#this was after she was already on thin fucking ice for having an affair with a married man

[oblivionsdream]

What is a reason that has made y’all DNF a book IMMEDIATELY?

[typewriter83]

Pheww... Oh man, I missed this story.

So, let's Review!!!

First, I live how ellie's first instinct was going to Bill and Franks house after seeing her apartment wasn't an option that moment (and also, a little break to tell how much that whole scene seemed like two grandpas comforting and sheltering their granddaughter). We see that Bill knew (and was sure) about joel's affair with ellie since she started to speak about the fight, meanwhile Frank is also suspecting but doesn't jump to the conclusion as something verdict. I was as curious as ellie when she was overhearing their conversation (I was like "nooo" when we couldn't read anymore what frank was saying), and I'm very interested what they think about it. Anways.

Jesse and Dina. I already forgave Dina, and I'm on my way to forgive Jesse too. I feel like he's still reluctant to accept that a minor-not--minor is dating a grown man (he's such a good boy), but I feel like he's going to eventually not care anymore.

Tommy and Maria. Was hard not to be mad at them this whole chapter. Okay, I knew Tommy was maria's puppy, but I thought that after the church scene and everything he was going to kick the bucket and be like "you know what? Fuck it. Joel, do what you want 👍" but no, homeboy is really scared of having a divorce. Maria... Man I don't even wanna talk about her but I have to. Look, I understand her (If I saw a man dating an underage girl irl I would lose my head too) but she's so selective on the things she worries about, that's the part that she looses the reason to me. Ellie is not child enough to study, but she's child enough to have some religious therapy against her will. Ellie is not a little girl enough to be forced to live with her and tommy, but she's a little girl whenever she's next to big bad wolf Joel? She contradicts herself. It's like Bill said, Maria was just waiting for Joel to step on thin Ice, at the first opportunity to label him a pedophile, she did so. I hope she feels really guilty about what happened to ellie, because even tho I know the the aggressor is the only one who is to blame, maria also has at least a finger on this whole shit too. Ellie said everything she deserved to hear.

Talking about ellie... SHE SAYS SHE LOVES HIM AAAAKSJKSJDJDJD oh god, okay let's breathe. Okay, so, I really thought Joel would be the first one to say these little words (I usually love when it happens like that; the man confessing first) but I like how ellie did there, with no fear (I really I thought Maria was going to faint at that or scream like a banshee. Imagine if ellie had said "oh, and I'm pregnant too" lmao). This leads me to think that joel is going to say he loves her too next chapter (I'm wondering if it's before the 🌶️🌶️🌶️👀).

Also, when you say you gonna end this arc and planning others, that means the story is not close to ending, right? You think this will be a long fic or no? Honestly I wouldn't even care if you wrote about their daily life even if there's no drama plot anymore, I got so attached to It.

Anways, loved the chapter and now I can't wait for more (I can tho)❤️

Sweet cub, you always have the most extensive, amazing analysis - if you’re the same cub that always leaves these comments 🩷

Let’s dig in: chapter 10 spoilers below

I’ve missed this story too, and like everything else, writing angst, drama and action takes extra time, and time was not something I had to offer of the summer. Now that we’re into the school year I have more time to dedicate to this. To answer the end of your comment: this is a long story, and the second one will be long (hopefully) as I have some ideas for the next arc. Will it be 100k words long? I don’t know how big it’ll be. But I do have another story to tell in this universe.

I love having Bill and Frank here - I have more planned for them, interacting with Joel and making a role in the town. Frank wants to see the best in everyone, including Joel, and he wants what’s best for the town - Frank should be on the council, but he’s just too kind and gentle, best for the grandpas to run their little corner of Jackson and take care of the people in their own way. But Bill, I think he’s the type that as long as no one is getting hurt, it’s the end of the world and there are no rules.

I have a soft spot for Jesse and Ellie’s relationship in all universes, so we had to mend that wound. Also, keep an eye on Jesse as we start to navigate Tommy…

Speaking of Tommy. Tommy has a lot at stake: his marriage, his son, his brother, his status in town - he’s made a name for himself in Jackson, a good name. People trust him, look to him as a de facto leader and even Joel doesn’t want to ruin that. I mentioned in an earlier response that Maria needs to be knocked down a few pegs, needs to get things into perspective - she also has a lot at stake, a lot to lose if she’s not careful. I think Maria wants to keep such a tight grip on the safety of Jackson, that her intentions are good, but the way she goes about it isn’t always great. I’m not saying Maria is gonna make a 180 before the story is over, but she’s got some soul searching to do.

I wish I could remember where I posted a headcanon about Ellie and “But Daddy I Love Him” - it basically looks like what you said. “Maria, there’s really nothing you can do - I’m having his baby” and Joel is standing there looking her over like… what? Yeah, ok, don’t mess with my girl… and he kind of leans close. “What are you doing? Because we haven’t… you know…” “Joel, if you can’t say sex or fuck, then you’re not ready for it… also, no, of course I’m not. But you should see your face��� 🤭

Joel has said those little words first in most of my stories, and I love that, too. However, Ellie shouting it in her tirade, before she’s even said it to him had speaks volumes. The spice in the next chapter… well, I enjoyed writing it 🤭🤭 I hope you enjoy reading it. Our girl was traumatized and at some point, she needs Joel… that’s all I’m saying.

I’m so glad you enjoyed 🩷 it was a lot to write but I wanted to cross that 100k milestone, and here we are! I’m pivoting to the other story, for at least one if not two chapters before coming back here for the finale

🫶🏻

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

that makes four.

story page | talk to me + join the tag list

PART 1

Your feet dangled down from the stool, elbows on the granite counter when Jeff turned around. “Alright,” he said, lips in a thin smile when he revealed the plate of reheated lasagna that someone dropped off in the last few days. “Smells good.”

You looked up at him with an unimpressed stare. “It looks a little disgusting.”

“It’s vegan, I think.”

“Jesus,” you rolled your eyes. “You start one all natural skincare line and people think you only eat plant-based shit.”

He let out a small laugh, set the plate down and watched as you picked up the fork. One bite--mediocre. Not exactly hot enough, but after all Jeff had done for you the last few days, you didn’t have the heart to demand he put it in for another minute.

“So--do you think it went well?”

You laughed around the food in your mouth, picked up a paper napkin and let your head tilt to the side. “As good as a funeral could be.”

The lights in your kitchen were dim and the sun had already faded behind the trees, the house quiet after people finally filed out. Friends, extended family, strangers you’d never met had flocked to Los Angeles for the funeral of your famous father.

It’d been coming from a mile away. His health declined, an obvious result of the cocaine and the cigarettes and whatever else he’d ingested regularly in the 70s. A heart attack a year ago put him on a fast track to the afterlife, but he always joked that he’d probably end up in hell.

Being in the music industry ruined him, in a way--it ruined your parents’ marriage and it ruined a lot of the relationships your father had. Blow outs and big fights that left him exiled from a lot of social circles, sometimes never speaking to people again after one bad phone call. But it was never like that with Irv.

“Well, I’ve never seen my dad cry so hard,” Jeff smiled. “He really loved him.”

Another bite of the soggy noodles and fake cheese. “I know.”

A comfortable silence, the doors off the kitchen were open, a breeze from the backyard let the southern California warmth blow through the sheer curtains when you sipped at your left over wine.

Jeff was the closest thing you had to a sibling, his family was all you had left at this point. You were tossed in the bathtub with him and his siblings as a baby, shoved into family photos and tagged along for vacations.

Being closest in age to Jeff meant people always hoped it would be the two of you that would end up together. Happily ever after or having babies of your own. But when you saw Jeff wolf down a whole pizza at his bar mitzvah, any hope of a spark between the two of you had been permanently extinguished.

His older sister was the one who told you what it meant to have sex, and after your mom died, his mom helped you pick out a dress for your Sweet Sixteen.

She was the one who talked you off the ledge when you found out you were pregnant only a few years later, she was the one who threw you both baby showers and she was the one who helped you through your divorce only six months earlier.

So now that your dad was gone, too, you wondered where you fit into their family and what your definition of family even was.

Before the thought could cross your mind, the front door was pushed open and the sound of high pitched giggles floated in from the foyer.

CeCe’s tiny voice echoed down the hall. “Uncle Jeff?”

“Is that my CeCe?” He took a few steps forward and she ran straight into his legs, he hoisted her up onto his hip when Maeve rounded the corner with Tristan in tow.

“Hi honey,” you opened an arm so your ten-year-old could fit into the side of you. She leaned her head on her shoulder. “How was ice cream?”

The easiest ploy to get them out of the house while you hosted some kind of awkward afterparty.

“Fine,” she sighed. “But Tristan said that funerals are a selfish attempt by the living to hold on to someone after they’re dead.”

You blinked a few times and looked down at her, shocked by the words and apparently, her ability to understand them. You looked over at Tristan, arched eyebrows to communicate how displeased you were.

His eyes went wide when Jeff choked down a laugh. “I didn’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about Maeve.”

You kissed Maeve on the head. “Well, Tristan is wrong about a lot of things, trust me. But you two should go get ready for bed, it’s been a long day.”

You looked over at him again--younger by two years and easily one of the most important people in your life. You met him only a year after you started your business, he had a knack for brand management and eye for design that you couldn’t pass up. He was way too sarcastic and cynical to be your regular babysitter, but Jeff and his family were basically in the receiving line beside you.

Jeff let CeCe climb down and Maeve took her by the hand as they headed for the kitchen stairs to the second floor, leaving you alone at the island with two of your closest friends.

He waited until he heard the water turn on from their bathroom sink, then whispered in Tristan’s direction. “Great idea to say that to a ten-year-old and a six-year-old after their grandpa dies.”

Tristan rolled his eyes theatrically, “she asked why so many people came and why she’d never met any of them if they loved her grandpa so much.”

“Well, you can expect a bill for their therapy in a few years,” you laughed, forking more lasagna into your mouth.

Tristan made his way over to the fridge and pulled out the glass dish, helping himself to a piece when Jeff took a seat beside you. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” you glanced at him sideways, suspicious about any ulterior motive he might have.

“Okay, Y/N,” Jeff laughed, Tristan eyed you from over his shoulder like he didn’t believe you. “Let me try again. How are you feeling emotionally?”

You cleared your throat and swallowed the most recent bite of dinner. “Oh, you mean cause my husband left me six months ago and my dad just died and now I’m a single mom with two fiesty daughters who just inherited a giant house aaaaaand,” you drew out the word for dramatic effect. “I’m a business owner who barely gets any sleep?”

“That’s what I was getting at, yes,” Jeff nodded and fought a smirk.

“I’m alright,” you sighed. “Tired. Kind of freaked out about what the fuck is going on in my life, but, I’ll survive. I always survive."

You knew you would--in fact, you’d been waiting for this moment for the last few weeks. When Jeff’s mom called to tell you your dad needed to be put in hospice, you prepared. You talked to Maeve and CeCe and explained it all in a way they’d understand. His life on earth is over, but we can still talk to him and visit a pretty garden to remember him.

It was a lot to deal with only a few months after your high school sweetheart turned husband admitted he’d been having an affair and moved out, you saw on Facebook that he’d since bought a motorcycle and was spending most of his time at bars along the coast. That whole fiasco was harder to explain to your children.

And now suddenly everyone wanted to make sure you were okay. Frozen dinners, offers to drive your kids to and from their extracurriculars, a lot of attention was suddenly thrust onto you and your family, as if you hadn’t always hated that growing up.

But you knew the time would come when life would settle back down. Cousins and aunts and uncles would fly home, people would stop asking how you were doing post divorce. Dust would settle and the sun would set on this chapter and frankly, it couldn’t happen soon enough.

So here you were, the funeral was over, the dinner in his honor at Jeff’s parents, the media coverage was starting to die down and life could return to normal. Or, at least, a new normal.

Your dad had been a fixture in your life--weekly dinner dates with grandpa gave you a minute to yourself after working long days and answering endless phone calls. A glass of wine on the couch or even dinner with Tristan and Zoey was a nice escape from breaking up fights or figuring out how to reattach the head of a Barbie doll after someone shoved someone into a closet and tears and screaming ensued.

“You will definitely survive,” Jeff nodded.

Tristan came and sat, forked into the lasagna and made a face when he realized how bad it was. “Is this fake cheese?”

“Unfortunately,” you nodded.

Tristan made a face and then cleared his throat. “I, for one, think this is the start of a new chapter for you. New opportunities, new love,” he smirked.

A quick retort: “Yeah, that’s obviously the first priority right now.”

“He’s right, though,” Jeff said. “You have a fresh start, a totally new chapter.”

You nodded--they were right, but easing into a new chapter felt a lot better than trying to dive right in.

“Speaking of a fresh start, you know, changing things up,” Jeff forced a grin in your direction. “Can we actually talk for a second?”

You eyed him suspiciously, put your fork down to bow out from eating the world’s worst lasagna. “Yeah?”

“I have kind of a weird favor to ask. And--I know it’s kind of bad timing, with everything going on, but--just hear me out, okay?”

Instead of replying, you watched him, lifted your brows to encourage him to continue and tread carefully.

“So I have a client who isn’t from here, he bought a house but it’s in the middle of getting renovated. There’s kind of been a lot going on, it’s a long story.”

“Okay,” you nodded, unsure where he was going with it.

“He needs a place to stay, and I was wondering if maybe he could stay here for a little.”

“Here, like, here here?” You pointed to the floor of your kitchen, an elegant upgrade from the more modest house in Woodland Hills you’d occupied before the divorce.

Along with the death of your father came the inheritance of his Bel Air estate and all of the bedrooms, the four car garage, the manicured lawn and the pool out back. Some people thought you should sell it, use the cash to make trusts for the girls or save for college.

Selling it didn’t feel right, though. It was the house he worked so hard for, the house you called home for the later half of your teen years and the place you always came back to when things got hard. So instead of putting it on the market and closing that chapter, once again, you returned to the safe haven in the hills when you didn’t know where else to turn.

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but you have the room and it might be fun to have someone else around and--”

“I have two daughters, Jeff, I can’t just let a stranger live with us.”

“He’s not a stranger, Y/N, he’s my friend. We’re really close.”

“Who is he?” Tristan asked, waving his fork in the air to remind us that he was still present.

“Harry Styles.”

Tristan’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “The kid from the boyband?”

“No way,” you shook your head, dismissing it before you could even let his name register. “I’m not having a pop star boy band kid stay in my house.”

“Okay,” Jeff held up a hand to get Tristan to relax, then moved to point at you. “He’s 24, number one. He’s not a kid, he’s, like, only a few years younger than us.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “exactly. I don’t need a 24-year-old living with my daughters.”

“He’s not like that, though. He’s responsible and he’s a family friendly dude, and--”

“Then why can’t he live with you? Or with your parents?”

“I don’t have the room,” he said. “And my dad hates house guests.”

You rolled your eyes, it was obnoxious, but it was true. Irv hated having people stay over almost as much as he hated it when your dad beat him in golf.

Jeff took your silence as an opportunity to continue selling you on the idea. “He just finished his tour, he’s working on his second album. He’s probably going to be in the studio a lot, Y/N. Do you really think I would let some crazy party animal live with my nieces?”

Another eye roll from both you and Tristan.

“Is this like, just a few nights?” You asked.

“Like, two weeks. Tops.”

“Two weeks?!” You shook your head. “No--I can’t put them through that after all the shit that’s been going on this year. Why can’t he just stay in a hotel?”

“Cause that’s lonely and he’s a people person and--I don’t know, it might be good for you to have someone around.”

You rolled your eyes that, was it a jab at your new status as a single mom or new status as a fatherless daughter? Unsure.

Jeff stood from the counter and grabbed for his phone on the far end of the island. “Just think about it, okay? I’ve gotta run. A few weeks, built in babysitting, maybe--he’s great with kids.”

“I’ve already thought about it,” you told him, resting your chin in your hand and offering a sugary sweet smile. “No fucking way.”

“Mommy!” CeCe’s voice called from upstairs, you hoisted yourself up, ready to tuck them in and forget that Jeff had ever asked such a ludicrous question.

“I would owe you big time--it might be fun! You’ve got the room, he could be a positive male influence on the girls.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the end of his sentence--like that would really sway you.

“And I’m not that?” Tristan pulled his head back, offended.

“You’re the one who told them funerals are stupid,” Jeff said with a sarcastic smirk.

“And you’re the crazy one trying to let a stranger move in here like it’s an AirBnB,” you shot back at Jeff. “So maybe they do need a better male influence than both of you.”

“Mommy!” CeCe called again, more impatient this time.

“I’m coming!” You shouted. “You, let yourself out when you’re finished eating this terrible meal,” you pointed at Tristan and the lasagna. “And you,” you pointed at Jeff with a smirk. “Please never speak to me again.”

He was already heading for the door, keys in hand when he blew you a kiss. “Love you, see you soon!”

“Love you,” you called back, bounding up the stairs, mom mode activated.

**

A text message the next day when you were at work:

Jeff Azoff (1:43pm): 🙏😇🙏😇

You blew air from your lips, Zoey sat across from you at a conference table when you took a late lunch. She was the first friend you made when you started high school, your long time confidant aside from Tristan and Jeff and a sure bet to tell it like it is.

Now she regularly popped into the Luna offices and she loved nothing more than acting like she was a higher up at your business. She’d rather be doing that than admit she was a new mom with no clue what the next chapter of her life would look like. You had that in common.

Her two-month-old son, Benny, sat in a carrier on the ground, his eyelashes fluttered when Zoey put her feet up on the chair beside her.

“What’s the sigh for?”

“Jeff is being annoying.”

“What’d he do now?”

You looked over at her, nose deep in her phone when you took another bite of the burrito bowl she’d picked up for you. You didn’t know if it was worth it to explain it all. Zoey was excitable, never one to turn down an adventure and her aptly timed identity crisis that came with becoming a mom was sure to make her encourage bad decisions even more.

She looked up at you, suddenly aware of the wheels spinning in your mind.

“Spill it,” she instructed. She put her phone down and let out a breath, clasped her hands and waited for you to fill her in.

“He asked me to let a friend of his stay with us in my dad’s house.”

“Your house,” she corrected. “Deed’s in your name now.”

“My house,” you nodded. “And I feel weird about it.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Some client of his,” you tried to wave it off as if the name didn’t matter.

It didn’t, really. You’d long been exposed to the rich and famous just because of the nature of your father’s work. He was one of the biggest managers in the music industry in partnership with Jeff’s dad, so you were no stranger to beautiful people with beautiful cars and beautiful homes. When Jeff took on the family business, you only grew more accustomed to it.

“So a celebrity?” she shimmied her shoulders in excitement. “Which one?”

“Harry Styles,” you said the name slowly, quietly, even though it was just the two of you in the second floor conference room and even though this was your office that you bought and you owned and you ran.

“He’s hot,” she nodded casually, less impressed than you’d expected.

“He’s also like twenty-something, so it's disgusting for you to say that.”

“Oh relax,” she dismissed your concern. “He could be your pool boy.”

Zoey--who also grew up in Southern California and spent plenty of time at your house as a kid--hadn’t yet grown so accustomed to the coming and going of celebrities. Her parents owned a florist shop in Santa Monica and in high school you had to tell her she could only come to a Britney Spears concert if she didn’t cry when you inevitably met her in the green room thanks to your dad.

“I have children,” you reminded her. “A ten-year-old who might as well be fifteen and a six-year-old who would think I literally bought her a human playmate.”

“But if he’s friends with Jeff I highly doubt he’s a serial killer,” she reasoned.

“Wow, you are completely missing the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“It’s weird--I can’t have a stranger move in with my kids.”

“Why not?”

“Because first their dad left us and now their grandpa died.”

“Sounds like they need a new man in their life.”

You ignored the similarity of her words with Jeff’s from the other night. “I just think it’s crazy.”

“Okay,” she sat up straight and suddenly looked like this was morphing into a business conversation. “How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh my god,” she turned her palms towards the sky. “Just do it.”

“What? No!”

“It’s two weeks--it’ll take your mind off of all the shit that’s been going on, it’ll be a fun distraction for the girls. You have so much space in that house you will never even know he’s there. And you’re helping a friend.”

She wasn’t wrong: Harry could likely stay in the bedroom all the way on the other end of the hall from where the girls slept. Maeve was thrilled to get her own room in the move and CeCe would occasionally run into your room after a nightmare, so the space was a plus.

He’d have his own room, his own bathroom. Hell, he could even park in the extra garage and enter from the back of the house. Maybe you wouldn’t even notice he existed.

You sighed, tugged at your necklace when you met her gaze. “I just feel really protective over them right now. I feel like Luke ruined their sense of family and now with my dad gone--”

She stuck her tongue out in disgust at the sound of your ex’s name. “I get that--but they have you. They have Jeff and his family and they have me and Shawn and now Benny.”

You offered a small smile at her reassurance. She was right in a lot of ways. The Azoffs were as much a family to your daughters as they had been to you. Shelli and Irv were like grandparents, they offered to babysit plenty of times and they always managed to get the girls the most amazing birthday presents.

But something in you knew it wasn’t the same. You’d dreamed of giving your daughters the sense of family you never had: a mom and a dad who loved each other. One house, not two that had two different beds and sets of books or toys.

Luckily and unluckily, your ex hadn’t made a huge deal about custody. Visits here and there were outlined in your divorce papers, but at this point in time he didn’t seem the most interested in maintaining a relationship with his daughters, even though he promised way back when that he’d never leave.

Getting pregnant with him during college wasn’t planned, but he swore you’d make it work and you tied the knot only a few months before Maeve was born. Things were good at first, you always knew you’d have more than one--if only to combat your own only-child loneliness--and then CeCe came five years later when you felt a little more prepared.

“I don’t think it’s going to traumatize them, Y/N. I mean, the least you could do is meet the guy.”

You watched her for a minute, blew air from your nose in a huff before you picked up your phone.

Y/N L/N (1:56pm): Fine. I’ll meet him.

Three days later you pulled up to a cafe in Brentwood and took a deep breath in the parking lot. If he was creepy, you wouldn’t go for it. If you got even the slightest weird vibe from him, you’d ex-communicate Jeff and only go over to visit his parents with the girls when he wasn’t around.

You’d already been leaning towards just doing it, especially once Tristan got a glass of wine in you and reminded you what your dad would have said: he who helps is one who prospers.

A few sleepless nights left you staring at the ceiling and wondering if you were crazy. You just now had the chance to let life settle down and here you were, mourning the loss of your biggest supporter, trying to piece yourself back together post divorce, and considering letting a stranger move in? Grief really did do strange things to people.

But when you walked in and found them sitting at a table in the back, something clicked.

Your dad was already fond of your possible houseguest, which you only knew from overhearing previous conversations between him and Irv about how proud they were of Jeff for picking up the family business, and now it all made sense.

A small part of you--probably the stupidest part of you--wondered if there was something cosmic about it. Your dad was always one to let his artists stay in the house, if they weren’t creepy, of course. You grew up with bands rehearsing in the backyard and going to shows at the Troubadour before you were old enough to drive, and you turned out fine.

“Hi,” Harry stood, offered a hand and introduced himself after Jeff gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Harry, pleasure to meet you.” Polite, maybe a bit of a kiss ass. Your dad must have loved him.

“Y/N,” you nodded, sat down when Jeff tugged out a chair for you. “Thanks for--uh--meeting with me, I guess.”

“Thanks for maybe letting me stay at your house,” he offered a sheepish smile, held your gaze for a second when Jeff adjusted the sunglasses clipped to his shirt.

“I’m actually surprised you guys haven’t met before,” he said.

“I’ve been a little busy this year,” you reminded him with a nod. “But--nice to finally meet you.”

Harry nodded, a dimple in his left cheek ignited a tiny spark in your chest, but you pushed Zoey’s words out of your mind. Two weeks, it wasn’t a big deal. He’d be in and out and this would be a blip on the radar.

“We can order coffee or something, but Y/N, I’m assuming you have like, a whole interrogation mapped out?”

You pretended to laugh at Jeff’s joke, turned to Harry and offered a no-nonsense smile. “I have two children, I got divorced earlier this year and my dad just died. So I don’t need any drama or anything. This is temporary and I’m doing this to help out a friend. Jeff, that is, not you.”

He laughed at your clarification and nodded. “Right. This is just me living in your house. No drama. Short-term.”

“And obviously my children will be there, so no guests.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay I’m not that much older than you,” you said it quickly, offered a small smile when he looked a little scared.

“Sorry--no, I didn’t mean that in a rude way.”

“No ma’am,” you added a rule, pulling a laugh from both of them when you lifted another finger in the air to count them off. “No drugs or alcohol, unless it’s like a glass of wine at dinner or something,” you shrugged.

“Look,” Jeff leaned forward. “Y/N’s kids are great, she’s got a great skincare company and she’s a kickass human. And you need a place to stay, so don’t fuck this up.”

“You both have my word. No drugs, no alcohol, no guests, no ma’am,” he smirked in your direction. “I’ve lived alone for a while, so, it’ll be nice to have some roommates.”

You nodded slowly and watched him for a second. A hoodie with the name of the management firm your dad and Irv had started, a backwards baseball hat and simple Ray-Bans. You ignored the fluttering in your veins from just looking at him, your own words echoed against the walls of your skull: he’s also like twenty-something, so that’s disgusting.

This was his brand, you were sure. Something Jeff had worked hard on--the looks, the smile, the exact formula that management firms drooled over was playing out in front of you. You sipped your drink once the waiter delivered three cappuccinos. Two weeks, tops.

**

Los Angeles afternoons were meant for playing outside, which is what your daughters did best if they weren’t busy pulling each other’s hair. You had dinner on the stove--enough for five--and a knot of nerves in your stomach when the wheels of his fancy car crunched atop the gravel.

The girls ran to greet him and Jeff showed him around the house. Now, Harry sat across from you at the table, Maeve to his left with an unimpressed look on her face when you cleared your throat. “Okay, gratitude time.”

Jeff set his fork back down, a guilty look on his face to admit he’d forgotten about your pre-dinner ritual.

CeCe squirmed in her seat, let out a sigh when Maeve protested with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I don’t have anything to be thankful for,” she informed you.

“That feels a little hard to believe,” you nodded, losing patience for her attitude over the last few days. “CeCe, do you want to go?”

Your younger daughter looked up at you, scrunched her mouth and thought about it. “I don’t have anything either.”

You tried not to groan aloud. After the week you’d had and the sudden changes in your life, disciplining your daughters felt like the last thing you wanted to do, if only they’d just behave.

“I can go,” Harry lifted his hand sheepishly as if he was sitting in a classroom and not in your dining room, a dimple on his cheek when he smiled sheepishly.

“Take it away,” you motioned towards him.

“M’thankful for being here, having a place to stay--and what looks like it will be a delicious meal.” By now he had a bit of smug look on his face, maybe proud of the fact that he’d broken the ice and stepped up to the pre-dinner prompt.

“Mom’s cooking is a solid six out of ten on a good day,” Maeve looked over at him, her fork now in her hand as if she was ready to dig in.

“Okay,” you leaned in and caught her gaze. “Drop the attitude or go to your room.”

“I’m thankful for Emma,” she named her friend, her quick submission after she rolled her eyes told you she just wanted to eat and get this over with. “She warned me today that Hayley was wearing a shirt I wore last week so I think she’s copying me.”

“Okay,” you nodded, you’d accept anything at this point. “CeCe? Last chance.”

“I’m grateful for pudding.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, you nodded and said: “Great. I’m thankful for you two,” you smiled at them, hopeful that this nightly tradition would hold some type of meaning, more than just eye rolls and pre-pubescent angst from Maeve.

Jeff looked over at the girls, “I’m thankful for my friend Harry getting to meet my other friends, CeCe and Maeve.”

“Aww,” Harry smiled, a hand clutched to his heart when he looked between them.

“Alright,” you were annoyed by how good your daughters were at turning on their charm for anyone but you. Jeff was often the fun uncle, just like your ex had been the fun dad, which left you forcing them to play this gratitude game every night after they finished their homework.

CeCe wasted no time digging into the spaghetti on her plate, leaving Jeff to ask Maeve: “so what are you going to do about Hayley?”

“I don’t know,” Maeve sighed. “She’ll die when she finds out that you’re sleeping over,” she pointed her fork at Harry.

“He’s not sleeping over,” you corrected. “He’s staying in one of the guest rooms, remember?” You’d already explained it a few times to them. A few weeks, he’s working on more music, he’ll be busy, he’s not here to play with you.

“Whatever,” Maeve said. “Maybe I’ll hold it over her.”

“Maeve,” you looked over, unsure what had gotten into her. “I thought we talked about this stuff with Hayley?”

“I know--but she just keeps annoying me,” Maeve explained.

“Dump pasta on her head,” CeCe suggested with a giggle.

“Don’t do that,” you looked at CeCe and poked her in the stomach.

“I personally am a big fan of that idea,” Jeff smiled over at CeCe. “But it’d probably be better to just forget about it. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Or the sincerest form of annoying,” she retorted.

Harry let out a laugh at that, caught your gaze when you wondered how soon it’d take him to get annoyed with your kids.

They were great--smart, funny, clever, definitely witty and sometimes dramatic. But they were good kids.

You remembered how tough it was to adapt to motherhood, even though they were your own. Something told you that Harry, no matter how short his stay would be, was not in the chapter of his life that entailed finding joy in playdates and pillow fights.

But he made it through dinner, quiet but friendly and as soon as Maeve was finished, she begged him to play squishball outside before sunset.

“Squishball?” his eyebrows dipped together. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s basically just baseball but with a softer bat and a foam ball cause mom doesn’t want us to break our skulls,” Maeve informed.

“I never said break your skulls,” you argued.

“But it’s what you meant,” she shrugged.

“I would love to play,” Harry laughed, unbelievably entertained by the back and forth he’d already witnessed. They yanked him outside and set up their tiny diamond, CeCe pulled on a tutu just for flair and you and Jeff were left to handle the aftermath of a family dinner.

Jeff put the final plate into the dishwasher after a little bit and offered a hesitant smile when he turned around. “So?”

“So what? It’s been like an hour and a half of him being here.”

Their laughter from outside was audible, CeCe shrieked when Maeve made contact with the bat and sent the ball soaring into the air. “The girls clearly love him.”

“Of course they do--they love anyone for the first two hours.”

“I think he’ll be good for you guys.”

You rolled your eyes, wiped the counter with the sponge when he continued.

“And you guys will be good for him.”

This got your attention. “How so?”

“He’s a people-person, never likes being on his own too much. Some structure and responsibility is good for him.”

“So I’m babysitting him?”

“Oh my god,” he laughed. “Relax, will you? This could be a mutually beneficial thing if you let it, that’s all I’m saying.”

You didn’t read too much into it, you figured Jeff was peppering you with reassurance only to calm your nerves or quell your concerns. When he was finished helping you clean, he hugged the girls goodbye and waved over his shoulder, leaving Harry alone in your house with you and your daughters and nothing but good intentions.

You left him downstairs at first, helped CeCe brush her hair and sat on the floor when Maeve picked out her clothes for the next day: hopefully Hayley doesn’t own this dress.

When you headed back downstairs an hour later, the girls were tucked in, the lights were off, and your usual plan would have been to check your work emails if it weren’t for the dimpled guy in your living room.

He stood at the bookcase, hands clasped behind his back when you found him.

“Hi, sorry--bedtime is always a--” you paused, not even knowing the right label. “A shit show. But thanks for playing with them earlier.”

He laughed, turned around and offered a smile. “No worries--they seem like great kids.”

“They are,” you assured. “Maeve’s been a bit snarky lately but I think that’s just the whole beginning of puberty thing.” You cringed a little when the words left your mouth, wondering if it was too much information for someone who likely had cooler things to do than talk about ten-year-olds and training bras.

But he smiled, shoved his hands in his pockets when you said: let me show you around.

He’d arrived at the worst time. Homework, dinner prep, CeCe crying because Maeve finished her homework first. You didn’t have the chance to give him a tour and you figured it would be better coming from you than from Jeff, that way you could remind him of all the rules.

You showed him the ground floor first. The library, the family room, the two offices and the three different remotes that all worked different TVs or speakers or lamps. He marveled at the pictures on the wall in your dad’s old office space, he was a legend, he told you.

He climbed the stairs behind you and whispered in response when you pointed out what was behind each door. Bathroom, Maeve’s room, CeCe’s room, guest room, another bathroom, master suite, guest room, his room.

You pushed the door open and stepped aside to let him in. Gray walls, a wooden four-post king-sized bed. Throw pillows you’d picked out when you moved in a few weeks ago, a dresser to the left. He looked around and nodded. “S’perfect.”

“Good,” you said, walking over to a small linen closet in his attached bath. “Towels are in here, should be soap and stuff in the shower--had our housekeeper stock it.”

“Thanks,” he nodded again.

“I don’t know where you parked, but there’s a garage in the back that my dad used to keep some of his sports cars in--there’s definitely room and that way you don’t have to leave yours out if it rains.”

Were you talking too much? You just wanted him to feel at home or at least welcomed.

“Amazing,” he said. “Thank you.”

A repetitive answer but it didn't stop you from rambling.

“Keurig’s on the counter--creamer in the fridge. Should be plenty of food but obviously feel free to stock what you like. Except like, weed.”

“Weed doesn’t go in the fridge...” he eyed you suspiciously, the same dimple appeared on his cheek and you rolled your eyes.

“I know--I know weed doesn’t go in the fridge.”

“Just the no drug policy,” he nodded.

“Right. Am I forgetting anything?”

He shifted his weight on his feet and shrugged his shoulders, a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” you nodded, one final look around the room to make sure he had what he needed. His duffle bag was already in the corner, you’d told Jeff to put it upstairs and out of the way so CeCe and Maeve didn’t get nosy.

“I just have a question actually, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you move in here?”

“Uh, beginning of August, so like, almost a month ago.”

He nodded, his eyes curious despite the fact that he didn’t ask more.

“We had to put my dad in hospice, I was looking for a place anyway after,” a quick motion over your shoulder to gesture to the girls. “My divorce, so--a lot of change, but it’s been nice to be home.”

He nodded thoughtfully, the quiet of the bedroom suddenly felt heavy. “S’a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” you looked around the room again, if only to put your eyes somewhere other than his face. “I felt shitty about redecorating it at first, but--it was a little too much of a 70s bachelor pad.”

“Leave it to Walt,” he joked.

That piqued your interest. “Did you know my dad? Like, did you spend any time with him?”

He pushed his lips out in thought but shook his head when he sat down on the bed. “Not really--met him a few times at events with Jeff, but I never spent any quality time with him.”

You nodded--he was a busy guy, popular and well respected in his industry. “He was a good person, good grandfather, too.”

Harry smiled at that. “Always heard that Irv was the balls but your dad was the heart.”

You laughed, scrunched your nose at the saying you’d heard a hundred times. The two of them were partners in crime, two peas in a pod, yet they couldn’t be more different. He spoke again before you could reply, voice soft in the sleepy house.

“I mean, if you're his daughter he obviously did something right.”

He held your gaze just long enough for you to feel something, something you pushed out of your mind so quickly that your hand was on the door knob before he could even say goodnight.

Two weeks, tops.

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[jaskierswolf]

Four Seasons

Summary: Jaskier is the god of winter and he gets invited to the four seasons ball. A formal celebration held by the the gods. This is finally the moment that Geralt realises just what Jaskier the bard really is.

Rated: T

Length 1.8k

CW: Jaskier wears a dress, brief mention of gods being genderfluid

Based of this art by @little-piece-of-tamlin. Another @thewitcherbog special!

________

As far as Geralt was aware, Jaskier was just a normal, very human bard. Jaskier had never said as such but people made assumptions, and he was happy to let people go about their day and think whatever made them most comfortable. Most people would be uncomfortable in the presence of a god, or they'd bow down, grovel at his feet, which whilst fun for a short period of time, got horrendously dull very quickly. He was a free spirit, especially during the summer months. Winter was a busier affair but Geralt was always tucked away in Kaer Morhen so never noticed Jaskier’s more immortal side during the coldest time of the year.

Geralt was about to get the shock of his lifetime.

It wasn’t as if Jaskier had planned it but the invitation had come in from Priscilla in the spring and he couldn’t just ignore it. The Four Seasons ball only happened once a century and it had completely slipped Jaskier’s mind, but he wouldn’t just abandon Geralt. The poor witcher might have thought he was dead if he hadn’t turned up at their unofficially agreed meeting place. So Geralt would just have to join Jaskier for the ball, and after that there would be no hiding. He was a guest of honour and gods and mortals alike would bask in the magic of the changing seasons. Most mortals wouldn’t remember the ball afterwards, the magic too powerful for their tiny little brains to comprehend, but those blessed by a god’s favour could remember.

And of course, Jaskier had blessed Geralt. One could not hold a god’s heart and not be blessed.

“You’re quiet,” Geralt grumbled as they made their way up to the rooms Jaskier had secured for them.

“I received an invitation to a party. I was hoping that you might come with me,” Jaskier stammered, feeling the frost creeping through his veins as it always did when his emotions started to get the better of him. He could melt snow and ice with a simple smile, but when he got anxious, things started to get a little frosty. The air temperature outside the tavern had dropped considerably since they’d arrived, but he doubted anyone had really noticed. It was late in the day and the change could be blamed on the setting of the sun.

“Already? Whose partner did you bed this time, bard?”

“Oh haha, very funny!” Jaskier scoffed, ignoring the frost glistening on the windows of their room when they stepped inside. Deep down he knew he needed to get a grip. Pris would be pissed off if he ruined her spring thaw with his own emotions, his poor sister would have to work even harder to counteract the effects of his magic, but it was always more difficult to rein in his magic in the spring. It was still strong from the winter months, and there was an adjustment period.

Even still, the snowfall last summer after the blasted dragon hunt had all three of his siblings up in arms against him. Valdo had to trigger autumn early and the whole harvest had been a mess.

He really should just tell Geralt he loved him and deal with the consequences, but… well… it had been a long time since he had loved like this and he still nursed the heartbreak.

“Jaskier?” Geralt said, snapping him from his thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

He blinked, focussing back into the room. He meant to say “nothing” or something along those lines. Something harmless and easy.

What fell from his lips was another thing entirely.

“I love you, oh bollocks!” Jaskier blurted, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, I mean… Jaskier,” Geralt gestured to the room, there was a snow flurry above them and the windows were completely iced over. He desperately tried to think happy thoughts, the warm golden glow of Geralt’s eyes. The soft growl of his voice whenever Jaskier did something stupid that would get any mortal killed. Even if Geralt never loved him back, the thought of his witcher was enough to soothe his panic. With one last deep breath and a flick of his wrist, the snow was gone, “What the fuck?”

“Oh fuck, Pris is going to kill me,” Jaskier whined. “I- umm…”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, one hand was holding his medallion and he just looked… well, done? Shit. Fucking cock balls.

“Explain, bard.”

“I love you? Quite hopelessly, I’m afraid,” Jaskier smiled sheepishly, his tongue flicking out to flick his lips, a nervous habit that he’d never quite overcome. “But!” he announced with false bravado, “that’s neither here nor there, it’ll pass. No need to worry about me, witcher.”

“And the snow?”

“Oooh yeah that.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, there’s a chance that I might be a god, hypothetically speaking of course. I’ve always favoured the winter months,” Jaskier admitted, flexing his fingers and pulling at his lute strap.

“You hate winter,” Geralt growled, still painfully ignoring Jaskier’s love confession but that was fine. “You always spend the winter in that cushy academy of yours.”

“Not strictly true,” Jaskier sighed, “but are you coming to my ball or not, witcher? My sister has invited us both, apparently I don’t shut up about you, probably part of the being in love thing.”

“No, you just don’t shut up.”

“Rude! Fine, be that way, Geralt. I’ll go alone,” Jaskier huffed, pouting with his whole body in a way that he knew Geralt always fell for. “It’s a shame, I had a perfect outfit planned. Gods don’t play by your rules of gender, and oh you should see me in a dress, I look absolutely divine, quite literally in fact.”

“If I come with you, will you be quiet?” Geralt sighed.

“Now, now, we both know I can’t promise that.”

Geralt groaned before slumping onto the bed, the only bed, and it took Jaskier another half an hour to get Geralt ready for the ball. It helped that he could use his magic now that Geralt knew, but the witcher still fought Jaskier on the pale blue doublet that would match Jaskier’s dress perfectly. No man, mortal or otherwise, could fight Jaskier’s eye for fashion and eventually Geralt gave in. It helped when Jaskier reminded the witcher there would be no need for armour in the presence of gods, there was no monster they couldn’t best, and so reluctantly Geralt left his worn out witcher armour on the bed, and let Jaskier dress him.

“Did you mean it?” Geralt muttered.

“Mean what?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head as his magic weaved through the fabric, subtly marking the witcher as his, no other god could claim Geralt if Jaskier already had, and he just didn’t trust his brother, not after the Countess de Stael.

“You love me?”

“With all my heart and soul, darling,” Jaskier admitted softly, his fingers freezing on the collar of Geralt’s doublet, now printed with buttercups. If one were to look closely they would see the tiny little snowflakes that made up the design, “but I- I understand if you don’t feel the same. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to tell you.”

“Hmm.”

“Is that alright, Geralt?”

“Yes. I- shit,” the witcher growled, “It’s not easy for me, witcher don’t-”

“Oh fuck off,” Jaskier snapped. “ Don’t you fucking dare, Geralt. Witchers don’t feel. Whatever whoreson told you that-”

“I know. I know, but you got hurt, because of me, and seeing you lying there in Yennefer’s bed. I thought I’d lost you,” Geralt snapped, his golden eyes burning with fire.

“And that was the day I lost you… to her,” Jaskier sighed, “I was never in real harm. The djinn magic just hurt this body, and I’m rather fond of this one, but I would have survived.”

“You didn’t lose me, Jaskier. Yennefer, she’s, she’s less fragile, and the wish, my wish,” Geralt shook his head.

“Ah yes, you bound yourself to her, my poor aunt, you call her Destiny, was not impressed with that one, but never mind, dear heart, your destiny is set now,” Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Of course, I could undo it. Djinn’s magic has nothing on mine, but the bond between you and Yennefer means nothing. It is a tie, not a love potion. I know you love her, Geralt.”

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt said all too quickly, and Jaskier froze, his heart racing in his chest and the world spinning around him in a blur. “It was easier to pretend that I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier cried out, whisps of frost dancing through the air around them. “You- you love me?”

“Yes, Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, rolling his eyes and shooting Jaskier a fond smile. “I love you.”

Jaskier beamed, and with a flick of his wrist his doublet and breeches melted away into a beautiful icy blue gown. The fabric was cold against his skin, a mesh of snowflakes so thin that the pale blue fabric was sheer. He left his arms free of sleeves, and winked as he saw Geralt’s eyes go wide as he took in the muscles that Jaskier usually hid under his clothes. He thought about taking on a more traditionally female form to fill out the cleavage in the dress, but he rather liked the way Geralt was looking at him with a dark hunger in his eyes. As he stepped forwards his boots shifted into elegant high heels, a dark navy blue with thin straps around his ankles.

“Jask,” Geralt breathed, “You look…”

Jaskier winked at his witcher, cupping his cheek with his hand. “There, now we match.”

“You’re taller than me.”

With a giggle, Jaskier nodded, looking down at Geralt for the first time in their acquaintance. They’d always been similar in height, but Jaskier’s shoes gave him the edge now. “Well, you are my guest for the evening, and no mortal should rise above their immortal, it goes against court etiquette.”

The witcher scoffed, “When have you ever given a shit about etiquette?”

“Human etiquette, witcher, not the gods’. This is different. This is my home, now come on, Pris will kill me if I’m late again.” Jaskier scooped up his lute, and took Geralt’s hand in his. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Hold on tight, darling,” Jaskier grinned.

“Wait, fuck, Jaskier! Not a portal!”

But the witcher’s protests were swallowed up in a flurry of snow as they were transported to the realm of the gods. An echo of Jaskier’s musical laugh hung in the air as the snow settled on the ground as the witcher and his bard set off on their latest adventure.

[thetriggeredhappy]

in the dadspy au, what if jeremy was just going to be an assistant/cook/janitor at the base while his dad was being the mercenary (since spy didnt want him to follow the "career" but didnt want to be separated from him), but then jeremy turned out to be even better than the hired scout so they promote him to that position and spy is not happy with this at all

ok i was gonna put this in the queue to post but im impatient because im happy with this one. only thing i didnt have was spy being upset by this development

(warnings for canon-typical violence, discussion of mercenary-type things, paranoia, alcohol, and exactly one proper fight scene. consider this pg-13)

-

“Would you prefer the good news first, or the bad news?” Dad asked.

Jeremy looked up at him from where he’d snatched up the sunday comics from his dad’s newspaper and was doodling little hats on the characters while they waited for their food to arrive. “Uh,” he said, “good news first.”

“Alright. The good news is, do you remember that line I’ve been tailing? The one in New Mexico?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jeremy said, then nodded a little more confidently. “Immunity, safehouse, somethin’ like that, right?”

“...Something like that,” Dad agreed carefully, and that made him raise an eyebrow. “It went well, and I think there’s the very real possibility that I’ve all but closed the deal, all they want now is an interview.”

“...Interview, singular,” Jeremy said slowly.

“That’s where the bad news begins. Unfortunately... merde, how to phrase this?” He drew a hand down his face. “They’re fully willing to hire me on, but this is a more... corporate affair than I’m used to. They have rules, stipulations. Long story short, they will not hire you as a mercenary on the basis of your age.”

Jeremy tensed. “What?” he demanded. “That’s stupid, I’m old enough to drive and buy guns and whatever the hell else.”

“But not rent a car, at least in many places in the United States.”

“But—“ he started, and remembered they were in public, and lowered his voice to a hiss, leaning in. “We’re hired killers, thieves, criminals. Do they really think we’re above having fakes? False documentation?”

“Actually, that is one of their requirements,” Dad said dryly, taking a paper from his jacket and consulting it. “I’m not happy about it either, mon lapin, but those are their rules. Already they have slightly bent them for one individual, and already I am on thin ice. But I may have a way to manage this.”

“Yeah?” Jeremy asked, nervous now.

“I know the woman responsible for new hires and managing the team I’ve applied for. She owes me a favor—a fairly hefty one. When I go in for the interview, one of my demands will include you being hired on, not as a mercenary, but for... for custodial purposes, something like that. Cook, janitor, security guard, secretary—whatever job there is that needs doing there, and I am sure that there will be one. Something to allow you to live there. Pay will likely be her stipulation, and the play I hope to make is that really, you’re overqualified for the position and she’s lucky to have someone so competent available, and in the worst case scenario, the pay is still good enough even for just one of us that we will not cut too deeply into the savings.”

The savings. That made Scout blink, because they only ever brought up the savings when—

“You think this could be it?” he asked quietly. “Like, it it?”

A hard exhale, and he leaned his cheek on his hand. “Potentially,” he finally said. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but the job promises a variety of things. Medical attention available, extremely low levels of danger, and most of all, confidentiality. The only people who will know any name we give them would be the woman in charge of hiring us and their singular medical professional. There is no mode of communication to or from the compound outside of emergency lines to the organization and a single secure payphone located two miles away, there is no civilization within a twenty-five minute drive minimum, and this operation has been going long enough that the local authorities have long since grown used to being paid off, and likely don’t even remember what for anymore. I cash in a few valuable favors and ask this employer to turn a blind eye, we’d have somewhere remote and secure to spend our time after our deaths are faked and once the contract is over, we can start over. No ties to the past.”

“Freedom,” Jeremy marveled.

Silence for a few seconds, broken only by the quiet chatter of the rest of the diner. “I want to warn you, this work may not be glamorous. It may not even be particularly easy. I’m giving you the option of saying no,” Dad said.

“What?! Yes, hell yes, are you joking? To get us to living like normal people? Steady work? Livin’ in one place? Count me in!” he laughed.

“What if the job is something you won’t enjoy? Long hours, boring work?” Dad asked, entirely serious.

“I’m still on board.”

“What if the other people working there are rude to you? Disrespectful?”

“Well most of the people I meet through our job now try to kill us, so really it’s an upgrade.”

“What if there’s no diner nearby?” he asked, and there was a glint of humor in his eye.

“Damn, sorry, that’s the dealbreaker,” he joked right back, and that made him snort, shake his head, greet the waitress as she came back with their coffee and soda and then informed them that their food would be out shortly.

“I’ll ask,” was what Dad said once she was gone again, and that was that, and they started driving to New Mexico two nights later.

-

“—A warm welcome to our two newest recruits. This is the Spy, and this is the Guard.”

“Guard?” asked one of the men at the table, his accent thick and distinctly Russian. It made Jeremy tense slightly, but he didn’t let it show.

“Night Guard,” Jeremy answered, voice clipped.

“He’s not technically hired on as a mercenary like you all, he won’t be joining you on missions,” the short woman apparently named Miss Pauling (Jeremy was fairly sure it was a fake name) said, hands folded in front of her neatly. “He’s here to work security. Keep an eye out during the night, filter through the camera footage, handle the archiving, things like that.”

“We’re hiring on a civvie now?” asked another man, thick Scottish accent a little harder to digest than the eyepatch and the grenade he was in the process of fiddling with the internal mechanisms of.

“He’s combat ready, and will still be armed. His job is to essentially make sure you’re all safe enough to sleep through the night,” Miss Pauling said.

“I’m not some chump,” Jeremy agreed. “I know my stuff.”

“How old is he?” another man asked, this one in a hardhat with a heavy drawl, looking concerned.

“Twenty, for your information,” Jeremy said, a little sharply, eyes narrowed.

“If you have any other questions, there’ll be time later on. For now, I do need to show our two newest recruits where they’ll be staying,” Miss Pauling cut in.

There was an audible scoff from one of the men at the table, a dramatic rolling of eyes. Jeremy glared at him. He unfolded and refolded his extremely tattoo’d tree-trunk-like arms, tugging the visor of his hat between. “Sorry,” he said, accent thick and distinctly Californian. “I just don’t have the most trust for some scrawny kid in slacks and creep in a ski mask.”

“Scout, don’t start,” Miss Pauling warned.

“Just saying,” this man, apparently called Scout, muttered under his breath regardless.

“Don’t,” she said again, more firmly, and ignored the second eye roll she got for the trouble. “If you two would follow me.”

And they were shown around the base, and Jeremy in particular was shown into a room stuck behind three locked doors, where he found camera feeds and recording equipment. She gave him a basic overview and a thick packet of instructions and policies labelled ‘highly classified’ and a phone number to call if he had any further questions, and a set of hours that were apparently meant to become the new standard for him (with the quiet addendum that if he finished early that was alright, and that technically he could turn in early if two or more members of the team were already awake for the day and he was caught up on the archiving of old tapes).

Then he was left to “get used to the equipment”, which he assumed meant his dad was getting a similar rundown of his job, and it took a pretty quick glance through the packet to understand that clearly this place ran on an extremely secretive and closely monitored series of systems. In the packet, between the sections on camera maintenance and operation hours, were a few sheets detailing what were apparently the movement patterns of the various members of the team, including frequented locations and previously recorded large-scale infractions (mostly on the part of the Soldier, the Medic, the Scout, and one from the Demoman).

He wasn’t the one with the title Spy, but fuck, it seemed like he might as well have it. His entire job wasn’t even necessarily to keep the team safe overnight—he was just meant to watch all of them to make sure nobody was anywhere or doing anything out of the ordinary.

The next time he saw his dad, waiting outside the infirmary to get some sort of physical evaluation, his face was arranged carefully enough that he could tell he’d figured out something was up, too.

“Got your job assignments?” he asked quietly in French, glancing towards the door into the infirmary.

A nod, a glance. “I’m intrigued by the methods used in employee evaluation,” he deadpanned. “Especially the fact that apparently, they’re willing to assign employees for the explicit task of doing them.”

“How often?”

“Weekly.”

“Thorough,” Jeremy deadpanned, and glanced towards the hall at the distant sound of laughter, echoing from somewhere else on the base. “That’s basically mine too.”

There was a long silence, and when Jeremy looked back over, his dad was giving him an almost expectant look, waiting. All he had to offer him was a shrug, which was returned after a moment with a vague shake of the head. “I don’t believe it will be a problem,” his dad said simply. “Not for us, at the very least.”

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah. Uh, anyways, good luck with the… physical, or whatever,” he said, and received a pat on the shoulder before he walked back off down the hall, hoping to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do with an entire room all to himself. He’d almost never had one before.

-

He was used to time changes and jet lag, to needing to switch his sleep schedule on the regular, but the switch to a straight up night shift was a rough one.

His nine-to-five was actually a ten-to-six, as in 10 PM through 6 AM. This meant that, assuming he managed to get his schedule in order, he’d be able to join in on the team dinners if he woke up early and could eat breakfast with them before he went to bed.

Very quickly he realized that going to dinner and breakfast with the team was going to become a staple part of his routine, because it didn’t take long before he began to feel extremely lonely all of the time. In a dark little room, everyone else asleep, scrubbing through tapes from during the day while half keeping an eye on the live feed from around the base that never showed much of anything, it was brutal. It was suffocating.

It was easy, at least. It didn’t take long before he got efficient at it and could start zoning out, and it wasn’t like he was under much pressure. His was the only room without any cameras in it. Security risk, apparently. 
And to be honest, what small amount he and Dad interacted with mercenaries and other criminal types, Jeremy didn’t really tend to like them much. A lot of them were loud and rude and had the potential to turn around and try and kill them whenever they felt like it. He didn’t expect that he’d like the team as much as he did. He especially didn’t expect to like them so much without ever really talking to them.

But watching the camera feeds from throughout the day, seeing what they were up to, they were just... nice people. Soldier out by the dumpsters practicing rocket jumps and wrangling raccoons and apparently trying to learn how to spin a rifle, Pyro’s regular minor explosions in the kitchen while cooking and the surprised and frantic way they cleaned it up every time, the Demoman’s tendency to whistle wherever he went, watching through the feed as they all played cards and argued and jostled each other. They all seemed really nice. Really cool. Really dorky, too, but mostly just really nice and really cool.

And there were a few of them he was less sure about—he couldn’t get eyes on the Medic most of the time, what with the one camera in the Medbay being tilted down at an angle that made it hard to see much of anything but the occasional bird (probably by those same birds). The Heavy tended to just sit and read, and was pretty much silent most of the time otherwise. The Scout tended to leave the base pretty often. And the Sniper didn’t even live on base, he had a van outside that he could only occasionally see movement in when he squinted at the far edge of the camera leading outside. But even then, Heavy and Sniper mostly just seemed quiet, and Medic just seemed busy, and the Scout just seemed like a little bit of a dickhead.

But then one day when Jeremy was at breakfast the Heavy caught him leaning to try to get a look at the cover of the book he was reading, and he blurted that he was just wondering what book was so great that he’d stay up until like four in the morning reading, and then the entire team was gawking at him and asking questions and insisting that it was insane that there was someone actually watching all those cameras, and he shrugged and said there was always supposed to be someone watching the tapes back it was just usually some office worker type a hundred miles away. And they seemed almost... upset with him. And maybe that was fair, it wasn’t like he ever talked to any of them much, mostly he just spent breakfast and dinner half-asleep and listening to their chatter. And Demoman admitted that he’d honestly assumed that Jeremy slept his entire shift, he just always looked so tired at breakfast. There was almost this discomfort. This distrust.

And so, now that the jig was up, he made it a point to say some things to certain members of the team. To tell the Medic that his camera was tilted down so that he couldn’t see most of the room, and to very pointedly say that it was weird how that happened and that he didn’t know why they set it up like that in the first place, but it was really none of his business. Made it a point to warn the Engineer in the morning that the previous night, Soldier had been doing something in the fridge for a while, and to maybe check the labels before he made breakfast. Made it a point to tell the Demoman that the camera in his workshop was right in plain sight, and that if he moved one of his blackboards an inch or two to the left, it would obscure the room a pretty hefty amount. Made it a point to tell the Sniper that the camera on the rooftop seemed to be glitching out, and it’d just sort of lost the tapes of the previous two nights, and that it was really unfortunate since for all he knew there might have been someone ignoring the signs about there being no personnel allowed up there.

In return, he found that Pyro would sometimes make little sparkly notes with smiley faces on them and stick them to the door to the security room. That Sniper started tipping his hat at the camera above the door into the base from the garage. That on occasional drinking nights, the team would suddenly turn and start waving at the camera, laughing the whole way. On one night in particular he could hear through the low-quality and tinny speakers that they were trying to cajole him into leaving the security room for a while to join them for cards, and god, but he wanted to.

And he noticed more things. Soldier walking with a slight limp some days when rocket jumps had rough landings. Being able to count the doves in the infirmary and even tell them apart to some extent through blurry close-ups. The Engineer making it a point to sweep really regularly regardless of what project he was working on.

And then he noticed a weird thing.

It took him a long time to get used to the patterns of hallways, the cameras not really lined up linearly after a while, too many branching paths. He learned to follow progress, to flick from one camera to the next as someone walked around corners. And for a while he thought maybe he wasn’t very good at it.

Until he realized two things. First of all, that in a hallway where he knew there were five doors, he could only see four—apparently the door to Pyro’s room was just barely out of sight of the camera. He only figured it out because one day it swung open wide enough to almost bang against the wall.

And then, when he realized there was somehow that massive blindspot, that there was a corner with a blindspot too. One where that Scout kept disappearing.

He watched a few more times to make sure, and yep. He’d see the Engineer walking around the corner, flick to the next screen, and there he was, continuing down the hallway. And then later that same day, the Scout, walking, and flick to the next camera, and he wasn’t there.

One of the worse parts of the job was that he never got to see Dad anymore, never got to just sort of hang out the way they did all the time when he was growing up, and he knew he would miss it but he didn’t know how much. And he found it was even worse when he had something important to say, doubly so when he had something important to say but no idea if it was actually important.

He tried to bring it up casually, in the like ten minutes of time he ever got alone to talk to Dad. Dad was fighting the kettle trying to make some tea and he was trying to stay awake long enough to figure out how he was going to say this.

“Uh,” he said, and Dad looked at him. “So, uh, what’s the read you’re getting on that Scout guy?”

“Lazy,” Dad shrugged, looked back at the kettle. “Arrogant. He seems to care very little about doing his job correctly and has horrible communication on the field.”

“Right, right,” he nodded, fought a yawn down. “Uh. So like, kind of a dickhead.”

“Indeed,” Dad said, nodding vaguely.

“So uhhh... not the best.”

“Where are you going with this?” Dad asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

“I, I dunno, the guy just likes hanging out in this one blindspot in the cameras, and it’s kinda freaking me out,” Jeremy said, scratching at the back of his neck.

Dad frowned. “Strange. I wasn’t aware that there were any blindspots in the cameras.”

“There’s only a few, and only for pretty small spaces I think? But apparently he just likes hanging out in one of them.” Jeremy scuffed his shoe on the ground, glancing over as voices started echoing down the hall towards them. “Just thought it was weird.”

“I’ll look into it,” Dad muttered, voice quiet, and then raised it again slightly. “I refuse to keep up with sports.”

“C’mon,” Jeremy said, knowing this game well, changing subjects into something more normal as people entered earshot. “I’m not even asking you to keep up with sports, I’m just saying, I’d kill to go to a baseball game right about now.”

“The American Pasttime!” Soldier called from the room over.

“Exactly,” Jeremy agreed, nodding at Soldier as he also entered the kitchen, a half-asleep Demoman in tow.

“Any ghosties or ghoulies on the cameras last night, lad?” Demo had enough energy to ask, blinking blearily at the contents of the fridge.

“Oh, a billion,” Jeremy said.

“Guard!” Soldier barked, the most awake person in the room. “Should these ghost-ghouls appear again, don’t be afraid to point me in their direction! I have significant experience with them already and do not fear the likes of them!”

“Yeah sure,” Jeremy shrugged.

“You’re a champion, Guard,” Demo said with what was either a really disoriented blink or a wink, slugging him on the shoulder and wandering back out into the common room with the entire carton of milk in his other hand. Jeremy gave him a mock-salute that Soldier copied with absolute conviction. He and Dad shared a glance after the two of them left, and Jeremy was the first one to break, snickering under his breath.

“I’ll look into it,” Dad said, and also left the kitchen, and Jeremy nodded and started trying to remember what else he’d been planning on doing before bed.

-

“So,” Dad said a few days later, materializing next to Jeremy when he was in the middle of his jog and making him almost jump out of his skin, skidding to a stop.

“You’re enjoying that new watch way too much,” Jeremy panted, out of breath and still very much startled.

“Maybe,” Dad said, and he was smiling. “But as I was saying.”

“All you said was ‘so’,” Jeremy pointed out, giving him a look.

“There’s a juvenile joke here about how I’m your father and so of course I say ‘so’, but if you wouldn’t mind it, I did have something important to say, mon lapin,” Dad replied, and Jeremy rolled his eyes hard at the horrible joke and cheesy name, fighting back a smile of his own.

“Go for it,” he said, and took the opportunity to bend and tighten his shoelaces.

“So. Regarding that Scout and his habits. You mentioned he spends time in blind spots of the cameras, oui?” Dad asked.

“Yeah. Keeps, uh, I guess he keeps getting infractions for going off base too much, too. I’ve logged him leaving like three times this week already,” Jeremy nodded.

“Indeed. Well, considering how new we are to the team, I did not want to jump to conclusions, and so contacted Miss Pauling and asked on your behalf for any older records, and I found out something very... intriguing.”

Jeremy looked up at him, blinking. ‘Intriguing’, historically, had always been a very, very bad thing.

“Apparently, it has been two years since they last had a Guard situated on base. The previous one was a much older gentleman, retired from being a full member of the team due to health complications but not entirely ready to part with the company. The previous guard was somewhat strict, and the Scout—the same as we have now—very much disliked the man. He continued acquiring near-constant infractions under the man’s watch for leaving when he was not meant to, so much so that the previous Guard proposed enstating trackers on the team when they went off-base. And before this policy could take hold, the previous Guard left the base one day and did not return, and finally was found dead a state over, one month later.”

Jeremy blinked once, twice. “Holy shit,” he said, and took note of the wary look on his face. “Okay. So we’re thinkin’ the same thing, right?”

“I would assume so. And…” Dad hesitated, moved to fidget with his cufflinks. “And I would not be particularly concerned about this, as I’m confident that you wouldn’t have gotten his attention from what you’ve been up to lately, and therefore wouldn’t be in danger yet should history attempt to repeat itself, but… he’s already taken a disliking to you.”

“What?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“I believe it’s something as simple as some sort of shallow jealousy. Another American on the team, also relatively young, filling the position of someone he disliked previously. He regularly complains about the fact that you don’t need to go do the same job as the rest of us.” Dad shrugged, glanced over at him. “That, combined with the fact that you have somewhat conflicting duties, well, he tends to rather tetchy. He claims that considering he’s meant to be the first line of defense, they shouldn’t also need a guard at night.”

Jeremy had a number of opinions about that, but he stuck to the most relevant ones. “I really don’t like this guy,” he said. “Might be, uh. Worth keeping an eye on.”

“Agreed.” Dad glanced back over his shoulder towards the base, then at his watch. “Enjoy the rest of your run. Don’t forget to eat.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, hit the bricks already, old man,” Jeremy scoffed, waving him off, and Dad rolled his eyes, disappearing again in a cloud of smoke. “You’re gonna be using that thing all the damn time now, aren’t you?”

“Oui,” came a voice from nowhere, and Jeremy huffed a laugh, meandering his way back into the rest of his jog.

-

Jeremy hummed along to the radio, flicking between cameras on autopilot and wondering when exactly to take his lunch break.

He didn’t face the clock or anything, so he wasn’t sure, but he thought he had a pretty solid rhythm at that point. Click, click, click, between the camera to the road, the camera to the main entrance, and the camera in the hall towards the middle of the building, for about one second each. At just about any time after 11 or 11:30, those were the only three in real time that he needed to keep an eye on, mostly for people coming back late from bar hopping or if Miss Pauling was rolling in on a delivery. All the other cameras he could see out of the corner of his eye, and any movement he’d pick up on pretty quick, even if it was usually just the doves fluttering on the camera to the Medbay. After he cycled through those (and there was almost never anything there) he’d cycle back through to the tape he had in, put it on high speed, and watch it for about two or three minutes, get through a chunk of that time. Mostly he’d just be making sure nobody had been in the base while the team was away ni o(which indeed there never was), so there wasn’t much of a reason to take it off high speed, and the second part of the night would be watching the tapes for the time the team was back on base.

Movement on a camera made him click the pause, and he glanced off to the side. One of the doves had shuffled to face the other direction. He rolled his eyes, looking back at the bigger monitor again and pressing play.

The second half of the night was a little more interesting. He just had to look at the tapes for the time the team was there, check for discrepancies that might point to Dad messing with the disguise technology off-the-clock or the enemy Spy having infiltrated. For the most part things were straightforward, but he at least got to see his teammates up to funny things sometimes. Pyro’s antics were usually entertaining. Soldier he only caught some of, on the basis of him often walking off out of range of the cameras when he went on his excursions. Demo was funny sometimes. Honestly, just seeing the Sniper anywhere but as a fuzzy distant shape was interesting.

Movement on a camera. Same dove. He ignored it. Click, click, click, all three cameras clear, back to the fast-forward of the same empty hallway as before.

He really needed to figure something out, for the Scout. Maybe he and Dad were just being paranoid. It would be insane for him to try to outright kill anyone who inconvenienced him, not to mention reckless, and stupid to boot. Acting like that in their line of work would make him a lot of enemies extremely quickly. It would make more sense for the old Guard disappearing to be unrelated, to be honest.

Yeah. Hell, he barely knew the guy, and here he was assuming he’d straight up whacked a guy for getting a little too on his case about something. Maybe they were wrong.

Movement on a camera. He glanced over and froze outright.

It took him five seconds to come to his senses enough to pause the playback on his screen.

Figures. Shapes. Not at the front entrance, in the hallway, there next to the back way, by the garage. At least three, moving carefully, hard to make out in the darkness.

Okay. Okay, don’t panic, focus.

Jeremy ran through a few things in his head. He’d already done a headcount, the only people he wasn’t sure about were the Sniper and the Medic, but he hadn’t seen the Medic in any of the hallways out of the infirmary. Three figures were two too many to be any of the team, and besides that, they didn’t look like the Medic. Too short to be the Sniper, moving differently. Different clothes.

Three people. He hopped up, rushed over to the wall, yanked open the panel he had there. Three buttons, which he needed to hit in order. The first would send an alert to Miss Pauling, the second to whoever was assigned to be on alert that night, the third would set off the alarm.

He hit the first, hit the second, and hesitated on the third.

Okay. Technically if he didn’t hit that third button, he’d be breaking protocol, which was, according to the manual, ‘grounds for termination’. He was pretty sure that meant a long swim with some concrete shoes. And it was apparently recorded every time he hit these buttons, so they could deduct from his pay on false alerts. So they’d know if he didn’t hit this third button. He needed to think fast.

This was a different button than the alert button. The alert was more subtle, set for just one person. The alarm was throughout the entire base, over every loudspeaker. Louder than a fire alarm. If he hit this one, these intruders would hear that there was an alarm going off. Anyone smart would book it, high tail it the hell out of there. But he still didn’t know where they came from.

There hadn’t been movement on any of the screens, and he looked at the camera feed facing the road already, a few times even. He should’ve seen them. And if they found their way in once, they could do it again.

If he didn’t hit the button, on the other hand, whoever was on alert would wake up and wonder why they’d gotten an alert but the alarm wasn’t going off. If they were clever, which they probably were if they’d lasted this long, they’d come to the security room to see what was up and they could work from there.

He closed the panel again and moved to wait.

A minute later, still no movement from the hallway where most of the rooms were. That was fine, they’d just woken up, and probably needed to get dressed and grab their guns.

Another minute later, no movement, which was fair, they just needed a second to get their bearings. The intruders, meanwhile, were just lurking, slowly making their way down the hall.

Another minute later, no movement, and he opened the panel to press the button again before he continued waiting. Maybe they didn’t hear him the first time.

Another minute later and he took to standing next to the panel, mashing the button rapidly, eyes on the screen where the intruders were passing the kitchen, starting to get pretty far into the building.

Another minute later and he stomped his way into his sneakers, grabbing his flashlight and gun and guard cap from where they were hung on the wall. “Fine, I’ll fucking do it myself,” he grumbled, and carefully shouldered open the door, taking one last glance at the camera before he shut the door behind himself.

He kept his footsteps quiet, squinting into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to finish adjusting as he crept towards where he’d last seen the figures. It was near-silent in the base at night except for the distant, quiet hum of generators and occasional shift of plumbing. It was getting more and more familiar, and he found himself able to tune it out somewhat, instead listening intently for footsteps besides his own, making sure to click the safety off his gun while he was still alone and not when he was close to whoever had decided to break in.

Okay. Dad did this all the time. He could handle this.

He slowed as he approached the corner near the kitchen, peering around as carefully as he could, tugging down the brim of his cap to try and hide any potential shine from his eyes. He caught sight of a vague shape standing near the doorway, hesitating before it crept inside, into the common area.

Not ideal, on the basis of that being their goddamn kitchen, but at least there would be cover.

By the time he managed to sneak up to the doorway, he could make out the sound of vague whispering. It was far enough that it gave him the boldness to peer into the room, and just slightly lit by the glow of the clock on the oven he could see two shapes there in the kitchen, the third lingering nearer to him, there by the table.

Jeremy was only just starting to make a plan, relieved to have the jump on them, when there was the distant sound of a generator humming to life, and all the figures stopped, paused for a moment.

“Fucking spooky here,” one whispered, barely audible.

“Calm down,” another whispered. “What, scared of ghosts?”

Jeremy inhaled, exhaled, shifted onto the balls of his feet and started creeping a little further into the room. If he could just get all three of them to one side, so he wouldn’t need to pivot so much…

“You don’t know, maybe there’s ghosts here,” the first protested, and swore quietly at what sounded like their winging their elbow against the corner of the tale, and Jeremy tried to stick near the wall, managed to creep half-behind one of the chairs, trying to keep his silhouette indistinct. “These guys kill people.”

“So do we,” the third mumbled, moving out of sight in the kitchen, and Jeremy bit down on a swear, starting to inch behind the couch. “Don’t be a coward. And stop making so much noise.”

“You can’t shoot a ghost,” the first pointed out, moving a bit closer to the kitchen, giving the table a wide berth now. “Or punch it.”

“I can try,” the second said, and stopped at the sound of a rustle.

Jeremy held his breath, weight half-balanced against where he’d tried to step, newspaper trapped beneath his foot.

“That one wasn’t me,” the first whispered. There was another, more significant rustle throughout the room, and Jeremy could see a glint as the intruders drew their weapons.

Jeremy inhaled, exhaled, and just barely managed not to swear out loud.

The first one was the closest by, lingering beside the arm of the couch Jeremy was crouched in the shadow of. “Do they have a cat here?” they asked, voice quiet.

The second was approaching into the main room more carefully. From the sound of the footsteps, trying to keep a shoulder closer to the wall, clearly paying more attention to the door. “Are you stupid or something?” was the reply, voice also quiet.

The third didn’t speak, but huffed out a laugh, which was enough to tell Jeremy that he was out of the kitchen.

Jeremy inhaled shakily, exhaled shakily, shifted his grip on his handgun and flashlight, and took a split second to think. Inhaled one more time.

He leapt to his feet, swinging his flashlight like a billy club and clobbering the first figure across the side of the head, sending them tumbling to the ground. From the sound of the impact, a dislocated jaw at the very least. One down.

A shout from the other side of the room, arms moving to try to aim, clearly struggling to see him, but that third figure was in the doorway, silhouetted against the faint light from the oven’s clock, and that was enough to figure out where the head and chest were. He aimed, fired, got what he was pretty sure was the neck considering the brief spray of blood that splattered against the oven, darkening the room completely.

A swear from the second figure, and Jeremy wanted to swear too, because he’d hoped that second figure would be stupid and try and charge him, but now he was ten steps away and didn’t have time to fiddle with and cock the gun again, other hand full with a flashlight and no way to—

Oh, duh.

“Stay where you are,” the second figure ordered, but Jeremy’s eyes were a little better adjusted and besides that, he wasn’t the one talking. He lifted his flashlight and clicked it on.

The second figure cried out, recoiling at the sudden blindingly bright light in what had been near-darkness, and Jeremy had time to finagle his thumb up to cock his gun again, now able to aim with absolute accuracy, this shot connecting with the figure’s head.

He exhaled.

It took Jeremy two minutes to remember to fire a bullet into the chest of the unconscious guy, and another minute for the other mercenaries to start showing up, half-dressed and armed. Dad, presumably to prove a point, showed up pretty close to the middle of the pack almost fully dressed. Jeremy wasn’t entirely sure how long it took before Miss Pauling showed up, but he wasn’t even halfway through their questions by that time.

“Guard, headcount?” she asked before she even bothered saying hello, still wearing her motorcycle helmet and looking more than a little bit miffed.

“Uh,” he said, eyes drawn away from where Medic was assessing the bodies on the kitchen table, “seven present and accounted for. Sniper’s probably out at his van, don’t know about the Scout.”

“Alright. Pyro,” she said, and Pyro stood at attention, bunny slippers squeaking at the movement. “go wake up Sniper and get him in here.”

Pyro nodded, handing their weird unicorn plushie thing to Jeremy as they passed by, giving him a solemn nod before hurrying away.

“Okay. Guard, hit me with a rundown, then,” she said, and shot a glance around the room. “No peanut gallery needed. And Medic, please don’t take them apart too much. I gotta get rid of those later.”

“Uh. Spotted these guys on the cameras, hit the first and second alerts,” Jeremy said.

“And not the third?” she asked pointedly.

“They were, like, right next to the door, and—here’s the thing, Miss P, is I dunno how the hell they got in here,” he said, and there was a general balk from the room. “No, seriously. They didn’t come in on the main road, they were in one of the back hallways by the garage. There’s gotta be a hole in the cameras or something, because I seriously don’t know where they came from. And if they booked it, they’d take whatever vehicle they used to get here, too, and we might not figure it out. Thought I’d just wait for whoever the hell was supposed to be on alert so we could… I dunno, at least see which way they went.”

“Guard,” she admonished, and he shrank a little bit. “That was incredibly reckless. What if nobody had shown up to help you?”

“Uh,” he said, blinked, “but… nobody did show up.”

A pause. She blinked. “What? You’re the one who did that?” she asked, entirely shocked, pointing towards the three bodies on the table.

“Uh, yeah? Isn’t that my job?” he asked carefully, shifting the stuffed animal under his arm.

“No, you’re—you’re just supposed to be the Guard, you’re supposed to watch cameras, not—“ She paused, taking a second to push up her glasses and rub at the bridge of her nose, inhaling, exhaling. “Okay. Points for… going above and beyond, here, but Guard, don’t do that again.”

“Sure thing, Miss P,” he mumbled, tugging on the brim of his guard cap, and sighed to himself as Miss Pauling moved away to try and stop Medic from attempting to covertly steal a few organs from the corpses. Dad clapped him on the shoulder supportively, and that did make him feel a little better. He wasn’t expecting a clap to the other shoulder, and looked up, surprised to see Heavy there, looking just slightly less grim than usual.

“Little Guard man is credit to team,” he said simply, solemnly.

Jeremy straightened up slightly. “Oh. Hey, thanks,” he said. Heavy nodded at him.

“It’s true,” Demo called, and he looked over, got another approving nod. “Really saved the lot of us, lad.”

“I, I mean, hey, it’s… what I’m here for. Or, uh. I thought that was it, anyways,” he shrugged, glancing away. “I mean, yeah, I’m pretty cool, though.”

Dad bumped his arm for the last part, and he snickered. “My question,” Dad continued, doing his best to ignore him, “is primarily regarding who, precisely, was supposed to be present to help Guard with this. Who is meant to be on alert?”

“It’s meant to be Scout, ain’t it?” the Engineer asked from nearby, frowning. A general murmur of agreement. “Could he have slept through it?”

“Heavy doubts this,” Heavy grumbled, looking troubled.

“Why’re we awake?” asked Sniper from the doorway, and various teammates called out a greeting. Sniper seemed half-gone, and completely grumpy, but not as grumpy as Pyro, and not nearly as gone as the man leaning heavily against Pyro’s shoulder.

“Hey,” the Scout managed, grinning, speech garbled, visibly sloppy and unbalanced. “What’s up, guys?”

Groans from parts of the room. “Drinkin’ again, Scout?” the Engineer drawled, visibly irritated.

“That’s my trademark, lad, go on,” Demo laughed, but the enthusiasm wasn’t entirely there.

“Scout,” Miss Pauling said, voice firm in a way that made Jeremy almost flinch in sympathy. “Are you aware that we’ve had a situation here while you’ve been sleeping?”

“Weren’t sleeping,” Sniper murmured, and eyes turned to him. He scratched at the back of his neck. “Came stumbling in ‘round when I was heading in. He was out for the night. Bar, looks like.”

“What?” Jeremy demanded. “Why the fuck didn’t I see him leave on the cameras?”

“Alright,” Miss Pauling said, and Jeremy looked at her. Her expression was hard to read. “It’s possible he went through the back tunnel.”

“Back tunnel?” Jeremy asked, and glanced around. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard of it.

“For emergencies only. Scout’s the only one who I’ve given a key card to. I have one too. It’s supposed to be used for transporting especially sensitive information, most of the team isn’t supposed to even know it exists. If there’s a gap in the cameras around the back of the building, he might have been using it to… sneak out to go to town, even though he knows he’s already in hot water for leaving the base so much,” Miss Pauling said, glaring at Scout, who was looking increasingly annoyed.

“Whatever, it’s not a big deal,” he protested, scoffing.

“That tunnel is for emergencies only,” Miss Pauling stressed. “I trusted you with the privilege of knowing about it account of having worked here for so long, and you’re using that privilege and key card to mess around?”

“He was coming back from around the front of the building, at least,” Sniper chimed in, and Pyro nodded. “Not that I’d understand the point of sneaking out if he’s going to just walk back in the front door.”

“Key card?” Medic repeated from near the table, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah, it’s, it’s a magnetized card, that can be read by a card reader, used like a key,” Miss Pauling explained, deflating a little bit.

His eyebrows furrowed further. “Would it happen to look anything like this?” he asked, picking up a lanyard from the table and holding it up, showing the room the card clipped onto the end of it.

Two beats of silence. “Spy, would you mind?” Miss Pauling asked politely, nodding towards the Scout, who had gone pale.

“Not at all,” Dad said just as politely, and walked over towards the Scout and Pyro, then circled around behind them, and sank a blade into the Scout’s spine. He promptly crumbled to the floor, dead.

“Well. At least that’s that mystery solved,” Miss Pauling sighed, and rubbed at the bridge of her nose again. “Now I’ve gotta block off time tomorrow to get rid of three bodies, and then hopefully that’s the last we’re gonna hear of this or else the Administrator is gonna kill me.”

“What about the Scout?” Heavy rumbled.

“…Scratch that. Four bodies,” she mumbled, face dropping into her hands. “And then I need to find his replacement. Ugh.”

“Can’t imagine you’d need to go far,” Demo said, and Jeremy looked up, and Demo was very obviously tilting a thumb in his direction.

“He’s proven himself to be better at this job,” Dad agreed, shrugging. “And I would say on a bad day he’s still a better runner than the previous Scout on a good one.”

“He can clearly handle a firearm well,” the Engineer noted, looking over one of the bodies.

“And a blunt object,” Medic chimed, just a bit too pleased. “This jaw is almost completely shattered!”

“Okay, okay, fine, sure,” Miss Pauling waved off, one hand still pressed to her face, clearly overwhelmed and tired. “We’ll get his paperwork in tomorrow. Congratulations, you’re the new Scout, any questions? Can the questions wait until morning? Great, thank you. Good night, everyone. Medic, have the bodies in bags for me at least, okay?”

A distracted thumbs up from Medic, and Miss Pauling was groaning, wandering back out of the room, and most of the team followed, yawning amongst themselves. Sniper half-attempted to ask again why the hell any of them were awake, but gave up halfway through. Pyro, for one, made sure to at least retrieve the plushie from Scout’s arms before wandering off, giving him an appreciative pat on the shoulder.

“So,” Dad said, and when he looked over, he was smiling. “A promotion, mon lapin. Congratulations, new Scout.”

“Do I gotta wear that stupid outfit he always wears?” Jeremy asked, entirely serious. His reply was a laugh and a pat on the shoulder before he disappeared in a puff of smoke. “Pops, I’m serious. Do I? Dad!?”

-

“—So that’s why I figured, y’know, might as well tell you guys,” Jeremy finished rambling, hands in his pockets, continuing down the hallway. “Because… I dunno. I could tell Miss P, but it’s nice having secret stuff, y’know?”

“You think this is how they actually got in?” Demo asked, looking dubious. “Little blind spot in the cameras?”

“Only a couple feet wide, you said?” Sniper grumbled.

“Sounds possible,” Heavy said hesitantly.

“I dunno. Maybe. But if I tell Miss P about it, they’re gonna fix it,” Jeremy shrugged, turning the corner and stopping. “There. I knew it.”

They stopped with him, following his line of sight. “You’re takin’ the piss, mate,” Sniper deadpanned. “You want to tell me he’d been climbing out a window like a teenager?”

Jeremy shrugged, moving to open the window in question. It swung open easily, just large enough to push through with only a little bit of a problem, barely needing to turn his shoulders. “He’s not much bigger than me, and what the hell else would he be doing here?” he pointed out.

“Heavy cannot fit through that window,” Heavy deadpanned.

“Yeah. Sorry, big guy,” Jeremy apologized, leaning back inside and closing it again. “But hey, mystery solved, right?”

“Well, if I ever need windows to climb out of, now I know just the lad for the job,” Demo said, nudging him. “Thanks, Guard. Or, er, Scout. Och, now that’s going to take getting used to, aye? Might just stick to calling you ‘laddie’, laddie.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he laughed, nudging him right back. And as much as they ribbed him for it, he did see a kind of appreciation there. Just like he’d figured, they seemed to take note of him taking their side and not just Miss Pauling’s.

Now he just needed to switch back over to the day shift.

[stuckwith-harry]

cried out to you alone

“It becomes a part of who you are”, Harry says, some sort of clarity coming to him. “Death, I mean. Grief. It doesn’t have to swallow you whole, but there is a little bit of it in every part of you.”

Impossible, is the only thing Harry can stand to think. That there is still sunlight in the world after everything.

Still, it pours out over the Burrow’s kitchen table in bright, luminous yellow, warming the veined wood. Harry and the Weasleys watch it creep over the tabletop, sitting elbow-to-elbow. Molly and Arthur are touching shoulders and brushing through hair as they pass around steaming mugs of tea, as they pour milk and stir in spoonfuls of sugar, the bags under their eyes swollen and purple like figs.

When Harry tries to open his mouth, to offer help, Molly quickly shakes her head at him; pleading. Like she wouldn’t know what else to do with herself.

So Harry stays, cramped between George and Ginny, and lets her place her palm on his back as she places his tea in front of him. Through the open window, a sweet-smelling breeze comes pouring in, the smell of warm soil and flowers and summer rapidly approaching, which seems impossible, too.

Tomorrow morning, they’re going to get out of bed and make breakfast. They’re going to feed the chicken in the yard, do the dishes and read the newspaper. Still, the sun is going to come up.

For a moment, he catches Ron’s gaze; Ron, whose face is oddly contorted and whose eyes are glassy and bright red. Harry can’t bear the sight of it: he stares at the old mug in his hands, examining the faded red dots, hand-painted. Anything that soothes.

Poppies, he realises. On the inside, near a chip at the rim, he can make out the small letters spelling out Ottery St. Catchpole, and below that, half-drowning in sweet tea: Flea Market, 1988.

A memory, then. One he wasn’t a part of, but one he can envision, anyway, the bright red summer day, the bustling and shuffling of the little village, the shrieking of children, strawberry ice cream rapidly melting and dripping on bare knees; a younger, happier Ron –

The scraping of a chair yanks him back, as Ginny abruptly gets to her feet and walks out without a word. No one tries to stop her, and the small, pathetic sound of her bedroom door closing from atop the stairs sounds down to them as though she slammed it.

After that, only silence. No pots stir in the kitchen sink, no footsteps thunder from several floors above, and no chatter, no yelling, no laughter holds the walls of the house together. No explosions sound from the twins’ room.

Death is an awfully quiet affair.

One by one, as the stripes on the tabletop grow long and orange, the Weasleys crawl into their hiding places. Harry knows he’s intruding, so he wanders outside, following the soft clucking of the chicken pecking away at the dirt behind their wooden fence, the only things alive and making a sound.

The solitude is a relief: he has never wished to flee the walls of the Burrow so desperately, only stayed long enough to change out of the black funeral robes and into an old Quidditch jumper. Then he pushed Ron’s bedroom door open far enough to slip out and disappear, and mercifully, Ron didn’t try to stop him, either.

The jumper is Ron’s, technically. It feels like being held, Gryffindor red and worn and entirely too large for Harry. Somehow that only makes him feel worse.

The Weasleys did not hesitate to take him home with them after the battle, because that was their way. They put up the old camp bed in Ron’s violently orange bedroom like they always had, and Ron silently handed him a pile of hand-me-downs so Harry would have something to wear other than the clothes that still reeked of the tent, of sweat and of blood.

Harry props his elbows up on the weathered fence and buries his face in the soft sleeves, breathing deeply. For a while, he simply listens as the hens, who do not know or care about anything, cluck away happily, as the urge to slip under the invisibility cloak, to disappear and never make a sound again, keeps on rushing over him.

“Hi.”

His heart jumps painfully into his throat at the quiet greeting and the sound of footsteps on dry grass that preceded it, and when he turns around to face it, he’s looking at Ginny. She’s changed out of her black dress robes, too, back into worn-out denim dungarees and a striped t-shirt. Scarlet and yellow. Her hair has come out of the braid from earlier and falls wildly to her collarbones again, no longer to her belly button, like it used to.

“I couldn’t stand the silence anymore”, she says, voice oddly throaty.

Harry wants to say, you don’t have to explain, but before he can, she pushes out: “And then I was in my room and it was just as fucking quiet, and I just – I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

She looks older, Harry thinks wildly. He hasn’t let himself look at her, not really, doesn’t even know why, just that he’s been avoiding her most of all. Ever since May 2nd, the quiet between them has stretched and stretched over miles and oceans and continents of wasteland. Harry knows it’s his fault, that he should say something, but he has no words, no words at all.

The first morning after the battle, when he came stumbling into the common room and found her there, they just held each other, and he had no words then, either. There was sunlight there, too, he remembers suddenly, poking through the shattered windows and lighting up every particle of dust floating around the empty room.

“Can we go somewhere else?”, she asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Anywhere else?”

Harry nods, mouth dry. For a moment, her eyes seem to linger on him, but then she turns away without another word, and he follows her lead without question or objection. They don’t speak again until they reach the old broomshed, and Ginny suddenly turns to look at him again, face unreadable.

“Any chance you wanna go for a fly?”

“Wh-What?”

She shrugs. “Do you?”

It’s a strange time capsule, the shed. Ginny pushes the wooden door open and sends flurries of dust into the air, catching sunlight; Harry, who is standing behind her, catches a glimpse of Arthur’s old Muggle trinkets and the old brooms lined up against the wall. Ron and Ginny’s are closest to the door; the twins’ brooms are up on a shelf opposite the square window.

For a moment, Ginny is perfectly still, and Harry knows she is looking at them, too. Then she reaches for her broom and silently pushes past him. Harry grabs Ron’s and closes the door of the shed behind him, and together they wander away from the Burrow, over the hills that surround it, where wild poppies are peeking through the unkempt grass and weeds.

Harry thinks he knows where she’s going: their makeshift Quidditch pitch hidden between gnarly old trees from summers long lost, where they used to chuck apples and tennis balls at each other, during all those afternoons spent playing Quidditch two against two.

Tall, sweet-smelling yarrow brushes along their bare shins as they walk, and pink clover, the soft heads bending back to the earth under the weight of bumblebees passing by, thick dandelion leaves spread all across the ground amidst the weeds; and everywhere poppies, peeking through the tall grass, the paper-thin petals fluttering in the breeze.

Tucked behind another hill, Harry remembers, a few minutes on foot further north, is the lake where they whiled away happier summer afternoons than this. The image comes to his mind in bright, sunny colours, Ginny’s wide, toothy grin as she sneaks up on Ron, the thundering splash and Hermione’s piercing shriek, and Ron, emerging, spluttering and yelling, his sopping hair plastered to his face.

But that was centuries ago, and their full-bellied laughter seems miles and countries away already. Here, only silence. Harry wants to ask, are you okay?, or say, it’s going to be alright, but what good would it do?

The poppies are early: they’re not supposed to bloom for another month. There’s no end to them, no matter how far they walk, a sea of red stretching out all over the soft hills. Harry can’t tear his eyes away until the first beech trees they used to climb, black pines and yews throw cool shadows over their heads.

Strange, that it looks the same. The leaves up above their heads rustle softly as they mount their brooms, and Ginny shoots into the air, a quiet cannon. For the better part of an hour, they zoom in circles through the rapidly cooling air, chucking an old Quaffle back and forth at each other. Ginny’s throws are hard and unrelenting: they’re not keeping score, but she’s playing like it’s the last game of the season, like the House Cup depends on it, so Harry lets her exhaust herself. By the time they sink back to the ground, the sky over the meadow is dotted in shades of pink and red.

Ginny hits the ground with such force her knees buckle under the impact and hit the dry grass. Harry gasps, but she is already getting up again, brushing off the dirt without comment.

They find a spot at the outer edge of the pitch and slump into the tall grass with their backs leaning against an oak tree, where they can see the sunset falling on the soft hills and the Burrow in the distance, bright red like poppies. Ginny’s hands are uselessly holding her ribs, her warm eyes staring off into nothing.

“Feel any better?”, Harry asks after a while.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She shifts next to him, tucking her scraped knees to her chest. They look like she’s spent all summer climbing trees and rolling down the grassy hills around the Burrow and crashing her broomstick into her brothers in a spectacular grab for the Quaffle.

“At least I feel a little less like I was buried with him”, she mutters.

I’m sorry, Harry wants to say, but that seems useless, too.

“I wanted to leave, too”, he says finally. “It was so quiet in there.”

“I hate it”, Ginny says softly. “It doesn’t feel anything like home when it’s like this.”

“I’m sorry”, he says despite himself, for what feels like the thousandth time since everything. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Ginny's brows furrow slightly, as if to say, yes, you should. “If you weren’t, I’d still be shut up in my room right now. Going mad, probably.”

After a short pause, she adds: “I wouldn’t know who to talk to.”

It strikes Harry like lightning: she was looking for him.

She looks over at him as though searching for something. Her brown eyes glow golden in the warm light, like honey, her whole face painted in reds and oranges and pinks.

“How do you do it?”, she asks finally, voice quiet, but steady, as the soft breeze continues to rush through the trees. “How do you lose everyone you’ve lost – and go on living? How do you live with the dead?”

Harry looks at her, the way she sits cross-legged and hunched over in the grass next to him, arms hugged to herself, and it sinks in, what she’s searching for, what she’s asking of him.

“It’s not the same”, he says softly.

She scoffs quietly. “How is that not the same?”

Harry looks around their hiding place. Maybe it’s the creaking of old branches around them, almost a murmur, the smell of the trees, that brings them back: his parents in the Forbidden Forest, walking towards him, Sirius’ bright grin, Dumbledore at King’s Cross Station.

The thought of them cuts through him, every beat of his heart sharp and stinging as they remain dead and he does not.

“Your speech”, he says finally, and watches her jaw clench. “I couldn’t have said anything like that about my parents – or Sirius …”

“I can’t believe I wrote him a fucking eulogy”, Ginny mutters, staring at the weeds to her feet, the patches of moss creeping across the earth under the wild, entangled grass. “It makes it feel so fucking final.”

“You did really well”, Harry says. “It was beautiful.”

She merely shrugs, and he doesn’t blame her.

“I’m glad I got to say something, I think”, she says after another stretch of silence. “But, Merlin, he was walking and talking and making jokes just a week ago, and now he’s six feet underground and I’ve written a double-sided page on how sorely he’ll be missed.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve.

“Up until today, I really thought he might jump up and laugh it off and make fun of us for falling for it.”

You made it feel like that today, he wants to say, but doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry, Ginny.”

She read it out with a completely steady voice, both fists clutching the slip of paper in her hand. She did not bother to find a silver lining this time, or to look for meaning at all; but every word seemed to bring Fred back to life a little, even earning a few teary chuckles from the other Weasleys. Every anecdote and every prank she recounted was a testament to the fact that Fred Weasley had been alive, that he had mattered, that he had left an impact on her, on all of them.

“You know my Mum had brothers”, Ginny says suddenly, looking over at Harry’s hands. “Fabian and Gideon Prewett.”

She points, and Harry realises what she’s really looking at: Fabian Prewett’s battered old watch on his arm.

“They died in the first war. Bill, Charlie and Percy say they remember them a little, but the rest of us just grew up hearing stories.”

She picks at the shallow wound on her knee, where droplets of bright red blood have pushed to the surface through the cracks in her freckled skin. “It’s why Fred and George are named after them. A little bit, anyway – you know, Fred and George … Fabian and Gideon … Mum was pregnant when they died.”

Harry swallows. “I didn’t know.”

Ginny smiles sadly. “I liked the idea that they got to live on in the twins a little. I never thought to ask Fred and George how they felt about it, actually. I can’t imagine … how Mum feels.”

Harry watches her wrap her arms around her legs, watches the strawberry blond hairs on her shins stand on end as the air cools around them. She looks tired, but her eyes are dry.

“I never made that connection”, he says softly.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you”, she says. “It seemed important.”

Even over the rustling of the trees, the chirping and creaking all around them, he can hear her clearly, her voice steady, unwavering.

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes.”

She looks around at him. “Do you not miss your parents?”

“I don’t know how”, Harry mutters. “Your speech … it was full of memories.”

She doesn’t respond, understanding silently. Then: “What about Sirius?”

Harry shrugs. “He never really got to be my godfather, did he? Not the way he was supposed to, anyway … there wasn’t time. And I don’t remember when my parents were alive – I’ve never known anything else.”

He looks at her, the way she’s quietly watching. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you were hoping to hear.”

Ginny dismisses it with a half-hearted gesture, lost in thoughts somewhere else.

“Do you think grieving someone is the same thing as missing them, then?”

“No … do you?”

She seems to consider it for a moment, then shakes her head.

“I just – I just want to talk to him and tell him what’s going on, and I think about how long it’s been since I’ve talked to him and how much I wish he were here and how I’m not gonna get to talk to him –”

She pauses mid-sentence, as though looking for words, and doesn’t find any.

“And then I think about the fact that he’s dead. That his life is over. And that I helped bury him today. And they’re both – awful, but it’s different, I guess.”

Harry nods, more to himself than to Ginny this time.

“And now, I just – I need to know what to do. So it doesn’t swallow me whole.”

Harry is still watching them walk towards him before his inner eye, his parents in the Forbidden Forest, his mother’s hungry face.

“I forget, sometimes”, he says. “For a moment, I think I forget they’re gone. Or I’m – I don’t know, distracted, and I’m not thinking about it – it slips away, and then it hits me again.”

Ginny’s teeth dig into her bottom lip. “I … honestly can’t fathom it right now.”

Harry looks over at her, the way she sits next to him, curled into herself, her hands still uselessly holding her ribs. Like it is physically hurting her.

“I dunno. Maybe forgetting is the wrong word. But when it happens, it always feels like it’s happening to someone else, like I am someone else.”

Ginny watches him intently as he stumbles to the end of his sentence: it feels pathetic already, having said it out loud like that.

“Like you are who you would’ve been if they hadn’t died?”, she asks, in that quietly remarkable way of hers, where she doesn’t treat him like something delicate, but she doesn’t ask for more than he can give, either.

“Yeah, I reckon. But I don’t recognise him at all.”

Ginny hums in understanding. She leans back against the bark of the tree and pulls her knees to herself again. “You would’ve been happier, anyway.”

Harry turns away at that, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.

“I know it doesn’t make sense or anything –”

“No, it does, Harry.”

“I mean, I know they couldn’t have lived. Everything would have to be different. We probably wouldn’t be here.”

Ginny sits in silence for a while.

“Do you ever wonder?”, she asks finally. “What you would’ve been like?”

“I guess … more like them. In ways I can recognise, anyway.”

He gestures helplessly at nothing, and Ginny takes that as a sign to push no further.

“I don’t recognise Ginny a week ago, either”, he hears her say, and the muffled sound of her voice tells him she’s wiping her nose on her sleeve again. “Every time something terrible happened, I guess I didn’t. It’s like remembering an old friend. One whose address you lost or something.”

“It becomes a part of who you are”, Harry says, some sort of clarity coming to him. “Death, I mean. Grief. It doesn’t have to swallow you whole, but there is a little bit of it in every part of you.”

“Cheery”, Ginny says in a hollow voice.

“It gets less all-consuming”, he says softly.

“Good”, she mutters. “Right now it’s pretty fucking all-consuming. It’s there when I wake up in the morning, and it’s – in my tea, and on all my clothes, and it’s in everyone I talk to and everything I say.”

Harry stares at the sky overhead, the red rapidly paling. Still, there is that whispering in the treetops, the feeling of being transported back into the Forbidden Forest. Still, his parents, reaching out for him.

“I’m sorry”, he says truthfully. “That’s all I’ve got.”

Ginny shakes her head. “It’s all I needed.”

He watches her tug at a poppy near her feet, struck by how long he’s managed to stay away from her, when her company is so comforting. The resolution comes to him all on its own, that he’s going to tell her everything. The Forbidden Forest. King’s Cross Station.

“Do you want to head back yet?”

Ginny looks at him, and she seems calmer somehow. For the first time since they got here, she doesn’t seem to be searching for anything – just looking.

“In a little while”, she says.

Harry looks back at her, really looks at her, and for a long time, neither of them speak, having arrived at some quiet understanding. Still, there’s a murmur in the trees around them, but they pay it no mind, and they don’t turn to look.

[jadedxrealityw]

-Rush- Draco Malfoy x Female Reader

♡~🐍~♡

  Summary: After a failed relationship you and Draco lost contact only to be reconnected when you take a job at the Ministry Of Magic. Emotions begin to resurface as you both realize that even after all the time that has passed you still both are deeply in love with each other

  Kody: The song this image is based off of. Lewis Capaldi - Rush ft. Jessie Reyez. I also changed the backstory for a couple of characters, mostly about what happened after the wizarding war.  

  Year: out of school

  House: Gryffindor (out of school)

  Possible Triggers/Warnings: fat angst, cursing, lowkey toxic Draco

  ♡~🐍~♡

   high school sweethearts, that was what you were. What you used to be.

   it was a normal day when Draco said he wanted to end things, going on a whole rant about how you weren’t safe with him and you deserved so much more than what a death eater could bring you. Despite all of your reassurances that you would take the risk his mind was made up.

   his parents were pressuring him to give you up. His father repeating that no son of his would date some Gryffindor half blood, but you were much more than that to him. You shared his passions and interests, listened to him when he needed a ear to talk off about Alchemy or offered your shoulder to cry on.

   it was the one thing he stood his ground for. You. One night while he was quietly, but with haste packing clothes into a small trunk because he was planning on apparating to your house and run away with you his aunt Bellatrix had caught him in the act.

   she, in a very threatening tone told her nephew that the dark lord knew of his little Gryffindor girlfriend and if he wanted to see you unharmed he would be a good boy and listen to orders when he’s given them. His whole world came crashing down. He could take the chance and run with you anyway. He really wanted to.

   but then you would never live a comfortable life. Being on the run constantly was not what he planned when he gave you a silver ring when you were both 15 with a promise he would replace it with a wedding band in the future. Now he would never get to see you walk down the aisle. 

   so he distanced himself from you as much as he could until the breakup, so it wouldn’t hurt as much. It still did.

    ‘The space between where our ends meet, Has grown too much for me to block it out’

   you left his dorm that day in tears. His body almost leaped forward to chase after you, but his mind knew better. If losing you meant he could protect you from the dangers his life brought as a Malfoy, then by all means. He had to let you go. Doesn’t mean it was easy.

   he never really saw you again after that. He chalked it up to his mind blocking you out if you ever were in his line of sight, like some sort of defense his brain put up to avoid any more hurt. Once the ‘final battle’ came around he decided that he wouldn’t let his father control his life anymore.

   he aided the golden trio by tossing his wand to Harry once he fell out of Hagrid’s arms and with that it was over instantly. His mother and him were charged for war crimes, but Hermione and Harry ended up speaking on their behalves and all charges were dropped.

   his father was sent to Azkaban for the rest of his days and for once Draco felt at peace with his father being so far away, no longer having the ability to control him. Harry almost immediately got a job at the ‘Ministry Of Magic’ as well as Hermione. 

   after a few months Harry had talked Draco up enough to his superiors to get him a position in the  ‘Department of Magical Law Enforcement’ as a Auror. He felt strange working with Harry Potter after all the years of bullying, but they got along really well when they cooperated.

    ♡~🐍~♡

   1 year later

   “Hey, can we talk to you for a bit?” Draco looks up from his papers that lied on his desk. Hermione Granger and Harry Potter stood at the entrance of his office, looking visibly uncomfortable. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.

   he set the pen down on the desk before gesturing to the seats in front of said desk. Hermione put on a sweet smile as she took a seat, Harry following. “So i’m sure you heard our department is hiring another Auror since were shoftstafed” Draco nods slowly. He actually heard about it yesterday before he left.

   “Yeah so, we overheard a conversation this morning about who it was and we wanted o tell you in advance” Harry explained. Draco’s brow went up in slight confusion. Warn him? What in hell did that mean? “Warn me” he repeated and Hermione nods.

   a sympathetic smile played on her soft complexion. “It’s Y/n. Y/n L/n” Draco’s body tensed up instantly. Of course the universe would punish him like this. Waving the love of his life in his face after he broke her heart. How spiteful. “Oh” he simply said, before leaning back into his chair. 

   all business professionalism drained from his body in an instant “Fuck” he cursed under his breath “You still care about her, don’t you?” Hermione questioned. He just nodded before letting out a deep sigh and standing up from his chair “I’m quitting”

   both ex Gryffindors shot up from there seats “You can’t quit Draco, that’s a highly irrational reaction!” Hermione sputters as he collects his coat from the back of his black swivel chair. “You wouldn’t understand, Granger” he slipped his arms through both sleeves.

    “Draco!-” Harry started, but didn’t get another word in as Draco opened his office door. As soon as the door swung open he felt a head collide with his chest. He could practically hear their heartbeat race in embarrassment “Oh Merlin, i apologize!” the voice. That voice laughed nervously. 

   ‘I miss the tone of your heartbeat. It's such a warming and familiar sound’

   the person backed away and he felt as if he could collapse right then and there. “Draco?” you said. ‘No, please don’t say my name’ he thought. A smile grew on your face “What a funny coincidence. seeing you here. How’ve you been?”

   his eyes mapped your body, not in a sexual way. Just noting the small changes that occured over a year and a half. You kept your hair the same length, as well as your taste in clothing. Your face was a bit more matured, but still held it’s natural beauty.

   the way you spoke to him made his heart twinge. It was so friendly. Of course it was friendly, but he still hated it. “I’ve been quite alright. You?” he questions. “I’m great, couldn’t be better really.” you shrug your shoulders. His heart tugged violently.

   better. Couldn’t be better. In his mind when the word better came up he imagined being married to you already and living a comfortable, wealthy life. But no, he was here. He forced a half smile on his face “That’s good to hear. Now i must get going. I hope you're finding the power. To help you make it through the darker days”

   he walked past her and as soon as he was out of sight, sped walked to the nearest bathrooms. He locked the door before leaning against it. He slowly slid down until he sat down on the tile floor. It was gross, but he didn’t care at the moment.

   how was he going to work here with you around. It felt as if the air was being violently sucked from his lungs. Was this what Granger called a panic attack? or was his body finally giving up on him. He would be perfectly fine with whatever option at this stage.

   as he stared up at the ceiling, a bitter laugh left his throat “For now, I wait by the hour. If you wanna take somebody's breath away”

    ♡~🐍~♡

   It had been two weeks and Draco felt as if he was going to implode. You were so happy and cheerful and- and- joyful. he just couldn’t understand how you weren’t as broken up as he was or maybe he wanted someone to share his pain. How pathetic was that?

   now here he was. At some boring gala the Ministry was holding. Something about celebrating a new generation or along those lines. Draco couldn’t be bothered to care about details. He took another sip of wine from his glass hoping to get buzzed enough to fly through this boring affair.

   he looks up to see multiple pairs of eyes on him. Wait- not him. Behind him. He slowly turns around as it met with the most breathtaking sight he could ever see. You strolled through the entrance wearing a no strap long lace dress. He swore his heart skipped a couple beats.

   you looked like a princess ready to be whisked away, but you weren’t his to whisk anymore were you? Draco’s jaw locked in place before he looked back down at the wine in his hand. He places it down on a nearby table. “Merlin, you look absolutely stunning Ms. L/n!”

   Granger. “Are you alright?” a male voice asked. Potter. If Weasley showed up, he was going to have an aneurysm on the spot. Draco simply exhaled deeply “I suppose so. I don’t think my mind is processing the fact the she isn’t mine anymore though. So there’s that”

   Harry looked at Draco, studying his facial expressions. It was strange to see him so emotional “If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you two together?” he was treading on thin ice, he knew that. “Long enough for it to hurt this bad”

    ♡~🐍~♡

   and with that. Draco walked away from the chosen one and spent a good twenty minutes talking to random superiors and wealthy couples. It was only when he came from the bathroom he heard your voice for the first time that night.

   “Oh thank you!” you spoke in a enthusiastic voice. Draco stopped mid step and leaned against the wall. Now he was eavesdropping? How pathetic of him. “So Y/n, we heard you used to date Draco Malfoy. Is that true?” a unfamiliar voice asked.

   he inhaled sharply. “Um yes, yes i did” you spoke. You sounded uncomfortable with that question. How dare they pry on your love life? They had no right “So what was he like? Did he cheat on you? Was he a bad boyfriend? I bet he was” his fist clenched at his side.

   Draco wasn’t the nicest person. He knew that, but he showed you as much love and affection his body could produce. He loved you! Hell, he still loved you. You seem to sputter “Uh-” he couldn’t listen to this. He walked out of the small hallway, surprising you and the unfamiliar coworker.

   he needed some fresh air. Now. He pushes through a couple of people with a cold stare. He walks down a couple steps of stairs and hes out the front doors. The cold crisp air hits his face and he felt as if he could breathe again. He reaches up and slicks his platinum hair back.

   a repeated clicking noise could be heard behind him, getting closer. Shoes. No. Heels actually. “Draco” you spoke. He turns around quickly and watches as you step off the concrete and into the grass, holding your dress up from the ground.

   why did he feel so angry? Could it be because you didn’t deny his claims? or something else? “Go away L/n” he spoke harshly. He could see your face turn to one of confusion before a stern look took over “No, your clearly upset so i’m not leaving” 

   still so stubborn. “Are you upset because they asked me about us? If you don’t want anyone to know i promise i won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation” you said, which only angered him more. How could you be so stupid? 

   “I don’t give a damn if anyone knows about us! You didn’t deny it Y/n! They said such horrible things about me and you just stood there like they were right! Are you fucking serious?! I loved you with everything i had and you act like as if i was the monster!” Draco’s voice boomed, you look positively frightened.

   until you didn’t Then you looked angry “You broke up with me you stupid git! You left me alone and scared while the whole war was going on! So yeah Draco i’m fucking bitter! Screw you! What happened, you were so accepting of me when we first saw each other. You hoped i was well!”

   you were right, he knew that, but he wasn’t done yelling. All of this thought were just rolling off of him in the worst way. You looked disappointed in him. It reminded him of the last time he spoke to you at Hogwarts, but with less crying and more anger.

   “I hoped?! You want to know what i hope!?  I hope you're lonely, hope you're lost 'cause I've been. I'd hate to think you're better off without me  I know we tried to hold on. But where do you go. When love, it just ain't enough?” he spoke, anger leaving him and being replaced with dread and sorrow.

   but he wasn’t done. “Now does it kill you when you think about me? Were you as close to giving up as I've been? I know we kept losing touch. Got lost in the rush...” he sighed deeply, trailing off at the end of his sentence. All his worst thoughts had spilled out of him like a tidal wave.

   you looked shocked and hurt? Maybe he was reading your expression wrong. He couldn’t bare to look at your face. Gulping, he adjusted his tie and turned away to walk off in shame “I pray you don't hurt too much” he chose as his parting words.

   “I don't come close to an angel”

   he stopped. A shuffling sound of fabric heard as you made your way in front of him, jabbing a finger at his chest “You ain't never been no kind of saint” you narrowed your E/c eyes at him. He looked down at you in shame. You removed your finger and stepped back once.

   a bitter laugh forced its way out of you. “But when we both came together. Hell to heaven, you were my escape. But fires don't burn forever and all these ashes crumble when we touch. We danced to death in the fire. What can we do now that the music's done, my love?” 

   his grey eyes went wide. My love? A small feeling of hope bloomed within his chest. You did still care about him. He was your only love and would always be, but you had both been forced apart. Draco was foolish for thinking you had ever lost feelings for the Malfoy.

   now to give him a taste of his own medicine. “I hope you're lonely, hope you're lost 'cause I've been. I'd hate to think you're better off without me. I know we tried to hold on. But where do you go, When love, it just ain't enough? Now, does it kill you when you think about me?”

   you threw your hands up in the air. He could spot tears in your eyes, making him start to choke up as well. That was always his weakness, you crying. “Were you as close to giving up as I've been? I know we kept losing touch. Got lost in the rush. I pray you don't hurt too much” you look down.

   ‘Well, we had it all and we let it fall, But I hope you find whatever you were looking for’

   Draco stepped into you and reaches down to grab your hand “Y/n. During the war i packed a bag in the middle of the night. I was ready to leave my family and run away with you. I wanted nothing more then to pend the rest of my life with you” his thumb caressed the skin of your hand.

   you look up from your heels and met his gaze with teary eyes “Why didn’t you?” you spoke. He smiled sadly, using his other hand to cup your cheek. “My aunt. Bellatrix caught me. The dark lord had found out about you somehow and if i wanted to keep you safe i had to let you go.”

   “The day i broke up with you haunts me in my nightmares. I wanted so badly to reach out and grab you, but love- Y/n you weren’t safe with me.” tears finally escaped his eyes, running down his pale face. You used your hand to hit his chest “I told you i didn’t care Draco”

   he nods, sniffling “I know darling, i should have stuck by your side no matter what, but even the thought of any harm coming to you was to much for me to bare” he let go of your hand. Now he was cradling your face. “I feel as though i am too late” 

   you reach into the top part of your dress and pull out the hidden part of a silver necklace you wore. The silver ring he gave you was at the end of the chain. He felt his heart explode. “You kept it? after all this time. Why?” he asked. You roll your eyes “because i still love you, you foolish boy!”

   Draco was at a loss of words. Unable to speak, he grabbed your face and your lips collided with his in a passionate kiss. It was very sloppy, but showed how much you both missed each other. It made up the amount of time that had passed since you felt each other.

   your the first to pull away from the heated exchange “You better not leave me again Draco” you spoke in a stern tone which made him smile “I wouldn’t dream of it my love. Now, let’s get out of here. There is so much more i want to do with you” his tone became playful as a smirk played on his face.

   your face flushes slightly, but you nod slowly. He holds onto you as you both apparate away to merlin knows where. High school sweethearts, that was what you were. What you used to be. What you got to be again.

    ♡~🐍~♡

   Kody: i- i cried writing this. What a pussy am i right. By the way my inbox is like being a wack ass hoe and not telling me when i get messages so like sorry if you’ve requested something and it hasn’t been posted. (I was also in a depressed state for a bit but whatevs) Anyways, peace!

[cozycryptidcorner]

The Mad Prince, Chapter 13 (slightly nsfw)

tw: alcohol/drinking, drunken consensual groping.

“What are you doing?” Clementine asks, almost amused.

You’re busy rummaging around all available cabinets in the kitchen, several of them open, plates, glasses, and other kitchenette stuff laid out on the counter. While you’re pretty sure there’s a far better kitchen below your feet, this one appears mostly for aesthetic and midnight snack reasons. You, though, have a very intentional way of searching, fingers nimble as you run your hands over the inner panels, just one.

“I’m bored,” is all you say, as if that’s the only explanation she needs. Unsatisfied with what you’ve found so far, you begin to put everything back, sealing the cabinets firmly on the latch. Jumping down from the upper counter, you continue on your quest on the lower compartments.

Once you resume your rummaging, it doesn’t take you too much longer to find a strangely shaped bottle, glass long and ornately spun around a strange purple liquid. All you have to do is unlock the seal at the top, and the scent of the thin, violet liquid makes your eyes water. You haven’t had a single thing to drink with any kind of percentage since the Starward Matchmakers™ took you into their loving flock, and to say you’ve been itching for a goddamn shot would be an understatement.

“Holy shit,” you half gasp, half wince. Whatever is in the bottle smells like paint stripper, your body is already trying to cough back up the liquor you haven’t even had a chance to drink.

“What are you going to do with that?” The shell slips as a touch of her real personality peeks through, her face scowling before she catches herself.

“Drink it, duh,” you can’t read the label, the large, swooping lettering elegant and filled with opulent promise.

“Is that a good idea?” Clementine prods further, arms on her hips.

“Oh please,” you glance over your shoulder just to make sure no one else is eavesdropping on the conversation, “if I couldn’t keep my mouth shut while drunk, I’d never have a job. Besides, I have a super fun idea.”

“Super fun,” Clem echoes, eyebrows arching.

“Come on, bestie, let’s go find two other players.”

It doesn’t take a lot of time to locate the prince, in his own makeshift office he’s turned one of the rooms into. The desk has a holographic screen hovering just slightly over the slab of dark metal.

He looks at the crystalline bottle in your hand, then back up at you. “Yes?”

“I thought we could have a fun game night.” You say, gently swirling the bottle around and offering it up like a vicious cat bringing its master a dead thing as a gift. “Involving liquor, of course.”

His eyes widen as his brow arches, a quizzical gesture, you’ve come to learn, and you feel his gaze flicker over your shoulder and land on Clementine, who is probably doing her best to appear like she thinks that this idea is the motherfucking best. Then he looks back at you. “And what games are you thinking?”

“Well…” you try to wrack your brain, “I was thinking poker, but I’d be fine with blackjack, diamonds five, lemon lemon…. Or like, old maid. Monopoly, even, if you like.”

The prince blinks. “Most of those are forms of gambling.”

You feel Clementine’s aggressive aura on your back, but you offer up a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose so, but like… we don’t have to play for money or anything. Winner or loser, doesn’t matter.”

There’s a beat of silence, you can see the synapses firing within his brain as he thinks over the suggestion. Then, calmly, he suggests, “I suppose that there are things we can gamble other than money.”

“I like your style!” You shake the bottle, “I was thinking about inebriation.”

”Babe,” Clem says, her voice slightly grated, “fun idea… but no.”

Oh, now it seems like the prince is very much interested, but only on account of Clem’s quick attempt to shut it down. “What do you mean?”

You’re quick to talk over Clem’s continuing protests, “instead of gambling money, the loser of the round takes a shot. Uhhh, but since your body’s like three times bigger, you get to take two.”

“Oh, I get to take two?” He asks, cocking his head with a slightly amused look. And he’s not immediately refusing, either, you knew he wouldn’t, but you supposed he wouldn’t actually consider it so seriously. “Is this something humans do?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding, “for fun.”

“And you would like to play it with me?”

You nod again.

He mulls it over, looking back at a now-silent Clem, and says, “and will you be playing.”

“I suppose,” she says, pursing her lips.

“We were also hoping that Elias would play as well,” you say, almost slyly, “to make it an even four.”

“I will let him know.” He says, completely serious, as though he’s talking about affairs of the state, and not about getting drunk while gambling.

“Okay,” you say, bouncing on the edge of your toes in excitement.

“Okay,” he echoes, as though tasting the word on his tongue.

“See you later, then,” you take a step back, trying really hard not to smile.

“Oh my god,” Clementine mutters as you turn around, quietly enough for only you to hear. “You two are ridiculous.”

“I hear most couples are,” you whisper conspiratorially back at her as the door to the office closes.

“And here’s to thinking you were at your wit’s end just a day ago,” she says, and you can feel the motion of her eyes rolling even though you’re not looking at her. “I can already see you making out with him in your head.”

“Okay but also consider: inebriation makes for honest conversations,” you say, running your fingers along your scalp, “and I plan on having a very calm and collected conversation about things like how many people he thinks are planning to kill me, while you, my dearest and most precious friend in the entire universe, are going to be keeping Elias distracted with your fantastic tits.”

She chokes, scrabbling for words, voice cutting in and out as though her brain is fried. “He does not think my-”

“You may be trained to clock someone’s fighting style twenty klicks away by the way they shake their ass, but I,” you turn around and walk backwards to drink in her glaring face, grinning, “have been teaching myself to recognize carnal lust on sight.”

“Princess,” she says, her voice full of warning, “you’re on thin fucking ice right now.”

“See you later!” You sing, escaping into your room before she sees fit to smack you into the next century.

---------------------------------------------_

“Okay,” you say, shuffling the cards between your fingers, “rules are simple.”

To your right side, the prince, and to the left, Clementine, with Elias sitting across the table. The bottle of liquor is in the center of the table, four shot glasses in front of each person as a grim reminder that you’ll have to drink the moment you lose your hand.

“So the loser of each hand has to drink the shots placed in the betting pool,” you say, cheerfully, “except for Aksanos, who has to take an extra two because his blood alcohol level is more difficult to raise since he’s bigger than my first studio apartment.”

Their first mistake: letting you deal.

“We bet with alcohol shots based on how confident you are with how good your hand is.” You begin to deal out cards, mentally counting to five for each stack. “High card is when you have no matches, two of a kind is when you have two of the same numbers, three of a kind is the same but with three-” etcetera, etcetera. The winner isn’t the important hand, here, it’s the loser. “Folding in this context means that you take the shots you threw into the pot. Any questions?”

“I don’t understand why I have to be here,” Elias says, holding his cards like this is a game of Go Fish.

“I mean any questions in regards to the game rules?” You skip over him, just for the sake of being annoying.

“What does the winner get?” Clementine asks, lounging with one arm swung over the back of her chair. “I think the person who wins first the most should get something.”

“You mean besides an intact liver?” You ask, taking a peek at your cards. Nice, unless everyone has a really fortunate hand, you should be alright this first round. “I don’t know, I’m not exactly in a position to hand anything out.”

All eyes turn to the person with the fattest wallet, and, to his credit, the prince actually looks like he’s pondering the question. “A favor,” he seems to conclude.

“From you?” Clementine asks, sounding suddenly like she’s ready to put her competitive hat on.

“Yes.”

“And what if you’re the winner?” She asks, prodding.

“I suppose that my prize will be peace of mind.” He says, looking at his cards. “Since I won’t have to offer up my services otherwise.”

“Awesome,” you say, reaching over and pouring the potent liquor in every single one of your shot glasses, sliding one into the center of the table. “Let’s begin.”

When you first pitched the game, you thought your only real competition would be Clementine. After all, you’ve seen soldiers like her lay waste to the poker tables before, especially since ceasefires make for bored tacticians with little outlets for their strategies. As predicted, Elias continuously seems to either fold or lose, he doesn’t seem to have much of a grasp for the game in general, nor does he even care to try. The prince, however?

He starts out slowly, cautiously. Like he’s testing his boundaries. He folds once or twice, watching you closely as he throws back his shots of purple liquor. After you’ve leapt into a significant lead, the thrum of hot alcohol from your folds burning through your blood, he seems to take a sharp turn and starts winning, as in, beating you as time eats into the night.

As you shuffle the card stack once almost every hand possible could have played, you observe him closely. He’s staring at your hands, intently, watching the way your thumb flicks one half into the other, head shifting slightly as you twist your wrist to part the deck once more. Almost in an accusation, you don’t look down at your hands as you shuffle, knowing this movement by heart, and then begin tossing everyone their cards.

Elias doesn’t even look at his hand as he folds, face and ears a mottled blue as he nurses a glass of water. Clementine is ‘resting her eyes’ for ‘just a minute,’ head slumped over on the table, her bra hanging from the side of the chair (when did she even take that off?).

The prince has already learned to only look at his cards once, hand over the backs, then gauges you for any sort of reaction as he pushes his filled shot glasses in. Luckily, though, the more you drink, the less your face works, so all you offer up is a resting bitch face that would kill any human man, matching him without hesitation.

You lay your cards out, revealing a four of a kind.

He lays his out, revealing the same hand… but with straight aces.

Four shots. You have to take in four shots.

“Careful,” he says, as though he has no cares in the universe, “I hear alcohol poisoning is a terrible way to go.”

You drink the first, wiping your mouth with your sleeve and refusing to give him the satisfaction of wincing from the burn of the liquor. “I’ve had worse.”

The second shot is harder to drink without making a face, you think your nose twitches despite your attempts not to move.

Your body is sending warning signals to your head as your fingers wrap around the third shot glass, not exactly nauseous yet, but with the knowledge that you definitely will be if you finish what you started.

“I fold,” the prince says just before the liquor hits your lips.

“What?” It takes you a moment to process what he just said.

“I fold,” he repeats, pushing his winning hand to the center and grabbing the remaining shot glass.

“You can’t fold after you’ve played the round,” you say, though your body screams in relief at not having to finish the shots.

“I don’t remember that being in the rules,” he says, “besides, it’s not going to be fun if you’re passed out on the table like your friend here.”

“-’m wrake,” Clementine mumbles, her words so slurred you can barely recognize their meaning.

You wait for a beat, then put the glass down and push it in his direction. “Fine. Here, don’t forget the extra.”

“I would not dare,” he says, amusement in his tone. True to his word, he pours another shot, drinking all three in quick succession.

For a while, you didn’t think he was getting drunk, blaming his more spidery bits for his supposed immunity to alcohol, but the more you stare, the more you notice unusual symptoms in his body. Like the flushed skin around his eyes and nose. Or the way his shoulders slant as he sits. How he’s started to rest his chin on his hand.

Slowly, you begin to shuffle the cards, keeping an eye on how he seems to be watching you with more intensity than before, and you realize something. Oh, oh, for fuck’s sake, you should have noticed it before, but now that he’s drunk, he’s not hiding it so much.

“You’re counting cards,” you accuse.

“And you’re playing with a marked deck,” he responds just as snidely.

You hesitate for just a moment because you hadn’t expected to actually get caught, and then you realize; oh. OH. That’s how he started making a heavy-hitting comeback, he figured out the almost nonsensical pattern on the back of the cards is actually a code.

Fuck.

And then you think further, hands folded like you’re praying. Yes, your mind is clouded with drink, but you’re still capable of weighing the pros and cons of an extremely critical concept. It’s not about the how he figured it out, you decide, but the fact that he quickly adapted, continued playing, and even started winning… without saying anything. He could have demanded a new deck in the face of fairness, but he didn’t.

That’s so…

So…

“Hot,” you say out loud.

“What?” He sounds confused.

“I mean,” you lean back in your chair, clarifying, “if you’re going to continue being so smart and attractive, I’m going to have to have sex with you.”

Elias coughs into his glass, bless him, you forgot he was even there, with his eyes bugging out of his skull. ”Keias,” he almost sounds like he’s begging, “please excuse me for the night, I’m afraid in order to best serve you, I will need to rest and recover.”

“You are dismissed,” the prince says, face a shade of blue you didn’t think he was capable of having.

And oh boy, does Elias leave like the entire goddamn room is on fire, though with the efficiency of an incredibly drunk individual. Even though his first few steps are wobbly, he still manages to flee the thick sexual tension your aura is probably emanating through the air, shooting out the door and disappearing into the ship.

Mercilessly, as soon as the door shuts, you turn back to the large drider at the receiving end of your arousal. To his credit, he seems to be so unused to blatant invitations to use someone’s body like a goddamn carousel that he’s at a loss for words. On the other hand, you have a variety of positions you would like to try out if what the anatomy charts they showed you back at the Starward Matchmakers™ are accurate.

But first… you need to take some measures to dull the oncoming hangover.

“Let’s raid the kitchen,” you say, knowing the sudden change of pace will give him whiplash.

“I’ll call someone to carry her to bed,” the prince says, gesturing to Clem’s body, “someone who isn’t inebriated.”

“Excellent idea,” you say, knowing full well you would drop her halfway through the hallway and somehow end up breaking both your noses in progress.

A servant is ridiculously quick to retrieve her, as though they had been lying in wait just outside the door at the prince’s beck and call, but you find yourself not caring about that creepiness factor in the face of food.

“Shall I call the chef?” He asks as you push through the doors leading into the kitchen.

“Nah,” you say, “they’ll need all the sleep they can get for the breakfast we will collectively want tomorrow. I can cook, I’m not an animal.”

Already, your vision blurs as the last two shots fully hit your system. Even with the glass of water you absolutely chug like a dehydrated lava scrapper, you know it’s going to be a hot minute before you start seeing straight again if you don’t start shoving carbs down your throat. So, quick as you can, you start rifling through the many different cabinets and the three (?!) refrigerators to locate something that your drunk stomach positively craves.

“Normally,” you say, “during my nights out, I go to one of those hover-stands that park out by the clubs and stuff specifically for the drunk hungry people leaving. I don’t know how to describe just how good Abuelita’s Tacos are when it’s three am, and you’re stumbling out of the club, exhausted.”

“And is that something you often do?” He asks, voice slightly slurred.

“It’s a good way to meet people,” you climb up one of the counters, rifling through bags of food with labels you can’t read. “Especially if you’re freelance. You never know who needs to transport cargo if you don’t start asking around.”

“Mmm,” he muses, “and do many pilots tend to frequent bars for customers?”

“Only the ones that aren’t in a guild or privately hired,” you say, hopping down from one counter and heading for the other.

“And you’re not?” He’s wheedling you for information, but you’re comfortable with offering up more than usual.

“Do I strike you as someone who likes being told what to do?” You ask instead of answering. “Oh, my god, the guilds have so many rules. Cut your hair like this, wear these clothes, go to those places, don’t do drugs. Gets old fast when someone is in charge of how you live your life.”

“Hm, we will have to agree on that.” The way his hands are cradling his head is… cute, you think. “Unfortunately, sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah I’ve heard that your mom’s a mega-bitch,” you say, surprised that you’ve never outwardly spoken against the queen before.

For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far, but then he laughs. He laughs. And it’s a beautiful laugh, you think, head empty but for the warmth of the sound. Sweet. Gentle. Nothing like the stories of a cruel, maniacal shriek, you have to stand there, speechless, committing that fucking delightful voice to memory.

“What?” He asks when he notices you’re uncharacteristically still.

“You’re cute,” you say, resuming your hunt. Aha, bread! Finally! Your stomach gurgles with joy, and your liver sighs with relief.

“Oh,” you can hear a bashful tone tangled with his words. “Thank you. It’s not every day I am observed to be so.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll just tell you every day from now on.” You find a knife and a slab of plastic you assume is a cutting board, and unwrap the bread from the clear wrapping plastic. Everything in your body screams for protein, so you begin to rummage through the fridge for anything that smells vaguely like it will satiate the craving.

Once you bring a pile of stuff to the counter, the prince says, almost like he’s taking a gamble, “you’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

You start cutting slices of bread. “You mean today? Or just in general.”

“You were such a meek little thing when we first met,” he says, almost dreamily, “I was afraid you would be so easily crushed by my enemies, and so I tried to protect you like a little, delicate flower.” He holds his hands out, as though simulating how he might hold the aforementioned plant.

“But?” You prod, adding a slab of… meat? Maybe. Cheese? Also maybe. It’s a gauntlet of stuff you’re adding to your strange sandwich.

“But, I now see that you’re a manipulative, lying cheat.” Even though those words should make your heart sink, he says them with such fondness you don’t feel an ounce of rejection. “It takes a very smart person to outdo my careful planning, and you’ve done so many times.”

You lick your thumb clean of a spread you found in the door shelf, finding it strangely savory. “And… you like that?”

“Absolutely,” he says with no hesitation. “You challenge me in all the best ways. No one does that, not anymore.”

Trying to come up with a response that doesn’t involve crying on the floor, you slide the finished sandwich in his direction. “Oh.”

“That wasn’t very romantic,” Aksanos seems to realize, eyes snapping back into reality. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound so terrible-”

You kiss him. Hard. Without the tentative shyness you had kissed him with before. Oh, no, this kiss is hungry, it’s starving, it’s full of desperation and adoration, laced with heated attraction and stifled desire. It doesn’t take long for you to introduce a tongue to this equation, and even though you don’t think he’s familiar with that concept, he’s a fast learner.

The cold metal of the counter presses up against your ass as you use it for leverage, lifting one of your legs and slinging it over his waist, pulling him closer. His hands come to rest on your hips, gilded claws pressing through your clothes, you can tell that he’s unsure of what your boundaries might be. So you help him out, breaking the kiss long enough for you to find the hem of your shirt and lift it up over your body. Just as quickly, you unclasp your bra, tossing it to the side.

He stares at your breasts like he’s never seen a pair of naked tits before, and you suppose that anatomy differences between your species might be throwing him for a loop.

“Wow,” he says, and immediately looks like he regrets it.

You laugh softly, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “Thanks, I grew them myself.”

And then you’re kissing him again, guiding his hands up to your chest as a way of encouragement. He’s careful and slow, the cool sharpness of his claws ghosting over your skin, lips and fangs so eager to please. There’s a heat building between your thighs, one that the seam of your pants only marginally relieves as you grind up against his waist.

“Give me your hands,” you manage to whisper, breaking away from him long enough to draw breath.

He’s a tad confused but obeys.

“I’m going to show you where to touch me,” you murmur, “but those knives strapped to your fingers need to be off.”

“Good idea,” he breathes in agreement.

You take his dominant hand in both of yours, taking a quick moment to kiss the heel of his palm. Then, carefully, you reach for the piece of clawed jewellery on his index finger, picking at the clasp with your fingernail until it comes loose, pulling it off and setting it to the side. You keep your hands as steady as you drunkenly can, knowing each individual ornament is worth more than what you would make in a year.

Next, pants- you need to get the last barrier between him and you off and gone. Hands shaking, you manage to undo the button just above the zipper, clasping that tiny piece of metal between your fingers-

The door opens to someone who looks like they immediately regret every single life decision that’s led them up to this point. And, in fact, they look like if you and the prince weren’t staring at them at this very moment, they would duck out and act like they never laid witness to this mess.

“A- a thousand and million apologies-” they begin.

“State your business.” Like a switch is flipped back on, he’s a regal and terrifying monarch again.

“It’s first shift for the kitchen staff, my keias, I didn’t- if I had known-”

You look up at the clock, realizing just now how late- or early, really, it is. If you were still on the planet, the prince would be getting up to start his duties soon, so... conceivably? A cook would need that head start for a fancy breakfast.

“Yeah, thanks,” you say, twisting your body to protect your nakedness as you find your shirt. Though, through your panic and drunkenness, you can’t seem to locate your bra. Oh well, the sooner you’re out here, the better. “Sorry we wrecked the place, this should have been a bedroom activity, anyways.”

And then you drag the sole heir of Lolth’s monarchal throne out of the kitchen before he decides to kill that poor cook.

[katutsukushii]

I’ve just rambled on about this on Twitter (18+) but!!!

I have such a weak spot for Bakugou secretly being Endeavour's son.

Mitsuki and Enji have an affair, it’s after Natsuo’s born and Enji is just so fuckin’ frustrated with himself, his wife, everything about his life, and she gets pregnant. It’s an accident, a stupid accident, but they decide to keep it a secret to avoid a scandal and Enji just gives her money to keep her mouth shut. She would’ve stayed silent about it anyways, she doesn’t want her boy in the spotlight like that, but she doesn’t care, she milks the hero for what he’s fuckin’ worth.

She fuckin' adores her little boy, she doesn't even need the money Enji gives her, she makes enough money working as a model, but she takes it anyways just to buy her baby whatever the fuck he wants - toys, clothes, hero merch, anything.

She would die for the little spitfire.  

And then one day she does. 

They happen to be walking down the street when a villain strikes and she covers Katsuki with her own body in order to protect him.

Endeavour doesn’t particularly care, he’s fine with letting the brat go into the system.

But they later find out, in her will, she'd appointed Endeavour as the guardian to the child as the rest of her family had died a long time ago. She didn’t want to, she looked for other options, but with the dangerous quirk Katsuki had and his slight anger issues, she knew there was a chance he’d struggle getting adopted, and she didn’t want her boy growing up in the system. So she had faith Endeavour would treat her baby right.

The press somehow finds out that Katsuki is Endeavour’s kid and so he has no choice but to take him in - he was already on thin fuckin’ ice with the public and rejecting his bastard child would only make everyone hate him even more.

The first training he goes through Katsuki doesn't cry, not during it at least. He’s fine with the pain, he’s fine with pushing his limits more and more and more until he breaks - he’s going to be a hero after all! But afterwards he's sniffling and stumbling over to his room - not because of the pain he feels in his raw hands, but because Endeavour kept. fucking. calling. him. weak.

After that is the first time he meets Touya. At first he doesn’t like him, he thinks he’s only going to make fun of him for crying but he doesn’t. Instead he sits down next to him and says jokes and lets Katsuki see his pretty flames.

He likes Touya!

And Touya...

The first time he sees the little blond walking through the house, scrapes and bruises covering his body he was intrigued.

Not because of the fact that he was Endeavour’s illegitemate child but because even after the training his face still looked so damn strong and determined. 

And so he just walked into his room and held him while he cried, the same way Natsuo held him after his training. 

He wrapped his hands up and held him close and sang him to sleep. 

He knew he couldn't protect the others, he was far too weak, but maybe he could help this one.

[ineloqueent]

dreaming of you

Brian May x Reader

synopsis: a storm results in a power cut, after you get locked out of your flat. luckily, your neighbour is home.

warnings: swearing, drinking

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i hope you don’t mind that i took a few creative liberties with the prompts, m’dear <3

see the moodboard here!

⭒

London, 1973

It was one of those days that simply went from bad to worse. And then fell down the stairs. And into a frying pan. And then leapt out of the frying pan and into the fire. Except the fire was not simply a fire, but a flaming pit, that was somehow also freezing cold and pitch black.

In short, you’d had a terrible day. And as life would have it, your day was about to get a hell of a lot worse.

It had started that morning, when you’d got out on the wrong side of the bed, quite literally. You had fallen face-first over your office chair, which stood mere millimetres from the left side of your bed, because you lived in a tiny flat on Camden High Street, above a shoe shop, where, in the winter there was rarely hot water in the pipes, and you were forced to scrape ice off of the bathroom mirror with a razor in order to see your reflection.

So, you’d fallen out of bed and bruised— your forehead— instantly, only to realise that you’d slept through your alarm, and forgotten to lay out clothes for the day the night before. This was then followed by a rushed—  cold— shower, and jumping in front of the iced-over mirror to glimpse the large bump already forming on your forehead.

You’d made it to the kitchen, and found that you’d run out of both coffee and tea, forcing you to decide between going without caffeine, or being late to work in the process of getting a takeaway beverage. You opted for the latter, and sprinted out the front door with your scarf only half-slung around your neck.

You’d shouted a hasty good morning to your shop keeper neighbour from the lower floor, before running straight into your other neighbour, the one who lived right next door to you, and shared your rice paper-thin walls.

He’d narrowly avoided spilling his cup of scalding coffee down your front, but in avoiding spilling it on you, the poor bloke had instead dropped the mug at his feet, and watched it shatter to pieces, coffee spattering his white shoes.

Still, he was the first to apologise.

He was like that, Brian May. Very polite. Well-mannered. Ever the friendly neighbour.

And very beautiful. You’d noticed.

Off to work you’d rushed, once you’d helped him to clean up the mess, because you weren’t about to leave him standing in a pile of shattered porcelain, the existence of which was quite honestly your fault.

You’d been not five, not ten, not twenty, but thirty minutes late to work, and your boss had been none too pleased.

“Deadlines,” he’d told you. “We have deadlines!”

Deadlines your arse. You’d watched that man leisurely read his morning paper, with his feet on an ottoman, whilst you scrambled to get your affairs in order.

It’d then been a drab day, working at the newspaper, because it seemed that nothing was happening in the world, outside of your own little corner, where everything seemed to be happening all at once, and thus, there was no story for you to write. You’d been reduced to running fax and photocopies for various people, and— ironically— doing a coffee run, because everyone else was too busy for such a frivolous thing as a coffee run. Funny, though; for all they shunned the coffee run, they could not do without their precious caffeine to fuel their productivity.

The day seemed to drag on, and when it finally let up, the rain came down with the night, and you, with no umbrella and a good walk on either side of your tube ride, stared miserably through the window at the depressing weather.

But at home, pasta and television and your lovely, soft bed awaited you, and so, you were desperate to get home as quickly as possible.

With a sigh, you stepped outside, and let the rain soak you as you went on your way, having once read in a scientific study in the newspaper which had concluded from a series of experiments that one got more wet from running through rain than from walking through it.

The tube was crowded, as usual, and like a good citizen, you offered your seat to an elderly lady, only to realise upon second glance that she was not elderly at all, and you had just morally offended a rather prim-looking business woman. And lost your seat to the smirking man who’d watched the exchange occur.

You tracked mud all the way up to your flat, nearly breaking your foot at least twice when you nearly slipped on the rain-slick wood of the stairs.

The final nail— or so you thought—  in the coffin of your terrible day came when you fumbled in your jacket pockets for your key.

The sinking feeling in your stomach was perhaps the heaviest you’d ever felt.

In your rush that morning, you’d forgotten your key.

Brian May walked up the stairs just in time to see you kick your shoe off in frustration, and let out a laugh at the sight of you.

You looked up from your abused shoe to find Brian paused at his door, one eyebrow slightly raised in concern.

“Alright?” he asked, dubiously.

You took a deep breath, in an attempt to remain calm and appear normal at the height of your despair. “I’ve had a shitty day, since before you saw me this morning, and now I’ve locked myself out of my flat. Alright, you think?”

“No,” he conceded, “but it seemed polite to ask.”

“Do you always just do what’s polite?” you sighed.

“Now that,” said Brian, inclining his head, “wasn’t very polite.”

You shook your head quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it in a much more flattering way, like, you never fail to be polite, even when it’s hard to be, or when I’m sure you’d much rather say something sarcastic, or even just plain rude. You know,” you rambled, “you’re good at that—” you waved a hand, and amusement flitted across his eyes— “filter thing. You have a filter, I mean.”

“And you don’t,” he observed.

“Exactly.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, for once,” said Brian, “you look an absolute wreck, but—”

At that moment was when the real final nail of the coffin fell into place.

Because at that moment, accompanied by an ear-splitting peal of thunder, lightning struck, and eradicated the power supply of approximately one-third of the London metropolitan area.

“Bloody hell,” Brian remarked, as the rumble of thunder receded. The two of you stood in darkness on the landing, and while before, there had only been one bare lightbulb to light your surroundings, it was greatly different to be standing in total darkness when the city outside had become equally as dark.

“The power—”

You thought Brian nodded across from you where he stood, in the blackness of the hall.

“So…” you muttered. “What now?”

“Well, given our presently rather strange circumstances, I’ll offer to let you sleep on my sofa, and we can talk to Clarisse in the morning.”

Clarisse owned the shoe shop beneath your flats, and therefore your flats as well. She was yours and Brian’s landlady, but, as with her shop, she was only ever in from nine to five. Given that it was now six in the evening, she was most certainly long gone.

You considered Brian’s offer.

The two of you had shared a landing for four, almost five years now, since you’d each come to London, and yet, though you were friendly, you’d never got past having coffee together. You knew that Brian was studying astrophysics at Imperial College, which was very impressive indeed, and that he was the guitarist in a talented, but relatively unknown band. You’d encountered the other members of the band a few times here and there, every year, given that they sometimes practiced, or held meetings, at Brian’s residence. Clarisse didn’t mind the band playing, and as the next door building always had loud music pounding, there was no danger of annoying the neighbours to the point of the police being phoned, so Brian and his band were free to hold their rehearsals. You knew they were talented because you could hear them playing through said rice paper-thin walls.

And having had coffee with the man in question at least three times, you felt safe enough in taking up his offer. You only regretted that in all your years living next door to him, you’d never invited him over. Then again, he’d never invited you over either. But here he was now, in your hour of need, and that had to count for something.

You nodded gratefully, then remembered that he probably couldn’t see you all too well, and said,

“I think I’ll take up your offer. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Nonsense,” said Brian. “I’m just polite.”

You thought he might have winked, but of course, in the dark, you couldn’t be sure.

He unlocked his front door, and you followed him inside.

“Watch out for the—”

You stumbled over what felt and sounded to be a guitar case.

“Oh shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” you apologised profusely.

He chuckled. “It’s fine. It’s empty.”

“Oh, thank god,” you muttered. “Thought I’d just destroyed something, again.”

“Yeah, it was bad enough that you ruined my coffee cup this morning.”

Reflexively, you covered your blush with your hand. “Please don’t remind me,” you groaned.

“I won’t miss it,” Brian assured you, tossing his keys onto a little table. “It was a hideous thing. Something Fred got me once from Kensington Market, where he works. Pretty sure the thing was second-hand too.”

Fred. Freddie, lead singer of the band you’d only heard through walls. Funny, charming, friendly though shy.

You wrinkled your nose. “Second-hand…”

“Yeah. He’s got no taste, silly bugger.” Though Brian’s remarks sounded harsh, he spoke with a fondness that could only have been reserved for the highest regard of friendships, and you thought that he and his bandmates must be quite good friends.

“Hungry?” Brian asked. “I’ve only got some left-over lasagna, unfortunately, since I wasn’t expecting company, and it’s vegetarian, but we can heat it up in the oven, and there’s enough for the both of us.”

“Honestly, Brian, that sounds delicious.”

Your eyes had begun to adjust to the dark, and so you saw his smile in response to your comment.

“Well, great. I’ll heat that up, then. Make yourself at home. If you can find the living room,” he added with a laugh. “There’s some candles in the chest of drawers by the window, so if you get those out, I’ll find some matches too, and we can have some light.”

“Will do.”

You set about your task, managing to only stub your toe once after removing your shoes, and set up candles about the living room, where you assumed Brian intended to set up dinner.

He brought you matches, and brought with him a glass bottle.

“Wine?” he offered you, having poured himself a glass, and you accepted, because it was Friday night and what the hell.

You lit the candles as Brian went back to his cooking, and before long, he returned with the lasagna dished up.

As your host sat down across from you, you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

With the candles providing a rather romantic glow, catching on Brian’s pretty ringlet curls and dancing in his eyes, plus the wine, and now, the static-y music coming in over a battery-powered radio, this atmosphere was a lot cosier than you had expected.

Brian furrowed his brow at your noise of amusement. “What..?”

“Are we on a date right now?”

With a glance about the room, with its overstuffed cushions and stitched drapes, the two of you eating a meal by candlelight, Brian laughed too.

“It would seem that way.”

He raised his glass to you, and you would have been lying if you’d said that the gesture and his words hadn’t made your heart skip a beat.

You ate in silence for a few moments, until Brian spoke again.

“Would you mind awfully if we were?

The question startled you a little, and you swallowed your wine carefully.

“No,” you said honestly.

A small smile graced his mouth, before his eyes dropped to his lap. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I always meant to ask you out.”

You blurted, “Did you really?”

He smiled fully now. “Yeah. But I’ve always been so damn shy.”

You were the one to raise your glass this time. “Well, here we are now. And you’re not getting rid of me. At least until tomorrow.”

He laughed gently in response, and you thought of how lovely and warm the sound was.

If only you were as warm as that laugh. The rain that had soaked your clothes was beginning to take its toll on you.

You finished dinner in silence, and Brian cleared the plates in silence too.

He came back after washing the dishes, just in time to see you shiver.

“Oh, yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Extra blankets.”

He fetched them, but then looked down at the bundle in dismay. It was very little; you could both see that.

You watched him close his eyes briefly in the wash of candlelight, saw him grit his teeth. You waited with bated breath for what he was going to say.

“It gets really cold here at night.”

This you already knew, from your experiences at your own flat.

“Yeah.”

“And it’ll get even colder now that we’ve lost all form of central heating… Forgive me if this is entirely over the line...” he sighed, and opened his eyes, watching you with a cautiousness that betrayed nerves. “But it might be best if I sleep here, near you. Body heat, and all that.”

“Oh,” you said, blushing slightly. Stupid blush. “Yes, that’s probably a— uh— good idea.”

“Right. Um. Bathroom’s down the hall, if you wanted to chan— oh. Well. Hang on. I’ll get you a jumper or something to change into.”

Your blush only deepened, knowing that you would be wearing his clothes.

You couldn’t look at him when you took the dry, clean clothes he handed you, and hurried to change in the bathroom, before returning to the makeshift bed now established on the floor of Brian’s living room.

He brushed past you to use the bathroom himself.

You slid under the duvet laid out, and shifted the pillow beneath your head, making yourself comfortable.

Brian returned, and began extinguishing the candles around the room.

Finally, a soft shuffling sound announced that he had laid down beside you, and you released a breath of relief, knowing you could soon go to sleep and forget the awkwardness you were so adept at in your conscious state.

But then you noticed that Brian, in his flannel pyjama trousers and t-shirt, was going to sleep with only a single blanket pulled over him; he’d let you have the duvet without a word.

You weren’t about to let him freeze to death on his own living room floor.

With a courage you knew not from where, you rolled over to face Brian. Or rather, Brian’s back. He was turned away from you. He probably thought you’d already gone to sleep.

You laid your hand gently on his shoulder, and he turned slowly.

“Hey,” you murmured, as his eyes met yours. “Sleepover?” You offered the duvet, a gift of peaceable intentions.

He smiled softly, and accepted with grace. But it was a stretch, with how far he lay from you.

“Oh, come here,” you said, and draped your arm over his lithe waist, drawing him closer to you. A little wine-tipsy and a little tired, a little cold, a little lonely, you nestled your cheek against his chest, your hands against warm skin beneath thin fabric.

Slowly, his arms wrapped around you too, and you breathed a soft sigh against his skin.

“Is this alright?” he asked carefully.

In silent response, you lifted your head, and kissed his pretty lips.

He reciprocated almost immediately, his kiss sleepy but tender, and you pecked his mouth gently once more. Then you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and touched the skin there with another caress of your lips.

“Tomorrow,” you whispered, and he ghosted a kiss upon your temple.

“I can wait for tomorrow,” he said.

And soon you both drifted off, you in warmth and contentment, and Brian dreaming of you.

[tintentrinkerin]

Cathartic Arrest

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester

Characters: Michael (Supernatural), Minor Characters

Additional Tags: Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Lucifer’s Cage Sam Winchester, Dubious Consent, Caning, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), It’s all about inflicting and receiving punishment, Jealousy

Summary: ”Sam needs to cope with memories of Lucifer’s abuse. Dean is still trying to cope with this time as torture Master in Hell.

And he’s JEALOUS.”

Word Count 1,793

READ HERE OR ON AO3

Sam was still shaking when he got back to the bunker. He had taken his time before he came back home, but still. This time, it had all been different. She had to help him back into his pants, his shirt, even tuck his shirt in, help him ground himself; when he still didn’t come down from what just happened, she made him sit in her “calm room” as she called it. 

She gave him food, good food. Fruits. Pineapple, strawberries, vanilla infused yoghurt. Juices of passion fruit and apples, bread with butter and some lean chicken tenders. He could choose whatever music he wanted, but all he ever would choose was hard rock – the music of his childhood, part of his youth and part of Dean. The music in his ears, usually is of a different, much more intense nature. He’d tried pop. One Direction. Too happy. He’d tried Nu Metal. He was too old to bounce back into his emo stage, also known as his years at Stanford. He had tried all kinds of metal. Trash, Death, Melodic, Symphonic. Nightwish. Later Aesthetic Perfection. All good music, quality wise. But nothing was ever louder than the noises in his head. The crying of baby Sam Winchester, inner-child Sam Winchester. Traumatized and angry and helpless. 

Only the noise of a cane meeting his skin, his ass, his legs, even his feet, his own painful cries, the muffled grunts, the thank you’s and the yes'es, the reenactment of his shame, would silence the child. It’d been rough today. The wax on his chest left pink swollen spots, the cane beat him bloody this time.

“I can stop, aye?” she said. 

“No, Mistress. Don’t. I want it to bleed.”

She’s not his Domme and he’s not her slave. He isn’t that twisted in his mind to reenact the power exchange, his own powerlessness. Michael watching. Michael. That god forsaken coward.

Sam was still shaking when he started Baby’s engine, slowly rolling away from the place he visits when pressing on his scar stops working. And it’s been working less and less and less. Until nothing else will help but being beaten up by someone to finally overcome the pain, the helplessness, the feeling of being weak and useless. Sam Winchester might be broken, but he still can take a beating without crying.

Dean hates liars. Which is kind of, let’s say  hypocritical, given his nature, his past. He lied to Sam about hell, he lied about the deal, he constantly lies to the only person who will probably never leave him. Because even if Sam does leave, he always comes back. He won’t even die for good. Dean doesn’t, Sam doesn’t. They’re here, two moons in this earth’s gravitational pull, doomed to circle each other; the forces of nature keeping them in place but always keeping them apart. 

It's one of those days when Sam says he’s about to go jogging, but since when does he have to drive fifty miles to some secluded forest area to jog when they're in the literal middle of nowhere? Dean has seen Sam in the showers. They have their privacy here, both want that or pretend to, but the showers are group showers, long lines of shower heads like in school gyms. They usually lock the doors, so why, this one time, does Sam not lock himself up like he used to? Dean knows about the nightmares, the triggers, the sudden flashbacks and the pressing of Sam’s thumb against the palm of his cut hand. He noticed cuts, deep cuts around Sam’s wrists, that never heal because he keeps on scratching off the scab. The bleeding never stops. 

Dean decides that today, enough is enough. He knows this trauma, he was in Hell too. He tortured innocent people, he tortured Bela fucking Talbot. A woman he really respected in the end, though he sugar coated it with cunt-y behaviour. He’s seen so many faces twisted in pain and agony – and all they do in the end? – cry for mama. They cry for their fucking mother, and Sam? Dean wonders who he cried for in the Cage?

Sam is packed up in his “jogging outfit” and he’s about to leave, when Dean gets up from his armchair in the library.

“Where ya goin’, Sammy?”

He jumps.

“Jesus, don’t scare me, man. Really? I’m going jogging.”

“There’s a whole ass forest in front of the batcave, Sam. Why not go there?”

Sam looks down and Dean knows, he’s angry. He’s angry because Dean caught him in his damn lie and there’s no good way out of it.

“I have a jogging buddy over there,” Sam clears his throat, his whole body is tense. Ready to run. Wherever.

“Ah, jogging buddy, I see. Lemme guess, their name is Mistress Lana and he looks bomb in tracksuits.”

Sam is about to erupt and he grows, his posture straightens and he yells. “This is private Dean, you have no, absolutely NO right to spy after me like a--”

“Like a what?”

“Like a fucking jealous wife who caught me in an affair?”

Dean falls silent, but his body, pure, condensed power, anger, fear, slams his arm against Sam’s throat and presses him to the wall. 

“It is exactly like that. You drive an hour to see a dominatrix, to what? You become a subby bootlicker all of a sudden? You like that?”

Sam’s nostrils flare and damn, now Dean is on freakin’ thin ice. He is so goddamn jealous of this woman giving Sam something that Dean would give him freely. And happily. He would give him the relief he needs. 

“Don’t talk like that!” Sam hisses, trying to wind himself out of Dean’s grip but he’s still sore from the last time Lana tied him up like a Christmas present and hung him on the wall like a pig-half at the butcher’s. Sam loved the marks of the rough rope, loved the feeling of just hanging there, floating, the ground beneath him so far away, the rock bottom so far…“You have no idea how I feel!”

Dean’s head tilts to the side. “I tortured people in Hell, Sam. I know how to make you feel the worst pain of your life – but I can also give you the greatest relief. I can show you mercy, because that’s what you really want. Isn’t it?”

Sam finally breaks free and attacks Dean, one hit after another, breaks Dean’s nose, gives him a black eye, and it only stops when Dean lands a blow right over Sam’s kidney – he staggers back. 

“I deserve the pain,” Sam wheezes. “I don’t rely on anyone’s mercy.”

Dean drags him up and brings Sam, who is suddenly so pliant, to his room. What no one has ever known about is the secret door. Dean’s not a witch, Sam would be a great one, but Dean managed to hide a tiny little torture chamber behind his room. Sam fights,  he insults Dean. Dean knows, yes he knows, it’s Sam’s way of provoking him and, kind of, making Dean stop. 

Sam knows that, when he came back from Hell, Dean fucked around even more than before he’d died –but no one ever saw him with the girls, the submissive ones, the broken little dolls he found. This is Deam’s coping. Reenacting Hell.

Sam clings on to Dean when he’s tied to the bench, naked. Sam is still black and blue, some of his bruises had turned green-yellowish already but no one should hurt him there again. These bruises would take ages to heal, if they’re lucky, without a doctor needed. Sam isn’t fighting anymore, he’s crying.

“Please Dean, take it off of me. Please… I can’t… Take it OFF!”

“I can’t”, Dean says, gently, brushing away Sam’s tears.“Does she fuck you?”

A gasp. “What? Why--?”

“Simple question, Sammy. Does. She. Fuck you?”

Sam nods, hiding his face in his hair and pressing his forehead against the padding.

“I can’t spank you in this condition. You have to heal. Why would you go to that woman when you’re still so roughed up?”

“Why do you care?”Sam’s voice is so thin. Little, scared Sammy, and there was no one in the Cage to save him from what happened. 

“Sammy.” Is all Dean says.

“My Sammy.”

Dean is not like that. He loves Sammy, and he would do a lot, but he won’t do That.

Dean’s favorite is his cane. Rattan. Unpeeled. Sam endures several hard blows, in a staccato, a rhythm other people would faint from. But Sammy is strong, and he wants to be broken.

HE

WANTS

TO 

BE

BROKEN

And Dean is giving him that. He can think of the girls and boys in Hell while doing it, like he’s not the one inflicting this pain on Sam, but it feels so damn good. Purging. Sam’s cries and whimpers, his yells and finally, finally, when Dean is about to lose control and maul Sam alive – there’s the one Sammy would cry for.

“Dean.”

A gasp. The blows stop. Blood dripping down Sam’s legs. 

“Dean.”

Again.

“Sammy..”

So gentle. So tender. So silent. 

“Dean, I want to go home….” and that is truly when Sam is broken, the last bastion of his mind, his pride, his goddamn pride is stripped from him. He babbles, he cries, snot and tears and gulps, he even chokes on his cries. “I want to be home with Dean, please hold me, Dean, take me home, Dean…”

Dean dissolves. His own trauma resolves for a minute. He knows, it will never fully go away, he will never heal. But.

“Sammy. I’m here, Sammy. Come here. I’ll take you home, my baby brother. I’m here.”

“Dean, I love you”, Sam chokes out. It could be anything. It could be nothing.

“Sammy, I love you more.”

Dean leans onto Sam’s heaving, still tied up body, sweat and blood, tears, the sobs. When Dean releases Sam from the restraints and carries him to a sofa, he huddles up in Dean's lap. Like a newborn. Overwhelmed with the world outside, sobbing and crying for Dean. Dean is here, holding him tight. Offering him water and more blankets.

Lucifer has never been closer, but Dean has blown him away from Sam. He made Sam just forget for a while. It’s so fucked up, but he can live with fucked up. As long as it’s with Sam and Sam never, fucking never, goes to a whore again when he can have everything from Dean.

Dean will do anything for Sam. 

“Dean…”

“I’m here. You’re home.”

»And I will never let you go.«

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[mcu-fan-fics-blog]

The Helping Hand

This is a Repost from my Ao3 I wanted to bring it to Tumblr. As I was editing the last chapter I decided to go a different direction than on Ao3. So moving forward the story will be different.

Word Count: 2200 approx

Summary: Y/N Krast Illegitimate Daughter of Tony Stark. Product of an unwanted teen pregnancy. What would Howard Stark be capable of doing to assure his sons future? What will happen when Tony meets our Beautiful, young, genius, rich philanthropist.

Tw: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug use, Drug addiction, Teen Pregnancy, Slight Stalking. (If there are any I missed please tell me.)

Ch.6

Chapter 7: Time is Running

Ch.8

The pain is unbearable and the bright light just isn't helping. You start to see shadowy figures around you, you close your eyes again trying to focus. You feel cold, then suddenly a hand in your own. You turn to see who it belongs to, you're slightly surprised to see Tony there holding your hand. He stands when he realizes you've woken up. He's saying something but you can't quite put it together.

"What-what happened to me?" Your voice is dry and hoarse. Suddenly Bruce is at your side as well. "Well, that's what we want to know Y/N." You look at them confused. "I-i don't know what this is, but it's happened before…" They both look at you intrigued, prompting you to continue. "When I was little I was really sick in and out of the hospital. Until one day it got very bad, long story short I had heart surgery." Still not getting the point you continue. 

"And I had this dream, it felt exactly like this. My mom was there…" You say to finish your statement. "Your mom?" Tony repeats walking towards you. You simply nod. "What did she tell you… anything important?" He asks rather impatiently. "She's dead… my- my dad he's alive." You say quietly like you didn't want to believe it. Tony and Bruce share a look, but you don't mention it. "I don't know what happened." You sigh again "Did you check my Heart?" Your question seems to knock them out of their daze. 

"No we didn't, your vitals were stable… Um, do you want me to?" You nod. "It's for the best, considering what happened last time." He begins to walk out “Bruce I would appreciate your discretion on the matter. No need to worry the team.” He hesitates but ultimately agrees. You watch him walk out and turn to Tony. “I’m going to ask that you do the same.” He goes to speak but you stop him before he can start. “Tony, please I don't need their pity, and therefore mentioned yours.” He sighs in hindsight he should have told them but he didn’t and you appreciated him for it.

The next couple of hours Bruce spent running tests on you. You knew something was wrong when he decided to re-test for “better images”. Just as he’s about to walk away and run the said test for the third time you stop him. “What’d you find Bruce, be honest with me running the damn test again won’t change the results.” He rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. “It just doesn’t make scene Y/n, earlier when I ran these tests everything was fine, and now your results are all over the place.” He gives you a worried look. “When Wanda tried to look into your mind she said you were blocked off she couldn’t get through the barrier. I think It was keeping you stable Y/n.” 

“So you’re saying that whatever is happening to me Is keeping me alive?” He nods and builds on his theory. “It’s like a survival instinct it kicks in when you’re in danger.” You scoff and rub your hands together. “More like imminent death, show me my heart scans.” He walks off and hands them to you. “Oh, fuck me. That’s bad isn’t it?” He nods. “The surgery you had did not fix the initial heart issue you had, It actually got worse with time.” 

You close your eyes trying to calm your thoughts. “What does this mean Bruce can we do something?” He sighs “You’re gonna want to talk to Tony about this, Maybe he can do something with the arc reactor. Maybe Vision could help us; he won’t tell anyone.” He adds quickly at the end. “Y/n they need to know about this…” You cut him off  “No, Vision, Tony, and you need to know about this. There isn’t anything the rest of the team can do.” You stand from the examination table and clothe yourself. Bruce didn’t want to look but curiosity took over. “Y/n where’d you get those?” he asks quietly looking at the scars on our back. “Bruce the Foster Care System is fucked.” you say while putting your shirt on. “Do-do you want to find your father?” He asked another question this time you freeze in place. 

“Bruce, thin ice bud.” You say walking away. As soon as you walk out you see the team sitting in the common room. “Steve, Pietro, Nat, Wanda I owe you all an explanation…” When you try to continue Natasha stops you. “Y/n you owe us nothing, when you’re ready to talk we’ll be here waiting.” she says casually. You look around the room and everyone is agreeing which is odd. Something is going on, they know something you don't, you look at Steve, his eyes immediately shift away from yours. “You are all terrible liars.” You state bluntly, them being closed off huddling together after all the “we’re a family, we’ll be here” crap just makes you less inclined to ever open up to them. 

“Vision, Tony and Banner want to talk to you.” You say changing your attention to the synthezoid currently floating in the corner of the room. He simply nods and phases through a wall. You stare blankly at the wall, a ‘that’s new’ leaving your lips. Not minding the rest of the team behind you, you leave them there heading back to the lab. "Right have you gotten Vision onboard." He simply nods. "Y/n I have to ask your heart since when has that been going on." Vision asks and you nod "When I was dropped off at the hospital as a baby I had minor non invasive surgeries, later on I got this bad boy." You point out lifting your shirt to reveal a rather large scar. 

"Y/n would you mind if I accessed your medical files." You ceded "It's fine do what you must. Bruce? Um thanks for all of this... What's your estimate?" You ask quickly he almost didn't catch it. "Y/n you don't need to know that." Your anger rising "The hell I do Banner. Look I don't have my affairs in order. I need you to tell me whether or not I should get started on that. Or I could just ask Vision." He shakes his head. "At the deterioration rate your heart tissues are in I'd say 4,5 months." That takes you by surprise and it takes you a moment to process. You look up at him, your smile faltering, you nod and head out of the lab.

Surprisingly a certain red head was waiting for you outside the lab. You walk up to her "Do you want to go get that dinner you promised?" She's surprised by your sudden invitation, but you don't back down. "I would love to." You nod. She clears her throat "so what's actually going on with you?" She tries to ask casually but ultimately fails. "I won't ask about your little secret and you won't ask about my little episode. Sound good? I just want to enjoy the night." She nods and you both make your way to the elevator. The walk to the restaurant was pleasant. “So tell me Y/n how’d you become the billionaire you are today?” You laugh at her phrasing no one’s ever asked you that. “I wouldn't paint myself in that light but I guess I am a billionaire, but I’m smart.” She scoffs “So, Tony’s also smart, tell me something I don't already know.” 

“Fine, let me think… I had Howard that's how I did all of this I guess if it wasn't for him I would probably be on the streets.” She stops walking. “Another fun fact, that for my 12th birthday he gave me my first Million Euros.” She tilted her head. “Why Euros you may be asking yourself? He said  ‘Y/n anyone can give you money, but I, I got you the best money there is.” Natasha broke out in laughter. “So Howard was rich, that must have been like culture shock.” You nod. “Well It should have been, but when your bestfriend gets a private island for her birthday your expectations change.” You mention casually. “Who is this best friend of yours?” She asks curiously. “Remember when we ‘met’ the coffee place? My friend Jenna owns the place.” 

“What is she doing working at a Coffee shop?” She asks Intrigued. “Well, her family comes from old money. And something that usually comes with old money is strings. So she cut herself off.” Nat shakes her head. “That must’ve been hard.” You nod. “It was but by then I had my own money I could help her out when she really needed it.” You stop abruptly and turn to nat. “I can't believe I almost forgot, there's this place that has the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had!” You basically drag her down the street to the food truck. “Thank God! It's still here.” You exclaim trying to catch your breath. 

“See, I was thinking candlelit, waiters and wine!” She mentions jokingly you give her a playful glare and proceed to order. “You see I’m not the wine and dine type of Girl.” she chuckles “I’m beginning to see that.” You take the first bite and it’s like heaven on earth. “It’s still as good as I remember.” You say in between bites. Natasha can only nod “You know you eat like a child right?” you fain being offended “Nat I’ll have you know I have the most refined palate. You can't tell me It’s not good. ”She hums taking another bite of her grilled cheese. “I never said it was bad Y/n.” She teases. Her eyes met yours and for a moment it felt like it was just you and her. When suddenly the world your eyes have created is brought to an abrupt stop.

“Y/n is that you?” fuck… “It’s me Zack from last night.” How can this keep getting worse. You turn your head towards Zack meeting his gaze. “Yeah, I remember you. My new favorite barista, thanks for helping me out yesterday.” You say plastering on the most artificial smile you could. “You like Doc’s too, I used to come here as a kid with my parents.” Your demeanor falters at the mention of his parents. “Yeah, It's my favorite. It was nice to see you Zack, but we gotta go see you around.” You take hold of Nat's hand and walk away from him. Once you're a safe distance away you let go and finally notice that you're breathing is of the charts. “Sorry that guy just creeps me out.” You say while catching your breath. “You could’ve fooled me. Your favorite barista?”

“Nat? Are you jealous… Cause if you are.” You stop talking when you notice her glaring at you. “He’s not my favorite barista far from it. Who would’ve thought an international spy Jealous.” She scoffs “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself Y/n. We haven't even gone out.” Now it's your turn to laugh “We haven't? Then what is this we’re doing?” The words in Natasha's mouth go away. She's left there opening and closing her mouth. "Right, now how about you pick dessert?" You say changing the subject. She nods "How does Ice cream sound, I know a really good place around here."

"That sounds Perfect." You hum as you start walking. "You know Zack, he's a horrible person. He's not in my good graces I guess is what I'm trying to get at." You mumble. She turns to you with a worried look. "Y/n are you okay? We can go back if you're not feeling well." She states taking hold of your shoulder. "No I'm okay I just wanted to clear the air." She nods and you continue walking. Once you make it to the ice cream shop you order and sit in a both. "So Y/n If you don't like Zack why pretend?" She asks "To put it simply he doesn't remember who I am hence what he did to me." 

"What are you planning to do with this guy then?" She continues down the same road. "Nothing… It's not my priority right now." You say taking another bite of your ice cream. "So Natasha tell me about you. Yes, I know it might be surprising you might have picked up on how I like to make things about me. It's your turn now tell me something I don't know." You say and she chuckles. "I was beginning to think you'd never ask." She teases. "Well I'm Russian. I was trained to be the best assassin there is and I was until Barton recruited me." You nod. 

"See we've already got something in common. You have Clint I had Howard." She laughs at the fact that you completely flew over the International Assassin part. "I would like to do this again some time… of course if you want to too I mean." You go on. "Nat, are you listening to me?" You notice her eyes looking elsewhere. "Y/n he followed us here." You almost drop your ice cream. "He what?" She takes your hand. "Zack creepy guy followed us here. I'm starting to think he does remember you." 

[marril96]

Explicit Affairs

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena’s affairs are getting harder and harder to handle.

A/N: Set in season 12.

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

They were at it again — third time tonight, an absolute record for the past few months. Unlike the others, this guy had stamina. Vigor. Virility. He could handle a woman like Rowena. If anything, she was the one who had to pick up the pace to keep up with him.

Your stomach churned at the thought, at the images that flooded your brain despite you begging them not to. Rowena and him. Naked as the day they were born. Moaning. Gasping for breath. Bodies slick with sweat. Sheets drenched with fluids.

No. No, no, no. You shook the thoughts off, but the unpleasant images remained seared into your brain, made even more vivid by the moans that echoed from the room next door. The walls were thin; you could hear practically everything, every squeak of the trashing bed, every smack of flesh on flesh, and every night you cursed yourself for putting yourself through it.

It would be so easy to shut it out. A bit of sage, a few magic words, and your room would fall into silence unbroken by even the birds chirping happily on trees underneath your balcony.

You couldn't do that.

You had to listen. Had to hear everything, to the tiniest detail.

It was only fair.

Rowena was doing this for you — for the both of you. If she could engage in intercourse (you refused to call it sex or, gods forbid, making love. That was what you did with her) with old men for your benefit, the least you could do was listen to it.

But, gods, you hated it.

It had been her idea to seek this way of making profit. It was foolproof, she'd said. She'd done it a few times in the past, and it had always worked out in her favor. All she had to do was find an older man, marry him, and wait for him to die. Maybe speed up the process, in some cases, but for the most part, they tended to die just fine all on their own.

It wasn't ideal, far from it, but, after weighing all the pros and cons, you'd agreed to it. As much as you hated the idea of sharing Rowena with others, with  sweaty, old men the mere thought of disgusted you, you needed the money. Living the high life wasn't cheap. Rowena was used to certain luxuries in life, the kind you couldn't afford, not even with your magic. Just because she was now dating you didn't mean she had to give up her lifestyle.

You couldn't bring yourself to even ask her to. You'd only recently become her girlfriend, after a year of pining for her. It was an honor. A privilege of the highest order. The last thing you wanted was to ruin it, to send her running.

At least this way, she was still yours. She could flirt with and kiss and fuck other men, but her heart belonged to you. She was your girlfriend.

They would never get to have her, not the way you did.

So, to Rowena's utmost delight, you'd said yes.

It wouldn't be that bad, she'd told you. A flutter of her lashes, and they would be hers, helpless, squirming prey in a spider's web. Easy-peasy.

If only it was.

It turned out, not many rich, influential men wanted to date women with baggage — a daughter, which was your role, and you played it exactly as she'd instructed you. Those who did Rowena found to be lacking in other areas. They overstated their wealth, or outright lied about having it. Or, in the case of Ben, wanted their needs met without offering anything in return. Without even trying.

A heavily sedated walrus, Rowena once called him. It made you laugh as much as it offended you. Not everyone got to fuck Rowena MacLeod. Didn't he know how lucky he was, how privileged that you were willing to share her with him? How could he not try?

The next guy started hitting on you the moment she turned her head. He was dead as soon as his hand slithered down to your ass; as ironic as it was, Rowena wasn't keen on sharing, and she was even less keen on creeps.

The one after that, who had managed to last long enough to upgrade to fiancé, had been unfaithful, and had ended up getting blown into pieces by Crowley. It was a shame for his house, big and spacious and adorned with the finest art, was magnificent, but seriously — cheating? On Rowena, of all people? He didn't know how good he'd had it.

There was a time you would've killed to be with her.

She chose him — with nefarious purposes, but still — and he still wasn't satisfied.

What was going on in these people's heads?

Her newest lover, Maximilian (because of course his name was Maximilian), seemed to be following a similar path. He'd invited her to move in only a month into the relationship, and Rowena was confident he would propose soon after. He was wealthy enough, and he seemed trustworthy; not the cheating kind, though you couldn't tell with a hundred percent certainty for the guy before him had kept a good facade for a while himself. He liked you, and not in a creepy way. He was sweet and charming, and, as it turned out, insatiable in bed.

You hated him for it. Despised him. Loathing burned in your veins with the intensity of a million suns. Who was he to moan her name like that? Who was he to thrust in and out of her, to kiss her, to claim her?

She was yours.

After months of daydreaming about it, of fantasizing about her arms around you, her lips on yours, her whispers in your ear, she was finally yours.

Why was she fucking another man in the room next door, then? Why was she calling his name amidst her screams of fake orgasms?

Because you let her. Because she'd asked, and like a fool, you'd let her because, even after all this time, you still couldn't tell her no.

She could ask you to jump off a bridge and you would have a hard time declining.

Tears pricked at your eyes like needles. You let them fall, let them drench your skin. Let them burn your already seething cheeks. With each new guy, it was getting harder to tolerate it. You thought you would get used to it, but the more you listened to her screaming names that weren't yours, the more you pictured her, naked and writhing, in other men's arms, the more it hurt. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

But then, when was life fair, anyway?

Was keeping Rowena worth this pain? This complete and utter feeling of helplessness, of rage, of envy that it wasn't you in that room with her, making her scream for real for she never had to fake it with you? Was it worth crying yourself to sleep night after night and not having her there to comfort you, to hold you and tell you it would be okay when it clearly wasn't?

It couldn't — wouldn't — be okay until this stopped.

Would it ever stop?

Would Maximilian's money satisfy Rowena, or would she hop right on to the next guy once she was done with him?

Would she care that you didn't want her to? Would she care what you thought at all?

You thought living through Lucifer's betrayal and, as per her own admission, witnessing God and Amara's cosmic angst that not even their immense power could fix had changed Rowena. Had given her a new outlook on things, on life.

Maybe it hadn't. Maybe she was still that cruel, cold-hearted person who didn't care about anyone but herself.

That person who didn't care about you.

A whine tore from your throat. You quickly clasped your hands over your mouth, quieting an onslaught of sobs, each more painful, more soul-crushing than the last. She couldn't not care. Right? She couldn't. She wasn't that person anymore.

What if she was? What if she always had been? What if she could never change?

What if the woman you loved, hidden behind a protective wall of ice and cruelty, didn't exist? What if you'd imagined her, seen what wasn't there — what had never been there to begin with?

"Maximilian, darling," she gasped. Exaggerated, forced. A painfully, almost embarrassingly obvious lie for, despite what she believed, she was never a good liar.

His chuckle told you he bought it.

Gods.

She wouldn't have to lie with you. She wouldn't have to pretend. She could just be. You had no money, no wealth of any kind to your name. But you were honest. You were real. You loved her.

Why wasn't that enough? Why weren't you enough?

Would you ever be?

Rowena laughed, almost gigled. Ecstatic. Elated. "You naughty boy," she purred, and then they both moaned as their lips met in a kiss that meant nothing to her, but fooled Maximilian enough to give into it, to give himself over to it. Give himself over to her, heart, body, and soul.

You couldn't blame him. Rowena had that effect on people. She could do the cruelest things and still make you fall in love with her. She could rip your heart out and stomp on it with her dainty little foot until it was nothing but a bloody mush, and you would still adore her, still treat her like a queen.

Rowena MacLeod's power went beyond her magic.

You hated and loved her for it all at the same time.

*****

You waited until Maximilian headed out for work before emerging from your room. You'd spent the night tossing and turning, begging for sleep to come, to take you over, but it never did. The moans and the groans from the room next door plagued your mind like a bad echo, a rerun you couldn't turn off no matter how hard you tried to think of something else.

Even as Rowena and Maximilian drifted off to sleep, the horrible sounds kept replaying in your mind. Her screaming his name. Him moaning hers. Her gasps as she came. His laughs as she talked sweet nothings to him.

A knot twisted in your stomach at the memory. Bile burned at your throat. It's fine, you told yourself. I'm fine.

You weren't a particularly good liar, either.

As she did every morning, Rowena awaited you in the living room with a cup of steaming tea, prepared exactly the way you liked it. Her mouth widened in a smile at the sight of you, a genuine one, no falsehood in sighs.

Having her, the real her, for yourself used to be a comfort. Now, it felt as though you would've had it better with a lie. Maimilian certainly did.

"Good morning, my darling," Rowena said happily. She went to kiss you, but you turned your head and her lips barely brushed against your cheek.

You couldn't kiss her. Not after tonight. After she'd fucked him three times in a row and kissed him countless times more. He'd gotten all the good stuff, and you, it felt like, were getting leftovers.

Hurt flickered over Rowena's face at the rejection, but she quickly smoothed it over. "I made you tea."

"I can see that," you said a tad harsher than intended. Instead of the sweet, delicious aroma, though, the stench of minty cologne attacked your nostrils. You wrinkled your nose, stomach turning with disgust.

Gods, she even smelled like him.

"Sleep well?"

"Not really," you said, because what would be the point of lying? There was enough lying going on as it was. "I couldn't sleep."

"Poor dear. You must be exhausted."

She laid a hand on your shoulder.

Unconsciously, you shook it off and turned your head before more pain spilled over her features.

Rowena pulled her hand back and stepped away, and you breathed out in relief. It was easier to sulk without her in your personal space. Easier to pretend everything was okay despite it not having been for months now.

"I'm fine," you said curtly.

"Could have fooled me," Rowena mumbled.

Really? Really? "I might've slept some if you and your boy-toy kept it down."

"We weren't that loud."

"Could have fooled me," you spat the words back at her, an echo filled to the brim with venom, potent and deadly.

"What has gotten into you this morning?"

Right. Blame you, because what else would she do? Rowena MacLeod never took responsibility for anything.

You whipped around to face her, eyes flaring, cheeks burning. "What has gotten into you tonight?"

Rowena looked at you as if you'd just admitted to seeing a flying pig.

Before she could utter another useless retort, you said, "Three times! Three fucking times, Rowena!" You held up three fingers in emphasis.

"That's what this is about?" She chuckled, incredulous. At complete and utter disbelief of your outburst. "Alright, I admit — we might have been a bit loud. Our dear Maxi boy is insatiable."

Understatement of the century.

"The word 'no' is still in your vocabulary, right?"

"What?"

"You didn't have to go along with it."

She didn't have to fuck him. She didn't have to let him fuck her. She didn't have to scream his name and feign orgasms to the point where they almost — almost, but not quite — sounded real. To someone who didn't know her, they probably did sound real.

Rowena grit her teeth in frustration. "I've already explained to you how this works, Y/N. More than once."

She could explain it a thousand times more; it wouldn't make it hurt any less. It wouldn't make your shattered heart any more whole. Wouldn't put the broken pieces of your soul back together.

Words couldn't correct what actions destroyed.

"Right," you said. "You explained it. That makes it okay, then."

"What do you want me to say?" Rowena exclaimed.

"Nothing! That's the thing — nothing you say is gonna fix this."

"I wasn't aware anything was broken."

Of course she wasn't. She was too busy hanging on her dear Maxi boy's arm and daydreaming of his money in her account to notice something was going on.

Too busy to notice you.

The realization stung. Tears welled up in your eyes, and this time you held them back. There was no need to cry. You could — would — handle this like an adult. Just because you pretended to be Rowena's kid didn't mean you had to act like one.

"You're right," you said, giving up, because that was what adults did. They didn't fight losing battles. "Nothing's going on. I'm just in a bad mood."

Rowena wanted money, and in order to get it, she needed to sleep with other men. She needed to sleep with Maximilian, needed to fuck him three times in a single night, if that was what he wanted. Why did it matter what you wanted? Rowena was the one running the show here. What she said, went. What she decided, happened. Fighting her on this, insisting on some justice, was futile.

Her needs came first. You came second. That was how this relationship worked, wasn't it? It was how everything worked, from the moment you'd met her. Becoming her girlfriend didn't change that.

You were foolish to think it might have.

Rowena raised an eyebrow, skeptical of your sudden defeat. You turned around, tears slipping free. She wouldn't see you cry. You wouldn't let her. Not here. Not now. Taking a sip of your tea, you flinched; the liquid burned at your throat, the sensation equal parts welcome and unpleasant. A perfect distraction from the issues at hand.

The tears were from the tea, you told yourself. Begged yourself to believe it. You weren't crying because of Rowena. You were crying because your tea was too hot.

"Y/N Y/L/N," Rowena said, tranquil fury personified, "don't you dare turn your back on me."

You drank some more tea. Savored the delicious heat.

"We are going to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about." What was the point? She would still want the money. She would still want the grand house and the social status. There was nothing you could say that would change that.

"I beg to differ," she said.

You shrugged.

"Y/N." It was a growl. A warning that she wasn't in the mood for games. "There is clearly something you wish to say, so say it."

You couldn't help a bitter chuckle. "What's the point? It's not like you care."

"If I didn't, I wouldn't ask."

Maybe. But still… "No matter what I say, you'll still do what you want."

"Why don't you let me make that decision?"

"I did!" you snapped, slamming the still steaming mug down on the table. You glared at her, frustrated, angry. Pissed to high heavens. "That's all I've been doing for months! You've been making decisions for us, and I never complained!"

Rowena flinched as if struck, caught off guard by your outburst. You almost felt bad — almost for the anger bubbling up inside you swallowed every last sliver of sympathy. You couldn't hold the turmoil back anymore. Couldn't contain months worth of frustration, of sheer hurt that you wanted — needed — her to understand, needed her to feel even at the cost of causing her pain.

You'd been quiet for too long, your silence having festered into something wicked, something dangerous, and it wanted out, and you had no intention of restraining it.

"You never even bothered to ask what I wanted," you said, and the words — the cold, hard truth of them — spilled a new batch of tears down your face. "You think I like to share my girlfriend with sweaty old guys? I fucking hate it!"

You hated their eyes on her. Hated their hands holding hers. Hated seeing their lips kiss her, and hearing them whimper her name through paper-thin walls. Hated imagining her tiny, beautiful body, bare as the day she'd been born, nestled in with theirs.

She was your girlfriend.

None of them had any rights to her, not like that. Not so intimately.

"You said you were fine with it," Rowena said.

You snorted. "What was I supposed to say? I know you, Rowena. You love the high life. I couldn't expect you to settle for less because, well, I know you don't settle. It was either this charade, or this charade without me in the picture."

"You're wrong," she said, and she looked so sincere, so heartbroken you wanted to forget the argument and wrap your arms around her until she was better. Until the hurt — the hurt you'd caused, purposely — went away. "When I asked for your permission, I wasn't giving you an ultimatum."

"It sure felt like it."

"Well, it wasn't. If you'd said no, I would have found an alternative."

"Right. Come on, Rowena! You want the money, and fucking rich dudes is the fastest way to get it."

"It is not the only way."

"Since when do you take long roads over shortcuts?" You sighed. "I'm not stupid, okay? I know you. I admit, I did think us getting together might've changed things, but that's on me. Wishful thinking and all that. You never made me any promises. You don't owe me anything. And I'm not asking for anything. I just… I can't go on like this any longer."

Sleeping alone. Listening to her with other men. Watching her kiss them the way she kissed you. You couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't stand aside and let strangers parade your girlfriend around as if she were a piece of meat.

As if she were theirs.

Lately, it felt like she wasn't yours, either. As if she'd stopped being so the first time she went on a date with another man while you cried your eyes out in your hotel room, terrified she would never come back, that she would choose the stranger with money over her faithful companion — her girlfriend — with nothing.

"I can't be with you," and, gods, the words stung worse than a hornet bite, "if you're with them. I thought I could, I tried, I really did, but I can't."

Rowena's lower rip trembled. Hurt, open like a bleeding fresh wound, flashed over her face. In a voice barely held together, she said, "You really think that low of me?"

"I—"

"You think I would choose these Neanderthals over you?"

"I'm not asking you to choose—"

"You think money is all I care about?"

"Isn't it? I mean, you're into some pretty high end stuff. Which isn't a bad thing. I just… I can't provide you that kind of lifestyle."

Rowena looked offended. "I would never ask you to. I do love wealth, but it's not the most important thing in my life. You—" She cut herself off, lips pressing into a stern, thin line. Clearing her throat, she reformulated, "I don't prefer it to you."

You are. That was what she wanted to say, wasn't it? That she cared. That she felt something for you — something other than usefulness, other than mere infatuation. She had true, genuine feelings for you.

Feelings she used to brag she wasn't capable of.

"I don't care about any of these men," she said. "I wanted to provide you the kind of life you deserve."

"I don't want it," you told her. "Not like this."

She nodded, taking your words in. "I want you to be happy, Y/N. I want us to be happy. It's been a while since I…" She swallowed a lump that had blossomed in her throat. "I wasn't enjoying it, but I thought you did. I thought, if I wasn't happy, the least I could do was make you happy."

Your heart swelled, guilt inside it, roiling and coiling like liquid fire. Here you were, assuming the worst, ready to give her up, and all she wanted was you. All she wanted was a better life for you.

"I should have known it was a mistake." She chuckled, a derisive, bitter sound. "If God and his sister can't be happy, what hope is there for me?"

You reached for her hand. Squeezed her fingers like you always did when you wanted her to listen, when you wanted her to know you were there. "Who says you can't be happy?"

She looked up at you, devoid of hope, of any sliver of it. It broke your heart.

"Maybe you just need to try something different. You've been living like this for centuries. Maybe it's time to change things up a bit."

"How do you suppose I do that?"

"Settle down, maybe? Instead of hopping from hotel to hotel, from mansion to mansion, why don't we find ourselves our own little place?"

It had been a longtime dream of yours. A house. A yard. Rowena's laughter echoing through the halls. The smell of tea and coffee filling up the house in the morning. A warm fireplace to curl up in front of in the coldest of winters.

Rowena quirked up an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Why not?" you said with a shrug. "When's the last time you stayed in one place for more than six months?"

She had to ponder on it. "It's been a while."

"Exactly! So why not try that? See if you like it?"

She considered it for a moment. Then, tentatively, "Maybe…"

Your lips widened in a happy grin.

Rowena smiled, equally joyous at the prospect. "I never meant to hurt you, darling," she said. The closest to an I'm sorry that you would ever get. She didn't apologize; she never did, no matter how wrong she was. But she wanted to make this right for you. Wanted you to know that she was sorry, that she meant it. "If I'd known—"

"I know," you cut in, believing her every word. Knowing, deep down, that she would never toss you aside like trash, no matter what your insecurities said. "Let's just get out of here. Before he comes back. I don't want this to be awkward."

Rowena chuckled. "Let us finish our tea, at least."

You glanced toward your half-empty mug. "Okay."

"I was thinking," she said, sipping on her tea. Cold, but still delicious. "There is a way for us to make some money without shagging rich men."

"Uh-oh." What did she come up with now?

She ignored your reaction. "Have I ever told you I'm excellent at gambling?"

You stared at her, incredulous. "You? Gambling?"

"Aye.," she said proudly.

For some reason the thought made you laugh.

"I'm serious," Rowena said. "I can play a wicked game."

"Or cheat wickedly?"

"Both."

Of course. "Are you sure? Those guys can be dangerous."

"More dangerous than me?"

She had a point there. "Fine," you conceded. "But only until we get settled. I don't want you making a business out of it."

"Alright," Rowena agreed.

It wasn't the kind of thing you wanted her to be involved in, but it beat sleeping with other men. Besides, it was only temporary. Just until you found a better, less dangerous way of surviving.

And you would survive. You would be happy.

So long as you were together.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @hellbentredhead @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @theeasterbilby @midnight-lestrange @osterhagen @impala-1979 @gracib16 @feelsandotps​

[thatesqcrush]

Fall From Grace, Pt. 6

Brian Kneef x Reader. Fandom: The Good Fight. Reference: S4, E.4, “The Gang is Satirized and Doesn’t Like It.” CW: Smut, angst, language. I was in a mood. 

AN: Our lovely REE was on The Good Fight for all of 3 minutes so I am taking lots of liberties. I am obsessed with the anti-Barba. He was just delicious. 

AN2:  Brian remains my favorite a snarky lawyer asshole. Shh, don’t tell Barba.

WC: 3106

***

The sounds of the city coming to life filled the bedroom. Sunshine poked through the curtains of the half-open window. You rolled over and came face to Brian’s sleeping form. Brian let out a soft snore and you giggled quietly. He rolled in his sleep and you were face to his well defined, muscled back. Two large colorful koi fish encircling each other graced his back. You reached out and softly traced the tattooed scales. Brian began to stir, and he shifted again, now back on his back. You crept out of the bed and made your way to the bathroom, shutting the door with a quiet click. Relieving yourself of your ablution, you washed your hands and made way back to the bedroom.

You jumped slightly seeing Brian awake. His arms were folded against his head and the white sheet that had covered him was now resting just at mid-thigh, exposing his morning wood. You felt a jolt of pleasure shoot through you. “Good morning.” “Good morning.” Brian replied, his voice warm and inviting. “Coming back to bed, I hope?” You nodded and reached over to whip off the light pink cotton tank you had been sleeping in. You climbed over Brian and dipped your head to capture his lips with yours. Brian’s large hands made their way down the slope of your back to your ass where he grabbed and squeezed. You broke the kiss to catch your breath and leaned up so your tits were in his face. Brian took a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the pebbled flesh. You moaned his name softly as he turned his ministrations to your other breast. You reached behind and stroked his cock, which felt heavy in your hands. Brian kissed you once more, his hands wrapping into your hair, bringing you close to him. You pulled away slightly and slowly shimmied down his body, marking a trail of kisses down his chest. Having been with Brian enough, you knew he enjoyed it when you grazed your teeth against his own nipples. Your eyes flitted up to his and you sucked a mark right below his pecs. “Marking your territory?” Brian groaned. You ignored his comment and ignored that flopping sensation in your gut. Instead you continued to kiss down hist stomach before settling in between his legs.

“You are so fucking cocky.”

“I call it confidence… and I’ve got your cocky right there.” Brian winked.

You rolled your eyes and then blew your breath over his weeping cock before flattening your tongue along his impressive length. Brian hissed as you continued to tease him, running your tongue up and over. His chest rose and fell, as he tried to get in deep breaths. You sucked just the head - the salt of his pre-cum filled your mouth - before releasing him. He took his cock in his hand and tapped it against your cheek. You winked and moved lower to take one of his balls into your mouth, lightly sucking. You released one to spit onto your hand before reaching up to stroke his cock. “Oh fuck, Y/N! You’re such a good cock sucker.” Brian grunted. You keened at the praise. The wetness in between your legs grew and you could feel how damp your panties were becoming. You released his testicles to suck on his cock, taking him deeply. Your nose brushed against his pubic hair which was neatly trimmed. “That’s right, take that cock all the way. Such a good girl.” Brian grunted some more. Your eyes watered as you gagged on his cock, swallowing more until he reached the back of your throat. From there, he began to fuck your face with gusto. You sputtered and gagged some more, saliva drooling out of your mouth and along his cock. His hands were firmly planted in your hair as his hips hammered into your mouth. After a few minutes, you tapped his thigh lightly, a silent request for Brian to ease up which he did. You gasped for air, coming up and sat back on your haunches. A tear rolled down your cheek. Wiping your eyes, you smiled and took him once more in your mouth. Brian groaned loudly. He could never get over how much you enjoyed sucking his dick. “Can’t get enough, hmm?” Brian asked huskily. Truth be told, he could not get enough of you. He wanted you in every way – and that shook him to his core. Anytime he swung by your office, or you his, or he saw you walking about at the firm, his heart skipped a beat. You came off - a string of saliva connected you to him. You used the back of your hand to wipe it off and then spat in your hand again. You stroked his length with one hand and used your free hand to touch yourself. You were soaking, arousal dripping down your thighs. To your surprise, Brian responded by pulling you onto him. He kissed you softly, slowly. The kiss was intimate and sensual and it surprised you, causing your stomach to knot and your breath to hitch. You both paused, your lips were barely touching and you breathed in each other’s air. Your skin prickled and you felt your heart swell. It was almost as if time stopped. You knew you were in deep. And your gut told you Brian did too. Finally, you gave into the kiss again, claiming his mouth, hungry and intense. Brian returned the kiss with equal fervor. A rumble emanated from him, deep and guttural. Brian rolled you so you were back to his chest. He pressed kisses along the nape of your neck and slope of your shoulder, before hooking your leg over his. His fingers deftly pushed your panties to the side. His fingers teased and stroked your sopping wet cunt. Your eyes fluttered close in anticipation. Brian removed his fingers and rubbed his cock along your slit. You bit your lip as he pushed the head of cock in slowly. You moaned and Brian pushed in more slowly, until he was fully sheathed. He pulled out, until the only the head of his cock remained and then slowly pushed back in. You relished in how you both fit so perfectly together. Brian began to slowly thrust in and out of you, testing out a rhythm. Your head lolled back, resting on his shoulder. Moans from both of you and sounds of skin smacking skin filled the room as Brian increased the tempo. “Oh God Brian, yes, give it to me!” Brian pistoned into you harder, he pulled your leg up higher so he could penetrate you deeper, hitting your sweet spot. Your bodies were covered in a thin sheet of sweat. You started to clench around his cock. Brian took the cue to reach down and around your body to roughly rub your clit. Finding your release, you arched against him and came hard, screaming Brian’s name. “That’s my girl. Cum for me.” Brian grunted as he quickly followed. Brian stilled and cursed as he gripped your hips, shooting streams of his hot cum inside you. He came so hard, that it leaked out of you and dripped down his cock. Your panties were ruined. Your bodies came to a still and he pulled your leg down. Brian withdrew and you flipped over to face him once more. You were just about to press a kiss when his clock caught your eye and you jumped. “Shit! I didn’t realize it was so late!” you all but yelled as you gathered your remaining belongings into a makeshift ball. “I need to get home and get ready for work.” Brian looked at the clock and swore loudly. “I have a meeting with Diane Lockhart in an hour.” Brian shifted once more. “I’ll have Gianni pull the car around and get you home.” He reached for his phone and sent a quick text message.

You quickly dressed and took the hair tie from your purse and made a makeshift bun. Brian slipped on some boxers and went to the bathroom to turn on the shower. You hopped along the hallway, trying to get your shoes on. Brian reached for the door and opened it. “Dinner at Bavette’s tonight?” you asked as you turned as to give him a kiss goodbye. The look on Brian’s face made you freeze. You turned around and came face to face with Diane Lockhart and Lucca Quinn – and while they weren’t Brian’s bosses – they were your superiors.

“Diane… Lucca…”

 “Ms. Y/L/N.” Diane replied curtly. Lucca raised a brow at you. You felt your cheeks burn.

“Diane. Lucca. Good morning.” Brian gritted.

You turned back to Brian, no words coming from your mouth. You were utterly horrified by the turn of events and you pushed past the three, and made way for the stairs, not even bothering to wait for the elevator.

 --

An hour later you were walking into the office. An iced latte graced your hand and sunglasses donned your face. The office was busy, everyone was chattering. You wondered if news had already spread about your torrid affair with Brian Kneef.

You had sunk into your cushioned chair when Marissa popped in your doorway. “Hey, are you ok?”  

You shook your head. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”  

Marissa arched her brow. “Want to hear something crazy?”

You removed your glasses. “Always.” You needed the distraction.

“Diane and Brian got into some kind of heated argument this morning. Apparently he’s screwing someone in the office. Diane was like ‘She’s a young woman – you’re taking advantage, blah blah. My money is on Gemma the new intern. She was flirting with him from day one.”

“It’s not Gemma.” You muttered.  

“If it’s not Gemma, then who is it?”  

You stood and walked to the door. You poked your head out and then shut the door. You leaned against the door and let out a large sigh. “It’s me.” 

“You! Since when?” Marissa exclaimed.

“Shhh!” You hissed. “Since the Statler case. But it’s just sex – nothing more.”

Marissa furrowed her brow. “Are you sure about that?” She watched you carefully.

You nodded. “Absolutely. We’re adults. He scratches my itch. I scratch his. People can just have sex and it not mean anything.” You replied.

‘Liar!’ your conscience screamed at you. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Marissa crinkled her nose. “You need to be careful.”

 --

Your afternoon was spent in a large meeting. Diane was pacing the floor, rattling off directives and you were taking notes. You found yourself unable to meet her eyes. You could almost feel Lucca’s eyes boring into you. The door swung open and you looked up – it was Brian. He paused mid-stride as your eyes met. Turning to Diane, he nodded and made his way up to the front of the board room.

The upcoming litigation the Firm was handling was going to be an intense one. It was all hands on deck. Diane and Brian literally split into teams of two, picking who they needed. You had hoped Brian would pick you, after all, why wouldn’t he – but he didn’t. You were chosen last – and really it was just down to you left. Everyone was given their marching orders and the boardroom emptied out slowly. It was just you, Brian, and Diane. You finished your notes and opened your mouth to say something but found yourself at a loss for words.  

“Come Y/N, we have a lot to do. I am going to need your undivided attention.” Diane barked. You nodded and followed her out. You looked at Brian wistfully as you left.  

Brian’s face was stoic and unresponsive.

--- 

Dinner that night was planned for 6pm sharp at Bavette’s. Brian didn’t show. You felt a pit in your stomach emerge.

“Miss? Can I get you anything? An appetizer while you wait?” the waiter asked as you polished off your third glass of wine.  

“No.” You replied, swallowing the last of your wine. You could hear the shake in your voice. “Just the check please, thanks.”  

--

The case ate at all of your time – including any free time you had. Your billables exploded and you found yourself working at all hours. You had attempted to reach out to Brian, but he didn’t respond to any of your texts. Weeks went by.  You tried going up one early afternoon to his office when you saw him walk by, but the STR gatekeepers made you turn back. “Mr. Kneef is very busy and he shan’t be interrupted!”  

You paced your office one evening - you had tried to finish up a motion but you could not focus. Brian had gotten to you – or rather, his lack of response had. “Fucking feelings.” With a groan, you gathered your belongings and decided to call it a night.  

You approached the elevator bank just as the doors were about to close. “Wait, hold it!” you shouted and foolishly, stuck your hand in between the doors to keep it from closing. It worked and the doors opened again.  

And you came face to face with Brian.  

“Ms. Y/L/N.” He acknowledged you quietly.  

“Oh, it’s Ms. Y/L/N, now? That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed.” You snapped.  

“Now is not the time or the place.” Brian replied, his eyes firmly planted on the floor numbers marking the descent.  

“When will it be then? Hmmm – since you don’t answer my calls?”

Brian turned to you. He set down his briefcase and crossed his arms. Taking a deep breath, he began.  

“Whatever this is… it was what it was. Nothing more.”  

“Is this about Diane and Lucca? Who gives a shit? I thought-”  

“You thought nothing.” Brian interruped. “Want me to spell it out for you? I don’t do stage 5 clingers – I don’t do the boyfriend thing. I told you that from the beginning. We had our fun and we got caught. It’s not fun anymore. Now you need to move on. I already have.”  

The elevator dinged, signaling it’s arrival. Brian raised his brows and walked out. You trailed behind him, the distance between you two growing larger and larger.  

Brian’s car came around and it whisked him away. But not before he saw your resolve break down in front of the office building.

--

Yet another meeting was occurring. ‘Another meeting that could have been an email.’ You thought to yourself. You stifled a yawn – pulling all nighters was starting to catch up to you. You wanted to murder whoever decided a meeting at the end of the day was a good idea.  

You leafed through a brown box of random files. All of it looked like miscellaneous junk but then something caught your eye and you perked up. You scanned the room – Brian was across the way, talking to an associate.  

“Uh – Diane?”  

Lucca looked over at you. “What did you find?” Lucca asked, walking over. She snatched the paper from you.  

“Holy shit – this is an internal memo showing that our client knew about engineering defects.”  

“We’re on the wrong side of this.” You sighed. Diane came over and put on her glasses.  

“Is this what I think this is? Brian!”

Brian came over. Diane shoved the memo at him. “I never saw this thing in my life.” Brian snapped. 

You arched your brow. “Sure looks like you did. That is your signature on the receiving end. And statute of limitations doesn't apply to fraudulent concealment.”  

“I didn't conceal jack shit.”  

“Then who signed it? Hmmm?” You shot back, rolling your eyes. “This looks so fucking bad.”  

“I don’t care how it looks!” Brian snarled. “It’s bullshit.”  

“Then tell me what’s exactly bullshit here because I'm looking at a document that undermines our entire defense. An anonymous memo with names and dates blacked out. It's damning, and it implicates you – this firm - in a cover-up.”

Brian stared at you, his eyes furious. “I don't know what crawled up your ass today, but I take care of my business!”  

You were taken aback. “Don’t bite my ass since I happened to find it. It’s not my fucking fault.”  

“Enough you two.” Diane snapped. “What are we going to do about it?”

 --

The next morning you returned to the office bright and early. Marissa slid into the empty space on the elevator next to you. “I have it on good authority that there are roses on your desk. And a card.” She reached into her top and whipped out a small white card that had your name scribbled on it. You recognized Brian’s handwriting.

You carefully opened it and took out the small card: Let’s meet.

--

That night Brian bounded down the steps to the main floor. He went to drop off a file at reception when he noticed a dozen red roses on the end of the receptionist’s desk.  

“Where did those flowers come from?” Brian asked, his eyes narrowing.  

“Oh! Y/N gave them to me. She said she was allergic. Such a shame – they’re gorgeous flowers.”  

Brian felt his blood pressure go through the roof. He bid the receptionist well and made his way to the elevator. By the time he made it to the main lobby, he was seething. He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket to call you, when he realized he left his phone in his office. With a groan, he pivoted and returned to the elevator bank.  

After a minute, the elevator dinged, signaling its arrival. It was Brian’s turn to come face to face with you.  

“Y/N.”

You looked up at Brian. ‘Fuck.’ You stood straight and stuck your chin out. “Have a good night.” You went to move past him and he grabbed your wrist.

“Like hell – you’re coming back upstairs with me. We need to talk.”  

You yanked your wrist from his grasp. “No. You have made it quite perfectly clear that we are nothing.”

Brian grabbed your wrist again and pulled you flush against him. It was clear you were angry. Your skin was flushed and your jaw was clenched. You licked your lips subconsciously. ‘Fuck it all.’ Brian thought as he crushed his lips against yours, kissing you roughly. His lips mashed against yours, teeth clashing. The kiss was intense, with one of his hands on your ass, the other wrapped in your hair. His beard scratched against your skin and immediately you felt your panties dampen.  

Your mouths parted and you both stared at each other. You both breathed heavily. And without hesitation, you slapped him across the face. 

Your eyes widened at the realization and horror of what you had done. You took off, your heels clacking against the floor, the sound echoing throughout the lobby. Brian rubbed his reddened cheek, his skin stinging at where you slapped him.  

“I deserved that.”

TBC.

--

Tags: @madpanda75 @tropes-and-tales @delia26 @mgarner1227 @beardedmccoy @youreverycolor @neely1177 @the-baby-bookworm @mrsrafaelbarba @skittle479 @ottosuricato @delia26 @sass-and-suspenders @mommakat32 @dreila03 @beccabarba @garturbo @lovebennycolon @imjustreallynosy @sweetsummertime99 @whyissvuruiningmylovelife @annabelleb49 @scarletsoldierrr @cesarofangirl78 @redlipstickandplaid @redlipstickandblacktea @zoeykaytesmom @differentshadesofgray @misssirenlove @esparza-army @bananas-pajamas @mishaissocoolike @thefanficfaerie @theenchantedgalleryofstories @catnip987 @choppedgalaxynerd @pieceofshittytitty @ktiz90 @evee87 @itsjustmyfantasyroom @blk0912 @detective-giggles @rampantmuses @jazzyjoi @caked-crusader- anyone else, just ask! xo

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Read into Me Chapter 5: Romeo and Juliet

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 2,955

Warnings: Swearing, slut shaming, bullying mention

Tag List: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap​ @wolfish-willow​ @scoopsohboi​ @herre-gud-nej​ @clockworkballerina​ @maddie1504​ @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary​ @banjino-in-the-hole @buckysarge​ @wildcvltre​ @stanleyyelnatsiii​ @unusuallchildd @n3wtscaseofniffler5​ @peterparxour @alwaysstressedout @linkispink1995​ @asharpkniffe​ @a-big-ball-of-idk​ @used-avocado​ @mochminnie​ @sledgy14​ @the-creative-lie​ @yall-wildin-like-siriusly​ @ggclarissa​

After that afternoon, you spent practically every day after school with Steve, either in his bedroom or the library. It was weirdly nice. You didn’t always talk; mostly you worked in silence, Steve answering English questions or doing work for other classes and you doodling. You’d finished the sketch of Steve you’d started in his bedroom the same night you’d started it. You were actually quite proud of it; you’d managed to get the shadows on his face to make his face look hollow and strange, not beautiful like it usually appeared. And yes, you were comfortable with calling him beautiful. You found a lot of your subjects beautiful, they all fit into an easy collection of strong, attractive faces that could be found in Hawkins. Hawkins Most Beautiful: the collections of portraits labelled themselves.

Steve called you fairly often as well; usually on the days when you didn’t meet up he’d call so he’d have someone to keep him company as he worked. He seemed lonely to you. From your conversations, you learned little of his supposed friends, but you learned a fair bit about his family. Both his parents were rarely home. His father worked in the city and kept an apartment there, keeping him as far away from home as possible most of the time. His mother was home more often, but kept her hours in certain places, leaving him home alone most of the time. So it seemed, he was ignored past the age of twelve. You sympathized with that, your own parents weren’t exactly present, albeit for different reasons. He asked you a lot about Samantha, which didn’t bother you; you could talk about her far more than you could yourself.

“I can’t honestly say that I even really know her…” Steve laughed. You were sat in his bedroom one evening, the sun setting in creamy red swirls, ominous strawberry pieces in homemade ice cream. Sweet and yet worrying for reasons beyond you for the time being. You were sat at his desk, leaning back in his desk chair, turning left and right. Steve was sprawled out on his mattress, feet kicking beyond him casually, his papers spread out in front of him.

“Yeah, she doesn’t really associate with some of your friends. Tina isn’t really our biggest fan…” you replied, smiling softly. The memory of Samantha dumping a miniature carton of chocolate milk on her head in the seventh grade flashed through your mind, her shrill screech making you chuckle.

“Oh yeah? What’s up her ass?” Steve asked, turning onto his side to look at you fully. He looked incredibly posed and uncomfortable, his head placed in his palm and his ankles stacked neatly one on top of the other.

“They used to be best friends, before I showed up. Once I was on the scene, Tina decided that I was someone to bully and Samantha decided that she wanted to be my friend. They fell out because of it and Tina started bothering both of us. She stopped once we were in middle school.” You explained, pulling one of your knees to your chest.

“Tina’s a bitch…” Steve muttered, shaking his head solemnly.

“She’s got such a thing for you.” You chuckled, watching as his face coloured. You continued “Vicki too…they want you so bad.”

“How’d you know?” Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. His face was still pink, it was almost adorable.

“Oh my god, they spend every class with their heads so far up your ass!” you linked your fingers together and pulled them under your chin. You batted your lashes at him with wide eyes, starting into an imitation of Tina “Oh…Stevie, tell me more about your basketball game…oh Stevie you’re soooo strong!”

Steve pulled the pillow from the head of his bed, throwing it at your head. “Oh shut up!” he groaned. You caught the pillow, chucking it back at him, smacking him square in the face.

Steve was great to hang out with. But that sort of friendship didn’t seem to transition outside the privacy of his bedroom. In school, the rules of social interaction began again. Steve returned to the arms of Tommy H and Carol, whose attentions flip between him and Billy Hargrove, and Samantha kept you busy with her questions, her arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, squeezing you tightly into your side. And every time you passed Steve, she cracked a joke in your ear that turned you beet red.

In truth, it was clear that Samantha did not believe you when you told her that nothing was going on between the two of you. She had already decided that the pair of you were in some sort of torrid affair of Shakespearian depths. She seemed to earnestly believe that it was some secret, clandestine romance was happening behind closed doors. You didn’t really understand what she was imagining; it didn’t make sense to you. Steve was far too obviously interested in other people to be doing anything with you. You tried to point out all the girls who hung off his arm whenever she tried to embarrass you about it, but she didn’t see it.

“What you’re missing,” she said through a massive bite of cafeteria shepherd’s pie “Is that all those girls pay attention to him, but he doesn’t pay attention to them.”

“If we were having an affair, don’t you think that I would tell you about it? I tell you everything anyway.” You retorted, rolling your eyes at her.

“You didn’t tell me about Byers until I weaseled it out of you. That’s what I’m doing right now.” Samantha replied with a shrug, mushing her meal together with her plastic fork until it was a disgusting shade of brown, golden corn accenting the pile.

Talking about Jonathan Byers wasn’t fair and she knew it. In short, there was nothing to talk about. You’d had a small, teeny tiny practically nonexistent crush on the boy a year prior, but it was very clear that he didn’t like you back. Samantha had gone to Tina’s party in October, right as your crush was subsiding, and she’d told you that he was all over Nancy Wheeler. You’d had your suspicions about it, but hearing that he’d gone after someone else’s girlfriend and rejected you along the way hurt. Even though you weren’t interested, it still hurt. Samantha was still annoyed that you hadn’t told her about it until it was over, and since it was the only source of knowledge she had on your comatose love life, she brought it up all the time, much to your chagrin.

“All I do with him is sit in his room and help him study. And when I say help him study, I mean literally help him study, we do the chapter studies together and discuss the stupid book.” You said. That wasn’t the whole story; you talked a lot about life and listened to music. You were confident in saying that you were friends by now. You’d almost met his mother twice, both times in passing, and that seemed pretty important to friendships, when their family knew who you were. Still, it didn’t break into school. Steve stayed with his clique and while you tried to stray from yours, Carol or Tina would always scare you off before you spent too much time with Steve. It didn’t take much to scare you, a mere gaze could send you packing, and those two had been mastering the annoyed sneer since the fifth grade.

“Yeah, well you don’t see what I see…” Samantha muttered, turning her attention away from you and onto the loud clique at the centre of the room. Billy Hargrove was show boating, as usual, with Tina and Macy practically drooling onto their lunch trays. Vicki was trying to get Steve’s attention, her thin, spidery fingers gripping onto his wrists, speaking animatedly into his ear. Steve wasn’t facing her though; his whole body was turned away from her, and directly towards your table. Samantha noticed how he watched where you went, it’s why she thoroughly believed that something was going on beyond the surface, something even you might not realize. She knew what a person looked like when they were love struck. Often times, from the outside, it was easier to see when someone was in love with someone else before she could catch onto who actually liked her. She’d watched the women she yearned for fall in love with boring, lame men enough times to have mastered the signs of how men fall for girls. And Steve showed all the non-verbal signs. She couldn’t get a full read on you yet though.

Tommy had caught onto to Steve’s strange behaviour just as fast as Samantha had, although he wasn’t nearly as impressed. You were simply not worth the effort. Not by a long shot. You were fucking lame-never at the parties, never at dances, never at the lake on the weekends. And he knew you had money, you could afford to do all those things, you were just too much of a pussy to show your face. That was fucking pathetic! He knew his friend better than anyone else and a chick who couldn’t hang was not the girl for him. Steve liked fun girls, girls who could turn up for a last minute thing and not be weird about it. Nancy Wheeler was the farthest Steve needed to go on the preppy nerd scale, and that bitch ended up being a massive slut! Like nobody expected that shit. But Tommy knew that you didn’t have any surprises up your sleeves. Despite the fact that you never talked, he knew that you were plain about who you were. Everything was on the surface, and what he saw was not worth his friend’s time.

“Steve, buddy, I’m gonna go get another milk, walk with me.” Tommy motioned him over. Steve followed blindly, if only to get Vicki’s cold, clammy hand off him. Tommy had seen The Godfather one too many times and seemed to believe that he was some sort of small town mob boss, but Steve didn’t really mind following along with him flights of fancy. Usually they were pretty funny.

Tommy wrapped an arm around his taller friend’s shoulders, lowering his voice from the onlooker’s ears. “Listen, buddy, you gotta tell me what’s going up with that Y/N chick I mean you just keep staring at her it’s freaking weird, dude.”

“Y/N? She’s my writing partner for Lawrence’s class, she’s cool…” Steve replied, turning to catch your eye as they passed. He smiled at you, giving a short wave, which you returned with a small smile.

“She’s cool? That all?” Tommy pressed, stepping into the line and grabbing a carton of strawberry milk and the largest chocolate chip cookie in the basket. He unwrapped his arm from his shoulders, letting him go free for the first time in the conversation.

“Yeah, I mean she’s nice, what else do you want me to say?” Steve knew that was being a little defensive, but he didn’t like being questioned for his choices in friends or girls, he never questioned Tommy’s choices and he made the worst decisions most of the time. Carol was no prize and he didn’t say a word about her.

“You fucking her?” if Steve had had anything in his mouth, he would’ve spit it on the floor. Tommy didn’t even turn to look at him, paying the lunch lady in change.

“Jesus, dude, no.” Steve cried, recoiling from his friend. Tommy needed to get hit and while he didn’t have cause to do so yet, he firmly believed someone was going to do it soon.

“Hey, no need to freak out, it’s just a question.” Tommy pulled his friend back in, slapping his friend on the back. Instead of simply heading back to their lunch table, he pulled him to the side, standing next to the hot grab and go table, next to the cartons of fries.

“Now, the way I see it, you have something great going for you.” Tommy began, cracking open his milk and taking a long swig, leaving a milk film on his upper lip. “Vicki Clarke is a fucking babe and she’s begging for it! She’s all over your ass and she’s hot as hell! But you’re blowing it by spending all your time staring at some freak of nature instead. You could have a smoking hot babe at your beck and call, but you’re wasting your chances here, you see what I mean?”

“Not at all, dude.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest, looking over his friend doubtfully.

“Look man, I’m just trying to set you up for success here. Because that girl,” Tommy pointed at you slyly “Is not interested. If she was, she’d be over here, acting like Vicki is. But she’s keeping herself planted at that table with that goth freakazoid.”

Steve had no idea what to say. He opened his mouth to speak, to deny having any feelings for you, but that wouldn’t mean shit if he kept watching you. And Tommy was right, there was a girl there who wanted to listen to whatever he said, who chased him down. Vicki was there and you weren’t. So he swallowed his words and went back to his table.

“Hey, Steve…” Vicki drawled. There was red lipstick on her teeth. Steve didn’t say anything about it. It didn’t make her ugly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, letting her rest in the crook of his neck. Vicki seemed over the moon by it and it gave him something to focus on other than catching your attention.

Samantha frowned, turning her attention back to you. “What’s Steve’s opinion on Vicki Clarke?” she asked.

“He didn’t like when I told him that she had a thing for him, why?” you retorted, flipping through the college magazine in front of you. You still hadn’t chosen anywhere to apply and applications for the major schools were due in the winter and community colleges needed their applications in for the fall semester in by the end of June at the earliest.

“Well, he doesn’t seem embarrassed now.” Samantha hooked a thumb towards the couple. You looked once, narrowing your eye to scrutinize the pair.

“Eh, that seems about right…” you murmured. You wouldn’t deny that something about it hurt. But you ignored the pain until returning home from school. As always, you called before making any moves. It was the polite thing to do, even though Steve had made the plans to meet up with you after school the night before.

The phone was picked up after three rings. Steve’s car was in the driveway, not his mother’s, so you knew who would answer. “Hello?” his voice sounded anxious and breathy, maybe even annoyed.

“Steve-o, we still studying? You wanna go grab food at Hula Burger?” Steve had introduced you to the burger place in Carmel, a little mom and pop shop with the best Cajun fries in the county, at least in your opinion.

“Oh shit…” Steve muttered “Y/N I’m sorry I-I kind of made plans, can I take a rain check on the burgers?”

“Oh…yeah, sure I guess…some other time…” you said softly. You wouldn’t try to hide the disappointment in your voice. The pain you felt in the pit of your stomach returned with abundance, not exactly sore and angry pain, but more of a black hole opening up there.

“I gotta go, I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?” Steve asked. He was already running late. He was supposed to pick up Vicki in twenty minutes and he still needed to shower. He had genuinely forgotten about his plans with you and he felt like an ass for doing so. He did want to hang out with you, but a date was a good step after being decimated by Nancy. He wasn’t super into Vicki, but it was still exciting to go out with someone new.

“Sure…” you hung up after that. You stood from your bed, dropping your book bag at your feet. You were used to spending afternoons alone, that wasn’t strange to you. Just because you’d spent a few days with a boy didn’t mean that he was yours to hold back from his life. You could’ve pulled a fit and tried to make him hold true to his word, the way your mother used to act towards your father. But those memories made you sick, you didn’t like that behaviour. But you also didn’t like being cancelled on. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to, not from friends at least. Samantha never really cancelled on you, she always made sure to tell you when she was busy and not agree to plans. She’d never cancelled on you for a date, even when she was dating Keith the creep she always put your friendship on a different level than him. Of course, she wasn’t really into Keith, she came out like a week after they started dating and broke up with him after kissing Jessica Klein at a house party, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Steve had ditched you and it made your heart hurt.

You couldn’t help but watch him run out of his front door and into his car. You watched it pull out of his driveway and out onto the road. It was clear to you now, Steve was more interested in passing English than he was in being your friend. Vicki Clarke was the girl to pay attention, no matter how he acted around you.

So why pretend like he was your friend at all?

[xaphrin]

An anon asked about how I felt about smut and cake. 

Okay, but hear me out. Smut and wedding cake. 

- - - 

Her feet were killing her. 

Raven was practically limping as she stumbled over the threshold of their flat, pushing at her hair that was held in place by no less than four thousand pins. At least one thousand of them were digging into her scalp, and she grumbled under her breath as she started taking them out, putting them in a pile on the counter. Damian stepped into their flat behind her, his shoulders drooping with exhaustion as he placed what was left of their wedding cake on the counter. 

“For trying to be a small affair, my family did make a damn day of it.” Damian sighed, the sound rattling in his chest like he carried the weight of the world, and pulled out a bottle of champagne from the fridge. He started peeling off the foil around the neck, and glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “They didn’t bother you too much, did they?”

“You know I love your family. I have since I first met them - even Jason.” 

Damian snorted, but there was a start of a small smile against the corner of his mouth. 

Raven watched him for a moment before she pulled herself up on the counter, her feet glad to not be supporting her weight any more. She sat there and let the soft, comfortable silence settle between them. Oh. But wait. There was still cake left. With wide, excited eyes, she reached for the deceptively plain cake box, flicking open the lid. Her smile brightened. There were real perks to marrying the most powerful civilian in the city - including getting a wedding cake from the most exclusive bakery in Gotham. She ran her finger through an iced decoration, bringing it to her lips. 

A pop from the champagne bottle made her look up, and saw Damian lifting an eyebrow. His eyes roamed her face as a smirk playing along his lips. He poured her a glass of champagne and handed it to her.  

“Do you need a fork?”

“Mm. No.” Raven sucked on her finger, licking off the icing before taking a sip of the champagne. With a teasing smile, she dipped her finger back into the beautifully iced cake, holding out a dollop of icing to Damian. “Want some?”

He looked from her finger to her mouth and back again, bending his head down to suck gentle on her hand, and… oh. Raven’s heart skipped beats as he lifted his deep, green eyes to her own, sucking the sweet treat from her hand without breaking away his stare. Breath caught in her lungs, and she suddenly realized how much trouble she was in now. This. She was married to this. The muscles in her thighs tightened, and she licked her lips, tasting icing still clinging to them. He could be so serious sometimes, that she forgot how sensual he could be too. Damian sucked her finger deeper into his mouth, tapping up every last bit of icing before releasing her hand. 

Damian set his glass down and slammed his hands on either side of her hips, leaning up into her face. He smelled of his spiced soap and the expensive scotch he’d been drinking at dinner. He smelled like… like home. “I know you’re wearing them.”

Oh. He wanted to play did he? Raven let one shoe drop to the floor, her eyes soft as she met his stare. “Mm?”

“Show them to me, minx.”

Right. Don’t poke the bear. Heat filled her stomach and she shivered, letting her other shoe drop to the floor with a loud clatter. She was playing with fire, and they both knew it. Damian only called her minx when she was about to be fucked so hard she wouldn’t walk straight for a week. Her thighs clenched together and she realized she probably should have worn real underwear, instead of this useless scrap of a lace thong. 

“Show them to me.” Damian’s voice was a demanding growl and he dipped two fingers into the icing on the cake. 

Slowly, almost as if she was performing a show for him, Raven lifted the hem of her dress - one scant inch at a time. It did nothing to cool her down, and whatever sense of control she thought she had would be dissolved the moment he put his hands on her. Gods. She was so desperate right now - so hot that if Damian even looked at her, she was going to come. The hem of her dress finally reached just above her knees, and she leaned back on the black marble of their counters, looking at him through half-closed eyes. It was an invitation, and he knew it.

Raven took her foot and slid it up the inside of his thigh, her toes just barely brushing the underside of what seemed to be a very painful erection. A part of her wondered how long he’d been trying to keep that under control. Probably since this morning, when she had kicked him out of their bedroom to get dressed for the ceremony. 

Damian cursed in no less than three languages before he grabbed the hem of her skirt, and shoved it the rest of the way up to her waist. It was almost comforting to know that he was just as far gone as she was, and that he was going to shatter in the same way. Raven shifted and spread her legs wide, showing the white lace underwear, decorated with little, pale-blue bows. A soft blush darkened her cheeks, hoping he didn’t notice. She was utterly soaked, and it would have been embarrassing, except Damian was licking his lips as though he had caught prey he was about to devour.

Oh, heavens. 

His fingers, still coated with the most delicious icing on the east coast, slid along the inside of her thigh, leaving a pale-white smear against her skin. He lifted his eyes to her own, and his other hand slid down the back of her thigh, teasing at the seam of her stockings. 

“Did you wear them for a special occasion?” He snapped the lace nylon against her thigh and leaned down to lap up a streak of white icing, humming in appreciation. “You know how I feel about these in particular.”

“I would say getting married to the love of my life counts as a special occasion.” Raven was embarrassed at how weak her voice sounded, but the second pass of his tongue along her thigh made her bury her shame. This felt too good to even think about her fears. He was going to set her whole body on fire, and there would be nothing left but ashes. But… it would be worth it. 

“The love of your life?” He pushed the heavy fabric of her dress out of the way and looked into her eyes. His expression softened for a moment, and he nuzzled the crease of her hip, whispering something like a prayer into her skin. “Good to know.”

Damian kissed back down to her underwear catching the delicate lace in his teeth and pulling, letting it snap back against her skin. Another wave of heat filled her body, and Raven whimpered, her head falling back against the marble with a soft sigh. It already felt like she was primed to go off in a show of fireworks, and she spread her legs even wider in invitation. He probably got the hint, but he was drawing out the anticipation until she submitted to his every whim. 

“Ah… habibti.” 

Raven moaned, her back arching off the counter as her breaths threatened to rip the seams from her dress. She felt the heat of his breath through the wet satin of her underwear and shifted her hips, needing something to get her somewhere.

“Damian…” Her voice was nothing less than a whine. “Please.”

 He smirked and leaned back, dipping a finger back into the icing of their wedding cake. “Open up.” He held his fingertip up to her mouth, and Raven ran the tip of her tongue along the length of his hand, dipping into the crease of his palm before sucking on his fingertip. The sweetness of the icing mixed with a flavor that was distinctly Damian exploded over her tongue, and she barely contained a moan as she drew his finger deeper into her mouth. She curled her tongue around him, and without realizing what she was doing, her own hand crept between her legs, pushing her panties to the side. 

“Oh?” Damian pulled his finger from her mouth and dipped two of them back into the icing again.

Raven lapped her tongue against his fingers, her eyes closing as her own fingers circled her clit. Ah. Yes. She drew a finger into her mouth, moaning with every pass of her own hand against her clit. 

“You’re a mess, my love.” Damian’s voice was a rough whisper, rumbling against her skin like a promise of sin. “You should see your pretty little pussy. Soaking, dripping.” He leaned over her and licked up her neck, nibbling along her throat. He caught the thin gold chain of her necklace between his teeth and pulled at it. “You look more delicious than our cake.”

She could feel her orgasm start just under her belly button, and she sucked harder on Damian’s fingers, practically riding her own hand. Damian sucked hard on her neck, likely leaving a mark, before he muttered low encouraging phrases into her ear. 

“Yes, my love. Come. Come hard. All over your hands. Let me lick you clean. Taste you.” 

Raven was shuddering, her mouth falling open as-

“Ah. Yes, my wife.” 

She was ashamed to admit that Damian calling her his wife was what tipped her over the edge. Raven’s fingers were a blur as she finished herself off, letting the orgasm slip into her veins and consume her with warm, gentle fire. Her back arched off the counter again and she let go of a whine, muffled by Damian’s fingers held tight with her teeth. He groaned against her neck, and Raven could feel him give a few halfhearted thrusts against her thigh, as if he was trying to stave off his own desires. It was too much, and somehow not enough, and she just let herself float as wave after wave of please drowned her. 

Damian waited until her breath stilled and her heart returned to normal before speaking again. “I wasn’t expecting a show on our wedding night.” 

She sighed, letting the pleasant aftershocks ease through her whole body. A few moments passed in silence before she finally opened her eyes again, looking up into Damian’s curious expression. He let go of a low chuckle and stepped back, looking far too smug and far handsome in his suit. He stood there and watched her for a moment, until Raven wiggled off the counter. The moment her feet hit the floor she began unfastening the row of buttons running down her spine. With a quiet whoosh, the dress fell around her ankles, and she stood in their kitchen in nothing more than white lace, and those very specific stockings. 

Damian watched her, looking like his own control was barely holding on by a thread. A tense silence settled over them, and he grabbed the cake box, shoving the bottle of champagne in her hands. 

“Bedroom.”

Raven sauntered ahead of him, letting her hips sway just a little as she felt his stare trace the outline of her practically bare ass. She glanced over her shoulder, offering a coquettish smile.

“Now, my wife.”