#they didn’t even give her the shorts!!!!!! whatever it’s rectified

[lemonlimestar]

i could pretend i did this cover for anything other than self-indulgence but i would be lying <3

[icejjfishesz]

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ❞ 𓄼˚ ▍ K.M.

❛ 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆             ━━  kate liked to think of herself as level headed but there were times where she couldn’t cope with the stress. luckily for her, you’re always there to aid her with much needed stress relief ❜

❛ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁                ━━  kinda rough sex ig but it’s pretty tame tbh ❜

❛ 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁         ━━  1.3k! ❜

❛ 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲      ━━  i’ve been wanting to write for kate but the series i have planned is kicking my ass so here’s this instead, lmao ❜

kate talked things out. she doesn’t like to go to bed angry or be short with you (and for damn sure hates it when you’re short with her). kate told you when something was bothering her and encouraged you to do the same. she doesn't keep things in. she didn’t let things get to her. she is a force of nature.

or at least she tried to be.

but like anyone, kate had her limits. she had a tendency to overcommit and that led her to getting very stressed sometimes. and she knows she could tell you, that you would be right here to rectify her tense shoulders and still her beating heart. however, there were times where it seemed like all she could do was keep it all buried in her. she never wanted to feel like a burden or put more on your plate. so after a particularly stressful week like this one…of course she wanted nothing more than to crawl into your arms and just sink into you.

but she doesn’t.

everyday when she comes home she’s less like herself. it’s really starting to get to her.

she knew you’d help her if she just asked but she often found your help hard to accept –– always too prideful, too private, too desperate to be so put together and keep her walls up. she fiercely protected your sanity at the expense of your own. kate liked to keep things in until they bubbled over. she hated that part though, when she’d collapse into your arms because the stress just filled up until it poured down her cheeks. it embarrassed her though she knew you never minded holding her, that you’d always be there to rub her back until her sobbing subdued.

you were waiting for her to get home, she had a busy day and you had missed her. when she walked through the door, you could immediately tell something was off. you knew this week was more demanding than usual but you could tell she had reached her limit today. you could hear it in the way she shut the door, you could feel it in her footsteps.

you walked over to her, whispering her name and wrapping your arms around her. normally, she’d pull away but she just couldn’t. not when she needed you this much. she ran her eyes over you, her gaze appreciative and inviting. she sighs, shoulders relaxing at the sight of you as she returns your hug. her arms wrapping around you and her face finding home within the crease of your neck. you smelled like her.

“hey, baby…” her voice is so tired it makes you frown.

“hi.” you rub her back, unknowingly making her day just with your touch. something was wrong and you knew it. you go to pull back, to get a good look at her…but she doesn’t let you pull away. strong arms tighten around you, keeping your body pressed against hers.

“...kate?”

“hm?”

“are you okay?”

she sighs, it tickles against the flesh of your neck where her nose is currently pressed against. “i’m fine as long as i’m with you.”

and of course you smile, she always knew exactly what to say to make you smile. “that’s sweet…but you seem a little tense…”

“just a long week is all…” she whispers, hands rubbing up and down your waist slowly. “i missed you.”

and then you get the idea. a way to relax her. you clear your throat, trying to keep your voice even but still suggestive when you say.

“i missed you too…” you chuckle. “is there any way i can help you de-stress?”

she finally pulls back, hands still firm on your hips, just to look at your face. you’re smirking, giving her that look that says ‘i’ll let you do whatever you want to me right now’. and she’d be damned if she didn’t take you up on your offer.

which is how you ended up here. a familiar position that doesn’t happen too often. there was a certain point within your girl's stress where all she wanted was a source of distraction, something new to focus on. and you, always her angel, were there to greedily gladly provide aid.

she was obsessed with it all –– how you moaned her name, how your thighs stretched to make room for her…how pretty you looked when she made you come over and over and over again.

you fucking love it when she gets like this.

she knows your body so well, always able to put you at her mercy with a few words or light touches. she is always so good to you when you need her…so you were glad to do the same for her. afterall, she’d make it up to you later. probably put herself on her knees to worship you like you deserved. but for now, she needs this to be the opposite of that. kate wasn’t focused on making you feel good like she normally did, she was trying to relieve herself from the pressure of the intense week she had.

she always starts off slow, making you come with her face buried between her legs. then she pulls the rest of your clothes off, rougher than usual but still gently. then she tugs her own pants off, not bothering to remove her shirt, as she slides her boxers down to her ankles. she crawls above you again, slotting herself between your thighs so her pussy hovers right above yours, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat that gathers between you two.

she stares at you expectantly. you don’t need her to tell you that she wants you to beg for it. for her. your eyes shut as you whine.

“please…” you reach for her hand, staring up at her as you refrain from grinding your hips up into her. whatever she wants. “i need to feel you.”

you’d given her what she wanted so she does the same for you. she’s fair like that, lowering her wet pussy onto yours. you open your eyes to peek up at her, her eyes are drawn to where your bodies meet. her mouth practically waters at how wet you are (never mind the fact that she was probably more wet than you), chest swelling in pride cause she did that to you.

she grabs your thigh, pressing herself further against you. she can’t help but dig her nail into your thigh as she rubs her clit against yours. you moan as she gradually sets a fixed rhythm, your hands flying to her hips to help her rock faster against you. you stare at her, how far gone she is…how pure instinct seems to take over when she grabs your leg even tighter (nearly hard enough to bruise) desperately bucking against you. “fuck, i’m so close…” she gasps, almost collapsing due to the pure intensity of it all.

and you are too, the feeling is overwhelming. almost too much. “fuck, i can’t come again..” you whimper.

her face resting against your chest (which was coated in dark marks that she’d kiss later when she apologized for being so rough with you. you’d dismiss her, of course. how you loved being her little work of art.)

“yeah, you can honey. one more, you can take one more for me. come on.” she mutters words of encouragement, never once slowing her pace. and you shake your head and whine. she’s all cheek kisses and devotional until she’s not –– until she loses her patience with you. “what? you don’t like what i give you?” she whispers almost harshly into your flesh, but the room is so quiet that it sounds like it echos.

it’s embarrassing how much her words turn you on. her groans of pleasure, her tone, the fact that she was making you feel so good. she scoffed at you so casually, like what she was doing wasn’t so goddamn filthy.

“no, no, i’m sorry. i love it, i’m sorry.” you rush, a sewage of apologies flowing from your lips like it was the only language you could speak. she hums like she’s in thought but you can look in her eyes and tell her mind is made up.

“so lie there and take it.”

[onegianthotmess]

Miranda sometimes forgets to eat-

Like, she’ll go the whole day just drinking the smoothie Vil made for her that morning and having the occasional snack because she’s busy helping to clean the lab at lunch since she made a bit of a mess and also feels bad that Crewel and the janitors have to clean the mess the students leave behind or she’s tutoring a student and didn’t have time to get into line for food before the session. And this happens for about two weeks whenever Miranda starts to forget to eat until dinner time at Pomefiore.

And it infuriates Vil.

He loves Miranda. He loves her so, so much!

She’s his precious little sweet potato who’s always been there and has never once given up on him and has been helping him practically since day one. She’s the only one he fully and completely trusts; he trusts her enough to help him with his skincare and makeup and even picking out clothes for him! And he trusts no one with any of those things to the point of even doubting himself at times.

Vil loves Miranda more than his career that he’s built for his whole life, even if he won’t admit it out loud.

So it’s out of love that he is infuriated to the point of wanting to shake Miranda until she somehow has shaken baby syndrome!

It’s usually during the weeks when Vil gets very busy that Miranda forgets to eat because Vil isn’t around as much for her to help and do things with, so she busies herself by helping other students and staff in place of eating food. Vil is usually ready for the day out of the dorm before Miranda even wakes up during these weeks and just leaves her a smoothie for the morning, so she doesn’t really have anyone to get ready with and she goes to make sure that Epel is getting ready properly to keep busy. And since Vil uses lunch as a short break to try and decompress when he’s actually at school during these busy weeks, Miranda doesn’t want to bother him because she knows just how much his work takes it out of him and goes to find ways to busy herself.

So when things calm down for Vil and he has the space in his head to put his career on the back burner for a second, he’s upset that Miranda fell back on her keeping busy habits. So Vil starts working on correcting these habits his favorite person developed over the past two weeks because Miranda needs to eat not only to help her maintain her beauty, but also her health.

But Vil isn’t explicit. He gives Miranda little pushes in the right direction and asks if she’s eaten on weekends. If he has a photo shoot, he’ll send reminders for Miranda to eat and that he put a few snacks in her purse she said she’d be using that day. Vil will even send Rook or Epel to ask Miranda if she’s eaten lunch if he isn’t able to.

It doesn’t take long to rectify these bad habits, but Vil will still gently but firmly lecture Miranda on the importance of eating, even if she just eats a little if she isn’t feeling hungry for whatever reason because some food is better than no food.

He’s very thankful that these little instances happen quite rarely, but it still makes Vil want to shake Miranda because he’s an aggressive caretaker-

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Axis Investigations PARTIES: Regan and Emilio SUMMARY: The last month wasn't great for Regan and Emilio. So they don't talk about it.

He wasn’t sure if Regan would challenge him on that. He liked to think she wouldn’t so long as he didn’t question her about what she was avoiding. Maybe they could come to some understanding.

Regan and Wicked’s Rest had not been able to simply re-articulate themselves. It was mixing and matching bones from different bodies. A girthy, too-big ulna against a dainty child’s humerus. The fit was not there. But had it ever been just right? Certainly not in Saol Eile. It was closer here. Maybe. Regan nudged open the door to Axis, knowing the bell would announce her presence no matter how quietly she slipped in. The last she’d seen Emilio, he had tried and failed to convince Regan she didn’t need to go. He had been worth listening to (surprisingly). She hadn’t listened. But Regan already had all of her pride pumped out of her, so what did it matter? 

“Hello.” Regan stepped cautiously toward the desk and dropped a paper bag on top of a stack of papers, back aching at the movement of her shoulder. A gift. Not that any gift could possibly make up for whatever grief she’d caused, in having the ham child and Wynne in Ireland with her. “It isn’t worms,” she clarified. Regan hadn’t looked for worms since returning to Wicked’s Rest. She had told Siobhan she’d think of her next time she saw one. And Regan didn’t w– couldn’t think of her.

There was so much weighing down her tongue, so many sentiments shoving each other to come out, that she stood there saying nothing at all for a moment. She decided she wouldn’t try to guess if Emilio wanted an apology, or what specifically it should be for. The list she populated grew new items like they were weeds – the kind that Regan had pressed by the pageful to give to her grandmother. “Thank you for being there for Jade. I know you were. And I tried. I really– I tried to keep her safe, the child. I know trying is not good enough.” In the words of her grandmother. “Have you heard from her? Seen her? She needs space to— she has a responsibility. But I’ve heard no one has seen her.” Not that Regan had attempted to reach out herself. She hadn’t been able to reach out to anyone who had been in Ireland with her. Too much uncertainty. Too many scalpels across scabs.

—

Exhaustion clung to him like a physical weight resting on his shoulders, intent on dragging him down as far as it possibly could. He wasn’t sure when he’d last slept — with Teddy out of town, there was no one to drag him to bed and make sure he stayed there, and he wasn’t particularly good at doing it on his own. So he trudged through. He must have slept at some point over the last month — more than once, probably — but it felt like a haze, like something someone else had done with his body while he wasn’t looking. Even now, with Wynne back in their house just a short walk from Teddy’s living room and Nora gone but still so much safer than she’d been before, sleep wasn’t something he had much interest in.  

He probably should have been in bed, or on the couch, or at least pretending like he had any intention of rectifying his most recent adventures in awakeness and lightening the heavy bags under his eyes, but he sat at his desk in Axis instead. There was a mug of some unbalanced mixture of coffee and whiskey in his hand, but it wasn’t warm anymore. He wasn’t sure it ever really had been, didn’t know if he’d poured it from a fresh pot or one that had been sitting long enough to cool.

The sound of the bell above the door startled him a little, and Emilio thought he should probably resent it. He should shudder at the idea of doing anything resembling work right now, should hate the very concept of it. But a rush of relief hit him instead, a quiet gratefulness for some distraction. Unfortunately, luck had never looked kindly on Emilio, because it wasn’t a distraction that walked through the door.

Regan wasn’t a visitor he’d been expecting. He’d known she came back with the rest — Wynne had told him that much, even if he hadn’t seen her at the airport — but some part of him had assumed he’d never see her again. It was a silly assumption to make. The town wasn’t big, and he wasn’t even actively avoiding her. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he didn’t want to see her. In fact, there was some quiet sense of relief with her presence, like he’d needed the same reassurance to know she was alive as he had for Nora and Wynne. 

She set a bag on the desk, and Emilio stared at it for a moment. He thought of the ones he and Jade had carried into the woods, of the silly idea to speak a eulogy over the worms both writhing and still within it, of the way it hadn’t been nearly as silly as he’d thought it would be. He stared at the bag and she was speaking, and it took a moment for the words to curl themselves around his ears, took a moment for his mind to properly translate it into something understandable. It isn’t worms. He let out a laugh, humorless and dry. “It’s worms, isn’t it?” It felt like history repeating itself, like the past playing out through jumpy, damaged film projected on a brick wall. 

He didn’t reach out to take the gift or open it, but he didn’t look away from it, either. He let his eyes settle on the bag, on a spot of discoloration on the paper. Regan said thank you, said I tried, and the exhaustion tugged at his ankles, shoving his head beneath the waves like it was drowning and wanted him to keep it afloat. “Jade’s my friend,” he replied. He felt far away from his own voice, like it belonged to someone else. “She’d be there for me, too, if I needed her.” He hadn’t done that for Regan, just as Regan hadn’t kept Nora safe for him. And Emilio thought he should probably be angry at her for not doing a better job, for letting Nora love and lose something so important in a place she never should have been to begin with, for putting him in the line of fire by letting people half a world away know his name, for leaving to begin with. Anger usually came so easily to him, as naturally as breathing. But right now, the exhaustion won out. He’d be angry later, he was sure. He’d yell and he’d rage and he’d pretend it made a difference. But for now, in this moment, he could only let his shoulders slump forward.

“I haven’t seen her,” he admitted, the words heavy on his tongue. “I — I know why she left. Yeah. I get it. I don’t know if she’ll be back, or if she needs to… stay away.” He’d never gone back to San Agustín Etla, after the massacre. He doubted he ever would. “Are you…” Are you okay? It was a stupid question. She wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. He didn’t know the details of what she’d gone through over there, but he knew it was bad. She wouldn’t have come back otherwise, would she? Not with how determined she’d been to go. “Did you come just to give me worms?”

—

Yes, Jade would have been there for Emilio in much the same way. Jade was good at that. Except… her body tightened as it remembered the way Regan had strained to wrap the bandage, tar bubbling under her feet, while Jade was in the bedroom (Regan could call). The doubt that latched into the furrows of her brain like some parasite. And she hated that. Hated that she still even remembered it, after everything that preceded and followed. It wasn’t fair to Jade. “She would be,” Regan said anyway, clearing any lingering doubt in her throat, because it was true. Despite…

She needed to stop this. Let it go. She was good at that. After all, she was able to stop holding a grudge against Al for breaking her cherished whale carpal bones only a few years after the incident. (Mostly. It came up on Christmas and Thanksgiving a couple of times after.)

“If I say it’s not worms, then it’s not worms. I’m not an especially good liar.” But she could lie. She could lie if her stomach burned and she didn’t mind coughing up blood-mixed bile every day. She could lie if it meant sparing the ham child, or Wynne, or Elias. She could lie if she was willing to lose part of her body – however little it fit – as a consequence for being caught. She could also lie to herself, every day. That kind of lying, she was an expert in. But she wasn’t going to lie about worms. “I thought you might have enough worms by now. So this is to expand your palate. It doesn’t matter. Did you need more worms?” The fact Emilio was still thinking about worms so much over a month after he last received any made Regan wonder if Jade had continued to fight the good fight in her absence. She loved that woman. Earlier insecurity aside.

Regan wasn't sure what she had been expecting, asking about the ham child. But if Emilio hadn't seen or heard from her, and Van (who knew the child's actual name) hadn't, then she hadn't contacted anyone. Grief took many forms. It wasn't ideal that this was one of them. Regan had finally made the right choice, had pushed back against her grandmother, and now powerlessness was cutting through her all over again, because there was no way to help the ham child. Or Elias. Or Wynne. They now all carried Regan's initial bad decision to leave, like an infection. The ham child's infection was also a responsibility, though. And it would keep her alive. She knew that much.

Are you? Was she what? Regan had no clue what she was, only what she wasn’t. Obviously, she wasn’t just here to deliver the not-worms. That question was as ridiculous as asking if she’d come back from Ireland just for this. But it was tempting to hide inside the question. “No,” Regan said, though she didn’t have a better answer as to why she’d come here that she hadn’t already addressed (that being Jade and asking about the child). Did there need to be a better one? “The couch looks nice.” She paced over to the couch, admiring it without actually looking at it. “How is business? Are you more tormented than usual? I got a new job. I… I’ve been using Jade’s computer. Do you know about the human simulation program? That is not my job. It’s more important. I’ve learned that it’s optimal for humans to eat at least once every 24 minutes, which must be a recent dietary trend. These ones are quite dramatic about it. They die.” 

—

There was a certain level of understanding between Emilio and Jade that was hard to find anywhere else. All hunters had some form of camaraderie between them, something fostered by the camps so many of them spent time in as young kids, but there was an especially tight connection between hunters of the same type. Jade got Emilio in a way Kaden couldn’t, even if he and Kaden shared more similar views. He understood Jade the same way Jade understood him.

He didn’t understand Regan.

He’d always been particularly good at solving mysteries; he’d made a whole career of it. People came to him with impossible questions, and he spent days or weeks or months tracking down the answers, handed them back on a silver platter and accepted the consequences when those answers were ones no one wanted to know. He said I’m sorry before delivering the worst news you could give someone, and he pretended it softened the blow. Answers were better than no answers; he believed that, even when people screamed and cried and broke down in his office. He liked to understand things, he liked to unravel them and take them apart and know what they meant. But he couldn’t figure out how to do that with Regan.

It had been easier before the Ireland thing. He could tuck her away into the back of his mind and pretend it didn’t matter. But that had gotten him nowhere good, had gotten Nora sneaking into her suitcase and Wynne chasing after her and Emilio feeling more alone than he had in years in a town that used to feel something like home. Regan was wound together with Wynne and Nora now, and maybe with Emilio, too. Maybe there was some tie that bound them all together, tied his breakdowns to whatever she’d experienced that he’d heard only snippets about. 

Focusing on the bag felt easier than unpacking it all, so he did. “It’s probably something that looks like worms, then. Something that I think is worms, even if it has another name.” Fae couldn’t lie, but they could play on what you didn’t know, couldn’t they? And there was a lot Emilio didn’t know. He thought of Van’s message, the one that shifted the world on its axis. Declan’s dead. You could fill a mausoleum with all the things Emilio didn’t know, he thought. It wasn’t a good thing. “I don’t need more worms. I didn’t need any worms to begin with.” Except for the moment when he had, the moment when that bird had been diving at him and at Jade and he’d thrown a bag of worms at it to distract it long enough for them to escape. He didn’t think that was something Regan needed to know about, even if he didn’t think she was in the mood to be smug about it. 

She wasn’t just here to deliver her bag of something that was probably worms, though Emilio couldn’t figure out her reason for coming. He didn’t think she owed him any apologies, and he didn’t think he owed her any, either. She’d left, and he’d let her go. Nora had gone with her, but she hadn’t known. Wynne had come after, but she hadn’t asked them to. This whole thing was a goddamn mess, but Emilio wasn’t sure it was anyone’s fault. It would have been easier if it were. If there were someone to be angry at, if there were some target on which he could focus this building feeling in his chest, it would be easier. Instead, the feeling just kept building. It kept growing and oozing with no real outlet, and it hurt. Everything hurt a little.

“It’s a couch,” he replied. “You sit on it. I still don’t think it matters much what it looks like or where it comes from.” But it was something to focus on, and he liked that. “Business is… fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” He wasn’t sure if Regan would challenge him on that. He liked to think she wouldn’t so long as he didn’t question her about what she was avoiding. Maybe they could come to some understanding. 

Or… maybe not. Because Regan, as always, was impossible to understand.

“I don’t know anything about that. But that’s wrong. Humans don’t need to eat every twenty-four minutes. Not even babies need to eat that much. Once every few hours, maybe. Are you — What do you mean they die? Who’s dying?” He didn’t think Regan was killing people — he knew her well enough to dismiss that particular notion — but there was something strange about the way she was speaking. Maybe it was a breakdown. He wondered who you were supposed to call for that.

—

Emilio sounded like he had needed the worms, but Regan would behave (for Jade… though Jade preferred when she didn’t) and not point this out. The man deserved to keep some of his dignity after what he had probably gone through, powerless in helping the ham child from across the ocean. And Regan didn’t want to think about worms, because she didn’t want to think about Siob– no. Siobno. Yes. 

Regan crossed her arms at Emilio correcting her immediately after he said he didn’t know anything about it. “You must not be aware that things have changed. How often do you eat? Whiskey doesn’t count. The small humans die. They’re… they’re part of a simulation program, they were never alive, not that I felt particularly good about trapping some in walls and letting them set themselves on fire. Oh, I did get to see the grim reaper. Who is not Sadbh, despite her claims. She is a banshee I know from…” Training. Probably one of those blurry faces in the window of the clinic. Regan’s thoughts ran into a wall. They halted at the very edge of a deep grave. So she stopped before she fell in. She couldn’t even look at the couch for a distraction anymore; it reminded her that she didn’t have one. And why. And-- 

Regan’s chest flared as Emilio’s office seemed to expand in all directions at once. Her lungs kept stretching with it, bronchi snapping. Something cracked, and Regan wasn’t sure if it was her ribs or something outside her body entirely. Darkness swooped across the office. Her hands had been smeared with shiny black tar, and the bell above the door jingled in leanbhs. The back of her shirt felt warm and wet, like blood had seeped through her bandages, even though the ugly margins of her wounds had stopped bleeding days ago. Something else shattered, but it couldn’t get any darker. It was all tar, anyway; a bottomless black over everything. Except it wasn’t. Because she wasn’t– she knew where she was. In Axis. So why– Regan grappled for and traced the outline of Emilio in the remaining light. Because Emilio was in Axis. And why was this so difficult? She’d had thousands of death visions. Be better was swallowed by the tar.

Slowly, Regan thawed herself out from the position she’d ended up locked in. It followed the same pattern as rigor breaking – face, neck, arms, legs. And it was fine. Only a death vision, and not even a prediction. Except, why hadn’t she seen those bloodstains on the carpet like last time? Why hadn’t she seen the thin trails of death rising from dead rodents, or a dark glow around the bag she’d dropped on Emilio’s table? Her eyes were having a bad day. That was all. Regan moved her shoe slightly, crunching over glass. When she moved enough she shook some from her hair and the folds of her shirt. It got her arms, but that, too, was fine. Business is fine, Emilio had said. Everything’s fine. And this was what that looked like, right? 

Emilio knew about all of this, that she could see death (for now – maybe as a human, she wouldn’t; also, where exactly had the death been that she was supposed to see?). It was fine. “My business,” Regan started, remembering the feel of her own mouth, “is fine, too. My new job. I work for the big Apple. The other one. Not New York City.” She had warmed up enough to shrug some sprinkles of glass off her shoulder. “If you come to the store, bring something dead. It needs that.” And maybe she did, too. Where was the death?

—

It was a relief, almost, for Regan to open up an argument regarding her ‘small humans’ and their dietary habits. It was easier to bicker and fight about that than it was to talk about anything real — for the both of them, he’d wager. Something stirred in his chest at the mention of whiskey, his fingers itching for the bottle in his desk, but he wouldn’t reach for it if only out of a stubborn refusal to prove her right. “It doesn’t matter how often I eat,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m human, so I know humans don’t need to eat every twenty-four minutes. That doesn’t change.” 

Nothing she was saying really made sense to him. There was a simulation program, the humans were never alive even if they were dying, she was trapping them in rooms, they were setting themselves on fire. Every word she said seemed to wash over Emilio like ocean waves, covering his feet in sand without leaving anything substantial behind. He couldn’t connect what she was saying to anything understandable to his experience, but the way she stopped was something he recognized. The way something in her eyes seemed to jolt, the way her jaw went slack.

It was funny, in a way — Emilio rarely saw this sort of thing from this point of view. Usually, he was the one with the slack jaw and the faraway look in his eyes, leaving whoever was with him behind as he went traversing through time somewhere in his mind. For him, there were corpses in the corner of every room, and their faces always changed. They were Juliana, they were Flora, they were Edgar or Rosa or his mother or the fuzzy, half-forgotten face of Victor. They were Rhett, sometimes, or Nora or Wynne or Teddy or Jade or Xóchitl. They’d even been Kavanagh once or twice, though that felt harder to admit. 

He wondered what it was for Regan. Did she see corpses, too? Or were corpses something fond enough for her that she saw something else instead? He tried to imagine the office as an Irish landscape, tried to put his detective hat on to solve the mystery of what she saw that wasn’t here, but it was an impossible thing. There were no clues to be found, no way of unraveling a thread that existed only in the mind of someone he wasn’t even sure liked him very much.

She came back to herself slowly, and he wondered if he looked like that after his bouts of time travel. He didn’t say anything. When it was him in that position, the last thing he wanted was for the person who witnessed it to mention it, and he thought it would be polite to avoid putting her in such a position. (There was something almost laughable about the thought; Emilio had never given much of a shit about politeness before. Maybe he was just tired.)

He latched back on to the conversation, even if it made just as little sense as it had before. “You work for an apple?” His mind was slow, trying to put together pieces that didn’t really fit. “I hear bad things about New York City, anyway.” Mostly, he heard that there were more people there than he wanted to deal with. “I don’t think I’ll come to the store. I don’t need any apples. If I find something dead, I can give it to you somewhere else.” Or give it to Jade to give to her, more likely; he doubted Regan wanted much to do with him long term. 

—

Emilio was not asking. Not commenting. Regan would not either. What was there to remark on, anyway? She took another deep breath and traded some more carbon dioxide for denial.

“I work for the biggest Apple.” And they were only slightly better than Google, Regan thought. At least their founder had good taste in turtlenecks prior to his death. Emilio seemed to understand all of this; he was likely familiar with their products in his line of work (although, he was more on the brute force side of things in many ways). Either way, she wasn’t sure she could explain through the lingering haze. Regan agreed with him about New York City. “Too many people, yes… you wouldn’t like it.” When she was little, the occasional trip to New York was a treat. She understood now why her dad thought it was both otherworldly and overwhelming in the same breath. He probably hadn’t known such a locus of human activity existed until his feet left Irish soil. Now, Regan couldn’t imagine visiting such a city – there’d be a scream pushing against her lungs with each step she took. “I didn’t like the idea of Apples, either. I had a Blackberry. But that was no longer an option, so I needed to switch. They don’t make Blackberries anymore. Apples are the future.” 

There was only silence and stiffness where a human might have shrugged. “They aren’t constructed well. But humans don’t live for very long, so perhaps that’s fine.” Especially when they didn’t eat every 24 more minutes, according to the simulation. “I will give you money if you can provide me with more information about new human dietary habits.” It was, obviously, the most important thing here. Except... there was the ham child, more to tell him. There was him being there for Jade, more thank yous to give. There were questions she needed to ask about what happened while she was gone. There was enough guilt in her marrow she could have used it as a seasoning in cream of bone soup. But she pushed that in the grave, too. All of it.

Regan gave Emilio a clipped wave and turned around without a goodbye, class crunching underfoot. The offer of money was as good a bye as any. 

And knowing that once she left, Emilio would attend to the bag full of caterpillars. 

[yanderechuu]

Short-winded

yandere!Class 1A x fem!reader

[3K]

Summary: You are being forced out of your shell by your classmates, but now it seems more for their on benefit than that of your own.

Warning: anxiety, stalking

│

For someone who resented public attention, it came with shock when you announced you had wanted to become a hero.

You were the definition of social anxiety, often finding solace within the four corners of your room, and if not, then the kitchen of your house would do. So the worst form of betrayal your guardian could ever do to you was to send you off to U.A. dorms, practically miles away from the comfort of your own home. In the worst attempt to guilt-trip them, you claimed they were disowning you; still, they were adamant of the opportunity that you’d ease on socializing. 

What you didn’t know was that your guardian had warned your homeroom teacher of your current ‘predicament’ (they’d call it a predicament; you’d call it your own nature), and requested if possible that you’d be compelled to engage in social interaction until you were comfortable with it. Aizawa agreed, seeing to it that if your own guardian personally addressed it to him, then it must really be a matter not to be taken lightly of. He had seen your tendencies, too - like when you would be called out for recitation, always having the answer at the tip of your tongue, wanting to roll it out so you could sit down. In the end, you would never find the courage to respond, and your classmates would assume that you didn’t know the answer to the question, while only you and your teacher would know otherwise. You were silent about your opinions during group hero training, only ever abiding whatever your classmates’ plans were, despite the little hiccups and uncertainties you would recognize in secret (but they were rare, anyway, as most of the time you only heeded those of Bakugou’s or Midoriya’s or Yaoyorozu’s).

Only when your guardian had approached him did Aizawa come to realize that, oh, he had never really heard you speak. Now that he thought about it, what did your voice sound like? The last time he heard it was when you had asked an incoherent query after homeroom lessons regarding hero laws. He had asked you to repeat it again, and again, and again, until when he had said, “sorry?” you bore this flushed, troubled look, raising your hands in front of you and waving them, exclaiming, “n-nothing, never mind. Sorry.”

He never understood what you were supposed to say, that was until he rectified the short essay quizzes held by the end of the period, where you got less than half percent correct. You had a different perspective of the hero law discussed, and Aizawa was willing to bet that your attempted question was about the lesson prior. Ever since then he took it as a habit to ask if you - specifically - had any questions regarding homeroom discussions. You would cower in embarrassment, knowing that the root of his habit came from when you had asked him something he couldn’t even hear, nevertheless you found it in yourself to respond by nodding. At least now you didn’t have to muster up the courage to approach him since he would approach you instead. 

Anyway, it was already much apparent to him that you had a dilemma with your social life (if you ever even had one), and so he addressed this to the class once when you were called to the faculty to ‘discuss’ things with Present Mic, your English teacher (Aizawa just told him to keep you busy as he spoke to his class).

Most expressed their concern, especially when he said that this could affect your hero affiliation in times of inevitable joint cooperation or recruiting of sidekicks and whatnot. It was not necessarily their responsibility, Aizawa expounded, but if possible, then they should get you to interact with them as much. Mina was most resolved in getting to befriend someone like you, a little bit ahead of Izuku, who wanted to befriend you partly due to his curiosity of your quirk. The rest thought of this as a casual ordeal, and a few saw to it as a bothersome matter that could be handled by the social butterflies of the class. 

Well.

Being approached by Izuku and his friends was the least of your expectations when recess began. Usually, you’d prepare your own lunch to prevent having to go to the crowded place, and eat in peace inside the classroom with Aoyama who normally paid you no mind. He would give you a cheese or two, but it was nothing that you couldn’t deal with. Besides, the cheese actually tasted delicious. 

Izuku insisted you come with them to the cafeteria, and when you gave him only an anxious and weirded-out look, Uraraka saved you both from awkwardness by pushing you out of the classroom door - to which her touch you quivered at. In the corridors, Iida gave a lecture about how being with friends helped with your general health - you didn’t know whatever the hell he meant by that, because you weren’t even friends with them. Shoto kept giving you glances from time to time, and when you both met eyes, you were the first to break contact; he found himself smiling lightly in amusement. You ransacked your brain for excuses to avoid being around them, but before you knew it, you were urged to sit down on their usual table, where also Jirou, Momo, and Hagakure sat. You were on the corner of the table - across Izuku and beside Uraraka - overwhelmed and irate by the abrupt proceeding of things. This was coercion - they didn’t even ask if you were okay with it - and, quite frankly, a burst of your own personal bubble. You wanted out, but how could you, when you couldn’t even find it in yourself to stand up?

Their conversations were sundry; in any of them, you engaged in none. Even Shoto was more participative than normal in attempts to get you along. It was then when they realized they had not a single information about you. Hagakure didn’t even know your first name, as Aizawa only ever called you by your last, and when the rest of your classmates clarified it was ‘(y/n),’ she complimented it, as if it would help you be at ease around them.

“Oh, what a pretty name!” She exclaimed. “It kind of fits well with... (n/n)[nickname]. Can I call you (n/n)-chan? Like Tsuyu-chan!”

“...well,” you voiced out in the most minimal volume, and their happiness upon hearing your voice was sickeningly evident. You sighed, “sure.”

Even Iida dedicated himself to calling you that. That was okay, you thought, because it wasn’t like you would be spending almost all the time with them. Right; this was a one time thing. Never gonna happen again. You’d commit unalive before it could. 

But you didn’t commit fast enough.

By the time dismissal came you rushed out of the classroom and to the restroom to avoid meeting with Izuku and his friends just in case they also had plans on robbing you of your personal time in dismissal. You went to a restroom that was not on the floor level of class 1A - you were sure your female classmates would spend minutes upon minutes in there - and waited for thirty minutes. You literally counted 1,800 seconds in your mind as it was the only way to withhold the bubbling anxiety inside you without looking like an oddball, doing box-breathing techniques alone and all that - though some students from different classes were wondering why you remained on your spot in that restroom. 

Upon mentally saying the last second, you dashed out of the restroom and to the school building entrance, passing by your homeroom teacher on the way but not bothering to spare him a greeting. You hoped he would assume you just did not see him as you were brisk-walking. He would later on probably ask why you were still in school thirty minutes past dismissal.

U.A. dorms came to view and never had a bigger wave of relief washed over you. Today had been a hectic day, and you congratulated yourself for enduring the school hours that included socializing; perhaps you deserved a reward after all this. There was a quaint café a couple of minutes away from U.A., beside a convenience store; maybe you should try the sweets there on the weekend. No one knew about it, as it did not look like one, but that was why you decided to try it out. Small, tranquil, and picturesque - exactly what you needed.

Quietly, you opened the entrance door, and slipped in headfirst to see if you could go inside undetected. Unfortunately for you, you came in unexpected eye contact with Denki.

“(Y/n), hey!” He called from the dining area, smiling brightly. That was weird; you didn’t remember being first-name bases with him, and were disarrayed with the fact that he just greeted you when he normally wouldn’t. “Where’d you come from that you returned this late?”

“U-um, uh,” you looked down, “I... walked slowly...”

“Well you sure took your time. C’mere, Bakugou’s cooking.”

“I’m only doing it ‘cause you won’t shut up unless I do it, damn Pikachu!” Yelled the cook. 

This time, you just had to refuse. “N-no thanks, I’m... I’m busy.”

Just as you proceeded to stroll your way to your room, you came into an abrupt halt by Kirishima, who was sitting on the common room, waiting for Bakugou’s cooking.

“Busy with what?”

“Huh?”

“We have no homework given for the weekend.” He explained, looking at you from over the sofa. “So... what’s keeping you busy?”

At this point, not only was he the one to stare at you, but so were Denki and Bakugou, who skeptically raised a brow in anticipation of your answer; in anticipation of your presence in the common room, as if he was expecting that you’d try out his cooking, too. Shoto and Izuku ended their conversation at once upon seeing you by the dorm elevator, halted and wide-eyed, like a deer caught on headlights.

For your small, silent, anxiety-stricken self, this was too much.

“C-can you...” you pleaded, voice scarcely above a whisper, “can you not...”

You wanted to voice out if they could stop looking at you like that - surely they could, couldn’t they? You felt supremely inferior to their stares and it didn’t help that most of them were deemed a few of the strongest in the class. It felt like they were going to use their quirk on you and, against them, your quirk was rendered futile.

You ran to the opposite hallway, opting to walk the set of stairs to your dorm level in lieu of using the elevator. You heard Kirishima’s yell of your name - “(y/n), wait!” - but made no attempt to slow down for him to catch up to you. He didn’t follow you, anyway, only abruptly standing from the cushion when you made a run for it along the hall, then falling back down in defeat, with a sigh escaping his lips.

“Man, she’s like Amajiki-senpai but kind of worse.”

“Well?” Denki queried. “Aren’t you gonna go after her?”

“I want to, but I feel like she’ll just... ignore me.”

Denki sighed. “And you say you’re a man.”

“Hey, I am!” He slumped on the couch. “I just know the right timing, which isn’t now. Probably later, or when Mina’s around. Maybe she’s more comfortable with girls.”

That was a funny joke, because your anxiety doesn’t discriminate, and you were uncomfortable around boys and girls and nonbinaries and basically everyone and everything in and beyond the gender spectrum either way. 

You didn’t think of going out to fill your stomach before going to sleep, fearing the tension between you and your classmates who had witness the small encounter prior. By the time evening came, though, a knock was heard on your room’s entrance. You opened it begrudgingly, and in front of you appeared the face of the pinkette. Beside her was Kirishima.

“Hi, (y/n)!” Mina exclaimed brightly, much like how Denki had a few hours ago. “I know you haven’t eaten dinner yet. Come on!”

You were about to decline such a generous offer, but just then, your stomach churned in agreement against your will.

“...fine.”

As you three walked the corridor towards the stairs, Kirishima sauntered beside your form.

“Hey, uh, sorry about a while ago. I knew you weren’t comfortable with us but I still persisted with asking.”

He appeared to be genuinely sincere with the apology, with his palm on the back of his neck and eyes averting to everywhere but you, and the faint red on his cheek made him look less intimidating.

“It’s... it’s fine, you know.” Again, your voice was practically just an exhale. You turned the other way. “I’m sorry for running away like that. It was rude.”

Because of your consideration to apologize on your behalf, he found the confidence to grin at you without guilt. “It’s completely fine! At least now we’re on good terms, yeah?”

“Mm.”

This interaction didn’t stop you from preferring to be alone in your room. But you were hungry, and your stomach wasn’t relenting. As you sat on the corner of the sofa in the common room, Sero, with a grin, handed you your plate of [favorite dish].

“It’s your favorite food, right? Bakugou insisted to make it just for you.”

You slightly smiled at the thoughtfulness.

Then your face dropped in shock.

And so did the others’.

You blinked once, twice, then slowly looked at him in unnerved suspicion. “How did you know?”

“You sound like a stalker, Sero!” Denki whined abhorrently. “Freaking creep. Trust me, (y/n), it’s just that we noticed you always pack that for lunch. I got to say, though, I don’t blame you for liking [favorite dish].” He took a piece from your plate.

Alright, that sounded reasonable. Anything to keep you from the aching paranoia that they were actually watching what you did.

“And here I was trying to start things pleasant with (y/n).” Sero dramatically heaved, though somehow he still exuded this chilling vibe. It barely helped you with having to be around all these social butterflies. 

From the other side of the common room were Momo, Jirou, and Hagakure, who played with a bunny borrowed from Koda. It didn’t help you at all that they spotted you from your place in the sofa. 

“(N/n)-chan!” Along with your gaze, the rest of your classmates with you looked at them. “Wanna hold Koda’s pet rabbit? Right here!”

“No!” Yelled Mina right beside you, bringing a faint ring to your ears. You weren’t used to noise, having been always keeping to yourself. She brought you into a tight side embrace, and although she felt you tense under her hold, she ignored it for the sake of saying, “(y/n)’s staying here.”

“Unfair! You’ve had your share of time with her,” what? There was a planned time of when you were supposed to hang out with one group and the other? “now it’s our turn!”

“Please, you’ve had your time during recess! The rest of the night, she spends it with us.” Mina explained, nodding in agreement to herself. Her friends within her clique seemed to like the idea. Oh no. You did not want to spend the rest of your night with people you barely even knew. What would they do to you? Why were they being so revoltingly clingy all of a sudden? 

Again, you wanted out, pleading yourself to convene the courage to say that- 

“No, I don’t want to hang out with you, I just want to go back to the solace of my own room, just watch or read or sleep or anything else that won’t have anything to do with socializing with you all!”

Unfortunately, that was all just in your head.

“I don’t mean to intervene personally, but,” Momo started, promptly leaving her cup of tea on the table, “during recess, she talked mostly to Midoriya and Uraraka. I think it’s about time I get to be with her.”

“But I didn’t get to be with her at all.” Sero counterargued. “Therefore, she’s staying right here.”

Jirou derided, “As if she wants to get along with you. (Y/n), you wanna pet this rabbit or not?”

“Don’t bribe her with something that isn’t even yours!” Exclaimed Kirishima.

“Well, is she yours?”

“N-not at all, but neither is she yours!”

“(N/n)-chan, come here, pretty please?”

“I’m telling you! She's already comfortable here. See? All snug and comfy in my arms.”

“You’re not giving her a chance to decide where she wants to be!”

“Shut the hell up, you damn extras.” Bakugou’s voice, albeit neither soft nor strong in volume, was the loudest of them all. His presence was also the strongest and most intimidating, and you were unable to suppress the reflex to recoil when he leaned on you from behind the sofa, breathing practically against your neck. “(Y/n) stays here.”

The decision was determined from then on. Frustration was prominent on Momo and Jirou’s countenances, and Hagakure was silent for the rest of the night, going back to Koda’s room in order to return his pet rabbit. Mina moved you to the center of the couch so Bakugou could sit on your other side, and when he did, you felt the strong radiance of heatwaves from his body. He would be a perfect cuddler for the winter season. It always felt too cold or too hot whenever you were with people, but you refused to make a personal heater out of him.

“Alright!” From beneath you where he sat, Denki exclaimed. “Who’s up for a horror movie?”

It was not like you had much of a choice, anyway. Whether you loved it or not, a horror movie was being played in the common room’s television, and you had to sit throughout the whole two hours of it with all of Bakugou’s squad hovering around you. You weren’t sure what was scarier; the film, or the fact that discourse broke just a few minutes ago regarding whom you were ending up with. But if anything, you’d rather watch this alone than with these outlandish people claiming to be your friends and acting as if they didn’t ignore you and tend to their own business just yesterday.

[lockefanfic]

Black Silk

Shin Ryujin hated waiting.

“This is so unprofessional,” she says, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel with hands covered in black leather driving gloves. “You would think considering how desperately they wanted the package that they’d be here on time.”

You grin to yourself. People in your line of work weren’t the most upstanding of folk, and you knew from experience that punctuality was relatively low on the list of virtues held in high regard.

“They’ll be here, Ryujin,” you say, turning to her to offer an appeasing smile. “Be patient. Just make sure you’re ready to move once the deal is done.”

Ryujin lets out a sharp, dismissive huff from her nose. 

“I’m always ready,” she states, finally stopping her incessant tapping on the steering wheel to cross her arms in frustration, choosing instead to glare at something through the driver’s side window. You’re happy to let her frustration simmer. Ryujin could be beautiful or sexy or cute or some mixture of all three at her whim - but she was downright adorable when she was frustrated.

You are about to tease her further when three sets of headlights appear at the opposite entrance to the large, abandoned plane hangar you were currently parked in. 

Ryujin snaps to attention - suddenly alert, senses primed. When the other vehicles come to a  stop inside the hangar, she flashes your car’s high beams three times. The first of the three vehicles opposite you flashes its lights three times in return.

“Here we go,” you say as you swing the passenger seat open and make your way out of the car. Ryujin exits the vehicle as well, although she keeps the driver side door open. She meets you at the trunk, which she pops open with a click on her key fob. Inside is a metallic secure container the size of a large briefcase - and an H&K 416c rifle fitted with a large capacity drum magazine.

You grab the package by its handle. Ryujin grabs the short barrelled rifle, discreetly racking the charging handle to chamber a round before keeping it low and behind her to keep it concealed from view. She takes up position behind the reinforced, bulletproof driver side door with one hand resting casually on the window, the other on the rifle’s pistol grip as it rests near the door's hinge. 

“Be careful,” she says. 

You turn back to her with a reassuring smile, even though her eyes are locked on the three vehicles. Package swinging casually in one hand, you make your way towards the old office table and chair that stood at the midway point between you and the new arrivals.

The occupants of the vehicles file out, and a quick headcount reveals that there are eight of them, all women. It wasn’t hard to see which one was the leader - her bright red leather jacket and fishnet stockings stood out starkly from the dark, subdued business and formal wear of the rest of her crew.

“Sorry we’re late,” she says nonchalantly with a vaguely Californian twang. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No, not too long,” you answer, as casually as you could manage. You take advantage of the relatively dim lighting inside the hangar to take note of the positions of the other seven members of the crew, running through possible contingency plans in your head. Twenty or so metres behind you, you were sure Ryujin was doing much the same. Even though your brain was running at a million miles a minute, it was important that you at least appear calm and collected.

“You got the goods, I see?” the leader asks with a nod of her head towards the package in your hand.

“Maybe,” you answer, as casually as you are able. “I was told to deliver it to someone codenamed The Queen. Are you her?”

“Maybe. You can call me Tiffany.”

“Nice to meet you, Tiffany. Unfortunately I’d prefer not to give my name - I’m sure you understand. Now we’re all busy people, so how about I give you the package, you pay me my fees, and we each go on our merry little way?”

A sly smile appears on the young woman’s cherry red lips. She regards you for a moment longer before giving Ryujin and your car an appraising glance. With the wave of a hand, she motions one of her minions forward.

“Give him the cash, Yoona.”

A tall, slender woman with beautiful, delicate features steps forward, a metallic briefcase similar in size to yours clasped in one hand. The thick-thock of her high heels sound almost obnoxiously loud in the relative silence of the hangar as she makes her way towards the table.

She places her briefcase onto it with a loud thud, motioning with her head for you to do the same.

There was always a momentary moment of sheer dread when it came to making the exchange. If things were going to go sideways, it would be now. Your fingers squeeze the handle of the package a little tighter. Your heart beats a little quicker. A bead of sweat drips down the side of your head, and you are happy that the dim lighting doesn’t betray your anxiety to your business partners.

Thankfully, the pale, beautiful girl in front of you shows none of the warning signs that you’d seen in other exchanges. There is a no-nonsense resting bitch face on her otherwise pretty features - absentmindedly, you wonder for a moment what she would look like if she smiled.

You place the package onto the table next to the briefcase. She takes it, and sparing not a single moment more, turns and heads back towards her waiting group. Inwardly, you breathe a sigh of relief as you take the briefcase containing your payment off the table before taking a few steps backward toward Ryujin and your waiting car.

Yoona presents the package to one of the shorter members of her group - a soft, cute woman with a shock of short, bright blonde hair. She has opened a laptop on the hood of one of their vehicles, and after opening the package, she hooks it up to whatever was inside before typing furiously into the keyboard.

Throughout it all, Tiffany’s eyes remain locked on you, a slim smile on her dark red lips, as though there were something about the transaction that amused her.

“You don’t care what was inside?”

“Not even a little bit,” you answer. “There are three-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tiffany interrupts, her eyes rolling back in her head disdainfully, as though she’d heard what you were about to say a million times before. “Never change the deal, no names, and never look in the package. You couriers are all the same.”

“I’m glad we’ve made such a positive impression,” you answer with a hint of sarcasm. You rest a hand as casually as you could on the old swivel chair next to the desk - ready to reach for the pistol Ryujin had duct-taped to its underside should shit hit the fan.

“And you’re not gonna check the briefcase? It could be full of Monopoly money, for all you know.”

“I trust you. And if you screw me over, well, I’ll know where to find you in order to rectify the situation.”

A smirk appears on Tiffany’s lips at your thinly veiled threat, but the sense of amusement on her face doesn’t fade in the slightest.

“You have balls. You and your partner,” she says with a nod behind you, towards Ryujin.

Not wanting to engage any further and prolong the transaction, you settle for giving her a shrug and a smile. For a few long, uncomfortable seconds, the soft typing of the girl at the keyboard is the only sound filling the otherwise quiet hangar.

“Is it legit, Sunny?” Tiffany eventually asks, breaking the uneasy silence.

“It’s legit,” the short girl answers, packing up her laptop and the package. Tiffany gives you one last smirk.

“Alright then,” she begins. “I think we’re done here. Let’s go-”

Tiffany is interrupted when a third member of her crew, a short, slender woman in a black dress, emerges from the rear of their crew to whisper something into her ear. The sarcastic smirk that seemed permanently affixed to Tiffany’s face widens. 

“It’s your lucky day, Mr. Courier. It seems our boss has arranged for a bonus for you - a reward for having transported the package to us so safely and… promptly.”

This wasn’t good - anything that changed the terms of the deal was never a good sign, even if it was labelled as a bonus. Your mind runs at a million miles a second. Your hand tightens a little more around the briefcase, while the other one inches slowly towards the hidden pistol under the chair.

“Is that so?” you answer, as casually and nonchalantly as you could manage. You had to stall for time while you came up with a plan to escape whatever it was that was about to sent your way. “I didn’t know someone called The Queen could even have a boss.”

“We all have bosses,” Tiffany replies, with a matter-of-fact sigh. “Anyway, I think you’ll want some privacy while you indulge in this particular... bonus. Perhaps you can ask your driver over there to give you some space.”

She makes a twirling motion in the air with her finger, and the members of her crew all re-enter their vehicles - all except the woman in the black dress. Tiffany is the last to board, turning around to shoot you one last smile.

“Toodles,” she says with a casual wave. “Oh, and do enjoy.”

The three vehicles quickly back up from the hangar, seemingly leaving the girl in the black dress behind. Once you are satisfied that they are a safe distance away, you turn to Ryujin and give her a nod.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks.

You nod to her again, giving her a smile of reassurance that only half-satisfies her. Shooting you an uneasy frown, she gets into your vehicle, closes the door, and after starting the car, backs it up until she leaves via the same entrance you arrived in.

Alone now with the girl in the black dress, you give her an appraising look from head to toe. She was slender, short, the black silk of her dress wrapping tightly around her small frame and showing off the soft curves and slim lines beneath it. Wavy black hair frames a face filled with soft and youthful features, making placing her age a difficult proposition.

“So what’s this bonus your boss has for me?” you ask, as nonchalantly as you could.

A slim smile appears on the girl’s lips. There is a mysteriousness about her, a strangeness that you couldn’t quite pinpoint. She wore it like a dress, as much of her clothing as the black silk draped around her small frame.

“I think you know what it is,” she answers, her first words calm and measured, “...it’s me.”

The girl steps closer to you, and your body tenses at her proximity - although the allure of her deep, dark eyes keeps you from answering the alarm bells ringing in your head. A pale, slender hand reaches out to the briefcase of cash in your hand, her fingers wrapping themselves around its handle before taking it from your grasp and placing it delicately onto the ground. The ease at which she’d divested you of your hard-earned fees surprised and frightened you in equal measure.

Her fingers play with the front flap of your blazer, her long, slim fingers tracing lazy patterns on your chest.

“I’m not quite sure I follow, Miss-”

“Taeyeon,” she answers, firmly and confidently. “Kim Taeyeon.” Names weren’t always freely exchanged in your line of work, and her willingness to divulge hers, even if it was a pseudonym, spoke of her complete confidence. Her finger suddenly ceases playing with your chest to slowly trace a path down towards your waist.

“Taeyeon,” you repeat. “Anyway, as thankful as I am for your boss’s generosity, I…”

Your sentence dies in your mouth as Taeyeon’s finger reaches your waist. Her other hand joins it, quickly undoing your belt, and soon after the button and zipper to your jeans. Her fingers hook into the waistline of your boxers before she gives them a gentle tug, pulling them and your jeans down halfway your thighs - and freeing your quickly hardening cock.

Throughout the entire process of undressing you her eyes have not left yours. There is a playful confidence there. Hers was the look of a woman who knew exactly who she was and what she was doing - while enjoying every second of it. Every alarm and alert in your brain was telling you to stop her from going any further, but there is something in her eyes that keeps you from paying heed to your brain’s warnings.

“Miss Kim, this really isn’t necessary,” you say, although the words lack conviction. “I don’t really want-”

Taeyeon’s slim, pale fingers wrap themselves around your shaft for the first time - and your final words of resistance die in your throat. The sly smile on the girl’s lips widens. Her fingers begin to pump up and down your length softly, every stroke sending sweet little shocks of pleasure up your spine as your cock quickly comes to full stiffness.

“Really?” she asks, with exaggerated incredulousness. “What’s the matter, too much of a gentleman to fuck a girl that’s been bought and paid for?”

“I… I, uh, I don’t usually fuck-”

“...whores?” Taeyeon snaps, although the sly smile on her lips carries no hint of condescension. The word leaves her lips without any sense of hesitation or judgement, as though she were asking you a simple, obvious question.

“I, no, Taeyeon, I meant-”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answers, her eyes temporarily leaving yours to look down on your cock, which she has continued to pump and up down with a closed fist. “I know what I am. And I won’t judge you for not wanting to fuck me… although your friend here begs to differ.”

“My friend has a habit of getting me into trouble,” you answer with a smirk.

“Does it?” she answers, her tone playful. She breaks eye contact with you to glance down at your shaft again, now leaking glistening pre-cum over your head. She licks her lips - and you take it to mean that she liked what she saw.

“Yeah. It always wants to stick around and play when I really should be leaving.”

“Interesting,” Taeyeon answers, fixing her gaze on yours once more. “My mouth does that to me too.”

Eyes not leaving yours, Taeyeon slowly drops to her knees. With one hand on the base of your cock she points it towards her mouth before her small, pink tongue darts out to give it a long, wet lick from base to tip. You shiver with pleasure. Your eyes close involuntarily, and it takes more effort than you cared to admit to force them open once more so you could watch as Taeyeon reaches the tip of your cock, swirling her pink tip around your head, slathering it with saliva and milky pre-cum.

The sly, devilish smile on her lips widens. Those eyes had never left yours, drinking in the pleasure she was conjuring in your body like it was some fine wine to be tasted and savored.

Satisfied that you were bound now to her whim, a slave to her thrall, she takes you into her mouth.

Your attempts to keep your eyes open fail almost immediately, your lids shutting over thankful eyes as those first delicious sparks of pleasure begin to radiate from your shaft, travelling up your spine and into an overwhelmed brain. Your mind had been running a million miles a minute over the past hour or so - and to go so rapidly from being tense and on-edge to an unforeseen but not unwelcome windfall of pleasure was a little more than it could handle.

Nonetheless you do your best to savor it, savor every second as the young woman on her knees in front of you takes your hard, stiff cock in and out of her hot, wet mouth, perfect pink lips closed tightly around its length, lathering it with a slick sheen of her spit and your pre-cum. Your left hand reaches out under its own volition, resting on the side of Taeyeon’s head as it bobs up and down on your shaft, your fingers slowly drifting down to cup her chin. 

She looks up at you again - soft, innocent eyes that held a glimmer of something devious in their corners, as though she were only barely repressing something else behind the cloak of confidence she wore around her.

Your hips begin to move in time with Taeyeon’s movements on your cock, shoving your length even deeper and faster into her wanton mouth. The girl welcomes it, encourages it by bracing her hands on the sides of your hips, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling them back towards her.

Your other hand joins your left, cradling the back of her head, taking your liberties with her face as it continues to suck tightly on every inch of your cock with every entrance and exit of it between her tightly pursed lips. Soon she has ceased moving her head, letting you truly fuck her face, thrusting in and out of her wet mouth at your own pace. Her eyes remain locked on yours the whole time, her gaze never wavering, that look of fulfilled lust never diminishing - only strengthening with every thrust you made into her face.

Your eyes close involuntarily once again, a sigh of wordless pleasure leaving your throat as your head tilts back and you take a moment to savor the sensations flowing outward from your crotch. Only a few minutes ago you were so tense, so anxious and fearful about the possibility of a deal gone wrong; and your weary brain had no capacity left to fight the orgasm quickly building in your loins. Your peak nears after only a few minutes - quicker than you would have liked, but you were too lost, too drunk in the tight wetness of the woman’s mouth to give a damn about it.

“I’m gonna fucking cum,” you hiss. Taeyeon’s only response is to slip her hands from your hips to the cheeks of your ass, pulling you against her mouth, strengthening each thrust between her lips, removing any thought of pulling your cock out of her wet cavern. She lets out a wet gurgle that could have been acceptance, or permission - not that it mattered, when her swirling tongue and the tight grip on your butt told you all you needed to know.

It only takes you a few moments more before you let your orgasm overtake you, the stress and anxiety of the past hour or so finding release in thick, white semen that spurts wetly from your tip and into the back of Kim Taeyeon’s needy throat. Her throat works as fast as it can, gulping down and swallowing every rope that fills her small mouth. Her eyes remain locked on yours the whole time, even as they water slightly, even as they flinch with each spurt of semen you leave in her throat.

As your orgasm begins to subside you give her mouth a few more thrusts, grunting with each one, your body possessed of a temporary but undeniable need to watch her choke on your cum. And she does so, a wet cough leaving her mouth as the tip of your shaft hits the back of her mouth and temporarily cuts off her air supply.

You are suddenly ashamed, and afraid that you’d hurt her. But when your spent cock finally slips out of her mouth and she lets out a wet gurgle, allowing a spill of her spit and your cum to drip from the corners of her lips, the lust in the gaze that she fixes upon you is undiminished. In fact, it is only deepened, as though the taste of your cum and the roughness with which you’d given it to her had only heightened her need for more.

She rises from her knees, a slender hand with slender fingers wiping the wetness from her messy chin before bringing the slick mess to her mouth for her wet, semen-glazed tongue to lick off. Eyes never once leaving yours, she takes a few steps backwards towards the waiting office table, her black high heels echoing oddly loudly in the hangar.

The young woman leans her butt on the edge of the table before reaching up with hands and pulling the straps of her black dress down, revealing her small, round breasts and the tight, taut nipples atop each one.

She bends over at the waist to grasp the hem of her knee-length dress, giving you a generous view of her hanging breasts as she does so. Her slim fingers grasp its edge before pulling it up her body, revealing the pale, creamy skin of her thighs and the slick wet lips between them. She only stops when the dress is a mere slash of silk around her waist, more like a fancy belt than a dress.

There is no slow undressing, no teasing, seductive dance. Only a stripping of unnecessary obstacles that stood in the way between her and needs that needed to be satiated.

“Come take what’s yours,” she says, her eyes half-lidded now, every syllable of the words leaving her mouth dripping with desire.

Your body moves of its own volition, driven solely by the need to claim the reward offered to you. When you reach her your lips crash into hers in a frenzied kiss that had little passion but plenty of lust - tongues quickly find and explored mouths, teeth, and lips; hands explore shoulders, breasts, and backs; legs press torsos against torsos, hers wrapping quickly around your waist as you pick her up and deposit her upon the desk.

You tear your lips from hers - which proved more difficult than you cared to admit, the soft sweetness of her lips like a delicious dessert that was almost too decadent to finish. Your mouth moves to her neck, to her soft, round breasts and her tight, stiff nipples, latching onto the small buds with hungry lips before sucking deeply - savoring each inch of her pale, creamy skin, devouring the young woman’s body like a starving man indulging in an unexpected feast.

Taeyeon moans and sighs and gasps with every movement of your mouth and lips, every suck on her tight nipples. Her hand finds its way onto the back of your scalp, pressing you against her needy breasts, pulling you by the hair from one needy mound to the other, ensuring both of her tight, stiff peaks received the attention she needed. After a while she rips your mouth from her saliva-soaked breasts, and with a wicked glint in her eye, she pushes you down between her legs.

You go to your knees willingly, taking only a moment to drink in the sight of Taeyeon’s wet, glistening lips before diving in, indulging and feasting on her wet, slick flesh with the same hunger and need you showed to her breasts. The girl’s gasps turn into heavy moans as your tongue swipes up and down her tender lips, drinking in her taste and her juices like her body was a newly opened fruit, lapping her up, licking every drop, gorging yourself on her sweet, tender flesh.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, just the beginning of a long string of profanity and filth that begins to leave her mouth - not that you could hear most of it, as she quickly closes her warm, flushed thighs around your head, trapping you against her crotch, forcing you to finish a meal you were going to devour anyway.

Her pussy is as delicious a meal as you could have ever wanted, but you want to heighten it for her, ensure that she was being fed as much as you. And so you latch your lips around the tender, taut bud at the top of her opening before devoting tender licks of your needy tongue upon it. As her moans rise in volume and need, your fingers find her slick opening and slip inside it, building to and maintaining a steady rhythm as you thrust them in and out of her folds.

It doesn’t take long for your actions to achieve the desired effect - soon she is a writhing, squirming mess atop the desk, the wordless gasps and occasional hissed profanity muffled by the thighs pressed tightly against your ears as she wraps her legs around your head. Her fingers dig almost painfully into the back of your scalp, pressing your head against her flesh and making it difficult to breathe. 

But oxygen was a secondary concern. The wet, slick, hot flesh of the woman beneath your tongue was all that mattered. You slurp up her juices onto a thirsty tongue, savoring her bittersweet taste on your palette, before returning your lips back onto her needy clit and resuming swiping at it with firm, steady strokes.

When she orgasms she fills your mouth with even more of her delicious juices, her slick wetness flowing freely into your mouth and onto your still-thrusting fingers. She makes a mess of your face and hand. You could not have cared less. When you finally release her quivering bud from your lips and even as your fingers slip out of her satiated pussy, you lap up every drop of her juices you could find - your hunger not at all satiated, not at all satisfied.

You return to her feet to find the same look of need on her eyes. She hops up onto the desk and spreads her legs wantonly, welcoming you between them. Your stiff cock rests on a warm thigh, still streaked with her own juices.

“Fuck me now,” she hisses with a tone that was more of an order than a request. 

“Tell me you want this,” you reply, the words leaving your tongue before you knew you were speaking them. There was no doubt in your mind that she did - but you wanted to hear her say it, wanted to hear her admit it. “Tell me how you want me to treat you.”

“Treat me like a fucking whore,” she hisses in reply, eyes dark and needy. “Fuck me like a dirty litlte whore that your boss bought you.”

She spreads her legs wider. Your cock quivers with need. You grip it by the base and place it at her entrance, swirling its head around her needy clit. Her glistening lips lather the head with her slick juices. Her eyes drip with lust, mirroring the slickness of her body.

“If you want to be treated like a whore,” you hiss as you fill her tight, hot pussy for the first time, leaving her breathless, “then you’re going to be fucked like one.”

You begin fucking her, pounding her on the creaking, protesting desk. Not giving a damn about a slow building up of speed, not caring about anything other than driving yourself in and out of the young woman’s wet, slick, hot pussy at a fast and frantic pace. For her part Taeyeon seemed to welcome it, even revel in it - any initial pain and discomfort she felt was quickly overwhelmed by the welcome feeling of being filled again and again by your stiff meat.

She lets out sharp gasps with each wet meeting of your bodies, her sweet little mouth frozen in an open “O” as if each thrust of your cock into her needy pussy drove the air from her lungs. Her right hand involuntarily clenches tightly onto your left shoulder, nails digging so painfully into your skin that she might have drawn blood - not that you would have cared or even noticed. Her body tightens around you. Her pussy pulsates. Her eyes remain locked on yours.

The old desk creaks loudly with each thrust into her body as it protests the rough treatment it is being given. For a moment you fear it would give out and break, sending you both crashing to the floor. Not that you would have given a damn. You would’ve fucked the mewling, quivering young woman right on the dirty, cold floor if you needed to.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me like that,” Taeyeon hisses, the filthy profanity leaving her mouth at odds with the innocence of her youthful face. “Fuck me! Harder! Fuck me as hard as you want.”

You take her words as a challenge, and to that end you grasp her behind her knees, pulling them from your hips and bending them over her torso until they are hovering just over her shoulders. You fuck her like that for a few minutes, every thrust giving her the full length of your cock from base to tip. You groan at her tightness. She moans at your size.

“Treat me… treat me like the fucking whore I am,” she snaps, the vulgarity of her words momentarily stealing your attention away from the tightness of her body. “Choke me. Slap me. Hurt me!”

You normally weren’t one to indulge in such kinks aside from relatively tame hair pulling or ass slapping, and so her demands for rougher treatment surprise you somewhat. But there was something in Kim Taeyeon that enticed you in a way other women didn’t - perhaps it was her youthful appearance, perhaps it was the fact that she was so confident and demanding about what she wanted. Perhaps it was that she knew who and what she was, and she revelled in it, enjoyed every moment of what she was hired to do.

Your hand moves - again, almost of its own volition - to grasp a bouncing, soft breast, squeezing it none-too-gently, enjoying the feel of her warm flesh in your hand and the stiffness of the nipple poking into your palm. Not breaking contact with her milky skin for a moment, your hand travels up her chest, until it closes tightly around her thin, pale throat.

A wicked smile appears at the corners of her mouth as your fingers close around her windpipe, as though she were happy to see you give in to her desires. You grunt as you pump harder into her body, feeling more and more of your self-control erode with every thrust. Her moans rise in volume until they become shrieks.

And then she slaps you hard on the cheek with an open hand.

“You fuck like a pussy,” she snaps, the words dulled somewhat by the hand clasped around her throat. You stop thrusting into her for a second. Her words sting - your pride hurt as much as the side of your reddened cheek; in your mouth you can taste the coppery twang of blood. Your fingers tighten somewhat around her neck, as though wanting to exact some measure of revenge for the pain she has inflicted.

Never in your life had you hit a woman before. But before you know it your free hand has reached up and slapped Taeyeon across the cheek.

You expect a look of pained shock to appear on her flushed cheeks. 

Instead there is only a wicked smile, as though she were proud of having made you do something you never would have done otherwise. Her hand moves to slap you in return, but you catch her by the wrist, and pin her hand down onto the table. With one hand still around her throat and the other holding down her struggling wrist, you resume fucking the helpless young woman atop the desk. You are afraid for a moment that she would slap you with her free hand, but instead it reaches up to your skull, fingers digging deeply into your skin. Soon you feel a warm liquid in your scalp, and you know she has drawn blood from you for the second time.

You are in a frenzy now, your cock slamming in and out of her body with a reckless abandon, using the young woman’s pussy like it were a toy, and object to be used for your pleasure. The pain you have caused each other only heightens each sensation, focuses it and makes it more pure, more intense.

Taeyeon not only allows it but welcomes it, if the look of sheer bliss on her face and the continued tightening and pulsating of her wet, slick tunnel is anything to go by. She squirms and quivers and writhes atop the desk, fingers digging ever deeper into your increasingly painful scalp - but your hands at her throat and wrist keep her pinned down onto it as your cock continues to nail her onto it like some obscene piece of art.

“Fuck!” she moans inbetween wordless gasps of pleasure, “Fuck, yes, own me, use me like this- fuck me like the little whore I am, fuck me like your little whore!”

Satisfied that you’d broken her, you release her throat and wrist - and she lets out a whimper of disappointment as you do so. But the whimper is soon replaced by a wicked sigh as you grasp her by the hips and pull her off the desk, before turning her around and pushing her roughly back onto it with a hand in the middle of her back.

No teasing, no build up or prelude. As soon as you are able you grasp the base of your cock with your right hand, line it up with her dripping opening, and then you are fucking Kim Taeyeon again, this time from behind, with her small, tight little body bent over the creaking desk.

“Oh, fuck!” she gasps, “Fuck, you’re so big like this, fuck, you’re so big you’re stretching me out you’re filling me so much oh fuck, oh fuck oh I’m gonna, I’m close, I’m gonna-”

The string of profanity leaving her mouth is cut short abruptly when your hand grasps the back of her head - and slams it down onto the table.

“Shut up and just take my dick, Taeyeon,” you hiss as you continue to fuck her roughly into the table. “Take it like a good little whore.”

Your words, and your implicit surrender to the darker needs, seem to push her over the edge. Her pussy pulsates and quivers and tightens so much around your cock that it drives you dizzy with pleasure. Her limbs shake so violently with her orgasm that you fear she would have fallen from the table had she not been pinned to it by your hands at her head and shoulder.

Throughout it all you are fucking her into the desk, relishing in the feel of her orgasming pussy wrapped tightly around your cock with each entry and exit. Your hand tightens around her skull, your teeth gritting with effort as the pleasure builds in your loins, making you feel light headed and dizzy.

“Beg for it, Taeyeon,” you spit. Your pace quickens as you reach your peak, hammering hard and fast into her pussy. “Fucking beg for my cum. Beg me to cum in you. Beg for it like a good little slut. Like a good little whore.” 

“Cum in me already,” she manages to say, turning her head enough to hiss at you despite your hand still pushing her onto the table. “Fucking cum inside your dirty little whore! Fill my dirty little pussy with cum!”

Just as your words broke her, hers break you - and you bury yourself as deeply as you can inside Kim Taeyeon’s wet, hot body before you finally orgasm. Your cock pulsates as it sends thick, white cum into her pussy, your entire body jerking involuntarily with each spurt. Taeyeon moans deeply with each rope of semen that fills her, her pussy squeezing tightly around your spurting cock, welcoming each and every drop of your seed.

You keep her pressed onto the table throughout the length of your orgasm, your hands at her skull and her shoulder not loosening until your strength finally gives out with the last few ropes of cum that you manage to force from your spent, tired cock. Finally releasing her, you lean over the young woman’s body on the desk, breathing heavily, suddenly exhausted.

After a few more seconds trying to catch your breath, you eventually straighten up, enjoying one last glance at Taeyeon’s body bent over the desk, her round, full ass still pressed against your crotch. Giving her a soft smack on the ass cheek, you grasp her hips as you slowly draw your spent cock out of her body, enjoying the sight of glistening cum that quickly appears from her well-used pussy. It flows wetly down her thighs and onto the floor in thick drops, forming a small puddle between her still shaky legs.

You expect her to say something filthy, something vulgar about the mess you’d made of her body. But to your surprise she says nothing as she bites her lip slightly, shooting you a sensual, wicked smile from over her shoulder.

You begin to tuck yourself back into your pants, and she does the same, adjusting her wrinkled black dress as best she could around her body, it having been twisted around by your frenzied movements. 

For a split second, just before she pulls it back down over her hips, you catch a glimpse of a tattoo at the small of her back - one that had been covered by the dress while you were fucking. 

It is the outline of a chess piece - a queen.

As if on cue, one of the black vehicles her crew arrived in pulls into the hangar. You are momentarily alarmed, but there is nothing in Taeyeon’s movements that suggests you are in any sort of danger, so you do nothing but watch as it pulls up next to the both of you. Out of the passenger side hops Tiffany, who quickly moves to open the rear door for Taeyeon. There is no trace of the confident, brash persona the Californian had displayed not even an hour ago - she seemed more like an obedient servant now, eager to please her superior.

Taeyeon shoots you a sweet smile, her secret identity having been revealed.

You want to say something, something clever or witty in response to the little charade that you had just walked into and played an unknowing part in. 

“I hope I can call on your services again in the near future,” Taeyeon says - in a formal British accent.

Unexpected accent shift aside, her tone was clear and confident, showing no hint of the rough, wanton woman she’d been just a few moments before. There is a grace and elegance around her now - were you to ignore the wrinkled dress and slightly frazzled hair she would not have looked out of place at a fancy cocktail party. With her perfect posture and confident smile, she seemed, suddenly, more like the royalty suggested by her codename.

“I hope you do,” you answer, unable to really come up with anything else to say.

Shooting you one last smile upon soft, perfect lips, Taeyeon steps into the waiting vehicle. Tiffany closes the door behind her and hops back into the passenger seat before it speeds away, leaving you alone and speechless.

---

When you approach Ryujin’s vehicle the driver’s side window is open, a lazy trail of smoke is rising from it.

Inside, the young woman is lazily cradling a cigarette in one hand, taking a long drag from it as you open the door and sit in the passenger seat. From her undone button, lowered zipper of her pants, and her wrinkled shirt it was obvious what she was up to while you were with Taeyeon.

“It wasn’t fair that only you got that bonus,” she says, answering your unspoken question. “Besides, that hangar isn’t exactly soundproof.”

You smile slyly at her as you place the briefcase with your fees into the backseat. “When we get back to the hotel you’ll get your cut of the money.”

“I better be getting more than just money,” she answers as she tosses her cigarette butt out the window and starts up the car. “I’m charging you an additional fee for making me wait.”

“I can’t wait to pay it,” you say with a smile. Ryujin gives you a sly smile of her own before she puts the car into drive and you both screech away from the hangar.

---

Author’s Note: *preps holy water bath to cleanse himself of that filth*

Been wanting to write Taeyeon (and at least mention SNSD) for a long time, and I finally came up with an interesting scenario for it. The driver was initially going to be Seohyun but I couldn’t resist putting Ryujin in it as a cameo (and maybe as a sequel hook for part 2 lol).

Hope you all enjoyed it. Stay cool and stay safe, fellow sickdirtyfreaks!

[calpalirwin]

Phantom Pain

Summary: Trauma bonding turns into a full blown crush with Bucky

Word Count: 2.9k

And away, and away we go!

__

You heard the startled gasps behind you as you lowered your body before pulling yourself up on the pull up bar again. “Yes?” you questioned, repeating another rep.

“I-I-I-” a teenage boy's voice stuttered. “Mr. Stark!” he yelled in slight panic.

You sighed, letting go of the bar and landing on your feet. “Yes?” you repeated, turning to face the lanky teenager with his mop of brown hair, and his companion, a girl a few years older, stifling giggles into her hands, both of their cheeks flushed. “Oh,” you said in realization. “You must be Peter. Uh, Tony’s in the lab, I think.”

Peter nodded mutely, before quickly dashing out of the training room, leaving you face to face with the young woman. “Gay,” you said simply. “And I think Vision’s with Tony.”

Her blush deepened, as she too, hightailed it out of the room with a muttered “Tony has a brother?”

You chuckled quietly to yourself. Of course your brother wouldn’t have told his newest members about you. Something about it not being vital information, and liking the shock value of it.

“And this is the training room,” a voice you did recognize said as Steve came into your line of sight, a man matching his stature trailing behind him silently. “Oh, hey, Stark.”

“Capsicle,” you greeted with a salute.

“Stark?” the other man asked in confusion. “I thought-”

“Fortunately there’s two of us,” you corrected. “Or unfortunately, depending on your opinion of Starks in general. Y/N,” you introduced yourself, offering out your hand.

“Bucky,” the man said, shaking your hand.

“Nightmares, again?” Steve asked you, his eyes glancing about the room.

“Sometimes you frighten me with how observant you are, Rogers,” you said grimly.

“Nightmares?” Bucky questioned, intrigue painting the features of his perfectly sculpted face.

“An unfortunate lingering side effect of my time in the Army, yeah,” you explained. “Something I’m sure you can relate to,” you added with a pointed glance at Bucky’s left arm which was completely metal, your mind already curious to how it worked, and how to make it better. “Working out helps. Something about physical exertion canceling out mental exertion.”

“Well, I might have to join you some time. See if your theory holds up.”

You held out your arms, gesturing about the giant training room. “Feel free. Everything here is open 24/7 to accommodate the mad geniuses and PTSD freaks.”

“And which one are you?” Bucky asked. And you knew it was a stupid question given what little information you had already provided him with. But you could also recognize a flirting edge when you heard one.

“I feel like the answer’s obvious. But, in the event that it’s not, I’m both. Pleasure to meet you, Bucky. And welcome to Avengers headquarters.”

~~~

A couple nights later, you were in the lab tinkering about, when you saw Bucky walk by in gym shorts and a tank top, his hair pulled back in a small bun. “Can’t sleep, huh?” you called out.

His body tensed as he whirled around, relaxing when he saw it was you. “Yeah. Thought I’d try out your theory.”

“It’s a good theory,” you assured, before refocusing on what you’d been working on.

“You have a lot of faith in a theory I’ve yet to test for myself,” Bucky said, stepping into the lab with you.

“I don’t do faith. I do facts,” you replied bluntly.

“Mmm, then how do you know it’s a good theory?”

“A good theory isn't whether it’s proven to be correct or not. A good theory is about being able to be repeated and replicated. Tested multiple times over and over. My theory just also happens to be correct.”

“Wow, you are a Stark.”

“I’m not an idiot, is what you mean. But rest assured I don’t have the same level of arrogance my brother inherited from our father. Or at least, I like to believe I don’t. But, results don’t lie. The physical exertion that comes from working out is enough to distract the brain from the mental exertion that comes from unwanted memories. Is it perfect? No, because it’s not a cure. But it does well enough anyway. And you can take my word for it. Or Rhodey’s, or Sam’s, or Steve’s. And that’s just the military crew. Or, you can test it for yourself. As I said, it’s a good theory. Very testable.”

Bucky’s tongue clicked in his cheek. “Mmm, and if it’s such a good theory, why are you here in the lab instead of in the training room?”

“A distraction, is a distraction, is a distraction. And I have work to do.”

“And what is it that you’re working on?” he asked, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder.

“Prosthetic limbs for amputees. Ones that aren’t hunks of metal. No offense.”

“None taken. I didn’t exactly get a say in the matter.”

“Right… Sorry…”

“No, don’t apologize. Something more… realistic looking would be nice. But the metal’s worked so far. Enhances already enhanced abilities.”

A shudder went down your spine. “Right. Super soldier strength mixed in with whatever tech is loaded up in that thing. I’ve taken a lot of hits in my day that I’d hate to experience again, but I’d do it if it meant a guarantee of never being on the receiving end of being hit by that. Like… the damage you were able to inflict on Tony, even in his suit…” you let out a low whistle. “Damn… no thanks.”

“Sorry? I think?”

You laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Please. It’s not that he didn’t deserve it. The amount of times I wish I could clock him myself… My only regret was having not been there to actually see it.”

“Why do I get the feeling you and Tony don’t actually get along?”

“Oh, we do. It’s just… typical sibling shit, I suppose. We had different ways of coping with our parents dying. He went the standard billionaire spoiled brat route. I went to the Army. He took over the company. I stayed in the Army. He realized the damage the company was actually doing and became Iron Man. I was part of that damage.”

“Shit…”

Again, you waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s my older brother. I love him. He’s rectified a lot of his past by helping turn Stark Industries into the Avengers. He's, dare I say, gained a conscience. But he’s also far from perfect. Still too arrogant for his own good. But I like him a lot better these days than I used to. I mean, I’m here.”

“So… you work for him? Doing what exactly?”

“Yes, and no. I live and work here, yes. But I don’t necessarily work for my brother. I help him and Bruce out a lot. Perks of not being an Avenger myself means I’m here to keep working when they’re gone. But, for the most part I keep to myself doing my own project.”

“Right, the prosthetic limbs. Personal reasons?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Seen my fair share of wounded vets. And seen my fair share of their struggle with shitty prosthetics. And even if they are complete shit, they’re also expensive. But I’m in a position where I can make non-shitty ones and, pun not intended, not have them cost people an arm and a leg. So, that’s what I do. Each prototype gets me closer and closer to making them as realistic as possible. Restoring range of motion you won’t get with cheap plastic wrapped around steel. It’s like… a complete limb transplant. Or that’s the ultimate goal anyway. Make prosthetics so real it’s like you never lost a limb in the first place.”

“That’s… noble of you.”

You shrugged. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for broken things.”

Bucky smiled at that.

~~~

For the next handful of months, it wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to find you awake in the lab, or for you to find him awake in the training room.

Some nights, the two of you would work out your frustrations of the memories that haunted you both, and you’d tease him about how it wasn’t fair you always drenched through your shirt while he barely broke a sweat, smiling at the way he’d laugh.

Other nights, the two of you would swap war stories while he watched you work in the lab, and when you gathered up the courage to ask to run tests on how the tech in his arm worked to further your own research, he willingly obliged.

“So… were you just an enlisted soldier, or an officer?” he asked one night while you tinkered away.

“An officer. Made First Lieutenant.”

“That’s just below Steve. Which…”

“Is still lower than Sergeant, yes,” you laughed. “Technically anyway. But as an officer, I would still outrank you.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… no offense, but First Lieutenant isn’t exactly brag worthy. I imagine you meant to go further. What happened? Was it the damage you mentioned with Tony?”

You nodded. “Yeah. The same accident that started his whole Iron Man gimmick was the same accident that ended my career.”

Bucky nodded, and you knew he wanted to ask more, but didn’t want to pry or overstep. And you were grateful for that. It was one thing to own up that your PTSD stemmed from an incident that ended your military career. It was also one thing to own up to how your experience in the military drove you towards creating prosthetic limbs. But to admit that there was a deep personal connection between the two? That wasn’t something you liked to fess up to. “I’m sorry,” Bucky finally said, feeling the need to say something about your half confession. To acknowledge it without asking more.

You smiled wryly at him. “It’s f-” Your face twisted, and your fingers white-knuckled the table as pain flashed through your leg.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. “You okay?” he asked, moving around the table towards you, his hands hovering nearby in case you fell.

“Knife!” you gasped out, gritting your teeth and humming loudly to keep from screaming out in the pain you knew wasn’t real. “Get me a knife!”

Bucky stood there, frozen, staring at you in horror.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you barked at him. “I know you have a knife on you! Give it to me! That’s an order, Sergeant!”

That snapped Bucky into action. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, rummaging in his pockets. “Here!”

The sharp steel glinted in the lights as you took it from him and promptly shoved it deep into your right shin.

“What the fuck?!” Bucky yelped, jumping back. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” he repeated when no blood came pouring out of the wound as you yanked the knife back out.

“Aaaahhhh,” you sighed in relief, the pain ebbing away. You relaxed the tension in your body, breathing slowly. “Fuck… hate when that happens.”

“What… the… actual… fuck?” Bucky asked for a third time in a low whisper.

“Relax, it’s fake,” you said, flashing the knife. “See? No blood.”

“I- I-” he stammered.

“It’s called phantom limb pain. Happens in amputees all the time.” You took a seat, pushing up your pant leg to your knee, detaching the prosthetic and tossing it uselessly onto the work table. “Piece of shit,” you muttered, before pulling a tape-recorder out of your pocket. “Prototype 27. Failure, as of,” you spared a glance down at the date on your watch, speaking that into the tape recorder as well. “What?” you asked Bucky who was staring at you with his mouth hanging open.

“That explains… so much. But… why didn’t you just tell me?”

You shrugged. “It’s not something I tell people. Lost my leg in an explosion caused by weapons my family made? Yeah, not exactly a conversation starter.”

“I get that, but… c’mon. It’s me.” He gestured at his left arm.

“Yes, you who- and please don’t take offense to this- doesn’t remember the trauma of losing his arm, and has never experienced the pain that is phantom limb pain.”

“I don’t remember the trauma thanks to years of more trauma that is being brain-washed, and having my mind controlled,” he replied in a clipped tone.

“Yes, the entire world is aware of your trauma, Barnes. Must be nice to have people be aware of what you’ve gone through.”

“People would be aware of what you’ve gone through too, if you’d tell us instead of hiding in jeans and sweatpants!”

“Why would I tell people?! For sympathy?! Or to hear them tell me that I deserved it?! Because news flash, both of those outcomes fucking suck!”

His face crumpled. “Why would anyone think you deserved this?”

You scoffed at his naivety. “It’s poetic justice, Bucky. My own family took my leg. They took Tony’s heart, too, but hey! Look what he made as a result! Isn’t it fuckin’ marvelous?! Tony Stark loses his heart, but gains a soul. Y/N Stark. Loses his leg, and nobody cares.” The words were bitter on your tongue.

“You don’t strike me as the pity party type.”

“I’m not. That’s why I don’t tell people. And yes, maybe there’s a selfish part of me that does what I do strictly for me. Maybe I never would have thought to do all this if I wasn’t an amputee myself. But I’m here, and I’m doing it. And I’m not going to use my story to gain attention and credit that I don’t even want in the first place. Tony thrives in the spotlight. Me? Never been my thing.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think your project’s pretty great. And I don’t see your personal attachment to it as a hindrance. If anything, I bet it pushes you further. To keep trying, even when what you have is already worlds better than what’s available already. But I also get wanting to keep parts of you to yourself. The sympathy vote isn’t the best feeling.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled. “And I’m sorry for what I said about how it must be nice to have people aware of your trauma. Well… I’m sorry for how I said it. There’s quite a laundry list of things that will turn me into an asshole, and phantom limb pain ranks pretty high on that list. But I didn’t mean it as an attack, and if it came across that way, I do apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it. To an extent you’re right. The whole world knowing what happened to me… it dulls the shock value of a lot of things. Justifies a lot of my actions. So, for the most part, it’s incredibly beneficial. But sometimes I wish I could just… I dunno. Be Bucky without people making their assumptions about what that means.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I try to make it a habit of drawing my own conclusions about people rather than listening to the assumptions others have made about them. So, at least with me, you can be Bucky, and that can be however you want it to look.”

“Thanks. I’d uh… I’d like that.” He smiled softly at you, and you smiled back, watching as a blush crept over his face. “Um… Are you going to need help back to your room? Cuz I can help, if you need me to.” The blush grew darker as he shifted his eyes about the room.

“Uh…” you stammered, a blush coming to your own face. Normally when you tossed aside a rejected prosthetic, you either stayed in the lab until you made a new one, reattached the useless one and begrudgingly dealt with it until you felt up to making a new one, or, in super rare cases when you were sure you were alone, wheeled yourself about the headquarters in a chair. But, here was Bucky, offering to help hobble you off to your room. And the thought of him helping support your weight, or God forbid carry you was enough to make your heart sped up. “Even without the weight of a leg, I’m still not exactly light, or small,” you told him. You weren’t as tall as Bucky, that was true, and you certainly didn’t have super soldier serum running through your veins. But you were still very much the standard rugged American soldier type with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles of your own.

Bucky just scoffed at the notion before picking you up in his arms.

“Jesus, fuck!” you exclaimed, throwing an arm around his neck to help support your weight as he headed for the door of the lab. “I swear if you drop me…”

Bucky chuckled, his chest rumbling into your side. “Relax. I’m not gonna drop you. Now, tell me where I’m going.”

You rattled off the quickest route to your room, both hating the vulnerability of being carried in his arms, and loving the security of it.

“See?” he beamed proudly, as he set you on your bed. “Told ya I wouldn’t drop you.”

“Thanks…”

“Anytime.”

“Bucky, wait,” you called out when he turned to leave. “Um… Would you mind maybe staying?”

“Here? With you? In your room?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the 1940s gentleman thing is real charming.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s um… You know I’m gay, right?”

“Well… That makes the, uh… oh, I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but that makes having a crush on you a lot easier. Or a lot worse, depending on how things go.”

He blinked at you in confusion, not sure if he was hearing you correctly.

“I like you, Bucky. So are you gonna stay?”

He grinned, happily walking back over to you. “I like you too. And yeah, I’ll stay.”

__

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[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 5/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU, regency-era fake-marriage shenanigan-fest, and we’ve actually gotten to the marriage part! Or, at least, the wedding.  (Chapter 1 tumblr | AO3, chapter 2 tumblr | AO3, chapter 3 tumblr | AO3, chapter 4 tumblr | AO3)

As much as this Author positively loathes to gloat, there comes a time when even the most modest among us must utter those four words everyone hates to hear: I told you so.

Both the Marquess of Enjolras and Mr. Grantaire emerged from their duel with not a scratch upon them and with the Marquess sworn to uphold the honor of Mr. Grantaire’s sister and rectify the situation he caused by joining her in matrimony. As befits the magnitude of the scandal, a special license has been purchased – for who knows what sum – so that the whole affair can be concluded before the Dowager Marchioness even has a chance to book a carriage out to the country to meet her soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

Much to the relief of both the Marquess and his fiancée, this Author presumes. 

Still, a wedding may signal an end to impropriety, but scandals are wont to continue of their own accord, especially when one can hardly imagine the Marquess settling quickly or quietly into married life. A storm is brewing, one way or another, but rest assured, Dear Reader – this Author will be here to cover whatever may come next. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 6 MAY 1831

Enjolras hated to admit it, but he was nervous.

He really hadn’t thought he was going to be, but as he stood at the front of the small, unassuming chapel dressed in the best clothes he could purchase on a moment’s notice from the village, his stomach felt like it was doing somersaults somewhere around his knees, and his palms were sweating so much that he was tempted to wipe them on his trousers.

Perhaps nerves were to be expected. After all, it wasn’t everyday that he got married.

Granted, the wedding itself was going to be a simple affair, just Enjolras with Madame Hucheloup in front of the vicar, whom Enjolras had met once, briefly, the prior day and who had been as drunk as Grantaire had promised, so much so that when Grantaire told him that Enjolras would be marrying his sister, the man did not even hesitate, despite presiding over her burial some two decades prior. He seemed equally drunk that morning, swaying slightly as he hummed off-key, waiting for the ceremony to start.

Joining Enjolras and his not-so-blushing fake bride would be Grantaire and Le Cabuc as witnesses, with only the four of them any wiser to the fact that the entire thing was a farce. Then the only final piece of the puzzle was getting a suitable dowry from Grantaire to give to his mother, and then, finally, Enjolras would be free.

Well, free until such a time came as when he would need to ‘bury’ his fake wife, but that was a future problem, and one he was not inclined to think too closely about at the moment.

Especially when he had much bigger concerns: particularly, the fact that Grantaire and Madame Hucheloup were running late.

He glanced over at Le Cabuc, who looked almost bored, and chanced a look back at the vicar, who didn’t seem at all concerned with the fact that time was stretching on and there was no sight of either of them. Enjolras was just about to excuse himself to go track down Grantaire and Madame Hucheloup himself when the woman in question appeared in the back of the parish, out of breath and – far more concerning – dressed in her usual clothes and not the wedding dress that Enjolras had dutifully purchased to continue the façade, clutching a valise assumedly containing other clothes.

Enjolras frowned and hurried to intercept her. “Beg pardon,” she said breathlessly, her face flushed red as if she had run the entire way from the house. “But there’s been a change.”

“A change?” Enjolras repeated, stupidly. “What kind of change?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Himself is on his way, he’ll explain everything.”

Enjolras would have much preferred that she explain, but given that she looked like she was about to topple over at any given moment, he supposed the polite thing to do was to walk her to a seat before heading to the back of the chapel to await Grantaire and whatever explanation he brought.

So he did just that, depositing her in a chair before hurrying to the chapel door to intercept Grantaire and find out just what explanation he could possibly—

He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Grantaire hurrying towards him, dressed not in his Sunday best as was anticipated but rather wearing, of all the garments in the world, the wedding dress.

Enjolras was certain his mouth fell open as he stared at Grantaire, temporarily unable to speak. There was a very small, distracted part of his brain that noticed that despite the dress not having been tailored for him by any stretch, it somehow fit Grantaire rather pleasingly.

He shook his head to clear it of that thought and wrenched his mouth open. “What in the bloody hell—”

“Language,” Grantaire chided, sounding stressed as he finally arrived at the door. “We are on consecrated ground, after all.”

It was a patently absurd thing to say, and accounted for Enjolras spluttering in response, “Yes, we are, so perhaps you can explain what in God’s name you’re wearing?!”

Grantaire drew himself up to his full height and scowled at Enjolras. “I’m wearing a wedding dress,” he said. “As for the reason I am wearing said wedding dress, which I believe is more to the point of what you’re asking, you should know. You’re the one who helped pass the damned thing.” Enjolras stared blankly and Grantaire elaborated, “The law was updated recently, requiring one male and one female witness for any nuptial ceremony.”

Enjolras had a sudden, horrible memory of celebrating a law passed through the House of Lords that was meant to help keep young women from being forced into marriage with their father and brother as the sole witnesses, an all-too-common occurrence. Granted, the efficacy of the law remained to be seen, since too many mothers were frequently willing to go along with such plans, but it was a start, and—

He shook his head to clear it. “And so Madame Hucheloup needs to be one of the witnesses,” he said instead, finally putting together the pieces to which Grantaire had been alluding in his usual, maddening way.

“Well, I thought about simply making up a woman’s name and forging the signature on the certificate,” Grantaire said, “but seeing as how I rather suspect that this particular marriage certificate will face more scrutiny than most, it didn’t seem a particularly wise course of action.”

Grantaire was almost certainly correct about that, but still Enjolras felt something like despair. “Was there no other woman that you could get to be a witness?” he asked, a bit desperately.

“Another woman whom I trust with my reputation, and far more importantly, with yours?” Grantaire asked, arching an eyebrow. “At this late of date?”

“Then someone who would pretend to be a bride for the day?”

Enjolras knew it was an idiotic question the moment he blurted it, and the look Grantaire gave him reinforced as such. “If I would not trust them to be a witness, what makes you think I would trust them to exchange marriage vows with you? Even if using a false name, I know not the legal ramifications and I would not have someone trying to take you for all your worth.” Enjolras blinked, fleetingly touched by the lengths to which Grantaire seemed determine to go to protect him – or at the very least, to protect his estate. “No, that was not an option. Meaning the only option available to us—”

“—Is you wearing the dress and pretending to be the bride.”

Grantaire grinned at him. “Personally, I think it looks quite fetching on me.”

As if to illustrate his point, he ran a hand down the bodice of the gown, a hand that Enjolras could not help but follow with his eyes as it skimmed the creamy fabric that dipped and clung in all the right places— “That is hardly the point,” he snapped, tearing his eyes away.

“No, the point is that the vicar, drunk though he inevitably is, will start asking questions soon, so it’s best we get this over with as soon as possible,” Grantaire said bluntly, his smile disappearing.

When he later thought about it, Enjolras could come up with no rational explanation for what possessed him to say it, but somehow, he found himself scoffing, “Quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Romance?” he repeated, exasperated. “Is now really—” He broke off without warning, and Enjolras was surprised to see his expression soften as he looked up at Enjolras. “Enjolras,” Grantaire said quietly, the exasperation gone from his voice and replaced by something gentle, something entirely unfamiliar that Enjolras could not quite put a name to. “What there is between us is the stuff of fairytales, of legend. What Helen felt for Paris, or Samson for Delilah, pales in comparison to the depths of my feelings for you, and were I to search every corner of this world I know that there is no one with whom I would rather share the remainder of my days. Will you do me the honor of joining me at the altar and becoming my husband?”

Enjolras couldn’t help himself – he snorted a laugh. “Very well, I suppose I deserved that,” he said briskly. “But I do hope you manage to find some actual sincerity when saying your vows, or even the vicar might realize this is a farce.”

He offered his arm to Grantaire, who took it after settling his veil over his face so that not even Enjolras could read his expression. “I’m beginning to think you wouldn’t know sincerity if it were to bite you in the—”

“Shh,” Enjolras hissed, and for once in his life, Grantaire fell silent as the two of them traversed the short aisle to take their place at the front of the chapel.

“Ah,” the vicar said, smiling at them both. “Welcome, welcome. We are gathered here today, in the sight of God and—” The vicar let out a loud hiccup and Enjolras bit his lip hard enough to almost draw blood to keep from laughing. He glanced sideways at Grantaire, but couldn’t tell if the man was as amused as he. “—and the witnesses gathered here,” the vicar continued, “to watch as the Marquess of Enjolras and the, er, the…”

He trailed off, clearly casting about for the proper title for Grantaire’s sister, and even though he could not see Grantaire’s face, Enjolras could clearly tell that he was rolling his eyes. “Mistress,” Enjolras supplied helpfully, as it seemed the most appropriate title.

“Yes, that,” the vicar said, nodding at him, continuing without pause, “and Grantaire join together in the bonds of Holy Matrimony. You may face each other and recite your vows.”

Enjolras obediently turned to face Grantaire, hesitating before reaching forward to lift the veil from Grantaire’s face as was tradition. After all, with the vicar no longer facing him head on, it seemed doubtful he would notice that the features underneath were decidedly male.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow as Enjolras lifted his veil, but luckily, made no comment, simply reaching out with his lace gloved hands to take Enjolras’s in his own.

The detour from traditional vows had been Enjolras’s only insistence when planning the ceremony, and he was doubly glad he had insisted on it now, since he was not certain that he would make it through if he had to make the usual promises of honoring and cherishing to Grantaire, especially with Grantaire looking at him like that. Instead, he had opted for seven simple words borrowed from the rather utilitarian vows made by some medieval French men upon joining their households in common purpose with each other.

“Un pain, un vin, et une bourse,” Enjolras said, the meaning as simple as the words themselves: one bread, one wine, and one purse, the three things he and Grantaire would now share, bonded as they were by this ceremony.

Grantaire tilted his head slightly, a soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He had told the vicar that his sister would opt for equally simple vows, and had assured Enjolras that Madame Hucheloup would not surprise him. But Madame Hucheloup did not stand across from him now, and Enjolras knew without any doubt that Grantaire was going to say something else entirely, and he half-dreaded what words would possibly come out of Grantaire’s mouth. “Une vie et un amour,” Grantaire pronounced, and Enjolras was surprised that the breath seemed to catch in his throat at the simple words, an answer and a challenge to his own.

One life and one love.

Well, he had been the idiot who had asked for some semblance of romance.

The vicar was saying something else, but Enjolras seemed to have temporarily lost his ability to hear, staring still at Grantaire, at that small smile still on his face, trying to figure out why or how he suddenly had the urge to lean in and kiss that smile off of his face.

Without warning, the vicar cleared his throat loudly and Enjolras jumped before glancing almost guiltily back at him, but if the vicar noticed, he gave no indication of it, simply intoning, “What the Lord has brought together, let no man tear asunder. By the power vested in me by the King and by the Lord our God, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss—” 

The words weren’t even out of his mouth before Enjolras had leaned in to press his lips against Grantaire’s.

It was over almost as quickly as it had happened, Enjolras pulling away before his brain had time to process what had just happened, or what he had just done, and he felt stricken as he scanned Grantaire’s face, looking for some reassurance that he had not made a grave error.

But Grantaire’s face was entirely unreadable as he reached up to again cover his face with his veil before turning back to the vicar, who was smiling at them both in a sort of genial, patronizing way that for some inexplicable reason infuriated Enjolras. Or perhaps it was just that Grantaire had dropped his hands and turned away.

Either way, as the vicar completed his benediction, Grantaire finally turned back to Enjolras, leaning in to tell him in an undertone, “Madame Hucheloup brought some clothes for me. I’m going to change and then we can return home.”

Enjolras nodded dumbly, tempted to ask how they would explain the sudden disappearance of Enjolras’s bride to any onlookers or the vicar himself, but decided it was not worth it. Especially since the vicar took his leave immediately upon the conclusion of the ceremony, mumbling something about being thirsty as he staggered past Enjolras and Grantaire, assumedly heading back to the rectory.

 As Grantaire disappeared somewhere to assumedly change, Enjolras felt slightly aimless, milling about the chapel with nothing really to do besides sign the paperwork, which took about twenty seconds. Without any better option, he approached Madame Hucheloup, whom he reasoned had undoubtedly seen her share of weddings. “I beg your pardon for not asking sooner,” he started, “but is there something I’m meant to be doing for this?”

“Other than standing up at the altar as you just did?” she asked with a smile. “No, m’lord. Ordinarily you’d be greeting guests and such, and overseeing – which is to say, and begging your pardon for wording it such, paying for – the wedding feast, but seeing as how you’ll not be having any festivities…” She trailed off and shrugged. “Other than that, you’d be planning the honeymoon trip, I suppose, but again, I’m not sure what you and Himself have got planned there.”

She gave Enjolras a look that he couldn’t quite interpret and he shrugged as well. “Nor do I, I suppose,” he told her with a tight smile. “Very well. Thank you for your help. You and Le Cabuc can return to the manor if you’d like – Grantaire and I will be along soon enough.”

Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure he had any real authority to give orders to Grantaire’s household staff, but neither Madame Hucheloup nor Le Cabuc complained at the dismissal, simply taking their leave – and leaving Enjolras by himself and feeling, quite possibly, more aimless than before.

While his nerves earlier had been expected, this inexplicable feeling of being unmoored was not. Frankly, as the marriage and the wedding to precede it were both shams, he hadn’t expected to feel anything more than slightly embarrassed at the whole process. But embarrassment was really the furthest thing from his mind as he thought about how he had felt standing in front of the vicar with Grantaire.

It should have felt even more of a farce than just the fake wedding itself, exchanging wedding vows with a man. At the very least, he was fairly certain it was a sacrilege, or making a mockery of the sacrament itself.

And yet, it hadn’t felt that way.

Enjolras had never pondered his nuptials save as a thing to be dreaded, had never pictured himself facing some faceless woman and binding himself to her, so he had no frame of reference for how others might have anticipated feeling, but he wondered if others also discovered upon their wedding day that it just felt...right. Like something he was meant to do.

Were he more inclined toward the philosophical, he might’ve wondered if there was a deeper meaning he should be reading into that, or if this should inspire some deeper questions about fate or predestination, but Enjolras had never been one for such discussions, preferring to focus on the here and now, the tangible ways in which he could affect change. And he did not dwell on them now, instead shaking his head once more to clear it of errant thoughts before going to find Grantaire to see what could possibly be taking him so long to get changed.

He did not find him at all in the chapel and was about to give up and head back to the house alone when he caught sight of a lone figure standing out in the small cemetery next to the chapel. Even without being able to make out any of his features, he could tell it was Grantaire, and he frowned slightly before heading over to join him.

“Grantaire?” he called when he finally drew close, and Grantaire looked up, startled.

“My apologies,” he said, something like guilt flashing across his face. “I completely forgot I had offered to walk back up with you.”

Enjolras’s frown deepened, because something about Grantaire seemed off. Not just that he was back in his usual clothes, though that was certainly a brief disappointment to Enjolras, but something about the set of his shoulders and the tired look on his face. He glanced at the small, unadorned stone Grantaire stood in front of, sudden realization hitting as he read the name: Adélaïde Grantaire.

“My sister,” Grantaire said, unnecessarily. “I just wanted a moment with her. She—” His voice broke and he coughed, once, as if to try to hide it. “She would have been greatly amused by today, I think.”

“The idea of you in a wedding dress?” Enjolras guessed, aiming for levity.

But Grantaire shook his head. “The idea of me getting married at all, really,” he said with a short, dry laugh. “We used to joke about it, her and I, when we were small. She told me that a handsome prince would come along and save her from her suffering, and I would tease that I would marry a handsome prince, too, and we would be princesses together.” He shook his head again, but fondly this time. “Hence why she would get great amusement at my marrying a Marquess in her name.” His smile faded. “Sadly, there was no prince in this or any land who could have saved her, no matter how many stars she wished upon.”

Enjolras bowed his head in understanding. “May I ask how she died?” he asked quietly, hoping Grantaire would not think he was intruding. He had refused to talk about his sister earlier, but Enjolras felt like something had changed between them and he might be willing to say a bit more.

Grantaire just shrugged. “She was very ill for much of our childhood,” he said matter-of-factly. “She and my mother were stricken with fever at her birth – my mother succumbed to it. Adélaïde got better, so to speak, but she was never truly healthy. Then when she was nine…” He trailed off before taking a deep, shuddering breath. “It was quick, at least, in the end. Which was a comfort in its own way.”

Enjolras wished he had some eloquent words of comfort to offer, but he felt tongue-tied instead. So in lieu of words, he reached out and gently rested his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, squeezing it once before letting it fall back to his side. Then he cleared his throat. “So she wanted to be saved from illness...what did you hope your handsome prince would save you from?”

“My father.” Grantaire flinched, whether from the words or from the memories they stirred. “He...he did not like me much. He was mostly indifferent to Adélaïde, but he seemed to find fault with everything I did.”

“He beat you.”

Enjolras said the words evenly, but his vision seemed to flash red in front of his eyes at the thought. Any parent hitting their child was a heinous thought, but for some reason, the idea of Grantaire as a child making desperate wishes to escape with his ill sister made his blood boil.

“Well, he rarely carried it out himself, but yes,” Grantaire said, his tone turning matter-of-fact again “And after she died, it got worse. Thankfully, when I went off to school, he was stationed abroad, and has never returned.” He snorted a humorless laugh. “God only knows how disappointed he would be if he could see me today, but I think he and I are both content to pretend the other does not exist.”

Enjolras was not so content, knowing that there was a man out there somewhere with such little regard for his own son, and it took him a moment before he could manage a response. “If he ever comes back, I’ll kill him.”

Grantaire looked sharply at him, searching his expression for a moment before his own softened. “A noble offer, but I don’t think we’re in much danger of that happening.” He nudged Enjolras lightly with his elbow. “Thank you, though.”

“It is the least I can do...as your husband.” Grantaire laughed and Enjolras hesitated before adding, “I promise this arrangement involving your sister, and now you, I suppose, will be only temporary. As soon as everything is handled with my mother, I will find us both a way out of this so that you can return to your memories of her in peace.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I rather wish you wouldn’t,” he said, as if confessing a secret. “It’s been surprisingly pleasant, sharing a devious plot with you. And...sharing this part of myself with someone as well.” He gestured towards his sister’s grave before giving Enjolras a hesitant smile. “Besides, I’m certain our friends would hate for us to return to our usual animosity.”

“Our friends can adjust,” Enjolras muttered.

Grantaire laughed again. “Even so,” he said, before adding, with a beatific smile and a fluttering of his eyelashes in what he clearly deemed an alluring way, “Besides, you can’t be rid of me so quickly. After all, we haven’t even had a chance to have our wedding night yet.” Enjolras blanched and Grantaire laughed once more. “Now come, it’s time we returned to the house before Madame Hucheloup sends a search party after us.”

They started off together, silence stretching between them for a few minutes before Enjolras remarked, off-handedly, “Do you know, I believe that was the first time you’ve called me by my name.”

Grantaire frowned. “When?”

“When you were doing your little mocking proposal.” Enjolras gave him a look. “Normally you call me ‘my lord’ or ‘Apollo’ or some other asinine nickname.”

“I’m sure I have called you by your name before,” Grantaire scoffed, but he didn’t quite meet Enjolras’s eyes when he said it.

Enjolras wanted to counter that, and drag the matter into their usual bickering as a way to pass the time, but something caused him to hold his tongue. And as they made their way back up to the manor, he could not help but notice that the time passed just as easily in companionable silence, and that their hands kept brushing against each other as they walked.

[anti-catradora-receipts]

Catra abused Adora.

I want to start off by explaining my own experience with watching She-Ra for the first time. I started to watch the show and continued to watch it for various reasons. But I want to make it clear that I wasn’t watching the show to see who ended up with who. I enjoyed the show mostly because it had such wonderful messages surrounding healthy families, friendships, and relationships. And so, one of the main themes of the show ended up being: abuse. 

The show demonstrated that abuse can take a variety of forms. The show demonstrated that people can suffer from abuse in different ways. The show presented that people can break the cycle of abuse and people can continue the cycle of abuse. The show demonstrated that in some cases people can try and help an abusive person, but the abusive person may abuse the person trying to help. The show also highlighted that people are allowed to leave abusive relationships.

Before we begin, I want to note that I won’t be answering the question “Did Catra’s own experiences of abuse influence her actions?” Because the answer to this question is obviously Yes. And I sympathize with Catra and the fact that she was abused while she was growing up. In addition, there’s a lot of complexity and depth surrounding the abuse Catra received. But Catra also continued the cycle of abuse. And in real life, people who have been abused can also end up abusing other people. 

Now, since we’ll be focusing on Catradora in this commentary, we must look strictly at the interactions between Catra and Adora. The reason behind this is we are evaluating only whether the relationship between Catra and Adora is healthy. In addition, if your friend told you they were being abused, would you ask the question, “I understand, but what about your abuser? Was your abuser abused?”. No, I don’t think you would. You’d ask your friend, “Is there any way I can help?” And so, in this case, Adora is your friend and Catra is the abuser.

Thus, the main question remains: Did Catra abuse Adora? And the answer is Yes.

(Please note that the underlined statements are hyperlinked to websites providing information on abuse.)

Signs of Emotional Abuse

Catra has unrealistic expectations of Adora:

Catra makes unreasonable demands of Adora.

Catra expects Adora to put everything aside and meet her needs.

Catra is constantly dissatisfied no matter how much Adora gives.

Catra invalidates Adora:

Catra undermines, dismisses, and distorts Adora’s perceptions of reality.

Catra accuses Adora of being "crazy”.

Catra refuses to acknowledge or accept Adora’s opinions or ideas as valid.

Catra dismisses Adora’s requests, wants, and needs as ridiculous or unmerited.

Catra suggests that Adora’s perceptions are wrong or that Adora cannot be trusted by saying things like “you’re not making sense”.

Catra uses emotional blackmail:

Catra manipulates and controls Adora by making Adora feel guilty.

Catra uses Adora’s fears, values, compassion, or other hot buttons to control Adora or the situation.

Catra exaggerates Adora’s flaws or points Adora’s flaws out in order to deflect attention or to avoid taking responsibility for her poor choices or mistakes.

Catra denies that an event took place/lies about it.

Catra acts superior:

Catra treats Adora like Catra’s inferior.

Catra blames Adora for her mistakes.

Catra doubts everything Adora says and attempts to prove Adora wrong.

Catra talks down to Adora.

Catra uses sarcasm when interacting with Adora.

Catra acts like she’s always right, knows what’s best, and is smarter than Adora.

Catra controls and isolates Adora:

Catra treats Adora like a possession or property.

Signs of Physical Abuse

Catra kidnaps Adora.

Catra scratches Adora.

Catra shoves Adora.

Catra kicks Adora.

Catra slaps Adora.

Catra uses weapons on Adora.

Catra physically restrains Adora.

Catra attempts to murder Adora multiple times.

Adora suffered from Catra’s abuse and Adora displayed the effects of this abuse:

Short Term Effects

confusion

fear

hopelessness

shame

Long-term effects

guilt

anxiety

Adora also tried tactics that are not effective ways of dealing with abuse:

Adora arguing with Catra.

Adora trying to understand or make excuses for Catra.

Adora attempting to appease Catra.

Adora also figures out how to properly deal with Catra’s abuse:

Adora makes herself a priority.

Adora establishes boundaries.

Adora stops blaming herself.

Adora realizes she can’t fix Catra.

Adora avoids engaging with Catra.

Adora builds a support network.

Adora deserves to be in a healthy relationship, which consists of:

Trust

Adora should be confident her partner won’t do anything to hurt her or ruin the relationship.

In a healthy relationship, trust comes easily and Adora shouldn’t have to question her partner’s intentions or whether her partner has her back.

Honesty

Adora should be able to be truthful and candid without fearing how her partner will respond. 

Adora’s partner may not like what Adora has to say, but should respond to disappointing news in a considerate way.

Respect

Adora’s partner should value Adora’s beliefs and opinions.

Adora’s partner should love Adora for who she is.

Adora should feel comfortable setting boundaries and should feel confident that her partner will respect those boundaries. 

Adora’s partner should cheer for Adora when Adora achieves something. 

Adora’s partner should support Adora’s hard work and dreams, and appreciate Adora.

Equality

Adora’s relationship should feel balanced.

Both Adora and her partner should put the same effort into the success of the relationship. 

Neither Adora’s nor her partner’s opinions should dominate. Instead, they both should hear each other out and make compromises when they don’t want the same thing. 

Adora should feel like her needs, wishes and interests are just as important as her partner’s. 

Kindness

Adora’s partner should be caring and empathetic to Adora, and should provide comfort and support.

In a healthy relationship, Adora’s partner will do things that they know will make Adora happy. 

Kindness should be a two-way street in Adora’s relationship: it’s given and returned. 

Adora’s partner should show compassion for Adora and the things Adora cares about.

Taking Responsibility

Adora’s partner should own up to their actions and words. 

Adora’s partner should not place blame and should be able to admit when they make a mistake. 

Adora’s partner should genuinely apologize when they’ve done something wrong and continually try to make positive changes to better the relationship. 

Adora’s partner should be able take ownership for the impact of their words or behaviour had, even if it wasn’t their intention.

Healthy Conflict

Adora and her partner should be able to openly and respectfully discuss issues and confront disagreements non-judgmentally. 

Adora’s partner should not belittle or yell during an argument.

Adora’s relationship should have healthy conflict by recognizing the root issue and addressing it respectfully before it escalates into something bigger. 

Fun

Adora should enjoy spending time with her partner.

Adora and her partner should bring out the best in each other.  

A healthy relationship should feel easy and make Adora happy. 

Adora should be able to let loose, laugh, and be themselves.

Adora’s relationship should not bring Adora’s mood down but should cheer Adora up. 

Adora’s relationship doesn’t have to be fun 100% of the time, but the good times should definitely outweigh the bad.

In conclusion:

Whatever Catra says, Catra’s violence towards Adora is unacceptable. 

Catra’s violent behavior is always Catra’s responsibility, not Adora’s.

Catra’s abuse is not okay or justifiable.

There are so many scenes throughout the series where Catra emotionally and physically abused Adora, and these scenes are captured on this blog. 

I just want to add that even when Catra emotionally and physically abused Adora, Adora continuously tried to reach out and help Catra. Adora gave Catra so many chances for her to apologize and rectify her mistakes. But Catra didn’t. Not only that, when Adora left, Catra continued to abuse people. Catra emotionally abused Scorpia. Then, when Scorpia left, Catra began abusing Lonnie. Catra’s abuse didn’t stop when Adora left, Catra just found a new victim.

In addition, there were so many significant moments of growth for Adora. Adora found people who supported her and did not abuse her. Adora began to heal from Catra’s abuse. Adora no longer made excuses for Catra. Adora realized that she is not responsible for Catra’s atrocious actions. 

Adora was strong and brave for moving forward in her life without her abuser. 

Moreover, Adora is a victim of abuse. Catra abused Adora emotionally and physically. Catra repeatedly admits to manipulating Adora in order to meet her own selfish goals. Catra did not show any remorse for her abuse against Adora throughout seasons 1 to 4. Catra continuously blamed Adora for her own atrocious actions. And finally, Catra attempted to murder Adora on several occasions. 

And here’s the most important thing. I don’t care who Adora would have ended up with. I just care about the fact that Adora ended up with Catra. What I mean is: I would rather have Adora end up without a partner, than end up with Catra.

Irrespective of whether you agree or disagree with my points on Catradora, these will be final points:

Abuse can happen anywhere at any time.

Abuse can happen in any relationship, including lesbian relationships.

Abuse is unacceptable.

Make sure YOU can recognize signs of emotional and physical abuse. 

Make sure YOU know that it’s okay to leave an abusive relationship.

Make sure YOU can trust and depend on your PARTNER/FRIEND. 

Make sure YOUR PARTNER/FRIEND knows they can trust and depend on YOU. 

Make sure YOU are being treated with kindness and support in your relationships. 

Make sure YOU are treating YOUR PARTNER/FRIEND with kindness and support. 

Make sure YOU are in healthy relationships and friendships.

In conclusion, EVERYONE deserves to be treated with love and respect.

Thank you.

[jeromesxreader16]

Such a Joker (54)

Part 53 Here!

~o0o~

"Who are you?" Bruce's voice booms through the study. He stares at his newly crafted parents with confusion, and shock. His mind must be going in circles. "Well, look who decided to join us," Martha speaks to her boy. "Hello, champ." Thomas follows.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred pops in with a tray of tea and biscuits. Bruce looks at his friend in shock. "Alfred, how did you..."

"Look at the state of you. What have I told you about rolling around in the muck?" Bruce stares at everyone, Jeremiah and I hide away watching for the time being.

"Alfred, what's going on? Who are these people?"

"Whatever do you mean, Bruce?"

"We're your parents." Silence from the billionaire boy Bruce Wayne.

"Right. Well, let's get you spruced up. After all, we have guests."

Jeremiah pulls us both out with smiles. His hand around my waist and his other raising a glass. "Welcome home, Bruce."

"Jeremiah. You're alive." Bruce's eyes travel to mine.

"Well, you didn't think Selina could kill me so easily, did you? Or that I'd ever leave my wife and my unborn sprees? I just had to put you off my scent until I could finalize my... project." Jeremiah pinches Martha's cheek. Bruce lunges for him before Alfred stops him. "Manners, Master Bruce. Let's not be rude to our guests."

I look to Bruce with a slight smile. If I play along I might be able to stay safer if I play the victim. I smile kissing Jer's cheek. "Especially when we come bearing gifts." I present the bomb to them all on the table. "Oh, Mrs. Valaska. A cake. How exceedingly kind of you. Is it Italian meringue?" I look back at Jeremiah with a smile, about to burst into laughter. He shrugs his shoulder. "Sure." Bruce strides towards me with fury, until Jeremiah pulls out the trigger.

"Now, now, Bruce, you come any closer and I blow up Wayne Manor, with all of us inside of it. I have a dozen more of these, uh, Italian meringues sprinkled throughout the house." Bruce glares at me with ill intent. "What did you do to Alfred? And who are these people?" I roll my eyes leaving Jerimiah's side and plopping on the couch. "Ah, glad you asked. Come."

Jer strolls over to look at Wayne's personalized smiles with Bruce. "Mommy and Daddy dearest were just an innocent couple I kidnapped based on... bone structure and, um... build. Just a touch of plastic surgery, and voila... Waynes. Alfred, I nabbed in the Green Zone." Bruce waves his hand in front of their faces, connecting the dots.

"They're hypnotized."

"Well, I'm afraid there was no room for improv in our script. Today is a... very important day, Bruce. Just look at the way they're dressed." I walk around Martha, admiring her pearls. "I like these, J." He hum. "I'll get you some just like it, love, but these ones are important for tonight." I giggle and kiss his cheek.

"It's the night my parents were killed," Bruce says with sadness.

"And I'm giving you the chance to experience it all over again."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? Bruce... this...this was the most important day of your life. And I didn't get to be a part of it. We didn't get to comfort you on your big day. We need to rectify that." I stretch my arms out, planting them on my swollen belly. "Alfred, is dinner done? I'm hungry."

Jeremiah nods looking at Alfred. "Chop-chop. We're on a very tight schedule. My wife needs to eat." Alfred bows his head. "Of course, Mr. Jeremiah."

Jeremiah pulls out a chair for me in the dining area. Very comfortable and quaint! Jeremiah passes me a plate full of fruits and toast. "Alfred told me such great tidbits about your childhood. Any jam, darling?" Jer paused to ask me. I shake my head, kissing his cheek. "No love."

He nods, "Anyways, yes, How you used to eat here, in the kitchen, when it was just you and the family. My, how... homey and intimate. That's exactly how I'm raising my children."

Alfred walks over with Jer's food. "Grilled cheese and Branston pickle sandwich, Mr. Jeremiah. Master Bruce's favorite. My influence, though Thomas did add a dash of aioli for extra flair." Jer looks at Bruce with judgemental eyes. "Oh. Come on, Bruce. That's a weird favorite food for a 12-year-old."

"I'm playing your game," Bruce says smacking the plate off the table. "Now let Alfred and these people go. They're innocent."

"I'm sorry, Bruce, it's just... it's very important to me that I get every detail exactly right. Speaking of which... the final touch. What was it like... losing your parents that night? I lost my family, too, Bruce. The wound still hasn't healed. I... think about it often." Jeremiah falls into his thoughts, trailing off.

"None of this is real. You're trying to manipulate me. It will never be real." Jer smirks seeing the despair and sadness on Bruce's face. "But you are thinking about that night. That's all I need. I just want to be connected to you. I offered for you to be my best friend! You could've been the godfather to my children. But I've realized if we... can't be friends... then we can be connected in other ways."

"How?" Bruce asks frightened.

"You'll see. In time." Jeremiah looks at his watch humming. "I'm sorry to cut tonight short... but... your parents and I have a very important date ...with destiny." He laughs as we stand up and disappear with the Waynes. "You might want to find your faithful butler and leave. Quickly." as we rush out of the home Bruce struggles to find his butler.

Jeremiah runs through the tunnels, dragging me behind. "Exhilarating. Isn't it love?" I grab the wall as we near the end. "I... I need to slow down." His face smooths and he presses his hand to my back. "Aw, my love, I'm sorry. Giving you a hard time today?" His hand comes to my stomach and the twins kick excessively. "When you're around." I laugh leaning onto the soft fabric of his blazer. Jer looks down at me with sad eyes. "This is dangerous. You shouldn't be here." I furrow my brows. "You brought me along!" "And it was foolish of me. Gents, for the rest of the night, keep my wife safe. At safe blast range."

~

"Jeremiah!" Bruce calls in the theater. "Show yourself!"

The screen starts running a film. "Ol?! Hola, Bruce." Jeremiah swings in the frame on the big screen. "Well, here we are, the theater where your mommy and daddy took you to see The Mark of Zorro. Ha-ha! I had heard you were obsessed with this man as a child. I wonder what was it

that intrigued you so? Was it the fact that he struck fear into the hearts of his enemy?" Jeremiah in his costume fights off his enemies on the screen.

"En garde! Take that, you villain."

Jer looks into the screen. "Perhaps the movie was a bit too effective. Isn't this the part where you became frightened? When you asked your parents to leave? I wonder what would have happened if you hadn't done that. If you had conquered your fear. Maybe your parents would still be alive."

"Well, on to the last and final stop down memory lane."

~

Bruce runs out of the theater in a sprint. He stops in his tracks when he sees Jerimiah and I. "Stop! Stop! That's far enough, Bruce."

"Jeremiah. You don't have to do this."

"But I... I do. You see, I-I came to this realization. I realized that no matter what I did to bond us, some random gunman in an alley would be the man who you were tied to the most. The man you saw when you closed your eyes. I want to be the star of the show! Jeremiah says dramatically. "So if I can't have you as a brother bonded by love, then we'll just have to be bonded by hatred." Bruce huffs at him in anger. "And you think killing two people that look like my parents will do that? It won't."

Jer tightens his grip on me. "Well, then it's a good thing I already put a bullet in both of their fraudulent skulls." I look up at him with furrowed brows. "You said-" "Oh, you're both confused. How sweet." I look back to the couple with their backs facing us. "Jer, who is that?"

"You're wondering if I already shot them, then who's this lovely couple?" I jerk away from Jerimiah in an attempt to see the two. "No."

"Thomas, Martha...why don't you turn around?" Tears well in my eyes. "Jer, why?" He looks down at me with venom. "It's always been a roadblock, darling. Even for Jerome. With Jim in the way. No family of ours will survive. So why not have some fun with it, huh?" He winks at me. "No! You- you can't. These kids need him." "They need me," Jerimiah says with a smirk. "And so do you, doll."

"See, Bruce throughout our little adventure, fate brought to me James Gordon and Leslie Thompkins, and I thought to myself, why not... why not kill the man who you think of as your second father figure? And your dear, dear, dear friend Lee Thompkins. And when I do, finally, you and I will be bound together. Because you see...reunification with the mainland hangs on by a thread. Those fireworks go off and toxic chemicals rain down onto the city, and the government...cuts us adrift for good." I let a tear fall. "Jeremiah, please. Don't" He hold me tighter, never letting go of his hold.

Jer pulls me to the car, shoveling me in. "Dad!" I scream over his shoulder.

"I had Jervis Tetch hypnotize them so that they'll wake up the moment these beautiful pearls hit the ground. I want you to see them realize what I've done to them as life drains from their bodies. Never forget, this is all for you, Bruce." Jerimiah hops into the car with me, closing the door as we speed off. I stay silent. Sitting alone. "Aw, darling. Come on now. You know I had to. A wife can never live a life with two sides. You'll understand one day." He kisses my cheek while looking out the windows at his destruction.

"You know... I always liked him." I look up across from me to see Jerome. "He got on my nerves, but he always kept it interesting, didn't he, doll?" I push a smile out on my lips, nodding. Jerome leans over and kisses my forehead. "Cheer up love. Look down, look at our kids. Give them a laugh for me. Keep that one in check." He winks before setting back and vanishing.

I shake my head pushing all the nerves back in my mind. "Jerimiah, love? Where are we going?" He smiles grabbing my hand. "To the finale." Rounding a corner I see the big illuminated letters of ACE Chemicals. The inside reeking of strong odors.

"Jeremiah! Face me!" Bruce's echoed scream bounced through the factory. "Here, Bruce," Jer calls loudly. I stay behind pipes, hidden away safely as Bruce runs after my mad husband.

"Jeremiah! This ends. Tonight."

Both gentlemen on the metal walkway above the vats of acid. Bruce hits Jerimaih making him stumble against the railing. "No, Bruce. Now it begins." Bruce kicks Jerimaih down the catwalk, towering him. "You feel it.

The connection between us. You do. Don't you? Bruce, you feel it." Bruce punches Jeremiah as he continues. "Tell me you feel it."

"You mean nothing to me."

Jerimiah's head butts Bruce before getting to his feet again. "Why don't you understand?" Jer grabs Bruce pushing him against the railing, causing it to bend. "You need me. I'm the answer to your life's question! Without me, you're just a joke...without a punch-" Jerimiah throws his hand at Bruce, but Bruce moves at the right time causing Jer to miss. His arm follows through in the wind, his body hitting the railing hard causing it to break and Jerimiah to fall into the vat. "NO!" I scream running over. Bruce tugs me back as I try to reach down into the vat. "(y/n), no!" I cry holding to the broken railing. "No... no..." I lower my head into my hands. They're both gone. I'm all alone now.

An ambulance rolls up fishing out Jerimiaha's body from the vat. "Miss." I continue to watch as Jerimiah's body is laid on a table and carried away. "Miss." I look up to see a nurse with worry-filled eyes. "I need you to come with me. You've been surrounded by hazardous chemicals. We need to make your child is okay." I nod numbly. Passing Bruce, keeping my head down. "(Y/n)," Bruce calls. "Let me follow." I nod without a word.

~

"Well, Mrs. Valeska. You're set. Two healthy twins." I nod standing. "Where is-" "Room 204. He's unconscious." "I don't care." I stand walking to the locked room, two guards on each side. "I'm his wife," I say before entering. In the bed, Jerimiah lays still, wrapped up in bandages from head to toe. I feel my tears well up with tears. "He did it to himself, doll. Nothing you could've done." Jerome kisses my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me. The ghostly feeling so comforting. I lay hand hands on his feeling the cold skin. "I wish you were here." "I know, but someone else is." The door opens and none other than my father walks in. "Dad." "Oh, my god." He covers his mouth, tears welling up, as he wraps me in his arms. "You're okay." I cry into his shoulder.

Selina and Bruce arrive in the room. "I can't believe he's still alive," Selina says with hatred, but I can't blame her. "They've been doing scans, and he has no brain activity," I say never taking my eyes away from Jer. "So, he's no longer a threat to you. To anyone." I turn around walking away from the room. "(Y/n)," Dad calls out. "Come home with me, honey. You need to be-" "Okay. I'll meet you there." I continue to walk out the doors into the dark night of Gotham, a quiet night. 

[ssa-sugar-tits]

sweetest sins

summary: spencer reid finds that his ex girlfriend-- who happens to be the chief of police on a case he's working-- is now married, sparking past feelings.

content warnings: lowkey hate sex lol, jealousy/possessiveness, affairs, swearing, fingering, penetrative sex, public sex/risk kink, degradation

a/n: i'm 100% acab, anti-cheating, and condone safe sex but... it's for the porn.

The tangle of wild love and lies between you and Spencer Reid started the way any other day did.

JJ glided past the bullpen humming and announced the always familiar words. We've got a case. It hadn't truly been a day to remember until they arrived at the precinct.

The blonde liason extends her fragile hand to greet you and gives you a friendly yet professional grin, her pearly white teeth sparkling.

"I'm Agent Jareau, we spoke on the phone." you nod and smile. "This is Agent Morgan and Doctor Reid, the rest of our team went straight to the crime scene."

Shaking hands kindly, the agents standing beside you look to each other one another seeing Spencer shake yours without hesitation. He lingers, gaze dropping to the expensive wedding ring on your hand.

Bitter, dark chocolate jealousy is all he tastes.

You turn away and escort the profilers to an empty room.

"It's good to have you agents, you can set up here. If you need anything just let me or one of my officers know." you chirp before leaving.

Spencer's left staring at you as you walk away, watching the way your hair, that he'd give anything to lock his fingers between, spreads on your tight black top and how your legs move gracefully beneath the white skirt you wear.

"You two know each other kid?" Derek questions.

"Something like that." he breathes out, lowly.

Know each other? Loved each other. And never once did he imagine it'd end or that you'd move on so unabashedly. Never once did he think you'd stop loving him.

And you didn't. Contact with Agent Jareau meant you knew the BAU was coming, you knew Spencer was coming. You'd kissed your gentle husband goodbye, knowing you were about to show off how your clothes hugged your curves and how your wedding ring shines like a star on your well kept hand. You'd never worn a skirt that short to work before, it sits mere inches above your knee exposing the skin of your thighs. The skin you wanted his bites of love to be covered in.

You never intended on acting on any old feelings.

"Did you know?"

Speak of the devil. You're interrupted by the handsome doctor's flustered voice and messy curls.

"Know what, doll?" You ask innocently. He shuts the door behind him, carefully as to not bring any attention to your office.

"Is this really what you want Y/N? To taunt me? During a federal case nonetheless."

His voice sounds like heaven rolling off his sweet tongue. Your innocent attempts to rectify the past with jealousy turn to a devious test of loyalty. Loyalty to your husband or Spencer? You're not sure. What you are sure of is the lustful stare in his caramel eyes when you lean forward, giving him a full view of your cleavage.

"What do you want Spence?"

Drops of sweat prick his forehead and his clothes are suddenly much too tight.

"Nothing to do with you," he lies sternly.

You look him dead in the eye as you slide your ring off your finger and let it clink to the floor. Standing slowly, you walk up to him and smirk at his desperately heavy breath. Inches away from his face, you pull him by his jaw and whisper.

"No fun," you pout and trail a finger down his chest. "Come on, know-it-all, why don't you tell me instead. What do I want?"

His hands find their rightful place on your hips and he answers you, playing into your antics.

"You want me to feel bad, like I'm the one that ruined our relationship."

You hum in agreement, your hands playing with his curls as he continues.

"You want me to act like I wronged you which in all honesty would have been more likely. Women are more likely to be loyal to an individual, it's primitive instinct."

He keeps going when you only chew on your red glossed lip in response.

"You want me to pretend we're in love."

That caught your attention.

It's the worst lie he's told if he's going to say he doesn't love you.

"We are in love Spencer." you correct.

"You call this love?" he scoffs.

"I do," you nod, "It just doesn't burn brightly enough for us to be together."

Cradling your hair and stroking the crook of your neck, he looks into your eyes in terror of what hes about to do.

"I don't understand,"

"That's a first." you scoff.

"I thought you moved on," he begs for you to turn away, say you can't do it.

He knows it's wrong, he'd be doing what you did to him.

"I did move on," you confirm.

"Oh." is all he musters before he screams at himself not to give in.

Fuck this. Who can say no to you?

There's a second where he wants to turn away but he cuts away his own chances when he presses his soft, hungry lips against yours. Closing the gap between the two of you makes you fist his button-up and moan deeply into his warm mouth. He lifts you, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as you explore each other's mouths again after so long. A growing rhythm creates wet and lewd sounds while you dance a passionate dance for dominance.

"You are such a liar. I may be the one that fucked up," you gasp between needy kisses, "but you're lying more to yourself than I ever did to you. Saying you don't want me."

He slams you onto your desk, knocking over sensitive case files and decorative frames.

"And what if I do Y/N? That ship has sailed." he growls, once more shoving his tongue blissfully into your mouth as if it's the most delicious taste he's ever had. Pushing him away only to tease him, he bites your lip ravenously as if to tell you not this time. His hands find themselves wandering among your thighs, pooling with wetness already.

"God Y/N, if I knew I still made you such a mess I'd have come running back a year ago."

"Shut up and touch me," you command and he complies, slipping a swift finger inside of your soaked core. You bite the soft skin on his shoulder to stifle a deep moan prompted by his curling fingers.

"It takes an average of 13 minutes for a woman to orgasm, Y/N. The way you're clenching around my fingers makes me think I can get you faster."

"Mm," you cry into his neck as he curls his fingers inside of you like an artist, moving quickly and fucking beautifully. The orgasm comes quickly, so much better than the man you married could ever pleasure you.

"Does that husband of yours get to see you like this? He can't make you cum like I do, can he? You teased me since the moment I got here, answer me."

"Ugh no Spence," you whine pitifully. "Not a single other person can touch me like you do." He smirks, satisfied with that answer and takes his fingers out of you, sucking your dripping juices off of himself slowly.

"Off the desk," he moans, still tasting your cum and worshipping it like a tropical smoothie on a hell hot day. Bending yourself over without instruction, he hikes your skirt up and you shiver at the sound of him unbuckling his belt. A sound you haven't heard in far too long. You yelp when he enters you and sigh in pleasure as you adjust to his length.

"You feel so good Y/N. Even better than I remember," he moans and thrusts slowly, sensually. His hands leave marks on your ass and you push out willfully.

"God," you take in the feeling and then laugh softly. "Don't you have a whatever memory? Shouldnt you remember exactly what this is like?"

Now, you know exactly what his eidetic memory consists of but why not toy with him? As if the risk of getting caught by an entire precinct isn't enough fun. Your inability to stay serious even in a passionate moment like this only irritates him, making him thrust harder and faster into you.

"Is this it? You want me to fuck you harder for being stupid?" He growls, skin slapping louder and louder and you struggle to keep your moans quiet.

"Yes," you stretch out with your eyes closed, unable to form words anymore.

"You are stupid. If intelligence could be quantified, you'd be an idiot." His pace inside of you screams with heavenly pleasure and rage. "A stupid, lying, slut. All you've ever been."

"Mhm, yeah," you babble, never wanting the moment to end.

"Fuck, come for me like the slut you are," he instructs and you let go, moaning loudly. His thumb shuts your mouth, stroking your lips and letting you taste remnants of yourself. Soon after, he explodes inside of you too and fills you with the final act of what you've done.

Panting with your hair sticking out and moistened with sweat, you sit up and pull your skirt back down, smoothing it out. You lean into Spencer's side and sigh.

"I missed you, princess," he mumbles.

"I know you did, Spence."

Hopping off the desk, you fix your hair and stop inches from the doorknob.

"You coming?" you smile, not glancing back at him.

"You forgot your ring, idiot."

Shit. You smile back at him anyway, still bursting with confidence.

"Thanks."

Slipping it back on, you exit the office and join the profilers back in the room. The glances tell you they have a slight idea of what happened.

And the glances fall back down to the ring on your finger.

The glances, the sneaking, the lying.

It's all just part of it.

Part of the sweetest sins you've ever tasted.

~

masterlist

~

[crocworkships]

Strange Woman

(A/N: This is a little sequel I wrote to this post, from Illumi’s perspective! It does have feminine pronouns to refer to the Hunter-Reader character, and refers to her as a woman more than once, because I was writing it more as a self-insert than a reader-insert. It also mentions that the Hunter has red hair. Other than that, though, not much to identify the Hunter-Reader one way or another! Enjoy!)

He didn’t understand her.

The strange Hunter woman who had attached herself to his Kill. She was strange, bold, like a mother crow attacking a cat and putting herself in danger just to protect some eggs. No one outside his family had ever spoken to him the way that this Hunter had, and no one inside his family had spoken to him like that more than once. He wondered why he had allowed her to live after she snapped at him for trying to talk sense into his little brother. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a mother other than his own try to defend their child from him; he made it a habit not to allow his marks to detect him before he killed them, so was this fierceness because she felt responsible for his brother in the short time that they had spent together during the Hunter Exam? Or was this simply another case of an arrogant person who thought themselves invincible bristling at a perceived challenge to their power? She might have taken a liking to his Kill, and decided he was hers now, and Illumi putting her in her place may have caused her to react aggressively.

Although, he pondered, had she not immediately rushed to reassure not only his Kill, but the other boys in their little group, when they had expressed concern after her arrogant display of fearlessness? She called the smaller one, Gon, “baby,” and kept repeating that she was fine, not to worry about her. Was it not the role of a mother to reassure her brood and remain strong for them? To give anything to protect and keep them, even her own life? Perhaps she truly did care, in her own way, for his Kill – an issue he would still have to rectify, he decided – and made those children her brood.

But why would she have done that? They were not hers. One of them was his. And how did she expect to keep them safe and under control if she let them do whatever they wanted?

“He’s a human being, with a will and mind of his own, not your toy!”

This angry shout still echoed in his mind, hours later as he prepared to sleep, more than the declaration that she was not afraid of death. How presumptuous this Hunter woman was. Did she truly think he thought of his little Kill as a toy? She didn’t know anything. She had no idea what his relationship with his Kill was. What it meant to be a Zoldyck, a master assassin and part of the world’s tightest-knit clan.

But perhaps she could, whispered a strange voice, unbidden, in his mind. It sounded unsettlingly like his grandfather. He silenced it immediately, and resolved not to think about it. The last thing he wanted was yet another aggressive, strange redhead annoying him, especially when this new one was more likely than not to turn her aggression on him. Still, she was nowhere near as strong as Hisoka, though he would still have to observe her to see how strong she was…

Why did he want to observe her? She stood between him and his brother and criticized how he spoke to him, and she was old enough to know better than the small one, Gon. He should have killed her immediately. Why didn’t he?

She will keep my Kill safe while he’s having his little rebellious phase, said the strange voice, she may not be the strongest, but she is fierce and deeply caring. She will keep him safe. This made sense, so he decided to wait. Wait until tomorrow, see how she took care of her little makeshift brood, and see how well she fared. Perhaps he would even let her live after he took his Kill home.

And God help her if she ever met his mother.

[cloudywriter]

camp staghorn - 3

alright, i had hoped for chapter 3 to be longer but then i decided to split it up for the sake of the flow. as i’ve been writing too things have naturally changed so i didn’t intend for this whole chapter to be in rowan’s view so now my summary isn’t exactly an excerpt but hope that’s okay. anyway enjoy! 

masterlist, main masterlist, AO3

~~~

Rowan was quickly realizing the grave error he had made in aggravating this girl. He thought she might throw a bit of a fit after getting flour dumped on her head in front of the whole camp but she took it upon herself to retaliate that very day.

That was how Rowan ended up with his campers 30 minutes late to the bonfire. His shoes were soaked through with muddy creek water and sloshed with every step he took. Even his socks were drenched and it was the worst feeling in the world. 

He had tried to jump up on the line a few times and let gravity pull the dinners back towards them but it didn’t seem to weigh enough. Thus, Rowan had to sacrifice his shoes in order to untie the bag directly from the zipline where it rested above the stream. 

His campers were both amused by the feud but also put out by having to wait for their dinners and be late to the bonfire. Rowan just trudged along, silently fuming, following the orange flames that flickered through the trees in the distance. His shoes making a disgusting squish with every step he took.

When Rowan and his campers finally appeared, obviously late, Aelin turned around from her spot on a makeshift log bench and gave him a dazzling smile, clearly proud of her work. It took Rowan a bit by surprise with the light from the fire reflecting back in her blue eyes and illuminating her face, she looked beautiful. He had thought so even the day before but then she opened her big mouth and blatantly cheated during the mud race and her angelic appeal took on a different form.  

Rowan just huffed and gave her a withering glare before perching himself on another log facing the opposite way. Maybe if she wasn’t such a piece of work they could’ve gotten along fine enough and been civil.

It was then that Fenrys came and plopped himself right beside Rowan. “Hey, man,” he greeted, energetic as usual despite the darkening sky. Fenrys was always sunshine come to life, happy but insufferable, unable to take anything seriously. Rowan was a little more tense in nature, a loner by heart, he only needed someone to make him come to life.

“Hey,” Rowan grunted. “What happened?” Fenrys inquired. 

“Aelin happened,” he responded with a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Aelin? She’s still bothering you?” 

“Yeah, she fucking tied our dinners to one of the ziplines and left a note covered in hearts.”

Fenrys was laughing his ass off, of course, always willing to capitalize off of Rowan’s misery. He tried to give Rowan a pat on the back but he shoved his hand away. 

“C’mon man, you can’t let her win like this. Get her back,” Fenrys pressed. 

Up until this point, Rowan hadn’t considered rectifying her actions. He was too caught up in the state of his shoes and getting his campers back to the bonfire to even think past his annoyance. 

“Okay, I got a plan for you. You go to her camp’s cabin and loosen all their facets so when they turn on the sinks they fly off and water sprays everywhere.”

It was brilliant thinking Rowan had to admit but his plan had a few holes that Rowan voiced. “When am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know her cabin number.”

“Those are easy fixes, dude. Go to the map outside the dining hall, all the cabins are labeled with which camp numbers are where and you know she’s number 6,” Fenrys explained. 

Rowan nodded along, surprised Fenrys was more observant than he was in this instance. “And you should go now. I’ll keep track of her and if she ever starts wondering over your way I’ll make a distraction,” Fenrys continued. 

“What are you going to do that isn’t outright suspicious?” Fenrys wasn’t exactly subtle. 

Fenrys shrugged, “I’ll just flirt with her. I mean, she’s hot anyway I was going to try to get her number one way or another. Plus, I’m practically irresistible.” Rowan wasn’t sure why he felt slightly irked by Fenrys’s strategy but he shoved the brief feeling aside.

“Get a move on before it’s too late,” Fenrys persisted, getting up to keep an eye on Aelin as he promised. Rowan did as told and slipped into the shadows, ready to execute his plan. 

By the time Rowan made it outside cabin 3B it had been at least 15 minutes, he was a little embarrassed to admit he got a bit lost on the dimly lit forest trail. He opened the main door and screen door with a creak, internally cringing as he did so, though no one was around.

The cabin was much tidier than Rowan’s own. The girls' belongings were organized and the beds were neatly made. Rowan quickly located the bathroom and flipped on the lights, hoping that no suspicion would be drawn. 

The bathroom counter had three sinks and various toiletries scattered around the counter. Rowan spotted a collection of hair and skin products and just knew they belonged to Aelin, he didn’t think any 12-year-old girls were using those. 

He left the toiletries alone though, that wasn’t his mission. He had only loosened one of the facets when he heard muffled voices outside the cabin. 

Rowan quickly shut off the lights and darted behind one of the shower curtains that shielded three showers in the back of the bathroom. The cabin’s door squeaked open and Rowan could make out Fenrys’s voice from the outside, pleading with Aelin. 

“Aelin, c’mon, we could go back to my cabin for some fun, you know.” Rowan could sense the underlying panic in his teasing tone. 

“Oh, go away you horn dog and take a hint,” he could hear the eye roll in Aelin’s voice too. 

Footsteps sounded, striding towards the bathroom and Rowan tried to quiet his breathing. His heart was beating out of his chest, he really did not want to be found in the girls’ cabin. As innocent as what he was doing was it certainly looked suspicious. The lights flipped on and Rowan cringed, silently praying to whatever would listen. 

Aelin hummed a little and a facet turned on. Judging by the lack of screams at least it wasn’t the sink Rowan had just tampered with. He dared a peek through the sliver of space between the curtain and the shower’s tile wall. Aelin was at a sink, washing her hands that seemed to be covered with chocolate and marshmallow residue, looks like he was missing s’mores. 

Just as quickly as Aelin appeared, she left. Rowan breathed a sigh of relief, his heart finally calming in his chest. He was just so goddamn lucky she hadn’t started taking a shower or something, Rowan would’ve definitely combusted on the spot. 

Rowan slipped out from behind the curtain after a few minutes of waiting, ensuring that the coast was truly clear. He quickly loosened the remaining facets and hurried back to the bonfire before any suspicion could arise.

+++

Rowan woke his camp early the next morning despite their protests. He played it off as wanting the premium breakfast selections before everyone else took them but truly he didn’t want to miss Aelin’s reaction to his little jest.

He expected it would happen in the morning when everyone was getting up and ready to start the day and he wanted front row seats.

As Rowan entered the dining hall he was immediately met with his failure of a lookout, Fenrys. 

“I’m sorry, I swear, dude, I pulled out all the charm and she still just kept walking, complaining about her hands being sticky,” Fenrys tried to desperately explain. Rowan just shook his head and brushed it off, reassuring Fenrys there was no harm done. However, if Aelin had found him he probably would’ve had Fenrys’s head by now. 

Rowan was disappointed by Aelin and her camp’s absence throughout breakfast but he realized it was still early and at least three camps were yet to appear. He tapped his fingers on the table and impatiently waited, thrumming with anticipation.

At last, he sighed and made his way outside to dispose of his food in the big trash can. As he was making the short trip back into the dining hall incessant stomping from behind had him turning around and he smiled like the Chesire Cat. 

He could tell by her face that Aelin was positively seething. She was still dressed in her pajamas, a large t-shirt dwarfing her frame but it was soaked from her collar bones down. The ends of her hair were a deep golden blonde, wet and dripping with sink water. 

She stopped face to face with him and shoved the detached facet into his chest with a force that should not have been humanly possible. Rowan almost stumbled back a step but kept with his facade, outwardly admiring his handy work. 

“Fix it, you dick,” she hissed in his face, lacing her arms across her chest. 

“What seems to be the problem, princess?” 

“Oh, don’t play stupid right now and come screw it back on or I will drag you there by your ear.”

Rowan was weirdly turned on. With her face so close to his and the tension in the air was as taut as a freshly tuned guitar string, he was struggling to breathe properly. Aelin stirred him like no other, she was a walking wildfire, burning bright and utterly uncontained. 

Rowan terminated his inner monologue and gestured for her to lead the way. Aelin huffed, spinning on her heel and marching the path back to her cabin. 

Rowan actually had to work to keep pace with this girl and he was an athlete, constantly practicing or on a field for one sport or another. Aelin breezed through the forest trail never stumbling on rocks or stray roots even with her heavy steps that communicated her frustration clearly. 

When they reached the cabin door, Aelin entered and let the door fall behind her despite knowing Rowan was only a couple of steps back. He huffed and pushed open the door once more. The cabin was empty, likely Aelin had sent the girls to get breakfast while she dealt with Rowan’s antics. 

Aelin stood expectantly in the bathroom.

“Do you need to watch?” Rowan questioned.

“Well, someone has to make sure you don’t put it back on and twist the handles off while you’re at it,” Aelin explained coldly, her arms still crossed, her stance daring him to challenge her. 

Rowan only gave her a bitter scoff and effortlessly screwed the facet back into place. “Look at that, good as new, now was that so hard?” He definitely enjoyed taunting her. 

“Save it smartass, now I might not even get breakfast.”

Aelin stomped back to the countertop and squirted some toothpaste onto her brush, reaching out to turn on another sink. Rowan’s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen.

“Wait, Ae-” 

It was too late. The damage was done and once again Aelin was being showered as water sprayed through the crack in the loosened pipes. 

“ROWAN!” She screeched but Rowan was already reaching over and twisting the handle back so the water would stop running. 

“What the fuck! You did it to all of them!” Aelin’s face was flushed with anger and her eyes were blazing. 

“I tried to warn you!” Rowan attempted to defend himself but Aelin didn’t look convinced. Rowan snatched a white towel off of the drying rack and wrapped it around her shoulders. That’s when Rowan recognized what he was doing, swaddling the soaked girl in a towel, breaching a new territory altogether. They made eye contact. Aelin’s face was relaxed and she regarded him with a soft, perplexed expression. 

Rowan removed his hands from where they were holding the towel together and cleared his throat. “You probably want to change,” he suggested lamely.  

“Uh, yeah.” With that, Aelin exited the bathroom and dug through her bag for a change of clothes while Rowan tightened the remaining sinks awkwardly, putting his prank to a rest. 

Once Rowan had finished he slipped out of Aelin’s cabin while she continued to get ready. When he arrived back at the dining hall he noticed breakfast was quickly coming to a close and a kernel of guilt panged through him. His goal hadn’t been to starve her by forcing her to miss breakfast. 

Rowan grabbed an apple and recognized a girl with long, deep brown hair and brown eyes sitting at a nearby table, a girl Rowan often saw accompanying Aelin. He approached her and cleared his throat to capture her attention, she shifted in her seat to face the noise. 

“Can you, uh, give this to Aelin when she comes?” He asked, holding out the red apple. 

“Yeah, sure,” the girl said kindly, taking the apple from his hand. 

With that, Rowan went back outside to find wherever his campers had journeyed off to in their free time. Along with him followed an abundance of contradicting feelings. 

~~~

i gave them a lil moment - aelin will stab him in the back again tho don’t worry.

send prompts!

taglist: @live-the-fangirl-life // @rowaelinismyotp // @gosuckadickghostman // @camilamartinezdunne​ //

[themetaphorgirl]

IT’S MY SWEET BRENNA’S BIRTHDAY!!!

we were just talking yesterday about how writing birthday posts can feel super awkward, so I wrote a drabble instead!! She loves Hotch and we were just talking about how Patron Saint Hotch is probably terrible with blood, so here’s some teenage Hotch shenanigans (with a Wonder Twin spin).

everybody go tell @thesassprincess happy birthday!!!

(also warnings for blood!)

----------

Aaron Hotchner had developed a fairly nuanced reputation at St. Thaddeus School by the time he reached his senior year. A short fuse and a bad temper (mostly rectified once he finished tenth grade). An ever-present scowl. A workaholic with straight As and perpetual dark circles under his eyes. All in all, a tough teenager who seemed to have no chinks in his armor.

Which was why his friends were a bit caught off guard by the incident at the library.

The library had become one of their go-to places once it got too cold to wander across campus, especially since Alex didn’t mind letting them in outside of established hours. She did mind, however, when Derek and Emily knocked over a photo frame on her desk and shattered the glass. 

“Guys, are you serious?” she complained as she swept up the catastrophe. 

“We know you hide snacks in here somewhere,” Emily said. “Why won’t you tell us where your stash is?”

“Because you two will eat everything I have, and leave nothing for me,” Alex said.

Spencer hovered in the doorway. “I know where it is, but I’m not telling!” he called. Derek stuck his tongue out at him and grinned at his indignation. 

“Thank you, darling,” Alex said. She dumped the bits of broken glass and cracked wooden frame into the trash. “Don’t come in here, okay? I might have missed some pieces.”

Emily scooped him up under her arm. “Come on, nugget, let’s go see if Rossi and Hotchner are still arguing over Monopoly,” she said. Spencer shrieked with laughter as she threw him over her shoulder and hauled him out of the office.

“Please don’t jostle him, you just let him drink a venti latte,” Alex said. She sighed heavily as she put the pan and broom away. “Just once I’d like to be able to have fun and not have to be everybody’s mother.”

“You’re usually just Spencer’s mother,” Derek suggested. “You’re a big sister to everybody else, if that’s any consolation.”

“It is not,” she said dryly. 

She didn’t mind mothering everyone in their little group, for the most part. And Derek was right, Spencer needed her a lot. But she did have to admit that this wasn’t how she envisioned her senior year. 

The vaulted ceilings of the library echoed with Hotch and Dave squabbling over Monopoly rules. “Are they still doing this?” she asked as she sat down beside James. “

“Yep,” he said, tossing his arm around her shoulders. “They’re so distracted with their fight they haven’t noticed that JJ has stolen most of the money out of the bank.”

Penelope stuck out her lower lip. “I’m just mad they wouldn’t let me be the thimble,” she said.

“That’s it,” Hotch said, pushing himself up from the couch. “That is it, I’m done arguing with you.”

“Why, because I’m right and you don’t want to admit it?” Dave said. 

“No! I’m just done with this stupid game!” Hotch said. “Whose idea was it to play this, anyway?”

“Mine,” Emily said. 

“You’re not even playing. You just picked the thimble and told Spencer to play for you.”

“I know. I figured this would devolve into chaos.”

Hotch huffed in frustration, blowing his dark hair off his forehead. “Well, you can play for me now and you can be the one to argue with Rossi,” he said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and his scowl deepened. “Shit. My phone’s dead. Alex, do you still keep an extra charger around here?”

“Top drawer of my desk in the office,” Alex said, leaning her cheek on James’s shoulder so he could kiss the top of her head.

JJ spread her play money across the table. “All right, whose turn is it now?” she said. 

Dave frowned. “How did you get so much money all of a sudden?” he said.

“Wise investments.”

Spencer jumped so he could lean over the back of the couch between James and Alex, the tips of his toes dangling above the ground. “Did you know that Monopoly was originally called The Landlord’s Game?” he asked. “It was created in 1903 based on the economic theories of Henry George, particularly his theories on taxation.”

“How do you know that?” Derek asked. “How do you know so much random stuff? Where does it all fit in that tiny little fourth-grader brain of yours?”

“The hippocampus, most likely,” he said, frowning. “And technically, I’m a ninth grader.” 

“A ninth grader in a booster seat,” Derek said half under his breath, and JJ hid a laugh behind her hand. 

Spencer’s jaw dropped. “That’s not fair!” he said. “Alex said that teasing me about the booster seat is off limits!” 

“All right, all right, I’m sorry, pretty boy,” Derek said as Spencer clambered awkwardly over the side of the couch and slid down to nestle between Alex and James. “Really, though, how do you know so much stuff? You don’t even use the internet.”

“I read a lot,” Spencer sulked, tucking his cheek against Alex’s arm. 

Something clattered in the office and Alex jumped. “Did something else break?” Penelope asked.

“God, I hope not,” Alex said. “Hotch? Did you break something?”

A long pause.

“No?”

“That didn’t sound reassuring,” Emily said. 

Alex tilted her head back. “Seriously, did you break something?” she called. 

“Uh...can you come here for a second?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just tell me what you broke!” she shouted. “Jesus. This is the last time I unlock the library on a Saturday.”

“Alexandra! Come here!” 

Alex blinked in surprise. “Oh, you got the full name,” James said. “That’s not good.”

She hoisted Spencer onto James’s lap. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Hopefully whatever he broke is fixable. Unlike my picture frame.”

“I already ordered you a new one,” Emily said. “Can’t you just tell us where you keep your snack stash so we stop snooping around?”

“Nope,” Alex said. “But thanks for replacing it.” She walked behind the desk and opened the office door. “All right, what did you do?”

She stopped dead in her tracks. Her chair had been knocked onto its side, and Hotch was leaning against the wall clutching his arm. “What did you do?” she repeated, this time with genuine concern. 

“There was, uh, something sharp on your desk,” Hotch said. His face was paper white. “I didn’t see it.”

“Did you cut yourself?” she asked.

He nodded frantically. “I don’t do blood,” he said. “I don’t do blood at all.”

“Okay, okay, well...don’t look at it,” she said. She grabbed him by the arm and forced him to sit down at the desk next to hers. His knees buckled and he sat down a little too hard. “Are you going to pass out?”

“Not sure yet,” he said, squinching his eyes shut tightly. “Oh god. Oh, god. How bad is it?”

She took his hand in both of hers. “I don’t know, you have to let me see it,” she said. But she could already see the blood seeping through his fingers, and she wasn’t surprised to see a long cut across his palm when he stiffly unfolded his hand. 

“Do I need stitches?” he asked faintly. 

“I don’t think so,” she said. She grabbed a handful of tissues off the desk and pressed them to his palm, then gently bent his elbow until his hand was level with his shoulder. “Please try to give me some kind of advanced warning if you’re going to pass out on me. I can’t catch you.”

“I’m not gonna,” he mumbled, his lips slack. 

“Yeah, that sounded super convincing,” she said. She adjusted her pressure on the bleeding cut. “Keep your eyes closed and breathe, bubba. It’s okay.”

Hotch leaned his head against her stomach as she stood over him. “How bad is it?” he mumbled. 

She took a peek. “Not bad, it’s slowing down,” she said. “Your shirt is probably a lost cause though.”

“Oh, god,” Hotch groaned. 

Alex stroked his hair back from his forehead. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this,” she said. “Aaron Hotchner, the most intimidating boy in the eleventh grade, spooked by blood.”

“I hate it,” he groaned. “I can’t help it. You won’t tell the others, will you?”

Alex glanced back at the glass office door. “Uh…” she said. “It might be a little late for that.”

“Oh, shit,” Hotch said, his eyes still closed. “They’re not all-”

“Staring at you through the window? Yeah, they’re all there.”

Emily rapped on the glass. “Are you okay?” she shouted. 

“Don’t tie a tourniquet, he might lose the whole arm!” Spencer said. 

“He’s fine, it’s just a little scratch,” Alex said. “And he doesn’t need a tourniquet, just a bandage. James, can you get the first aid kit from the circulation desk?”

“Already on it.”

Hotch exhaled slowly. A little bit of color had returned to his cheeks, but he was still a little too pale and clammy for her liking. “Thanks for helping me,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t pass out,” she said. “But don’t worry. I’ll always help if you need me.”

He smiled, his eyes still closed. “You’re a really good big sister,” he said, almost teasing.

She grinned. “Twin sister,” she corrected, and he laughed. 

[whumpcollector]

Project CHIMERA Pt.1: A New Age

Hey everyone. I’ve had this little project stewing for a long while. I’m experimenting with the writing style and such so please give me any feedback you have! (Also formatting this thing has been a nightmare so if anything comes off as difficult to read please lmk and ill fix it)

TW: Dehumanization. Themes of imperialism. Descriptions of blood and injury.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Dr. Yarru’s Personal Log

Entry 1

Date: Celendor 3, 991

It is a glorious day. Truly it is. Today marks the beginning of project CHIMERA. I have been assigned to lead this project by Emperor Vystlat himself, an honor I intend to prove myself worthy of. The equipment is still being set up and the facility brought to full function, but within the week we will be able to begin the production of the first batch of clones. All going well we will have our first subjects by the end of Celendor.This will be a new age for the empire.

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

Dr. Yarru’s Personal Log

Entry 4

Date: Celendor 12, 991

The first batch of clones are growing better than anticipated. Within two days they have already passed the embryonic stages and have reached infancy. If this rate continues they will be juveniles within three days at most, and we will be able to begin the initial stages of CHIMERA ahead of schedule. This is better than I ever could have hoped for. Soon the need for the empire’s children to die in order to spread our prosperity will be gone. Soon, the glory of the empire will go uncontested.

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                                   ---Security Clearance Level: 5---

Official Report of Progress: Project CHIMERA

Date: Celendor 12, 991

My glorious Emperor Vystalt,I am more than pleased to report that project CHIMERA’s progress has been greater than I ever anticipated. The first batch of clones have reached the juvenile stage and are being awoken as I write this report. After a day of acclimation we will be able to begin their training. Initial physiological tests have revealed that cell growth rates and immune system responses are greatly enhanced compared to the average human’s. With further research we may be able to adapt these properties to other medical fields. While I do not wish to get ahead of myself, the prospective avenues of research are truly promising.

I shall personally inform you of any and all major developments.

May our glory shine upon the world,

-Dr.Archimedes Yarru

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Dr. Yarru’s Personal Log

Entry 6

Date: Celendor 13, 991

It appears that our genetic manipulation has worked a bit...too well. These clones are not the blank slates that we had anticipated, but have managed to develop personalities during their time in incubation. The good news is that the information we imprinted them with during the incubation phase has stuck as well. We won’t need to teach them the basics. In theory their training can continue as normal, but some issues have reared their ugly heads. We are already receiving resistance to the idea of training from some of the subjects, and an alarming amount of them have developed dispositions that aren’t exactly compatible with being a soldier. Still, this is a minor setback at most and I have been assured by the training staff that things will progress as intended. I hope they know what they’re doing, but the emperor chose them personally so they must be good at their job.

Despite this hiccup I can’t help but be hopeful for the future. Every other aspect of CHIMERA has gone off without a hitch. I’m already seeing promising results from my initial tests of the clone’s blood and muscle cells. I will have to study them closer to get better results, but that will come in time.

Damn it's been 22 hours since I last slept. I should probably do that now.

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Celendor-15-991

To: allstaff

Subject: Plans going forward and clarification of CHIMERA details

It has come to my attention that there has been some confusion throughout the staff, both due to the unforeseen personalities of the clones and with general project protocol. Allow me to rectify these issues here.

[1] The classification of all subjects are as follows. Please remember this to avoid any failures of communication in the future.

Stage gamma: Subjects in the initial stages of testing. They will physically resemble adolescents, generally ages 12-15.

Stage beta: Subjects that are through initial training stages and have been curated into specified roles to receive specialized training. They will also reach physical maturity, resembling 20-22 year olds before their biological development and aging slows.

Stage alpha: Subjects that have finished training and are capable of being sent into the field.

Note: The ages attached to each stage are to provide a reference point to help identify subjects at a glance. Subject’s early rapid aging and the subsequent cessation of said aging makes any attempts at estimating age past a certain point futile. Please refrain from doing so

Addendum: This also means that there will be no attempts at assigning or recognizing birthdays. Yes Arthur, we mean you. Sate your addiction to cake on your own time

[2] Despite the unintended development of personality within subjects all current training protocols and methods will be utilized. The head of the training staff has asked that I pass along this message 

    *[While I understand that these new developments may be difficult to handle for some of you, it is imperative to remember that these clones are not people. They are more akin to automatons or even puppets. There will likely be many attempts to resist our training, do not waver. These clones are meant to be the bulwark of the empire. They need to be forged and tempered into weapons of war. If that requires us to break them first we must accept that. Use a heavy hand, accept not disobedience, and do whatever it takes to ensure the compliance of the clones.

                                                                                            Taskmaster Grestin]

[3] Remember that project CHIMERA is still in experimental phases. The genetic makeup, physiology, and even mental development and reception to training will vary from batch to batch and even subject to subject. Adapting to such differences will be crucial to ensuring progress of the project. If you happen to notice any abnormal physiological phenomena or behavioral anomalies please report to me. While these subjects are meant to be made into soldiers for the empire they also provide a plethora of opportunities for other fields of research. Within that vein, please refrain from killing the subjects. I understand that taskmaster Grestin’s previous statement emphasizes the importance of discipline but please, do show some restraint when possible. Creating these subjects is currently an expensive and, quite frankly, unreliable process despite our initial success. There is a reason this first batch only consists of 10 subjects. Please do not lower that number.  

                                                                                        -Dr. Archimedes Yarru

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Dr. Yarru’s Personal Log

Entry 9

Date: Celendor 19, 991

Well Grestin has definitely earned the title taskmaster. I get that any training intended to produce super soldiers is going to be intense but, damn. I’m almost worried that she’ll kill the subjects long before they get into stage beta. Hopefully I’m just being overly anxious. I trust that Grestin won’t push them too harshly too quickly.

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Medical Report: Subject Gamma-A-8

Date of Admission: Celendor-20-991

Subject Gamma-A-8 was submitted to the facility infirmary at 8:26 AM on the 20th of month Celendor, year 991 by staff member Jules Armidin. Subject Gamma-A-8 was admitted due to severe injury and physical exhaustion. A complete list of afflictions has been attached to the report.

After initial treatments Subject Gamma-A-8 has been stabilized and is currently recovering. It is estimated the subject will be fully recovered within 10-14 days with no long term injuries or afflictions.

Attached - Trauma_Report_GAMMMAA8   

[ Subject Gamma-A-8

Muscle tearing located in the left and right biceps, triceps, and pectorals

Hairline fractures located in the left ulna, left and right radius, and sternum

Compound fracture located at the tibia

Eye spasms indicative of long term sleep deprivation Mild concussion

General bruising located across the arms, legs, and abdomen

Lacerations across the back                                                       ]

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Dr. Yarru’s Personal Log

Entry 10

Date: Celendor 20, 991

At least the subject didn’t die. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr Yarru’s Personal Log.

Entry 11

Date: Celendor 21, 991

Well if anything at least I have been able to study how the subject’s body responds to physiological trauma. The results are nothing short of remarkable. Almost all of the major injuries have been healed to the point of not impairing the body's functions, including bone fractures. I was as shocked as the doctors when a compound fracture seemingly mended itself overnight. It hasn’t fully healed, but the subject is capable of moving the leg to a degree, which is still nothing short of amazing. Accelerated Healing was something that was coded into their base genetics but this is more than what we could have ever expected.

I wonder if this trait is shared by all subjects or if Gamma-A-8 is a special case. Perhaps Grestin’s methods will prove fruitful in more ways than one.

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Dr Yarru’s Personal Log

Entry 14

Date: Celendor 28, 991

It has been less than one month since the beginning of project CHIMERA and the results are already beyond my wildest dreams. Despite my initial reservations almost every subject has taken to the training regimen, no doubt due to Grestin’s expertise.

Note to self: Don’t piss her off

Subject Gamma-A-8 has had a difficult time keeping up with the other subjects. Despite the subject’s remarkable natural healing it seems unable to match the raw strength and speed the other subjects possess. I am hopeful that it will be able to catch up, or at least be able to function adequately in whatever role it is assigned. If not, well, 90% success rate is still more than acceptable given the circumstances.

I feel as if I have gathered as much data as I can working on the peripheries. Blood samples and medical reports are all well and good but they can only get me so far. I haven’t had a chance to interact with any of the subjects thus far. I think it's about time that I change that.

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Tags: @haro-whumps @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

[sapphicsandscience]

Heartbeats & Hormones (Kerry/Sandy fanfiction)

The product of a late night viewing of Tell Me Where It Hurts and whatever the hell my brain has going on in there. (Gets a tiny bit, well, smut-ish, in the second part.)

“Kerry, Sandy,” Manyard acknowledged warmly as she slipped into the OB exam room. “Happy to see you both could make it today.”

“She nearly had me come up through the morgue entrance,” Sandy quipped, standing up and placing her arm on Kerry’s lower back.

Kerry scoffed. “Don’t listen to her. She is exaggerating.”

Though now that Sandy had mentioned it, the morgue entrance may have been a good idea. At least easier than the awkward separate arrivals they had to coordinate this morning. Well, that Kerry had coordinated. Sandy was just forced along. It had been timed down to the minute by Kerry, when and where they would enter the hospital and how they would make their respective ways up to OB ensuring that minimum suspicion would be raised. After a nearly ten-minute explainer by Kerry in the car this morning, Sandy had jokingly threatened to just walk straight into the ER and announce that they were expecting.

“Thank you again for fitting us in with such short notice, we really appreciate it. Don’t we Sandy?” Kerry looked up to Sandy, seeking reassurance by sinking slightly more into her side. Even though everything had been textbook since the blood results had confirmed the pregnancy, the nerves still ate away at her every time she was at an appointment like this.

This was very likely her one and only chance.

“We do.”

Mayard smiled. “No problem, though since I am a bit pressed for time we’ll just get you to put the gown on and sit up on the bed,” She passed the hospital gown over to Kerry. Turning her back to the couple, she went to set up the monitor. “If I remember correctly you would have seen your specialist sometime last week?”

Sandy helped Kerry quickly semi-undress, holding her crutch as she climbed out of her shirt. Kerry shivered as Sandy tied the back of the gown at her neck.

“Yes, everything was fine,” Kerry answered, flattening the fabric down over her front. “But Sandy, she hasn’t heard the heartbeat yet.”

“Which is kind of why we wanted to come in today,” Sandy finished Kerry’s thought, resting the crutch against the wall after realizing it would not be needed for this next part.

“I’m sure we can rectify that today,” Manyard turned back around. “You good to go?”

Kerry nodded and positioned herself up onto the exam bed into a sitting position as Manyard directed. Sandy moved to the other side of the bed, coming up behind Kerry and placing a kiss into the back of her hair when she was sure Manyard was sufficiently distracted. She leaned forward, both hands gripping Kerry’s that was pressed against the mattress.

She involuntarily flinched at the coldness of the gel on her exposed skin, the knot in her stomach twisting vigorously with the suspense. She wondered if the doctor before her could tell how nervous she suddenly was. She hoped not. She wanted to be calm and collected, like doctors should be, especially in front of colleagues.

Only she wasn’t just a doctor anymore.

She was going to be mom now.

Kerry could tell Sandy was also growing a little nervous. She could feel her breaths against her neck, eliciting a warm tingling dizzy throughout her body that had only been heightened recently, but her normal calm breathing pattern had changed with the excitement.

Kerry squeezed her hand the moment an image appeared on the monitor.

They both waited. Breaths hitched in their throats. Hands intertwined.

“There it is,” Kerry lit up at the sound. “You can see his heartbeat.”

And with that, both of their bodies lightened as they allowed themselves to breathe.

Maynard frowned. “You can tell it's a boy? Because I can't.”

“No, it's just a...figure of speech,” Kerry shook her head slightly, not able to draw her eyes away for even a split second. “It's just a pronoun.”

“Are you hoping for a boy?”

“Not particularly. I mean, a boy would be nice,” Kerry replied. “But I...we don't care.”

“I don't even really want to know,” She looked over to Sandy for her input, but her eyes were even more glued to the image of their child than her own.

“As long as it's healthy, right?” The OB concluded with a smile.

“It’s so fast,” Sandy said, mesmerized by the rhythmic lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.  

“Fast. And very strong,” Maynard quenched any concern that may have been in Sandy’s voice.  “Just how it should be.”

_______________________________________________

“Can you pass me my shirt,” Kerry said as she zipped up her pants. “Sandy?”

Sandy however remained lent against the counter on the opposite side of the exam room. Maynard had excused herself a little while ago, needing to get back on to rounds and the two were getting ready to leave before someone found them up here.

Or at least Kerry was.

A flirtatious smile governed Sandy’s face as she bit down on her bottom lip. All the pent-up nervous excitement had now transferred itself into something slightly different.  

“What are you looking at?” Kerry asked, doing her best not to look Sandy in the eye and give in.

“You.”

“Well stop it,” She replied, reaching for her pager. Something to distract from this.  

“You look beautiful.”

Kerry rolled her head back with a sigh. “Sandy, I’m standing here in my bra, please my shirt,” Kerry extended her hand out. “Anyone could walk in!”

She instinctively hugged her chest, though the pressure caused her to grimace. Her breasts had been sore of late and all of her delicate lace bras had been pushed to the back of the drawer for the foreseeable future. Though it was clear that the less-than-sexy wireless T-shirt bra that she was currently sporting wasn’t exactly putting off Sandy.  

“Okay, okay,” Sandy laughed and passed over the shirt. “What’s it like? The fact that there’s an actual baby in there,” Sandy rested her hands against each side of her lower stomach and looked downwards.

“It’s nice...I mean I can’t feel anything, not yet,” She started to fiddle with the buttons of her shirt but a pair of hands soon pulled her fingers down gently.

Sandy began to fix up the buttons until she got distracted. Again.

“What are you doing now?”

“Kissing you,” Sandy replied smartly.

Kerry tried to resist but she couldn’t quite manage to draw her lips away from Sandy and before she knew the pair was less than a step away from making out on the exam bed behind them.

“We can’t do this here,” Kerry managed to slur out between breaths, though her body did not seem to want to cooperate.

Sandy moved closer to Kerry, their bodies now touching and Kerry was pushed further back against the side of the exam bed. She tried to ignore it but her breasts were now pressed against Sandy’s chest and their increased sensitivity led to a new but amorous tender sensation.

For a few seconds, their inhibitions escaped them both.

Sandy slid her hand below Kerry’s pants hem, momentarily resting her thumb over the protrusion of her hip bone before moving further down onto her outer thigh. Her skin was warm and soft, though a cooler hand soon gripped lightly onto her wrist.

“Stop, I have to work, Sandy,” Kerry lightly protested, a giggle in her throat as Sandy’s hand came dangerously close to her inner thigh.

“I’m just kissing you. Aren’t I allowed to kiss my wife?”

“You are not just kissing me,” She rebutted, eyes wide. “And it’s not fair, you know how I am feeling, you’ll get me all…”

“Get you all what…?”

“Flustered.”

Sandy surrendered and took a step back. “Is that right?” She said, returning to the buttons on Kerry’s shirt. “Dr. Weaver all flustered. That’s something I'd like to see,” She teased.

Kerry rolled her eyes. “I’m the one with hormones racing through me, what the hell is your excuse?!”

“How often do we both get the afternoon off?” Sandy said. “Do you really have to go back to work now?”

“That’s the point, I don’t actually have the afternoon off,” She said breathlessly, reaching back to pick up her bag off the exam bed once she was fully dressed.

Though the words held little weight to her. It was too late. She was flustered.

“But, for you, I suppose I could just come back in a few hours.”

Kerry didn’t quite make it back into work that day.