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roseykat · 7 months

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KINKTOBER DAY 9

TITLE: Don't bite the hand that feeds you

PAIRING: Seungmin x reader

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won't be able to regulate every single interaction with those posts so please do not engage with my work and page whatsoever.

SUMMARY: Featuring Seungmin as your lecturer's student assistant who runs your tutorials and possesses just as harsh a personality as he fucks.

TAGS: Mean tutor Seungmin, oral sex (f!reader receiving), unprotected sex, public sex, swearing.

KINK: Freelance

KINKTOBER23 - MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @kbitties @luneskies @mal-lunar-28 @kibs-and-bits @aaasia111 @fairy-lixie @dreamingaboutjisung @queenmea604

A/N: this is for all the Seungmin stans out there x

There isn’t any way to work around a more stubborn person. People that you’ve met before don’t even come close to the level of arrogance that this person carries with them. That person being one of your tutors for a class at Uni, Seungmin. For some reason, he always has the time of day to help other people but has an issue with your supposed incompetence in completing a task when it comes to you.

Seungmin never checks your work, never goes over your answers, discusses your ideas or anything like that. He has a very prickly attitude yet only those needles are only for you. You see the sigh he lets out whenever you need to approach him to clarify something he went over during the tutorial. You see the crease between his eyebrows as the annoyance grows when you ask if he can read a draft of yours before you submit it.

He never does that with other students. Seungmin is happy to help them, makes conversation with them before class, and always seems to have time for them.

The difference in his behaviour towards you definitely placed an unnecessary burden on your shoulders. But you’re not one to budge. Whether his intentions are malicious or not, you’re not exactly an easy one to crack, which is why you continued to supposedly ‘bother’ him.

“Hey,” you approach him after one of his tutorials, hoping you used a good enough manner to not light a fire under his seat. “Would you be able to check this for me?”

Seungmin furrows his eyebrows - not a good sign, and averts his eyes from the whiteboard to look at your paper, “I can’t help you with that.”

“And why is that?” You question. “You had no trouble looking at everyone else’s. How’s mine any different?”

“Judging from your grades, I’d suspect there would be a lot of differences,” he responds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment since I’m one of the top in the class thank you,” you scoff.

“And one of the top most arrogant too,” Seungmin fires back. “If you haven’t got anything relevant to show me, I suggest you leave. The next tutorial group starts in twenty minutes.”

Your face contorts slightly, “well since this isn’t relevant enough for you, is it possible for you to check over one of the drafts we have to send in on Friday?”

“Can’t do that either-“

“Then what can you do exactly?” You cut him off impatiently. “Seriously, I’ve been trying to ask you for help for the past two weeks and you’ve only ever given me vague answers to my questions and you won’t proofread any of my work which is what you’re here to do.”

Seungmin takes off his glasses and closes the distance between himself and you, “I don’t help out entitled people like you who always demand things.”

You glare up at him, “I’m not entitled. I was just merely commenting about the fact that you don’t do what you’re being paid to do.”

“And you just keep proving my point as to why you are entitled, because you don’t shut up and you always complain. After every tutorial, you come up to me and ask me for something.”

“Yeah, just like everyone else and yet, I don’t see you giving the same shit to them as you do to me,” you argue right back with him.

“That’s because you expect things to be handed to you on a silver plate. Unlike them, you don’t work for your shit with me,” Seungmin responds, placing the cap on the whiteboard marker a little bit too rough.

“Being here is me working for my shit,” you press back. “You’re just being a stubborn ass because you don’t like me.”

“Well you’re right with one thing,” he sighs.

You roll your eyes and scoff, “fuck you honestly.”

It took a lot of effort not to just shove Seungmin out of your way as you headed out the door with a fresh stormy cloud looming over your head. Felix could spot it a mile away when you went to meet up with him for lunch nearby after his class too.

“What’s wrong?” He asks carefully, studying the pained expression on your face.

“Nothing,” you sigh, trying to let it go. “Just one of my stupid tutors.”

“Is this the same one that isn’t doing his job properly?” Felix questions, remembering the conversation you both had about him a while back.

“Bingo.”

“You know, he’s probably dealing with things in the background that you don’t know about,” Felix points out, his habit of always giving people the benefit of the doubt starting to shine through.

“Yeah, pretty sure he’s dealing with ‘absolute fucking dickhead disorder’,” you spit. “And even if he was - even if the worst is happening to him, he has no right to be taking out his anger or frustration on me.”

Felix sports a disappointed look on his face, “is it just you, or are there others?”

“It’s just me, I swear.”

“Okay, I believe you,” Felix assures. “If he really is as bad as you say he is, maybe just ignore him. We’ve only got seven weeks left, that’s not too long until you can get away from him, yeah?”

It was easier said than done, because the next round of tutorials that approached in the following week, opened up that fresh wound of just seeing Seungmin’s face and dreading it. All of Felix’s advice went out the gate, almost like it was never there in the first place.

In the end, you simply chose not to speak. What’s the point in arguing with a person who won’t move?

So right after the tutorial, you don’t bother darting straight to Seungmin and asking for his help. He’s not willing to give it to you so there’s no point in lingering behind. As you pack your things up from the table and start to head out, Seungmin peers at you from behind the glasses that you so badly want to knock off his face sometimes.

He’s not entirely stumped that you haven’t approached him, but he is a bit intrigued. Maybe he had come across too strongly with you the other day - maybe within the past month without being of any help to you at all. Then again, Seungmin isn’t the most apologetic of people.

“Surprised you’re not asking me to check anything for you,” he projects his voice to you just before you leave the class.

You heard him on your way out, but what’s a retaliation going to do? Only add fuel to your own fire. Seungmin isn’t the one who’s got something to lose here. He’s just a student tutor who’s clearly got enough competence to reinforce the learning you receive during lectures. At the end of the day, his grades for this class aren’t on the line. Yours are.

“Y/N,” you hear a voice call out to you, recognising it to be Felix. Caught up in the swirl of your own thoughts, you almost forgot Felix had been waiting for your tutorial to end as he sat in a row of seats against the wall.

“Hey,” you call out to him.

“So, how was it? Did you say anything to him?” He asks as you sit down beside him.

“I just gave up,” you answer. “I forgot that you can’t get your point across to dickheads so I stopped trying. I’ll just go to the other classes' tutorials if they let me switch. Or maybe I can just cross-check my work with their tutor.”

“Geez, that bad is he?”

“The fucking worst,” you confirm.

However, you weren’t surprised to learn that Seungmin’s attitude and behaviour still continued in the following tutorial, close to an essay hand-in date which is what you didn’t need. The only saving grace is that instead of going over the content that you learned in an earlier lecture, Seungmin allowed his students to study for another upcoming in-class test in the upcoming week.

You spent that time wisely working on the essay you needed to hand in since it was the first due. Then, by two o’clock, everyone started wrapping up their study session. You slot your books into your bag, zip it up, and ready to leave.

“You, come here,” Seungmin speaks in your direction, but you really don’t want to listen. At first to begin with, you were surprised he was even talking to you.

“And if I don’t?”

“Don’t be stubborn. I want to talk about your assignment,” he replies. He set his bait and waited for you to take it. So you approach him hesitantly from your chair, leaving your bag behind at the table.

“See, how hard was that?”

You roll your eyes. Not even a full conversation in and he’s already made you reach your limit, “oh go fuck yourself.”

Upon hearing your nasty sentiment, Seungmin’s hand latches quickly onto your wrist, “what did you just say?”

You look down at your arm in disbelief, then back up to him, his eyes narrowing at you, “what?”

“Say it again.”

“I said; ‘go fuck yourself.”

“Fucking brat.”

Without warning, Seungmin’s hands grasp the sides of your arms in a flash, backing you against the wall behind him. Out of nowhere, his mouth comes down and crashes against yours in a bruising kiss. There’s no time to process what’s actually going on when you start kissing him back, allowing his tongue to delve deeper into his mouth.

In the back of your mind, you can’t believe your own actions, but at the same time, pushing back on him also feels like you’re letting some of that frustration go. To take things further, Seungmin breaks away from you for a moment, turning your body by your arms, and backs you straight into the desk until your hips hit the edge.

Your first instinct tells you to lean back while your legs automatically lift so that Seungmin can slot right in, pressing his semi-hard dick against your pussy.

It gives you the opportunity to wrap your legs around his waist, trying to bring him in closer as you hope for more friction. Seungmin pins your wrists down to the desk, kissing along your jaw and down to your throat where he bites and sucks until there’s a line of future regretful hickies for you to deal with later on.

“D-Do something,” you stammer, feeling so dizzy from the pleasure that you desperately start to chase.

“Why should I?” He mumbles into your skin.

You turn your head, watching figures of people pass by through the frosted glass of the door who could potentially walk in at any given time. In saying that, a portion of you recognises that there’s something so naughty about being caught in the act.

“Please Seungmin,” you beg for him, feeding into his ego.

His head rises from your neck, “that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’.”

You didn’t care what he meant by that. All you care about is relieving that itch inside the pit of your stomach because you know that horny feeling will take a long time to dissipate. Nonetheless, Seungmin seems to listen to you when he unbuttons the first two buttons of his white dress shirt.

His fingers reach down to your jeans, unzipping them and yanking them right off your legs until you’re just left in your underwear, already soaking through. Seungmin uses the pad of his thumb to brush gently over the fabric which is sticky to the touch. It makes the corner of his mouth tug up.

“Keep quiet if you don’t want people to come in,” he warns before taking his glasses off and placing them to the side of you before kneeling down.

Your chest already starts heaving just feeling his warm breath fan across your inner thighs. The anticipation leading up to it has you clawing at the desk when Seungmin starts removing your underwear.

“Look how fucking wet you are,” he speaks from a stance of astonishment just seeing what he was able to do to you from a simple makeout session and some rough and tumble.

His comment turns you into a flustered mess that is easily shattered when Seungmin moves his mouth closer to your pussy, kissing your inner thigh and inching closer until he reaches your clit. Your back arches in an instant. One hand clasps over your mouth to stifle a loud moan at the heat of Seungmin’s mouth, the other grabs a fistful of his hair and starts tugging. He doesn’t dare hold back; sucking on your clit, lapping up at what he can to make your entire body shudder.

It never occurred to you that Seungmin is like this. You’ve always made him out to be some rich, entitled, arrogant, teacher's pet with good grades and an outstanding reputation when he goes and does shit like this – eating you out in broad daylight, in public.

Whatever rabid spirit took over Seungmin, it wasn’t stopping him. His tongue dances perfect circles and random shapes against your clit, embracing your thighs quivering shamelessly around his head.

“Oh my god, feels…feels so good,” you mutter, using every drop of energy you can to subdue the moans into whimpers.

Not even the hand you’ve been trying to use to cover your mouth is working because when Seungmin keeps building you up to that edge, you increasingly become louder. But that’s all on him for initiating this, not that you’re complaining. Not when your head is just about thrashing back behind you on the wooden surface trying to syphon all the pleasure you’re getting. It’s like rouge electricity, a live wire inside of you that has no chance of being tamed.

“Fuck, gonna make me cum,” you mumble, eyelids already fluttering. “So…good.”

Seungmin heard that as a sign to press his face further into your pussy but kept the same momentum and pace that his tongue uses to make you cum, and when you do, every ounce of pleasure pours into all the cells throughout your body. It rattles you in such a good way, that you forget how hard you’re tugging on Seungmin’s hair as he continues to eat you out through to the very end. But you managed to stay quiet – just.

Your body unstiffens and your chest heaves up and down trying to catch air. The orgasm was so massive that afterwards, you couldn’t figure out what time it was or where you were. It nearly took out every bit of consciousness you had remaining.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he rasps.

Whatever that means – not that you can articulate it as of yet. You’re still trying to grapple with reality and when Seungmin unzips his pants to free his cock, you know there’s no point in trying.

He’s big in length and has a sizeable girth. He teases you with his tip, sliding up and down from your now oversensitive clit to your drenched hole. Just feeling how wet you are makes him wonder one thing:

“Are you a virgin?” He asks.

You’re still trying to regain a bit of consciousness, only able to muster a few words at a time, “no...no I’m not.”

“I pinned it down to either that or someone hasn’t touched you in a while,” he responds. You groan at the embarrassment. Seungmin must obviously be that experienced for him to make such an observation.

“The latter. Now just hurry up and fuck me.”

“Shut up,” Seungmin snipes, even though he begins to push his cock inside of you at a terribly slow pace.

You didn’t realise how much you had been aching to have someone inside you. Your own fingers can’t seem to do the right trick of actually feeling full and satisfied. But now that Seungmin is here, slowly thrusting in until he reaches the hilt, can he make you feel that way.

“Jesus fuck,” Seungmin bites down on his lip and has to hold onto the edge of the desk beside your body for support.

He’s never felt anything like it. Even after sleeping with other women prior to you in his past, there’s something about the way you feel that isn’t like the rest. Maybe it’s from the fact that you hadn’t been touched in a while or not, either way, Seungmin can’t contain himself when he starts thrusting properly.

His cock glides in like melted butter, the lewd wet sounds making you want to hide from embarrassment. But Seungmin revels in it like it’s about to slip through his fingers like sand. So he lowers his body onto yours, resting some of his weight comfortably on you. It’s intimate yes, but it enables Seungmin to start whispering things in your ear.

“So fucking wet for me, aren’t you?” He purrs. “Such a good girl for taking all of my cock, especially for someone who hasn’t been touched in a while. Just opened up for me so easily.”

No words could ever spring to your mind in response to that, but it causes your body and mind to have a reaction you’re all too familiar with from about five minutes ago. That tingly feeling starts creeping up inside you the longer Seungmin keeps fucking you. His cock repetitively hits such a deep sweet spot that you don’t think anyone’s ever reached before.

“S-Seungmin…it feels…fuck it feels so good,” you moan right in his ear, your arms clinging to his back.

“Yeah?” He chuckles. “I bet it does with the way that you’re clenching around me.”

Seungmin just keeps finding ways to unintentionally embarrass you, but if there’s one thing that he’s learnt about you and himself, it’s that he likes seeing you so flustered. He thinks it’s cute. In saying that, he doesn’t want to get too caught up in things when the euphoria that has already built itself impossibly high starts making itself known.

Just like you, Seungmin feels too good right now. He’s doused in warmth from the heat wrapping around his cock and the way that your walls keep involuntarily clamping around him.

“S’too much…” you gasp for air, fingers digging into his clothed arms at this point. “M’gonna cum again please.”

Seungmin presses himself up away from your body but still thrusting at his same pace, “go on then. I want to see your face when you do.”

It washes over you quickly and he’s fast to clock onto the small reactions beginning to change. The only thing that doesn’t alter is the fucked-out look you have on your face. That remains all the way up until the bliss starts packing its punch. Seungmin’s hips don’t hamper your orgasm, not when he watches your eyes roll back and sees the words to describe how you’re feeling become lodged in your throat.

“Y-Yes!” you call out, your voice echoing throughout the empty classroom. Your wet walls convulse around Seungmin’s cock, clutching onto him for dear life as you cum hard.

“I suppose that’s why you cum so easily, huh?” He asks, catching his breath. “Because nobody’s been touching you? Poor thing.”

Your cheeks burn a bright red as Seungmin continues to fuck you, right up until he’s had his fill. Regardless of how overstimulated you are, he can’t stop because he’s nearly there. His hips stutter forward a few times as he chases the tail of his orgasm, getting hit with it right at the last second.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” he lowers his head, watching where his cock keeps disappearing into and listening to your whimpers. It’s all enough to tip him right over the edge and into a pool of warm euphoria. “Yes – fuck!”

With a few more grunts and thrusts, Seungmin slows right down as he cums inside you. For a split second there, his vision started to go splotchy. It reminded him of the fact that he hasn’t cum that hard in a while. In saying that, you get to bask in the warm sensation that fills your lower half.

“Shit,” he gasps, breathing heavily. In the back of his mind, something told him that he shouldn’t have done that. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you swallow, trying to dampen your dry throat. “You’re lucky I’m into that.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle and for the first time, you’ve actually seen Seungmin genuinely smile.

A/N: I’m not going to lie, I kind of want to make a part 2 to this but reader finds out that she’s pregnant lmao

#rosiewritesskz #stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #bang chan smut #han jisung smut #hyunjin smut #changbin smut #felix smut #i.n smut #bang chan x reader #felix x reader #hyunjin x reader #i.n x reader #lee know x reader #seungmin smut #seungmin x reader #changbin x reader #han jisung x reader

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agustdiv1ne · 1 year

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˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°｡2:54 p.m. — kang taehyun

genre: kinda meet cute? idk they're lab partners (as a stem major i am projecting heavily), college au

wc: 998

kang taehyun has terrible luck with lab partners.

he figures it comes with the territory — labs can be stressful, and sometimes the procedures written by the chemistry department are, at best, redundant, and, at worst, practically unintelligible. past partners have royally screwed him over by messing up the experiment halfway through, then banking on him to fix everything with the little time that is remaining. despite his annoyance, taehyun is well aware that he is not perfect; he has messed up experiments before, too, and he can easily admit that. however, unlike some of his peers (see: choi beomgyu, forensic science major), he will always clean up his own mess without anyone else’s help.

after last week’s class that only covered lab safety procedures, the first actual experiment day in his organic chemistry lab brings with it a looming sense of dread. he’s sitting outside the lab and waiting for class to begin, praying that he is not paired up with beomgyu again, not after the fiasco last semester in which he was seconds away from blowing up the science building.

within a few minutes, the lab instructor props open the door, announcing that partner pairings could be found near the fume hoods. once he walks up to the paper, he sighs, crosses his fingers, and searches for his name. directly next to his, he finds a name that he doesn’t recognize. despite this, he mentally fist pumps; anyone is better than beomgyu at this point.

“looks like we’re partners,” he hears from next to him. the finger he was using to search for his name lifts from the paper, and he swivels his head over to find you, donned in similar attire of a white coat and safety goggles, a small smile spread across your lips. you extend your arm, introducing yourself more formally. “i’m looking forward to working with you.”

“same here.” he moves to shake your outstretched hand, though he’s not sure if he means it yet, unsure of how you operate in a lab. really, it all depends on how well you work together.

“what’s your major?” you ask in an attempt to strike up conversation while you grab all of the necessary flasks and beakers and other tools required for this experiment. synthesis of aspirin — should be simple enough.

“biochem, and i’m also pre-med,” he says, before he’s asking for your own. your answer colors him shocked: you’re the same major, and on the same pre-med track? then…

“how come i’ve never seen you before?” he questions as he sets up some of the apparatus. you simply shrug in response while you finish setting up the other half. it’s impressive how quickly, how accurately, you complete it. is his bad luck finally gone? are you the lab partner that he’s been wishing for?

“i tend to keep to myself. ‘m not a fan of most people.” you’re already starting the experiment, scanning over the procedures to ensure that you’re doing everything correctly. “is the steam bath ready? the salicylic acid is all dissolved.”

“yeah, give it here.” you carefully slide it over the benchtop and he places the flask in the bath. as you wait the proper amount of time, he can’t help but ask, “am i most people?”

“i’m not sure yet. we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” and you’re almost smirking, a teasing lilt in your voice. it should be annoying after getting a total of three hours of sleep, and yet it only serves to intrigue him. you say that you don’t like people, and yet you’re basically a master at conversation; you can tease and crack jokes but still keep track of everything that is going on in front of you. it’s impressive. so far, he really likes you — in the most platonic, professional way possible, of course. you just met, and you're only lab partners. nothing more, nothing less.

the two of you work in almost perfect tandem until the experiment is finally complete, all data collected and post-lab questions already answered for the report that’s due next week. relief floods his veins the moment the two of you exit the stuffy, humid lab, stripping yourselves of your coats and groaning at the sensation of the post-experiment grime that clings to the skin of your faces. you haphazardly shove the article of clothing into your backpack, unbothered by potential wrinkles. you give him a playful salute before you’re moving to leave.

“good work, kang,” you comment, grinning tiredly as you walk backwards. you spin to face away from him and call over your shoulder, “see you in lecture!”

“actually,” he starts. you spin on your heel, a curious quirk in your brow as you stare at him. “you wanna grab some food? i’m sure you’re starving, too.”

and you’re smiling wider, and his heart is beating faster and no, he’s absolutely, positively not forming a little crush on you. he just admires your competence, the rational part of his brain supplies. you’re lab partners, completely professional, newly acquainted lab partners that barely even know each other, though he finds himself strongly hoping that you’ll say yes.

your fingers loosely grip the straps of your backpack, eyes lighting up, as you respond. “yeah, i'd like that. wanna get chick-fil-a?”

“it’s like you read my mind,” he quips, celebrating internally. “i’ve been craving that all day.”

as he falls into step next to you — the two of you complaining about the professors that you share and promising to sit next to each other and study together from now on — taehyun begins to think that luck is finally on his side.

“soooo,” he draws out, one eyebrow raised in an inquisitive expression. you glance over at him through the corner of your eye, urging him to continue with an impatient wave of your hand. “am i most people now?”

chuckling, you jostle his arm with your elbow. “nah, i think i might be able to tolerate you.”

masterlist

#txt fluff #taehyun fluff #txt x reader #taehyun x reader #txt imagines #taehyun imagines #taehyun soft hours #txt soft thoughts #txt soft hours #taehyun scenarios #txt scenarios #💌 — tyun

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watchfuldeer · 7 months

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tom, far from being a consistent logan mirror, is a culmination of everything logan loathes and deliberately so.

tom is a sensitive ivy league gen x’er constantly on the verge of tears whose only way of playing with the big boys is by clinging to their coat tails. he’s an efficiencies guy - a professional neurotic. he is not a dealmaker in the cut-throat world of business. he can schmooze, but even then not well. if logan had a dying wish, it would have been ‘not tom’.

the contrasts drawn between lukas matsson, logan’s actual chosen successor, and tom make this obvious. despite being only a year apart in age and an inch apart in height, lukas is shot as this imposing, muscled giant at home atop mountains, his bodily integrity and virility never in doubt for a moment. he has blood to spare, whole blocks of it. tom by comparison is frequently physically humiliated, shown as submissive, diminished and soft despite his broadness, and cuckolded. endlessly worried about his own masculinity, tom’s attempts to play the role of powerful (heterosexual) businessman are undercut by how badly he performs it. when his actual personality asserts itself it is as anxious and homoerotic as lukas’ is cocksure (lol) and confidently homosocial.

this anxiety is evident in the finale, when it almost undoes him completely. when logan kicked someone, it was always a test of the love his children, his partners, and his colleagues had for him. it was manipulation, sometimes even subconscious, to specifically encourage dependency. tom on the other hand does not kick just to see if someone comes back. the person we see this with most is of course greg, whom he kicks when the strain of tom performance gets too much and it bursts out of him towards greg in ways he can’t control. it’s not because greg is an easy target, but rather because he cares about greg so much. afterwards, he is capable of apologising and of trying to make genuine amends. logan is not.

tom and greg’s fight in the finale is a distillation of the problems they have post-logan’s death, typified by a fearful tom not recognising that greg is all in with him and lashing out to pre-empt what he sees as the inevitable loss of greg. by america decides, they’re on better terms, which is likely a result of tom and shiv’s huge public breakdown of communication. greg spots his opportunity and does everything possible to reassure tom, up to and including betraying shiv to kendall, that he’s on board with their partnership. yet as soon as tom is put in a position of great stress and paradoxically ego (blesses shiv and lukas - gets offered the top job) on top of a week of insomnia, he returns to his baser instincts. the lie to greg is to try and prevent the one thing that is unlikely to have happened - a betrayal - and it causes greg to betray him unwittingly.

their fight is tom’s unstoppable fury at himself meeting greg’s immoveable stubbornness. the slap heard around the world is greg at last saying you don’t get to treat me like that, because i’ve done everything for you. greg knows he could hurt tom so, so badly and always chooses not to. the sticker meanwhile is both an apology and the admission of love that greg has been searching for all season. it’s ablution, confession and contrition from tom in one, and greg’s response to it is not simple relief or thankfulness. he will always be able to come back, and tom will always have him back.

tom doesn’t treat people like logan treated people, and i would say he is fundamentally incapable of doing so. this is a distinct weakness in the world he’s in, which he’s only been able to navigate with the help and attention of greg. logan barely tolerated tom’s campiness, his mannerisms, and even his affection, and tom is very far from embodying anything that logan did as a man.

#tomgreg #tom wambsgans #greg hirsch #logan roy #succession meta #succession #somehow couldn’t find anywhere to shoehorn in dog motif #but imagine it’s there. it was just a long post already #also i didn’t talk about the differences between logan lukas and tom’s misogyny #but i have thoughts on that too !!!#meta on meta

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kid-az · 9 months

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All Tomorrows: Vanga-Vangog Stickmen Hc’s

Say hello to Vanga’s Stickmen, the descendants of the infamously tall and frail Strider’s. Unlike in canon where they would all be devoured mercilessly by giant chickens, the Stickmen’s ancestors managed to survive by climbing and living on the giant, skyscraper-like trees of their world.

Although a little less tall than the Stickmen, they are much sturdier due to needing to jumping across different trees and survive falls. They communicated visually via the rapid changing of colors and shapes of their leaf-like growths and sign language, and their culture emphasized coexistence, patience, and pacifism.

As philosophical as the Pterosapien’s yet opposite in their overall message, the Stickmen are one of the most interesting fanmade species I’ve seen yet, and I wish to post my headcanons about them like I did for the others.

-Because of their very low metabolism’s and the wonders of medicine, Stickmen were among the longest-lived posthumans in the second empire, capable of living hundreds if not over a thousand years! Friendships with other, shorter-lived species would last long after death, with the Stickmen befriending their friends children and grandchildren, giving them sagely advice and wisdom or just cheerfully, casually talking to them.

-Because of their arboreal lifestyle and pacifism, the Stickmen did not have the same domestication process as other posthumans. They did not domesticate a wolf equivalent nor any grazing animals, instead domesticating giant, eagle-sized colonial bees for honey and other byproducts, giant pigeon descendants for the harvesting of feathers, infertile eggs, and as message carriers, and even a species of giant, flying pig descendants larger than the Quetzalcoatlus, who were often used to protect these pigeons and bees from any predators. Also domesticated colonial spiders for their webs, which they used to make ropes and clothing.

-Their domesticated plants were also different. They would carefully tend their trees for the harvesting of boulder-sized fruits and tree nuts, grow mushrooms via large, house-sized stacks of logs from trees which naturally passed away, and also grow algae in vast pools of shallow water. Outside of the algae, their foodstuff was bigger due to it having naturally evolved that way.

-Due to their need of visual communication, their clothing was usually light, never covering their heads, shoulders, or forearms. Their clothes would be made from mycelium threads, feathers from their domestic pigeons, and webs from their domesticated spiders. Yes, their shirts were always off-shoulder tops, teachers hate them!

-A running theme for these Hc’s is that they never developed capitalism, and the Stickmen were no different! In fact, most of their goods were handmade, carefully and delicately made over weeks or months to be as high of quality as possible, and gifted to close friends and family. Only absolute necessities such as medication, infrastructure, and purified water would not be homemade, and it would still be a careful process that emphasized the lack of harm to anyone, both their own and other species.

-This included movies and videogames, with practically zero in the way of crunch or abuse. The former of which would last hours if not days, and the latter would often resemble that of animal crossing, a tactical rpg ala Fire Emblem, or literally just Minecraft! No joke, they remade Minecraft on complete accident!

-Their art was primarily that of tattoos and body modifications to distinctive themselves, large-scale land art made from specially grown plants, fungi, stones, or non-toxic paint, meant to be appreciated fully from the top of treetops or skyscrapers, and gardens that allow for peaceful meditation. They had little music however, as sound travelled poorly in their world.

-They are one of the four founding species of the Second empire, along with the Satyriacs, Killer Folk, and Rot Eaters. They were stereotyped as spaced-out, yet extremely wise and peaceful, thought of as the mediators of the other 3 species. This, of course, was a stereotype, one that many Stickmen found a little insulting.

-Because of a culture emphasizing patience and the fact high gravity worlds would kill them, they decided on the extinct Lopsider’s idea of creating an artificial race to colonize the stars. Unlike with the Asymmetric’s however, it wasn’t a rash, cold-hearted process meant to create slaves to do dangerous, dirty work for them, but instead a slow, caring process that would go into the centuries, meant to be sure the Stickmen’s descendant species would have lives much better than their own, not struggle in the colonization of new planets, and modified to be superior in every way outside of height. (A given due to square-cube law) These people would be allowed to live free, independent lives from their parent species, and would pick a name for themselves. This name? The Sproutlings.

#all tomorrows #all tomorrows strider #strider #stickmen #cm kosemen #nemo ramjet #posthuman #headcanons #worldbuilding

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havendance · 2 years

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Tim joins the family early/Jason Todd never dies fic

I figured since I’m coming up on nearly a year of reading far to much batman fanfic, I might as well share some it with the rest of y’all. Doing this by trope because I was in the mood a week ago when I was tracking all of these down. Anyway, if you got any favorites in this genre that aren’t on this list, add them on! I’m always looking for more good fic to read.

Latchkey by goldkirk

55k, complete. This fic is one of those fandom classics and one of those central touchpoints for the genre. I don’t know enough to say for certain but anecdotally, I’ve seen a lot of fics drawing on it’s combination of baby-stalker!Tim, Tim befriending the Waynes, and getting adopted.

5 Times Tim Spends the Night at Wayne Manor + 1 Time He Comes Home by motleyfam

50k, complete. What it says on the tin. If you like sickfic, this is the one for you. Tim manages to get himself sick and/or injured in just about every chapter of this baby.

Belonged Here All Along by Raberba girl

25k, wip but the main story’s complete. Tim bluffs/gaslights his way into getting the bats to adopt him.

birds fly in every direction by distracted_dragon

170k, wip. Plotwise, in broad strokes this was inspired by and is pretty similar to Latchkey. You’ve got your baby-stalker!Tim, Tim befriending the Waynes, and Tim getting adopted. It does put it’s own spin on everything though and is definitely worth checking out!

Brother Wanted by Vamillepudding

10k, complete. A 13 year-old Jason does his level best to adopted a 10 year-old Tim after Tim puts an ad in the paper for a big brother.

Like a Hinge, Like a Wing by Ultrageekatlarge

25k, wip. As of the time of the post, this fic is still updating on a regular basis so the stats will probably become outdated sooner rather than later. Anyway, Jason doesn’t die, but Tim’s parents do and the family member who gets custody of him afterwards is slowly murdering him so Tim goes to the bats for help.

In this Town We Call Home by Vamillepudding

20k, complete. You’ve got your standard mix of baby-stalker!Tim, Tim befriending the Waynes, and adoption now with the added spice that the Drakes used Batman as a boogeyman and now Tim is kind of scared of Batman. Robin’s fine though!

On the Way Home by ignesfatuis

130k, complete. This one’s a little different than the rest of the fics in this list in that rather than taking place in a vaguely canon-ish universe, it takes place in a AU where there are wolf-shifters. Tim gets kidnapped, stuck in his wolf form, and is eventually rescued by the bats (who are also wolf-shifters).

Runaway Robin by DangerBeckett

10k, complete. Robin!Jason keeps running into baby-stalker!Tim on the roofs of Gotham. Very funny.

The Power of Family and this Stalker I found by JackHawksmoor

25k, wip. Technically, Jason did die in this one, he just came back at the earliest possible opportunity. Anyway, we’ve got baby-stalker Tim, we’ve got a Tim & Jason friendship, we’ve got a Dick and Bruce who’re dancing around each other and majorly miscommunicating. In other words, we’ve got all the good stuff.

These Were their Crimes by Moe64

55k, complete. Unlike most of the works on this list, I haven’t finished reading this one yet, but from what I’ve read so far, it’s good! Jason doesn’t die, but Tim’s parents still do and now Tim and Step wander around Gotham at night to fight crime (Tim doing more of like a stalker/detective thing).

Tim Pennyworth by April_Ace

10k, wip. Tim becomes Alfred’s foster child during Jason’s robin career. While this fic hasn’t been updated in a couple years, what there is now stands on it’s own quite well.

two against the world by carolinaa

35k, complete. Tim adopts a dog while out being a baby-stalker. Things escalate from there.

Fics that don’t quite fit the brief but that I still really like:

If I’m being honest, what goes on the main list or not is based almost solely off of vibes. Take that as you will.

Fairy Godbrother by envysparkler

30k, complete. The Tim joining the family early component of this is mainly in chapter 2, and is part of a larger plot where just about all the robins join the family early due to meddling from another dimension.

Surveillance by smilebackwards

7k, complete. Jason doesn’t die, and at the time this fic starts, Tim is seventeen, running around as a teenage stalker, and picking fights with Lex Luthor until he ends up tangled up in the Batfamily. Not on the main list mainly because Tim is nearly an adult.

The Man and The Nothing by Souliebird

5k, complete. 10 year old tim is being haunted by… something, and is just not doing well in general, so he goes to Batman for help.

#tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #fanfic recs #batman fanfic rec #batfam #I've got a couple more of these in the works #so hopefully you'll be seeing more like this #my fic rec lists #carthago delenda est #dc #bats + birds + affiliated #tim tag

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blue-bujo · 5 months

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Bowled Over (Roy Kent x Reader): Chapter Eight

You work at a bowling alley and a young girl named Phoebe has a birthday party there. You catch her uncle's eye.

Roy Kent x female reader

Will try to update roughly every two weeks

Chapter Eight: Roy Kent, Baby Whisperer

(7.2k words)

Warnings: Roy Kent-level language (you know what you're in for), insecurity, mentions of sex, tooth-rotting fluff

Summary: Roy takes a big step and asks you to come to a team dinner at Ola’s, where you get to properly meet the greyhounds and their families.

Author's note: Buckle in for a long one! This is to tide you over, because I probably won't be posting a new chapter in January; we've got family birthdays three out of the four weekends, so I don't want to stress about getting something out in time. Happy New Year, and I'll see you with a new chapter in a month!

You had great fun driving Roy’s SUV for the next few weeks. It was large and expensive, so people tended to give it a wide berth. And since you didn’t have to walk to work, you were getting to sleep a bit later, which was doing wonders for you.

It was amazing that Roy let you use the Beast without any hesitation, that he trusted you that much. That he wanted to spend time with you, and keep you around, and know you deeper. Things were going very well between the two of you.

Lettie was completely invested. She wanted to know every single detail, and had done her homework on Roy once you’d revealed that he was a public figure. She’d questioned every single text and phone call that made you smile during a shift, demanding to know exactly how Roy was treating you right. You’d even caught her telling the other members of staff that you were dating “a football legend.”

Roy had gotten a kick out of that when you’d told him one date night. It was at your favorite restaurant, a little hole-in-the-wall Italian place where he was unlikely to be spotted by paparazzi. Rumors were starting to swirl that he had a “mystery girl,” which both thrilled and terrified you, but thankfully no pictures had been sneakily snapped. Yet. You were still able to enjoy your anonymity, laughing and twirling pasta with the man you’d been lucky enough to meet while you worked his niece’s birthday party.

“So let me understand this, she tried to tell Snack Bar James that he’d forever missed out on catching you because now your standards are too high for the likes of him?” Roy’s eyes were crinkled at the edges as he tried not to grin.

“Pretty much,” you laughed. “I think we were both relieved. Lettie’s been trying to set us up for the entire year he’s worked with us, but he’s obviously more interested in Ashley in the pro shop.”

“Still, that Lettie’s a fuckin’ savage,” said Roy, respect heavy in his gruff voice. Then he took a bite of his chicken parmesan and sighed happily, looking at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing. Just- this is nice. Us. I’ve been enjoying myself.”

“That’s good to know, considering we haven’t really done anything. What with your knee and everything.”

You both glanced down to the offending appendage in its articulating brace. Roy would hopefully get the okay from physio the following week to begin putting weight back onto it and using it more normally, but you were enjoying being the chauffer for now. It leant itself to quiet days in, calm conversations and movie nights snuggled on the couch, sometimes with Phoebe as well. It was hardly any different from your quiet existence before, except you weren’t lonely anymore.

“You’re kidding about doing nothing, right?” The man put down his fork and trained his gaze on you. It was one of the things about him that you loved best; he made sure that those around him felt seen. “This isn’t nothing, it’s fucking everything. I get to be a normal bloke with you, hearing the petty gossip of normal people. I haven’t had this in pretty much my entire adult life. I love this.”

He paused, his mouth open like he wanted to continue the thought. Like he might want to say that he loved you, but he didn’t say anything more. It disappointed you more than you expected; you realized that you maybe cared more deeply for him than you thought. Maybe you loved him.

A grunt jolted you out of your thoughts. Roy was looking at you tensely.

“I just fucked that up. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

And it was you were confused by your own feelings, so it was okay that he was taking responsibility for acting on his. He reached for your hand and held it tight.

“I’m an idiot. I know. Can I make it up to you?”

Your attention piqued, you nodded. “Yes, you can. How are you making it up to me?”

You watched as he took a breath, sat up a little taller, and asked, “Come to a family dinner with me?”

“A family dinner?”

“Well, we call them family dinners. Sam started it. It’s really a team dinner.”

Up to now, Roy had kept his football life separate from his dating life. You were excited that he seemed ready for his circles to start converging.

“Are you really sure you want me to come?” you asked. “That’s a big step, Roy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. The boys have a pool going on why my mood’s been so abnormal, and I’d love to prove them all wrong. They think it’s because I’m on painkillers or some shit.”

“Didn’t you tell them that you’re not taking anything stronger than Tylenol?”

“Of course I fucking did, but they didn’t believe me. What do you say? Want to help me prove them wrong?”

“I would love to help you prove them wrong, but only if I get a cut of the pool,” you giggled. “Considering I’m the cause of it, I deserve it.”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Fine, you get a cut of the winnings if you can convince any of those idiots to share with you. Happy?”

“Yes, very.”

“Fuckin’ right.”

The two of you smiled at each other over your pastas. You were happy, even more so that he wanted you to start meeting his team. He’d been very protective of them, and of you, and you suspected of himself in keeping his worlds apart. You could understand it; it was always more comfortable keeping things in their separate placed. But you were pretty excited that he deemed you worthy of introducing into another part of his life.

“What are team dinners like?” you inquired. Then you took a large bite of your dinner so he’d have to say more than two words.

“They’re fine,” grumbled the man in response. “Once a month we all go to Ola’s, and Sam has us try some new Nigerian dish he’s thinking about putting on the menu. Richard brings wine, because he’s fucking French, and the lads destroy a week’s worth of training with how much they eat. It’s nothing fancy. People bring dates if they’ve got any.”

“But not Roy Kent,” you pointed out. “The day he brings a date will be one for the books.”

“Hmm.”

If it was possible for a man to look nervous while eating chicken parm, Roy was doing it as he thought about bringing a girl to a team function. You smiled reassuringly at him and tapped his foot under the table with yours.

“It’ll be great. I’ve already met them anyway, so now it will just be a reintroduction, which is much less awkward,” you promised. “I’ve been meaning to catch Jamie for a few weeks now.”

“Why?”

“To thank him for chauffeuring you around on the days I work! He must really like you for him to do that, and I need to thank him for being good to you.”

Roy could obviously tell that you were trying to push his buttons, but took the bait all the same. “The only thing he is to me is a prick. Please don’t encourage him. He’s been trying to corner me in the car park for the past two weeks to see who’s been dropping me off. I’m trying to protect you from him for as long as possible.”

His logic made no sense. “By inviting me to meet him and the rest of your idiots?”

“Beat ‘em to the punch,” he said. “We do it on my terms instead of theirs, so I control the conversation. It’s tactics, just like on the pitch.”

You threw one last jab. “I thought Nate was the tactics man?”

Those expressive eyebrows scrunched down. “Fuck you, babe.”

You finished your meals, ordered dessert, and ended your date night. After dropping Roy off at his house, you went home to your flat. You fell asleep thinking about the team dinner, three nights away, and how lucky you felt to be getting more serious with the man who insisted he didn’t care about it but obviously wanted you to go with him. The man who wanted you.

The day of the team dinner, you pulled up to Nelson Road early. You and Roy had decided that it would be easier for both of you to be the first to the restaurant and have the attention spread out, rather than arrive together later and be bombarded by the entire team at once. You’d thought you’d timed it so that nobody would see you idling in the parking lot, but after a moment, you realized there was someone in the Aston Martin parked next to you.

It was Jamie Tartt, and he was sitting in the passenger seat of his own car waiting for you to notice him. Once you did, he hopped out and motioned for you to roll down the window.

“And what are you doin’ in Coach’s car?”

“Driving,” you quipped.

“Driving Coach’s car?” the man probed. “When Coach just so happens to have someone driving him around while his knee is unusable? And when there are rumors that he’s got a girl?”

You did your best to keep your face neutral. “I know, it’s quite a coincidence, but stranger things have happened. Coach Kent and I just happen to have the same taste in cars.”

It wasn’t a lie, just not wholly the truth. Now that you had driven the Beast for a while, you loved it. Jamie eyed you good naturedly and didn’t say anything else, content to lean in the window. You could see why Roy found him annoying at times, but also why he would probably die for him. His manner was so casual that he was completely disarming.

“What are you doing here, Jamie?” you questioned. “No one else is here, so training can’t be done yet.”

“Me? Nothin’. Just forgot me headband.”

Your eyes darted to the elastic currently holding back his floppy hair. Strands were flying away; it had obviously been there for a while. You raised an eyebrow to let him know you weren’t fooled by his lie.

He shrugged. “All right, you caught meh. I’ve been trying to catch Coach’s driver for weeks, but haven’t managed it until today. I was hoping the rumors were true about our old man finding a girlfriend, and I’m really glad it’s you.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because it’s right, innit? He hasn’t looked at anybody the way he looked at you at the bowling alley. Not since Keeley, and that look was different.”

Keeley. The model, and previous girlfriend. You felt extremely insecure every time you thought about her with Roy, despite his insistence that you didn’t need to. “I don’t know about that. Keeley’s famous.”

With a scoff, Jamie challenged, “And do you think that matters to Granddad? He only does what he’s sure of. Anyways, he’ll be out soon, and I don’t want him to see me out here. I told him I were being sick so he wouldn’t ask any questions. Are you coming to family dinner tonight?”

Nodding, you replied, “Yes, but it’s a secret. You can’t tell the team. It’s going to be a surprise.”

“I won’t tell, swear down.” He started bouncing back and forth between both feet. “I better get back inside. I’ll see you tonight!”

“You sure will. Oh, and Jamie!” you called as he jogged away.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for driving Roy on the days I can’t. We both appreciate it, even if he’s too tough to say anything.”

Jamie grew two inches taller under your praise. He pointed at you and smiled. “Oh, he definitely needs to keep you around. See yah, Splits!”

The young man bounced back into the stadium, leaving you to wait for Roy. You didn’t see the prick in Jamie the way Roy had described him to you, but then, you weren’t in charge of him. You supposed somebody that chipper could be a bit of a handful. But you were pleased; the first interaction with somebody know you were the girlfriend had gone well, and the information hadn’t even been a surprise. It boded well for tonight.

Roy was upstairs; you could hear the steady thumping of his crutches as he got ready for the dinner. He’d finally mastered navigating the stairs, thank goodness, so you didn’t feel the need to run back and forth grabbing clothes and toiletries for him. This gave you time to do your makeup. Admittedly, you didn’t need long, as you were pretty minimal when it came to painting your face, but you were nervous, and kept messing it up.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t met the team before, and your conversation with Jamie had gone well earlier today, but tonight was your public debut as Roy Kent’s girlfriend. After tonight, there was no going back. There would probably even be press hiding somewhere, waiting to be the first to confirm the news that Roy was seeing somebody new.

“What’re you doing? You’re staring into space?”

Roy’s gruff voice startled you, and you almost stabbed yourself with your mascara wand. You hadn’t heard him come downstairs, but his reflection in the mirror was leaning on the doorframe, like he’d been watching you for a little bit, his face soft.

“You are so quiet when you want to be, it’s scary,” you scolded, turning to face him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be scary; it just happens.” He looked at you, a small smile curving his lips. “You look great.”

With a scoff, you told him “I look okay at best. I’m not done yet.”

Roy stepped closer and looked you up and down carefully. “No, you look done and you look incredible. Don’t change one thing. What the fuck has you so freaked out?”

“After tonight, there’s no hiding,” you said in a small voice. “If I make a bad first impression, or a photographer gets a picture of me mid-sneeze, or choking on my food or something, that’s it. I will forever be the idiot that you took pity on.”

“No, you’ll be the young and beautiful date of a washed-up old has-been.” Roy kissed the top of your head. “The team will go easy on you. Its me they’ll be fucking with.”

You looked up at him, hovering above your hair. “Do you promise?”

“I promise. Now finish up, so we can get going. I want to beat everyone there.”

“Okay. I’ll be out in a minute,” you said, turning back to the bathroom mirror. Roy’s reflection swung away on its crutches, and you quickly put on the rest of your mascara before pulling the green sweater over your head and doing your hair. When you walked into the living room a few minutes later, Roy was gazing up at you with the look that Phoebe called his heart eyes.

“Is that the same jumper you wore on our first date?” he asked.

“Yeah. I remember you liked it, but I don’t have to wear it if it’s not right.”

“It’s perfect,” said Roy fondly. “They’ll all love you.”

You both walked to the car, and Roy put on his cheesy pump-up playlist for you. It only got through a few songs before you arrived at Ola’s, but it had the desired effect, and you were less anxious about the impending ordeal.

Roy was looking around as you parked the Beast. “I don’t see any of their cards,” he grunted. “Let’s get inside while we’re still in the fucking clear.” He reached toward you and squeezed your hand. “Ready?”

Squeezing back, you braced yourself and hopped out. Sam Obisanya’s restaurant, Ola’s, was a cute little corner unit deeper than it was wide. Airy curtains obscured most of the dining room from outside view, but you could see inside enough to know that you and Roy were the first ones there, as planned. Two people were bustling in the back when you opened the door for Roy, and while one ducked into the kitchen, the other approached.

“Coach!” called Sam, smiling widely. “Welcome! I’m so glad you could make it, although we’re not quite ready for everyone yet.”

Roy was obscuring you from Sam’s view while you followed him in. “Wanted to make sure that the close parking spots would be open, so we came early.” Your boyfriend stepped to the side as he said “we,” and pulled you to him.

Only for a moment, Sam faltered, then his eyes lit up as he recognized you, and realized the rumor about his coach was true.

“You’re the lady from the bowling alley!”

“Guity,” you chuckled, extending a hand to properly introduce yourself, but before you could do that, Sam took it in both of his and shook it warmly.

“I am so very glad that you are here, and that you are with Roy! What is your name?”

Roy introduced you before you could respond, and the sheer amount of pride in his voice made your heart melt a bit. He was acting like he didn’t deserve to be on your arm, not the other way around. And he was smiling, unashamedly.

“I am so glad to officially meet you,” beamed Sam, “and so glad that Coach gets to be with someone so lovely. I do hope that you enjoy yourself tonight.”

“I’m sure I will. Thank you, Sam. If the food is as good as the restaurant looks, I’m in for a treat.”

“Do you want to sit down, babe?” Roy gestured to a table in the corner, out of view of the door.

After a last smile at Sam, you joined Roy. He practically threw himself into a chair, and then carefully stretched his knee out onto one of the extra seats.

“That didn’t go so badly, as far as introductions go,” you told him.

The man grunted. “Sam is the golden child of the team. I wasn’t worried about him. It’s the other ones that’ll be idiots about it.”

The other ones showed up shortly thereafter. From your corner, you and Roy watched the team slowly trickle in. Coach Shelley and his fiancée were the earliest, and both lit up when their gazes settled on you. Jade planted herself next to you and told you how happy she was that there would be another girl there to talk to when Roy and Nate inevitably started talking tactics. You liked Jade; she could hold her own.

Some of the second team came in next. They all greeted you warmly, and heaped verbal abuse on Roy for taking so long to settle down. One of them, Paul, was the oldest on the team since Roy’s retirement, and promised you a few stories of their time playing together before his daughter pulled him away.

The defenders and midfielders arrived together, minus Jan Maas, who was apparently late to everything. Isaac McAdoo shook your hand seriously.

“He’s good to you, yeah?” he asked.

“Of course I’m fucking good to her!” Roy spluttered. “You’ve known me for years!”

“It’s always the ones you think you know,” Isaac said darkly. He looked you in the eye, still holding your hand. “If he ever stops being good to you, you call me and I’ll fuck him up for you. You’re at a family dinner, so you’re one of us now.”

“I’ll let you know if that ever happens,” you promised, trying your hardest not to laugh at how Roy was gripping one of his crutches like he was going to hit Isaac with it. The captain wisely moved out of reach before that could happen.

Most of the team didn’t seem all that surprised to see you. You saw a few bank notes changing hands throughout the course of the night, but everyone was more or less calm about you being there. Roy even halfway relaxed, until Jamie came in with Jan Maas in tow.

“The dinner can start now, ‘cos the party’s arrived!” he called as he came in, arms wide. “Splits! What are you doing here?”

Jamie was acting like your parking lot conversation had never happened. He plopped down next to Roy and stared at him cheekily. “Coach, I’m surprised at yah. Keeping a lovely lady all to yourself? Not cool.”

“And why should I have to share every fucking detail of my life with a prick like you? You’d only make a huge deal out of it and lord it over the whole team that you knew something about me that no one else did, and then no one would leave me the fuck alone.”

“Roy,” you interrupted, sensing that the rant would have been a long one, “Jamie already knows. He saw me driving your car when I came to pick you up.”

Eyes narrowing, Roy could only growl. You and Jamie grinned at each other.

“I think it’s great, man. You needed some happiness in your life, and she seems to be giving it to you. We all knew something was going right for you, and it definitely wasn’t your knee.”

Your boyfriend’s nostrils flared once, but then he looked at you and softened, just the slightest bit.

“All right, fair enough,” he admitted. “Life isn’t terrible right now, even with my shit knee.”

“She must be special, to make you that happy. You aren’t having any sex right now with your knee like that,” deadpanned Jan Maas.

There were shouts. Half the team jumped out of their chairs anticipating a fight. You reached out to grab Roy’s shoulder, as did Jamie, you noticed. Bad knee or not, you wouldn’t put it past Roy to lunge at the taller man after a comment like that. He had already grabbed one of his crutches and was brandishing it like a club.

Coach Shelley was talking the team, and the dutchman, down. “That was uncalled-for, even for you, Jan. There are ladies present.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Coach. I can handle it,” Colin Hughes joked. It made everyone else relax, but Roy was still furious.

“I’ll kill him. I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill him.” His growl certainly sounded murderous. “Embarrassing you like that.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you liked. “You told me he could be rude.”

Jamie shook his head disapprovingly. “Rude and Dutch. That was mental. He’s lucky our old man here is laid up.”

“I could still kick his ass, just let go of me!”

“How about some dinner?” Sam shouted over the din in his dining room. “Simi and I have some new dishes for you all to try.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the Beards?” someone from second team asked.

“Who knows when they’ll show up?” someone else called sarcastically. “Queenie probably pitched another fir, and they’re never on time anyway.”

You looked to Roy. “Queenie?”

A growl; Roy seemed incapable of speech as he glared at Jan Maas. Jamie answered your question.

“Coach Beard’s daughter. They named her after the chess piece. Poor babeh hasn’t forgiven them for it. She’s always screaming.”

A few of the men loudly agreed that dinner should be served before Coach Beard and his family arrived so everyone else would be able to eat in peace. You weren’t sure that any team function could be considered “peaceful,” but agreed that dinner shouldn’t wait. Sam and his chef Simi – you couldn’t figure out whether they were dating or not – brought out countless platters of delicious food, and you all dug in. With every bite, you found yourself falling in love with Nigerian cuisine. Even Roy’s bad mood couldn’t stand up to it, and soon he was listening intently to the conversations around him, his hand on your knee under the table.

You quickly learned that not many people kept to one seat. Higgins and O’Brien found their way to your table to learn more about bowling from you, and you spent an enjoyable few minutes talking strategies, moreso for O’Brien’s benefit than Higgins’. The reserve keeper had enjoyed the team bowling night so much that he was considering joining a league. You would have been happy gushing about your sport all night, since everybody at work had already heard everything you had to say, and O’Brien was willing to listen. Higgins, too; you learned that he was registered for a tournament that you were also competing in at your alley, and he wanted to know which oil patterns were going to be laid. But your conversation was cut short when the door to the restaurant opened, and a screaming toddler was dragged in by her parents.

You recognized Coach Beard; he was often shown next to Roy during match broadcasts. The woman with him must be his wife Jane, who Roy had told you was slightly insane, but in a different way than Beard was. The two-year-old looked more like Jane, and was crying as only an unhappy toddler could. Half of the team looked sympathetically at Beard, Roy included, and the other half looked annoyed. Queenie didn’t seem to be popular.

She didn’t stop crying and whining. For twenty minutes, the Beards, and eventually everybody else, tried to cheer her up while they ate, but it was useless. People started scooping her up and passing her around, just trying to keep her occupied long enough for her to forget she was upset.

It didn’t work.

People were starting to get antsy, looking at the exit as if contemplating how quickly they could reach it. Wives and girlfriends were still trying to soothe Queenie, while Beard and Jane scarfed down a meal. Jade reached out for a turn, and put her purse in front of the girl to distract her. You would be the next victim if Jade couldn’t calm her down.

Unfortunately, digging through a purse wasn’t what Queenie wanted. She looked like she was gearing up for another fit. The adults at your table exchanged glances.

“Does anybody have a better idea?” challenged Jade.

You could only shrug. The only children you had in your life were the kids in the youth league, and they were older. Toddlers didn’t make any sense to you. Nate also seemed to be at a loss. After waiting a moment, Roy let out a sigh and rolled his eyes.

“All right, give her here,” he grumbled, holding out his hands. “Don’t any of you know any kids? Fucking amateurs, all of you.”

Once he had Queenie, Roy stood her up in his lap, holding her up by her hands. They looked at each other seriously, as if acknowledging each other’s existence. Roy did the same thing with you, you realized; every time he spent time with you, he ignored his surroundings to focus on you. Then Roy lowered her hands, and rather than stand on him, the toddler chose to snuggle up on him, her front pressed against his chest. He wrapped an arm around her and tucked his chin into her curls, which she’d wedged under his head.

Ola’s was silent. Mouths hung open in shock, eyes stared at the manager. He glared at everybody.

“What are you all staring at?”

“She stopped,” Beard said, awestruck. “She hasn’t stopped in days.”

“You’re the fuckin’ baby whisperer,” chuckled Jamie.

“You’re forgetting about Phoebe. She was small once. I learned with her.”

Roy was speaking to the room, but he was looking at Queenie burrowed into his chest. There was something so gentle in the way that he was with her; you hadn’t even seen it with Phoebe, maybe because she was older. It was like he was marveling at her, or in her willingness to trust him. Seeing this gruff man melt made you fall a little deeper for him.

The team was stunned at this peaceful side of their coach. Across the dining room, Beard and Jame were having a hushed conversation. Roy was choosing to ignore all of them; he was focusing on Queenie, who was starting to look like she was going to fall asleep as he rubber her back.

“Incredible,” Nate murmured. “I didn’t know you had this in you, Roy.”

“No reason to let it out at Nelson Road,” he grunted. “Now shut up. She’s not going to stay quiet if you idiots wake her up.”

Rather than say anything else, the assistant coach went to another table with Jade. Jamie followed suit, leaving you with Roy and Queenie.

“She really trusts you, Roy,” you observed quietly.

“Hmm.”

“Any reason why? Have you babysat her before?”

“No. I think she can tell that I’m just as scared of the world as she is, and she takes some comfort in that.”

“Roy Kent is scared? What does Roy Kent have to be scared of?”

Your boyfriend finally tore his eyes from Queenie to look at you.

“Roy Kent the footballer wasn’t scared of anything. But Just Roy… He’s effing terrified of life after football, and how great it’s turning out to be, and how much could be lost if he effs it up.”

It was startlingly honest. You’d never heard Roy that open before, even when it was just the two of you. Kids were apparently his weakness, which kind of made sense. He was fiercely protective and took care of everybody he cared about; children needed caring for more than adults did, so he probably felt even more himself while he had someone small to protect. Plus, he apparently related to how he thought kids viewed the world, which probably contributed even more to his being comfortable enough to share.

Your thoughts were moving too fast and with too much emotion for you to articulate anything, so you reached out to gently play with Queenie’s hair. Roy, his chin still in those curls, snuck a quick kiss onto your hand and smiled contentedly at you. It would have been a tender moment, had Jane and Coach Beard not chosen it as their moment to approach. Some of the usual grumpiness settled back onto your boyfriend’s face once he noticed them.

“Roy,” Jane began in what could only be described as a wheedling tone.

“What do you want?”

“We were hoping we could ask you to watch Queenie for a bit. You’re so good with her, and she’s been so difficult the past few weeks…”

Beard interrupted. “We’ve got to do some stuff around the apartment, and it will be a whole lot easier without a 25-month-old screaming the entire time.”

“It will only be about an hour,” continued Jane. “We’ll be quick.”

They looked pleadingly at Roy, who rolled his eyes. He didn’t have to think for long.

“Fine, but only because she’s effing asleep, and because I’m still injured, which are two very good reasons for me not to move.”

“Thanks, Roy,” said Beard. “We’ll be quick.”

“Effin’ hope so. If you’re not back in an hour, like you said, I won’t be doing the training reports for the rest of the month, you will. That’s my condition.”

“Deal.” Coach Beard took his wife’s hand. “We appreciate this, Roy.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You’re wasting valuable time. Now scram.”

You heard something that could almost be a laugh come from Roy as he watched the could run off.

“What are you laughing about?”

“I just got out of a month’s worth of reports,” he chuckled smugly. “It’s a ten minute trip to their flat, if they run the whole way, and they won’t. They can’t keep their hands off each other.”

“So you just agreed to babysit a difficult toddler for who knows how long, just to get out of doing some paperwork, because you know your coworker would be distracted by his wife?”

“Pretty effing smart, right?”

Roy was quite pleased with himself. He even kept conversation up for a few minutes more than usual before he let it die, and by then, Sam and Simi were bringing out the next course. Yor table was given a wide berth – nobody wanted to risk waking Queenie – but you and Roy were fin with that, and enjoyed having a break from everyone’s attention.

Until Dani Rojas walked over.

“Hola, Roy! Have you seen Coach Beard?”

At this point, it had been well over an hour since he and Jane had left.

“No, they went home to get some things done without Queenie in the way.”

“Oh. So you are babysitting, yes?”

With a suspicious look at you, Roy answered, “Yeah. Why are you fu- effing asking?”

“No reason, really. Mostly, I wanted to tell you how good it is to see you and Señora Splits here together. You look like a real familia, sitting here with the little Queen.”

You felt some color rise to your cheeks, and saw how Roy shifted his weight uncomfortably. First Jan Maas bringing up the sex thing, and now Dani Rojas bringing up a family, kids! This team definitely wasn’t shy.

“Oh! I apologize, you just started dating. These topics are probably uncomfortable, yes?” Dani glanced between you and Roy apologetically, reacting to your reactions. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”

“Dani,” growled your boyfriend as he put his hands over Queenie’s little ears, “fuck off. Now, please.”

The striker retreated back to his original seat, which left you and Roy alone again. You subconsciously started twisting a ring you always wore, your mind racing as you contemplated everything. Did you want kids? You’d never really had the urge, unlike the girls you’d grown up around, who’d had baby names picked out by the age of twelve. Nothing specifically bothered you about kids, but you’d never been in a hurry to have any. But seeing Roy in front of you, murmuring softly to Queenie…

Maybe, with the right person, domestic bliss wasn’t unattainable.

“What’re you thinking about? You’re doing your ring twisting thing.”

You weren’t ready to have this conversation yet. Not here, where a footballer could interrupt at any second. You chose to ask your own question instead.

“What were you saying to Queenie just now?”

“I was saying sorry for swearing, just in case she heard me tell Dani to eff off.” The corners of his mouth were threatening to turn upwards. “I’ve been trying so hard all night not to corrupt this baby the way I’ve corrupted Phoebe, but at some point, you have to say it.”

“I was wondering why you were censoring yourself,” you smiled. “It’s been strange.”

“Yeah. Not how I expected my night to go, but it’s been all right. My knee’s killing me from having this one in my lap all night, and I need to use the toilet, but other than that.”

“Where are the Beards? It’s been closer to two hours. You should try to get two month’s worth of reports out of it.”

The twinkle returned to Roy’s eyes as he realized the genius of your suggestion. Then he shifted Queenie higher, probably to relieve some pressure from his knee.

“Knowing those two, they’re probably all over each other. Hopefully not making another of these little gremlins, because they don’t give enough attention to the one they already have.”

“Do you think it’s an attention issue?” you asked. “She’s had attention all night.”

Before he answered you, Roy let out an aggravated sigh. “No, she’s been handled all night. None of that lot actually interacted with her, they just passed her around trying to distract her. Kids are people, too, you know. They want to feel included the same way adults do. Honestly, babe, you coach youth bowling, how do you not know this?”

“I guess I’m just good at seeing them in the context of bowling, where it’s my job to watch after them,” you mused. “But I may not be a natural like you.”

You expected the man to respond with something sarcastic, but he looked thoughtfully at Queenie once more. As did you. As much as you didn’t want to have the conversation here in the open, seeing him so comfortable with her felt like it might be a small glimpse at a future. The two of you hadn’t been together long – only six weeks – but it was serious, and future wasn’t out of the question for you.

Gradually, you felt Roy’s gaze on you. All harshness was dissolved from his face.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this in public, and I’m with you on that, but I want you to know… I don’t hate this. I think I’ve known since Phoebe was born, but I hadn’t really thought about it until my career went up in flames and I had to effing retire. I think I want a family to take care of. Kids. Or just one, I don’t know. But I need you to know that before we fu- effing go any further. We can talk about it later, when you’re ready. If you’re ready. You don’t have to be, and if it was too early to say, I’m really sorry. I can be –“

“Roy, stop.” His voice was getting high and strained, and he had yet to take a breath; you had to make him stop to breathe. “I think it may be something I want, too. It’s okay.”

And it was, you realized. The man in front of you, holding the toddler that wasn’t yours, could be something very serious. He’d taken a chance on you, somebody decidedly outside his world, and brought you in. He’d given you his trust and his weakness, and become a steward of yours. He was the baby whisperer. He could be the endgame.

It was all so simple. He could be it. And he seemed to think that you might be it, too.

“Oi, take Queenie for a second.” Always abrupt, Roy seemed to be switching topics. “I can’t stand it anymore; I have to get up before I piss myself, and before my good knee locks up.”

You held your hands out, and Roy passed you a drowsy toddler. You made sure to acknowledge her before she settled, as he had, and she didn’t fuss as she nestled into you, using one of your boobs as a pillow. Roy was already stumping away towards the back of the restaurant, and the team was busy passing around a dessert, so you were alone with your thoughts. It may have just been biology, or attraction, or the fact that sex had been reference more than once tonight, but cradling a sleepy little kid that had been handed off to you by the man you were currently seeing was doing something to your insides. A yearning was suddenly there. You could imagine a tiny, foul-mouthed menace running amuck.

Roy was it.

Roy was so distracted that he hadn’t noticed he was washing his hands with sanitizer until it found a paper cut. He swore and corrected his mistake, then looked his reflection dead in the eye in the mirror.

The man hadn’t seen himself wear this expression before. In the press, he’d always looked angry, all hard angles and glares. Having Queenie all night had melted it all away, and Just Roy, staring back at him looked… Fond? He wasn’t sure. It was something soft.

He reached for a paper towel to dry his hands, his mind spinning. Taking care of Queenie all night had ignited something warm in his chest, which felt suspiciously like his heart. But it wasn’t really about Queenie, was it?

No, it wasn’t. It was about the woman who’d been beside him, who hadn’t flinched through this whole night. And its many twists, turns, and blunt footballers. Splits had exuded grace all night, and he hadn’t consciously noticed until this moment how peaceful his normally-raging thoughts were whenever he was with her.

Just Roy was wearing heart eyes when he looked back in the mirror.

“Fuck. She’s the one.”

As he hobbled out of the toilets and back to the table, Roy knew with more certainty than he’d ever had in his life. He wanted to serve her, to protect her, to have her, to love her. For her to hold his kids as gently and tenderly as she was holding Queenie right now, who hadn’t even noticed the return of her parents.

Fuck being Roy Kent. He wanted to be Just Roy with her. Splits was it.

She smiled up at him when he got closer.

“Better?”

Why was she asking if he was better? Oh, right, his quick retreat to the toilets, which had been a bit of a lie because he’d needed to get his emotions in check more than he’d actually needed to go.

“Yeah, much better, thanks. How was Queenie?”

“An angel,” Splits answered. “You’re onto something with this whole acknowledgement thing. I was just telling the Beards.”

Jane was wearing an irritated expression, probably mad that other people were telling her how to manage her own child. Beard just looked thankful that said child wasn’t currently screaming. They both looked red and puffy around the mouth. Roy was pretty sure that they’d been making another fucking gremlin, and to his surprise, was insanely jealous.

Fuck, he was falling hard. It scared him how intensely sure he was that Splits was the one.

He had to get out. It was too much, being around his team, his family.

“Are you ready to go?” he questioned, more harshly than he’d meant to.

She shrugged. “Yeah, we can go. Is your knee bothering you?”

“Something like that. Beard, you were gone for two hours, not one, so I’m expecting two months of training reports.”

Coach Beard was nothing if not fair. As he took his daughter from Splits, he nodded stoically. “Fine. You held up your end.”

“Well said.”

Roy pulled out his girlfriend’s chair and turned for the exit. He’d wanted to sneak out, but the whole team saw them leaving and called out goodbyes. Sam, of course, thanked them for coming. Jamie, less predictably, shouted, “Good night, Kents!”

In his peripheral, the manager could see Splits was stifling a smile and waiting for his reaction. Roy didn’t correct Jamie, only flipped him off without turning around. He ushered his girl out of Ola’s to the Beast, then turned on one of his playlists. He texted his father as she drove them home.

Me: Need to talk. Call tomorrow?

Dad: About fucking time. Your mother’s upset you haven’t told us.

Me: ???

Dad: typing…

After a moment, his father sent a link to a post on The Sun’s social media. It was a photo, sniped through the window of the restaurant, of him in profile holding Queenie and kissing Splits’ hand as she played with the little girl’s hair. They’d been caught, but he fought down the anger rising in his throat. He typed out one last message.

Me: It’s new, but she’s fucking amazing. Do you still have Nan’s stuff?

With that, he closed his texts and pocketed his phone. He reached over for Splits’ hand, resting on the center console while she waited for the light to change, and took it.

It was missing a vital piece of jewelry. He needed to fix that.

Tag list: @preciousbabypeter @harry-bowie-mercury @amieinghigh @onceuponaoneshot @chewymoustachio @my-neurodivergent-world

#roy kent bowled over #roy kent #roy kent x reader #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfiction #mutual pining #slowish burn #reader is a bowler #because I was a bowler #hence the terrible pun title #my writing #no editing we die like men

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mariacallous · 6 months

Text

(JTA) — It was a slow trickle, each long press of the finger and ensuing quick tap was days and sometimes weeks apart (it’s hard to comprehend that a whole month has passed since Oct. 7), but I am here to tell you that I — a former social media manager — have removed each and every social media app from my phone.

In fact, as I was writing this very esssay, I realized I still had Threads downloaded, opened it for a minute, saw a Thread that said “Zionism is antisemitism,” and promptly deleted that, too.

I have zero desire to restore a single one of them.

What happened to me has probably happened to you, too. I saw a Tweet, a TikTok, an Instagram Story that filled me with such fury and indignation that I spent hours — sometimes days — formulating and reformulating an epic, fact-based, emotionally charged, imagined response. Imagined, of course, because I knew I’d never post it. I’ve seen so many celebrities and random acquaintances do such utterly embarrassing and harmful and reputation-destroying things in the last weeks to even dare to try.

And to be clear: I would try if I thought I could change someone’s mind and force them to see my humanity, but beyond the small, intimate, personal conversations that I can have off the apps, I feel like these enraged indignant responses only seem to silo people further.

I’ve worked in social media since 2014 — in the Jewish realm of social media, specifically. That means I’ve seen a lot of awfulness, gas chamber memes, overt antisemitism and Islamophobia. I’ve personally been told many times to go back where I came from (which, yes, is Israel, and that feels grimly funny now). Yet I’ve also believed in its power to heal, to make people feel seen, to energize activism, to educate.

I still believe that — kind of? But I’ve also never seen it this awful, this polarizing, this … honestly, unhinged. An unscientific poll of people I know seems to indicate the same thing: Social media is the worst it’s ever been, maybe because the Israel/Palestine conversation has always been so impossibly polarizing.

People are so stuck in their “side” and binary that they’re willing to share anything — without fact-checking, without making sure they’re not getting in bed with people whose worldview is dangerous, without asking themselves for a small second, wait, is this Islamophobic? Antisemitic? Completely detached from reality? Without wondering if they sound like a conspiracy theorist, or if they’re just being cruel for cruelty’s sake.

And the amount of words wasted on misinformation and meanness doesn’t even compare to the number of words some people insist on putting into other people’s mouths (or keyboards, rather) when their statement doesn’t 100% pass whatever standards they’ve arbitrarily decided it must. Beyond Israel and Palestine, we’ve been tearing ourselves apart inside our Jewish community, and that also breaks my heart.

I understand the deep grief and rage behind most posts. I’ve been enraged and grieving myself. I’ve been scared too: Of the growing antisemitism. Of the people who tell me that I and my family, because we were born in Israel, can’t be innocent civilians, that we all deserve the horrors of Oct. 7 to befall on us.

I’ve also been scared for the life of every innocent person lost and about to be lost. Around 1,200 Israelis killed, 300 kidnapped, over 10,000 Palestinian lives believed to have been taken, all unfathomable numbers. And I’ve been scared about the cycle of rage and violence and siloed indignation that removes the humanity of a whole swath of people. Because I do believe that that’s part of what got us here. And I keep seeing it evinced, over and over again, on social media.

I am — unlike many “experts” newly minted by numbers of followers or magnitude of chutzpah — not an expert of Middle Eastern politics, despite being Israeli and working in Jewish media for almost a decade. I know a lot, but I am not a politician or historian. And yet, to the extent I believe that there is a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I believe that it has to be one that takes into account the inherent humanity of all those involved. I believe that it will be human and imperfect.

I’m awed by the people who are still managing to use social media for good right now, the little spots of light — people who parse through history and reality with wisdom and empathy, well-educated veteran observers of Israel and Palestine, academics, journalists, fierce activists, who, through immense pain, still manage to retain their humanity.

Yet for me, I’ve realized being on social media is doing more harm than good. It’s keeping me further away from solutions and useful action, and closer to rage and fear. So for now, I can’t stay there.

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insufferableknowit-all · 1 year

Text

the last time

posting for the @cruelsummer-ficfest !!! ahhh!!!

Prompt song: the last time

Ship: Ron/Hermione

Summary: Ron finally gets Hermione to have a conversation with him, weeks after returning to the tent.

AO3

They were somewhere in England, and somewhere cold. That was all Ron could gleam from their surroundings, and he knew better than to ask Hermione where exactly in England. He could just imagine her rolling her eyes, telling him not to ask stupid questions, to pay better attention. Or, simply ignoring him, as she’d been prone to do lately. Outside, the winter snow was just beginning to melt, tiny blades of grass peeking out beneath the white slush, constant dripping from the trees that bounced off the top of the tent and kept him awake at night (among other things). He was pretty sure it was sometime in February; it had been over a month since he came back. Yet unlike the snow, Hermione’s iciness towards Ron had not thawed one bit.

Even Harry seemed exasperated at Hermione’s persistence. “Seriously, Hermione?” he’d snapped one night, when the three of them sat around discussing possible horcrux locations and Hermione had ignored every single suggestion Ron had, making a point not to write any of them down. “He has good ideas.” Though he was grateful for Harry’s support, Ron kept his head down. He wanted to earn back Hermione’s trust, her friendship, any way possible. And for a while, shutting up seemed like the best way to do that.

But it had been weeks since then, and he was getting tired of staying quiet. He’d apologized nearly fifty times, though each time Hermione either pretended not to hear him or told him not to bother. He replayed each version of an apology in his mind as he sat outside the flap of the tent, keeping watch, listening to the drip-drip-drip of melting snow hit the canopy of the tent in the darkness. He nearly jumped from the ground, so lost in thought, when the tent flap opened and Harry emerged with a mug in his hands. “My turn,” he said, nodding at Ron.

“I don’t mind – ”

“You’ve taken the last two shifts, mate. Give it up.”

Ron grimaced and stood, his legs slow and numb from the cold. “Hermione up?”

Harry nodded, slowly. “She just lectured me about how I wash the dishes so… good luck.”

Ron chuckled and disappeared into the tent.

Hermione had her back towards him, as usual. She sat in a chair with a book in her lap, arms crossed. “Want any tea?” he asked, moving towards the kettle. She didn’t say anything back. Instead, she closed her book and walked over towards her bed to rummage through her bag.

She was driving him crazy. She always drove him crazy, but this was worse than ever before. The weeks without talking, really talking, were eating away at his soul. He stood by the kettle for a moment, frozen, then abandoned it as a surge of Gryffindor courage (or perhaps pent-up frustration and tension) flowed through his body. “Hermione,” he called after her. He walked towards her, saw as she hesitated for a moment but didn’t turn to look at him. “Hermione, will you listen to me? I just want to… this is the last time I’ll try to explain it, all right? Afterwards, you can ignore me, pretend I don’t exist, whatever, but just listen to me for a sec, okay?”

For a terrible moment, Ron was afraid she’d ignore him, that she’d climb into her bed and plug her ears and shut him out completely. But she turned around. He met her eyes, and it was like he could breathe again.

He didn’t look away. He took a deep breath, and began to speak. Words never came easily to him, especially when her brown eyes poured into his, but he tried. “That thing… it messed with my head. It told me all this stuff…I mean, you know that, you wore it too, but I was just weaker or something. I’ve never been as strong as you or Harry.” He chanced a smile, a self-deprecating joke to get back on her good side, but she just stared at him, blankly. At least she’s looking at me, he thought. “It made me think… Well, it doesn’t matter what it made me think. I still left. I’m sorry. I’ll be sorry forever, I think. I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I swear. I won’t hurt you again. You or Harry, I promise.”

Her expression remained still for a moment. Normally, she was so easy for him to read, her complicated thoughts always etched all over her face in the furrow of her brows, the pursing of her lips. But she was stone-still. Until she opened her mouth, bit her lip, and asked: “Why?” The single word was so quiet that he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“Wh…why what?”

She looked away from him, avoiding eye contact by staring intently at the air beside his head. “Why did it… mess with your head? What did it tell you?”

He grimaced. “Probably the same types of things it told you.”

“It didn’t tell me things.”

“It didn’t?”

“No.” She shook her head, still not making eye contact. “It made me feel terrible, but it didn’t… talk to me.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m probably just more susceptible, always been weaker than you two.”

“Oh, stop it,” she snapped, finally meeting his eyes again, and for a moment, he got a glimpse of their old repertoire, the back-and-forth they’d grown so good at. “That’s not true at all. You lost a lot of blood from the spliching, which I still feel terrible about, not to mention we were all starving to death, but you especially, because you kept either giving your portions to Harry or me, or refusing to eat the mushrooms.”

“I don’t like mushrooms, and you guys needed -”

“I told you to stop!” she stomped her foot just slightly, a trait he’d always found endearing, despite everything. “Stop thinking we’re both more important than you!”

An oppressive silence filled the room. Even the dripping of melting snow seemed to pause for a moment. She sighed and slowly, sat down on the bottom bunk, the mattress sinking under her weight. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, her gaze piercing. “What did it tell you?”

He winced - he knew he’d have to tell her, eventually, but those thoughts were so hard to voice aloud. Thoughts that had plagued him before the horcrux, thoughts that were amplified, distorted by its presence around his neck. He looked at her then at the bed, as if asking for permission, and she nodded slightly, so he sank down onto the mattress beside her, careful to keep a distance between the two of them. Before he’d left, they were always sitting beside one another, knees bumping, elbows brushing. It had been weeks since they’d touched. Being within arms length made his skin sting.

“Okay,” he said finally, tapping his foot against the floor. “Well, it told me stuff I was already thinking, but made it… made it really bad.” She waited in silence for him to continue. “That… that you and Harry didn’t need me. Stuff about my family, too, that I was the least favorite, that my siblings and parents were all out there fighting while I laid on a bed with my arm tied up… that I was better off…” He trailed off for a moment, the heavy feeling washing over him. When he was gone, after he’d left, all the rage, all the anger he’d felt while wearing the locket had turned into crushing despair. It washed over him in waves, usually at night, while he sat in the spare room at Shell Cottage hoping for a way to get back to Harry and Hermione. Hoping they were okay, hoping they’d forgive him. He felt a tear roll down his cheek – when had he started crying?

“Better off what?” Hermione asked in a small voice.

He remembered what the Horcrux told him: how he was expendable, how Harry and Hermione wouldn’t care if he died. How Hermione could never love him. He wiped the tears from his cheek and sniffed.

“Without you guys, gone, I don’t know,” he said, his voice choked. “And it told me… when I killed that thing, he came out of it… You-Know-Who, except he was… he was Harry, and…and you.”

“Me?”

“As a weird snake thing… I dunno, but you told me you didn’t see… that you’d never…” He couldn’t say it outloud. He was too afraid it was true, too afraid that even if it hadn’t been true, it was now, because he left them, left her . How could she ever forgive him, let alone love him?

Gingerly, he felt her hand touch his shoulder. The feather-light touch filled him with warmth, and he cried harder. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out. She squeezed his arm, left her hand there, until his breathing slowed, until he could finally bring himself to look at her.

Her cheeks were wet too, tears pooling in her eyes. In a small voice, she said, “I watched you leave.” He could feel the heartbreak in her words, could feel his own heart breaking in his chest. Her hand was still on his arm, the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. “I…I asked you not to, and you didn’t listen, and…and how do I know you won’t leave again?”

“You have to trust me,” he implored. “I know I probably don’t deserve it, but - ”

“I do.” She spoke before he could even finish his sentence. “I do trust you, Ron.” Relief flooded his body, his mind. She chewed her lip, deep in thought, before speaking again. “You do deserve it, even if I don’t show… I’m not very…I thought you knew how I…” She groaned and removed her hand from his shoulder (he felt unreasonably cold the moment she did so), then covered her eyes with her hands. “You’re the only one who does this to me, you know,” she said from behind her hands, the hint of a smile in her voice.

He winced and sniffed. “Makes you cry?”

“No, you idiot.” She dropped her hands from her face and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Makes me stumble over my words.”

He flashed a lopsided, teary-eyed grin at her. “Sorry?”

She stared at him for a moment, and then, in a movement reminiscent of Crookshakes pouncing a rat, she threw her arms around his neck and nearly knocked him backwards onto his pillow. Surprised but grateful, he wrapped his arms around her, tentatively burying his nose in her bushy, messy hair. “I missed you,” she said, a whisper in his ear. “I missed you so much, Ron.”

“I tried to come back the second I left.”

“I know.”

“I missed you too,” he said. “More than anything.”

“More than Harry?” He could hear the smirk on her face.

“Obviously. Harry’s a git. Bloody Chosen One.”

She chuckled and gripped him tighter. Her body flush against his, on a bed no less, was enough to drive him crazy. He wanted nothing more than to snog her senseless, but inwardly decided against it, having only just gotten them back on speaking terms. Though when he pulled away, there was a moment when he worried his decision not to kiss her had been hasty, as he watched the way her eyes darted to his lips, then back to his eyes, her hands still snaked around his neck, her lips so, so close to his.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes,” she agreed, not moving away from him, her voice airy and breathy and just about the hottest thing he’d ever heard.

But this wasn’t how he wanted their first kiss to be: teary-eyed with Harry sitting within earshot. He gave her a small smile, then, against the will of his body, pulled away. “I’ll make that tea,” he said, and began to walk towards the kitchen.

“Wait!” she said. He stared at her quizzically, and she bit her lip. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

“Huh?”

“My calendar, that’s what I was checking, before we started talking… It's tomorrow. So… happy early birthday, Ron.” She reached out and grabbed his arm, then pulled him to her, and quickly stood on tiptoe and brought her lips to his cheek. She left them there for a second longer than a simple peck, stunning him.

“Thanks,” he said, dazed, but smiling. Her cheeks were a brilliant shade of red, but she grinned at him.

Even though they were in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, in the cold, he couldn’t help but think that this would be the best birthday yet.

#romione #cruel summer fic fest 2023 #if you know me irl no you dont

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guardianbingo · 6 months

Text

December Bonus Prompt

It seems like 2023 started only a few weeks ago and yet December is here and that means it's time for the final Guardian Bingo bonus prompt.

Unlike the finale of the drama, we didn't want to end things on a down note, so the December bonus prompt is:

Renewal

As always, you’re free to follow your muse wherever it takes you. Full info about bonus prompts is located below the cut.

Have fun and happy creating!

And while the fest is winding down, it won't officially be over until the end of January, which is the month when you can post bonus prompts you missed or fill the final squares on your card. If you still want to signup for Guardian Bingo, we'll be issuing new cards through the end of December. We'd love to have you join us!

What Is A Bonus Prompt?

An extra prompt issued at the beginning of each month, starting in February. You can fill it in addition to the prompts on your card or swap it out with a square that you don’t like or is giving you trouble.

How Much Time Do I Have To Complete The Bonus Prompt?

Through the end of the month in which it’s issued. February’s prompt has to be filled in February, March’s prompt in March, etc.

Additionally, January 2024 is reserved as a month for turning in bonus prompts you weren’t able to complete during the month they were assigned. What Time Zone Does The Fest Use For Bonus Prompt Cut Offs?

Since the fest’s participants are located in many different time zones, you’re free to submit your fill for the month so long as there is some place on Earth that hasn’t yet rolled over to the next month, even if your home time zone already has.

What Do I Get For Filling Bonus Prompts?

First and foremost, whatever work the prompt inspires you to create

A way to swap out a square on your card – just be sure to keep a record of the swap

The Merit Brush badge (if you fill 5 bonus prompts)

Do I Have To Complete The Bonus Prompt?

Of course not. They’re 100% optional.

Apart From Having To Complete The Bonus Prompt Within The Month It Was Issued, Are There Any Other Changes To The Rules Regarding Fills?

Nope! Just like with your card, creations of any length and format are allowed provided that they’re not reused or plagiarized. You are also allowed the same freedom and flexibility in interpreting the bonus prompt as the squares on your card.

Can I See A List Of Previous Prompts?

Sure!

2023 Bonus Prompt List

February: Meet Cute

March: Take A Leap

April: Ancestors

May: Acceptance

June: Twins

July: Animal Transformations

August: Constellation

September: Moon

October: Costume/Disguise

November: Crossover/Alternate Universe

December: Renewal

2022 Bonus Prompt List

February: Tiger

March: Women and Gender Non-Conforming Characters

April: Birthday

May: Time Travel

June: Dragon

July: Meeting Again

August: Star-Crossed Lovers

September: Trying Something New

October: Supernatural Elements

November: Short and Sweet

December: Keep On Going

Who Chooses The Bonus Prompts Each Month?

The ever-amazing and very appreciated @sasamelons!

I’ve Read Through All Of This But Still Have A Question.

We’d love to answer it. Please email the mods at [email protected]

#guardian #zhen hun #december bonus prompt #guardianbingofest

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thorniest-rose · 9 months

Note

I’m being completely honest when I say this: I actually think that Prism has changed my life. I don’t want this to turn into a trauma dumping session so I’ll try to keep it short. In 2020-2022 I was in an incredibly abusive relationship, both mentally and physically. My ex manipulated and gaslit me, and made me isolate myself from all of my friends. As I’ve never really had a family, I was completely alone apart from him. Our relationship ended in December last year, when my best friend found out I was still living with my abuser (I had lied, and said I was living with an aunt), and came and helped me get all my things so that I could move into her studio apartment with her. She also gave me the courage and support to finally make a report. The trial was last wednesday, and the verdict came today. Since he admitted to everything, and the evidence was so plentiful, he’s going to prison for almost a year.

I’m telling you this, because I need you to know just how important Prism has been for me. When I first read the warning chapter, I thought I wouldn’t even make it halfway through the first chapter, but your portrayal of abuse is so amazingly accurate that I found myself captivated.

Instead of it being triggering for me, as I was initially scared it would be, Prism has been a story that I’ve been able to see myself in. I’ve found myself audibly reacting to lines about how Steve believes Billy’s abuse will cease if he just gets everything right, if he’s not a burden. It hit hard, like a punch to the gut, but settled into a warm feeling not entirely unlike a post workout ache. I want to thank you for your naked and raw portrayal of abuse, and how victims of abuse often believe themselves deserving of the violence. I read, and I see Steve, but I also see myself at nineteen years old, scared, alone and hurt. Knowing that what’s being done to me is wrong, but still believing it to be deserved. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to process and heal my own traumas through an unconventional (but highly effective (and even endorsed by my therapist!)) way. I look forward to reading future chapters and seeing where Steve ends up, if he gets out similarly to how I did.

Perhaps worth mentioning, as I’m writing this I haven’t yet read the newest chapter, as I wanted to save it for after the trial was completely over to treat myself. Judging from some of your asks talking about a certain bathroom scene, chances are I’ll be giggling and kicking my feet before this night is over, dreaming about my own Prism Eddie sweeping me away (kidding… unless..?)).

THANK YOU again!! Love you💞

— 🐞

Hello darling, first of all I want to apologise and say how sorry I am for taking a few days to answer this, I was on a really busy work trip last week. I got back over the weekend and wanted time to devote some time to answering it, but I want you to know that I read this the moment you sent it in and I cried in my hotel room.

When Az and I started Prism, we joked with each other that only five people would read it because of how different and provocative it is, how painful and unpleasant. And it's far exceeded our expectations, but we said if that was the case and only a handful of people read it, it would be okay because the people who'd read it would love it, and if we could touch just one person with our writing, then it would all be worth it.

So reading everything you put in your ask has deeply touched me, it means so much more than fandom popularity, than writing a fic that everyone is talking about, or writing something flashy and superficial that appeals to a mass audience. Knowing Prism has meant so much to you, and has helped you during such a hard time in your life, will have always made the creation of this fic worth it. And all I can say is thank you. Thank you so much for telling me because I feel like this is the dream of any writer. To know their writing has made a difference in someone's life. It's a blessing to write Prism and for you to have found it, my love.

Secondly, I want you to know how incredibly brave I think you are. Abusive relationships are so consuming and they break you down completely, pulling you into their orbit and destroying everything good in your life. It's probably no surprise that Az and I have imbued elements of abusive relationships we've had in the past into Prism, so I can empathise. Honestly, reading what you've been through pulls at my heart. I'm so, so sorry that you went through all of that, for so long, and that you were hurt and manipulated by the one person who should have looked after you. But for you to have the bravery after all that to leave him? And to make a report? To have the courage to stand up to him and see him put behind bars? God, I'm crying writing this now. I'm just so happy and hopeful for you in this next stage of your life without him, and I might not know who you are but I'm thinking about you, and I think you're incredible. You're beautiful and strong and so completely amazing.

There was part of me that wanted to keep this in my inbox for longer and protect it because it's so special, but I knew you deserved an answer. I hope you see this. If you do please let me know.

Thank you for your ask. Thank you, thank you. You, and people like you, have turned the creation of Prism into such a beautiful and life-changing experience <333

#asks #prism fic #🐞 anon #tw abuse

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sisterofficerlucychen · 2 months

Note

1, 2, 8, 23, 30, 35, 42, 45, 49

1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)

probably time, curious time that is specifically lighthearted and fluff

2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?

angst, fluff, idiots in love — lmao, yes. i think for the most part i’ll either write about angst or fluff or both. and the idiots in love well they were idiots in love for a hot sec there lol.

8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)?

the archer, taylor swift — so you actually put this idea in my head ♡ you answered a question a few weeks back about what song you associated with tim and it just fits so perfectly??? i can just picture each line being different points in his life from childhood, marriage falling apart, pushing everyone away, lucy breaking down those walls, etc. and his mind frame during these periods in time.

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

an actual multi-chaptered story lmao. i’ve technically successfully finished one but it was a 5+1 so i don’t count it as a multi-chapter. i just want to write a story from start to finish because the idea are in my head, words are just hard to get out sometimes (most times) 😭

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

smut!!!!!!!!!!!!!! my goodness this is a freaking art. i’ve dabbled~~ but i haven’t fully written out a smut scene because it’s so hard??? i literally have a wip that is the last chapter to a fic that i’m struggling to finish because i’ll write, read it over, and then second guess myself lol. it’s affected my approach to writing in being conscious of the balance that a spicy scene needs? like when i think of the ones that i enjoy reading the most, they’re ones where feelings and emotions support the technicality of the action written.

35. What aspects of your writing are completely unlike your real life?

any that deal with engagement/marriage/kids. i haven’t experienced any of that yet so writing it sometimes is a bit out of my element because i don’t really have a frame of reference for it except what i’ve seen with others and what i hope for.

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

i think any comment that has something quoted back and why it stood out to the person reading or how it made them feel is just ♡♡♡ part of what i’ve always loved about storytelling is seeing what resonates with others, it's always really cool to see.

45. What’s something you’ve improved on since you started writing fic?

dialogue. i’m looking back at what i’ve written and it wasn’t until the fourth fic i posted that i included a conversation between two characters haha. it’s still something that at times does feel challenging especially trying to capture different voices with the right cadence but i think i’ve gotten better at maintaining the pacing of a conversation and how it ties into the general flow of the fic.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

this will be for hold onto me 'cause i'm a little unsteady from lucy’s perspective with thinking about her own parental trauma and the fears that come from it

She hates how much of her life they’re missing out on because they can’t be proud of the daughter they have. Something she ultimately learned to accept upon finally having someone wholeheartedly believe in her. While every move and decision she makes is seen as a failure in their eyes, Tim sees the opposite; he taught her what it was to be believed in, provides the reassurance that she could never disappoint him, reminds her that she’s enough just by being who she is and how he loves her for it.

#answered #queseraone #writing asks #ask game #thanks ♡

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elizabeethan · 2 years

Text

Witness

After the worst night of his life, Killian goes into the Witness Protection program and moves to Maine until he can testify against the man who took everything from him. He had resigned himself to living a life of misery, pain, and heartbreak, but that all changed when he met Lily Quinn.

A/N: I finally finished this one!! It's not perfect by any means, but I'm honestly just patting myself on the back for completing it, at this point. It's not beta'ed and I probably haven't proofread it enough, so if you see any typos or notice any continuity errors, no you didn't.

Also, this is the 50th, yes FIFTIETH, Captain Swan fic that I've posted on Ao3. There isn't much I can say about that other than thank you to everyone in this incredible fandom who has encouraged me to explore writing and discover how much I love it. Thank you especially to @the-darkdragonfly and @donteattheappleshook for always being there for me in every capacity and for supporting me through thick and thin.

Rated E

15,630 words (oops)

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

Get added to my Captain Swan taglist

~~~~

The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt before and is likely to ever feel again, lest he lose another appendage. It burns and stings and throbs and stabs all at once, and it drives him mad as he looks down and remembers that there’s nothing there. There’s no hand to be hurting him as he bites into his bottom lip and doubles over, holding his empty wrist in his one remaining hand. There's no reason for him to be feeling this way, and yet he feels as though he’s lost the hand all over again.

He doesn’t remember what it felt like to lose it in the first place, but it must have been something like this. Leaning over his ledgers upon his pathetically small desk, he tries to remind himself that there’s nothing there anymore. He shouldn’t be hurting like this, not now that it’s gone. He tells himself to get over it, snap out of it, he’s being foolish. He lets out a pained gasp as he puts his stubbed arm on the surface of the desk and picks up a pen, staring down at the empty space where his hand should be before taking a breath and sending the pen forcefully through the air, into the grainy wood, missing the hand that he lost months ago.

The burning subsides when he does this, as if him telling his mind that it isn’t there, that it doesn’t matter anymore, isn’t enough; as if he has to see it for himself to believe his own thoughts. It happens frequently– frequently enough for him to consider himself crazy on a several-times-weekly basis. He’s just lucky that he doesn’t share this cramped office with anyone, that he’s usually left alone to do his work in peace, just the way he likes it. He’s lucky that he lives alone, that he has no one to watch him go through the lunacy of feeling pain in a hand that doesn’t exist. He’s lucky that he’s always alone. He’s lucky to have lost everything and everyone, because at least he doesn’t have to force someone he loves to live through this with him.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he pulls the pen from the shallow hole he punched into the wood and returns it to the cup where it belongs.

~~~~

He’s making an effort not to become the town drunk.

His father was the town drunk, and he’s always hated his father.

So when he goes to the Rabbit Hole, he likes to keep it to once a week, maybe less. He likes to keep it to two drinks, maybe three. He likes to keep control over himself so that no one in this tiny place starts to see him as the town drunk. They already see him as the strange, handless recluse, and he doesn’t feel the need to move into town drunk-territory.

But when he walks into the Rabbit Hole that night, just a few months after his arrival, he considers changing his ways if only in response to seeing the stunning, glowing blonde behind the bar for the first time.

She truly is glowing. She emanates beauty and exudes perfection as she stands behind the bar, somehow catching the perfect lighting, her bare arms toned as she pours a beer flawlessly, her hair gleaming under the dim light fixture, her smile shimmering despite the darkness in the bar. She laughs at her patron, Leroy telling her a joke that Killian can almost certainly bet was not funny. She throws her head back and he nearly salivates at the sight of her bare neck. She turns from the grumpy old man and adds the pour to his tab and then she turns again, locking eyes directly with Killian before giving him the most beautiful, sexy, friendly smile he’s ever received.

“Welcome in,” she says, her voice like bells as it rings through the bar, cutting against the loud music and the even louder laughter from the party at the pool table. “What can I get you?”

He’s almost stunned silent, stupidly standing there with his mouth hung open like a trout until he gets his bearings, tugging on the sleeves of his gray knit sweater and shuffling towards the bar. Get it together, you old fool, he tells himself, cursing as he trips over his own feet but praising himself as the sight draws a soft giggle from the angel of a woman.

“Rum,” he says idiotically, and she raises a brow.

“Just rum, neat? On the rocks? Or a shot?”

He clears his throat. What will she think of him ordering just rum, neat? Or a shot? “Might as well throw in some Coke and ice, I suppose,” he chokes out, fighting through the awkwardness that he hasn’t felt since high school.

She laughs. It seems genuine, but she must treat all of her customers like this, right? “A rum and Coke then, coming right up. Do you like lime?”

“Yes,” he says, although he can’t really remember if he does or not. He pulls on his left sleeve as he sits down, far from Leroy. His elbow rests on the bartop, and if he had a hand, it would drop between himself and the surface he leans against. “Sure. Please.”

She works quickly, and he tries and tries not to look at the way her black tank top hugs her waist. He tries not to notice the way that there aren’t any lines along her back and he tries not to wonder whether she’s wearing a bra beneath it. He tries not to notice the way her jeans hug her hips and flare out just slightly, elongating her legs impossibly. Really, he really tries not to stare. Seriously.

“There you go,” she says with a bright smile. “Want to open a tab?”

He says nothing, dropping his bum arm and using the other to fish his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out the credit card David gave him and handing it to her without a second thought. Normally, he wouldn’t open a tab. Opening a tab is something the town drunk would do– or at least running up the tab is. But how can he say no to the siren standing before him?

“Thanks,” she says, looking at the front of the card and smiling. Something about this smile is different; it’s softer, more genuine. “Peter. I like that name.”

“What, um–” he clears his throat, not before kicking himself beneath the bar. “Would you tell me your name?”

“It’s Lily,” she says pleasantly. “And it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The exchange is taking a turn, he notices, the awkwardness growing between them because he should probably say something more. He should try to carry on the conversation, get to know her, let her get to know him. But he’s a fool, not used to interacting with anyone, never mind a beautiful woman, and she has other customers, so she smiles at him once more and walks towards Leroy, taking what’s left of his heart along with her.

~~~~

He returns to the bar the next night.

No one here knew his father, so he reasons that no one would assume his identity as a second generation alcoholic. He isn’t an alcoholic, not really. He would know if he was. He’s seen the signs, watched the way it murdered his father and his uncle and his brother. And he reasons, as he leaves his office the next night, that going to a bar two nights in a row does not an alcohol addiction make.

She’s here again; Lily. The fallen angel gracing this earth for reasons unclear to him. Her occupation at the Rabbit Hole is enigmatic because he’s certain that she could do anything she sets her mind to. He watches in awe as she mixes drinks and flawlessly pours beer and somehow operates the whole establishment, Ruby lilting through the restaurant and fancifully taking orders when the mood strikes.

He watches with as much normalcy as he can muster, not entirely used to the interactions that he’s been avoiding for the past seven months or so.

(Well, he says or so, but in reality, he knows exactly how long it’s been since he shut himself out from the rest of the world.)

(Seven months, two weeks, and three days since he fled Boston.)

Lily floats through the bar, smiling at her customers and, he thinks, smirking at him. She walks to her colleague, tucking her head against the other woman’s ear and whispering something he could never make out until the two of them erupt into a symphony of giggles. She glances over at him, her bottom lip caught between her pearly teeth, and Ruby whispers something back. He watches as her cheeks flush, the intoxicating pink spreading down her neck and across her chest. He watches for as long as he can before he recognizes how unsettling it is for him to be staring like this, wondering how much further down the warmth trails along her porcelain skin. She watches him staring, how could she not, and his heart begins to race as she slowly makes her way towards him. Honestly, she probably isn’t even moving that slowly, but the way that his blood is racing through his veins more quickly than ever makes the rest of the world feel like it’s moving in slow motion.

“Peter,” she greets with a wry smile, one perfect brow lifted towards her hairline as the other rests beautifully above her glowing emerald eyes. “Did I make your rum and Coke wrong?”

“Of course not,” he answers too quickly, then he clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

“I don’t mind being stared at,” she flirts, at least, he hopes she’s flirting. He thinks she must be if the way she leans against the bar closer to him than he’s seen her get to her other customers is any indication. He tugs on his left sleeve, the knit material stretching easily over his empty wrist. “At least, not by someone who looks like you.”

Flirting, he tells himself. Honestly, as a grown man of somewhere close to 40, he should probably know when a woman is flirting with him, and yet this woman in particular has his mind in knots. He can’t even help the smile that creeps slowly along his lips, and he can’t help but to notice the way that it makes her own grow.

“The drink you made is delicious,” he tells her, as if that matters. “You’re quite talented.”

She hums lightly, shrugging her toned shoulders and hopping onto the barstool beside him. He turns ever so slightly, hiding his blunted arm behind himself but refusing to pull any further from her than he has to. “Yeah, well… Have you been in town long?”

The change in subject, the sudden interest in his life, throws him for a loop, making it difficult for him to focus as if he wasn’t having trouble already. “Longer than you, I'd assume,” he answers ambiguously. It’s something David taught him. Unless someone knows exactly when he arrived, it’s a bad idea to give concrete answers, like I got here six months, one week, and two days ago.

“Well, I only got here about two weeks ago.”

“Much longer than that,” he says confidently, because in the grand scheme of things it hasn’t been long, but in comparison of weeks, it’s been plenty. Clearing his throat, he lies. “About a year.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, her smile still playful, and she nods. “Well, you seem to at least know more than me, right?” She presses closer to him, leans in and rests her elbow against the bar, and if she gets any closer, she might be able to see that he’s missing about a pound’s worth of his left arm. But he doesn’t pull away. With her voice low and sultry, with her fingers dancing almost imperceptibly along the collar of his shirt, she murmurs, “Maybe you can show me around.”

“Don't you, uh– don’t you have a bar to keep?”

“Eh,” she shrugs nonchalantly, seeming to make herself more comfortable at his side as she shifts. “Ruby agreed to close so that I can shoot my shot with the hot customer who keeps staring.”

He blushes. He hasn’t blushed in… he doesn’t know how long it’s been. His eyes widen and she smiles like she expected him to think he was being secretive as he watched her. She takes his hand, his right hand, the only one he has, and it’s like she knows that that’s the right side to choose. She tells him not to worry about his tab, the one rum and Coke on the house. She keeps his hand in hers and guides him behind her until they reach the door, and he realizes that this woman could be leading him to his death and he frankly wouldn’t care.

~~~~

He doesn’t go back to her place. She doesn’t come back to his.

They just… talk.

He hasn’t talked to someone– really talked to someone, someone who isn’t his bloody assigned Marshal– in six months. Six months, three weeks, and six days. He hasn’t had the pleasure of getting to know someone in far too long, longer than he can count, because he never really knew Milah. He hasn’t felt such a connection to another person in all the time he can recall being alive. Perhaps he felt connected to his friend Rob in third grade, but this is different. Perhaps he felt connected to his brother before he died, but this is far different. Lily, Lily Quinn, is unlike anyone he’s ever met. She’s bold and brazen and she isn’t afraid to tell him exactly what’s on her mind at any given second.

I think you’re hot.

The sweater look is seriously a turn on.

I’m not really looking for a relationship right now, but I guess you can never say never.

She’s right. One can never say never, although he was pretty clear with himself after losing Milah that he’d never let himself fall for a woman like that again.

And yet, here he is, standing beside a woman several years younger than he is, buying her ice cream, hoping she doesn’t notice the way his left hand simply no longer exists, certain that he would fall for her if he let himself. It’s almost inevitable, and he realizes it as he watches her skip along the rock wall that lies sturdily between the sidewalk and the ocean waves, ice cream cone in hand, toes pointed out before her as she takes on the stance and confidence of a gymnast or a ballerina and then admits, I’ve never been very coordinated.

He feels it in his heart as she hops down with a grin, her steps light and her smile lighter, as if nothing has ever bothered her in her life. It’s intoxicating. He feels envious of her and yet he doesn’t have the painful feeling in his gut that usually accompanies jealousy. He isn’t jealous of her lightness, of her carefree nature; he’s happy for her.

He’s known this woman merely a day and he’s falling for her.

So when she lets him walk her to the entrance of her apartment building, tells him goodnight and that she doesn’t normally kiss on the first date, he grins. Was this a date? he wonders to himself, and all he can do is hope endlessly that it was.

She doesnt give him her phone number, but she tells him that she’ll see him soon. She says it with confidence, with a certainty that she’ll see him at the bar soon enough, and he can’t help but match her smile. Well, match is a stretch, because her’s is glowing and perfect and his is pained and broken, but it isn’t forced tonight like it usually is, and for that, he’s grateful.

~~~~

He still struggles to find the perfect word to describe her. Sometimes he thinks it’s effortless, sometimes he thinks it’s perfect, sometimes he thinks it’s formidable, but nothing seems exactly right. He knows there must be one word, one phrase he can use to describe the essence of this woman, but as he stares dreamily at her as she works, he can’t think of it.

She smiles at him like she always does, pours him another drink, tells him he looks handsome in his slate colored sweater, and he blushes again. He couldn’t think of the last time he blushed before he met her, and now, he’s been blushing nonstop for the past three weeks of knowing her.

“You know,” she says one evening when the room is quiet, almost empty, pressing up onto her toes so that she can get closer to him although there’s a bar between them, “I don’t know if I got everything I should have out of our tour.”

“That was weeks ago,” he points out. “I think the period for complaints has expired.”

She laughs, throwing her head back and letting him see the cords of her neck as they stretch. “You’re funny,” she says easily. “I mean, shouldn’t you have brought me to all the local spots? I heard there’s a diner I’m seriously missing out on and you just took me to the ice cream shop.”

“Well, ice cream shops are open much later than most diners.”

“Ruby says it moonlights as a restaurant at night.”

“She would know,” he agrees. “Her granny is Granny.”

She gasps, and he thinks it's sarcastic. “The Granny?”

He smiles. It’s genuine, real, honest. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“Maybe we can try it some time,” she offers after a beat, picking up her rag and wiping at the bar’s surface in front of him. He moves his elbow carefully, desperate to hide his shame from her like he always is, wondering if she’s noticed the strange way he shields his left arm.

“Are you… I mean, are you staying in town long, then?”

She’s quiet for a moment, for the first time since he’s known her appearing unsure of what to say. She looks down at the wooden surface between them and drops her hand towards his, her long fingers playing at the knit fabric that nearly covers his fingers until she tickles the hair on his knuckles. “My plan was to stay as long as I needed to.”

“How long will you need to?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’ll stay until I find what I’m looking for.”

“And what’s that?”

She smiles, still looking down at his hand and becoming more bold as she lifts one of his fingers and tucks her own beneath it. “You couldn't handle it,” she dares, looking at him with a playful smirk, and he can’t help but to return it.

“Perhaps not.”

“What are you looking for?”

He can’t answer, because he doesn’t quite know. He racks his brain, wondering what will happen to him once he gives his testimony and can go on with his real life without the fear of being hunted or the unease of a US Marshal breathing down his back. He wonders what he’ll want when this is all over, wonders if he’ll want something out of his life other than for it to finally end.

“Home,” he tells her after the silence between them has grown cold, and he watches as the look on her face shifts from one of playful indifference and almost discomfort into something that he struggles to read. It’s something like disbelief, her mouth falling open slightly and her hold on his one remaining hand falling weak as she stares into his eyes and into his blackened soul.

She lets go of his hand completely, letting it fall against the countertop and moving towards the entrance of the bar, exiting her post as she often tells him she’ll never, ever do. She sidles up beside him, one hand landing softly on his cheek and the other resting against his thigh just above his knee. “Home?” she asks in a whisper, her’s softer than his, voice almost imperceptible over the sounds of the nearly empty bar.

“Aye,” he chokes out. “I’m not really sure… what that means. But… aye.”

“I want that, too,” she tells him as if it’s a secret, and a part of him realizes that something between them has shifted. This is an admittance, a secret she’s hardly told anyone, and as she moves in close to him and finally, finally captures his lips between her own, he feels nothing but gratitude and a realization that she’s truly letting him in.

The gratitude mixes quickly with a tightness in the pit of his stomach, her tongue lightly tracing the seam of his lips until he opens them slightly, allowing her entrance and a pass to explore as she wishes, and the gratitude grows. He breathes her in, inhaling the scent of her as it mixes with the scent of him and feeling the gratefulness growing along with that tightening in his stomach. He hears a soft whimper escaping the back of her throat, barely breaking past her lips before crashing against his own. The hand on his knee slides upwards to his thigh, squeezing his flesh beneath his jeans as her other hand slides into the hair at the back of his neck.

He struggles to think of a time where he wished for his hand back more than he wishes for it now, wanting nothing but to feel her beneath both of his palms, but one will have to do as he finds her hip and pulls her close, lets her find her spot between his knees and push her hips against his own. He leaves his empty arm by his side, content to ignore the desires in hopes of avoiding her finding out the truth. Well, this truth.

But she’s insatiable, wanton, needy as she tries to get closer, as she climbs up onto the stool precariously to straddle his thighs, as she sends a bolt of fear through him when she almost falls off, and he can’t help but to grab her, or try to and fail. He grabs one hip, has a good hold on her, but it’s not enough to distract her from the way that her other hip is secured by an empty wrist, and he knows by the way she freezes in his arms that she knows.

She whispers the name he gave her against his lips; he notes the way the word feels against his skin. He likes the way it feels when she says it, but he wonders if he’ll ever feel the truth falling from her lips. To his surprise, he feels her smile against his mouth and he pulls away, although he can’t seem to open his eyes.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. She holds his face in both of her hands and he feels envy. “Are you embarrassed?”

He nods without thinking, his forehead fused to hers and the tip of his nose running along the bridge of her own.

“You don’t have to be,” she whispers. “I already knew.”

“What?” he asks, looking up from her and meeting her deep emerald eyes.

Her smile is soft and kind and gentle. “I mean… yeah. It’s been weeks, and I'm good at noticing stuff.”

“You’ve known for weeks?”

“Since the first night.”

“And you didn’t… It wasn’t…?”

“No,” she whispers, her smile bright and understanding and somehow unchanged. “You're still hot as hell.”

He laughs, because what else is he supposed to do? He hasn’t thought of himself as attractive, not even remotely, since that day eight months and two days ago. But here she is, telling him he’s hot as hell even though she’s known since the first time they met that he only has one hand.

“How’d it happen?” she asks, lightly touching his forearm but not getting any closer to the scarred, angry skin just below, either because of his fear or her own.

He startles slightly. David told him he can’t tell anyone anything about that night, the night he lost his hand, so he shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “Boating accident,” he tells her. They were at a marina, afterall; perhaps it’s not entirely a lie.

“Well, I’m sorry that happened. But it doesn't change anything.”

His nose is still pressed to hers and he doesn’t even think before nuzzling it against her own and making her grin, her giggle playful. “Thank you,” he whispers genuinely. “It’s taken a long time to get used to it– I'm still not used to it.”

He thinks of the pain. The way that it always hurts, always. He thinks of earlier when he put another small, shallow hole in his desk with the first pen he could find. He thinks of the way it isn’t there, and yet he’s somehow always reminded. He’ll never be used to it.

~~~~

It’s been two weeks, and he hasn’t gotten used to the way that it feels to kiss her. He can never get used to the way her lips slide against his, the way her fingers slip through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. He’ll never get used to the way her thighs squeeze around his hips once they finally find privacy, the way her hand grabs his and pulls him until they find sanctuary in the women’s restroom. He won’t ever grow tired of the way she moans his name– the fake one– and grinds her hips against his and clings against him as if she can’t get enough. And he won't ever, ever get used to the way she holds tightly against his blunted forearm as she tells him how attractive she finds him.

She giggles when he boldly thrusts, just a bit, letting her get a taste of what she does to him when they’re like this. Ensuring that she knows the effect she has on him when she moans out a name that isn’t his and bites into the soft flesh of his collarbone just below his shirt.

“You know,” she starts, panting as she digs her fingers into his shoulder blades. It isn’t exactly easy to be in this position– to hold her up against the sink but also ensure that she’s pressed firmly to him– but it’s worth it. “One of these days I might let you beneath my jeans.”

He smirks against her, kissing her again and squeezing his palm against the plump flesh of her ass beneath the denim. “Is that so?”

“Maybe.”

“And what will I have to do to earn such a privilege?”

She hums and giggles all at once, shrugging and capturing him in another kiss, effectively silencing him. “I’ll know when I know.”

He laughs. It’s a real laugh. But his arm gets tired, what with him being unable to hold her with one of them, so he rests her weight on the porcelain sink for a moment. It was only a moment, honest, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Apparently, two weeks of making out against a free-standing sink puts a great burden on its structural integrity, and almost immediately as he puts her down, the porcelain shatters beneath her, splintering under her weight and sending her towards the floor.

“Fuck!” he shouts, trying to catch her and hoping that her frightened shouts don’t draw any attention from the other customers. The destruction of the sink stems from the basin and into the pipes, the breakage sending water at each of them and they’re soaked through faster than they can even comprehend.

At first he’s worried, trying to pull her out of the way and block the spraying pipes, but then her laughter rings louder than the forceful sound of the water and he can’t help but to look up at her with a smile.

“Look at you,” she laughs, her hair curling with moisture and the skin beneath her eyes blackening with her running makeup.

“Look at you!” he laughs back, shaking out his hand and standing by her side. “You look frazzled. Beautiful, but frazzled.”

“I’m gonna have to call someone about this,” she says lightly, as if it’s the furthest thing from her mind. “But thanks.”

“For breaking your sink?”

“For giving me an excuse to leave early,” she says, pulling him close to her once again, pressing onto her toes so she can press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m gonna have to go home and change. Apparently I’m frazzled.”

“Aye,” he says softly. “As am I, I'm sure.”

“You could always come back to my place. I have an energy efficient dryer.”

“And what will I wear in the meantime?”

With a shrug, she tells him, “I’m not sure I’m overly concerned with what you’re wearing. Or what you’re not wearing.”

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, not thinking before he wraps his right arm around her waist and pulls her close. “You’re…” He still can’t find the right word. Enigmatic?

“Horny.”

“Aye?” he whispers.

“Yes. I want you.”

She never hesitates to tell him exactly what she’s feeling and exactly what she’s thinking and exactly what she wants. It’s why he finds it so easy to believe her. Why wouldn’t he believe her?

~~~~

Her apartment is small, and he doesn’t even feel strange when he chooses the word cute to describe it in his mind. It’s nicely decorated, although somewhat bleak, as if she hasn’t had the time to move in since she’s moved in. The space itself is quaint, aged in the best way, and the boxes stacked in the corner of her living room give it character.

He isn’t able to see much else, though, the rest of the apartment turning to a blur as she pushes him against the wall by the front door and ravages him with her mouth and hands, lifting a leg to hitch over his hip and grinding against him with as much coordination as she can muster.

She must be something of an athlete, he thinks as she maneuvers around him, contorts herself so that she’s as close to him as possible. How else would she be able to maintain a position like this if she wasn’t used to working on gaining strength and stamina?

He backs her up suddenly, her back against the wall now, his hips planted firmly against hers, and she hisses. “Fuck,” she chokes out, her head falling back against the wall when he mouth latches to her neck. “Fuck, yes.”

“This is what you want?” he asks with more bold enthusiasm than he was expecting from himself.

“Yes, don’t stop doing that.”

She’s panting, her breath warm as it washes over his head, and it makes him more wanton. He shifts downward slightly, his mouth finding the top of her breast and sliding along her skin until he reaches the fabric of her tank top. With further exploration, he discovers that he must have been right that second night when he assumed she wasn’t wearing a bra, because she isn’t wearing one now.

“Minx,” he bites out, pulling on the ribbed black fabric to expose more of her breast. “Do you always go braless to work?”

“You’ve gotta flaunt what you’ve got in my line of work,” she explains breathlessly, and he bites the soft flesh just above her hardened nipple.

“Suppose someone should see this one day,” he proposes, licking against the pebbled flesh and drawing a surprised gasp from her, “poking through your top. Is that merely a ploy for more tips?”

“Maybe,” she breathes. “Maybe it’s a cry for attention.”

“From Leroy?”

“From you, you idiot.”

He silences her when he pulls her hardened nipple between his lips, sucking just hard enough to drag a moan from her throat. It’s then that he realizes that he’s on her left side, and normally, were sex truly like riding a bicycle, he would reach for her other breast. Only he doesn’t have a left hand anymore, so how is he supposed to squeeze her right breast? This thought gives him pause, just long enough for her to notice and to take his face in her hands.

“Do you want me?” she asks him, the question surprising.

“Can you not tell how badly I want you, love?” he asks, his hips firm against hers, his cock hard in response to her. He thrusts against her gently, watches her eyes fall shut and a soft moan escape her lips. “Shall I show you?”

She nods with enthusiasm, her chin bumping lightly against the top of his head, and he works hard to hold her tightly with his blunted arm so that he can squeeze her left thigh in his remaining hand. He slides it up, able to feel the soft fabric of her tight leggings and the contours of the muscles she has hidden underneath, and he’s jealous of his right hand for the loss of his left as he feels the roundness of her ass against his skin.

“Fuck,” she whispers again. “You’re so fucking hot.”

It’s not something he’s used to hearing. In fact, he isn’t sure anyone has ever called him that before– hot. Before Lily was Milah, and before Milah was a slew of unimportant women who warmed his bed. He lived his life that way for years, since losing his whole family one after another started to become too much. But then with Milah– after Milah– it became… not enough.

Maybe that was backwards. Maybe the loss of his family should have been more traumatic than the loss of a woman he almost loved along with his hand. Maybe it just goes to show how broken he truly is.

But here, and now, with Lily in his arms and her back against the wall and her hips grinding into his, he realizes that he isn’t as broken as he thought he was. Well, maybe that isn’t true– he’s certainly still broken. But maybe he can heal.

His hand, or what’s left on the end of his wrist, is healing. The doctor says it’s healing nicely. But he’s gone through the last eight months, two weeks, and three days assuming that his brain and his mind and his thoughts would never be more than the fragments of his shattered life.

How Lily calling him hot can change his mind, he isn’t sure, but it drives him forward, convinces him to allow her access to his belt, and then to his button and then to his zipper. It drives him to the waist of her damp leggings, soaked through with water from that blasted sink. It drives him to suck a small mark into her collarbone, eliciting a desperate gasp from her as he tugs at the stubborn fabric until it’s resting at her knees.

His fingers find her hot and wet and waiting for him, and he looks her in the eyes and is met with her quick nod, her bottom lip captured tightly between her teeth. Her head falls back against the door when he touches her, her jaw falling slack and making it impossible for him to stop himself from attaching his lips to her soft, pinkening skin on her neck.

It’s difficult to hold her up and continue to trace intricate patterns over her clit. It’s harder, still, to keep her pressed against him and suspended from the floor while he slips a finger, then a second, into her core. But as she grows closer and closer to that precipice, as he drags her to the cliff and holds her close as he encourages her towards the edge, he can ignore the cramp in his arm and the tightness in his back.

She calls him Peter when she comes. He wouldn’t expect anything else, but it makes him long for the truth. It makes him want to be his true self with her, and he hasn't wanted to be that in a very, very long time.

He carries her through her half-empty apartment as she catches her breath, her arms around his back tight, her fingers clinging sharply to the sweater he longs to take off. When he drops her onto her mattress, her eyes are hooded as she stares up at him. She reaches for him, seeming unhappy with being apart, and the thought makes him fight off a smile. Once she has her hands on him she finds the hem of his sweater, the one he doesn’t particularly like, the one that reminds him that he’s Peter and not Killian, and pulls it over his head.

They’re breathless when they come together. Finally tucking himself inside her is a feeling unlike anything he’s ever experienced or is likely to again. He thought he was beyond any sort of happiness, and having her beneath him is perfection. It’s overwhelming to realize that he’s here with her and it makes his breathing stutter as he drives into her with more force. The change of pace makes her cry out, her knees tight around his hips, and he can feel her squeezing him as she reaches that precipice again. The warm tightness makes him squeeze his eyes shut until her hand finds its way to his cheek, encouraging him to open them, and when he does, it’s like something shifts.

He’s loved Lily since the first time he saw her. But now, as their eyes meet and they climax together, he knows he’ll never be the same. And he knows he can’t lose her.

~~~~

Her head is heavy on his chest, the weight of it comforting against his heart as her even breath washes over the coarse dark hair that she can't seem to keep her fingers out of, even in sleep. He hears her hum softly, her fingers moving just slightly as she seems to drift into consciousness. She nuzzles her cheek against his chest and he feels a soft pressure as if she’s smiling against him. It makes him smile, too.

As she starts to stir, she tightens her grip on him, her arm sliding along his chest and hugging him close to herself, and everything is almost perfect until she stiffens. Following a low, deep rumble, she gasps, tensing above him and looking up at him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen. “Excuse me,” she says in embarrassment.

“Did you just belch?”

Her cheeks are set aflame, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she fights back a laugh and nods. “Sorry.”

“You’re insane.”

“Well you just slept with me, so what does that make you?”

“Also insane,” he agrees with a laugh. Without hardly thinking about it, he finds himself grinning, rolling her until she’s on her back and he can cage her between his arms, the marred one hidden beneath the pillow under her head. She laughs brightly as she stares up into his eyes and he feels his heart racing. “Sleep well?”

“Mhmm,” she hums. She lifts a hand and lets it cup his cheek, her thumb tracing the small scar that he thought was unsightly until he lost his hand. “You?”

“Mhmm. It’s, um… it’s been a bit.”

“Since the last time you were with someone?”

“Aye,” he whispers.

“Me too,” she whispers back, giving him a soft comforting smile. “My last boyfriend turned out to be a major creep.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. He rolls onto his side and she follows, staring at him in a way that he isn’t used to. “You deserve better than that.”

“So do you.”

He finds it hard to answer. He isn’t sure that’s true, considering everything, so he says, “Well, my last girlfriend turned out to be married.” And then murdered.

“Yikes,” she cringes, shaking her head. He catches the way her eyes drift off beyond him, her thoughts consuming her for a moment, before she asks, “Was it before… before your hand?”

Of course it was. The last time he was with Milah was just before she told him the truth, about her husband, about his treatment of her, about the way that she was prepared to go back to the monster of a man. It was just hours before the last time he saw her alive. Just hours before he saw the life drain from her eyes and felt the blood draining from his wrist.

“Yes,” he chokes out, plagued by the memories of a woman who never really loved him but died for him anyway.

She touches his forearm again, the one that he thinks he’s done a pretty good job of hiding from her, and squeezes in a way that’s more comforting than he was expecting. His scars are healing, no longer raw or burning or swollen, the stitches long gone, but it’s still the ugliest part of him and having her hand just above the unsightly wound makes him shiver. Her eyes meet his, gleaming in the morning sunlight and reminding him of a shard of sea glass as she stares so deeply at him that he thinks she must be seeing his soul. He wonders what she finds there– wonders if it’s actually his soul, or if it belongs to Peter Harrison, the man she believes him to be.

Without saying a word, without her eyes leaving his, she takes his wrist towards herself, her lips still just slightly swollen as she presses them against his tender, broken skin. She gives him a smile, her thumb gently running along one of his longer scars, and kisses him once more, causing a chill to run down his spine.

“Are you okay?” she asks in a whisper, and the question, he thinks, goes deeper than just to inquire about his hand.

“I think so,” he answers honestly, just as softly as she had asked her question, and his response makes her smile.

“I just… obviously I haven’t been in your shoes. But I know this is probably a lot for you to process.” David had said that once, that it’ll be a lot to process. It is; the loss of his hand is only one piece of the puzzle that, when put together, will tell the story of his suffering. His hand being obliterated to the point it could not be saved is only one of the things that haunts him. The horror of watching a woman he could have loved being strangled, watching her take her last breath, will never leave him.

He thinks of that night too often, recalling the way that horrible man destroyed every part of him as he took his shots, missing the one he shouldn’t have. Had he not struck Killian two inches too far to the left, perhaps he would have reached his goal of killing him. Perhaps, in that case, Killian would have been put out of his misery and he never would have had to become Peter Harrison.

But he doesn’t want to die anymore, at least, he doesn’t think so. With Lily’s fingers sliding along his chest, he thinks he’ll allow himself to live for a bit longer.

“What’s this?” she asks after a consuming silence forces its way between them. When he comes back to himself, forcing away the thoughts of pain and suffering, he notes the way her fingers slide along his skin until they find the scar on his back, the one from the bullet that almost missed him and almost killed him, too far to the left to have done any damage. Her fingers circle the small wound that’s all but healed and he shivers again.

“A scar,” he answers simply, his voice rough and deep and forced.

“From what?”

He’s silent. He can’t answer, because for whatever reason, he gets the impression that she already knows. Even if he was allowed to tell her the truth, to tell her that his name isn’t Peter and that his life is in danger but that he doesn't truly care, he knows he wouldn’t, because he couldn’t stand to see the look on her face if he were to tell her what truly happened.

So he rolls her over and he kisses her again, and he keeps kissing her until she’s consumed by him as he always is by her, and she seems to forget that she asked in the first place.

~~~~

He’s unsure of what to do.

There’s nothing he really can do, truthfully. For a moment he wondered if physical therapy would help, but then he recalled that there’s nothing there for a physical therapist to work on.

All he can do is suffer.

The pain is as agonizing as it is disorienting. How can he look at a hand that isn’t there and feel such pain within it? All he can think about as he sits at his too-small desk in his too-small office is recall the feeling of Gold’s bullet penetrating his skin and muscle and bone, shattering it until it was of no use to him.

And now there’s nothing there to treat, so all he can do is dig his remaining fingers into the wood of his desk and start digging through his drawer for a pen that he hasn’t broken yet.

“Good morning!” he hears as he grips the pen in his fist, the door swinging open and revealing his panting, sweating, cursing form to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. “Peter?”

He grunts as he forces the pen out of his fist, dropping it to the floor and trying and failing to drag in some oxygen. He can’t speak to her, his jaw is clenched too tightly. He hears her hurrying into his office, something dropping onto the desk and something else dropping onto the floor as she kneels before him and takes his fist in her hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asks in worry, her thumb running along his knuckles, and it would be comforting if this was the hand paining him. “Peter,” she says more soothingly, voice soft and angelic, and she stands between his knees and takes his face between her hands, pressing his forehead to hers. “Peter, just breathe. It’s okay,” she whispers onto his mouth.

He tries, he really does. The breath he takes in is short and forceful, the sound escaping him embarrassing. “Deep breaths,” she instructs gently, her fingers scratching against his scalp. She shushes him and the sound penetrates his thoughts and his agony until he’s able to breathe deeply enough to smell her intoxicating perfume. “That’s it,” she encourages. “It’s okay.”

The pain is still there, but it’s lessened somehow, and he didn’t need to thrust a pen into his desk to achieve the same results. “I’m sorry,” he finally forces out when he feels himself able to speak again.

“Don’t apologize,” she whispers, and then before he can think or even open his eyes, her soft, pliant lips are pressed to his and his thoughts are erased at last. She stays there for only a moment, not long enough before she pulls away and runs the perfect tip of her nose along the bridge of his. “What happened?”

He shakes his head. He can’t possibly burden her with this foolishness, so he keeps quiet and lets his hand hold onto her wrist as her own fingers continue their ministrations along his scalp. “Nothing,” he murmurs, and she feels her breath escaping her lips in a soft laugh that lands against his mouth.

“That wasn’t nothing, Peter,” she accuses. The more she hears that names fall from her lips, the more he longs to correct her, and it’s becoming almost as agonizing as his hand that no longer exists. “Is it… I mean, I’ve heard before that sometimes amputations can–”

“Aye,” he interrupts. She’s right, of course, but he’d rather not put it to words. He much prefers to ignore it. “You’re right, love. I’m sorry that I ruined your visit– I wasn’t expecting you.”

She seems to read him easily, pulling away and smiling as she stands up straight. “I was surprising you,” she tells him with a smile. “The point is that you didn’t expect me. I brought you coffee.”

“Well, thank you,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’m sure I needed this.”

“Peter,” she says, more serious suddenly, and his face falls at the sound of her voice wrapping around a name that isn’t his.

“I’m alright, Lily,” he says, trying to reassure her, although her face falls the same way he’s sure he did. “What is it?” he asks, placing the paper mug on his desk and taking her hand in his.

“Nothing,” she smiles, and it makes him think of himself, telling her the exact same thing. “Just… I found out I’m not actually on the schedule for today when I thought I was so I figured I'd pay you a visit. I, um– I missed you,” she admits more shyly, and it makes him smile.

“Well, I missed you, too, love,” he smiles back. How is it possible for him to be smiling when he was halfway to wishing for death just moments ago? “I’m glad you paid me a visit; I'm just sorry you had to… to see that.”

“I told you not to apologize,” she reminds him, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his in a tender kiss that makes his heart stutter behind his ribs. She leans away and hoists herself onto his tattered desk, able to ignore the tiny holes that little the surface and crossing her ankles as she smiles at him and reaches for the bag from Granny’s. “I also got you a bearclaw.”

“Oh dear,” he says, shaking his head at her playfully. “I’m afraid I'm much more of a donut person.”

Lily takes in a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh, shaking her own head and then rolling her eyes. “Okay,” she says with a nod. “Well, Peter, it was nice while it lasted, but we’re going to have to break up now,” she teases as she hops to the floor and starts to step away. He catches her, though, his hand reaching into the back pocket of her tight jeans and tugging her towards him until she falls into his lap with a ringing laugh.

His lips find her neck, and he finds himself much more playful than he’s ever been after having one of his episodes of pain and self-hatred. “How can we be broken up,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear, smirking when he feels her shudder, “when we never established a relationship in the first place?”

He isn’t sure what makes him ask– he’s never been so bold or straightforward, not even with Milah. But her answer makes his boldness worth it. “I thought you knew that you’re stuck with me,” she says, her tone joking and yet somehow completely serious.

“My, my. Lily Quinn, are you asking me out?”

She stills for a second before turning to face him and nodding. “I suppose so.”

Their lips meet, and everything else in the room disappears. Every hardship he’s ever experienced melts into the background as she kisses him, her mouth soft and perfect and her tongue tracing along his own in a way that makes his spine tingle. He can do nothing but pull her closer once she’s maneuvered herself into his lap, her legs straddling his and her fingers finding their way into his hair again.

“Are you busy?” she asks against his mouth breathlessly.

“Yes,” he breathes back, suddenly consumed with need as he picks her up with some difficulty and deposits her on the desk. “With you.”

She lets out a breathless laugh, the sound cut off by her gasp when he kisses her. Their actions are quick and hasty, their need for each other only mildly outweighed by their need not to be caught. Neither of them bother with their shirts, Lily reaching for his belt and loosening it just enough so that she can undo his trousers and watch them fall to the floor. He steps out of them, though perhaps he shouldn’t. He lets her pull his boxers down, though, and he steps out of those, too.

He finds the jeans she wears intoxicating. He loves when she wears them to work almost as much as he loves when she goes to the bar without a bra, but there’s no time to explore the soft skin of her breasts today. Instead, he pushes her jeans off of her ass and squeezes the flesh there with his one remaining hand, the other arm resting at his side and desperate to feel her with his lost fingers. Her tongue finds its way into his mouth as he slides her underwear down, too, the garments landing on the floor beside his own trousers.

She gasps when he enters her after just a moment of foreplay, his fingers quickly ensuring that she’s ready for him before his cock slides home inside her. She bites his lip, her fingers clinging to the material of the gray knit on his shoulders. “Fuck,” she breathes into his mouth, a moan escaping her throat.

“Okay?” he asks.

She nods rapidly, desperately, her hips starting to move and bounce above him, seeking the pressure and the friction that’ll get her to ecstasy. “Harder,” she begs almost silently, and he grips her hips to thrust forcefully up into her, making her cry out too loudly.

They both come quickly, their mouths latching together to ensure that they’re silent enough not to get caught by his coworkers. And he holds her, feels her breath panting out against his hot skin, and even though the life he’s presented to her is technically a lie, he’s never felt more like the person he wants to be.

~~~~

“There’s someone new in town,” she says after a while, her breathing having evened out although her fingers continue to draw small patterns into the skin of his collarbone along the neckline of his shirt.

“Is there?”

“Yeah. I think he’s from Boston, too; do you know him?”

He kisses her temple over the hair clinging to her skin and chuckles. “I’m afraid I don’t know everyone from Boston, love.”

“I think his name is Ian, or something.”

His hand slips along her back beneath her top, although he slows his movements slightly at her continued inquiry. “You’re rather distracted by this newcomer,” he points out, and she shrugs. With a joking tone, he asks, “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” she giggles without a second thought before she presses a kiss to his neck and then drops her head back down to his chest. “No,” she says again with more relaxation. “I’m just curious.”

“I know,” he murmurs against her head. “You are quite a curious lass.”

“Are you calling me a lass because of how much younger I am than you?” she asks in jest, and he moves his hand so that he can pinch her hip, making her giggle again.

He would answer with as much a joking tone as she had given him, but they’re interrupted, the ringing of his phone distracting him from the softness of her skin against his and reminding him that she lies half naked atop him, her jeans lying beside his on the floor of his office, which anyone can enter at any time. He kisses her once more, moving carefully so that he doesn’t disturb her too much as he reaches for his phone in his pants pocket.

“Is it your other girlfriend?” she asks, and he swats her ass playfully, making her yelp and laugh.

It’s not, of course. It’s David– the last person he wants to talk to with Lily resting pantsless on his lap. “A friend,” he explains with unease.

She removes herself from him, reaching for the box of tissues on his desk and giving him a look that invites him to swipe the screen to answer. “David,” he says tightly, hoping that his tone gives away the fact that it’s a horrible time for him to be calling.

“Killian,” he answers too loudly, but Lily doesn’t seem to notice. “How are things?”

“Fine.”

He watches as she struts back towards him, her underwear back on but her jeans still sitting on the floor, and she stops to pick up his boxers and toss them at him. “Good,” David says as he struggles to keep the phone tucked against his shoulder while tugging his boxers back over his legs. She giggles and bites into her bottom lip as she watches, walking around to the back of his desk chair and placing her hands on his shoulders, holding his phone against his ear for him. “I’m probably going to pay you a visit.”

“That’s no problem,” he answers, although he clears his throat loudly when she bends towards him, her lips dancing along the shell of his ear that isn’t being burned by his Marshal’s interruptions. “When?”

“Tomorrow, if not Wednesday.”

“Fine,” he says with a cough and a sigh.

“Killian, Are you alright?” he asks, and how is he supposed to correct the man on the other line when her mouth trails down his neck and her hands start to scratch through the hair on his chest? “You sound… strange.”

He clears his throat once more, leaning his head against hers and sighing. “I’ve got to go,” he says with more urgency. “I suppose I'll see you tomorrow or Wednesday.”

“Alright, just tell me to bring a pepperoni pizza if you’re in danger right now.”

Bloody hell. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty of food at home. See you soon, Dave.”

He hears her giggle in his ear before he even drops the phone to his lap, and he spins in his chair so that he faces her, pulling her back down into his lap and pinching her hip once more. “You’re a scoundrel.”

“Mhmm,” she agrees happily, leaning in to kiss him earnestly. “Are you expecting a visit?”

He shrugs. “I suppose I am.”

“From a friend?”

“An old friend, uh, from school. Certainly not a girlfriend.”

She hums and kisses him once more. “Good. And do I get to meet this friend?”

He gulps. He doesn’t really know the answer to that, isn’t familiar with the ins and outs of a witness’s new girlfriend meeting their court appointed Marshal. So he shrugs and says, “I’m not really sure. Dave is, well, he’s quite shy.”

“But I'm such a catch,” she jokes, pressing a kiss to his nose before standing.

“Yes, you are,” he answers with a solid pinch to her bum as she makes her way to her jeans.

Once they’re pulled onto her long legs she stands straight before him, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m off,” she says. “I need to go grocery shopping.”

“Just a visit for a quickie, then?” he jokes, and she rolls her eyes.

“I guess so. But maybe I’ll stop by your place tonight.” She shoots him a smirk as she walks towards the door and he realizes that he’s still not wearing pants. She winks and walks out the door without so much as another word.

~~~~

It’s raining when he walks home that night. The roads are slick and although it’s not too cold out, he longs for a leather jacket to keep the moisture from soaking into his back.

He hasn’t felt like himself since he’s gotten here, forced to change everything about himself from his name to the way he used to like to dress. He’s not himself anymore, in fact; the Killian Jones he used to know had two hands and less to worry about.

But if there’s one thing that makes him feel like himself, or at least a version of himself who he can stand, it’s Lily.

She’s bright, and contagiously happy, and hilarious. She’s youthful and energetic, beautiful and intelligent. He can’t get enough of her. He can’t get her out of his head. He had thoughts of hatred for himself when he moved here, and she’s begun to chop away at them all, because if she can stand to be around him, hell, if she can enjoy her time with him, maybe he’s not that bad after all.

He loves her. He’s only known her a few months, but it’s been more than enough time for him to fall madly in love with Lily Quinn.

He’s confused when he sees her on his way home, though. She had already texted him and told him that she wouldn’t make it over tonight because she found out last minute that she has to work. But here she is, well past the time her shift should have started, sitting in her Bug and staring contemplatively out the window at the building across the street.

“Lily,” he says through the open passenger window, and she jumps a mile in her seat and looks at him in complete shock, as if seeing him is the last thing she would have expected. “What… Are you okay?”

“Peter,” she says back, placing her hand on her heart that he assumes must be beating erratically. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” he tells her, and he watches her unlock the door and takes it as an invitation to join her in the passenger’s seat. “I thought you were working?”

She clears her throat, her eyes darting, looking at everything in her line of sight except for him. They both hear a sound, the front door of the building she’s watching opening, and she jumps again. He looks ahead at the man leaving the building and feels a cold sweat settling over him as a pit forms in his stomach, realizing quickly that something isn’t right. Because even from this distance and even in the dim street lamps, he can tell clear as day that the man they’re both staring at is his old roommate from Boston. “Fuck,” she breathes, looking around again nervously this time and turning to her back seat.

That’s when he turns, too, taking in the contents of the box sitting on the floor behind her seat and noticing a jacket. A black leather jacket, useless now with a hole in the torso and a blood stain on the left sleeve.

That’s his jacket. The one he was wearing on the worst night of his life.

“Where did you get that?” he asks her slowly, and she looks like a rabid dog caught on a leash as she watches August jump into a truck and drive away, obviously wanting nothing more than to follow him. “Lily.”

“Fuck!” she says again, louder this time, her hand colliding with the steering wheel before she rests her head on it. “God dammit.”

“What the hell is going on?” he demands. As he watches her painfully grappling with what to do, with whether she should start her engine and follow the man she’s clearly been watching, the man who could have followed him from Boston and could be about to ruin everything, he feels something shattering. Suddenly everything starts to fall apart, the trust he had for her slipping through his fingers and the happiness he thought he felt seeming to melt away.

“I’m… I don’t know how to tell you,” she says, and when he looks at her with anger in his heart, he can see the way that she’s breaking, too. He has no idea what’s going on with her, with the two of them, but he finds it hard to believe that whatever is between them isn’t splitting at the seams. She sniffles and says, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks with a bit more tenderness in his voice, finding it impossible to handle seeing tears starting to well in her eyes. “What’s going on? Why do you have my old jacket in your backseat? Why are you following August?”

“August?” she asks in confusion, shaking her head. “That’s not August, that’s the new guy from Boston; the guy I was asking you about earlier.”

“No, that’s–”

“Wait.”

“Lily–”

“Did you say–” Her face falls. Her mouth slacks open. Her eyes grow wide with fear and something else. She whispers into the dark, “Your jacket?”

“Aye, mine. I thought I’d lost it; it wasn’t with my personal effects when I left the hospital.”

Her hands cover her mouth, her eyes growing more tearful as she shakes her head. “No,” she chokes out before letting out a sob. “No. Fuck, no.”

“Lily–” he starts, trying to put his hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away.

“Don’t call me that,” she insists through tears before she turns to start her engine.

He lets out a sarcastic laugh and asks, “And what will you have me call you, then?” he asks in exasperation, watching on in concern as she peels away from the curb without barely checking her surroundings and rushes towards his apartment, not hers. “Lily, what are you–”

“Emma,” she says forcefully, turning to him for just a second before wiping her eyes and looking back to the road. “My name is Emma.”

The only word he can use to describe himself is stunned. He’s silent, his mouth hanging slack just as hers was just a moment ago. His brows pinch together in thought as he looks at her, really looks at her, and for the first time, something seems to click.

Emma.

He can’t even be angry with her. He isn’t sure what reason she could possibly have to make up a fake name, but it dawns on him once more that she’s known him as Peter Harrison since they met almost six months ago. How can he be upset with her for lying about her true identity when he’s done nothing but lie to her from the moment they met?

All he can say is, “Why?”

She pulls sharply into a parking spot just outside of his building, looking around suspiciously before hurrying out of the car and towards his building’s front door, leaving him to follow.

He hurries out of the car behind her, throwing the door shut and taking out his key to open the door for her. “Li– Emma?” he tries, not used to feeling the name on his lips, but she rushes ahead of him, bypassing the elevator as she shoves the door to the stairs open and pushes through, barely waiting for him before sprinting up to his floor.

Once they’re inside his apartment, he stands behind her as she locks the door, and then, overcome with frustration and confusion and a need for answers, he places his hand and wrist on the door around her head and forces her eyes to meet his. “What the hell is going on?”

“Peter,” she starts, and he almost corrects her, but he can’t get a word in. Tearfully, she says, “Tell me you didn’t live with that man. Please, please just tell me that isn’t your jacket and this is all just a cruel joke.”

He stares at her for a moment, consumed with sadness and confusion. “Why would it be? Why would you know that?”

She shakes her head, looking down from his eyes. “Then you know… You know Robert Gold, then?”

His jaw tightens immediately, his teeth clenching together painfully, and he almost presses his hand to her neck at the threat but chooses instead to dig his fingers into the wood of the door and deny her freedom when she tries to pull away from him. “Why do you know that name?” he asks through his teeth.

She glances up for a moment and then back down. “I work for him,” she whispers.

He almost hits his hand against the door and pulls away, anger all consuming, boiling his blood and sending it singing through his veins as he tries to catch his breath.

But he can’t catch his breath, not as she continues to speak a harsh truth. “I’m a bounty hunter. I was hired by Robert Gold to find the witness to his wife’s murder; a man in his early-to-mid-forties who wears a lot of leather and–”

“And what?” he seethes when she doesn’t go on.

Her eyes meet his and sadness rim them as she weakly admits, “And had his hand… shot off… a year ago.”

“Bloody hell,” he curses and while he’s angry, furious, he can’t help but to feel something quite the opposite as he looks at her and realizes he finally knows the real her. Emma.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in anguish, wiping away the tears in her eyes. “I don't– This can’t be happening.”

“Aye, well, it is,” he says with just a touch of snark staining his voice, and she lets out a sob, dropping her face to her hands.

“I thought you were Peter Harrison,” she cries. “You lost your hand in a boating accident. You never wear leather! If I had known that you were the one I was supposed to be looking for…”

“What? You would’ve gotten it over with sooner?” he asks with viper shooting through his words.

“I would’ve left!” she shouts honestly, desperately. “I would’ve fled.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? She would’ve left. Just like every other good thing in his life, she would have brought this to an end. “If your plan is to turn me in, you may as well just–”

“No. I’m not going to do that; I would never hurt you,” she says lowly, painfully, her eyes filled with wet tears he’s never seen before. “I swear to you, Killian.”

He stands before her, eyes widening despite his attempts at staying stoic and angry, and he realizes… she knows his name. She knows the real him. Practically speechless, all he can utter is, “I…”

“That’s right, isn’t it? You’re Killian Jones. You had an affair with Milah Gold and were present when her husband shot her in cold blood, right? He thought he killed you, too; shot you in the back and in the hand. But he found out the hard way that you had escaped when his clean up crew couldn’t find you.”

He shakes off the shock of hearing his story told back to him after hiding it for so many months and becomes defensive again even though the words hurt as they leave his mouth. “The fact that you know this just… I have to call someone. I have to have this taken care of.”

“Pe- Killian, I’m not going to turn you in, you have my word!”

“I don’t want your word,” he tells her without thinking, turning back to face her and meeting the tragedy in her eyes. “I– Emma. All this time, we've been lying to one another! All I want now is the truth.”

“The truth?” she asks softly, stepping close to him and meeting his desperate eyes with her matching ones. “The truth is that it doesn’t matter to me who you are. I don’t care if you’re Peter or Killian; it doesn’t matter.” She lifts her hand timidly, as if nervous of his reaction, but chooses to place it upon his heart anyway. “I fell in love with you. The second I met you I wouldn’t have hurt you. If I had known it was you, I would’ve run then and there.”

“Run?” he asks, the word stinging as it leaves his lips and his hand lifting against his will. If he had them both, they would be cupping her cheeks. But all he has is the left side of her face against his palm.

“I have to run,” she whispers up to him. “When Gold finds out… he’ll kill me when I don’t–”

It’s amazing how quickly and easily he makes up his mind, knowing without a single doubt that he’ll do anything to ensure that he doesn’t have to be without her.

He cuts her off, mostly because the thought of her leaving, even after all of the revelations and truths, makes him nauseous. But also because, in all the hazy frenzy, he’s just now realizing what she said. And he’s realizing that he fell in love with her, too.

And he’s always been the first one to say it.

She returns his kiss as if she isn’t even thinking, her hands sliding into his hair easily and quickly and a soft whimper breaking between their lips. Neither of them seem to even breathe before he’s backing her up to press her against the door, gripping her ass as best he can so that she jumps into his arms and locks her legs around his waist.

His lips slide down to her neck, latching to the tender skin above her collarbone, and she lets out a soft, intoxicating moan before whispering again, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he begs against her skin, sucking a mark into it as he feels her fingers scratching against his scalp. “Don’t say that again. Please.”

“Peter, I– fuck.” She drops her head back against the door and when he looks up at her and finds her bottom lip stuck between her teeth, tears filling her eyes again, he smiles at her sadly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. His forehead falls to hers and he kisses her softly. “It’ll probably take some getting used to, not calling you Lily.”

She looks at him for just a moment and smiles sadly before her face shifts, tears returning and her smile flipping into a frown before she looks away.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says again. “You love me?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately, firmly. She’s crying again when she says, “And I’m so sorry that I lied to you all this time, Killian.”

“It’s not like I was being entirely truthful with you either, love.”

“But you have a good reason to lie,” she argues. “Witness protection, right?”

He nods. “You did, too, though. I’m sure you can’t roll into town and announce your true intentions.” She nods, too, still saddened and struggling to meet his eyes, so he kisses her once more, soft and tender and with as much love as he can pour into her. “What would you have done?” he asks. “If I had been someone else? Just a random bloke from the bar?”

She’s pensive for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. “I would’ve come back,” she whispers. “I would’ve brought the target in and quit, and then I would've come back. But then… that would’ve been a lie, too.”

“Then perhaps this is for the best?”

“What is?”

With a small smile, he tells her, “I love you, too. It’s probably best that we get this all out in the open now, aye?”

Her hands find his cheeks, her thumbs running along the skin beneath his eyes, along the scar he’s had for longer than he can recall, and he’s never seen someone look so saddened. “How can you love me, after everything?” she asks in defeat.

“The same way you can love me even though a big part of me hates myself.”

She sighs heavily, shaking her head and frowning deeply. “I hate hearing you say that,” she whispers, tightening her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as if trying to bring him impossibly closer to herself.

“It’s true,” he says simply. “I never thought I would feel this way again, after everything with Milah. But… Emma, with you, it’s so much more.”

Her forehead is pressed to his as she nods. “For me, too.”

“Then don’t run,” he practically begs. “Don’t leave me.”

She whispers his name, his real name, against his lips and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I need you,” she tells him, the desperation in her voice sending a jolt of desire straight down to his cock. “Not just… I mean, not just now; not just physically. I need you. I don't want to think about what my life would be like without you in it.”

“Then don’t,” he begs, finding himself repetitive but not caring. Maybe if he says it enough…

Her lips are on his in an instant, hot and desperate, the feeling rushing between them like a current as they attempt to sooth the pain they're both in. He can’t help himself now, pressing her firmly against the door with his hips and groaning in response to the needy sound she makes. She angles her own hips just right so that he can feel the heat of her skin through his jeans and it makes him shudder. And she never once breaks her lips away from his as she fumbles with his belt and then his button and his zipper, letting his jeans fall loudly to the floor and tangling around his ankles.

“Please,” she breathes into his mouth, the heat of her voice making him thrust his hips towards her. The feeling of her leggings against him is strange but not unwelcome, although he wastes no further time as he starts to precariously tug at the waistband and pull the fabric from her heated skin. “Please, Killian, I need you.”

She’s never begged like this before, and something about it drives him even more wild. It’s something possessive and carnal within him that sparks in the base of his spine and in his belly and radiates out to every part of him, his fingers tingling and his cock twitching as she desperately pulls his boxers over his hips and sends them down with his jeans. He tugs at her underwear, the small cotton thong no match for the desperation in his fingertips, and he feels her whimpering against his mouth as he touches her, intent on ensuring that she’s ready for him.

Her tongue is dancing against his in a graceful frenzy and then she breaks away, her eyes deep and watery as they look into his and she nods quickly. He watches her teeth sink into her bottom lip as he drags the tip of his cock along her folds, her center hot and wet, and she lets out a breathless whimper and locks her eyes on his when he finally eases himself inside. Their foreheads collide, but it doesn’t hurt. Their noses brush against one another before she captures him in a bruising kiss.

She moves with him, eager and intense as she uses the door at her back to ground herself and circles her hips to meet each of his thrusts. Her fingers are tight in his hair, tugging relentlessly before she drops her right hand between them and finds that perfect spot just above where they’re joined. She moans out his name, throwing her head back against the door in what he knows must be a painful collision, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.

It’s good like this, quick and dirty and just what they need, but after a moment something tells him that it isn’t quite enough. He braces himself, pulling her body close to his and using his good hand to grip her ass tightly so that she bucks towards him, then he kicks his jeans off of his ankles clumsily as he stumbles his way through the apartment. She protests softly when he breaks his mouth from hers, regretting it too but needing to see where he’s going, and instead of waiting, she busies her mouth with his neck, her tongue dragging from beneath his earlobe down to his collarbone. Her mouth breaks away from his skin with a pop of suction when he pulls out and drops her to the mattress, and she lets out another irresistible moan.

Her name falls from his lips as he crawls onto the bed with her, hovering over her and unable to catch his breath before her legs are cradling his hips and her heels are pressing into his ass in a desperate attempt to get him back inside her. With how insistent she is, how needy and hot she is, he finds it impossible to resist giving her exactly what she wants.

They stay like that for a bit, with him heavy on top of her as he thrusts in, trying to find that perfect angle that makes her shout. But she’s restless, the emotions flowing between them making her jittery, so she presses against him until they’re rolling over, Killian landing on his back and Emma straddling her thighs over his hips and throwing her head back at the new depth.

“Fuck,” she breathes out towards the ceiling, her fingers sharp as they dig into his shoulders. “Just like that.”

“That’s good?” he asks, finding himself more verbal than usual as he seeks out her approval. She’s moving against him but he finds that he can’t stop himself from thrusting up, too, meeting each of her thrusts with his own and unable to hold in the groan that escapes his throat when she tightens her muscles around him.

“So fucking good, Killian. Don’t stop–” she chokes out. She lets her fingers find her clit again, rubbing furious circles as he digs his fingers into her hips.

“Come on, love,” he begs, feeling unlike himself but not caring. “Come for me; I know you’re close.”

The sound of his voice seems to have the effect he was hoping for. He feels her core go impossibly tighter, her fingers moving over her even more quickly as her mouth hangs open and her eyes squeeze shut. Then, with a cry of his name, he feels her reaching that precipice, and as she collapses onto his chest and her muscles continue to contract, he lets himself go, too, holding onto her more tightly than he thinks he ever has.

~~~~

She’s heavy on his chest like she usually is when they find themselves in this position, her head resting against the hair that she enjoys running her fingers through. Every now and again, the small ring she wears on her middle finger catches slightly on a strand of hair and makes him jump just a bit, and he feels her lips pressing against his skin in soft apology, her arm tightening around his waist in a soothing hug. It’s what makes him realize that he feels just as she does: he can't even begin to consider how his life would be without her in it.

But then, as much as the weight of her over his heart soothes him and calms his rapid pulse, he can’t help the sense of dread that floods through him each time he considers the fact that this can’t last. It simply can't. She’s meant to bring him to his death and he’s meant to die. The two of them can’t be together despite how badly they both want to be.

“You’re making me dizzy,” she whispers after far too much silence has passed between them.

“What?” he asks with a soft laugh despite how much pain he’s in at the thought of losing her. Part of him thinks that this might be the last time he’ll ever hold her.

“You’re thinking too hard. Those gears in your head are turning so fast that they’re making me dizzy.”

He sighs, unable to fight the small smile that she always seems to bring to his lips. “I just don’t know…” he trails off helplessly. “Is it a coincidence that August should happen to be here, as well?”

She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers drawing soft circles in his skin, before she softly admits, “I kind of… after you left Boston, I searched your place. One of Gold’s goons broke me in. I found out, I mean, I guess August’s dad is from here, I couldn’t get a ton of information after the Marshalls cleared out your apartment. But I figured it was only a matter of time before you– or he– came here. I didn’t know you had a roommate, and you both wore leather. When I heard he was here, I thought… I thought it’d finally be over, you know?”

“Aye,” he whispers. “I know it's odd to say about someone who should be trying to kill me, but I don’t want to lose you. I’m… I’m scared.”

“Me too,” she whispers back immediately, her body stiffening a bit in his arms and making his hand run along her spine. “But I think I have–”

The sound of the door to his apartment swinging open makes him jump more than he thinks he ever has, and Emma, too, startles and tightens her arms around him. They each stiffen, fumbling with the blankets and pulling his sheets over their shoulders, but he’s fairly certain that his neglecting to shut the door to his bedroom means that his friend has just caught a good look at Emma’s ass.

“We need to get you out of here; there’s a– what the fuck!?”

“Dave–!”

“Is this your–”

“Stop, stop! Put some clothes on!”

“Since when do you have a key?!”

Chaos. The only word he can find to describe the scene he feels like he’s watching from outside of himself is chaos. He fumbles some more for the blanket, desperate to cover Emma but finding himself so preoccupied with covering her breasts that he exposes himself. And David’s eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that when he turns away from them, he trips over Killian’s forgotten jeans and collides into the wall, shouting in pain. It’s pure, unadulterated chaos.

Emma’s eyes are wide with shock as Killian clumsily stands up, covering himself with his pillow as he rummages through the room and then tosses a shirt at her, its condition and cleanliness questionable at best, but it’s the best he can do at the moment. Then he finds a pair of boxers to pull over himself, and as the world starts to slow down and his adrenaline calms with a reminder to himself that he isn’t in danger, he sighs heavily, a curse escaping his lips.

“Yeah, I'll say,” David mumbles under his breath. “Do you have any idea what you just got yourself into?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me, rather than standing there and saying meaningless things knowing I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Maybe he’s being rude, but really, what can anyone expect?

“I need to speak with you. Privately.”

“You can say whatever it is you want to say right here.”

David’s face is stiff as he glares behind Killian, staring daggers at Emma as he says, “I don’t think you fully understand what’s going on here.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“She isn’t who she’s told you she is.”

Boldly, he steps to the side and forces David to meet his eyes, cutting off his line of vision that he casts on Emma. “She told me she’s Emma Swan, and that she’s the bounty hunter Gold hired to bring me in. Does that about cover it?”

He scoffs, shaking his head and widening his eyes as he stares at Killian like he’s the stupidest man he’s ever come across. “Do you have any sort of protective capacity at all? Ki– Peter, what you’re doing is grounds for–”

“I’m going to testify.”

Both of them turn to the source of the sound that catches them so off guard, Emma’s soft voice cutting through their argument easily if only because of the absolute dissonance that it provides. She’s looking quickly between both of them at first, but once Kilian turns, her eyes meet his and lock in place, her gaze long and deep and completely serious.

“Against Gold. I’m not turning you in, and I'm gonna testify against him if that’s what’s going to keep you safe.”

There are arguments, mostly from David who doesn’t believe a word out of her mouth, but he’s been predisposed to the idea that she’s this evil huntress with her heart set on destroying Killian. He can see in her eyes how serious she is, though, how truthful she’s being, how dedicated she is to ensuring that her wrongs are made right and that Gold pays for what he’s done. He can see how intensely she’s resolving herself to really doing this, how dedicated she is to making this work, and if there’s one thing that he knows about her, it’s that she won’t let anything get in her way.

So even when David tells her that if she testifies, her entire character will be in question because of her profession, even though he tells her that she could face consequences for her involvement, she doesn’t back down. And eventually, after what feels like hours of negotiations, the three of them come to a conclusion.

~~~~

Being in witness protection had always been something that felt surreal. It had always been one of those things that he had seen in movies, but never felt like it was actually his life. The whole time he lived in Storybrooke, it felt like he was simply going through the motions; go to work, grab a drink, go home, repeat. Now, though, his life is his again, and it finally feels worth it once more.

It feels odd to appreciate the events that have led him here. It’s odd to recall the things that took Milah from him, that took his hand from him, and smile. It feels odd to consider the way he spent months and months in hiding, using a false name and living a life that wasn’t his, with fondness in his heart. But at the end of the day, each time he thinks about the things that have brought him to this moment, he has to smile, because despite what he’s lost, he’s gained just as much. More, probably.

Because he gets to spend the rest of his life with Emma Swan. And they don’t have to hide anymore, her clever plan granting her protection with him and then her own freedom once she had provided the testimony that put Robert Gold and his entire team in prison for life without parole. And he’s always felt whole whenever she’s with him, even though he really isn’t. She’s always made him feel like a full person, even without a hand. She’s always made it so that he could forget the hardships that he’s been through and just live a life of joy and contentment and love.

He loves Emma Swan. She gave him a new lease on life, and he’ll always be grateful for that, especially because a very large part of him had allowed himself to believe that, before he met her, his life was over. After Milah died, after he lost his hand, he didn’t think anything good could come from a life that had treated him so cruelly.

But she’s always been different from everyone else he’s ever known, better to him than he’s ever deserved. So once it came time to testify, they returned to Boston hand in hand and they spoke their truths, even with the knowledge that Emma was admitting to some illegal activities. But the immunity she was promised by David in exchange for her testimony made it so that she could leave the courthouse with him that day. And even though they were both wracked with guilt, even though Emma felt like a monster whenever she thought about what they’ve been through, watching the judge call out Gold’s sentence and knowing that it was all over was as therapeutic as meeting with their therapist has been.

It’s behind them now, and they never have to worry about it ever again.

He still gets those phantom pains, randomly throughout the day or startlingly at night as he’s dragged from sleep, but he hasn’t needed to find a pen to stab into his prosthetic or the surface his arm rests on in quite some time. Whenever it happens now, Emma holds him and she presses soft tender kisses to the tattered skin on his wrist and he heals without the destruction that he had grown so accustomed to needing. As with everything else in his life, she’s taken what he’s destroyed and she’s given it a sense of strange, abstract beauty.

So, once they put the final box down on the floor of their new entryway, he pulls her into his arms for a solid, warm hug and he breathes in the calming, grounding scent of her tropical shampoo, and they allow themselves to feel at peace as they process the fact that they can finally move on with a life together. So he slips the modest ring onto her finger quietly; he’s a bit shy as he presents his mother’s diamond to the love of his life, but he finds that he doesn’t really feel all that nervous doing it. Because she pulls away from him and she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and a smile that’s so bright and beaming that he feels that same familiar warmth that starts blooming in his chest and radiates out to every single inch of him.

And she nods, her grin contagious but easy enough to wipe off her face with a press of his lips to hers. And his heart grows and the warmth he feels when he’s with her chases away the burning in his hand and in his memories each and every time.

He’s come to realize, as his life has fallen back into a place of contentment and safety, after spending months and months (18 months, two weeks, and four days since he met her) trying to figure it out, that the only word he can use to well and truly describe Emma Swan is home.

~~~~

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#captain swan #captain swan fanfic #witness #witness ff #cs ff #captain swan ff #cs smut #smut #cs angst #angst #cs fluff #fluff #hurt/comfort #finally finally finished this one #it only took like a whole year

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