#regretfully cause loving men is usually a bad idea

[lesbianphan]

I'm awake and it is "I wanna hug Dan 'o clock" again

#so glad he has Phil to hug him irl #god I love that man #regretfully cause loving men is usually a bad idea #but he deserves the WORLD he's such a good kind person even if he tries to hide it #the WAD feelings as crazy #WAD #Dan Howell

[for-ests]

Hey, not sure if you do smut but I think this request can work without a lot if you’d prefer😁 reader’s an art student and needs to sculpt a full body nude sculpture and Tom offers but gets a bit cheeky

thanks for the request dear! this was fun to write :-) i literally know nothing about art so if I get something wrong just ignore! i hope you enjoy!! i went a diff +route but I still think it fits! [ mlist ] 

Word count: 3, 273

Warnings: slight nsfw,, nudity 

Pairing: Tom Holland x art student reader!

“The issue is… I have no idea who to ask.” You sighed deeply, embarrassment washing over you as you talked to your best friends about your upcoming project. 

Everyone knew you were a talented sculptor. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that your professional sculpting internship at (your school) was currently learning about Ancient Greece. One of the requirements to pass the semester was to recreate a modern sculpture of someone you knew, and to make it as realistic as possible. Nakedness and all, which was a huge distinction of Greek statues.

There was a big problem though. You were incredibly shy, and you didn’t know who to ask to model for you.

Nudging you with a laugh, your friend flashed you a mischievous smile. “You know a lot of cute guys, why don’t you ask one of them?”

“Cute guys?” You scrunched your nose. “I know like three guys and I would cry if I had to see them naked.”

She sighed. “Fair. Does it have to be a guy?”

*-You nodded regretfully. “It has to be the opposite sex. It’s annoying but I u

erstand why. It’s important to be familiar with both sexes.”

Your best friend air quoted ‘familiar’ with a ridiculous smirk.

“Shut up.” You huffed, trying not to laugh at how dramatic she had become.

“I think I know a guy, he’s an aspiring actor and model.” Your best friend added casually.

Groaning, you shot her a glare. “Why didn’t you say that right away?”

She shrugged. “I like listening to you talk about your art.”

Her compliment almost worked, but you already knew that was partly the reason she was teasing you so hard. The other reason was because she had been trying to set you up with multiple friends for months. According to her, you had been single for far too long.

Her offer made you ponder deeper about your situation. You were slightly awkward when it came to getting to know someone, but you couldn’t imagine asking someone to strip right away so you could sculpt every curve your eyes grazed over. Whoever it ended up being had to be incredibly confident. Shallow yes, but that’s why you were hoping to find someone insanely attractive. Attractive people were usually confident, and responsibly so. “Maybe a stranger would be worse than someone I know.”

Snorting through her nose, your best friend stared at you like you were crazy. “Definitely not. If it’s awkward you never have to see him again. And if it’s not, well you can get cozy with a cutie.”

Taking a deep breath, you rolled your eyes. “I hate you sometimes.” You mumbled under your breath. You knew she was right, but you would never inflate her already enormous ego like that.

“You love me.” She sang sweetly.

“I do, now give him my number and tell him it’s of the utmost importance.”

❀∙∘✿∘∙❀

Days later, that conversation was on your mind as you nervously organized your sculpting tools. Trying to relieve some tension, you slapped a pound of clay against the table, and it echoed throughout the workshop.

Reality was the fact that this so called model boy was on his way to your studio. His name was Tom, and from the pictures you saw–he was incredibly handsome.

You couldn’t believe you had agreed to this, but alas, you needed this experience to pass your class. You just hoped and prayed that Tom was a lot more outgoing than you, and could keep the conversation flowing as you stared intently as his erect… penis.

Your cheeks flared up at the thought. How the hell were you going to do this?

Y/N: help (Y/B/F/N) I cant do this!!! im freaking out

Y/B/F: is he even there yet? lmfao

Y/N: noooooo :((

Y/B/F: if it makes you feel any better, he’s excited and thinks ur pretty

Y/N: why didn’t you tell me that before??!

Y/B/F: do u feel better now tho?

Y/N: no

Y/B/F: ik ur smiling ;) u aint slick

Giggling like a schoolgirl to relieve some of your anxiety, you set your cell phone on the table. Truthfully, your best friend had made you feel better. If anything bad happened, it would surely be a wonderful story to tell everyone in the future.

Your eyes naturally glanced across the room to the clock on the wall. 7:00pm. Tom would be here any minute as scheduled.

You took a deep breath and studied your surroundings. All your tools were in place, and the entire studio was tidied up as if you hadn’t worked the space in weeks. Next, you walked to the wall and glanced at your reflection in the mirror.

With your hair in a bun and your shabby working clothes, you looked suitable at best. You did have a little bit of makeup on to help yourself feel more confident. If you felt good, you could make your client feel good in return.

At least it looked like you didn’t try too hard. You didn’t want this man to get the wrong idea.

Then, snapping you out of your trance, there was a knock on the door.

You straightened out your shirt one last time, and tucked your baby hairs back behind your ears. Scoffing immediately after, you shook your head. Why were you trying to look cute? Who cares!

You rushed to grab the front door, afraid that you were making him wait too long. You flung it open, eyes locking with his right away.

You froze.

He was even more dashing in person.

“Judging by your cute outfit, I think I’m at the right place. Y/N right?”

And a British accent?

“Y-yes!” You flashed a smile to mask your obvious hesitation. You could easily play it off by opening the door and keeping your gaze averted. You were the master of smoothness.

“Thank you for coming, it’s about time I got this project done…” You tittered, locking the door behind him for privacy purposes. “You can set your things on the couch over there.” You pointed, eyes meeting his again when he glanced to the couch and then back to you.

“Awesome.” He nodded, holding your gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink?” You offered, nodding your head back to the small kitchen in the back of the studio. You wished the studio apartment was yours alone, but you shared it with multiple other college students in your program.

“Water… or beer if you have any?”

You threw your head back in laughter, causing Tom to smile at your genuine reaction.

“Yeah, I can get you one.”

“In the meantime, should I just strip?” He smirked, not trying to be sly with his flirtations. Though your cheeks were dusting with pink, you were able to match his energy. Your best friend definitely set you up with someone she knew you’d like.

“Do whatever you want, love.” You mimicked his British accent. “You’re the guest after all.”

Walking past him, you gave him one last look when he was fully-clothed. Tom was certainly the player type, practically the perfect embodiment of the muse you had in mind. This wouldn’t be awkward for you, and it would be even better for him. Men like him thrived off of cheeky discomfort in their female counterparts.

Yet, truthfully, you were enjoying it as well. It felt nice to be complimented so soon into an introduction.

As you cracked open a can of beer for Tom and yourself, you could hear him shuffling around with his items. The sound of his buckle falling against the floor made you suddenly nervous to turn around.

Inhaling sharply, and gulping down a few more sips of beer, you finally gained the courage to walk back to the studio setup, where Tom had already wandered over to, completely naked.

“You seem to be in your element.” You noted, trying to keep your eyes leveled with his. Now that you were thinking about it, remaining calm and professional was excruciating in front of such an attractive man. And it certainly wasn’t helping that he was enjoying your embarrassment.

And least this was exciting.

Thanking you, Tom took the beer and pressed his lips against the cold aluminum. “I would definitely feel a lot more comfortable if you were naked too, darling.”

“Hey now,” You nose scrunched in a form of mock distaste. The man caught on immediately, holding your gaze with a sort of amusement that was masking desire. “I might think about it if you sit nice and pretty for me for more than five minutes so I can sketch you.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you walked over to your crafting desk. You decided you were going to start with the hardest part, the part which your grade depended heavily on- from the waist down.

But first, you quickly sketched Tom posing in multiple poses until you were satisfied with one. You had him mimic a sculpture you couldn’t recall, where one hand was pointed forward and the other was rested casually on his hip.

“Can I see what one you want to do?” He asked curiously from the stand you had him propped up on for a better view.

“Sure.” You flashed him your finished sketch. The lines darted all over the page, making it hard for him to picture what was going on in your head. The picture you had drawn would not make sense to anyone else but the artist. But apparently you were talented, so he would trust the process.

You were also trusting the process. The situation you were in could only be awkward if you allowed it to be. And so far it was moving along smoothly. You had your favorite music playing softly in the background to fill the silence, and Tom seemed to be relaxed and unbothered by how quietly you worked.

“That’s cool.” Tom whispered, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

Giggling from his sudden proximity, you tried to tease him. “It’s fine to not understand it.”

“I definitely don’t know what’s going on but it’s still interesting.” He admitted.

You set the paper back down on the table, and decided to attempt and sculpt the base. Moving past a still naked Tom, you tried to immerse yourself in your work, or at least make it seem like you were focused. “This takes hours you know, weeks and months- it won’t make sense for a long time.”

“Perfect.” He grinned. “I’ll get plenty of time to know you better.”

Laughing through your nose, you kept your attention on the clay you had dropped on the floor. “You can put your clothes back on.”

“Oh!” He chuckled. “Yeah.”

As you carefully trimmed the base clay with a heavy frame, you lifted your head to find Tom slipping a robe back on. He definitely came prepared. Had he done this before?

“Come here.” You gestured. “I need you to set your feet down on the clay.”

“I didn’t think this would get dirty so fast.”

“Shut up.” You huffed, grabbing his foot and pressing it down hard until the clay took shape to the size.

“Cold.” Tom commented in discomfort.

“I know.” You released your grip on his calf, looking up at him with a sheepish smile. “All part of the process, but good news for you- you’re done for the night.”

“Really?” Tom raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

You nodded, standing back up to normal height. “I’m experienced enough to sculpt the feet and legs tonight.”

“When should I come back?” He sounded a tad too eager, but it caused your smile to reappear.

“Tomorrow night if you’re available.”

“And maybe next time you can bring your own alcohol?” You gestured to the multiple beer cans poking out of the recycling bin.

The man flashed you a smile. “Sounds like a date.”

“It’s definitely not.”

Despite your rejection to his amusing advances, Tom’s expressions and mannerisms remained hopeful. Was it possible he was truly enjoying himself?

“I’ll leave my robe here. I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time?”

“Same time.” You confirmed, nodding him off. It was about time you started to really focus. Attractive man or not, you always got the most and best work done alone.

Because after the first night, the dynamics between you and Tom changed. He became incredibly invested in your process, asking you questions left and right, asking if there was any way he could help, and practically just lounging next to you hours after he would have been free to go.

“What do your sculptures usually look like?”

“Since this isn’t my own studio, I don’t have any of my pieces here. But I can show you a picture when I get my hands wiped off.”

“What do you build your sculptures with? It’s hard to imagine that a replica of me can come out of that much clay.”

“My sculptures are built with water-based clay and are fired in a gas kiln to cone 4, about 2150 degrees Fahrenheit… “ You nodded towards the back wall that had an installed kiln for you and everyone to share. “Trust me, there will be a lot more clay. Hundreds of pounds worth.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

There was no lying that you enjoyed his presence. Whether he was talking your ear off or napping to the peaceful beat of your jazz music, there was never a dull moment when Tom was in your studio.

Weeks passed, and so did the process. Your sculpture of Tom had progressed to week three, and that’s when you started to grow nervous. When you finished, which you were almost done, would you ever see him again?

You had barreled through the awkwardness of replicating his genitals and chiseling his six pack perfectly into the hardening clay- but you still felt like something was missing. You knew even when you finished chiseling away his jaw line and chocolate brown eyes, there would still be something missing. Him. His presence.

Maybe it would have been better if you partnered up with a man that had zero personality.

Since it was just you and Tom for hours on end, your conversations gradually grew deeper, they stretched into new lengths, so much so that you eventually felt like you had known him for years.

When Tom claimed he wasn’t looking for a relationship, you felt your heart fall. That’s when you realized you were developing stronger feelings for your model. You hardly had time to think about trivial things like that, but you couldn’t deny your disappointment.

And you were sure he saw the brief tears glossing over your eyes when you turned away. Yet, he didn’t make light of it.

That’s when you knew it was useless.

It seemed useless until the sixth week, when you finally finished the head. You were too afraid to attach it. Tom had spent the last couple hours with you in the studio. His legs kicked back and occasional whistles streaming from his lips. He had practically memorized your playlist to the extent you had.

“Tom.” You called. “Your face is done.”

He cheered excitedly, pushing himself off the sofa and racing towards you. Tom had learned to give you your space while you worked, but in moments where you summoned him, he barely stood inches from you. The man would constantly touch you in ways you couldn’t deny sent shivers down your spine.

Like he did as he rounded the tabletop, planting himself by your side and placing his hand on the low of your back. As if it was natural.

“Wow,” He breathed. “Y/N,” Your name upon his lips sounded as blissful as the music. “It’s.. it’s wonderful. It looks just like me... wow that’s scary.”

“I’m happy you like it.” You bit your lip, wishing you felt more satisfied with your project. You wanted to impress him, but you didn’t want him to go.

“All I have to do is attach the head, and fire it up in the furnace one more time. Then it should be good to go.”

You moved to do so, wanting to remove yourself from his grip. It hurt your heart to know the bond you had formed with him would come to an end. Why did you even let yourself get to this point? Was it because he was good at flirting?

“Wait-” His sentence faltered when you whipped around to face him- looking somewhat hopeful.

“What?”

Tom paused, his throat tightening with the words he never thought he would admit. But he couldn’t leave tonight with at least trying. He needed to know how you felt. Because he could either leave with you in his arms, or he could leave never having to see you again.

He had been thinking of confessing to you for days now, but now that the time came, his mind was blank. “You really are beautiful, you know that right?”

“Why do you feel the need to flatter me?” You blurted, still unable to decipher the truth behind his words. You didn’t know how to accept such a compliment. Tom had claimed you were beautiful before, but this time it felt different.

His eyes spoke volumes. The beauty his eyes held was something you would never be able to replicate in a statue. It was a sight you found yourself never growing sick of.

Averting your eyes, you tried to move again. Yet this time, Tom gripped onto both of your arms.

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I won’t let you play me.”

“I was never playing you, darling.” The tenderheartedness intertwined with his words caused you to slowly turn your head back. Your lip quivered, and suddenly you felt like a schoolgirl all over again. You felt childish and unprepared for the intensity of your emotions.

“I don’t want to leave tonight without knowing if you feel the same.”

You blinked, hand reaching out to grip onto his. “And that is?” 

“I don’t know if it’s love, but it could be.” 

“That’s all I needed to hear.” You said, incredibly softly. 

Tom released your arms. And before either of you could process what to do next, your lips interlocked. 

You gripped onto him tightly, balling his white t shirt into a fist to keep him from leaving your side again. 

“Tom-” You breathed. 

The kiss you shared was laced with a fervent need, one that you had never experienced before, and one that you craved again and again. 

After the passion you felt, the skin prickling desire, there would be no turning back. 

“Fuck, you’re everything”’ He mumbled against your lips. 

You pulled back slightly to gaze at his expression. He had looked so afraid before, but now he was smiling from ear to ear. Much like he did the day he arrived with a teasing attitude, ready to get under your skin and provide entertainment. 

“How long have you felt like this?” 

“Since the first day.” He kissed you again, his hands cupping your cheeks. 

You whimpered against his muscular frame, trying to ignore the fluttering in your core, fluttering that begged and craved for more. 

“How did you wait so long?” 

“I wanted you to finish.” 

You chuckled, cheesing at his straightforward, simple reply. 

You were positive from that moment moving on, that Tom was not what you had thought at first glance. This entire time he had put you and your project first, letting his own desires sit and warm on the back-burner. That was something you would hold close to your heart, something you would cherish. 

He cared for you in the same way you cared for him. 

“Stay with me tonight, Tom.” 

“I would love nothing more.” 

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #peter parker x reader

[lassluna]

CSJJ 2020 Day 1: Good Times, Bad Decisions

Emma Swan was supposed to go to a Halloween party. It was a set up and she knew it. Honestly, the last thing she wanted to do was go to this party. She was not supposed to end up sleeping with a pirate.

AN:  This is my contribution for @csjanuaryjoy​ 2020! I'm so happy to be apart of this event for the third year in a row. I can't wait to see all the amazing creations this fandom can create! (Title from Bastille, Quarter Past Midnight)

Ao3 FFN

The last thing Emma expected to do was spend Halloween with a pirate she met at a bar.

It had begun with a simple idea, get a drink and text Mary Margret with a quick excuse as to why she wouldn’t be going to her Halloween party. It certainly had nothing to do with the neighbor her childhood friend invited that would supposedly be perfect for Emma. 

No not at all.

But it wasn't the first time she'd done so, and Mary Margret had pretty bad taste in men when it came to Emma. Emma had initially reasoned that enough of their friends were going to act as a buffer for whatever low life she'd invited. 

But honestly, the last thing she wants to do is spend her evening engaging in small talk and finding delicate ways to let both the guy and her best friend down easy when it came to romance.

Emma didn’t even want a relationship. She'd tried it. Once. It didn't take.

Her plan was going well. She'd gotten her drink, so she was halfway there, but the text message wasn’t going so well. She kept seeing her ecstatic face, how excited she’d been at the prospect and- well she didn’t have a good reason.

Emma had just caught her last skip yesterday, so she had the money to relax for a few days, a fact she'd mistakenly told her friend’s husband, David. She couldn’t help it. He was the cop she handed all her skips to.  

So she got another drink, then another, the third purchased by a hot pirate who also seemed to be avoiding something.

(She distantly remembered his phone going off a few times)

By the fourth and fifth, well Emma Swan did have a good reason. She was too busy making out with the hot british pirate in the corner of the bar.

Not that she told Mary Margret that. By that point the keyboard was just a blur. She’d tried sending something, but she knew that whatever garble of a message she concocted was terrible and she deleted it. 

"Want to get out of here, love?" He'd whispered in her ear after he'd made her see stars just by sucking at that spot below her collarbone."A nightcap perhaps?" She saw his eyes, blue and absolutely staring right into her soul.

She'd nodded and gone with the pirate to his apartment just down the block.

Sleeping with the pirate on Halloween was one thing she did not regret. 

It was filled with more searing kisses and probably was the best sex she’d ever had. 

Waking up the next morning with said pirate in his bed was absolutely not the plan. Like, not even remotely in the plan. She didn’t remember how she planned to get home last night, but sleeping over is never the plan. She usually makes plans to avoid that option.

So, in typical Emma Swan fashion, she grabs her clothes, thrown around the room at drink six or seven.

Emma barely takes a glance at the sleeping man in the bed, eye liner running over his face, and still somehow looking too fucking good, before heading towards the exit of the apartment.

She was well prepared to do the walk of shame back to her car, then back to her apartment where she would beg her friend’s forgiveness for completely standing her up.

But well, that was not in the cards because Emma got blasted in the face by gusting winds and snow. 

"Fuck." Emma cursed, pulling the door closed as fast as she can. The storm threatened to rip the door off the freaking hinges with its howling. 

There was no way in hell Emma was going out in that. 

Which led her to her current situation sitting on the bottom of the steps, still in her jeans and hoodie. Clothes not at all appropriate for an absolute blizzard. 

Who the hell heard of a blizzard in freaking october?

Climate Change! 

The news articles announce as the cause, which honestly more people should pay attention to, but that doesn't at all help Emma's current predicament.

Staying the night was bad enough, but being trapped here was beyond bad. It was terrible. What the hell was she going to say to a man that she'd just slept with and had planned to run out of without a word?

Her phone buzzed in her hand from all the unread text messages.

Emma can you pick up beer?

Don't worry, got some.

Are you coming?

What time are you arriving?

He's here if you're wondering. I promise he's a good guy.

All from Mary Margret. Emma sighs; feeling guilty for not responding.

If you're on your way, don't bother, there's a freak snow storm coming in. We're snowed in, everyone is crashing on the couch, or in our spare bedroom.

This was from David. Emma sighs, knowing that if she was half the friend they were she wouldn't be in this situation.

But at least I'm not bunking with the rando Mary Margret found. Emma thinks.

She's a terrible friend. Absolutely terrible.

"Bloody hell." Says a voice behind her. Emma turns around, and the pirate is there on the bottom level of his apartment bleary eyed and in skull and crossbone boxers. The smeared makeup is mostly gone, as is his shirt. 

(even like this, he was absolutely as attractive this morning as last night)

Emma raises a brow. "Seriously taking the pirate thing all the way don't you think?" She asks.

He smirks at her. "I pride myself on my commitment." He tells her. "And I assume you got the same weather alert as I did." Emma nods. "18 inches of snow, who'd a thought?" He asks. 

Definitely not her. 

"Then let's go back to my apartment to ride it out." He offers. "According to the news, it won't be clear until tomorrow; which means a whole day in the home of a stranger.

Emma hesitates. 

"I promise love; I'm still a gentleman, even without the leather." He says with a teasing tilt of his brows.

Emma sighs, because she honestly doesn't have a better option. So, she makes her way back to the apartment she woke up in.

Silently, and still without putting more clothes than his boxers, he proceeds to his kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee.

Next, he goes to his fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. Emma watches in silence as he methodically makes them both scrambled eggs and toast.

"Cheese?" He asks like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"I typically don't do this you know." Emma blurts out.

"The one night stand?" He asks, glancing back at him.

"The staying the morning after." Emma clarifies. "So don't think that this." She gestures between them and at the eggs for good measure. "Means anything. I would've been gone if it there wasn't a blizzard outside." She assures him. “This is just a one time thing.”

The last thing Emma needs is him getting the wrong idea.

He nods, looking her solemnly. "Of course." He says. Even without the alcohol, Emma swears his blue eyes can still see into her soul. Emma wonders what he sees.

"But that doesnt tell me if you like cheese in your eggs love." He's smirking now. Emma rolls her eyes.

"Who doesn't love cheese?" She asks. Putting her stuff down on the couch nearby. "Now where are your mugs, I think the coffee is ready."

Breakfast is surprisingly easy, the eggs taste good, he has a varied collection of jellies for the toast, and the coffee is already doing its job to combat the hangover induced headache she had woken up with.

"So love." He asks as she stuffs a fork full of eggs in her mouth. "I regretfully have forgotten your name." He says, scratching behind the ear. Emma can already tell that the guy does that when he's embarrassed. 

Not that it matters of course.

"Emma." She replies. "And I probably didn't give you my name, or ask yours, I think we had better things on our mind..." She trails off. God she'd been so drunk.

“Or bigger.” He says with another waggle of eyebrows; it makes Emma flush brightly.

“Oh my God.” She moans at his joke. “Do I have to call you Captain Innuendo now?” She says. 

"Killian will do just fine." He says with a laugh, standing up to clear their plates. A silence takes over the room, because of course it does.

Because what does one say to a stranger you met in a bar and properly slept with?

"What made you dress like a pirate?" Emma blurts out watching him wash the dishes.

 She instantly regrets her question when she sees some serious scarring over his left hand. She vaguely recalls that one of his hands had a hook. It feels insensitive all of a sudden. 

It catches him off guard, but that might just be the fact that he’d caught her staring at his hand. He instantly hides it from sight. "I was supposed to go to a costume party." Killian says, 

"But soon after I arrived, I learned the hostess was trying to set me up with someone and well..." he says trailing off. "I’d prefer not to have others interfere with my life so much." he reasons, another sheepish smile. 

Emma nods in agreement. "I feel the same way. Would you believe my friends were doing the same thing?”

His eyes widen in surprise.

“I’ve always been a bit of an outsider, I’m a glass half empty kind of person. But my friend is convinced that there’s someone out there perfect for me, that I should open my heart to love and romance and all that stuff she loves but...” She trails off.

“Love has been all too rare in your life hasn’t it?” Killian asks. He’s doing it again, that looking-into-your-soul thing. It makes Emma feel a bit exposed. But at the same time, she sees something reflected back to her. A familiar gaze she’s seen all too often.

He laughs, breaking the odd tension.  

"Bloody hell, looks like we both dodged a bullet then." He says. "Because as odd as this current situation is, I’d much prefer this than rebuffing the attention of someone while also not insulting my friend..." he says trailing off. 

His phone buzzes on the counter. He reaches for it. 

"If you excuse me." He says disappearing into the bedroom with his phone. She can hear him talking with his friend, it seems a bit tense if Emmas honest, but thats none of her business. 

Rather than eavesdropping Emma surveys the room. Considering Emmas been in Bail Bonds as long as she has, she can tell quite a bit about a man by the condition of his apartment.

Its neat. That’s the first thing she notices; neat and organized. Everything has a place, and everything is returned to its place. His bookcase is full, she notices most of his books are worn from frequent use. 

They had eaten on a kitchen island with three chairs, not a dining room in sight. 

His couch is of moderate size, but the reclining armchair has more use.

Emma takes him for an orderly person who reads quite frequently; he must even reread his favorites when he’s stressed, cooks for himself but not often for a group. He’s a loner. But not alone.

"Turns out the girl didn’t show either." It makes Emma jump in surprise to see him standing behind her as she snoops. "Sorry love, didn’t mean to spook you." Killian says with another sheepish expression.

It makes Emma wonder about the swagger he had last night. She chalked it up to the rum.

"Wanna watch something?" Killian asks, gesturing to the Tv. Emma nods her head.

“Do you have Netflix?”

//

They put on a rom-com. Something light and funny, How to lose a guy in 10 days, one of Emma’s favorites.

“Honestly.” Emma says. “They’re both trying so hard to be people they’re not. She’s trying to be terrible, and he’s trying to be perfect.” 

Killian shrugs. “It’s definitely funny.”

Once it ends, Killian makes them a frozen pizza while they put on the next movie. Stardust. Emma had never seen it so Killian had insisted.

It was about a boy who was alone, an outcast and a girl desperate to get home, hunted by absolute nutjobs but risk it all for each other. 

Honestly, Emma kinda loves it. It also definitely confirms what Emma thought she’d seen in him. 

“You were alone too weren’t you?” She asks. He’s not surprised by her comment. Not in the slightest. 

“Lost sees lost. That’s what my brother always says.” He murmurs. “My mother died when I was six, our father walked out on us soon after and my brother and I were put in the system until we aged out.”

Emma nods. She understands his lack of details. It’s not someone anyone wants to talk about. “I was abandoned as an infant, maybe hours old.” She replies. “Love’s been all too rare in your life hasn’t it?” Emma repeats. It brings a sad smile to his face. “What are the odds that we’d meet last night?” She asks. 

“Perhaps we saw something in each other?” He wonders. 

“I’m pretty sure you just thought I was hot.”

“Still think you’re hot.” 

Emma laughs, easing back into his couch. It’s comfortable, both the couch and hanging out with this man. It was nice in a way Emma didn’t expect.

//

They move on from movies to books and he had a lot of books. Emma had fallen a bit behind on reading lately, but considering she had nothing but time today and Killian’s massive library, it felt like a good use of her time.

“How do you have time to read all these books?” Emma asks, flipping through a few to try to decide what to read first. She had Pride and Prejudice in her hand currently.

“I’m a librarian.” He replies with a smile. “So being well read comes with the job.”

She nods. A librarian makes sense for him, considering his books, his quiet sheepish expressions, and his way with words. 

(But it didn’t explain the scar on his hand, that was not from a papercut, not that it was any of her business.)

She ends up reading Pride and Prejudice for a bit. She’s definitely beginning to enjoy it, when her phone buzzes in her lap.

Emma, are you alright? The snow is clearing and David’s heading over to you’re apartment. Considering the drunk text you sent me last night, I have a feeling they’re not finding you there...

Emma grimaces. She didn’t remember sending Ruby a text... She scrolls up to see it.

sLeepin wt pirates no paty don be ma.

Yup. Pretty bad. 

Instead of replying, she decides to call her friend.

“Well the dead arose.” Ruby snickers as she answers the phone. 

“Ha ha.” She says standing up to go to Killian’s bedroom for privacy. “Was Mary Margret mad?” She asks. “I honestly was going to come but...” She says trailing off. 

“Nah. You know how she is, forgiving as always. David was a little peeved, the guy left a few minutes in but damn Emma, he was hot with a capital H.” Ruby says. Emma can practically hear the wolfish smirk that was characteristically her. “But what about you? Spend the night with a hot pirate?”

She hums in agreement. “I’m still at his place.” She says. “Got snowed in.”

“Dang! You never stay the night.”

“I never get that drunk. But honestly Ruby, I’m having a good time. It’s strange.” She says. “Like really strange.” 

“Oooh.” Ruby says. “What his name? Tell me everything.” She says. But Emma’s not sure. She’s scared that voicing her thoughts into the universe would ruin whatever it was.  

  She thinks maybe that this isn’t a one time thing.

Then of course, she sees something that ruins everything. Because on Killian’s nightstand was a photo. A beautiful woman with Killian. She was in a wedding dress, he in a tux.

It was a wedding photo.

           “Ruby. I have to call you back.”

 //

“You’re not married right?” Emma blurts out. Because there’s no point beating around the bush. 

Emma refuses to even consider fantasising about a married man, not that she was fantasizing of course. 

She would rather walk back home, than be here another minute if he truly was-

“I was.” He states, not looking up from his book. “She died.” He responds. “Which is why I don’t want my friends to set me up with anyone. Because I know that I won’t find her. The perfect person they want me to find. Because she’s gone.” He’s looking at her now.

All the anger fades from Emma at his words. Because of course he’s not married, or cheating. Of course this good man wouldn’t do that. Not to her, not to the woman that he obviously loved so very much.

“I’m sorry.” she says softly. All of a sudden feeling like the biggest ass in existence. 

“Car accident, if you’re wondering, that’s how I got this.” He says lifting his hand, showing off the jagged scar that starts at his wrist and goes up his arm. “I was lucky.”

He says lucky like he doesn’t believe it. “Tell me, have you ever been in love?”

“Yes.” She says softly. 

“Then you know that I was anything but lucky that day.”

“I do.” She replies. Because she knows that pain, knows a pain so very similar it hurts just to think about. Like touching an old scab that still stings.

“I was in love once.” She says. “He was everything to me, but it wasn’t-it wasn’t real. He didn’t-” She loses the words. “He didn’t love me like that, he left me and I was...”

Broken

“It’s not the same thing. I know that.” She says. “I know my friends mean well but I can never let anyone hurt me like that again. Ever. But they’re so sure that there’s someone out there, someone who will never leave me, not like everyone else has.”

“But you’re not so sure.” Killian says, he’s standing now and Emma’s not sure when he did that. “I assure you Emma, take it from someone who’s known you only a short time. You are not someone who deserves to be left behind.”

She bites back a gasp at his words.

“And maybe there’s hope for us yet?” Emma responds. He reaches out and hugs her. Then he kisses her and well...

They end up in bed together once more. 

//

The storm stops and reality settles in. It’s time for Emma to go home.

“I never did get to finish this.” She says, putting the book back in his shelf.

Killian smirks at her, he’s in real clothes now, she has on a band T-shirt and sweats. It’s a size too big on her, but it’s a lot warmer. “Keep it.” He assures her. “Keep it as a reminder, that if we can cohabitat for a day, then perhaps...perhaps someday...our friends will no longer need to play matchmaker.”

She smirks at that. 

He looks at her for a moment and Emma thinks he's going to ask for more. He's going to ask for something stupid and romantic like an actual date or a kiss in the rain, or any of those chic flic things.

But after everything, a part of Emma wants him to. She wants him to want her to stay, to tell her it wasn't just her, that he felt it too. 

The spark, the connection, a kindred spirit in her that just wanted something. That it wasn’t just drunk sex, that it wasn’t just two ships in the night.

And yet, all Killian does is put on a smile, offer out his hand and shake hers.

"It was nice riding out a blizzard with you."

Emma smiles back. 

Because of course he doesn't say any of those things. Emma had said herself, that this was a one time thing.

Emma Swan doesn’t do relationships. She'd tried it once and it didn’t take.

It wouldn’t take here either. Not that Emma thought it would.

She walks away from Killian Jones, prepared to never see his smiling face.

 //

The last thing she expects is to see him again on New Years Eve.

Part Two to be released January 30th

#csjj #CS fanfics #captain swan january joy #csjj 2020 #Good Times Bad Decisions

[dirt-cup-draco]

Loki X Reader

Requested by the lovely @starofthedawn <3 It’s spooky season y’all! 30 "No?? Of course I'm not scared... who gets scared of... floating objects or... um weird sounds? Not me, that's for sure." 53 "There will be a lot of screaming tonight." 84 "Oh, this isn't a costume, this is my natural state of being." 

Loki watched as you fidgeted in your seat uncomfortably. Tony had just had the bright idea that spending a night in a supposedly haunted house would be a relief from the daily work load of “tracking down baddies and kicking ass” as the billionaire had so eloquently put it. His lips twitched up. The god had seen you go into battle with an iron stomach and steel heart, cutting down people like it was nothing. Yet, it seemed as if you were spooked by Tony’s proposal. 

“My lady Y/N, might you be frightened?” He challenged, eyebrow raising. You flushed and looked away. Steve glared from a distance and Sam looked amused. 

"No?? Of course I'm not scared... who gets scared of... floating objects or... um weird sounds? Not me, that's for sure." You scoffed, extending your legs so you could kick at the plush carpet beneath you. Nat stuck an elbow in your side and you jumped, eyes narrowing at her quickly before shooting back to Loki. 

“C’mon Reindeer games, our brave Y/N is coming, and she is delighted to,” Tony put the words in your mouth and your shoulders sagged. Loki nearly felt bad but it was almost delightful seeing you act in such a way. It was good seeing you had fears, that you weren’t a perfectly graceful, wonderfully brave, sickeningly good hero. The fact that you were fearful of possible spirits in an old creaky house made his heart swell that much more. 

He wouldn’t admit it but you had a piece of his heart that you had obtained, not willingly on his part might he add. He would never purposefully fall for a human. Pitiful meat sacks. 

---

“I need to go see my grandma!” You battled, struggling against Sam who had you over his shoulder, your fists pounding against his back. 

“She’s been dead for seventeen years,” Sam shot back. 

“I can’t forget to feed my pet fish!” You tried again.

“You don’t have one, come on stop being a wuss this will be fun!” Your friend encouraged, smacking the back of your thigh as you wacked his back particularly hard. 

“I left my stove on?” You mentioned in a last ditch effort. 

“You know Stark has some wacky tech that turns everything off to preserve energy,” 

You groaned as Sam set you down and you glared more, your arms folding across your chest as he tossed your bags into the trunk. You stomped around for a second and tried to run past but Loki was suddenly materializing, his arm going around your shoulders. You tensed but your fight was suddenly gone at the god’s touch. 

“You look as pale as a ghost darling, getting prepared for Halloween ahead of schedule?” He teased, his hand dragging lazily from your shoulder down to your elbow and back up leaving you warmer than you should be in the last week of October. 

"Oh, this isn't a costume, this is my natural state of being." You shot back as he set his hand on your lower back, guiding you into the car. You took note of how he stood behind you so you couldn’t try and book it back to the tower. 

Sam was behind the wheel, Bucky next to him in the passenger seat. Bruce and Scott took the two middle seats and Thor sat in the back. That left you sitting next to Loki. At least the trip wouldn’t be a huge bust, you could at least admire your crush. It was childish but he had captured your heart with a single look and you found yourself at his mercy, whether he knew it or not. 

You however, were grumpy that he had stopped your retreat so you took the other window seat, leaving the middle seat for him, his eyes narrowed because he now had to sit next to his talkative brother. 

The first hour and a half was in fact filled with Thor’s booming voice and you nearly felt bad but the blonde god eventually tired and he let his head slump against the window, nodding off. Bucky and Sam murmured to songs and Bruce read while Scott drummed his fingers against his legs, earphones in place, a to a song no one else could hear. 

You let your gaze fall on Loki and found he was already looking at you, suddenly the beauty of the colorful trees and country fell away and you could only think of how his eyes were the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. It had taken you by surprise. You gulped. 

“Are you that worried about the little get away?” He asked, misguided by your sudden intake of breath.

“I think it’s a great idea, really, I just feel like we are asking for trouble like in those movies where the dumb college kids go and get murdered because they thought it’d be cool to camp out, ya know? Like the dumb blonde showers and gets shanked, and the horny couple fucks and gets shanked, everyone gets shanked is my point.” You stated.

Loki was clearly amused and you were sure you hadn’t said anything funny. He was just thinking that you were something else, you could gut a man but you were fearful of becoming a horror cliche. A wicked grin pulled at his features and he leaned in, breath fanning hot against your neck, lips brushing against your earlobe causing you to shiver. “Can we be the horny couple?” 

You blushed deep red and your mouth gaped, you turned to face him and squeaked when you saw the short vicinity. You struggled to find words. Finally you settled on, “Fuck off Loki,” Your eyes darting back out the window. You know he liked messing with you but sometimes you wish he wasn’t. Your flirty exchanges had been going on for a while, him being bold and all but you know it was just to get to you and there was no meaning behind it. It was just how Loki was, sensual yet deceitful. You tried to not let the words get to you.

--

When you arrived, you were the first to undo your seat belt, climbing over Loki and exiting the car, still embarrassed from what he had said earlier. He however fought the urge to pull you into his lap and kiss you breathless, your sweet blush making his heart stir around in his chest. But he let you pass and you went to Tony and Steve who were waiting outside the decrepit house, a scowl on your face. Loki exited the vehicle and hovered around you and the two other men. 

He made a show of letting his eyes roam around the place, taking note of the lake just a short distance from the house, the rest was forest. 

“This is stupid we are all going to get aids or rabies or something,” You grumbled, foot digging at the gravel. 

“We are not,” Steve cut in.

“I promise it’s mostly sanitary, just a little run down,” Tony reassured. “But there is the matter of rooms, there are more of us than rooms and well, everyone else already called dibs, so you and you know who are sharing the upstairs bedroom to the left. 

Loki turned around and looked at Tony. He nearly cheered when he found the man’s eyes were already pointed in his direction. He got to share a bedroom with you. And your cheeks were that delicious shade of scarlet he was becoming so accustomed to. 

You stalked over to Loki, a pout on your full lips as you shared the news. 

"I guess there will indeed be a lot of screaming tonight." Loki teased. 

You rolled your eyes. “Stop being gross, Loki,” His smile fell. Usually you shot right back but all today you had shut down everything he’d said. He honestly wasn’t used to it. Was he being gross? He thought you had liked the flirting. He thought you had some feelings for him, even. Maybe he was wrong. 

Disheartened he got his bags and followed you into the building, the wind chilling his nose. He was glad to be inside. Your comment and the weather had left him feeling quite chilled. 

--

Sam made dinner and a fire was lit inside, tony brought a broom and swept around, making the dust rise. You wrinkled your nose and said you were going to bed early. Loki decided he wouldn’t follow immediately. 

“Jesus, if I thought the kid would be this miserable I wouldn’t have forced her to come,” Tony said regretfully, had rubbing the back of his neck. 

Loki sighed, “It might have actually been something I said...” Everyone’s eyes were immediately on him and he felt small. A chorus of “what did you do this time?” and “what’d you say?” rang out. He didn’t like it but maybe your friends understood why you were suddenly being so cold to him. 

“It was just harmless teasing!” He defended. Wanda was the first one to show some understanding.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I don’t want you to piss her off more,” The woman’s voice lowered. “She really likes you you idiot, ‘harmless’ isn’t so harmless when you actually care about the person,” 

Loki looked around. Everyone was nodding in understanding. “You mean to tell me Y/N has feelings for me?” 

Sam groaned. “I thought you picked up on desires and all that shit,” 

“Not when he is blinded by his own!” Thor chuckled loudly, delighted that his brother’s emotions were being discussed. 

The dark haired god elbowed his brother and sent him a chilling glare before standing. “I am going to retire for the night I think,” 

He was nudged and bumped and a couple people whistled while Steve reminded him to be mindful of your feelings. It nearly made him gag. The stairs creaked and he had to fight the urge to look behind him. He wasn’t scared but he could understand your discomfort with the place. 

When Loki opened the door you were sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at your unopened suit case. “Thinking about leaving?” He said, simply to make you aware of his presence. 

You whipped around and shrugged. “No, everyone wants me to be here, I wont ditch even if this is probably the worst thing I’ve had to do all year.” 

“Ouch, didn’t think sharing a room with me was so terrible,” He tried but worried he had crossed another line. 

“Thats not it Loki, I dont care about that, I just dont like spooky shit, even movies bug me. I haven’t gone to a haunted house since I was fourteen.” 

“You know me,” He said, sitting next to you, “What other monsters are there left for you to be frightened of?” 

You frowned deeply, eyes connecting with his. “You aren’t a monster Loki,” 

He shrugged indifferently. 

“Clowns though, clowns are fucked up. And demons, and ghosts, and-” you sighed. “I’m being silly aren’t I?” 

Loki shook his head. “Everyone has something they fear,” He stated. 

“And what is it that you fear oh mighty Loki?” You asked earnestly but with a jesting tone, leaving him an out. This conversation was nearing dangerous waters and you didn’t want to pressure him into sharing. 

 Loki took a steadying breath. He didn’t mind being honest with you. “That I am damned to be unloved all my life, that I will only be seen as the defective son of Odin, that there is no place for me in this world, nor in Asgard.” 

Your gaze softened and your hand crawled to his. You intertwined your fingers and squeezed gently. “That isn’t true,” you muttered, “You are loved whether you recognize it or not, you have made up for any wrongs committed and you have a place here with m- us, with us....” 

He looked at your intertwined fingers and thought about how yours fit perfectly in his. “Who do you think loves me?” His heart stuttered in his chest. The obvious answer being Thor but he couldn’t be sure that there was any other being outside of his forgiving brother who truly had love for him. The look in your eye made him hopeful though and he suddenly decided that he could push his luck. 

“I am positive you at least have an idea,” You whispered, you pressed your leg against his and looked up at him from your eyelashes. You hadn’t withdrawn your hand yet. 

He could practically hear your heart bursting from your chest and he watched your pulse quicken. Loki’s own heart was working quicker than it had in a long time and he was melting in your warm bubble. The air between you two was charged. 

It didn’t take much and he wasn’t sure who leaned in first but his lip was barely brushing against yours. Your breath hitched and you were nearly afraid to move. Loki gulped and let his hand fall from yours to fall at the nape of your neck as he pulled you against him. You automatically stretched, pressing your chest against his. His other hand went to your hip. 

He experimented and pressed his lips more firmly against yours, his heart thumping when you reacted, your hot breath coming out in a gasp when you chased his mouth with yours. By the time you were sated your chest was heaving and you were in his lap. 

“I’m thinking” Loki spoke, his voice not sounding like his own,”That you might have to tell me one more time who loves me,” 

You rolled your eyes and went to go grab your pajamas but he saw a smile at the corner of you swollen lips. 

“I’m thinking this trip might turn out okay,” You said before walking into the bathroom to change. 

Loki could only grin. 

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #requested #spooky season fics #avengers #marvel

[evilqueenreginaswanmills]

@induro

Regina Mills had it all she was the mayor of a small town she loved and inherited from the greatest man she ever knew, a beautiful family that was the envy of the whole state ,and complete happiness. There of course were a few bumps in the road but for her this was her happy ending.

 Her husband of fifteen years was the center of her world Captain Robin Locksly was a rock for the spitfire of a mayor he was married to. He knew how to calm her fears and stand with her when needed like the true Navy Man he was. He fought for Freedom and Family while making sure he was still a proper husband and father when he was back in Storybrooke. He was loved by all that met him and even helped with the police force when he was on leave or home for long stretches with training or whatever they needed. 

Together the couple had two beautiful children. The first was Henry. He came to the couple three years after they were married and was a true blessing to the couple. Due to some infertility issues after a few years of trying Robin had suggested that they took a break and tried for adoption after about a year they got the call that a little boy was available in Boston and desperately needed a home. As soon as they received the call the couple got out of bed and drove the five hours to Boston to pick up their new son. The minute the baby was placed into her arms it was like he was meant to be there, his big hazel eyes looking up at her. It was love at first sight her heart grew so much that day she instantly felt like a mother. Robin loved having a son to teach how to throw a ball and much to his mother's dismay the proper way to wield a sword as well as a bow. 

Their second was her little princess Danielle; she was born when Henry was ten  years old. Regina was shocked when she first found out she was expecting a baby she never thought it would have been possible , but her miracle was born that December before Christmas the greatest Christmas present of all as she always tells everyone. It had caused a small misunderstanding with Henry, but through a lot of work and love the family meded.  She was the apple of her mother's eye and her father was her greatest fan. The family had it all or so it seemed  until the unspeakable happened. 

Six months ago her whole world turned upside down Robin was called to duty once again he was sent to an undisclosed location overseas it had happened so fast they only had a few days to say their goodbyes. Everytime he left a piece of her went with him it had become almost routine phone calls when he could and letters everyday for her and the kids. She had a calendar that she would mark the days he was gone and eventually be able to circle the day he was coming home.

This time saying goodbye to him felt different though an ominous black cloud followed her wherever she went on most days in the past she had hope, but this time she couldn’t find any. She kept her mask for the kids and the town as much as possible until everyone slept then her broken form would sit in her home office in front of the fire with a glass of wine hoping for a call and if she didn’t receive one she would crumble into the pillow that she kept on the sofa that still smelled like him and sob. She was breaking inside without him. The only thing that kept her sane was the idea that he was going to return like he had all the other times before. 

It had been six months exactly since she said goodbye to him. The day started like any before she woke up and got ready to go to town hall before getting the kids ready to go to school and daycare respectfully. She hadn’t heard from Robin in over two weeks which was unusual she would at least get a letter or some form of communication. She got the kids off and decided to work from home for a little while just until her meeting at noon with Emma Swan, the sheriff of their quaint little town.  

She settled in and was looking over some reports when the doorbell rang. She was confused because usually anyone that wanted to see her would just wait until she was in the office. This was however not a social call. Two men in uniform stood on her doorstep. She paused knowing what it meant and she knew what was going to happen when she opened the door. It wasn’t until it rang again that she slowly opened it, her heart sinking into her stomach.  

The first man she knew well was Commander Hood, a friend of Robins and someone that she had seen at the officers balls she used to attend with her Husband the second was another officer she had never met before.  Her voice quivered as she looked up at both men  “ May I help you, gentleman? “  Commander Hood’s face dropped and said it all as he tried to keep his composure “ Ma’m I regretfully am here to inform you that on November 25th  at 02:00 hours your husband was killed in the line of duty. We apologize that it took so long to get to you we had to confirm it was him before we came to inform you. He was a good man, and one of the best Commanding Officers we have ever had the pleasure of serving under. We are so sorry for your loss and if there is anything we can do please do not hesitate to ask. “  He handed her an American Flag as was custom as well as the dog tags she had run her fingers over a million times before.  She was speechless and could only utter the words thank you before asking them to leave. Both men asked if there was anyone that they could call or if they would like them to say , but in true Regina fashion she politely declined both offers and waited for the men to leave. 

After they left and she walked a few steps shattered and in disbelief this couldn’t be happening he couldn’t be gone this was just a bad dream right. Her head was clouded and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. The whole room started to spin and before she knew it she was on the floor hitting her knees and a sob that was so primal and heartbreaking  a sound that could only come from true despair and darkness she lost all concept of time and space as she laid on the cold floor of the mansion begging for this not to be real. She stayed there for what seemed for only moments, but were actually hours sobbing and feeling so sick she just wanted the world to stop how she was supposed to go on without him.

[artificialqueens]

5 times Cracker and Brooke broke it off, and 1 time they didn't (Miz Cracker x Brooke Lynn Hytes) - fandomfeministe

A/N: I’m a sucker for a 5+1 fic, and this seemed a good place to start. Thanks to Saiph again for all your help and indulging me in this nonsense! I had such fun with it that if I get any more ideas, more of them might come along…

The line about the pomeranian came from a conversation with Veronica. That laugh is all hers <3

When they got caught out by Kameron

A near-winded gasp for air was the sound that first got Kameron’s attention.

“Oh… god…keep going,” said a familiar voice, a desperate, high-pitched whine threaded through the begging, accompanied by breathless panting that was the sign of someone clearly being given a good time by someone. Kameron, passing by his friend’s dressing room and spotting the slightly opened door, smirked a little as he approached, about to subtly close it before texting Brooke Lynn that she could thank him later. He was just about to wrap his hand around the doorknob before a second speaker became audible, stopping the eavesdropper in his tracks.

“Sssh, I’m repaying the favour, aren’t I? Be fuckin’ patient!” laughed the second man, whose voice was also familiar - so familiar, in fact, that Kameron could picture his face, the corners of his brown eyes wrinkled in laughter before he carried on doing… oh. His own eyes widened, recognising that it was his Season 10 sister, apparently in some kind of encounter with his sister from Tennessee. What the fuck?

Hating himself for feeling like a voyeur but kind of dying to see what was happening, Kameron carefully leaned forward, looking through the gap. There, he could see that his assumptions were right - Cracker on his knees before Brooke Lynn. The former’s hands were holding back the latter’s skirts, dark head confidently bobbing up and down while the blonde’s head tilted back, lipsticked mouth hanging open as the moans began to build. Still confused as to how the fuck these two had ended up this way - especially as they’d clearly been so keen to get started that Brooke’s only move towards de-dragging was getting untucked - a mischievous moment came over their mutual friend with a look on his face to match. With one swift movement, Kameron shut the door loud enough to cause the two men inside to yelp in surprise before he made his escape, being a safe fifteen feet down the corridor and around a corner before pulling out his phone, including both queens’ numbers in a text.

“Don’t be too mad, bitches. Really. It could’ve been Eureka that caught you going at it.”

2. When Bob couldn’t stop laughing

“Hytes? Seriously, bitch?”

Cracker and his drag mother were hanging out at his own place in Harlem, back from the tour where he and his Canadian lover had already tried to break it off once. After Kameron had caught them - and wasted no time in letting them know about it - he and Brooke Lynn had lasted a grand total of a week before falling back into bed round about the time of their gig in Paris, where their night off in the clubs of Montmartre had apparently been quite the aprodiasiac. Even now that they were back in the US, and in whole different time zones, let alone states, things between them hadn’t exactly gone back to PG13. In fact, at this very moment, Cracker was sitting through Bob’s uproarious laughter with the knowledge that Brooke had been sending progressively more filthy text messages all afternoon, and he was wondering what the hell he was going to actually find once he had the chance to check his phone after Bob left.

“I mean, fuck, what is she? 6’1? 6’2? It must be like a pomeranian fucking a Great Dane!” the larger man cackled, laughter ringing off the walls in the small apartment.

Cracker bristled slightly, raising an eyebrow as he looked at his friend. “6’3. And original, Bob, really fuckin’ original. I don’t seem to recall you complaining about it when we were together.”

Bob, seeing the look on his daughter’s face, took a couple of breaths, still giggling a little before eventually settling. “Alright, alright, I’ll drop it. I mean, clearly you got a fucking type, or a complex, but I’ll drop it.” He paused, though, looking more serious this time.

“For real, though, whatever this -” he gestured between the two of them - “is with you guys, you’ve got to think fast about whether it’s worth it. Because if Michaels knows, and I know… who else does? How long’s it going to be before someone tells Vanjie?”

Cracker’s face fell.

“Oh, shit.”

3. When Vanjie found out

Telling Vanjie was not a fun time.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, Brooke Lynn supposed, but it was still not an experience he would ever care to repeat.

He’d called him when he was in LA, suggested meeting for coffee as they often did, but even on the phone, his ex had been able to tell something was up.

“How long?” he’d asked, his foghorn voice unusually soft. When told the truth - that it had started on the European tour Vanjie hadn’t gone on - he almost snorted with laughter at the same time as looking plaintively at the man across from him. “Think I knew, deep down, you were ready to move on. Didn’t think it’d be with someone I knew so well, though.”

Brooke attempted to protest a little, said that he and Cracker were hardly enough of a thing for them to be considered as ‘moving on’ together, but Vanjie merely raised an eyebrow at him as first response. “Don’t you pull that crap with me. I know you both too well for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You both put up walls and shit. Tried to be public, got hurt, shut down and never told nobody how you felt ‘bout anything since. You both got people saying you got no feelings, but you sure do. Both got so many of ‘em that you don’t know what to do with ‘em, so you act the ho and don’t show anybody what you really got going on. It’s hard for most folks to get that, when they try and give and don’t feel like they got anything back, but you two?” Vanjie shrugged before taking a sip of his coffee. “You two fuckers might actually understand each other.”

It was all Brooke could do to avoid freezing to the spot in panic.

“Oh shit.”

4. When The Vixen told a few home truths

If there was one thing anybody knew about The Vixen, it was that she didn’t pull any punches.

“Hytes? Are you fucking kidding?”

Cracker slid further down into her seat at the bar, visibly cringing at her friend’s vociferous response. “Raise your voice, why don’t you, bitch? There’s a few guys over by the restrooms who can’t hear you!”

“I don’t care!” The Vixen slammed her drink down on the bar, some of the clear liquid within sloshing out and over the sides. “Seriously, I didn’t have you pinned down as having such… such bland tastes.”

“Bland?” Cracker was clearly shocked, her mouth hanging open as she stared at her friend so hard that her eyes even bulged a little. “The hell? You’ve seen how he looks on stage. How he dresses on stage. Shit, some of those finale outfits had people practically drooling, and you call that bland?”

“Tall, blonde, white, polished, pageant queen,” Vixen responded succinctly, counting off each attribute on her fingers. “Tell me how that’s not part of the furniture in any part of the entertainment industry, Cracks. You could spit in the air at Miss Continental and nearly hit ten dudes like him. And you… you’ve always prided yourself on being different. On being weird. Comedy queens don’t usually go for the model girls. Especially when you’re both so…”

“So what?”

“So different.”

“Do you really think he shouldn’t be going for me? Or do you just resent the bitch because of your known thing for his ex?”

For once, The Vixen was stunned into silence. Cracker had slid off his chair, turned and stalked out of the bar before a feeble ‘fuck you’ could even begin to escape his lips.

5. When Nina got concerned

“What is this, an intervention for introverts?” Brooke joked as he walked into Nina’s hotel room with him, the older queen with a recognisably worried look on his face. Their gig had been over for hours, both were long out of drag, and now they were falling into their usual routine of a bitch fest before bed. Only this time, Brooke couldn’t help but feel as though Nina’s mama-bear routine was incoming, and began to steel himself in preparation for a talk about his feelings.

“No, darling, it’s not,” Nina replied with sympathy, sitting down in an armchair by the window after patting the one opposite, motioning for her friend to join her. “I do have some misgivings, though. Maybe you can help me figure it out.”

“About what?”

“You and Cracker.”

Brooke sighed. He’d known this was coming. “Oh, here we go…” the Canadian queen cringed, reaching up to massage his temple, a literal headache forming at the same time as this figurative one. “There’s nothing to have misgivings about. We had… are having… had a thing for a while. It was fun. That’s all there is to it.” He felt his neck warm up at the look on Nina’s face, his old friend sitting there with staring eyes and brows raised unusually, sceptically high. Yep, blushing. He was definitely blushing.

“If it’s nothing, you wouldn’t be stumbling for words.. And… you know the last time I saw you look like that? Like you’d found somebody to spend time with who mattered - mattered enough to make you look like a schoolboy with a crush?”

Don’t say it, Nina. Don’t say it, don’t say it…

“That would be Vanjie. And Brooke, I love you, you know that, but I’ve got to remind you how that turned out.’

Brooke winced, and Nina reached out to him, regretfully picking up a hand and squeezing.

“I don’t want to cause you any embarrassment, but for someone who projects and even dresses like a goddamn ice queen, when you fall, you fall hard. And with the speed this has all happened, yes, I’m concerned for you. I watched you take the heat when it all fell apart with Vanjie and I saw the pain you were in. It’s like the whole thing just shattered you, and I…”

Brooke’s own eyes widened in horror as his best friend choked, his throat constricted and voice trembling. “If that happened to you again, I don’t know that I could handle seeing you hurt. Because you, you’d take it on the chin but wall it all up inside, letting yourself get so fucking lonely…”

With a sudden pang of anguish, Brooke got out of his chair, squished in beside Nina and threw his arms around the older man’s neck, hugging him tight. His chest felt both tight and full to burst at the same time, feeling both pains of guilt and full of appreciation for his friend’s love. “What did I fucking do to deserve you, Nina?” he chuckled softly, resting his head against Nina’s, resting there quietly while he rubbed comforting circles on his back, thumb twisting into the fabric of his shirt.

They both sat there for a while, doing nothing but hold each other and listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. It was true that each queen acted like the other’s support animal, an old joke, but one with an element of truth to be sure. However, while the two men sat quietly, Brooke’s brain began to run overtime, anxiety letting each passing through pull at his brain with increasing agony. Vanjie had alluded to it when they’d broken up, that one day, he was going to feel the way Vanjie did at another man’s hands, and his lack of prior relationships meant that the pain might break him. Cracker might dwell on his reputation, or be afraid of getting into something as serious as there’d been with his ex-fiancé and bolt. Worse, what if he, Brooke, panicked… again? What if he let someone get close to him, fall for him, and be let down by him… again? What if he was responsible for Cracker being broken by a man who screwed him over… again? Brooke wasn’t sure if he could cope knowing that he’d destroyed not one, but two people he cared about. Three, he supposed, if he counted the thought of disappointing Nina.

God, he was such a fuckup.

When they realised it could actually turn out OK

It seemed to Cracker, as he lay there in Brooke Lynn’s arms, that neither one of them seemed to know how to escape the other. At his last count, they’d tried to break it off a whole five times - sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both - and every time they’d found their way back to each other. It was almost as if they were a pair of magnets, drawn to each other so tightly that whenever they were separated, they ended up slamming right back towards each other, no choice but to deal with it, but the natural thing to do all the same.

He drew patterns on his lover’s taut arm muscles as he slept, feather light touches to match his own spirit. Watching him lying there, peaceful in his slumber, was weirdly soothing - not that Cracker quite understood why. Still, there they were, the smaller queen reluctant to move - not just because of the risk of disturbing Brooke’s rest, but because he too felt safe, strong arms keeping him held there.

He couldn’t help but smile as he watched Brooke’s eyes open slowly, the exhaustion writ large on his face as it tilted up to face him.

“Hey,” Brooke mumbled, his words muffled a little against Cracker’s shoulder. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah, you did,” the other man replied fondly, kissing the top of his lover’s head. “Can’t say I blame you, though. You were being kept quite busy earlier…”

Brooke blushed a little, but grinned nonetheless. The memory of their afternoon together was definitely a happy one, full of laughter and mutual pleasure, ending up in a tangle of limbs under the covers. Their reunion, a good month and a half since they’d been at gigs anywhere near each other, had been more than needed. It was as if each was a human comfort blanket for the other, providing the security each other needed in their minds as well as their tired out bodies. Brooke himself had been surprised to feel this at first, but in a way, it made sense. They made sense. There wasn’t any pressure between them to be romantic, exclusive or any kind of fantasy - and in the greatest sense of irony, that had only made the Canadian happier to be in the arms of the Seattle-born queen.

It felt good to be understood. Understood was more important than anything to him.

“You know something?” he asked, prompting Cracker’s brown eyes to gaze into his.

“Mmm?”

“I think we’re gonna be OK.”

Crackler chuckled, then made an affectionate sound in the back of his throat as Brooke looked confused by his response. “No, I mean, I’m glad you think so… but what brought this on?” he asked, reaching around the pillow to twirl a finger into his blond hair.

Brooke shuffled a little so he could look at his lover properly, watching each emotion as it flickered across his face. “I’ve just been thinking… honesty between people in our position, it has to be a good thing, right?”

“Right.”

“I feel like… it’s easy to be honest. Like, that you’re going to get it, and I don’t have anything to be sick with worry about in telling you what I want. And that… that makes me happy, because… because I’m not forcing anything. This is me, this is what I want, and…” another pause, as he slid a hand down the other man’s back. “…I’m all in. Promise.”

A smile, eyes that crinkled at the edge and the gentle touch of Cracker’s lips on his was all the response he needed.

#rpdr fanfiction #miz cracker #brooke lynn hytes #brooke x cracker #fluff #angst #rare pair #fic challenge #fandomfeministe #(it's actually a courtney quote! -v) #canon compliant

[emospritelet]

Kiss of Life - chapter 2

@rumple-belle prompted Gold’s POV about the first meeting and Belle asking about Gold at girls’ night.  This is an entirely new chapter, btw, nothing from the ficlets is in here.

AO3 link

Dr Gold would be the first to admit that he wasn't the most sociable of people, but he had never seen that as a personal failing, telling himself that he was alone by choice, and he preferred it that way.  He lived at the edge of town in a house which was beautifully presented and very comfortable, and if it was of a size more suited to a family than a single man, he told himself that he had a lot of things that needed a good home.  On the occasions when he was not at work, he would read in his study, tend his garden or cook himself something delicious with a glass of wine in hand and music filling the kitchen.  All in all, the move to Storybrooke had been one of his better ideas, although given the path his life had taken, the competition for good decisions wasn't exactly fierce.  He had worked at Storybrooke General for almost two years, and by and large he enjoyed it.  The hospital was large enough for him to see a number of different ailments, and to keep his medical skills honed, but not so large that he didn't know the names of every member of staff, and most of the patients.

He cast his eyes over the chart at the end of David Nolan's bed again.  The man had been in a coma for eight months, but he was stable.  If he would only wake up, he would no doubt make a full recovery, lengthy physiotherapy sessions notwithstanding.  Out of the corner of his eye he could still see Miss French, now being berated by Miss Mills, no doubt over some minor perceived infraction.  He really ought to have a word with Miss South about her.  The woman had already scared off previous applicants to the post, not to mention one or two fellow nurses, who had decided that working in the convalescent home at the convent was easier than putting up with Miss Mills' waspish tongue.  There was also a new nurse due to start on Friday - Miss Gale - and the last thing they needed was anyone else quitting.

Miss French appeared to take her chastisement with nothing but a placid smile, but her eyes were narrowing, and he could sense she wanted to say something in response.  Miss Mills appeared to finish, storming out of the room with a swing of her hips, and Miss French stuck out her tongue after her, making his mouth twitch in amusement.  She glanced around, catching his eye, and blushed, aware he had caught her in her insolence.  He gave her a tiny smile, and she licked her lips and dashed from the room after Miss Mills. His smile widened a little.  She seemed to have something about her, something more than he had come to expect from the assistants the town could produce.  Intelligence, strength, and what he suspected was a good heart.  He wondered how she had ended up in Storybrooke.  It wasn't the kind of place that anyone would choose to come to.  Not without good reason, anyway.  Yes.  He would have words with Miss South.  He didn’t want to lose Miss French.

Belle turned back and forth in front of the mirror, eyeing herself critically. Ruby's suggestion of a girls' night had been a welcome one, and she thought she looked okay, the black dress with its cap sleeves cute enough for an evening of drinks and gossip.  It would be nice to meet some of the other young women in town; thus far she had only really talked to Ruby and Mary Margaret.  She smoothed her hands over her hips, nodding to herself.  Good enough.

She grabbed her purse and coat, pulling a woollen hat down over her ears against the bitter cold, and shouted to her father that she was going out.  He grunted something over the blare of sports coverage, and she rolled her eyes.  In all likelihood he'd be drunk by nine, and she was pleased to be doing something else that evening.  Moe French wasn't the most sociable of drunks, inclined to get belligerent and repetitive, and she had no desire to listen to a rant about the government, taxes, or worse, her lack of a career.

The night air was bitter, and she tugged her coat around herself, shivering as she trotted down the path and headed for town.  Ruby had given her directions to The Rabbit Hole, the only club that Storybrooke possessed, but she took a wrong turning or two, heading down two dank, narrow alleys near the harbour before finding her way again.  Foul-smelling things squished beneath her shoes, making her wrinkle her nose and hurry on.  It was a relief to spy the gleaming red sign above a doorway, a stylised white rabbit popping its head out of a black hole, and she ducked into the club with a sigh.  Heat and noise hit her immediately, the club warm and humid and filled with the mingled scents of spilled beer, deep-fried snacks and body spray.

"Belle!"

Ruby's voice made her smile, and she turned on her toes, spying Ruby and Mary Margaret at a table in the corner.  Ruby was waving enthusiastically, clad in leather pants and a red top to match the streaks in her hair.  Mary Margaret was in blue, sipping a tall drink and staring dreamily off into the distance.  She smiled when Belle pulled out a chair.

"What are you having?" asked Ruby.  "My round.  Mary Margaret?"

"Same again," said Mary Margaret, holding up her glass, and Belle chewed her lip.

"I'll have a gin and tonic," she said, and Ruby beamed and bounced out of her seat, heading for the bar.

Belle took off her coat, settling in her chair and glancing around the bar.  She didn't recognise any of the other customers by name, but she had seen a few of the faces in Granny's or in the streets.  The crowd was mostly made up of young men who were drunk and loud, and she turned back to Mary Margaret, who sucked up the last of her drink and put down her glass.

"Yeah, I know this place isn't the best," she said.  "I'm afraid it's all Storybrooke has to offer.  It was this place or Granny's, and Ruby's usually had enough of the diner by the end of a shift."

"Oh, it's fine," said Belle hastily.  "It was good of you guys to invite me.  Are we expecting anyone else?"

Mary Margaret shook her head regretfully.

"Kathryn has a date with Jim.  Oh - he's a gym teacher at the school," she added, when Belle looked confused.

"Jim the gym teacher?" she remarked, with a grin.

"I know."  Mary Margaret giggled a little.  "He's nice, though.  And she's had a thing for him for a while now.  And Ashley was gonna come, but she's sick.  I'm afraid you're stuck with me and Ruby."

"Which means you get to hang out with the best people," chirped Ruby, setting down glasses.  "Here, drink up."

Belle took her drink, taking a sip as she glanced around the club.

"So," said Ruby, leaning on the table with a grin.  "How was your first day at work?"

"Okay, actually," said Belle.  "I don't think Zelena likes me, but apart from that..."

"Oh, she doesn't like anyone," Mary Margaret assured her.  "Except Dr Gold, of course."

"Yeah, what's that about?" asked Belle, puzzled.  "She was practically drooling on him."

Mary Margaret giggled.

"I guess she interprets indifference as a come-on," she said, and shook her head, dark hair shining in the light.  "She's wasting her time, the guy never dates, as far as I've seen."

"What's his story?" asked Belle, and Mary Margaret wrinkled her nose.

"Came to town about two years ago," she said.  "He moved here from New York - flawless reputation, head of department - and threw it all away to come to Storybrooke."

"How come?" asked Belle, puzzled, and she shrugged.

"Pace of life, maybe?" she suggested.  "I guess all that responsibility gets to you after a while.  Storybrooke has to be less stressful."

"Apart from Zelena," remarked Ruby, and Mary Margaret giggled.

"She needs a change of focus," she said, stirring her drink with a straw.

"So does this conversation," said Ruby.  "Screw Zelena!  What about you, Belle?  You in the dating game?"

"Not since college," admitted Belle.  "I never seem to have much luck with guys."

"We can totally set you up!" said Ruby excitedly.  "What about Sean?"

"Ashley's still hung up on him," Mary Margaret reminded her, and Ruby pulled a face.

"Okay, who else..." she mused.

"Rubes, the pickings in this town are somewhat slim," said Mary Margaret dryly.  "I'd go as far as to say skinny."

"There's Dr Whale," suggested Ruby.  "Cute, eligible..."

"...and a total womaniser," added Mary Margaret.  "Not bad in bed, though."

"Not as good as he thinks he is," muttered Ruby, and they all giggled.

"This is seeming more and more like a lost cause," remarked Belle.

"Hey, don't lose faith!" said Ruby, and pursed her lips as she scanned the bar.

"Over there you have Killian, Arthur and Keith," she said, nodding towards a group of three dark-haired men, one of whom smirked and raised a glass.  "All good-looking assholes, if you're into that sort of thing."

Belle shuddered.  "Definitely not."

Ruby sighed in a defeated manner.

"Okay - how about Lance?" she suggested, gesturing to the bar, where a broad-chested man with kind, dark eyes was leaning close to the man next to him, gesturing as he talked.  "New in town, polite, tips well..."

"Oh, he's really nice," added Mary Margaret.

"There!" said Ruby triumphantly.

"He's also gay."

"Dammit!"

Belle giggled.

"Look, it's not as though I'm desperate," she said.  "I don't think I'm likely to find the love of my life in this bar, you know?"

"Okay, let's deal with this more scientifically," said Ruby, taking a slurp of her drink.  "What do you look for in a man?"

"Um..."  Belle pursed her lips, trying to chase the unbidden image of Dr Gold from her mind.  "Well, how he looks isn't important.  I mean, I have to find him attractive, obviously, but that usually comes after getting to know someone.  And I don't really have a type, I'm more interested in what he's like, you know?"

"Any interests?" prompted Ruby.

"Well, I do love books," she said eagerly.  "My dream is to be a librarian, actually."

"Books, huh?" said Ruby, with a grin.  "I may have just the guy."

#fic: kiss of life #rumbelle fic #my fic #dr gold x candy striper belle

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Don't You Forget About Me (Ao3 Link) Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow, Irish Mythology Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: After Len, nothing seems to be going right for Mick. He keeps going listlessly -

- at least until something cold as death starts crawling into his bed.

(In which Mick Rory braves the Sidhe to win back his True Love)

A/N: For @jq-piccadilly - happy birthday!! (also special mentions to @ice-whisper who inadvertently gave me the idea and @oneiriad, for who this fulfills another Coldwave Bingo Board entry)

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After Len died, everything sort of stopped, for Mick.

Oh, he kept going, kept fighting, kept up with the great and noble mission to which he had been consigned by destiny and by Len. The flesh of him kept right on going.

It was the spirit of him that came to a halt.

He stopped caring about the things that made him happy, before; stopped caring about the game, or food, or even fun; stopped caring all too much about being alive.

But he kept going and time, wicked time, starts healing even his most dire wounds.

Mick had a chair in his room - big, comfy, just the way he liked it. It was good that it was so comfy, because he slept there, now, forsaking the bed in his cabin.

The bed that had been his and his Lenny's both.

Not even Kronos had dragged on his soul like Len's death - a hundred years and a day disappearing like a wink in the salt of Len's tears, but no salt would save him from this loss. Nothing but time could help.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

He remembered with terrible clarity how it was, that bed, a touch too small for two grown men but comfortable regardless. Reminded them both of a prison bed, when they'd first seen it, and it had made them laugh.

They shared that bed, just like they'd shared all their beds. Mick always went to bed first, pointedly, because Len's brain whirled so fast and so hard it needed to see good behavior to model it, but he liked to stay awake, dozing, until Len crawled into bed with him, cold from the air outside the bed, and wrapped a chill arm around his chest.

Len liked to put his icy fingertips – terrible circulation, that man – under Mick’s shirt, to warm his hand on Mick’s heart. It was one of the things Mick loudly complained about but secretly enjoyed.

It’s one of those thing Len will do no more, because he’s dead.

Mick doesn't sleep in the bed.

Mick kept on with the Legends. They treated him badly, and he let them. He encouraged it, even, playing up his stupidity, his brutishness, his uselessness, wanting the emotional spikes of pain under his nails, under his skin. He would never harm himself physically - Len would turn over in his grave, if he had one - but he could torment himself in other ways.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

Time passed, and passed, and passed, until he was lighting a year's time candle for Len and watching a false version of the man disappear like the illusion he was.

"Do you think he sleeps uneasy, what with no grave?" someone asked at one point.

It may have been Mick, come to think about it.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

But in that year, time passed and time healed and even the worse wounds can become scars, and at any rate when Mick swore to Len's ghost that he'd care for the team that Len'd died for, he'd meant it, and he took such oaths seriously. Keeping the Legends intact was a trip and a half, and more work than he'd ever done before, and it just didn't stop.

The work he let himself be made to do, the abuse he'd once invited and now resented -

He was tired, damnit.

And one day, a day after he lit that blasted candle that he can still see gutted on the desk, a day he should’ve had for grieving but instead spent out fixing yet another stupid aberration, he's so tired he just staggers right into his room, eyes barely staying open, and he collapses in the bed where his feet and his friends - Ray, he thinks, though it could be Sara - help him, and he curls up in the bed, which is sweet and perfect.

If he'd fallen straight asleep and never repeated the act, well, he might've fared better.

He doesn't.

He has just enough time to realize he's in the bed, the bed and not the chair, and he yields to his exhaustion and doesn't rise up and leave.

Time heals all wounds, he thinks blearily, thinks sadly, thinks regretfully, and he closes his eyes and he sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a footstep.

A single one, but even in his exhaustion, watchfulness is part of who he is, and so Mick is awake if still reluctant to move.

It's probably one of the Legends, looking for something and not bothering to knock.

Another footstep.

The blanket lifts behind him.

Mick expects to be roused with a shove.

He isn't.

A cold body crawls in with him, cold as ice, cold as - Len - and Mick shivers. He doesn't turn. He doesn't want to. It would ruin the illusion. The dream.

The nightmare.

A chill arm wraps around his body, and the hand finds his heart.

Mick knows that hand, knows that arm, knows that chill, and he would weep for the fact that he's clearly gone and lost it at last, but he doesn't want to disturb the dream.

He closes his eyes and dreams -

He dreams of blue.

The next morning, he's more tired than the night before, but he's upright, he's mobile. The Legends will have to make do with that.

"Wow, Mick, you look like shit," Sara says, eloquent as always.

Mick grunts and grabs the coffee. He has it Irish, of course. He's Irish.

"You do look positively haggard," Amaya says.

Mick grunts again and ignores them both.

He doesn't expect it to happen again.

It does.

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Mick Rory's ma was Irish even in a town filled with Irishmen. She was a proper mac something-or-other, some other child told Mick solemnly once; she might even be descended from a queen.

She certainly carried herself like one, marching through town with a straight spine and steel in her gaze, making pennies stretch for miles, raising her gaggle of children - six all together - with no family around to lend her aid, and not too shy to challenge even the big department stores when she felt she wasn't getting her money's worth. She was tough as dirt and just as practical.

Except, of course, when it came to the faeries.

The aos sí, the daoine sídhe, Tuatha de Danann, or whatever they were called.

Ma Rory's boys went around with salt in their pockets and iron nails, too. No one else did, but Mick's ma insisted.

And, to be fair, there were some moments where it seemed the rest of the town didn't disbelieve as big as all that.

See, Mick's ma was the seventh daughter, with six older girls that had nearly bankrupted her poor father, and Mick her sixth son, sons all in a row. There was talk in town, anticipation, when she got pregnant again.

"A seventh son of a seventh daughter; that's powerful magic," one of the children at school tells Mick. "A seer, a mage. A portent of great things."

He looks at Mick, then, all beady-eyed. "Not that you really matter," Mick is told. "No one ever pays attention to the mage's older brothers. Except where they fail first, of course - but that's usually in threes."

There are sighs of relief and disappointment when Mick's ma gives birth to a girl instead.

When Mick turned ten, his ma ordered his brothers away, sends her husband out with his baby sis, and brought him into the house.

"Michael," his ma says.

Mick blinks, indignant. "I didn't do nothing!"

For once, it's even true.

His ma sighs. "It's not about what you've done," she says. "It's about what I've done."

Mick frowns. That's not how the lectures usually go.

"Before I married your da, I got myself in trouble," she says bluntly.

Mick's eyebrows go up. He's always heard that nice girls ought to about that mysterious pre-marriage 'trouble' as much as they should. Of course, he never thought of his sharp-tongued, bull-headed ma as particularly nice...

"It were a boy, too," she says. "Sickly, he was, but he survived, and the nuns at the convent took him away. But he was mine. My first boy. After that, my parents took me around and I met your da, and I came here."

Mick nods. "So Jacky ain't the eldest." That'll show Jacky, who's always boasting about it and claiming it gave him special privileges.

"Jack is my second," she confirms. "And you, my baby boy, are the seventh, not the sixth."

Mick frowns. "But ain't a seventh son supposed to have the Sight?"

His ma chokes back an unhappy laugh. "My baby boy," she says, and it annoys Mick that that's the nickname she picked for him for all that it's technically true. "I wouldn't have told you about this, 'cept for the fact you need to know it. Weren't you telling me just last week about how you stopped your big brother from going to rescue the horse from that flooded river, all 'cause you saw it had gills?"

"I thought it were like in the comic books," Mick says. "Radioactive."

His mother shakes his head. "We call 'em kelpie. Horse-spirits that drag boys to their deaths. You saved your brother that day."

"I got sent to bed without dessert!"

"You did punch him in the face. And a year ago, do you remember the day you went up to the governor's house with your school? And you got lost and went to the kitchens and spent a few hours with the cook and the cobbler and the handyman, all of 'em complaining about how their wages been cut? And the governor got all pale when you mentioned it?"

Mick nods.

"They cater at the governor's house," she says gently. "They don't have a cook."

"But -"

"T’were the brownies, my boy."

"Is that why they liked my chocolate?" Mick had felt bad for them, their wages all cut, and he'd given them the chocolate bar in his pocket, all cut up in equal size portions, just enough for all of them if he didn't take one for himself. He'd regretted it - a chocolate bar of his own was a rare indulgence which he'd saved up two months' allowance for - but they'd been so happy he couldn't bear to keep it for himself.

"I think they liked the milk in the milk chocolate," his ma says. "But that's why I'm telling you now, you've got to be careful. You've got the Sight, just like everyone said, and people with the Sight get themselves in trouble."

"I get in trouble all the time."

"You just keep telling me if there's anything weird," she instructs. "Right off."

Mick sighs, but he's a good boy, and he obeys.

Well, he tries.

"We should take him to see a shrink," his da says, watching him guiltily clean up after another fire.

"Won't help," his ma says. "The fire comes from inside of him."

When Mick is ten, he starts getting into fights. He has broad shoulders that he'd grow into one day, but right now he's still skinny as a rake and his fists aren't strong enough to defend his temper.

The boys at school jump him after school, strip him bare, and pitch him into the local pond, hollering insults the whole time. Mick hollers them right back, but what's he to do? They ran off with his clothing, and he's got to get home before dark.

Mick grits his teeth against the slight. It won’t be too bad, getting home; it's getting cold as the summer draws to a close, but it’s not so cold as to hurt. He's embarrassed, sure, but embarrassment won't hurt him. Not on the outside, anyway, only in the soft gentle parts inside of him, and men weren’t supposed to have those anyway.

He's walking home, head held high because why not, when he sees the cat.

Big and black and beautiful, she is, with eyes as wild as stars, and she's got six little babies curled right up at her side, nursing, and a mate at her back, smaller, licking at her shoulder in homage.

She's near as big as a dog, she is, with a white stripe dead center on her chest.

One little runt is sitting not far from the others. It ain’t nursing or anything, but it looks fine.

Mick smiles a little at the cats. He likes cats.

Somehow, they notice him looking and all of a sudden the big cat starts to wail, and the little cats all wail, too, and the mate, too, all of them, all but the little runt who starts to cry, softly, instead.

Mick feels cold, all of a sudden, scared. "You stop that, right now, you hear me?" he snaps at them, and suddenly three more kittens run from the mama, what keeps a-wailing. The little kittens scatter off, sticking together, but they don’t go anywhere near the runt.

The fear is still there. He runs the rest of the way home, pride be damned.

"Mickey, my darling, what's happened? Where are your clothes, and why are you so scared?" his ma asks.

He tells her everything, and his ma goes pale as a ghost.

 "What was it, ma?" he asks.

"The Cat," she says. "Oh, that ain't no good, no good at all."

She gnawed at her lip. "Only one runt, all alone," she says. "Crying where the others are wailing."

"Until I said something," Mick corrects her. "Then there were four."

"And I'm glad you said something. The Cat Sidhe is a collector of souls. Did the kittens run together?"

"No, the runt was still alone."

"And so alone you will be, my baby boy, but you have saved all their lives."

His ma sends away his baby sister to her parents, his brothers whoever she could. The oldest ones laugh at her fears and refuse to leave so close to the harvest, but the youngest she can insist upon better. In the end, she sends away two boys and the girl.

That's why they don't die in the fire.

Mick hates his Sight for not letting him save more.

He ain't all too fond of cats after that, neither.

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

Mick always did wonder why he'd started seeing Len those days before the false version came to him. It wasn't grief, like Stein claimed; he'd never seen visions in his grief before. It wasn't what was in his head, courtesy of the thrice-damned time-stealers, the fickle monarchs in their palace three steps removed from the regular flow of time.

In Ireland they spoke of people who'd gone sideways into the hills, and how they never returned the same.

Mick's not impressed. He went sideways, as sideways as you get, and they tried their absolute hardest to make him forget who he was so that he'd stay with them forever - but he rejected them.

Oh, Mick swore himself to them, he played the role of the Knight, but when a hundred years and one had passed, his Tam-Lin Len had grasped his soul tight, grasped him hard through rage and pain and hate, had offered up his life and so won Mick's freedom.

And the time-stealers had no hold on Mick anymore.

He's not the same, no, but he's not as different as all that.

He's still himself.

"The story's supposed to end with a wedding," he tells himself, a year of death come and gone. The ring of platinum - spell-cursed silver that it was - was warm beneath his clothing. "The story's supposed to end with a wedding after the rescue. Not a funeral. Even I know that much."

No one responds, of course.

But every goddamn night Mick goes to sleep in that bed, and every goddamn night something crawls in beside him and curls that cold chill arm around him.

"You look sick," Jax says. "Have you gotten checked out by Gideon?"

Mick rolls his eyes, but Jax is not so easily deterred.

In the end, Mick admits that he has - sure, it was only because Sara insisted at knife-point, certain that that zombie disease was coming back or something, but it isn't his fault his eyes have bags under them large enough to steal something in, or that his skin's gone grey with exhaustion.

He sleeps every night in his bed.

Every night.

"You should go again," Jax says.

Mick goes again.

Gideon returns a clean bill of health - but for the exhaustion, which she cannot explain, and the fact that everyone around him can see that Mick's dying.

They make him sleep in the med bay that night.

Mick doesn't want to. He can't sleep anymore, not without that arm curled around him - him, who used to sleep anywhere and anytime! He can't even nap anymore.

Not without Lenny.

Oh, it's not Len, Mick knows it can't be Len. He held the hope of Len's resurrection in his hands and he let it go, and he put that illusion back on the road to perdition where it belonged, because he couldn’t let a Len live that lived under that type of brainwashing.

He didn't tell any of them that he knew that the mind-wipe would fix the brainwashing, where nothing else would. He didn't see why it mattered.

He didn't want to sleep anywhere but the bed.

Their bed.

The Legends made him. "Your skin is grey," they said, "your eyes are red, you look as though you're a corpse risen up."

"If only, if only," Mick says.

They looked uncomfortable. "Corpses can't rise up," Stein tells him, using different words, fancy words, but the meaning is clear enough. "You know that best of all."

It's a lie, of course. Many a corpse has stood once more - monsters, the lot of them, but standing tall and proud. Mick’s ma told him all about those, and she told them their names: the red cap, the washer-woman, the screaming in the dark.

The Legends make Mick sleep in the med bay.

But joy of joys, that night he feels the chill hands on his shoulders, spreading down the blanket, crawling in, wrapping the arm around him.

Putting a hand on his heart.

Mick smiles and sleeps.

The next morning he looks even more wretched than usual.

Gideon has nothing.

No explanation, no cure, nothing.

Mick wouldn't take it if they did.

The Legends give up and let him go back to his room.

Mick sleeps in his own bed.

And smiles at the cold.

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

"Mick."

Mick grumbles. He's tired, damnit. Let a man sleep.

Sure, it's all he does these days, but really, people should accept that.

"Mick."

Mick has thirty years of training to drop everything and respond to that insistent nasal whine.

He sighs and opens his eyes.

Len is perched on his goddamn chest, straddling him, peering down at him.

"Y'weigh a fucking ton," Mick tells him, slurring with sleep. "Gerroff."

"Can't," Len says, not without regret. "You're almost dead, you know."

Mick murmurs agreement. He'd accepted that already, hadn't he? Why is Len kicking up a fuss about it now?

Wait, since when have his hallucinations started to talk again?

"I'm not a hallucination," Len grumbles. "I wasn't then, either; I stole a mirror to talk to you, all those times."

Seems like a Len thing to do.

Len prods at him. "Mick."

That one means 'Pay attention to me'. Mick is very familiar with that variant of his name.

He forces himself more and more awake, or as much as he can, nowadays. "What issit?"

"You're almost dead," Len repeats, as if that's important. "I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop being almost dead, of course," Len says snippily.

"Can't," Mick says, because it's true. The Legends have tried - fancy future doctors, changing locations, even took him to see John Constantine, who had taken Mick aside in private and told him "if you want to die, it's easier to blow out your brains, you know", which hadn't been all that helpful and so Mick had declined his offer of an exorcism.

"Exorcism wouldn't have helped anyway," Len says. "I'm not a ghost."

Mick's not too tired to pull up his cheeks in a bit of a smirk. "Not a hallucination or a ghost. What are you, then?"

Len blinks down at him, inhumanly blue eyes luminous. "I'm a hag."

A what?

Mick wakes the rest of the way up, all at once, and he stares up at Len. Len, who doesn't look like any of his neat hallucinations, like his brainwashed former self, nothing.

Len, with glowing blue eyes with pupils shaped like stars, with teeth that are long and filed to a sharp point, whose skin is grey like a corpse but for the black shine of his long and deadly claws, his beautiful fingers curving into terrible talons, his clothing dirty rags that fall off his frame.

Dirty, but familiar. He'd been wearing that outfit when he'd gone to the Oculus, over a year and a day before.

It had been exactly a year and a day, in fact, when the dreams had begun.

"Bean sidhe," Mick gasps.

"That's a woman," Len sniffs. "I'm still male. Well, non-binary with a preference for masculine pronouns, whatever. Not like the Underhill cares."

"You've been?"

"The Time Masters were something of a renegade bunch," Len says, baring his sharpened teeth. "Changelings all, you know; they trapped a Queen in a labyrinth so she could fashion them more of the same. We met her, remember? In that orphanage, where we put our past selves within her grasp."

Stolen children from all the ages - of course.

Of course the bastards were changelings. Human-born but raised beneath the Hill, who aped mastery of magics they could never hope to truly control. Jealous, bitter creatures; they helped steal more of their kind to spread the misery further, hoping it would be lessened and failing to understand why it didn't help. All they ever wanted was for someone ranked lower than themselves to step on.

Somehow Mick's unsurprised that they ended up forming a bureaucracy.

"And you?"

"They went too far," Len says. "A Queen more or less - well. There are Queens in every nook and cranny, you know; male and female, strong and weak. You get enough followers willing to call you a Queen and a bit of land, that's good enough. But they weren't satisfied with that. They wanted the power to raid and rule the Hill itself."

Mick knows enough of his folklore. "They wanted the power of the High King."

Len grins. "They wanted his throne. I don't think they entirely understand the concept of an elected monarchy, but in fairness, Oberon ruled a thousand years in his time. They might've gotten confused."

"What happened?"

"I unbound the wellspring they'd created. A cat jumped across my corpse and snatched my soul - same cat as what tried to warn you before, as it happens - and the King built me a new body of straw and silver. It's silver what runs through my veins now, Mick, not iron. That dream that the changelings all wanted, and he gave it to me - to spite them, I think."

Mick swallows. "And you're - what are you?"

"I'm a hag," Len says. "The mara, the banshee, the night-mare - whatever you want to call me."

A night-hag, bearer of nightmares, who rides you in your sleep and drains your soul - and indeed, Len is perched upon his chest, a crushing, draining weight, and Mick may have been talking but his arms lie paralyzed by his sides.

"I haven't had nightmares," Mick says, his only protest.

Len looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Of course not," he says. "You're my partner. I took the nightmares, and gave you dreams of peace."

That was always the way of Len: throwing himself in front of the bullet he himself fired at you.

As fickle as Fae, Mick had thought before, amused.

Not so amusing now.

"Why can I see you now?" Mick asks. "When I couldn't before?"

"I have the strength, now," Len says. "I've drained you near to death."

Mick nods. That makes sense.

"If you weren't who you were," Len continues, "it might still have not been enough. You shut your eyes to the Sight long ago - but the Sight doesn't forget you."

"What's the purpose of this visit?" Mick asks, because Sight or no Sight, he knows his partner.

Len's waiting for him to ask.

Len gives a sigh of contentment, tension relaxing; he must have needed Mick to ask the question. Probably one of the strange laws of the Sidhe that Mick doesn’t know about.

"I'm a hag and shall remain so till the tides come no more," Len says, wrinkling his nose at his own poeticism - undoubtedly words of ritual, based on his expression. "But a hag is not a lord, and may be bound into service - and taken from the Hill."

"Taken," Mick says, his heart leaping in his mouth.

"You're no singer, and your violin playing would scare away dead souls," Len says dryly. "But you're the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and though it has been hidden from sight and memory, there have been six such generations born before you. If you die now, there will never be a seventh, and magic throughout the land will be the weaker."

Mick frowns. "I don't have -"

Len makes a face that says he's trying not to laugh. "Did you really never think about the consequences of sperm donation, with your family line?"

Oops.

"Six daughters you have sired - their families are very grateful, just so you know, the kids are great, all very happy, and those with mental illness are getting it seen to properly - but you will never sire a seventh if you die now."

Mick raises his eyebrows. "You asking if I'll trade my kid for you?"

"Like I would ever agree to suggest that," Len replies, rolling his eyes. "No - we give you a chance to win me back, if you promise that, if you are successful, you'll go about having that seventh kid. What you do with her beyond that is all on you. Free will, you know, that sort of thing. Magic loves it."

"And I'll have you."

Len smiles, and his teeth are sharp and pointed and shine in the light. "If you still want me."

Like that's a choice Mick has to think hard about.

But Mick's ma was Irish, in a land filled with Irishmen, and she didn't raise a fool.

"I think," Mick says, "that I'd like a written contract, if you will. And I'd like my lawyer to look at it first."

Len throws back his head and laughs.

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

Mick knows the stories, well and good. He’s no singer to charm the Lords of the Sidhe to give back what he’d lost, and – as Len so succinctly put it – his violin skills would scare off spirits of the dead, and not in a good way. But he’s the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and his mother a seventh daughter of a seventh son, and so on and so forth, hidden from Sight by magic and from memory by lies, and his child will be a marvel should she ever be born.

Marvels can also be terrors, of course.

No wonder John Constantine offered him the path of the bullet.

Mick sleeps three days and three nights in his bed, overriding Gideon to lock his door, and each night at the stroke of midnight, Len comes to him. The second night, Len brings a negotiator, a woman so pretty that it hurts Mick’s eyes even to look at her; but Mick’s heart belongs firmly in Len’s pocket and he declines her overtures in favor of negotiating long and hard into the night. When they finally reach an accord, she offers him a hand to shake, grudgingly impressed, and Mick refuses: Len came once to make the offer, twice for the negotiations, and so the bargain would be sealed on the third night, not the second.

She's even more impressed with that.

That night Mick writes down all he can remember of their agreements and made Gideon send it to Lisa with strict orders to get it back to him before nightfall. It’s all he can manage before his bed drags him back into the arms of sleep.

He wakes up, once, to Gideon telling him that he has a reply. Lisa took his contract to all the lawyers they knew, and the sharpest minds out of the lot pointed out a few clauses that Mick might want to be wary of – after all, the Underhill does so love its tricks, and giving a man his every wish while denying him his hearts’ desire is their favorite.

Mick considers the matter, and slips back into sleep.

Midnight comes again, and with it Len and his negotiator, who today was a hideous crone wearing a cloak of crows’ feathers and yet was the same as yesterday – Mick suspects that if she had come with Len the first night, she would have been a child – and Mick lays out his requirements.

“A what?” the negotiator says blankly.

Len howls with laughter.

“A best efforts clause,” Mick repeats. “Means you gotta try your hardest to make it live up to the spirit instead of the letter.”

“We don’t agree to those!”

Mick shrugs. “I was willing to let the hag –” He doesn’t use Len’s name; he’s not so stupid. “– sit on me for months and months before agreeing to hear you out. You want this, bad as I do; I figure we ought to meet all equitable.”

Her eyes glow like the moon. “And if we refuse, and claim you for our own without relief for your insolence?”

Mick smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “I’ve spent a hundred years and one beneath the Hill,” he says. “Kronos, they called me, 'cause they could not break my true name; a hundred years and one as a Knight before my true love held me fast and pulled me out. You cannot claim me – you’ve already tried that, and failed. You want my magic to reach its fulfillment?” He points at the contract. “Then sign.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I go tell all the bards I know that the Lords of the Sidhe no longer keep true to their deals - and are cowards, too.”

The negotiator laughs, a wretched thing, long and lolling and gruesome, but she plucks a crow’s feather from her cloak and she signs the contract with her own blood. Then – much to his surprise – she offers him the same feather.

“Didn’t know we were on such close terms,” he says, accepting it. You don’t turn down a gift kindly-meant from the aos sí.

“Any man, seventh son or no, would can out-stubborn the Morrigan deserves blood-brothership,” she replies gleefully, and really, if Mick had realized he was negotiating with the goddamn goddess of war maybe he wouldn’t have been quite so rude, but he’s not going to say no.

He cuts his hand – a prick at the base of the thumb, which has no impact on mobility, rather than on his fingers, which he actually uses – and signs his own name besides hers.

“Well done,” the Morrigan says. “I wish you the best of luck in the battles ahead.”

Mick inclines his head in thanks.

And so they go –

- and so he awakens.

He gets up, dresses, and walks to the bridge.

The Legends all gawk at him: standing tall, hearty and hale and flushed red with the blood of a goddess.

“I need to borrow the ship,” Mick tells them. It’s not a request. “Strap in.”

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

Mick goes first to visit John Constantine.

“You freed yourself from a haunting,” Constantine observes. “That’s rare.”

“I need a map to the Underhill,” Mick replies.

“Oh hell no.”

Mick shrugs. “I’ve got seven days and one to make it to the meeting place. Want to see my contract?”

“You contracted with the buggers? You’re right fucked, you are,” Constantine says, but he takes the contract.

After he reads it, he squints at Mick. “You’re a seventh of a seventh and you never thought to mention it?”

“A what?” Jax asks.

“Seventh of a seventh of a seventh,” Mick confirms, ignoring him. “Six times over.”

“And I suppose you’ve got seven of your own?”

Mick smirks. “Six, apparently.”

Constantine groans. “Now I see what you have to trade that they’d want.”

“Is someone going to explain this to the rest of us?” Sara asks.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” John asks, following Mick’s lead and ignoring her. “Even though you get to keep the kid, the Gentlemen are going to have a vested interest.”

Mick shrugs. “I’m on my way to rescue my True Love who has been transformed into a night hag.”

“…I take your point.”

“Wait,” Ray says. “Mick’s fallen in love? When?”

Mick isn’t even going to engage with that.

Constantine gets him the map.

“Really?” Mick says dubiously. “A strip mall?”

“Don’t doubt the value of liminal spaces,” Constantine says. “Also, have you seen those places at night? Even I think they’re creepy.”

Mick shrugs. “I’d say thank you,” he says, “but I don’t do that.”

“Because you have no manners?” Stein suggested.

“Wise man,” Constantine says. “You keep up with that, especially if you're playing games with the Fair Folk. And if I ever need something that requires a drop of blood from a seventh of a seventh, I’ll call you. You have no idea how many useful things call for that.”

“I have some,” Mick – who had totally been kidnapped a few times by foster parents with an eye towards genealogical records, albeit ones who hadn’t read the fine print of ‘disturbed juvenile arsonist’ and had no idea what they were getting into – replies. “Guess I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re going nowhere without my agreement,” Sara puts in. “How’d you even get Gideon to bring us here, anyway?”

“He’s a seventh,” Constantine says, stressing the syllables. “And you’re in a time ship.”

The Legends all blink at him.

“Think adoring puppy dog and someone who smells of bacon.”

Any technology sufficiently advanced will be mistaken for magic, Mick thinks, amused; looks like the other way is true as well.

Time ships always did answer to him particularly easy when he was Kronos, a matter of some great frustration to some of the other bounty hunters...

Map in hand, ignoring the Legends' protests, Mick goes on the next leg of his trip.

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

This place had no name, no place, no time - by those that knew it, it was the Floating Market, but ask any of them what that was and they'd deny they'd ever heard of such a thing.

Indeed, many said it was impossible to describe, even if you were willing to spill its secrets.

Mick thought of it as a time traveler's Mos Eisley.

The greatest collection of thieves and vagabonds in the timeline.

Today, it was in Rome.

Mick doesn't actually pay much attention to where and when - no togas and no t-shirts, so somewhere in the 1000s - because it didn't matter, not really. You don't find the Market by looking for it, you find it with a dowsing rod reserved especially for the purpose.

Mick's never needed one.

"The Floating Market is one of the places that even Captain Hunter feared to go," Gideon tells him.

"Probably because Time Masters aren't treated like gods there," Mick says.

More like pests to be stomped out, actually; their arrogant and high-handed ways had no place in the Market. The Time Masters' bounty hunters, on the other hand, were welcomed as fellow-travelers.

Mick likes the Market.

"I wouldn't go, if I were you," he tells Sara. "They'll peg you for the League in a minute and black-ball you."

She frowns. "They know the League?"

"The League picked a fight with the Market once. I'm pretty sure the League calls that period of time the Great Disaster."

Sara's frown deepens. She recognizes the name. "Why are you going there now?"

"I need to see a man about a cat," Mick replies.

His favorite of the Market's watering holes, of which there were an infinity, is still there. Mick's sure that for some of his fellow travelers, he only stepped out for a minute; such is the way of things.

Underhill's not the only place that knows how to play with time.

He heads in with Jax at one side and Sara - who never listens - on the other. The others were guarding the ship: they'd already gotten six offers to purchase it, and two attempts to steal it.

"Good to see ya, Kronos," one of his old drinking buddies calls out. He's big and tall, wearing black leather pants and a matching vest. His shaggy black hair is as wild as his smile. "The Main Man missed having a challenge."

Mick can't help a smile.

"Lobo," he says. "Just who I wanted to see."

"How can I help ya?"

"I'm looking for Cat Anna," Mick tells him. "I need to know how to care for a hag, once you've got one to care for."

Lobo belches from his beer and roars in laughter. "Cat Anna! Care for a hag! You'd better not be getting romantic on me, Kronos - and even if you were, Jenny Greenteeth or Canrig Bwt is far more, heh, feisty."

"Canrig Bwt eats brains, Lobo," Mick reminds him.

"So? Who needs 'em?"

Mick grins. He likes Lobo. "You got me a lead on Cat Anna?"

"Oh, sure. And you're in luck, too - she's just about to make the switch to Black Annis. Look for her by the witches' feet."

Mick nods acknowledgment. "Good hunting, Lobo."

"And you!"

Mick drags a gaping Jax and Sara out of there. He's not sure what the big deal is.

Kali always has that many skulls tied onto her belt.

The witches' feet is another part of the Market, best identified by the bunches of chicken's feet at every stall, done the same way hookers hang red lanterns.

Finding Cat Anna is easy enough. Not many black cats are being given the royal treatment.

"I wanna talk to you," Mick says to her, ignoring the way Sara seems to be doubting his sanity and how Jax appears be considering purchasing some newts' eyes for some godforsaken reason.

Cat Anna stretches, long and lithe, and in a blink of an eye she becomes Black Annis, the one-eyed, long-haired, sharp-toothed hag of the hills.

"You've been ridden hard," she rasps. "But gentle. That's not like a hag."

"I'm seeking my true love," Mick tells her.

She snorts. "You and the rest of humanity."

"He's the hag."

"Now that's interesting! Human-born, I take it?”

Mick inclines his head.

“Well done, well done. And what need you with Black Annis, then?" she bares her teeth. "Lest you've got some children you don't need."

"He ain't for sale," Mick says, swatting her reaching hand from Jax. "I need to know how to care for one. What'll you charge me? And you can get your own kids."

She snorts. "Oh, hell, I ain't gonna charge you, not for bringing another hag into the world - assuming you manage it. Tell you what, m'boy - you wrestle your hag out of the sidhe and you'll have all you need to know, and all I'll ask is to spread his name."

She looks at him expectantly.

"Captain Cold, they call him," Mick tells her.

She cackles. "Oh, that's a fine one! We ain't never had a Captain before."

She shoves her wrinkly hand at him and Mick kissed it in thanks. He feels the knowledge settle into his mind where it ought to be, locked away until he's fulfilled the conditions on his side.

Getting the Legends out of the Market before they spend every penny they have and some they don't is yet another battle.

And with that done, their eyes still dazed, he goes to claim himself a hag.

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

The stories don't differ.

Oh, some are charmers, some are singers, some are poets, but in the end the job's the same.

You want to take something out of the sidhe, you'd better grab it tight and hold it to your heart, no matter how it burns you.

Lucky for Mick, he has plenty of experience with things that burn.

The Legends follow in his wake, silent and unjudging, less as support than as witnesses.

He’s warned them not to eat or drink and not to say their names to anyone, but to accept any gift they are given. He hopes that they’re wise enough to listen, but his focus has to be on his challenge.

The strip mall at night becomes a Queen's Court - one more in the style of Mab than Titania, if Mick had to guess. The bean sidhe coo when they see Mick and a familiar cat the size of a dog - all black but for the stripe of white at her heart - brushes by his feet, all approving.

Len's his prize and his challenge both, and he stands at the center of the .

"Welcome, Kronos," the Queen says. "Seventh son of a seventh daughter, Hunter of the Timeline and Rover of the Waves, Knight of the Summer’s Shadow, Victor of the Battle of Bet-Adon, Trieste, and Atlantis-Ouest, Master of The Leviathan, Destroyer of the Renegade Court –” By which Mick assumes they mean the Time Masters. Nice to know that that’s been added to his list of titles. “– and guest at our court.”

“Don’t forget Heatwave,” Mick reminds her.

The Queen inclines her head gravely. The Lords love etiquette more than anything else; the best way to get the upper hand is to point out a flaw in their approach. This must be a young Queen indeed.

“Heatwave, Supervillain, Member of the Rogues, Enemy of the Flash, Commander of Absolute Heat,” she recited. “I did not forget; I was unsure if you had reclaimed those titles.”

“I have,” Mick replies, just as solemnly.

Though not without worry. The stupid “Rogues” idea Len had actually comes to fruition?

Ugh.

Mick would say he’s having second thoughts about winning this contest, but he can’t even joke about that; the wound is still too fresh.

Len grins as though he knows what Mick’s thinking, because he’s a dick. He’s totally going to take advantage of this to make Mick join his stupid Rogues.

But on the other hand: he’ll be around to do that.

Mick will take it.

“You will face three trials,” the Queen says. “To rescue a soul from the Sidhe requires love and hope and faith. We will try all three.”

Mick nods, unsurprised.

She waves her hand, and suddenly there’s a dozen Lens standing there, all the same.

“Tell us which of these is your true love,” she demands. “For love will know love, even in disguise.”

Mick gnaws on his lower lip, staring at them. “Might I test them, your Majesty?”

“You may,” she replies haughtily. “Ask your questions.”

Questions? Mick doesn’t need questions. Besides, changelings-constructs have the same memories as the original. Questions won’t help, as the Queen well knows.

No, love needs a different test.

Mick pulls out a hammer.

The collected Court withdraws from the stench of iron, which causes them pain even at a distance.

Mick steps forward, puts his hand on a nearby surface – a squat barrel which he suspects spends its daylight hours as a garbage can – and spreads his fingers wide. He lifts the hammer up high.

“What are you doing?” the Queen asks.

“My love gave up his hand for me,” Mick says. “Seems fair.”

He brings the hammer down, as hard as he can.

The iron never touches his flesh, caught instead by one of the Lens darting forward, his face flushed with rage. He ignores how his own hands sizzle at the touch of iron, too focused on Mick, too focused on yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?! You don’t need to smash your own hand, you - you - you asshole! We already had it out about the hand! What the fuck?!”

“This one,” Mick says to the Queen dryly.

“Well played,” she responds, equally dry. A wave of the hand vanishes the remainder.

Mick pries the hammer out of Len’s hands before they burn any more. “I’m not going to smash my hand,” he assures his partner.

“You’d better not!”

“The next of your tests is this,” the Queen says, and she waves her hand. A table appears, with a wooden cup filled to the brim.

Len’s eyes go wide. “What? No!”

“Drink of the forgetting water,” the Queen says. “It washes away all care, and with all care all memory.”

Mick raises his eyebrows skeptically. “So I’m supposed to drink away all my memories?”

“All your cares,” she corrects. “If your love is true, then have no fear: you will remember him. But if not, you will leave without him and without the memory of him; and ne’er will you meet again.”

“Damnit, he’s already been brainwashed enough!” Len snaps. “And he hates it, too; that’s a terrible test.”

The Queen frowns thoughtfully. “If he will not trust to his own love, he cannot pass the test. And yet I have some sympathy to your plight: it is indeed an old wound. Very well: swear to me your services for three tasks of my will, and he may forgo the drink.”

Mick reaches out and takes the cup.

“Mick!”

“The test is for both of us,” Mick tells him. “And you know it.”

Len falters, just long enough for his brain to start to work – logic overcoming concern, his cold heart overcoming the heat of his emotions.

“I see,” he says. “She can’t bind a hag to her will without their oath, and I ain’t giving her no oath – not for anything but this.”

“She’d trade it and then laugh at us for failing her test,” Mick agrees. “You’ve got to trust me that I can do this, and I’ve got to trust in myself. That’s what hope is.”

“Then go ahead,” Len says. He looks like he’s regretting it.

Before Len can say another word more, Mick lifts the cup to his lips and drains it.

It is –

A blaze of flame surrounds him but does not burn him, soothing his innermost pain, the oldest of all his friends. It welcomes him, calls him to rest, a peaceful slumber.

It wipes away all cares: the old hurt of his parents’ loss, the newer stings of the Legends’ cruelties, even his disagreements with Len over all those years.

But Len is more than just a care, more than just a worry, more than just a disagreement.

He's everything.

Mick opens his eyes. “You ought to market that as an antidepressant,” he observes. “What’s the third test?”

Len punches him in the shoulder, smiling. “They’re still looking to get FDA approval,” he jokes.

“Well done,” the Queen says, ignoring their levity. “Your hope and love is true. And now there is only the test of faith.”

She says no more.

That’s fine.

Mick knows what to do.

He reaches for Len and he takes him into his arms and he holds on.

Holds on through leopards and foxes and spitting cats, through flames and blistering cold, through hurricanes, holds on as his hands hurt and his gut feels like it’s been ripped out, holds on, holds on, holds on –

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

“Is anyone going to explain what just happened?” Sara asks, a little plaintively.

They’re back on the Waverider.

Len is by Mick's side, where he belongs.

He has on that wretched blue parka that Mick would've sworn was lost on some time-traveling jaunt - and indeed that might be so, because this parka gleams subtly in Mick's sight like maybe it wasn't made of fabric from this plane. Also like maybe it could hold off a bomb.

Mick reluctantly approves. He’s in favor of Len being bomb-resistant.

Len also has a bag that seems to contain more things than it really ought. He says he won it off - someone.

He refuses to give more details than that.

His smile is still too sharp, his pupils still star-shaped, but his eyes have returned to their original shade and his talons have reshaped into familiar fingers and at any rate judging from the way none of the other Legends have commented, Mick is pretty sure that he's the only one who can see Captain Cold in his full, newly-inhuman glory.

Mick is -

Mick is content.

No.

Mick is happy.

He's also getting a shit ton of information on the care and feeding of night hags - 'mara' is apparently the preferred name for the singular, Len was just being a dick - so he's not really in the mood to answer the question.

"I'm back," Len says in belated response, when it becomes obvious that Mick has no intention of answering. "Obviously."

"And it's the you we knew?" Jax asks cautiously.

"Mr. Blow-Yourself-Up, in the flesh," Len confirms.

"Oh," Jax says. "Uh. Good to see you again?"

As if that's the switch, the rest of the Legends start crowding around with greetings and smiles and introductions to Nate and Amaya, stories and comradery and all that. Several of them step around Mick to do so.

"I'm a little tired," Len says pleasantly. "As I'm sure Mick is. Perhaps later?"

Human or not, Len's charisma is a force of nature.

They are left alone.

"You're back," Mick says, finally letting himself believe - really believe - that it's true.

Len smiles, his secret, honest, hidden smile, that only Mick and Lisa get to see. "You saved me."

Mick snorts. "You saved yourself, with my assistance."

"Maybe," Len concedes.

"You have plans already, I take it?" Mick asks. He knows that look in Len's eyes.

It's so familiar, so wonderfully familiar, that his chest hurts.

"Oh, yes," Len says. "Many - the Rogues, of course, and finding you just the right woman to bear our child -"

Because of course it's their child.

Mick objects not at all.

"- and maybe having a bit of a snack off our dear friends the Legends, who seem to have grown disrespectful of you in my absence," Len continues. "But that's for later. For now I have other plans."

"I'm all yours," Mick says.

Dangerous words, to say to one reborn among the Sidhe.

Mick finds he can mean it no less. Everything he is, the flaws, the virtues, all the powers he was born to, the full sum of him - it's all nothing without Len.

Len's eyes glitter with pleasure and he takes Mick's hand, and he leads him to the bed.

The bed where they slept together when Len was still a man, the bed that Mick avoided so much that year they were apart, the bed where Mick gave himself, body and soul, to the hungry nightmare Len has become.

Mick smiles and climbs into the bed.

Behind him, a cold body climbs in.

A chill arm wraps around his body.

A hand rests upon Mick's heart.

"Sleep," Len whispers in Mick's ear. "I'll watch over your dreams."

Mick closes his eyes.

And sleeps.

#dccoldwave #my fic #mick rory #leonard snart #lobo #john constantine #coldwave creature au extravaganza