted to write for you for the LONGEST time, sweets.  Your comments before we met always made me absolutely light up, and then I got to know you and I realized you’re just as fabulous as you seemed. Your friendship has meant so much to me from the beginning, and this fest gave me the perfect excuse to say so in fic; I hope you can forgive my sneakiness while I wrote this for you. lolol.

A huge thanks to my lovely betas, @lqtraintracks and @coriesocks. You guys were both so effing patient with me and both so encouraging and helpful - you made this like a zillion times better than it would have been otherwise. <333333

And a huge thanks to the mods, too, for running such a fun, wonderful fest!

Excerpt (under the cut):

It was one of the most fundamental truths of Harry’s life: as soon as things were going well, everything would turn to shit.

You’re a wizard, Harry — just be on guard for that murderer hunting you. You have a godfather, Harry — but be careful not to get too attached to him. From his relationship with Ginny (which never got back off the ground after the war) to his life after defeating Voldemort (which would never resemble anything approaching normal), there was always some sort of caveat. Privately, he called it “End of the School Year Syndrome.”

The fact that this time it had actually been scheduled for late June was simply ironic.

“That’s not even six weeks away,” Hermione said, frowning.

“Your confidence in me is inspirational,” Harry said. “And the maths isn't really what I’m having a problem with.” He took the invitation back from her and re-buried his face in one of the sofa pillows. It smelled a little like feet and Ron’s deodorant, as though Ron had Transfigured it into a footstool and then only had time to hastily return it to form and freshen it with a charm before Hermione saw and got on him again about just using one of their existing footstools. Harry tossed it to the floor, face smooshing against the sofa cushion as he blindly reached out in search of another pillow. He heard Hermione huff just as one hit him on the back of the head. Harry shoved it under his face. “Thanks,” he said, muffled.

There was a beat of silence, and then Hermione sighed and rested her hand against the back of his head. “How long do you need to sulk?” she asked, stroking her fingers through his hair.

Harry slumped a little deeper. “Five weeks.”

“I’ll give you until Ron gets back with dinner,” she said, more to herself than him. "And for goodness’ sake, Harry, at least take off your glasses.”

Harry managed to take them off without lifting his head or breaking them — proof, he supposed, that he wasn’t entirely incompetent. Hermione took them from his hand and rose with a final, fluttering pat on his shoulder blade. Harry exhaled and tried to consider his options, but was quickly lulled by the drum of the rain on the windowpanes and the pop of the fire. He listened to Hermione putter around her kitchen and relaxed; more than for the advice or commiseration, this was why he’d come, if he was honest. Ron and Hermione’s cottage was homey, calm, most of their furniture crafted from Ron’s magic, the air inside scented by the lavender Hermione had planted in the beds below their windows. Harry missed the company, and the lived-in quality of the tiny flat they’d shared before Ron and Hermione moved out, the distracted mess of three people training for unrelated careers, always someone either there or about to be.

He liked the flat he'd moved into on his own just fine, but working the hours he did left it with a silent, sterile quality he could never seem to get rid of, even when he left the wireless on or avoided laundry for a few days. He’d tried to spruce it up more than once, but Neville wouldn’t even let him buy plants anymore, not after the Solicitous Succulents he’d brought over on Boxing Day — When they bloom, they emit soothing pheromones! You can’t kill them, they barely need any attention! — had weaponised their thorns within an hour of Nev’s arrival; a defensive measure they took when they were in danger of drying out, Neville told him later, and one he’d thought was a myth.

The sound of Ron’s Apparition to their front door roused Harry from his reverie, but he didn’t get up. He heard the rustle of takeaway being opened and dished out, a low hum of murmurs, and his own name — and then Ron shouted, “What the bloody fuck?” and stomped, fuming, into the parlour. “They’re not going to give it to you?”

Harry pushed up from his prone position and shrugged as Ron glowered down at him. “They might,” he said. “Robards said they might still.”

“Give over,” Ron said, and Harry dutifully scooted to make space. Ron threw himself down onto the sofa. “It’s utter shit, Harry.”

“I know.”

“He’s been telling you that job’s yours for… for years!”

“I know.”

“You’ve worked longer hours and closed more cases than anyone in the entire department!” Ron said. His outrage was soothing, both to Harry’s temper and his self-esteem, and a grateful smile tugged at Harry’s lips.

“I know,” he said again.

"You should just run," Ron spat. "Hermione's been saying it, we'll organise a campaign--"

"We'd have no time to prepare for it now. Besides, even if I wanted to, it would look… wrong. Robards would step aside, but… He didn't even have to run in the last election five years ago, and and no one's ever won who wasn't backed by both the exiting Head Auror, the Minister, and at least half the Wizengamot," Harry said, shaking his head when Ron took another deep breath and opened his mouth. “And anyway, Robards said it's not as simple at that.”

“The age thing again?”

Harry scowled. “I wish.”

Twice before, Robards had put off retiring when certain members of the Wizengamot had made it plain that, no matter Harry’s accomplishments to date, they had no intention of promoting someone barely into their twenties to the position of Head Auror. Trying not to take issue with their reasoning — or the extra work Robards piled on him to make a point of his capabilities — Harry’d not made a single complaint as his twenty-third and twenty-fourth birthdays ticked by. But with every successfully closed case since, Robards had assured him that by his twenty-fifth he’d have his promotion.

And then he’d called Harry in for a meeting today, offering Harry a drink before he’d even sat down.

Ron made a disgruntled sound and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s the problem this time?”

“As I was trying to tell you, husband-mine,” Hermione said dryly, walking in and levitating three plates behind her, “It's supposedly Harry.”

“What's Harry?” Ron asked, shooting her a sheepish look. He lifted two of the plates from midair, passing one over to Harry. The salty grease of Ron’s selection — fish and chips — teased at Harry’s senses and he tried to recall when he ate last. Breakfast, probably.

“The problem,” Hermione said, taking her own plate and sitting between them. “It’s Harry.”

“And I’m supposed to be the tactless one,” Ron stage-whispered to him.

“I’m not a problem,” Harry said, pulling a wounded face at Hermione.

She made a little sound of protest. “I didn’t—”

“Arguing with her never ends well,” Ron said. “You might as well just get on board with being a problem, capital P.”

“I don’t want to be a Problem,” Harry said. He turned beseeching eyes at Hermione. “Couldn’t I be something like Trouble instead?”

Ron nodded sagely. “You’ve got enough experi—”

“Oh my god, fine!” Hermione said, dropping her utensils on her plate. Cheered by the clear exasperation on her face, Harry laughed and looked at Ron, who popped three chips in his mouth and quirked her an unrepentant grin. Hermione rolled her eyes and elbowed Ron, but the look she shot him was fond and warm. “Hush, or you’ll end up with your own problem — with a capital P,” she said warningly. She turned back to Harry. “There is a point to be considered about your image, that's not wrong.”

“Hermione!” Ron said, but Hermione looked at Harry steadily, waiting. Expectant.

Harry frowned, effectively distracted from distracting himself. He squeezed a lemon wedge over his fish and opened a packet of vinegar, sprinkling it over his chips to buy some time.

“Well, it's not right,” he said at length.

“No, I know,” Hermione said, gaze softening.

“All right, can someone actually explain then?” Ron asked, waving his fork at each of them in turn and then stabbing, a little viciously, into his fish.

“It’s me. My conduct outside of work isn’t ‘befitting a senior Ministry position,’” he quoted, sounding sullen to his own ears. “The way I talk to the press, or the way I avoid them. Maybe both. The Head Auror is responsible for releasing public statements, and you know me.”

“So?” Ron said, brows drawing together. “You’re a little short-tempered with them, so what? S’not like they’re ever asking you about cases, are they? It’s always about who you’re seeing, or was that really your bum in those pictures. It’s been almost three years since you hexed one of them. Just write up the statements and release them that way.”

“There’s other things, too,” Harry said. He flushed. “The way I am with the public—”

“You’re great with the public!” Ron said, starting to look angry again. “You talk to every kid you meet, you donate, you—”

“I lose my temper with people, though.” Harry took a breath. “I arrested that man last year who wouldn’t leave me alone—”

“He was trying to shove his hand down the back of your trousers!” Ron sputtered.

“—and that whole thing in the Prophet questioning how much of an asset I could be to the Ministry when my name got in the way of my job… Well, it got a lot of traction,” Harry said. He looked down at his plate, stomach suddenly churning. “And whenever I go to public events, I stay on the sidelines, or I’m accidentally rude to some diplomat—”

“That happened twice!”

“Four times.” Harry grimaced. “More, really. Apart from little things like spilling wine all over Ireland’s Minister for Magic or insulting that envoy from Brazil by having to leave early when I got sick off the Firerolls they served at their event, apparently my dress robes are all wrong, I’ve not once used the correct fork, I may as well eat my feet for how often they’re in my mouth, and I refuse to dance, no matter who’s asking.”

“Well you’re not good at it!” Ron fairly yelled, getting so red in the face his freckles were barely visible. “How the bloody hell can anyone blame you after what happened last time!”

Read the rest on AO3

[chysgoda]

Rivalry of Concepts Tales from the Architect’s Bureau

Word Count: 1881

Rating: G Spoilers: 5.0, tales from the shadows

Author’s Notes: Various micro scenes from the days before the End Times. 

“No.”

“Sir, it is a concept that only a skilled and astute artist can use effectively.”

Hades glared at the artist on the other side of his desk as he steepled his fingers together in front of his face. There was a list of… problem children within the Bureau. Citizens that with astounding regularity caused chaos and disaster within the halls of his domain. Shupakor was on that list.  “We do not restrict the use of concepts unless there is a public safety hazard, and a paint is not a safety hazard. Even if I were to entertain the ridiculous notion it would be the creator of the concept that would have exclusive use.”

“With all due respect Sir-“

“Respect would have been NOT terrorizing my staff until I had to come intervene.” Hades said dryly. Shupakor’s chest puffed out in indignation but the Architect glared his gold eyes intensely perturbed behind his mask. “The answer is No. try to appeal this again and I WILL censure you.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Tewaple!” Hythlodaeus stood up and rounded his desk to greet his friend. The lanky figure grinned brightly as he embraced the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect. Tewaple cut a memorable figure, paint splashes stained the hems of his sleeves and his mask, his robes fit horribly because he never bothered to create the things to fit properly. They embraced and Hythlodaeus motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk as he took the other one. “The paperwork for you’re new concept for a paint just crossed my desk.”

“That’s what I was hoping to speak with you about!” Tewaple’s tone would have been overly enthusiastic for anyone else. For him it was nearly professional.

Hythlodaeus arched an eyebrow behind his mask. “This one isn’t going to need an appeal my friend.”

“I know, I know, but I’d like to ask a favor.” Tewaple gestured broadly.

“And that is?”

“I want to ban Shupakor from using it.”

Hythlodaeus pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Tewaple, this is why you’re on the list of problem children.”

“I know that he’s trying to get exclusive use of the concept Nyx submitted.” The artist protested.

“And you know he will get the same answer.” Hythlodaeus sighed. “He’s in Emet-Selch’s office now, Hades had to intervene when he antagonized one of our new staff almost to tears.”

“Jackass,” Tewaple grumbled.

“I do not disagree,” Hythlodaeus sighed. “Was there anything else?”

“Were you still planning on coming to the gallery opening?” Tewaple asked as he stood.

The other man nodded, “I am and I think I’m going to drag Hades’s new protege along she’s the one that Shupakor upset.”

Tewaple arched an eyebrow, “Not something I’d expect from a student of the Architect.”

Hythlodaeus chuckled, “She’s Elidibus’s daughter. She did her father proud but Hades and I have both known her since she was a smol and she’s got the same tells as the Emissary.”

The artist made a sympathetic noise, “Poor thing was probably mortified when Emet-Selch came down from on high to rescue her.”

“You have no idea.”

~*~*~*~*~

Bragi smiled as he watched his daughter putter around the kitchen of their apartment preparing dinner. He set his convocation mask down and lowered the white hood of his robes. “Hades mentioned that you’re doing well at the Architect’s Bureau.”

“I’d be doing better if he didn’t breathe down my neck.” Ananke groused.

Bargi chuckled and stepped over to wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into a side hug. “It’s not too late to back out of concept design and sign up with the Akademia’s music department for fall semester.”

Ananke gently elbowed him in the ribs gently. “You just want to vicariously relive your glory days as a concert pianist. Besides, I can do both.”

“Just don’t overload yourself. The first year at the Akadaemia is designed to be brutal” He kissed the top of her head and then stepped back when she started to dish dinner onto plates for them. He took his plate from her and they moved to the dining room. “So how are things going?”

“Stars and Stones, Uncle Hades is so EMBARRASSING!” Ananke dropped her face into her hands. She glanced up when her father started chuckling. “It’s not funny Dad.”

“I assure you that it is.”

“At least Uncle Daeus can be professional,” the girl grumbled to her plate.

Bragi stifled his chuckles, he very much doubted that it was actually that bad. “There is a reason he was offered Emet-Selch’s seat first.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes and Bragi worked on putting concerns of the convocation aside for now. He’d promised his wife before she died, promised himself, when he was home he’d be home with their child, not half absent on convocation business. Still, whispers of what was happening beyond the sea pulled at the back of his thoughts.

“I was relieved when he swept in like that,” Ananke said quietly. “I wasn’t sure what else I could say to that man.”

“Shupakor and the Bureau of the Architect have a long-standing… relationship” Bragi said carefully.

“That’s a very Elidibus way of saying that.” The young woman narrowed her eyes at him.

He shrugged. “Evidently having to deal with Shupakor is something of a right of passage. Hades and his predecessor have both had to rescue their staff from him every time he comes to Bureau.”

“Oh,” Ananke said her posture relaxing a bit. “If he’s such a problem why hasn’t he been censored yet?”

“He never quite crosses the line, although knowing Hades he may just do it. Even if it puts him at odds with Lahabrea and Nabriales,” Bragi reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Which will make Convocation meetings entertaining for quite a while. All three of them hold grudges.”

Ananke wrinkled her nose. “I hope I never get offered a Convocation seat. primary school has less drama.”

Bragi swallowed hard and coughed as laughter took him by surprise.

~**~**~**~**~**~

Lilith stood and glared at the thing that had appeared in the city’s largest park overnight. She’s been back in the city for all of three hours before getting dragged from her bed and the warm hollow between her two lovers by a call about a thing that had appeared. Next to her Hades needlessly adjusted his mask as he glared at the thing as well.

Behind them, Hythlodaeus and Lilith’s second Alcibiades gave each other resigned looks. Someone was going to get it in the neck for this. The two convocation members consulted together in low tones and the few citizens that were up in this predawn gray gave the group a wide berth. There was going to be a new piece of public art in this location but Hythlodaeus knew well that the concept had not yet been released by Emet-Selch for discussion amongst the convocation.

“Who are they going to string up for this?” Alcibiades’s smooth baritone would have netted him an invitation to “dinner” if Hythlodaeus had been a single man.

“Shupakor.” Hythlodaeus sighed as he watched his two lovers. Alcibiades cursed under his breath. For reasons neither of them could fathom both Lahabrea and Nabriales favored the arrogant artist. “Precisely.”

“Fuck.”

“Unfortunately I am the faithful type.”

Alcibiades drew in a long breath and released it slowly. “Why are you like this?”

“My friend, you really have no idea how little sanity there is to be found in the Architect’s Bureau.”

~**~**~**~**~**~

“The Concept had not been approved yet!”

“How long has it been sitting on your desk Emet-Selch?!”

“That is irrelevant Nabriales! IT. WAS. NOT. APPROVED.”

Ananke sat outside of the Convocation’s chamber and fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. She held the stack of meticulously documented incidents where Shupakor had tried to circumvent the Bureau’s policies. She frowned finding a tear in the hem of her sleeve, she must have caught it on a drawer when she had been digging the files out of the vault. A moment of thought and a spark of aether fixed it. She glanced at the closed doors and shook her head. So many of her friends were in awe of the Convocation, she’d given up trying to convince them there wasn’t really anything awe inspiring about fourteen grown adults who mostly just yelled at each other.

“It’s a giant fire hazard Lahabrea that’s why it hasn’t been approved!”

“Then why wasn’t the artist consulted sooner?”

“Why did the artist think it was appropriate to bypass Emet-Selch?”

Ananke glanced up a second before Hythlodaeus came around the corner. He smiled amiably and took a seat next to her. “They’re still at it?”

The young woman nodded, “It’s mostly Lahabrea, Emet-Selch, Nabriales, and Preasul. I think I heard Mitron once.”

“This could have been avoided is all that I’m trying to say!”

“Do you think your father will add his thoughts?” Hytholdaeus took the stack of documents from her and started rearranging them.

“Maybe if you did your job instead of sleeping at your desk-”

“Not unless it looks like someone is going to start throwing aether around.” Ananke leaned over to see how the Chief was organizing the files.

“It is hardly my fault that you can’t manage your time Igeyorhm!”

Hythlodaeus glanced at the doors. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

There was a loud crack as if something heavy had been slammed against the surface. Anake grimaced, “That is probably Lahabrea trying to use the Rules of Order as a trump card.”

“You have GOT to be joking!”

“Lilith if you and Hades cannot be bothered to remember the rules of this Convocation-”

The pair in the hall went silent. That was a rather large faux pas on the part of the Speaker.

“That will be quite enough. I would suggest we recess for lunch and come back with cooler heads.”

Ananke sighed in relief. She still wasn’t sure how her father managed to make his voice carry like that without shouting. She was almost positive he used aether to do it, but she’d never been able to replicate it. Hythlodaeus squeezed her shoulder and smiled. “Well, at least the boss makes sure we eat well when he drags us up here.”

Ananke gave a startled laugh which turned into hiccups when she tried to strangle it as the Convocation of Fourteen filed out in various flavors of upset. She could feel her father’s arched eyebrow behind his mask when he stepped out. Elidibus glanced over his shoulder to look back at where Emet-Selch was blocking Praesul’s path as they hissed whispers at each other. He shook his head and motioned for his daughter to join him. “Hythlodaeus would you please let Emet-Selch know that I will return his intern when he can think clearly.”

Hythlodaeus nodded sagely, “So we’ll see her when she is voted in to take his place.”

Ananke made a strangled sound of embarrassment that earned her an amused smile from Halmarut as he walked by. Elidibus gently took his daughter’s arm and wondered, not for the first time, if encouraging her to work at the Bureau of the Architect for the summer before entering the Akademia had been a wise idea.

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

Black Coffee: Part 5

Summary: Coffee aroma surrounds you as you prepare for a long day of studying in your favorite coffee shop. Your focus is shattered by a handsome stranger demanding a very large favor-pretend to be his girlfriend. Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader Warning(s): Cursing. Fluff. Smut 18+ Word Count: 1,767 Notes: I wasn’t planning on making this a series...and yet there are now 5 parts and it’s a completed series. Who would have thought?

You never thought the sound of a tent zipper closing could be arousing, yet here you are. Bucky had gently commanded both you and the dogs into the tent while he turned down the campsite for the evening.

“Change into something nice, doll. I’ll be in before you know it.” He pecked your cheek before beginning to secure the rest of your foodstuffs and helping the fire die down a bit more.

Was that supposed to be a joke? Something nice. You kicked yourself for not thinking of something nice while packing for a long weekend in the woods. You rifle through your duffle bag hoping maybe you brought something that would make you feel sexy. A handful of clangs and clattering lets you know Bucky is still puttering around the campsite.

Crap.

“You ready for me, baby girl?” Your bear of a boyfriend ducks his head to enter the tent. Despite the fact he’d purchased some behemoth double-room tent, the doorways were still far too short for him to enter unhindered. He shoos the dogs to the other “room” before turning toward the air mattress. “Holy crap-”

Lacking lingerie, or anything else pleasing to the eye, you gave up and jumped beneath the soft quit (stolen from your bed back home) naked. The look on Bucky’s face has you thinking back to the second time he’d stayed the night at your place.

**************************************************************************************************

The first time he’d spent the night at your apartment should have been perfect. At this point you’d been dating long enough to feel comfortable around one another. You’d made him dinner and settled in to watch a movie. One thing led to another and you asked him to stay. When you moved to the bedroom he’d frozen. The planned night of sin had turned into the two of you staying up well into the morning talking. He was scared to be intimate with you; the first person since his recovery. He wanted to make sure he was treating you properly.

**************************************************************************************************

The second time he spent the night was the night you were silently reminiscing about when Bucky’s shell shocked face appeared in the tent opening. He’d looked at you similarly that night as well. It was thrilling you got the same reaction out of him now as the very first time.

“This certainly is something nice.” He drawls; crawling onto air mattress.

Your lips meet halfway with a gentle exhale. The sweet burnt sugar from s’mores makes him more delicious than usual. You pull gently on the back of his neck, craving the comforting pressure of his body against yours. His lips move from yours down to the soft valley of your neck.

“Picked it out just for you.” You mean for it to sound sultry and confident but it comes out strangled and breathy when he sucks steady pressure into a sweet spot. Bucky pulls the quilt and throws it towards the end of the bed. You thought of protesting, as the night had gotten chilly with the sunset but the fire ignited under your skin more than made up for it.

“I’m so fucking lucky.” His voice is low and focused. Bucky’s stopped kissing your neck and you whine at the loss of contact. He shuts you up quickly by latching onto one of your cold sensitive nipples and rolling it under his tongue.

“I didn’t do so bad myself.” You manage to choke out while he kneads and sucks. You can tell he’s moving further south to assault you where you’re no doubt soaking by this point. It sounds wonderful, but you need him inside of you. “Clothes. Off.”

He chuckles against your skin. By now he’s used to your vocabulary being reduced to single word sentences when you get like this. He gives the current patch of skin under his lips one last suck before shedding all his layers.

“Bucky…”

“Yes, doll.”

“Can we do that thing again?” You can hear the breathing between you both in the tent. The only other sounds coming from the nature outside. Literal crickets. “The thing we did for your birthday.”

You can sense him hesitate at your request. Bucky can do rough and filthy to soft and sensual and everything in between but you could clearly tell the both of you needed more after all the mental distance the final month of your schooling had caused you both. You could see the cogwheels turning behind his facial expression; doing the mental calculations. Taking you from behind meant he couldn’t see your face and reactions; which he was craving. But what you were asking was much more intimate.

“I want you to surround me baby. I want to feel you as much as possible.”

It was as if a light went off. Bucky knew what you needed. He rolls you onto your stomach and places one of the pillows under the curve of your hips. He peppers kisses from the back of your calves, up the curve of your ass, down into the dip of your lower back and comes to stop in the crook of your shoulder. Your skin breaks out in raised chills. Bucky knew better than to assume it was from the crispness in the air. He beamed, taking pride in being the cause.

He positions himself above you with you bracketed between his limbs. You can feel the heat and hardness of him against you. You whimper when he lowers his weight (carefully controlled) onto you; blanketing your exposed skin with his. There was something sexy about feeling the weight and power of your boyfriend over you; knowing all the while what a sweet man lay behind his raw strength.

Reaching around to your front, he parts your folds gently with a single hand to tease with two swirls of his palm to collect your wetness before it’s gone. He smears your arousal down his length before drawing his hips rhythmically back and forth. He’s being a tease and you want to scream. The gentle push and pull of his cock against the ridge of your ass is so close to where you need him most. You can’t angle or redirect with his frame pinning you in place.

“Nuh uh, baby girl. No squirming. This is what you signed up for.”

“Bucky please!”

In any other audience it would sound pathetic or irritated but Bucky felt pure love and trust. He guides his cock into you and feels the tension of your muscles relax under him.

“Why don’t we do this more often, darling?” He stills when he’s seated fully inside you. With your legs straight out behind you, the tightness inside feels nearly overwhelming to Bucky’s cock.

“Special occasions, sweetheart.” You manage to push back a miniscule amount against him. “Move Bucky. Please.”

Bucky sets a slow pace thrusting into your wetness. It’s almost painfully slow. The angle caused by the pillow under your hips allows you to feel every bit of him with a depth not possible in any other position. He brushes and grinds against your g-spot with every drag. Unlike other nights of love-making, the pace doesn’t increase. There is no jackhammering or racing to finish like the quickies necessary in between exam studying and classes. This is pleasant, leisurely and molasses slow.

Bucky brings you closer and closer to your release with every drag and pull inside your taught walls. When he feels you fluttering around him, he stills completely and devours your mouth or neck. After three, maybe four times (you honestly lose count) you’re teetering impossibly close to your finish. Each pause of his movements brings you back from the edge but it does little to quell the raging fire settling lower in your abdomen.

There are no words exchanged, no chorus of dirty talk, no sweet nothings. It’s unnecessary. This is the two of you reconnecting after being apart longer than ever before. You speak with your bodies. Grazes, palming, needy hands wandering to exactly where the other needs without being asked.

Your head is nearly buried in a tangle of your arms and linen beneath your head. Bucky’s full weight rests against your back; slick with shared sweat. His hips don’t leave your backside but instead grind and press making your g-spot sing. You’re both dangerously close.

Bucky reaches his hands below you to spread your swollen lips exposing your clit to the friction of the pillow case. His metal hand encircles your wrists and pins your hands high above your head. The right hand presses heavy pressure against your hip drawing your clit against the fabric below. The pace never changes but the power increases. Your moans spill from you in a near constant stream. Bucky’s own groans have turned into near feral growls with how tight you are around him. He can tell by the pitch of your whimpers and the clenching of your walls you’re right on the edge of your release. Three more particularly long, deep thrusts send you over the precipice of your orgasm. Bucky’s own pulses and fills you two thrusts later.

You’re both overstimulated and sticky. He grinds into you with less precision reveling in how slick and warm you are post release.

“Bucky-”

You don’t get to finish your lazy post-coital praise. He flips you onto your back and spreads your legs as wide as your hips permit. For a moment you lock eyes before he stares at your swollen love-abused core. It should be disarming. You would feel self-conscious if it were anyone else. Bucky holds them apart and dives into the mess you both created.

The sounds coming from your boyfriend buried deep in your cunt were filthy. The creamy shared release coats his tongue and scruff; saturating the hair and surrounding his senses with the evidence of your lovemaking. He revels in it. He probes his tongue inside you, collecting the sweetness before sucking against your clit. It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before your legs crash around his head and you gush with another overstimulated orgasm; this one stronger than the first.

“That’s my girl.”

You swat his hand away on it’s path to clean his face and draw him into a deep kiss. Tasting the both of you off his tongue is delicious and you moan into the kiss.

“It’s so sweet, Bucky.” He settles on top of the blankets, still hot from the recent activity. He pulls you close to his chest before kissing the back of your head gently.

“Maybe you’ll rethink your teasing next time I add all that sugar to my coffee.”

[eskalations]

Smoke and Gunpowder, Chapter 2

A/N: I was not going to post this chapter so quickly after the last, but life happened and I needed a distraction. Earlier, my sweet dog of 17 years, passed on and this has been just about the hardest day of my life. His passing was peaceful, but it didn't make things any easier. I was in the middle of writing this chapter when I received the news, so this piece will always have a special place in my heart. I'm still not sure if I'm back in the swing of things with my writing, but I'm planning on going back and editing when I'm feeling more like myself.

So, today we have the meeting of Ray and Raina. While I wanted to do a chapter where there was more interaction between the two, this chapter seemed necessary for backstory purposes. I also realized I never specified the age changes for our lovely characters. Since Roy was born in 1885 and Riza was born in 1889 (canonically), I just decided to swap their ages. That's pretty much the only big change there is.

Please let me know how you enjoyed this chapter! I love getting feedback!

AO3 | FFN

Tumblr: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

This chapter is dedicated to Skippy (May 18th 2003 - May 29th 2020)

Augenblick, East Area - Summer of 1903

The town of Augenblick was less spectacular than she could have ever imagined.

'Blink and you'll just about miss it' The man had said as she exited the train earlier that day. He must have seen the look of surprise on her face at such a small station existing in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. There was no town in which the station was on the edge of, no bustling streets with families doing their Sunday shopping, no cars puttering down the road to their destination – all she could see were fields stretching out endlessly in every direction.

The man who had gotten off the train with her was long gone by the time she pulled out the booklet the Madame had given her. Honestly, she should have realized what this small blip of a town was going to look like by the map in front of her – there seemed to be nothing but green bleeding across the wrinkled pages.

At fourteen, she wouldn't call herself incredibly resourceful – but at least she could read directions. The Madame had circled her destination with a fat, red marker – making it stand out amongst all the greenery it was surrounded by.

The girl started walking and hoped that she was traveling in the right direction.

The dusty road crunched beneath her shoes and she had to cringe as small particles of dirt made their way between her toes. Maybe wearing the new shoes she had bought for this occasion hadn't been the best idea...but it was too late to change them now. She had wanted to impress Master Hawkeye by dressing as professionally as a young girl could, but now she was beginning to see why the Madame had kept insisting that she needed to wear something a little more comfortable.

'I want him to see me as a lady,' She had shared with her foster mother while buttoning up her crisp new blazer. All her clothes had been starched earlier that morning before she was set to be at the station and even her usually black unruly mane was combed and slicked to perfection. 'I want him to see me as an apprentice worth taking.'

The Madame had simply smiled at her young charge's determination, smoke pouring from her lips as she spoke.

'My dear – with the amount I'm paying him for your lessons – he would take you on even if you were a newborn baby,' The words did little to abate her nerves.

She didn't want the man to pour his efforts into her because he had to – she wanted him to teach her because he saw potential.

The amount of information she had on Master Hawkeye was scarce. She knew that he was an excellent freelance alchemist, who's early research had been compiled into a single publication that had made waves in the alchemy community.

However, that was it. After his first work was published, he retired to the country and was now known as a bit of a recluse. From the Madame's information, it seemed the military had propositioned him multiple times to become a State Alchemist, but to no avail. Raina found it hard to believe that he wouldn't jump on the opportunity since with that grand title also came grand funds for research.

The only other piece of information she had received from her source was that the man had a son who also lived with him. The age of said son was unknown to her still.

'Now you must be careful, dear,' Her older "sister" Margaret had warned her that morning, patting her head gently in an endearing fashion. 'You will be the only woman in the house – so, you must make sure they are treating you right. If they try anything funny, you have to promise to call us immediately.'

Madame Christmas had scoffed at the idea.

'Once they get her riled up once, they'll know better than to mess with her,' Madame Christmas insisted without worry, taking a long drag from her cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke. 'We've taught her well. She knows how to defend herself.'

Her foster mother wasn't wrong; she could defend herself. However, it had been a long time since she had lived with a male counterpart. She couldn't remember her father (her parents had died when she had been just three years of age) and the Madame rarely housed young men in the bar.

The thought of living alone with two men had caused her quite a bit of anxiety, but she wasn't going to let it stop her. Even as she trudged down the road, sun beating down mercilessly upon the top of her scalp – her gait was confident as she embarked on this new chapter of her life.

She had been walking for about half an hour before she came upon a small town. A groan unknowingly slipped from between her lips at the sight of it.

Augenblick was small – so small you could hardly justify its place on the map. From what she could see, it was comprised of one long row of buildings lining two sides of a dirt road that spanned just about 100 meters. From the looks of the way the lots were set up, it seemed that they were all commercial.

A few people milled about, swinging bags full of produce as they went about their morning routine. There were stands set up in front of the buildings where farmers were selling their goods to residents and chatting merrily with their neighbors. This version of the Sunday Market was very different from the bustling one back in Central that Raina was familiar with.

Gripping her suitcase tightly in her sweaty palm, the girl continued to trudge forward. She had passed a school house and a general store before finally getting stopped by a curious shopper.

"Can I help you, dearie?" An elderly woman asked, taking notice of the map clutched in her hands. After giving the girl a once over, she continued with her line of questioning. "You don't look to be from around here – are you looking for something?"

Raina was caught between wanting to find the Hawkeye residence on her own – to prove her status as an independent young lady – and wanting to get some help since the map's lines were starting to bleed together in the heat of the midday sun.

"Yes," The girl said, accepting that this was a small concession to make in her journey to becoming a worthy young apprentice. She could always be independent tomorrow. "I am looking for the Hawkeye residence."

The woman looked at her strangely for a moment. Raina's confident stance did not waver though – she knew it probably looked strange for a young girl to seek out an older man, but she wasn't here to worry about appearances. After a brief pause, the woman answered her cautiously.

"It's just down main," The elder spoke slowly, still unsure of what the young girl's motive was. "If you keep walking that direction, you will come to a fork in the road. Take a right if you're looking for the Hawkeye residence, take a left if you want to traverse the desert."

Raina laughed nervously at her dark humor. At this point, she wasn't sure which path the woman considered to be more dangerous.

"Thank you!" Before she could take her leave though, the woman's hand reached out to grab her wrist. This stopped the young girl dead in her tracks as she was met with a serious set of dark eyes, concern evident in the way the woman drew her near to speak quietly in her ear.

"What do you want with that old man, child?" Her voice was low, suspicion blending with worry. Raina glanced nervously at the shoppers who passed them, but none even batted an eye at the strange scene in front of them. The woman tightened her grip again, forcing the girl's gaze back to her own. "If you need any help, all you have to do is tell us."

Shaking her wrist from the woman's grasp, Raina brought her hand protectively to her chest – map and all.

"I am an apprentice, ma'am," The girl insisted, tone bordering on rude. These country folks may be fine with lecturing young ladies and manhandling them in the streets, but she certainly was not. "I am here to learn alchemy from Master Hawkeye and that is all."

She could tell the older woman was affronted by such a brash response, not used to a girl speaking to her elders in such a way – however, she recovered quickly. The surprised look on her face morphed into one of sympathy.

"I didn't mean to offend you, child," The lady insisted, picking up the bag of vegetables she had dropped to her side at the beginning of their conversation. "I just know that the elder Hawkeye is not one to be trusted. Ever since the death of his wife, his behavior has been strange. We've rarely seen him for the past few years – the only one that ever comes into town is his son."

The people mulling around the market were now eyeing them – pausing at the stands nearby to watch the encounter while still attempting to appear casual. They would pick up an apple, turn it in their hands to check if it had any soft spots, and then glance quickly over at them. She could tell by her faces that, at the mention of Berthold Hawkeye, she had set the subject for Sunday gossip amongst the small populace.

"Just because someone does not wish to mingle with others does not mean they are any less trustworthy than you or I," Raina insisted, defending her new teacher from the accusations of the lady in front of her. Already this town was a little too judgmental for her taste. "I could care less how social he is as long as he is a dutiful teacher."

"Child," The woman pleaded, a hint of desperation in her tone as Raina made to walk away, suitcase swinging in her hand. Luckily, she did not grab her this time – however the fear that infused her tone, had the young girl turning to regard her once more.

"I know it seems like I am simply an old gossip who has nothing better to do," Raina fought the urge to raise her brows at the expression since that was precisely what she had pegged the woman as. "But you must listen to me – there is something wrong with that man."

The genuine concern in the woman's voice caused a shiver to run up her spine. Raina would have argued it was just a chill – however, in the middle of summer, that was unlikely. Seeing that she now had the young girl's attention, the woman continued.

"His son was so gaunt during the first few years after his mother's death, that it looked like a breeze would knock him over," The woman revealed, her voice so low that even someone walking past them would have to strain to hear her words. "He finished school early and after that – well he just disappeared. We didn't see him for months then suddenly one day he walked up to Mrs. Roth's stand to buy potatoes. By that time, he had filled out a bit – but there was a haunted look in his eyes."

Raina's curiosity was piqued, though she couldn't help but have some doubts in regards to the woman's claims.

"Madame," The young girl began carefully, lowering her tone to match the volume of the elder. The townspeople were still watching them – however, their interest seemed to have lessened once their conversation had become harder to hear. "I don't think it's fair to assume that something bad happened to him during that time. He and his father could have taken a vacation."

"No one left that house." The woman insisted, causing another chill to run through the girl. The older woman spoke with such conviction – like she knew that whatever it was she suspected was true.

"Maybe they were just enjoying some time alone together after the son finished school?" Raina tried to reason with the woman, desperately grasping for straws in an attempt to abate her fears. "Why does his disappearance have to mean something bad happened?"

The serious look in the woman's eyes was one that Raina would remember for a long time after.

"Because he was covered in bruises when he returned."

It was this conversation that had Raina shaking slightly on the doorstep of the Hawkeye residence. After the old woman had finally let her continue on her way, she was left with more fear and anxiety than before. She was more fearful now than she had been when she had originally been told she was being shipped out for alchemy instruction.

The house was nothing spectacular. It looked like it could have been grand once upon a time, but the broken shutters and overgrown garden implied that once hard times had hit, all efforts of upkeep had been abandoned. Even so, the view from the porch was one that's beauty couldn't be denied – the rolling green fields that surrounded the home for miles looked as though they were straight out of a painting.

Raina took a deep breath. She could do this. No amount of town gossip was going to keep her from doing what she had come here to do. She had been waiting her whole life for this and that old biddy was not going to ruin her chances of becoming a great alchemist.

As far back as she could remember, she had been studying alchemy. Madame Christmas liked to joke that the young girl had practically forced her to read alchemical essays to her at bedtime before she was able to read them on her own. One of her favorite alchemical works had always been the book of research Berthold Hawkeye had published a few years before her birth. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined she would have the honor of studying under him.

It was this realization that had her fist raising resolutely to the door. She was not timid. She was not shy. She was not scared. No one could deter her from the goals she had already set out to achieve. She would knock on this door and accept whatever fate lay on the other side.

But before her hand could even come in contact with wood, the door was swinging wide open in front of her.

Raina stood frozen. Well, she certainly hadn't been expecting that. Her fist fell swiftly to her side.

Standing before her was a young man only three or four years her senior. He was tall – certainly taller than she was – with a sturdy build that marked years of hard labor. His skin was golden, much like his hair, and there seemed to be a fine sheen of sweat covering him as if he had just come in from the fields. She watched as a droplet traversed down the weather worn features of his face before dropping off his sharp chin.

She had begun to sweat herself at his sudden appearance. She tried to tell herself that it was from the heat - but later she would question if that had really been it at all.

Despite his humble background, the man's spine straightened automatically at the sight of the young girl on his doorstep. Assuming the role of a gentleman – though looking nothing like one in ripped pants and a sweaty white shirt – he bowed his head in greeting to her.

"I must apologize," His voice was deep, much deeper than the voices of the boys she had gone to school with. "I did not realize you had arrived, Miss Mustang."

Being addressed so formally, she realized what set him apart from the boys at her school. He was not a boy; he was a man. His voice was too deep to be that of a boy's and his features were too hard to still be touched by the innocence of childhood. In the face of his own maturity, she puffed out her chest a bit before primly joining her hands in front of her.

"Hello, Mr. Hawkeye," She answered, clearing her throat to adopt a much deeper tone that would better match his own. "Please, just call me Raina. Miss Hawkeye sounds much too formal when we are going to be housemates."

The young man appeared unimpressed by her words, causing another bout of sweat to break out beneath her starched white shirt. Any hopes that she had conceived of the two of them being friends, seemed to be thrown farther and farther out the window as their staring contest continued. His amber eyes beat into her own, resembling those of a hawk's.

'Fitting,' she thought wryly to herself, as his gaze dropped to the suitcase she had laid to rest at her feet. Her hand itched to pick it up and turn right back around, leaving this house and his unnerving stare in the dust – but he surprised her.

Picking up her suitcase himself – the young man stood to the side of the doorway and gestured for her to make her way inside. The expression on his face was unreadable, but the grim lines of his face softened as she hesitantly stepped forward into the humid air of the home.

The inside of the house was much like the outside – dark and rundown. She could see a living area with a small stone fireplace off to the side, the furniture worn from many years of use. There was a door at the back of the room that she assumed led to a dining area and kitchen. The stairs were nestled in the corner of the area, leading to where she assumed the bedrooms and bathroom would be.

It was certainly different from what she was used to – but she guessed it could be considered cozy.

Careful to school her features, she turned back towards the younger Hawkeye. She didn't want him to think of her as a spoiled city girl. Despite their rough start, she still held on to the hope that they could be friends. She must not have covered her reaction quickly enough though, because when she met his gaze, there was a knowing look in his eye.

"I know it's not much, Miss Mustang," He emphasized his use of her formal name, pointedly ignoring the fact that she had asked him to call her Raina earlier. His words were polite, but she could hear a harsh undertone in them. "But I assure you that you will find everything you'll need to further pursue your alchemical studies within these walls."

Embarrassed at the censure evident in his tone, the young girl gave a quick nod of understanding.

"Yes, sir."

Satisfied with her quiet response, he gestured for her to follow him up the stairs. She grabbed her suitcase in her sweaty palm before following his orders.

"My father is having one of his bad days, so you will have to wait until tomorrow to make his acquaintance," Raina could feel herself deflating in disappointment, her footfalls heavy on the old wooden stairs. She had really hoped she'd be meeting her master upon arrival. "However, I am sure you are tired from your journey and will want this afternoon to rest."

"Oh, I'm not tired," Raina insisted, despite the aching in her feet. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

Without batting an eye, the young man turned to look at her over his shoulder.

"I'm going hunting," His words implied that he figured this answer would somehow affect her sensibilities.

Being raised in a bar though, Raina had never been the squeamish type.

"Can I come?" She asked innocently, following behind him as he led her down a hall at the top of the stairs. The strong set of his shoulders stiffened in surprise at her request, stopping him mid-step.

"I don't know," He answered slowly, clearly caught off guard by her words. The surprise on his face was short lived though as his features quickly settled back into the stoic expression he seemed to be so fond of. "Are you going to scare off our dinner?"

"Our dinner?"

The young Hawkeye had to grin as he continued to lead her forward. Like a dutiful guest, she followed closely behind – waiting for an answer.

"Surely you don't think I am going down to the market to get our food for tonight?" He finally asked, his hand turning the knob of a door leading to what she assumed to be her bedroom. A few doors down, she could just make out movement underneath the door that resided at the end of the long stretch of hallway.

"Of course not," She answered evenly as she stepped into the room, setting her suitcase by her feet. There was a bed, a dresser, and a desk. It wasn't much, but it would do. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the young man studying her face. If he was looking for a negative reaction this time around, she wasn't going to give it to him.

"So," She started, crossing her arms over her chest and turning to meet his gaze once more. "When do we leave?"

His answering smirk made her heart soar – though she would never admit it.

"Half an hour."

Her heart continued to beat sporadically even after he had closed the door behind him, leaving her to unpack and dress for their outing. However, the heavy beating of her heart wasn't from the small smile he had given her or the moment of softness she glimpsed in his eyes before taking his leave.

No, her heart was beating because she had seen the bruises on the back of his arms through the material of his shirt.

Falling back upon the mattress, she stared blankly up at the ceiling. Just what kind of secrets were hiding within these walls and just what did it all mean for her?

[abovethesmokestacks]

Congrats on the milestone! 💖 is it possible to get “The date didn’t go well.  Yeah, she/he didn’t like how I kept mentioning all of our adventures.” + Nick Vaughn? Please & thank you ☺️

Mysteries

He’s back at Grand Central, far too little sleep in his body, but he’s there, as if pulled in and unable to resist. The case rests beside him, the trumpet inside hastily polished. Not that it’ll matter in the end. In the end, it’s all on him.

“Jeez, Nick, what are you doing here?”

Your voice pulls him out of the haze where he may or may not be dreaming about still being in bed, blowing this thing off just for a precious two hours more sleep. Smiling, Nick, shrugs, the motion morphing into a stretch and oh dear god, that feels so good. Once this day is over, he’s gonna go home, he’s gonna faceplant into his own bed and he’s gonna sleep for twelve hours straight.

You roll your eyes at him, “Come on, you look dead on your feet. You need some coffee in you.”

He’s in no mood to protest, simply gets up, grabs his case and slouches after you. It’s far too early to be that chipper, it has to be. Then again, it’s coming up on noon, and he’s not the only one looking haggard around here. He’s likely not the only one wishing he was back in bed, either. You lead him through the station and into the bar where you work, directing him to a chair with a simple, “sit”. Easy enough. At least the stool will be too uncomfortable to fall asleep in. Resting his head in his hands, Nick listens with half an ear as you putter around, barely notices when a tiny cup of coffee lands in front of him. It burns on his tongue before his eyes bulge and he nearly chokes in an attempt not to spray it all over you and your pristine dress shirt.

“Are you okay?” you ask, and while there is concern in your voice, your lips do a poor job of hiding your smile.

He grimaces something that he thinks might be a smile, but the sharp, bitter taste is now ingrained in his tongue and it makes his face wanna curl in on itself.

“Think you gave me battery acid.”

You snort. “Triple shot of espresso. You need a kickstart, Vaughn, because I refuse to stand here and listen to you whine about how you blew your audition.”

“It tastes awful,” Nick mutters, ignoring the reminder of why he’s dragging himself up and back to Midtown when he could be sleeping the day away like a sane human being.

“It tastes great, you just need to stop drinking the shitty kind of diner coffee. Coffee should not have a sheen of gunk on it.”

“Snob.”

Shaking your head, you set about opening the register, stealing a few glances at him while he sips the tiny, supercharged cup with exaggerated grimaces. Nick might be putting on a little bit of a show. Just a little. He knows it makes you smile.

“So…”

“If you say ‘big day, huh?’, I will leave,” he tells her, pushing the now empty cup away from himself.

“Oh, how you wound me,” you deadpan, leveling him with a stare. “I was gonna ask how your evening was. Last I saw you were disappearing into the night with a pretty blonde? I never thought I’d see the day when you went on a date.”

“Wasn’t a date. Kinda got her into trouble in the end.”

“How much trouble could you have gotten her in, you’re a trumpetist!”

Nick snickers. “Okay, first off, ouch. Second, a lot apparently. She missed her train and her purse got lifted.”

“That doesn’t sound like your fault,” you point out, coming around the bar counter to sit down next to him. “Unless you tripped her and then ran off with her purse.”

“Funny.”

“Okay, so you got her in trouble?”

“Maybe not in trouble.” He sighs. More like he got himself into trouble. “I made trouble for her. She needed to get back to Boston, but her purse was gone, so no money. I tried to offer to pay for a cab, but my card…” He can’t get the words out, it still stings. Declined. “Anyway, I tried chasing after the guy to snatched her purse, it was a whole mess, we ended up at some party and she sang while I played-”

Furrowing your brow, you hold up a hand, “Okay, stop. Where is this story even going, because so far it sounds like a date. A very cheesy one that would definitely be a rom com,  but still, very much a date.”

Another laugh. Date. Right.

"Well, if it was a date, then the date didn't go very well.” Maybe he sounds a little calloused, Nick thinks, but he’ll blame last night. And the espresso. Soured his heart down on the spot. He looks up at you. “Yeah, she didn't like how I kept mentioning all of our adventures."

That wipes the mirth right off your face, “You… You brought those up? Nick, why the hell would you need to recount our childhood adventures?”

“Yeah, $64,000 question, right? I just… It started as a thing to make her smile. You remember playing Nancy Drew? And I was somehow both the Hardy boys? So I told her I was an excellent detective and worked with Nancy Drew, and then you kind of just… kept popping up.”

You scrunch up your face, “Jesus Christ, you told her about that?”

Nick nods, “And the time we ran away for two hours. And the bike incident. And the- the-”

It the thing that’s never been spoken of between you. Not since it happened. High school graduation, you were gonna leave for a college at the other end of the country, he was going to movie into the city to attend a conservatory. The most awkward kiss at the end of the night, fumbling, with lips barely grazing and stuttering goodnight that followed. Nick clears his throat.

“Plus, we also, kinda ran into Hannah. That… didn’t really help. She… she actually kinda ditched me after that.”

You looked at him as the seconds ticked by, before finally shaking your head and reaching for the landline phone Nick couldn’t believe this place still had.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” you muttered, looking at him before smiling. “Nick? This is Nancy Drew. From the future. Listen. You are gonna walk in here one day- No, I’m not telling you where! It doesn’t- Look. You are gonna walk in here one day, and you are gonna tell me all about how you messed up a date. And it’s not gonna be the first time. You need to stop burning your bridges, Nick. And you need to stop blaming yourself. One day, you’re gonna meet a girl, and she’ll be great by all accounts. I won’t know her until we meet up three years after she turns down your proposal, and the only from what you tell me. Maybe I’m being unfair to her, but that’s on you.”

It’s a thing you two started. In a world before cell phones, you’d hang around payphones just before curfew and call your future selves, gushing about your futures. It was a good way to keep dreams alive. Calling the other way is apparently for killing them. You take a breath.

“You and I, we’re gonna blow it. The night of high school graduation, we’re gonna kiss, and we’ll blow it. Not for long, we’ll meet up again, obviously. But for eight years, we’re gonna blow it, but you better listen close now Hardy-comma-Frank-and-Joe. I don’t regret it. Sometimes I think about it, think about how you made my pulse run away from me, and how I angsted over it the first year of college. It happened. No, we were dismal. No finesse whatsoever. But I don’t regret it. It didn’t ruin us. So don’t ruin yourself over things to come. It’ll work out. Trust me. I’m Nancy Drew.”

Nick, amused smile tugging at his lips, is leaned back as much as the pitiful backrest allows. “What is he saying?”

You put down the phone, lean over the counter, “Dunno, hung up on me. Rude bastard.”

“Probably had to go solve a new mystery.”

“Probably.”

“Here’s another mystery for you, Nancy Drew.” His voice dips, goes low and gritty. “Would you do it again?”

“It?” He’s so close now and you can feel his breath, the soft scent of strong coffee, a whiff of whatever cologne he’d sprayed on before leaving home, the wool of his coat.

“Kiss. Not back then. We… we really blew it then. Wrong time. Or right, and we just…”

“Blew it,” you finish.

“Right. Maybe now’s not the right time either.

You smile at him, lean in, press your lips to him. It’s awkward. You’re hanging off your stool, body wavering as you try to keep your balance, and he’s positioned so that you have to stretch up and he has to lean down because the seats are nailed to the floor. It’s awkward because it’s been eight, going on nine years since last time and he’s had a night, a year, more than a year, and you’ve had your life and he’s learned about your own failures, but the warmth that blooms in him when you finally part makes it worth it.

“You never know unless you try, right?” you whisper.

So they try. They try and try, and it gets easier and maybe the world is a little kinder than he thought. Maybe it’s as easy as Nancy Drew and Hardy-comma-Frank-and-Joe. Maybe it’s as easy as reconnecting, running into each other here of all places. Maybe he should have known this was too good to be a coincidence. 

But then again... 

These things happen, right?

Little mysteries of life.

| Pia's 3k Drabble Round (closed) |

[amethystunarmed]

Repercussions

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou

Word Count: 1902

Trigger warnings: Blood, torture, emotional manipulation, graphic depictions of violence

Set after they become pro heroes.

AO3 Link

Midoriya never became a hero, never inherited One for All. After All Might left him on the roof, he was found by a group calling themselves the League of Villains. And now Bakugou has to pay the price.

Or

A Bakugou-centric villain Deku au.

Bakugou had been pissed off for about a week straight. Kirishima had laughed at the way he puttered around their shared apartment, explosions sputtering from his palms. He was calling it Hurricane Bakugou, which got a mug chucked at his head. “Can’t say I’ve seen you this pissed, love,” he chuckled against Bakugou’s scalp, torso already hardened against his explosions, “I think it might be a record.” Bakugou growled at him to shut up, but he wasn’t wrong. He’d been like this ever since the new villain had surfaced. Deku.

It had been a normal patrol. A perfect one, even. There had been no activity, not even a stolen bicycle. It should have made him suspicious, really. It wasn’t a night of low activity. It was the silence of a forest before a top predator enters. It was the silence of knowing just how dangerous it would be to get in their way.

The explosion happened fifteen minutes before his shift had ended. A hero agency on the south side of town, completely obliterated. It had been mostly empty at that point. Bakugou managed to get the only two people still there out with ease. He had been handing the unconscious secretary to the emergency personnel when he saw him. A flash of green hair, ducking into an alley. He stopped, as though he’d felt Bakugou’s stare. He turned, smiled, and waved. Then he disappeared, and Bakugou felt a shift in reality. He’d recognized him, but he hadn’t been sure, until the body of Mt. Lady was found behind a dumpster. The words “I am Deku” were written above her corpse in her blood.

They’d been playing cat and mouse ever since.

Hence the mood.

Kirishima only joked because he didn’t know. He thought Bakugou was mad because the villain toyed with him, or because he didn’t immediately best him. He didn’t know who Deku was to him. He didn’t have to suddenly replace memories of missing child posters with a foreign smirk. He didn’t understand the relief Bakugou felt upon seeing him, knowing their parting words hadn’t killed him: Go take a swan dive off the roof. And, most importantly, he didn’t know what Deku meant. Useless. Most people thought it was irony, a reference to his apparently lack of a quirk, yet high body count. But Bakugou knew. Midoriya had chosen Bakugou’s name for him. Bakugou hadn’t thought of Midoriya as Deku in years but clearly, he hadn’t forgotten. The very thought sent chills down his spine.

The world became stifling. These thoughts… The universe was holding its breath, and Bakugou hadn’t gotten the memo. It was oppressive, the silence. No car outside, no birds calling, nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Just the smirk, the genuine pleasure in his eyes when he spotted him. It filled his vision. The vegetables were burning, he could smell it. But still, he couldn’t move. Ringing filled his ears. A smile soaked in blood.

His phone rang. A photo of Kirishima laughing popped up on his phone. Fucking finally, Bakugou thought. He switched the burner off (the meal had to be scrapped anyways) and answered. “Hey idiot, where the fuck–”

“Hello Kacchan.” The greeting was nearly a giggle. For first time in his life, Katsuki Bakugou froze. Because he knew that voice, would have recognized it even if the nickname hadn’t been a dead giveaway. It was deeper and more confident than he had ever heard it, but he recognized it. And it belonged to someone who absolutely should not have this phone. “Aw, Kaachan, are you going to ignore me?” He could hear the pout in his voice. He remembered it well. It was a tone he associated with watery eyes and backpedaling. “And we haven’t talked in so long! It’s a shame too, I have something important to show you.” The enthusiasm was both familiar and foreign. It was the same inflection he had used to talk about heroes, what felt like so many years ago. It was that excitement, but there was a coldness to it. A once-friendly dog snapping at you after being thrown into a fighting ring. Bakugou wasn’t sure which part of it was more unsettling.

“Why do you have Kirishima’s phone?” Bakugou snapped. He wasn’t about to exchange pleasantries with villain.

“You really haven’t heard? How wonderful… I was hoping to witness when you found out.” Once again, Bakugou was thrown for a loop. The conversation flipped a dial, redirecting in a way he didn’t understand. He used to be able to tell was Midoriya was thinking from just an expression, a snippet of a phrase. But this deeper, darkened lust meant nothing to him. Trying to read him was like trying to fit into his first year school uniform; an act once familiar as breathing now entirely impossible.

“What are you chattering about?”

“Turn on your TV. Any channel will do.” Bakugou’s heart rate picked up. The scent of nitroglycerin was strong on his nose as his hands began to sweat. Still, he went to the living room and turned on the monitor. It was set to a movie channel, something he and Kirishima had fallen asleep to the night before. Yet, even on this obscure channel, Midoriya’s smiling face greeted him. He was gripping a knife, holding it up to the arm of–

Kirishima.

Bakugou wishes he could take it back, wishes more than anything he’d stayed silent. But the sight of Kirishima, tied to a chair, blood running down to his neck from a slash across his cheek, left shoulder shredded to near viscera, it had been too much.

Bakugou let out a small gasp.

The sound echoed back at him through the TV.

Midoriya’s wide grin nearly unhinged his jaw.

“So you really do care…” He breathed, like the mere thought as ecstasy. “I’d nearly thought it was impossible.” He’d trailed the knife along Kirishima’s good arm, blood immediately flooded from the wound. Kirishima grunted, but otherwise didn’t react. You idiot, Bakugou wanted to scream, Why the fuck aren’t you protecting yourself?

“I remember when you started your agency together… The two of you were so close, I thought it had to be a lie for the press. But even when you snapped at him, even when he teased you, you were smiling Kaachan. Not smirking or sneering, but actually smiling at him. So I looked closer… I was always watching. I saw every late night paperwork session, every pining gaze, even your first kiss… How sweet.”

“So you’re a stalker now too?” he snapped, but his stomach twisted.

“More like a spy,” Midoryia countered, “I was only meant to get information on you, the budding top ranked hero! But I couldn’t help but be a little jealous. I spent so long trying to befriend you, did everything I could to impress you, would have followed you to the ends of the earth, and then this nobody is a little nice to you, and suddenly you can make friends? Surely, you understand why I was upset!” He jammed the knife down, making to stab Kirishima in the thigh. Instinctively, Kirishima hardened, and the knife shattered. Midoriya’s face turned deadly, and he glared at Kirishima. For the first time, he looked panicked.

“No, I didn’t mean–”

“Now, Kirishima! That’s against the rules! And you know the penalty.” Midoriya’s eyes locked with a person offscreen. “Shigaraki, if you please. A pinky should do.”

Bakugou’s breath left his lungs. Shigaraki. Leader of the league of Villains. Quirk: Decay. He’d seen the effects of what it could do before. The injuries looked remarkably similar to the mess of blood around Kirishima’s bicep.

“No, no–” Kirishima was squirming when the pale fingers wrapped around his pinky. The skin, tissue, bone began to disintegrate. Kirishima didn’t scream. The sound he made wasn’t human enough for that title. It was like nothing Bakugou had ever heard before. It didn’t let up until Shigaraki let go. Nothing was left, not even a stump showing where the finger once was. Bakugou didn’t realize he’d been shouting until it echoed through the TV.

“Bastards! Absolute cowards! I’ll kill you!” Midoriya rolled his eyes.

“See, this is what I mean. Losing your stoic facade?” He walked over to where Kirishima had slumped in his chair. He threaded his fingers through Kirishima’s hair and forced his head up. Kirishima was panting, face bright red, and Bakugou was suddenly certain the pain in his scalp was the only thing keeping him conscious. “You’ve gone soft, Kaachan,” Midoriya continued. “He’s right here.” He tapped over his heart with the hilt of the shattered knife. “But, I suppose I should thank you. Letting him in? That gave me something to work with.” He rested Kirishima’s head against his chest, a mockery of comfort Kirishima was too weak to refuse. Bakugou could read the shame on his face. He growled.

“I’m going to kill you for this!” He shouted and Midoriya laughed.

“What, for hurting him?” He cackled, “That never stopped you.” He glared at the camera, and Bakugou shuddered. He looked absolutely unhinged.

“You always hurt me Kaachan. The burn scars attest to that, sure, but emotionally, that was where you really thrived. Useless, quirkless, deku…” He chuckled. “I fantasized torturing you over and over, but it never felt right. Cutting you up would be fun, sure, but that’s hardly revenge. I need you to hurt the same way I did, all the trauma and nightmares and shredded sense of worth. But I couldn’t figure out how to do it.” He looked down to Kirishima, and beamed.

“Then, what do I find? You just let your heart walk around unattended. How short-sighted.” He clicked his tongue. “So this is for you Kaachan. Torturing Red Riot publicly? That certainly aligns with our goals. But honestly, he’s not that important to me. Taking him out is just an added bonus. Every bit of pain he feels? That’s all for you.” He patted Kirishima’s cheek and cooed, “And currently, he still has too many fingers.” Midoriya nodded, Shigaraki’s hand came back into frame, and–

“Don’t.” The word was quiet, demure. Bakugou couldn’t believe it came from him. Midoriya stops.

“What was that?”

“Don’t. Don’t, I–”

Midoriya lit up, a shark smelling blood in the water.

“Beg me.”

“Please, stop, don’t hurt him. Please, I’ll do anything.” The words were unconscious, coming from him like a busted floodgate.

“Once more.”

“Please, I…” He swallowed his sudden flare of pride. “I’m begging you. Let him go. Please, Midoriya.”

“How many times did I beg you to stop Kaachan?”

Bakugou could see it, every time Midoriya asked him to stop, to leave him alone, to give back whatever item he’d stolen. He runs through them, on nights he can’t sleep, moonlight reflecting every desperate plea.

His wet exhale was an answer.

“And how many times did you listen?”

Something in Bakugou snapped. “No, no, please.” His words were frantic now. “Stop, please, Izuku, I’m sorry!” He thinks he might be crying.

“Not. Once!” Deku hisses, “And I only ever wanted to be like you.” He nodded to Shigaraki again, who grabs Kirishima’s ring finger. “And besides,” he continued through Kirishima’s shrieks, “Don’t bother calling me anything different now! You know it better than anyone.”

He stared straight through the camera and Bakugou felt it through his stomach like a butterfly pin.

“I’m Deku.”