#Entryway Furniture Market share | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

imagines-hoarder · 4 years ago

Text

House Warming - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Hopping through some standout moments in making Bucky's apartment a place worth coming home to. (This definitely could have been a headcanon but I refuse to do headcanons at this time.)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 2.6 k

Warnings: fluff with a lil angst

A/N: I have finished all the assignments left for my degree and decided to sit down and write today. This is probably trash but idc because it has been written and therefore I may as well release it. It's been a while since I've written and years since I've truly tried dipping my foot into a different fandom, but I figured I'd give it ago. Please don't forget to leave comments, I love interacting with y'all. Thank you @bwbatta for the dividers! xoxox

Masterlist

It all started with a damn candle. A ‘sandalwood & vanilla orchid’ candle tucked away in a reused cyan jar.

“I found it at the art market down the street last weekend,” you said as you placed it in the corner of the living room window. “You know we have to support local business.”

“And I shouldn’t assume this is your way of telling me my place smells, right?” Bucky quipped from the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in his hand and a lazy smile on his face. He’d just gotten back from a 12-day mission with Sam, and the last thing he had on his to-do list was to buy candles.

The smile grew firmer as you put yourself into his arms. “Complete opposite, actually. I bought it cause I thought it smelled just like you.” You hid your face within his chest, and he thanked the stars that you couldn’t see the warmth rising in his cheeks. His barren apartment felt a little bigger with a candle in the windowsill.

From there it became decorative pillows… and a couch to hold them. The small living room had quickly become a mess by the time you both had brought it up to his fourth-floor apartment, furniture wrap and packing peanuts strewn everywhere.

“I still don’t know why you needed to buy a sofa this big,” Bucky grumbled as he leaned over the back of the beige three-seater, looking down at your splayed out across its cushions.

“Don’t get me wrong, babe. I love the transient bachelor look you’ve got going on here, but you need more furniture than an armchair,” you mumbled between heavy breaths as you tried to regain control from maneuvering the couch into the apartment.

“And the pillows?” A laugh fell from your lips as you watched him look at the indigo cushions with a remarkable amount of disdain. Who buys pillows made just to look nice on a couch?

“They add character.”

“I didn’t think character was an area we were lacking in. Transient bachelor, remember?” He walked around the couch and shifted you over so he could lay beside you. You instinctively curled into him as you both closed your eyes. For a second the place felt like home. “I also don't know how you plan for us both to fit on this couch every day along with the pillows.”

“Don’t worry about it,” You looked up from his chest with a mischievous glint that made his heart skip. “It’s a pullout bed too. I’m sure it’ll be firm enough even for you.”

The home improvements didn’t stop there, but Bucky refused to admit how much he enjoyed them.

He liked having a place and person to come home to. After you had bought neutral bedding for his room, you’d spent an evening putting together ‘his and hers’ trestle bookcases for either side of the bed. He’d try to keep up his crabbish demeanor as you argued that ‘you needed a place to set your books for when you slept over,’ and a side table could no longer contain the small collection you had spilling over. Even still, he couldn’t find it in himself to banter much about the minor changes you made to make the place feel lived in.

And God, did he love living with you around. Between missions, his continued therapy, and trying to find his place in a world that had tripled in opportunity since his youth, he knew that he never had to question who he was and where he fit in when he walked through that door. You still occasionally slept at your own apartment when he was away, but he could always count on you being asleep in his bed by the time he came home.

One toothbrush in a glass became two, and from there, hand creams, face masks, and cotton pads cluttered the bathroom counter, packed away in their clear containers. You had made sure to keep lavender bath salts on hand for the late-night baths you took together when he woke up in a panic, unable to close his eyes again for fear of falling back into a nightmare.

It took time and working through plenty of hesitation before Bucky could progress from sleeping on the pull-out sofa to the bed, but ever since, you found your nights attended by restlessness whenever you weren’t wrapped in his arms.

Once your lease was up and you had a lengthy conversation about your inability to rest without him, you quickly filled the apartment with brown boxes. Bucky had been no less than astounded by how much you fit into them. From then on, no nook or cranny was without a vase or shelf.

“How many mugs does one house need,” Bucky asked skeptically while he continued to carefully pull them from their paper wrappings.

“Oh, come on! They’re fun!” You exclaimed, wrapping an arm around his waist as you took the Charlie Brown mug from his metal palm. “Plus, we go through enough coffee around here to justify some extra mugs.”

After you put the mug into the lowest shelf of the cabinet, you busied yourself with filing away the spices one cabinet over. No matter how much he tried, Bucky couldn’t pull his eyes away from you, lost in your own world as you chipped away at unpacking your belongings, making yours his, and vice versa. The domesticity in the little things you did was something he could get used to, and he wanted to return the feeling of normalcy as much as he could. He was far from the average boyfriend, but you remind him that could be a good thing. You never wanted to be average, but in these small moments, as you both did what normal couples do, he felt that he could create a new normal with you.

“So your Christmas gift came in already, and it’s too big to hide.” Your awkward tone carried over the phone as he exited a station ten minutes away from the apartment. Even though his neck ached and the cold nipped at the top of his ears, he couldn’t stop himself from releasing a breathy laugh.

“I thought you said you were good at this gift-giving thing, doll,” he teased you as he maneuvered his way to your shared apartment.

“Oh, don’t you fret, baby. I am the best gift-giver in all of New York City. I just slightly miscalculated how big this thing was and have realized it won’t fit into our closet.”

He tsked with a smirk on his face. “If you say so.”

“Hey, you gave me my Christmas gift a week ago.”

“Yeah, that’s because I didn’t know if I’d be back before Christmas.”

“Well, you will be, and I’m glad you are,” your voice softened lovingly as he pulled out his keys to the front of the building.

Bucky had gotten used to your love, but he’d vow to never take it for granted. All the pain he’d endured had somehow led him to you, the person who didn’t see his broken pieces as a burden or a project but as a potential to be whatever he desired.

When he hung up the call and unlocked the apartment, his brows furrowed into one; the apartment was pitch black. It was only when he heard your soft footstep walking towards the entrance that his face relaxed.

Before he could even kiss you, you had your palms firmly placed over his eyes. “No peeking; your gift is in the living room.”

The uncertainty in what you could have got him made his stomach clench. “Is it an animal?”

You slowly dragged him through the front hallway, making sure to avoid crashing into the entryway storage table. “I’m sorry to say it’s not alive.”

“Is it a nice welcome-home spread with candles, fruit, and the pullout bed all set up?”

He could feel your eyes roll to completion. “Easy there, sergeant. That’s for later.” You pulled him down to sit on the couch, and he kept his eyes closed as you pulled your palms away, moving to turn on a lamp. “Okay, Buck. open up.”

When he opened his eyes, it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing nestled against the wall; when he did recognize it, he could only form two words “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit indeed.”

He was quick to stand up and cross the room, eager to get a good look at the walnut centerpiece. “Does it work?”

You scoffed as you moved to kiss his cheek. “What kind of girlfriend would get her ancient boyfriend a broken phonograph console?”

He didn’t even attempt to answer as he bent down to wrap his arms around you, his lips eager to find yours. “A fucking Magnavox radio and phonograph,” he mumbled against your lips.

“A working Magnavox radio and phonograph, you mean.” When you pulled away and saw that his face held a glow reserved only for special occasions, you knew you had made the right choice. “I’ve got some records wrapped up if you want to open those now too.”

You yelped in surprise as he picked you up and made his way towards your bedroom. “I’ve got something else I’d like to unwrap first.”

Bucky Barnes had grown up in a period when the average family could seldom afford nice things or much of anything at all. The Great Depression has resulted in the slogan ‘Make it do or Do without,” being ingrained into what memories he still had, and 'doing without' had become commonplace for the Barnes household.

That’s why every gadget and gizmo you added to your household left him in awe. For much of his life, including the decades he spent as a weapon for Hydra, he hadn’t been allowed to call anything his own; he was still getting used to living so plentifully, both in love and in life. But now, he could barely move and he thought it had all been taken away from him.

The attack was supposed to have been contained, at least three miles away from the apartment. Anything less, and he would have made you visit your family upstate instead of just suggesting it. By the time Sam had told him that there’d been some confirmed damage within a block of the apartment, Bucky was already on his way home. He couldn’t think of anything but the worse: you trapped in a collapsing apartment building or pulling up to find no building there at all.

He felt his lungs fill with air again as he pulled up to your building, completely intact regardless of the severe damage less than a five-minute walk away. It felt like both seconds and hours between when he parked his outside and unlocked the front door.

“He doesn’t have his phone on him, mom. How am I supposed to…” you trailed off from your call as he walked into the living room, turning your head away from the Breaking News report you’d been glued to for the last hour. “Wait, I’ll call you back. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll call you back.” Your eyes never left his as he walked over to you, hanging up the phone with worry in your eyes. “Buck, are you oka-”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence before he pulled you off of the couch and into his arms. His grip was less reserved than he usually kept, but he made sure not to hurt you, eager to keep you in his arms, where he knew you were safe. A single tear fell from the corner of his eyes as he realized the real possibility that he could have lost you if you lived even 5 minutes closer to the attack. You stayed like that for a while, gathered tightly in his arms as you both settled onto the floor You didn’t push him to verbalize his fear; you already understood it. And it took this occurrence for him to realize he never wanted to experience this feeling again.

Bucky was quiet for the rest of the evening, and while it worried you, his fear had been evident enough not to require questioning. The city-wide cleanup had lasted all hours of the night; for the first time in all the years you had lived in the city, the sounds of the whirring of vehicles clearing debris off the street had been too close to ignore. The sun was rising before a single word was said between you and Bucky, tangled together on the sofa as the first ray of light made itself known.

“You’ve spent so much time piecing this place together, doll.” His voice was raspy. You know he hates when you see him cry, but his pain was always evident in his voice. “And it could have been all wiped away in seconds.” You let a heavy silence settle between you as you traced a pattern into his shoulder. He couldn’t bear to say it, but you knew what he meant: You could have been gone within seconds. “I just… I don’t ever want to feel like this again.”

You’d both gone through so much to make your relationship work. Nearly normal was as close as you would ever attain to being an average couple. The distance, the days without contact, and the ever-present fear that anything could pull you away from one another was something that had taken time to work through.

You looked around the living room and saw the place you had built together. There were photos and books scattered on any flat surface, a leftover mug half-filled with cold tea, and a record left out on the phonograph. The apartment looked like what love felt like; a messy combination of everything you and Bucky. But this apartment could not contain everything that ‘home’ was; only Bucky could do that.

The words fell from your mouth before you could restrain them. “Maybe we should move.”

Your eyes found each other, and you both sat in silence, though it felt lighter, invigorated with the new proposition.

Before he even responded, you could see tension dissolve from his shoulders. “Where do you want to move?”

You hadn’t thought that far ahead, only being able to provide him with a shrug. “I don’t know… maybe upstate, maybe somewhere else.”

“Your mom would like you being Upstate.”

“My mom would love us living next door too, but I don’t see that in the cards anytime soon.” You got a ghost of a smile for that.

“We could probably afford a house if we moved out there,” he said as he moved his lips to meet your forehead.

“Buck, I’d move anywhere with you. As long as we have each other, then we have all we need to rebuild this place.”

He pressed soft kisses to the crown of your head, and you swore you felt his chest flutter. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna look for some places, bigger ones too.” He tilted your head up to find your eyes, and you were sure that all of the love you carried for each other was incredibly visible at that moment. “You have made this apartment something worth coming home to. Now let me give you a house to make a home.” Your skin tingled with adoration as you pulled him as close as possible, burying your face into his neck.

You didn’t want to let go. You wanted to lay in this room, in this bed, and in this moment until the end of time, but you knew that something bigger and better was on the horizon for you and Bucky.

“All I heard is that you’re buying me a house.” His laugh was music to your ears.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff

515 notes · View notes

basketofverbiage · 2 years ago

Text

Face Down pt 5

I’m a little scared to share this, but okay. Here we go.

tw: sex, violence, gun violence, minor character death, language, police, barebacking, top Jungkook, bottom Seokjin, they’re in love okay!

Seokjin felt like the next two months flew past. He spent at least two full days a week with his new attorney, Son Hyunwoo, trying his best to prepare for Kangdae’s upcoming trial. Shownu, as he’d told Seokjin to call him, was a soft spoken, gentle man when around Seokjin. However, Seokjin had heard from a few others that he was a hard ass in the courtroom. Shownu was working with the District Attorney prosecuting Kangdae to ensure that they had their ducks in a row and could send him to prison where he belonged. He was being charged with multiple counts of assault and battery, resisting arrest, and attempted murder. But in order to ensure that the case went well, Seokjin had to essentially relive every single thing Kangdae had done to him. In the midst of the trial preparation, they knew that Kangdae’s government appointed attorney was attempting to convince the magistrate to release him on bail. The first act as his attorney that Shownu fulfilled was following up with Detective Jung to ensure that the restraining order had been filed in the case that some idiotic judge let Kangdae out of jail.

Despite all of the intense therapy and trial preparation that Seokjin was enduring, he and Jungkook had met with Minhyuk a couple of times. The apartment was officially listed on the market after Minhyuk had toured the place and asked them to paint the entryway walls and the walls in the bedroom. The bedroom walls had had several scuffs where Kangdae had thrown things at Seokjin there and there were blood stains in the entry way that Jungkook had been unable to scrub off without damaging the paint. Seokjin honestly felt horribly guilty about not being able to do any repairs needed in the apartment, but Jungkook and Yoongi had ganged up on him and told him to stop complaining. Somehow, Taehyung had gotten ahold of Jimin’s phone number when Seokjin had been hospitalized, so he arranged an afternoon for Seokjin to spend time with him. While he was gone, Jungkook and Yoongi dove in and painted the walls and repaired any other little things they found around the apartment.

It had taken two full days to get all of Seokjin’s miscellaneous items that hadn’t already been moved out sorted. Most of his things had already found their way into Jungkook’s apartment, but the remaining few things found a home in Namjoon’s spare bedroom closet. Seokjin had decided to list the apartment as furnished so that he could sell it all together with the exception of the mattress. As far as he was concerned, the site of Kangdae’s most horrific acts against him should be burned in a raging bonfire.

Once they had gotten Minhyuk’s approval, the apartment actually sold faster than Seokjin had ever dreamed. It had sold to an adorable couple, Jooheon and Hyungwon. They actually offered more than the list price for the apartment with all the furniture, so Seokjin ended up making a sizeable profit from the sale. The relief of never having to go there again was worth more than the money to Seokjin in all honesty.

Just a week after the sale of the apartment had gone through, Seokjin got Wonho’s approval to go back to work. Seokjin would only be returning to his job on a part time basis for a while so that he’d have the time to continue trial preparation and his intensive therapy meetings with Wonho. He could tell he was finally beginning to make progress when the panic attacks went from a few times a week to one a week or so. It was a relief to finally be getting back to normal.

One seemingly normal afternoon, he left their flat to grocery shop. He’d wanted to make a recipe that his grandmother had made he and Namjoon when they were small. Seokjin had rediscovered her handwritten recipe when they had been sorting through his things to move them out of the flat he’d sold. The grocer was only a couple of blocks from the apartment and the weather was beautiful, so he had opted to walk. He spoke politely to Hyungwon in the elevator as they shared the space on the way down and set off to shop happily. Seokjin was beginning to feel normal again, and it was amazing.

He grabbed the things he needed to make the soup he had in mind then returned back to the apartment to put the meal on to simmer while he worked. When he approached the door, he was immediately put on edge as the door was slightly ajar. He’d been certain he’d closed it tightly and locked it when he left. Seokjin gripped the bag of grocery items tightly in one hand and his phone in the other as he bumped the door open. He peeped in and didn’t immediately see anyone, so he cautiously locked the door behind him and moved into the kitchen. After placing the grocery bag on the counter, he walked into the living room to see if Jungkook had gotten home early.

“Ongoo-ah? Are you home?” he called as he stepped around the corner. Seokjin walked into the living room to see his worst nightmare standing in the middle of the room. Kangdae had smashed the glass-top coffee table into a million pieces and had the largest shard in his gloved hand.

“Hello, Seokjin.”

Jungkook and Yoongi had been working a rather intense corporate function all afternoon. The formal environment filled with men in stiff suits and ties had been incredibly difficult to photograph in a happy light, but they had done their best. Jungkook had just gotten to his desk to load the memory card from his camera into his computer when his office phone rang. His cell phone had been on silent locked in his desk drawer during the event so he wouldn’t have any distractions. He quickly picked up the receiver and answered with his professional greeting.

“Ah, Jungkook. Thank god I reached you. This is Detective Jung Hoseok. I was calling because we were notified an hour ago that Lee Kangdae was released from jail on bail. His attorney succeeded in his attempts to get him freed. I have been trying to reach Seokjin for an hour and he isn’t answering. His phone goes straight to voicemail.”

Jungkook’s stomach sank. “Oh shit. I’d better go home. Seokjin is staying with me in my apartment next door to their former residence.”

“Something about this feels off to me, Mr. Jeon. My partner and I will meet you there.”

Jungkook didn’t bother saying his goodbyes to the detective, instead slamming down the phone and grabbing his coat, phone, and keys. He ran at a dead sprint out of the room and nearly bowled Yoongi over.

“Yoongi-hyung, I’ve got to go. They released that motherfucker from jail and the detective can’t get ahold of Seokjin,” Jungkook barked out as he brushed by.

“Oh shit. Let me grab my keys. I drove in this morning.”

Yoongi moved faster than Jungkook had ever seen him go as he fetched his keys and coat. On the way out of the building, Yoongi called their boss to let him know they had an emergency while Jungkook frantically tried to call Seokjin. Jungkook growled in frustration as his call immediately went to voicemail. He was trying not to panic, but he couldn’t help it. He could just feel it in his chest that Seokjin was in trouble. Yoongi, normally an extremely cautious driver, broke at least seven traffic laws in rushing them across town, weaving in and out of traffic with his emergency lights flashing. Their office was a solid twenty-minute drive from Jungkook’s apartment, but they made it in twelve. Yoongi barely got the car slowed down to park when Jungkook leapt out of the car, running toward the door. Yanking the emergency break, Yoongi left the emergency lights flashing in the loading zone before turning the car off and chasing Jungkook into the building. Jungkook had summoned the elevator and was shoving his way through several people exiting the cabin; Yoongi shuffled in beside him just barely before the doors closed.

“Why do I think that asshole is in my house?” Jungkook snarled.

“Because he said he wanted to finish what he started. But it’s okay. We’re here now,” Yoongi replied, trying to soothe Jungkook’s rapidly fraying nerves.

“I’ll kill him with my bare hands if he has laid a single pinky finger on Seokjin.”

The elevator dinged their arrival and Jungkook sped down the hallway to his apartment. The door to the apartment was closed and locked, but Jungkook slid his key into the door as quietly as he could. He and Yoongi glanced at each other silently before Jungkook eased the door open and they slipped into the apartment. Jungkook was trying to keep his cool until Seokjin whined. The sound swept through his ears and stabbed into his chest with rage and disquiet.

A loud slap echoed through the apartment, followed by a crash, and Kangdae screaming, “Shut up, whore. I’m here to give you what you fucking deserve for ruining my life!”

Jungkook rushed into the living room to see Seokjin lying in a shining confetti of broken glass from his coffee table and Kangdae with a large shard in one hand and the leg of the table in the other. He had the leg raised above his head to thump into Seokjin when Jungkook rounded the corner. Jungkook saw red and started across the room to stop him when Kangdae saw him. Kangdae dropped the table leg and yanked Seokjin off the floor, pressing the sharpest edge of the sliver of glass into Seokjin’s throat. He held Seokjin in front of him by holding one of his arms behind his back and the arm gripping the glass dagger across Seokjin’s chest.

“Go ahead. Play the hero again, boy. I’ll slit the slut’s throat before you ever get here,” Kangdae sneered.

The threat froze Jungkook in his place, watching as the glass began to dig into Seokjin’s throat more. Seokjin’s delicate skin began to tear, and a trickle of blood started down the right side. His terrified tears watered down the crimson a little as they mixed just under the edge of the glass and he stared into Jungkook’s eyes, begging him not to move.

“Kangdae-ssi, you don’t have to do this,” Jungkook murmured. “We can get you help.”

“I don’t want help!” Kangdae roared. “I want to end this piece of shit that ruined my life!”

Jungkook paused for a moment to think, frozen in place with his hands lifted in front of him, watching helplessly as the glass dug harder into Seokjin’s neck. “Please. Just let him go. You’ll never have to see him again.”

“And what? Just let you have him? Let him keep whoring around with the fucking neighbors?” Kangdae laughed and twisted the arm he was using to hold Seokjin up. Seokjin screamed at the strain on his shoulder, which only made Kangdae laugh more. “Does that hurt, Whore? I hope it does.”

Just as Jungkook was considering doing something crazy, he heard the door slam open. Jung Hoseok and Im Changkyun ran up beside Jungkook accompanied by several other uniformed officers. They stood, guns drawn and homed in on Kangdae.

“Kangdae-ssi, I need you to let Seokjin-ssi go,” Hoseok commanded.

“Fuck no. What do I have to lose at this point? This whore has already taken everything from me.”

Changkyun spoke up quickly from Jungkook’s left. “You’re still alive, Kangdae-ssi. You can walk out of this apartment in one piece, and we can help you get a new place to live and another job. Just let him go and drop your weapon.”

Kandae sneered at Changkyun but turned just slightly towards him. Jungkook watched Hoseok inch his way just a little further to the right, opening up his space. Changkyun kept speaking, offering empty platitudes and distracting him in an attempt to let Hoseok get in place.

“Come on. I know how angry you are, Kangdae-ssi. But this isn’t the way to resolve it and get your life back,” Changkyun compelled.

“NO!” Kangdae screamed. “I’m going to kill this piece of trash. I’M DONE TALKING!”

Just as Kangdae pressed the jagged fragment harder into Seokjin’s neck, Hoseok pulled the trigger. He’d been able to slip to the side enough to bury a bullet in Kangdae’s skull without injuring Seokjin in the process. The impact was immediate, but the terror mixed with the weight of the body dragged Seokjin down with him as Kangdae collapsed. Seokjin flung Kangdae’s grip off of him and crawled through the remaining chips of glass on the floor until he was close enough to fling himself at Jungkook. Jungkook held him tightly to his chest, allowing Seokjin to bury his face into his neck as they sank to the floor. Jungkook watched as Detective Jung leaned over Kangdae’s motionless body to check for a pulse while snapping his gun back into the holster at his belt. When it was apparent that Kangdae wouldn’t be getting back up, paramedics swarmed into the flat to check on Seokjin. The blood trickling down his neck had already begun to slow but he clung to Jungkook so hard that they eventually just gave up and allowed Jungkook to lie on the stretcher and Seokjin to lay down on top of him to ride to the hospital.

Yoongi had stood behind Jungkook and watched the whole scene helplessly but was calm enough to move his car into Jungkook’s parking place at the apartment building before climbing into the ambulance to ride with them to get Seokjin checked out better. Along the way, he called to tell Namjoon to meet them in the emergency room even as he held one of Seokjin’s shaking hands.

Namjoon had been the middle of a video call with an author he was working with when Yoongi called. It was a random hour of the day for Yoongi to be calling. He never called during work hours since their breaks and lunches never really aligned. Namjoon excused himself from the video call for a moment to answer Yoongi. He’d barely accepted the call when Yoongi’s voice shocked him through the speaker.

“Namjoonie?” Yoongi’s normally calm voice was tremulous at best.

“Yeah, Yoon? Are you okay?”

“Yes, but no. I need you to meet us at the emergency room, okay?”

Namjoon frowned. “The emergency room? What’s going on?”

“Baby, they let Seokjin’s psycho ex out of jail, and he broke into their apartment. Jungkook and I got there to their coffee table shattered and he tried to kill Seokjin again. He’s alive and conscious, but we’re in the ambulance to get him checked out.”

Namjoon rushed off the call and apologized to the author he’d muted on the video call. He promised to reschedule their meeting and ended the call. He practically ran out of the apartment, frantically hailing a cab as soon as he reached the street. The taxi driver must have been able to sense Namjoon’s urgency even and he tried to suppress it as he floored it then undercharged him as he dropped Namjoon off at the door to the emergency room. He hurried in the doors of the hospital looking for the information desk but was intercepted by Yoongi before he got there.

“God, Yoongi, what the fuck? Hasn’t my brother been through enough?” He gasped out as Yoongi pulled him into a tight hug.

“He definitely has. But he’ll never be submitted to anything else like this. One of the detectives shot that motherfucker in the head. That’s how they were able to get Seokjin free. He’s terrified and clinging to Jungkook like he’ll disappear if he lets go. The nurse popped out a few minutes ago at Jungkook’s request to let me know that his neck is being stitched up.”

“Stitched up?” Namjoon murmured.

“Yeah. Kangdae had a big piece of glass pressed to Seokjin’s neck. The cut is pretty shallow for the most part but apparently it was a little deeper towards the front. He also had some cuts on the bottom of one of his feet from falling out of his slippers onto the glass when Kangdae was shot. He’s okay, Joonie. But fuck, I was super scared watching.”

Namjoon and Yoongi walked to a small sofa in the corner of the waiting room. Yoongi pressed into Namjoon’s chest, still trembling after the ordeal. Namjoon was honestly still trying to process everything that had happened but wrapped his arms around Yoongi while he worked through the afternoon’s events. Holding his love helped to soothe some of the agitation ricocheting around his chest. He honestly couldn’t believe that some judicial officer looked at the documentation of Seokjin’s prior injuries and the testimonies of the arresting officers and thought, “Oh, he’s not that dangerous. Let’s just let him out of jail.”

Before Namjoon could have the time to get himself more worked up, a nurse wheeled Seokjin out of a set of double doors. Seokjin’s face was pale, and he still looked absolutely terrified, squeezing one of Jungkook’s hands so tightly his knuckles were white. But he was alive. Yoongi and Namjoon rose and walked over to intercept the nurse.

“Jinnie, I’m so sorry,” Namjoon whispered into his brother’s hair as he knelt in front of the wheelchair, pulling him into a tight hug.

Seokjin started to sob brokenly into Namjoon’s neck, even as his left hand still clung to Jungkook. They hugged for a few more minutes, then Namjoon pulled back.

“Why don’t you two come back to my apartment for a while?” he said, looking at Jungkook.

“Okay. Detective Jung said that they’d call when we are able to come home. They need to…um…do some cleanup.”

Namjoon could tell that there was more that Jungkook wanted to say, but he didn’t want to upset Seokjin further. So, they allowed the nurse to wheel him outside and Yoongi flagged down a taxi to take them all back to Namjoon’s apartment. Seokjin was so jumpy that he insisted on sitting near the door, so Jungkook squeezed into the middle of the back seat between the two brothers, and Yoongi rode in the passenger seat to help the driver navigate. Seokjin kept one hand on the door handle the entire ride but curled into Jungkook and closed his eyes during the trip to Namjoon’s apartment.

When they got there, Namjoon noticed the blood stains on both Seokjin’s sweater and Jungkook’s work shirt, so he offered them the shower and dug out some comfortable clothes for them to put on. Seokjin refused to shower unless Jungkook went with him, so they pressed themselves into the shower in Namjoon’s larger master bath instead of the smaller bathroom that Seokjin had used in the guest room when he was staying there before.

If Jungkook hadn’t known better, he’d have thought that Seokjin was going into shock since he was trembling all over, but the doctor in the emergency room had warned that he may have an adrenaline crash after the episode. While they stood under the shower in an unfamiliar space, Seokjin went completely pliant. He just stood limply under the spray, letting Jungkook move and wash him however he wanted. Once the soap from both their bodies had trickled down the drain, Jungkook turned off the water and dried them both. Yoongi had slipped in, placing a change of clothes for both of them on the vanity. Jungkook turned around to grab an outfit for Seokjin but was stopped when Seokjin whimpered in fear. Seokjin had begun to cry again; Jungkook just pulled him close, their shower-flushed skin pressed together, just pressing Seokjin further into his chest.

“Ongoo-ah, I’m so scared,” Seokjin whispered.

“I know you are, baby. But he can never hurt you again. Ever,” Jungkook murmured into Seokjin’s hair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

Seokjin lifted his head where he’d buried his face into Jungkook’s chest. “You shouldn’t be sorry, Ongoo-ah. You came when you thought something was wrong. No one else besides Namjoon-ah has ever done that for me.”

They stood there for a few more moments, just staring into each other’s eyes, before Seokjin leaned up and pressed his lips into Jungkook’s. They kissed softly for a few moments, just a precious exchange of comfort and love between the two before finally getting dressed. Yoongi had gathered their dirty clothes to try to salvage the blood stains off the shirts when he’d brought the change of clothes in, so they walked into Namjoon’s living room to the soft swish of the washing machine swirling in its small alcove off the kitchen.

“Feel better?” Namjoon asked from where he was seated in an armchair with Yoongi in his lap.

“Much. Thank you, Joonie-hyung,” Jungkook replied.

Jungkook settled into the corner of the sofa. He’d wanted to leave extra space in case Seokjin wanted to lay down, but Seokjin had simply straddled Jungkook’s lap and curled into him to rest his head on Jungkook’s shoulder. The position reminded Jungkook of when he’d babysat Taehyung’s younger sister and she’d fallen asleep on his lap, her little face resting on his shoulder and her arms and legs octopus wrapped around him. Seokjin was sitting very similarly, making his taller frame as small as possible to curl into the safety of Jungkook’s gentle hold.

While the other three talked softly about nonsense things, Seokjin finally felt safe for the first time since he’d left the shop. In his mind, he knew he should never have gone into the apartment by himself. But at the same time, he really thought that it had been Jungkook coming home early. Sitting curled in Jungkook’s arms, with his gentle hands rubbing up and down his back, soothed some deep wound in Seokjin’s chest that had been reopened by Kangdae’s attack. He finally felt his tight muscles begin to loosen a little, and after a while, he drifted off to a wispy, cloudlike doze.

Jung Hoseok walked into his apartment just after 2 am, kicking his shoes off slowly before, slipping through the house. His husband was home already, sleeping soundly on his evening off, so Hoseok showered as quietly as possible before sliding naked between their sheets to slither over and hold Jimin in his arms. Jimin had always been a light sleeper, so the motion of Hoseok moving to hold him jarred him out of his dreams.

“Hi, lovey. What time is it?” he sleepily whispered.

“2:37 am. Go back to sleep, Minnie. I’m sorry for waking you.” Hoseok’s voice cracked on the apology, causing Jimin to open his eyes and properly look at his husband.

“Love, what happened? You’re crying.”

Hoseok gasped in a breath before saying anything else. “You remember that case I worked of the abusive boyfriend? He got released from jail and tried to kill the guy. I shot him in the head when he tried to slit his throat.”

“Oh, god, baby! You’ve really had a hard day. Come here,” Jimin uttered, rearranging their positions to pull his husband into his chest. “I know it doesn’t really change it, but you killed him to save someone else’s life.”

“That’s not why I’m upset,” Hoseok whispered. “I’m upset because I was glad I had a reason to kill him. He was awful, but I feel so guilty for wanting him dead for what he did to another man.”

Jimin didn’t really say anything else. In both of their jobs, they had to maintain a level of privacy. They couldn’t tell each other the people’s names that they helped, but they still shared the things that bothered them or made them glad they’d chosen their professions. He didn’t know the details of what this man had done, but he must have been a monster to make his empathetic treasure of a husband wish he was dead and to be glad he’d been the one to pull the trigger.

Yoongi was lying in Namjoon’s bed that night, his ear pressed just above Namjoon’s heartbeat. They’d spent the evening watching Jungkook hold Seokjin and comfort him after the traumatic events of the day, and while it had been a very taxing time, it had amazed Yoongi at how well his headstrong best friend had responded to Jungkook’s care. Seokjin had been fiercely independent their whole lives and extremely protective of the people he loved, downplaying anything bad or stressful he went through so that they didn’t have to carry the burden in any way. But something about Jungkook had fully dismantled that coping mechanism. It was amazing to watch Seokjin let go and let Jungkook carry his heart when it was too heavy or when Seokjin was too overwhelmed to continue.

“Darling, if you think any louder, it’s going to echo around this bedroom,” Namjoon teased. “What’s going on in your head?”

Yoongi huffed out a laugh. “I was just thinking about how fucked up this day has been. And how nice it is to see Seokjin letting someone help him for a change.”

Namjoon paused for a moment to slide his hand under Yoongi’s shirt to stroke the soft skin of his back, letting the gentle touch soak into Yoongi’s still tense body. “I mean, Jungkook did literally fight for him at a time when no one else would. He smashed Kangdae’s face and Seokjin’s barriers the night he intervened the first time. Just having someone who would try to break someone’s face on his behalf did a lot to let Seokjin trust him.”

Yoongi hummed his agreement. “Yeah. I think it also helps that Jungkook is gentle as a kitten when it matters. I just hope his whole thing doesn’t destroy the progress Seokjin has made with Wonho.”

The day had really taken it’s toll on Seokjin. He had taken a three-hour nap earlier after his trip to the emergency room, but it was now 10:30 at night and he was sleeping soundly in Jungkook’s arms. Jungkook could feel the terror and anger he’d struggled with all afternoon catching up with him but holding Seokjin in his arms while he slept had helped. He’d been really worried for a bit in the evening when Seokjin had been essentially non-verbal, just latched on to Jungkook and motionless on Namjoon’s couch. He’d been extremely jumpy as well, having nearly jumped out of his skin and bursting into tears when Namjoon’s tea kettle had whistled from the kitchen.

While Jungkook had made a concerted effort to keep his nose out of Seokjin’s mental health treatment (he knew that was a very personal thing), he’d called and set up an appointment with Wonho for the following morning. As much as he wanted to help, Jungkook did not have the skills to bring Seokjin back from this massive roadblock. Seokjin had seemed okay with it until Jungkook had reminded him that he’d have to speak to Wonho alone. He’d begged Jungkook to go in with him and sobbed in his arms. They’d finally come to the agreement that Jungkook would go with him to the office, even walk him into the room where Wonho would talk with him if he needed it, then Jungkook would go into the coffee shop next door until Seokjin was finished. Jungkook wanted Seokjin to have the privacy he needed to talk about things that he may not be ready to tell him, but he had to battle down the protective instinct that rose when Seokjin got even a tiny bit scared.

Jungkook laid there a very long time, pondering over everything that happened and sorting through his own emotions about it. He was immensely relieved that Kangdae would never again be able to approach or hurt Seokjin again. Death is exactly what Kangdae deserved, and as far as Jungkook was concerned, he’s lucky that Detective Jung had been the one to kill him. Smashing that thought down, he snuggled deeper into Seokjin, who in turn nuzzled closer into Jungkook until his lips were pressed into Jungkook’s collarbone and his sleep-deepened breaths sighed into Jungkook’s bare shoulder. The feel of Seokjin’s breaths lulled Jungkook out of his thoughts and into dreams of his own.

Seokjin woke up the next morning in a haze of terror. Namjoon had dropped his coffee cup in the kitchen and the sound of the smash ripped Seokjin out of pleasant dreams straight into a panic attack. The sound of Seokjin hyperventilating into his chest roused Jungkook, who leapt straight to trying to slow Seokjin’s anxiety. He’d gotten incredibly good at it and Seokjin was slightly annoyed that Jungkook had to do this so often that he’d mastered settling him.

As soon as Seokjin had calmed down enough to be able to breathe normally, they’d gotten up. Namjoon, of course, felt terrible for waking him that way and had apologized profusely while Yoongi grumbled.

“Joon-ah, your clumsy ass is a walking timebomb,” Yoongi fussed as he steamed eggs and buttered toast for their breakfast.

While everyone else sipped coffee, Seokjin steeped chamomile tea. He’d found that caffeine made his anxiety worse, and he was currently vibrating at a frequency that could probably be detected from outer space, so coffee would have been disastrous. They all ate quietly before parting ways to get ready for the day. Namjoon and Yoongi would be returning to work this morning to try to sort the messes left in their wake from the day before. Jungkook would be accompanying Seokjin to therapy then they’d planned to have lunch with Taehyung. As they were getting dressed to leave, Detective Jung called to let them know that they’d be able to go back home after 2 this afternoon. Since he’d called Jungkook directly, he’d mentioned that they’d gathered all the evidence and taken photos before the body had been removed the night before and that a team of professional crime scene cleaners would take care of the space. That way all evidence of Kangdae’s death would be missing from their living room. Jungkook figured that they’d have to buy a new coffee table and maybe a new rug if the stains couldn’t be removed, but that was a small price to pay not to have to scrub brains off the furniture themselves.

Jungkook was impressed with the determination with which Seokjin left Namjoon’s flat that morning, but watched his resolve start to flag the closer they got to Wonho’s office. When they arrived outside his therapist’s office, Seokjin had to stop and take a deep breath.

“Ongoo-ah, I know Wonho is a good man and won’t hurt me, but I’m honestly scared shitless.”

Jungkook pulled Seokjin into a hug. “I know, baby. You’ve had a scary couple of days. But he’s going to help, just like he did before.”

The hug seemed to bolster Seokjin’s courage as he was able to walk into the office holding Jungkook’s hand. He introduced Jungkook to his therapist and to Kihyun (who’d been manning the reception desk) as his boyfriend. That was new. They’d never given their relationship titles before, but hearing “This is Jungkook, my boyfriend” come out of Seokjin’s mouth lit Jungkook up like a fireworks display. They chatted amicably for a few more minutes, and that seemed to be enough to calm some of Seokjin’s fears. He pulled Jungkook into a sweet kiss, then let go of him for pretty much the first time in 24 hours to walk behind Wonho into a room to talk. Pride at Seokjin’s strength bubbled up and Jungkook just smiled at Kihyun before excusing himself to the coffee shop next door.

Two hours later, Seokjin walked out of Wonho’s office considerable lighter. Wonho had been able to remind him that he was the victim here and should not feel responsible for Kangdae’s death, which he’d been struggling with. He could acknowledge that he hadn’t pulled the trigger or fired the shot that had ended his life, but he’d felt like if he hadn’t agreed to press charges that this may not have happened. Wonho had straight up told him that if Seokjin hadn’t agreed to press charges, there was a really good chance that Kangdae may have killed him. Kangdae was a sick man who needed mental help and to be weaned properly off the many substances he’d gotten addicted to, but his death was the consequence to decisions that he’d made on his own. Seokjin could not take responsibility for those actions.

Jungkook had been sitting at a small table by the window of the coffee shop so that he’d be able to see Seokjin walk up. Seokjin walked up to him and stole the mug he was sipping from out of his hands, being pleasantly surprised to get a mouthful of hot cocoa instead of the dark roast coffee with cream Jungkook favored.

“I figured you might do that, so I opted for cocoa in case you were still anxious,” Jungkook giggled at Seokjin’s confusion. “Ready to go meet Tae for lunch?”

Seokjin downed the last of Jungkook’s cocoa like he was taking a shot before grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the door. They walked hand in hand to the subway to catch a ride to the café that Jungkook and Taehyung favored across town. They loved the café because it was one of the cafés in the city that offered small, cute animals to play with alongside the meal. This particular café catered more towards bunnies.

“No wonder you like this place,” Seokjin laughed when he saw the bunnies hopping happily around the café. “I’m amazed they haven’t tried to keep you, Ongoo-ah.”

The three spent the next few hours sharing lunch and playing with the bunnies, which unsurprisingly seemed to favor Jungkook. As soon as he’d sat down at the floor-seating style table, three separate bunnies hopped over to nuzzle him. A small black one flopped across one of his thighs and took a nap as he stroked its ears with his fingers.

“Ah, hyung! I see you’ve met our newest friend,” their waiter, Soobin, said with a smile when he dropped by with a refill of their drinks. “His name is Soktan. He’s just a baby and has been really timid so far, but he’s only been here a week.”

Seokjin pouted a little at first because many of the small, fuzzy friends seemed to ignore him in favor of Jungkook and Taehyung. It didn’t take long for one of them to get curious about him though. A larger white lop-eared rabbit climbed into the space between where his legs were pretzled under the table and nosed at his hand until he began to stroke its back gently.

“Baby, the sweetie in your lap’s name is Danggeun. She was actually abandoned on the doorstep but hopped in and made herself at home in a big bag of carrots,” Jungkook explained. “All the babies here are available to be adopted to good homes.”

“I’m kind of surprised you’ve never taken one home, Starboy,” Taehyung said.

“Maybe one day. There for a while I was so busy looking for a place to live and getting settled into my job better. I’d love to have a bunny or two someday though.”

After a couple of hours, Taehyung had to get going as he’d signed up for a new art class being offered to his apartment building and they were going to be learning pottery that afternoon. Seokjin and Jungkook bid goodbye to their little bunny friends and started out the door but were stopped before they could open in so that Soobin could catch Soktan who’d been hopping as quickly as he could behind Jungkook. Jungkook paused to pet him one more time as Soobin held him before they left to head back to their own apartment.

Jungkook had anticipated that Seokjin might be anxious about returning to their apartment after the events that had taken place there the day before, but he actually seemed perfectly calm as they took the lift0. to their floor. Jungkook kept an eye on him as they walked down the hall and paused to unlock the door. He was still perfectly calm, which was kind of amazing considering the ordeal he’d been through.

“I already talked to Yoongi-hyung, and he’s going to come by Saturday and help me change the lock on the door. It seems to latch okay, but I’m wary of it since Kangdae was able to pick it so easily,” Jungkook advised as they slipped their shoes off.

The apartment smelled slightly of some industrial cleaner, but looking at the living room, there was no way to tell that anything had happened there. Seokjin sat down in his favorite place on the sofa and patted the space beside him to encourage Jungkook to sit down beside him. He waited a moment for Jungkook to get comfortable before he reached out and took his hand.

“Thank you for today, Ongoo-ah. The bunnies were adorable,” he said with a smile, playing with Jungkook’s fingers.

“I’m glad you liked them,” Jungkook grinned. “We can go back anytime you like.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments before Seokjin lifted Jungkook’s arm to wrap it around his shoulders. “Ongoo-ah, I don’t know why but I feel like I can’t get close enough to you today.”

Jungkook laughed a little bit before pulling Seokjin a little closer to his chest. “How’s this, Baby?”

“Better, but still not close enough,” Seokin murmured before leaning back against the arm of the couch and pulling Jungkook more on top of him.

He hummed a little before Jungkook pressed a soft kiss to his lips, “How about now?”

“Closer,” Seokjin whimpered against his lips before tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

They’d kissed before, so many times. Seokjin adored the way Jungkook tasted and the way he let him lead their relationship, but Seokjin hadn’t been ready to do more than kiss for the most part. Even as he licked the seam of Jungkook’s lips and slid his tongue into his willing mouth, Seokjin realized that Kangdae had shattered something inside him the day before. Kangdae had been holding glass and threatening to slit his throat, and all Seokjin could think about was how he missed Jungkook even from across the room. The biggest part of the fear he’d been held captive by was that he was terrified he’d never see Jungkook again. Seokjin ran his tongue across Jungkook’s and swallowed down the gasp of pleasure that Jungkook let out before breaking the kiss to look into the other’s eyes.

“Ongoo-ah, you still aren’t close enough,” he sighed, teasing the tip of his nose across Jungkook’s cheek. “I need you inside me.”

“Seokjin, baby,” Jungkook moaned. “Are you saying what I think you are? You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

“Yesterday, all I could think about when he was holding me hostage and threatening to kill me was that you were across the room, and I missed you. And how I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again. I love you, Jungkook. So much. And I need you closer, need you inside me.”

That seemed to break Jungkook’s resolve. He kissed Seokjin hard, sucking his tongue into his mouth before nibbling on his bottom lip. He pulled away a little, leaving them both panting.

“Let’s do this right,” he whispered before standing and lifting Seokjin off the couch.

Jungkook carried him bridal style down the hallway to their shared bed and gently laid Seokjin on the bed before laughing softly.

“RJ, love, I need to relocate you. You are too innocent to see what we’re going to do,” he said before carrying the plushie into the living room. He came back to the bedroom to find Seokjin laying back on the bed shirtless and his borrowed pants dipped low enough that Jungkook shivered at the revealed skin. Jungkook stripped his own shirt off and tossed it toward the hamper in the corner of the room before climbing on the bed to kiss Seokjin again. Seokjin spread his legs so that Jungkook could position himself in between them as he started to kiss down Jungkook’s neck.

“Fuck, Ongoo-ah. You look so good. I’ve wanted you since the first time you helped me shower. I just had to get my mind to agree with my heart and body,” Seokjin groaned before sucking the skin over Jungkook’s collarbone into his mouth.

For the first time, Jungkook let his hands wander. He’d been so careful not to touch Seokjin, but now that he’d been given permission, he didn’t know where to touch first. He stroked his hands down Seokjin’s chest to graze back up over his sides, bypassing his nipples, as he licked and sucked red marks down Seokjin’s neck to the top of his chest. On the next pass, he teased his fingertips just underneath the waistline of Seokjin’s pants as Jungkook sucked his left nipple into his mouth. Seokjin moaned loudly and bucked his hips up into Jungkook’s and slid his own hands down Jungkook’s pants to get both hands on his ass. Using the leverage he’d gained by the handfuls of flesh he’d grabbed, Seokjin pressed on Jungkook’s hips to grind them against one another a few times. Seokjin had been semi-hard since they’d been making out on the couch, but with the friction of their hips combined with the loose pants they’d both been wearing, he was quickly ready to go.

“Goddamn, baby. We have to get these pants off. Namjoon will kill me if we get cum on the pants he loaned us,” Jungkook muttered before kicking his own pants off.

Seokjin lifted his hips off the bed so that Jungkook could yank the offending garment off his legs and toss them off the bed. Once they were both fully nude, Seokjin pulled Jungkook back down into a searing kiss as he wrapped his legs around Jungkook’s tiny waist. The shift was enough to press their erections together, the pleasure of skin on skin shooting a whimper up Seokjin’s throat as Jungkook sucked another hickie on Seokjin’s shoulder.

“Ongoo-ah, please,” he begged when Jungkook peeled his legs from around his waist to start kissing down Seokjin’s body.

“Shh, baby. Gotta get you ready for me, okay?” Jungkook kissed the words into his skin as he licked his way down Seokjin’s abs. “I promise I’ll make you feel so good, baby.”

Seokjin had been in such a haze since he’d admitted that he wanted Jungkook inside him that he’d somehow missed Jungkook getting out a condom and some lube. By this point, Jungkook was kissing the inside of Seokjin’s thigh even as he warmed some of the lube on his fingers. When it was warm enough to be less of a shock, Jungkook locked his eyes on Seokjin as he softly traced his finger around the pucker of Seokjin’s hole. Jungkook planted one last kiss on Seokjin’s thigh before sucking some of the skin there into his mouth and biting down just enough to leave a mark; at the same time, he slowly started to press a finger into Seokjin. The sting of the bite with the pleasure of having part of Jungkook inside him made him cry out louder than he’d intended.

Seokjin lifted one hand to press across his lips to buffer the next sound but dropped the hand limply on his chest when Jungkook growled, “Baby, don’t you fucking dare. Wanna hear every sound you can give me.”

Jungkook kept up the slow slide of one finger in and out of Seokjin until Seokjin thought he’d die from anticipation. Seokjin begged for a second finger for a few minutes as Jungkook leaned up and sucked one of his balls into his mouth. The gentle suckling made Seokjin lose all coherency for a few moments until Jungkook finally released that one to suck the other into his mouth in tandem with working a second finger inside Seokjin. Jungkook continued this for a few moments, before leaning up to slide his tongue up the underside of Seokjin’s cock.

“No, don’t, Ongoo-ah. If you suck my cock, I’ll come,” Seokjin begged. “Wanna come with you inside me properly.”

“Okay, baby. Be patient, okay? Need at least one more finger before you’re ready.”

Seokjin honestly expected Jungkook to slip a third finger in but glanced down with his eyebrows furrowed when he slid both fingers completely out. He’d been using one hand up until this point, but now he slid the index fingers of both hands inside Seokjin and stretched him enough to slide his tongue in between them. He fucked his tongue in and out of Seokjin for a few minutes, moaning obscenely into his hole like Seokjin was his favorite ice cream. Seokjin started to squirm as he started to feel that familiar burn in his lower abdomen.”

“Goo-ah, hurry. Get inside me. I’m ready. Please, so ready,” he whined.

Jungkook slid his tongue out and plunged three fingers inside to make sure that Seokjin was stretched enough not to get hurt before he sat up on his knees and grabbed the condom off the bed. Before he was able to tear the foil, Seokjin stopped him.

“No. Wanna feel you, only you. We’re both clean,” he said.

After double checking that Seokjin was sure, Jungkook grabbed the lube. He met Seokjin’s hungry gaze as he held the tube up and drizzled lube along the length of his cock. He spread it out with a few slow strokes before leaning up to kiss Seokjin. The tip of his cock brushed gently against Seokjin’s entrance as they kissed, and Seokjin pressed against it as he wrapped his legs around Jungkook.

“Ready, baby?” Jungkook asked, slapping the tip against Seokjin’s hole a few times.

Seokjin nodded frantically, then keened with pleasure when Jungkook finally pressed his tip inside. Jungkook paused for a moment to check that Seokjin was okay and to kiss him gently before inching his way further inside. Seokjin was so worked up that he kept begging Jungkook just to slam fully inside, but Jungkook took his sweet time.

“No, baby. This is our first time and I’m going to make this last,” Jungkook replied.

When their hips were finally flush against each other, they kissed deeply as Seokjin adjusted. Seokjin loved how full he felt and buried his fingers in Jungkook’s hair, just relishing the slight pressure and burn, before circling his hips. Jungkook moaned into his mouth at the motion, and Seokin nibbled on the freckle on Jungkook’s bottom lip.

“Goo-ah, move,” Seokjin panted. “Come on and fuck me.”

Jungkook finally listened and Seokjin would swear he saw fireworks every time Jungkook slid deep inside him. Seokjin held Jungkook chest to chest even as Jungkook thrust inside him. Every press inside him caused Jungkook’s skin to rub against Seokjin’s cock, lighting him up inside.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” Jungkook growled into Seokjin’s open mouth.

Seokjin had lost the ability to kiss him properly, but still kept his lips where they’d rub against Jungkook’s. He was so lost in the pleasure that he was caught off guard when Jungkook leaned back and draped Seokjin’s knees across his bent elbows. Just lifting them that much shifted the angle enough that Jungkook’s tip pushed against Seokjin’s prostate on the next thrust.

“There, Ongoo-ah. Oh fuck, right there.”

It only took a few more thrusts this way, with Jungkook’s cock zeroed in on Seokjin’s prostate, for him to tip over the edge and spurt cum all over his own tummy. Jungkook fucked him through it then leaned back to pull out, but Seokjin stopped him.

“No. Want to feel you come inside me. Please Ongoo-ah, please,” Seokjin pleaded.

Jungkook moaned loudly before speaking. “Okay, baby. I’ll come inside you.”

Jungkook kept up the same steady rhythm but lowered Seokjin’s knees back down so he’d stay off his prostate. Seokjin leaned up to kiss him, pressing encouragements into Jungkook’s shoulders, neck and jaw.

“That’s it, Ongoo-ah,” Seokjin moaned when Jungkook thrust in as deep as he could. “Fill me up, just like that.”

Something about Seokjin begging to be filled up pushed Jungkook over the edge and he came hard inside of Seokjin. He stayed as still as possible to catch his breath for a second before pulling out. Jungkook watched as Seokjin’s entrance fluttered from the sudden emptiness and his own release started to dribble out onto the bedsheets. Jungkook got up after a few more kisses pressed to Seokjin’s thighs and calves then grabbed a warm cloth from the bathroom to clean them up. He’d been quick enough that the bedsheets weren’t too ruined, so he wiped the few streaks that had soiled them up then climbed into bed to pull Seokjin closer to him.

They shared sweet kisses in each others’ arms as they came down from the high. Seokjin reveled in the warmth and safety of Jungkook’s love. He wasn’t sure that any man (apart from the friend he’d given his virginity to, but that was a different situation) had ever treated him this well. Seokjin had dated and had boyfriends before. While Kangdae was the worst of the bunch, the others were generally nice and treated him decently. But he’d never been with anyone where he could feel the depth of their love for him burn into his skin with every kiss or touch like he could with Jungkook. For all of the fact that his love sank into Seokjin like a brand with every caress, Seokjin knew he’d display the marks on his skin with pride.

“I love you so much, Ongoo-ah,” he murmured into the flesh of Jungkook’s chest that was protecting his heart.

“Love you, Baby.” Jungkook’s vocalization of love stayed with Seokjin long after they’d been said, echoing in his ears even as he fell asleep in his arms.

The next morning was Saturday, so they were able to wake up gently on their own, no pressures of getting ready for the day or alarm clocks to disturb them. Jungkook woke first, his limbs still feeling loose and relaxed from the activities of the night before. Seokjin was still sleeping with his face on Jungkook’s shoulder and his nose grazing Jungkook’s jawline. Jungkook honestly felt the relief of Kangdae no longer being an issue melded with an insane amount of adoration for Seokjin just flooding every cell in his body. He pressed gentle kisses to Seokjin’s forehead and then his nose, reveling in the sheer sweetness when Seokjin wrinkled his nose at the press of lips. Jungkook giggled at the disgruntled expression Seokjin had at first when he woke up until his eyes met Jungkook’s; then Seokjin smiled the cutest, in love smile, and Jungkook’s heart ached in his chest with love.

“Good morning, my baby,” Jungkook murmured, his voice still crackly and deep with leftover sleep.

“Hi, Ongoo-ah.” Seokjin essentially spoke the words into Jungkook’s lips. “It’s always a good morning to wake up to you.”

“How are you feeling this morning?” Jungkook asked gently. He fully anticipated that Seokjin might be a little sore, both from their lovemaking and from the attack he’d endured.

Seokjin wiggled around a little, seeming to take stock of his own body. “Well, my neck is a little achy from the stitches, and my muscles are a little sore from being so tight from fear. But otherwise, I still feel so good. I love that morning-after-good-sex ache and knowing it’s from you just makes it so much better.”

Before Jungkook was able to say anything more, there was a hard set of knocks at the door. Considering the fact that they were both stark naked under the sheets, Seokjin let out a squeaky cackle at the look of terror in Jungkook’s wide eyes as he jumped out of bed. They’d both invested in bathrobes when Seokjin had moved in, but Seokjin had gone for an unconventional robe because he loved the feel of silk against his skin. Since he’d technically chosen it out of the women’s section of the store, it was a little shorter than a normal men’s robe. Seokjin’s robe was the only one sitting out where it could be grabbed quickly, so Seokjin laughed hysterically as Jungkook slipped the pale pink silk with lace cuffs around the sleeves and dashed out of their bedroom to open the door. The robe itself was just barely long enough to cover his interesting bits, but it would have to do.

Jungkook jogged through the apartment, still tying the flimsy pink fabric around his waist. Luckily, Seokjin was much broader than Jungkook through the shoulders, so most of his chest was covered minus about what would show in a v-neck tee. Just as he tied the belt, he jerked the door open to find Yoongi on the other side of the door with a tool bag in hand. Jungkook felt his entire face turn strawberry red as Yoongi’s eyes roamed over the insubstantial clothing and catch on a spot on his chest. Glancing down to see what he was staring at, Jungkook was even more mortified to find Yoongi staring at a magenta bite mark Seokjin had painted across his skin.

“Have fun with my hyung, Jungkookie?” Yoongi dryly commented.

Before Jungkook was able to stutter out a response, Seokjin appeared at his side in a stolen pair of Jungkook’s sweatpants and a tank top he exclusively wore at the gym for arm day. Seokjin had obvious marks proudly displayed across his chest and shoulders; if Jungkook wasn’t about to die from sheer awkwardness, he’d have been thrilled to see his handiwork decorating the man he loved.

“Yoongichi, stop harassing my boyfriend! I asked him to fuck me, and he did. So, so well.”

“Hyung, I honestly don’t want to know what depravity you two get up to. I’m just a little concerned about what Namjoon is going to say when he gets here after picking up breakfast,” Yoongi whined.

“Oh god,” Jungkook groaned as he covered his flaming cheeks.

“God can’t help you now, you deviant!” Yoongi snarked. “But you might want to go put on some pants because I don’t want to see your barely covered junk.”

Seokjin cackled as Jungkook practically sprinted back to their bedroom, using both arms to hold the silk bathrobe as tightly to his body as possible. Once Jungkook had closed their bedroom door to change, Seokjin lead Yoongi into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Yoongi found safety in silence, and Seokjin was aware of that, but something about the quiet he was currently portraying made Seokjin pause.

“Say what you need to say, Yoongichi. I can feel it eating you up,” Seokjin commented as he pulled some mugs out of the cabinet once the coffee started to drip.

“Are you okay, hyung? Like for real?” Yoongi replied after a moment. “Don’t you think you’re moving a little fast with Jungkook?”

Seokjin took a deep breath in before turning to look at Yoongi. “Honestly, Jungkook is the only thing in my life that is safe and brings me joy. I love him, Yoongichi. When Kangdae was threatening to slit my throat, the primary thought in my brain was that I didn’t want to leave Jungkook. The thought of never seeing him again was worse than the fear of dying in pain. I don’t have the words to say to explain it but, damnit, being with him feels right.”

Yoongi absorbed the words for a moment before saying, “Okay. I just had to ask. I care about you both, you know?”

“I know. I love you too, Yoongi,” Seokjin said softly as he pulled his friend into a hug. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to get together to swap steaming sex stories because I might spontaneously combust if I have to hear you wax poetic about my brother’s dick game.”

Jungkook walked into the kitchen as Yoongi was making a disgruntled face and smacking lightly at Seokjin’s chest while Seokjin’s trilling laughter bounced off the kitchen cabinets. Before he could comment, a light tap on the entrance door announced Namjoon’s presence. Jungkook let him in, still mildly cringing in embarrassment over the obvious marks still glaring against Seokjin’s radiant skin. He followed behind Namjoon, trying to focus on the smell of fresh-brewed coffee to distract himself enough to stop blushing. Namjoon placed the bags containing their breakfast on the counter before turning to greet Seokjin, stopping in his tracks when his eyes found the marks Jungkook had left.

“What the fuck, Seokjin! Did you get mauled by a bear after you left my apartment?” Namjoon screeched.

Seokjin grabbed Jungkook’s hand and pulled him closer to press a kiss on his still flaming cheek, before saying, “Nope, not a bear. Just the cutest little bunny. He was so good to me too.”

Namjoon’s mouth dropped open for a moment, eyes darting back and forth between the two. Before he could say anything else, Seokjin handed him a steaming mug of coffee.

“I think I need something stronger than coffee. Do you have…oh, I don’t know…bleach? Then I can forget seeing any of this,” Namjoon groaned, gesturing wildly at Seokjin’s mostly bare chest.

Part1 Part2 Part3 Part4

#BTS jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts fic #bts #BTS jin #bts jin imagine #bts jin angst #bts jin fanfic #bts jin smut #jinkook #jinkook smut #they are in love #please practice safe sex #my first smut scene #side namgi #side jihope

14 notes · View notes

hopelikethemoon · 4 years ago

Text

Freedom (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}

Title: Freedom Rating: PG-13 Length: 3000 Warnings: None Notes: You can find everything about Maybe Today, Maybe Forever here. This is a Javier-less chapter, which is why I noted that this would be a very different type of update. This chapter is set in September of 1977, when Reader is 16. If you don’t know her backstory you can find info at the link above. If you want to know who I see as Mitch and Darla click on their names. Summary: Reader finally escapes her situation.

@grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @pedropascalito @rogrsnbarnes@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow@plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501 @fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut @snivellusim @lukesrighthand @historynerd04 @mrsparknuts@synystersilenceinblacknwhite @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @exrebelshocktrooper@awesomefandomsunited @ah-callie @swhiskeys @lady-tano @beskar-droids @space-floozy @cable-kenobi @cool-ultra-nerd @himbopoes @findhimfives @pedrosdoll @frietiemeloen@arrowswithwifi @random066 @uncomicalhumour @heather-lynn @domino-oh-damn @cyarikaaa @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @im-still-a-pieceofgarbage @ksgeekgirl @yabby-girl @xqueenofthecraziesx @punkass-potato @coredrive @pascalesque@theduchessofkirkcaldy @queenquazar @sabinemorans @buckstaposition @holkaskrosnou@yespolkadotkitty @fleetwoodmactshirt @seeking-a-great–perhaps @kochamcie @jaime1110

“You’ll have your own room,” Mitch explained, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes. “That’ll be nice, right?”

You nodded your head slowly, rubbing at your forehead as you watched the outskirts of the city bleed into the towering office buildings and quaint streets lined with brownstones and historic homes. You had never been out of your hometown and Philadelphia seemed like a daunting change of pace.

Your life up until this point had been confined to a perimeter that contained your house and school.

“And you’ll never have to live through another one of those floods.” Mitch rambled — he’d rambled a lot since he had picked you up nearly four hours ago. “That had to be scary.”

You shrugged, picking at the hem of your tee. “Not the worst thing to happen to me.” You admitted, glancing out the window again. “My mom acted like the world was going to end because she couldn’t get out of the house. Like goddamn mom, people are dead.”

Mitch cleared his throat, “I’m not looking to parent you, but you know Darla and I have a Tate—“

“Shit.” You laughed quietly, covering your mouth. “I’ll try to curb the cussing.”

“Thanks.” He nodded his head. “And you know Darla and I are here for you, if you ever need anything.”

“I’m not looking to be a burden, promise.” You told him, winding your finger through a lock of hair as you watched out the window. “You don’t even have to feed me.”

“I’m not going to let you go hungry.” Mitch gave you a look. “Come on now, kid.”

“I can cook!” You scrunched up your nose. “I just don’t want you or Darla to feel like I’m taking advantage of your hospitality.” The last thing you wanted was to become your mother. Leeching off other people.

“You’re my sister.”

“We share a father,” You pointed out. “Be glad you don’t share my mother.”

“Dad told me plenty of stories.” Mitch grimaced, “I don’t know how you made it out of there in one piece, kid.”

“I might have nine toes. I haven’t counted lately.” You snorted, “Think there’s a black market in toes for coke?”

“Jesus Christ.” He grimaced, before quickly changing the subject. “That’s the school you’ll be going to.”

You peered out the window at the school, “Better than Richland.”

“It’s where Darla went. It’s a great preparatory school for girls.”

“An all-girls school?” You groaned, crossing your arms across your chest.

“You're more likely to get a scholarship there.”

“Fine.” You couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. You still had the two and a half years of school to finish before you could think about college — but a scholarship would help. “I don’t need any distractions anyways.”

Mitch gave you a curious look, “Kid, you’re allowed to be a teen, you know. Don’t hold back from living just because you’re staying with us.”

“It’s not that,” You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “I’ve never really been a kid or whatever. I don’t plan on regressing just because I don’t have to deal with the witch.”

“Dad always said you were wise beyond your years,” Mitch remarked, turning down Chestnut Street and parking the car in front of a gorgeous brick townhome.

“You live here?”

“Darla’s folks gifted it to her when they moved out west,” Mitch explained to you as he put the car in park.

“Oh so, rich-rich.” You gave him an amused look. “Looking at you, pitching out of your league.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mitch rolled his eyes, climbing out of the car and shutting the car door behind him.

You climbed out of the car, moving around to the trunk as he unlocked it. “I really do appreciate this, Mitch. I’ll do whatever you guys need me to do. Vacuuming, dishes, I’ll even babysit — I can’t promise I’m good.”

“Kid, you’re family not the new nanny.”

“New?”

“We’re in-between currently.”

“Jesus.” You whistled. “Well, I promise not to bring the property value down. It’ll be like I’m not even there. Promise.”

Mitch shook his head, “I look forward to you warming up to us. This can be your home, kid. You don’t have to act like a visitor.”

You shrugged your shoulders as you slung your duffel bag over your shoulder. “I tried the ‘home’ thing, but dad’s dead... so.”

“I’m just saying, you can put down roots.” Mitch pulled the cardboard box out of the trunk, before he started up the stairs to the townhouse. Darla must’ve been waiting just behind the door, because she swung it open the second your feet hit the stop.

“Look at you!” Darla grinned broadly at you, “You’ve shot up like a weed since the wedding.”

“We saw each other at the funeral,” You reminded her with an awkward laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear as you warily looked around their house. “But thanks.”

Mitch was about thirteen years older than you. You had seen him only a handful of times over the course of your life. His mother, Patrice, had always been kind to you — your father and Patrice were the type of divorced parents you’d wished your own mother had been. They were still friends, up until his death.

Before the funeral, the last time you had seen Mitch was at his wedding. He’d wanted you to actually be part of the wedding, but someone had gone postal at the thought of someone else’s family liking you. You were also only ten — what could you do about anything?

“Tate, sweetheart, this is your aunt.” Darla crouched down beside the little boy. “Say hello.”

“Hello!”

“Hi, Tate.” You smiled at him. “And how old are you?”

“Almost six.” He beamed, “Do you like cars?”

You shrugged, “They get you from point a to point b.”

“He’s been collecting Hot Wheels.” Mitch explained to you, “I’m sure he’ll show you his collection.”

Tate nodded excitedly. “Do you wanna see them now?”

“Oh—“

Mitch ruffled Tate’s hair, “Actually buddy, I’m sure your aunt would love to see them, but we need to get her unpacked. Alright?”

You glanced at Mitch before looking back to Tate, “You can show me after dinner.”

“Why don’t you go play out back?” Darla suggested, sending Tate down the hallway. “He’s been so excited about having someone to play with.”

“I see.” You nodded, your eyes flickering around the entryway, back towards the living room area. It was different to see a house that was put together. They had nice pieces of furniture and none of them were broken or unusually stained.

Mitch cleared his throat, “If you want to, of course. Six-year-old boys can be quite rambunctious.”

You offered a strained smile, “I’m happy to help, like I said.”

“Do you need help with anything from the car?” Darla questioned, clasping her hands together. “That can’t be all you broug—“

Mitch made a gesture to silence her, which you caught out of the corner of your eyes and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“This is all I have,” You gestured between your duffel bag and the box he held. “I promised I wouldn’t take up too much room.”

“Speaking of your room,” Darla grinned at you. “I hope you don’t hate purple. I went a little overboard once Mitch brought up you moving in.”

She led you up a flight of stairs lined with family pictures, which led to a hallway of bedrooms.

“Ours is at the end of the hall, beside Tate’s. You’re over here.” Mitch explained, pushing open the doorway that led to a bedroom that was at least double what your room had been before.

“Wow.” You breathed out as you stepped inside, holding your duffel bag close to you as you looked around. “Guys, I told you I didn’t need much, this feels…”

“Homey?” Darla questioned. “That’s what I was going for.”

You put on a smile as you nodded your head. You knew you had to be grateful. Mitch didn’t have to give you a place to live. Sure, your dad had wanted it, but that didn’t mean he had to.

You were emancipated from your mother now, you could go anywhere — live…. anywhere. Realistically, you had three options; your mother’s, Mitch’s, or the street.

“Homey… is a great word.” You threw your duffle bag down on the foot of the bed, watching as Mitch sat the cardboard box with your few personal items down on the floor.

“You’ll be starting at Girls’ High next week.” Darla explained. “We can go shopping for your uniform this weekend. That’ll give you a few days to settle into your new life here.”

“Thank you,” You told her with a slightly more sincere smile. “Thank you both.”

Mitch scratched at the back of his neck, “Yeah, well, it’s what dad would’ve wanted.”

“I miss him.”

“Me too.” He nodded. “Alright, well we will give you a chance to settle in. Dinner is usually around six.”

Darla smiled at you, “No pressure. You can join us or I can bring a plate up. I know things have been a bit chaotic for you.”

You tucked your hair behind your ears and nodded, “You don’t have to make dinner for me. I would be happy with a cheese sandwich.”

She shook her head, “I won’t hear of that. I’ll bring it up to you. How’s that sound?”

“Good.” You kicked off your shoes and sank down on the side of your bed. It was a real bed. Matching sheets, a mattress topper, and nice metal headboard.

It looked new, which really was a novelty.

You waited until Mitch and Darla could be heard walking down the steps, before you sank back on the bed and finally relaxed.

You didn’t know how long it would take you to really be relaxed. Being on edge had kept you alive this long. But it was a feat not to give into the urge to grab the chair that sat at the vanity and wedge it under the doorknob.

You covered your face with your hands, letting out a heavy sigh as you let the reality of your new life settle in.

Next week would mark a new beginning. A new school, a new chance to be someone. You weren’t beholden to anyone but yourself now. If you failed, it was your own fault. You weren’t trapped under the shadow of your mother.

Though, the thought of having to wear a uniform until you graduated sounded like bullshit.

You pushed yourself back upright, looking around the room for the folder you’d spotted sitting on the vanity. You climbed off the bed to retrieve the fold. It was white and yellow, with the school seal set in the center. Darla had clearly gone to great lengths filling everything out for you — the forms were mostly filled in, save for your name and signature where it was necessary.

Apparently, you had just missed the father-daughter dance.

You closed the folder and sat it back on the vanity, before you retreated back to the bed to collect the cardboard box. You didn’t have much to unpack.

A framed picture of you and your father that had spent the better part of its existence hidden from your mother’s sight; the trophy you won freshman year for the science fair; three of your favorite books; and bedside alarm clock.

Aside from that, you had only taken the clothes you wore most often, not even bothering to worry about other seasons. You had enough money to buy new clothes in the winter.

And with uniforms for school — you didn’t have to worry about other classmates judging you for repeating outfits.

School was just a means to an end. Get good grades, get a scholarship, and do something worthwhile. Something that would actually help someone.

Your mother had screamed at you that you were worthless — that you would never amount to anything because you were ungrateful — more times than you cared to recall. You had to prove her wrong. One day, she’d see that her daughter had amounted to something. Not because of her, but in spite of her.

——

“How did you sleep last night?” Darla questioned as you joined her in the kitchen, sitting down at the kitchen table across from Tate.

“The bed was super comfortable,” You offered, preferring not to tell her that you hadn’t slept at all. Though there were bags under your eyes that told a different story.

You had slept for an hour — maybe two. You couldn’t relax, despite how hard you had tried. You had gone to sleep on a comfortable bed, with clean sheets, and a full stomach, but sleep just didn’t come to you.

The only reason you slept at all was because you had gotten up and put the chair in front of the door. The house was quiet — there were no addicts down the hall getting high, no yelling, no chaos, but your mind told you there could be.

Darla sat a glass of juice down in front of you, “Do you drink coffee?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, taking a sip of the juice. “Cream and sugar if you don’t mind.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t mind at all. I know you think you’re a burden to us, but I’m happy to have you here. Really.”

“I don’t want to be a charity case.” You told her, taking another sip of your juice as Mitch walked down the stairs and joined all of you in the kitchen.

“Well, you’re not one. So don’t worry.”

“Hey, kid.” Mitch gave your shoulder a pat as he walked past the table. “Didn’t know if you’d come down.”

You shrugged, “The smell of coffee was too strong of a temptation.”

“Do you have plans for the day?” He questioned as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Tate rolled one of his model cars across the table to you and you turned it around and rolled it back.

“I thought I might check out a book shop we passed yesterday. What does a normal Monday look like for you?”

“I’ve got work,” Mitch explained before gesturing to Darla. “She’s got her committees.”

“Committees?”

“I’m on the board of the Philadelphia Museum of Art,” Darla offered. “And the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

“Don’t forget the Trocadero,” Mitch supplied, pressing a kiss to Darla’s cheek, before he circled back around to the table. “She’s very connected to the art scene here in the city. If you have any interest in the arts, I’m sure she can find you a job or an internship.”

“I don’t know what I want to do,” You admitted, playing with the end of your braid as you stared down at the glass of juice in front of you. “I never thought I’d get out of Johnstown.”

“Hopefully you can figure that out,” Darla said as she handed you your cup of coffee. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do,” She told you, “But I found a passion for art in high school.”

“Does it pay well?”

“Oh,” Darla exchanged a look with Mitch. “Technically I’m a volunteer.”

“Ah.” You frowned. Given the house you were eating breakfast in and what Mitch had said last night — Darla had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. “As nice as that sounds, I really need something somewhat lucrative.”

Mitch day down beside Tate, across from you, “You’ve got plenty of time to figure out what you want to be. Don’t grow up too fast.”

You smiled a little, “I’ll try not to.” You drummed your fingers against the side of your mug, “What do you do again, Mitch?”

“I’m a real estate broker.”

Your brows furrowed together, “I have no idea what that is.”

“I work for a real estate agency as a manager.” Mitch clarified, sipping at his coffee. “If you wanted to work in real estate, I could get you an internship.”

“I don’t know if I could sell houses,” You made a face. “I’m just going to focus on high school right now. Work on getting a scholarship.”

Tate rolled his car across the table again, “Do you like my car?”

You picked the car up and examined it, “I do. It’s very cool.” You rolled it back to him, glancing at Mitch. “I’m pretty self-sufficient. I'm sure I’ll figure out what my life’s calling is.”

“Philadelphia has so much going on. It’s very up-and-coming in areas.” Darla told you. “You could make a whole life for yourself here in the city.”

“Maybe.” You took a sip of coffee then. Now that you were free — there was a whole world of possibilities. You didn’t have to stay in Pennsylvania for the rest of your life.

You could go anywhere, be anything, make a name for yourself.

Mitch and his little family were great, but you didn’t feel any attachment to them. You didn’t feel any attachment to much of anything, frankly. Maybe you were broken. Maybe you’d been through so much shit with your mother, that you’d just shut down emotionally.

You knew what love was; you even knew what home and family was supposed to feel like, but you weren’t sure you had it in you to feel those things. It was like falling asleep on your hand — you could feel touch, but it didn’t feel real.

Maybe that’s what your mother felt. Maybe Rebecca was the way she was because there was a big black hole where her heart was supposed to be.

But you weren’t going to let yourself become her. Maybe one day you could feel something.

Wouldn’t that be something?

#javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

84 notes · View notes

shoppsin · 6 months ago

Link

#bench #shoerack #shoestands

0 notes

all1e23 · 6 years ago

Text

Heart & Soul [Pt.22]

Epilogue: Stardust & Fairytales

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: It’s been two years and Bucky’s just as lovesick as ever.

Warnings: Pure fluff. Like so much fluff you will probably die from the sweetness.

A/N: Search for heart & Soul HCs for HCs and drabbles if you want extra bits with these two. ***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam though! Thanks!*

Bucky relaxed the moment he walked through the front door to his home, relief filled him. The smell of Chocolate, cinnamon, and cayenne saturated every inch of the home and he adored it. He dropped his keys into the glass bowl that now sat in the foyer, on a little table by the front door, and hung his new coat on the hook next to several others.

Never did get that old one back.

Y/n looked much better in it than he ever did.

The house was quiet and most of the lights were off, all but the hall light and what seemed to be the light from their bedroom upstairs. He pulled his shoulder holster off, checked the safety on his gun, and pulled his badge off his belt. His badge was dropped off next to his key as he slowly made his way towards the kitchen. He’s been thinking about those vanilla bean sugar cookies all damn day. Bucky hung his holster in the hall closet and slipped his gun into the safe at the top. After what happened with Brock, she had trouble being around guns which is why his gun safe resides in the hall closet and not their bedroom.

It was getting easier as more time passed and the memory of that day started to blur.

Bucky set his eyes on the cookie jar and made his way around the counter to snatch one. There was always some type of cookie laying around lately, Tony said it was something Omegas did, and he would catch on eventually. Whatever that meant. Right as he was about to grab several cookies he heard a shuffling above him.

"Alpha?" Y/n called from their bedroom, a bit of worry filling her voice.

Treats would have to wait.

It's been two years since they bonded, two amazingly blissful years, and Bucky still preened every time she said his title. He was no fool. He knew the years she spent avoiding Alphas and in the past how it only fell from her lips by force or out of fear. He was well aware of what it meant for her to willing call him hers. What it meant for her to lovingly call him Alpha and there will never come a time when he took it for granted, for the rest of his days.

And, oh. It had to be the prettiest sound he could ever hear.

"It's just me Omega," Bucky called up towards their bedroom to quell her fears, keep those dark thoughts from brewing.

Y/n still got scared even despite knowing Brock was dead and Pierce was behind bars for the rest of his pathetic life. Bucky had Tony develop them an alarm system and Natasha took over showing her how to defend herself. Natasha told him she could teach Y/n how to kill someone without having to enter a room or ever being seen. Bucky wasn't overly fond of that idea, but he did trust Natasha to show her how to break the arm of an Alpha twice her size.

After Nat bragged about her training abilities Bucky took Y/n back down to Lightning Round but this time she laid him out flat in under ten seconds. If he was a weaker Alpha, he would have been embarrassed. It honest to Gods had him so turned on he nearly tossed her over his shoulder and dragged her cute little ass home.

He begged her pin him down to the bed later that night.

Despite her training and the peace of mind that came with Brock being dead, Bucky knew it would take longer than two years to block out all those memories, to squash all of those fears. He's got time though. He's got the rest of his life to spend rewriting every bit of damage Brock did to her, replacing them with sweet memories and he had every intention of washing away every single thing that haunted her.

Bucky slowly climbed the stairs towards the master bedroom they now share. They moved out of his studio and into a new three-story brownstone, down the street from Steve and Tony right after Bucky got out of the hospital. Tony had insisted it was a bonding present and Y/n nearly fainted when she saw it. It was almost as big as theirs and had to cost more than what was an acceptable gift. Even for Tony Stark-Rogers.

Y/n tried to argue it was too much, but Tony told her, Zip it. I like to take care of my family and you and Barnes are family.

It was a huge change from the days he would come home to a cold empty studio, eat dinner with Steve or Sam and then go to bed alone. This was nothing like that darkness. It was warm and bright and pictures line the walls in nearly every room. She took her time picking out each and every photo and for a time he used it as an excuse to take several hundred photos together and a few hundred more of just her. There may or may not be close to ten framed photos on his desk at the station. He’s not even sorry. He won’t apologize for being desperately in love with her.

Pieces of antique furniture they picked out together are scattered throughout the three stories. It took a while to find everything she wanted, but Bucky didn’t mind at all. He liked following her around flea markets, stores, and estate sales as she tried to find the right pieces for each room. He’d give her the world if he could so a few months shopping for couches and tables was nothing. Antique hooks in the entryway hold her bright blue scarf along with his jacket and he's never been happier to have throw pillows on his couch. It still blew him away that this was all his and he didn't just mean the house. Bucky never thought he would have her, that she would be his and shit if it doesn't make him feel lighter, happy.

The only one upset over the move was Sam. The spare bedroom often has him taking up residency and neither Y/n or Bucky mind.

Bucky finally made it to their bedroom and smiled at the sight of his Omega sitting on the end of their new canopy bed. She really wanted something that looked like it was pulled out of a fairytale and if he was being honest, he can't tell her no when she leans in and pouts at him like that. He can’t tell her no ever but especially when she pouts. They ended up with one of those huge four-poster canopy beds and she covered it in some see-through fabric and twinkly lights.

So, every night was a starry one, Bucky.

She was so excited by the idea he didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t need the lights. She’s the only starry night he needs

There his star sat, in the middle of all that lace hanging around her, perched on the edge of their bed. She was all dressed up in that little black number he loved, the one with the lacey back and shorter than normal skirt. He watched as she gracefully slipped on her heels failing to notice he had made his way up the stairs.

It's simple and domestic. He adored how normal it was.

"Hi, beautiful." He rumbled into the quiet of their room.

She looked up at him and beamed in response.

“Hey, you.”

He caught a whiff of something sweet that wasn't her and he was immediately on alert, glancing around their bedroom for the source of the smell. "Are you cookin' somethin’ sweet, doll? We are supposed to meet Steve and Tony for dinner in less than an hour.”

Bucky strode towards the bed and grabbed her hands, gently pulling her up and into his arms. It probably should bother him how much he needed to have his hands on her, but he couldn’t help himself. He spent too many days holding back from feeling her soft skin under his hands, so he wasn't about to be frugal with his affection now.

They've got too much lost time to make up for.

"No, I'm not cooking and yes I remember. It's on the calendar in the kitchen and in our phones."

Because yeah they were those mates. The ones with a synced calendar. Y/n giggled at the tickle of his beard against her neck as he kissed along her jaw and down her neck towards the silvery lines that marked her as his.

Forever.

In this life and the next. He was certain of that.

"We are going to be late if you don't stop. My sweet Alpha."

Buky was too busy running his nose along her scent gland and gently nipping at his mark to hear her giggles. He took a deep breath of her scent and stilled, slowly pulling back to meet her eyes. She was the source of the strange smell. Who the hell had been in his house scenting his Omega? Fear started to build in the back of his head, but he quickly pushed it away. She was there in his arms and okay, she would have told him if something was wrong.

Still… Something was off.

"Omega, why do you smell different? Sweeter? Maybe- maybe spicy? It smells like..." He nuzzled her neck again, taking in the scent one more time, and there it was, faintly hiding within her scent.

"Like Red Hots?”

Y/n laughed at her Alphas confusion, fondly carding her fingers through his soft locks.

"I guess when the time comes, I'll be the one explaining the birds and the bees to our little one." He furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side, utterly lost. At least, he looked adorable like that. He’ll get it eventually. Y/n smirked at his confusion and kissed his cheek, detangling herself from his arms, fighting his arms off as he tried to pull her back against him.

"We better go. You know Steve hates it when we're late for our reservations."

Bucky watched as she strolled out the room and frowned. He had no fuckin’ clue what she was going on about. They don’t have a little one and none of their friends had kids yet, though Nat and Clint were talking about adopting.

What the hell…

"Hold up a damn minute!" He shouted, chasing after her.

"Mrs. Barnes... Our little one?!" He scooped her up in his arms before she could reach the stairs, attacking her face and neck with kisses, earning loud giggles from his wife.

She sighed happily and wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her nose along his, kissing his lips softly before confirming but Bucky all ready figured out.

"Yes, Alpha. Ours. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"I've been ready since the moment we met, 'Mega. You better call Tony because we aren't going anywhere tonight."

Bucky carried her back into their bedroom and kicked the door closed behind him, Y/n threw her head back and laughed. Just wait till he found out that Tony and Steve were the first to know. It wasn’t her fault they caught her at the drug store! Bucky was right. Tony really was a nosy Omega. Bucky gently sat her down on the end of the bed and she bent down to undo her heels, but Bucky caught her hand before she could.

“Nu-huh, babygirl.” She shivered when she saw the deep red consuming the cool blue of his eyes.

“Leave the heels on.”

"Whatever you want James.” She purred softly.

Bucky grinned and pulled his shirt over his head, leaving the scaring to his shoulder completely visible. Even with the months of healing and weeks spent in the hospital he still had some trouble moving his shoulder at times and the scars from multiple surgeries to repair the damage will never go away. She knew he had a hard time accepting the way he looks now, but to her? It's absolutely beautiful. Just like the rest of him. She leaned up placing feather-light kisses on the scars on his shoulder and the ones spreading onto his chest, the ones that saved his life. It wouldn’t have changed anything if he lost his arm that day. Nothing could ever change the way she felt about him. Y/n looked up at him and smiles brightly in only the way she can.

"I love you, Buck."

There was no holding back, no worry or fear to admit how deeply she loved him because he always returned her affection ten-fold.

"I love you, Y/n"

Now, this. This was perfectly perfect. Their own little fairytale and nothing else could ever be sweeter.

Previous // Heart & Soul Masterlist

#alpha!bucky x omega!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #alpha!bucky #cop!bucky #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o au #a/b/o verse #a/b/o

2K notes · View notes

stereksecretsanta · 5 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @softderekhale!

I hope this fulfills all your holiday hopes and dreams!

Read on AO3

*****

I'll Be Home For Christmas (you can count on me)

“So, I live here now.”

Stiles drops his duffel bag in the entryway, kicking off his boots and letting the cold wind pull the door closed behind him. His voice is thick with false cheer, and Derek can smell the distress rolling off him, completely at odds with the nearly manic beaming of his face.

Derek sips his coffee and turns the page of his newspaper. He wants to say it’s too early for this, but it’s nearly 10 am, and also he’s been looking forward to Stiles’ return for the holidays more than he’d like to admit.

“You don’t,” he points out calmly, but Stiles doesn’t even bat an eye, draping his damp coat haphazardly over the coat rack and skidding forward on his sock feet to throw an overstuffed-to-bulging backpack at the foot of the end table.

“I do now ,” Stiles informs him, flinging himself onto the couch. He sighs luxuriously, wiggling his toes and stretching his arms over his head.

Derek gives up and looks over, his gaze catching on Stiles’ wrists, bony but large from an unexpected late growth spurt that hit when he turned twenty. Stiles’ forearms are heavy with dark hair, as thick as Derek’s own in spite of Stiles’ very human status, and Derek wants to touch them, wants to wrap his fingers around them and see how warm they are.

“God bless your expensive taste in furniture, Derek, really,” Stiles sighs out. “I thought my back would never be the same after the dorm couches, but this baby’s gonna heal what ails me.” He pats the couch vigorously and stretches again. Derek averts his eyes as Stiles groans out in pleasure, flopping over onto his stomach and burying his face in a throw pillow.

There’s a holiday gift market downtown this weekend; they’re shutting all the streets. It’d be a good place to pick up some gifts for the pack, Derek thinks, checking the time on his phone, but it doesn’t open for another hour.

Derek turns back to his paper, because what else is he supposed to do?

---

scarfwaif: i saw stiles’ jeep parked at your apt when i drove by this afternoon derek - is he back in town?

Sourwolf: Yes. He got in this morning.

scarfwaif: did he stop by to say hi?

Sourwolf : is typing

Sourwolf: No. He walked in my door and announced that he lives here now.

scarfwaif: :laughing_face: :laughing_face: :laughing_face:

scarfwaif: but why, derek?

Sourwolf: I have no idea

scarfwaif: oh come on, he must’ve said something

Sourwolf: You know what Stiles is like when he doesn’t want to talk about something.

scarfwaif: oof, yeah. avoidance champion of the year, 2013-2019 running

Sourwolf: Exactly.

scarfwaif: well, it’s nice for you to have the company. you hole up in there too much anyway. tell stiles to take you out for regular walks. :laughing_face:

Derek tosses the phone aside and goes back to folding the laundry spread out on his bed. He should’ve changed the names back long ago, but he hasn’t had the heart to correct them, not when every incoming text reminds him of Stiles drunk and warm against his side, stealing Derek’s phone and changing all the contacts to increasingly ridiculous monikers while he presses himself into Derek’s arms.

Derek sighs to himself, free to indulge in a moment of self-pity while he’s alone in his room. It’s not that he doesn’t want Stiles here; that’s never been the case. And, as Isaac points out, it’s nice to have someone just… around. Now that the pack’s grown up and gone to college or started full-time jobs, he doesn’t see them as much, even the ones who live nearby. It’s healthy, Derek thinks, and he himself does get social interaction, contrary to popular belief. He volunteers at the library twenty hours a week, and makes a point to see each member of his pack at least once every fortnight, whether for lunch or at their regular monthly pack dinners or just to hang out and watch a game or whatever. But… it’s not the same as having someone in his space, it’s not like the restlessly reassuring noises Stiles makes thumping around down in the kitchen while Derek matches his socks.

Still. Derek frowns. It’s the holidays. Stiles is supposed to be with his dad - that’s how he always does the holidays. It’d be selfish for Derek to let Stiles spend the time with him, even if the thought of his smile in the glow of Yule tree lights makes Derek’s cheeks warm.

It’s not right; Stiles should be with his family. Derek’s just got to figure out how to fix whatever it is that’s going on.

“There!” Stiles slides the wrapped box down the length of the table, his grin spread broad across his face. “That’s all seventeen.”

Derek stares. The wrapping is perfect - the corners crisp, the tape minimal, the paper tight. The pattern of the paper even lines up on the bottom.

“How…” he starts incredulously, and Stiles laughs.

“My mom was a gift-wrap perfectionist. I used to help her when I was a kid,” he says, and spins the tape dispenser around his finger in a sharp circle, holding it out like a pistol and blowing the pretend smoke off it before waggling his eyebrows at Derek. “And I’ve always had really good small-motor skills.”

Derek takes the package and turns away so that the heat in his cheeks is hopefully invisible. He’d like to know about these small-motor skills, maybe first-hand, but even more than that he’s taken by the thought of a tiny Stiles folding colored paper carefully around present-shaped boxes.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, setting the wrapped box into the large crate of other pre-wrapped presents by the door. “It usually takes me hours to do them all.”

“You do this every year?” Stiles’ voice is curious. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t really talk about it.”

“How did you get started?”

“Um,” Derek rubs a hand through his hair and reaches for his coat. “You want to come with to help drop them off?”

“Sure.” Stiles yanks his sweatshirt over his head and shoves a cookie into his mouth, holding it between his teeth as his hands fumble through his sleeves. “Where do you take them?”

“The family assistance center down on State street.” Derek grabs his keys and gloves, glancing over at Stiles. He knows better than to think that Stiles’ previous question will be forgotten, so he focuses instead on opening the door and hefting the crate full of gifts through it. “Grab the door?”

Stiles bounds out behind him, pulling the door closed and stepping forward to balance the crate while Derek locks up.

“My family’s always been well off, Stiles,” Derek says, and can’t bring himself to meet Stiles’ eyes. He knows what he grew up with, and he knows what growing up under a single parent with a government job and leftover medical debt looks like. “But my parents weren’t assholes. The family center asks for volunteers to buy gifts for needy families in town, so my folks always signed us up for the large ones, because we could afford it. Each of us kids was in charge of buying for a family, and then we’d wrap them all together and drop them off before Christmas.”

“And you still do it,” Stiles states, his expression unreadable as he steals Derek’s car keys and pops the trunk so Derek can load the gifts into his car.

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs, a bitter taste in his mouth as he situates the gifts so they won’t slide around. “I’ve still got money. The pack will only let me spend so much on them, and I don’t have any family other than Cora.”

“So you’re a good Samaritan.”

“I guess?” Derek shuts the trunk and climbs in, fishing out his keys to start the car. “It’s not like the money’s doing anyone any good just sitting in a bank account.”

Stiles fastens his seatbelt, nodding, and is uncharacteristically silent for the whole ride. Derek tries not to take it personally.

In the evening he takes Stiles with him to his weekly sports night with Boyd and Erica, shoving a worn San Jose Sharks sweatshirt at Stiles even as he pulls a blue-and-gold Warriors holiday sweater over his own unassuming black t-shirt.

Stiles looks at him like he’s grown a second head, so Derek shrugs. “Erica’s house rules,” he says. “Everyone must come properly attired.”

“Who are you,” Stiles breathes reverently, staring at the bright yellow snowflakes marching across Derek’s pecs, but he obediently pulls the proffered hoodie on, shoving up the sleeves which are a little too long, and fuck. Derek really should have thought about what it would mean to his wolfy brain to have Stiles wrapped up in something that smells so strongly of him. He pauses, takes a steadying breath while Stiles dashes around to grab his wallet and keys and phone, and is settled enough to give a bland smile when Stiles meets him at the door.

“Shall we?” he asks, and offers his elbow. Stiles snorts, his eyes dancing, but he takes it. Derek feels the heat of his palm all the way to the car.

Erica greets them both at the door, her teal and black manicure impeccable and the sounds of the hockey game loud behind her.

“Warriors, Der?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s hockey night. You know the rules.”

“I haven’t caught the dubs game versus the Rockets yet,” he shrugs, “thought maybe we could toss it on after the Sharks are done getting their asses handed to them. Besides,” he steps aside so that Stiles comes into view, “I had to loan out my hockey shirt.”

“Batman!” Erica throws herself into Stiles’ arms. He catches her easily, laughing and twirling her around as she pounds on his back in excitement. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles sets her down, and she grabs both their wrists, pulling them into the small apartment she shares with Boyd. Derek nods at him where he sits on the couch, and Boyd tips his head at Stiles and makes a questioning face. Derek grimaces back before he’s pulled into the kitchen where Erica is shoving mugs of well-seasoned eggnog at them both.

“I’m staying with Derek now,” Stiles is saying, and Erica shoots Derek a look that he knows means they will be discussing this later.

“Oh,” Erica says, her voice cheerful and sharp. “How fun for both of you!”

“Sharks are on the powerplay,” Boyd calls from the living room, and Derek suppresses a sigh of relief at the interruption. Boyd is dependable, Boyd is astute, Boyd always was the best of his betas, Derek thinks as Erica shoos them both into the living room and onto the large sofa.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it later,” Erica warns with a smile, and Stiles shows her all his teeth.

“Of course,” he agrees, eyes flicking to the TV as he points. “Oh look, some guy did a thing with his stick!”

“So,” Erica says, turning to Derek the second Stiles is down the hall and out of earshot in his quest for the bathroom. “Spill.”

Derek spreads his hands. “Spill what? I don’t know anything.”

“Why is Stiles staying with you? I knew his fight with his dad was bad, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“I didn’t even know they had a fight.” Derek shrugs helplessly. “He walked into my place and dumped his stuff, said he lived there now. What was I supposed to do, tell him no?”

Boyd shoots him a sympathetic look. Derek’s feelings for Stiles are not a discussed topic, but given even the relatively low level of emotional bleed in the back bond, Boyd and Erica and Isaac have had a few years of knowing that Derek, well… that Derek feels something for Stiles, anyway. He suspects the details are generally written all over his stupid face.

“Hm.” Boyd loops an arm around Erica’s shoulders, his face thoughtful. “Must’ve been a bad one. Did the sheriff say anything to you about it at work?”

“No,” Erica wriggles until she’s comfortable tucked under Boyd’s arm. “But it was work, you know. He just mentioned that he’d talked to Stiles.” She looks pensive. “But he was in a bad mood all week, stomping around and slamming things. I figured either they’d patched it up or else Stiles wasn’t coming home - I’d never have thought he’d come back but avoid his dad.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and stares at his hands. “They’ve always been so close.” He tries not to think of his own family, gone more than ten years now, but it’s impossible. They’d always been so close, until they weren’t.

Erica slaps him on the leg, beaming as her acrylic claws stab into the meat of his thigh. “Well!” she announces cheerfully as the toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens down the hall. “I guess you’ll just have to fix it, Der!”

It’s only 10:30 that night when Stiles starts to yawn, but he must’ve gotten up at some ungodly hour in order to make it from Berkeley up to Beacon Hills as early in the day as he did, Derek figures. Also, it’s just past finals, so no doubt he’s got some sleep debt to pay down.

Sure enough, it only takes another few minutes before Stiles is rubbing at his eyes and mumbling something about sleep, my glorious mistress , before digging in his bag and emerging with a toothbrush and pajama bottoms. Derek chews his lip while Stiles brushes his teeth and changes, but by the time Stiles returns to the living room in his sock feet Derek’s mind is made up.

“Hey man, you got a pillow I can use or something?”

“You should sleep with me,” Derek says, and then immediately chokes on his tongue as Stiles’ eyes go wide. “I mean, my bed is big and the couch isn’t great for sleeping. You can just share with me.”

“Uh,” Stiles says eloquently, and Derek can feel his face burning. He looks away, pointedly casual as he flips through articles on his tablet.

“You don’t have to. Obviously. But it’s a King-size, we wouldn’t run into each other even if we tried.”

He can feel the weight of Stiles’ gaze on him, can almost hear his brain ticking over as he considers the options.

“Fine,” Stiles says after a long pause, voice resigned. “I’m fucking tired, so what the hell. I’m gonna brush my teeth and go to bed. You coming?”

“In a minute,” Derek tells him, rereading the first paragraph of the article he’s staring at for the fifth time. “I sleep on the right, so you should take the left. You don’t need to leave any lights on for me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles flaps a hand absently at Derek as he gathers his stuff and heads for the stairs. “Freaky werewolf powers, I know.” He yawns again, scratching absently at his belly and scuffing his toes against the hardwood of the apartment floor.

“Go to bed before you fall over,” Derek tells him, trying desperately and failing utterly not to picture Stiles spread out asleep in his bed, skin pale in the moonlight and limbs lax with dreams.

“Kay,” Stiles murmurs, shuffling off toward the stairs. “See you in the morning, Sourwolf.”

“Night,” Derek manages, eyes firmly on his tablet. He listens as Stiles climbs the stairs and then climbs into bed, flopping around restlessly for a long moment until he falls all at once and altogether into sleep, his breathing going even and heartbeat slowing.

Derek breathes out slowly, and stays up for a very long time before making his way to bed.

Stiles is already up when Derek wakes the next morning, and Derek is profoundly grateful because it means that he can give in to the urge to lean over and bury his face in the pillow Stiles used, inhaling the scent of Stiles mixed with his own laundry detergent in over his teeth and closing his eyes.

If he had a tail right now, it would wag, he thinks, and he’s too half-awake yet to feel the automatic embarrassment that usually accompanies any thought of his wolf’s unbridled possessive joy.

He takes another deep breath, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him and sink into his hindbrain before he forces himself to get up. He showers and dresses and heads downstairs; it’s the 23rd today, and Christmas is suddenly imminent instead of abstractly “several days” away. It’s not like he needs to prep for a holiday party or anything, but there’s still stuff to do: he needs to wrap the presents for the pack, and he’s been meaning to drag out his little fake tree, and he’s still somehow got to figure out what’s wrong between Stiles and his dad.

“Mornin’, Sleepywolf,” Stiles says cheerfully, pressing a warm cup of coffee into Derek’s hands as he clears the landing. “I was wondering when you were going to get up.”

Derek hums into his coffee which is, well, surprisingly good. “I thought all you drank in college was that hideous tea-brewed-with-coffee mixture that Isaac taught you about and energy drinks.”

Stiles looks briefly insulted. “First of all,” he tells Derek, waving a spatula at him indignantly, “I spent ten years before I moved out making coffee for my dad, so it’s not like I don’t know how.”

“Sure,” Derek interrupts, “but I’ve tasted the coffee at the sheriff’s station. I’m not convinced your dad has tastebuds at this point."

“Point,” Stiles says, pouring eggs into a pan, and Derek’s heart aches at how at home Stiles looks here in Derek’s kitchen in his sweatpants and bedhead. “But I also spent many years studying with one Lydia Martin, and I’m sure you’re familiar with her standards regarding anything she puts in her mouth.”

“Well,” Derek says, taking another drink, “there was Jackson.”

The noise Stiles makes is priceless, bending over the stove, his shoulders shaking as he laughs helplessly. “Alright , point ,” he says, waving the spatula vaguely in Derek’s direction as he snickers, “but let’s call that the exception that proves the rule.”

Stiles plates two omelets and slides them onto the wood-topped island in Derek’s kitchen. “So,” he says, settling onto a stool across from Derek, reaching blindly behind him until he snags the coffee pot and hauls it over to pour refills for both of them. “What are we doing today?”

“You use a fake tree?”

“You’ve been to my place over the holidays before, Stiles, you know this.”

“Yeah, but,” Stiles gesticulates wildly at the three-foot table tree Derek is currently fluffing into shape. “I thought it was a fluke!”

“I like my tree.” Derek lets a little of the defensiveness he’s feeling bleed into his tone, because honestly, who gave Stiles the right to show up in his house and sleep in his bed and piss all over his holiday decorations?

“Okay, Sourwolf, there’s nothing wrong with your tree ,” Stiles backpedals, and Derek suppresses a smile, “it’s just that you’re, you know. Rich. Hot. A supernatural nature being. I figured you’d be offended by the very scent of a fake tree or something.”

“Laura and I bought it our first Christmas in New York,” Derek tells him, straightening the point at the top. “Pass me that tin of ornaments?”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and his voice is soft as he grabs the ornament bucket and hands it to Derek. “Well, I think you’ve gotten your money’s worth at this point. That was what, ten years ago now?”

“Something like that,” Derek agrees, not wanting to give that sad, desperate holiday more thought than he can help. “Here, dig through and find the star.”

They pass a couple of minutes peacefully, Stiles rifling through the old popcorn tin of ornaments and providing a muted running commentary on everything from the age to the stylistic choices to the number of sequins involved in the contents. Derek wraps the lights around the tree, winding them evenly and with the confidence of long practice which allows him to finish with the end of the strand wrapped around the tippy-top of the highest branch.

“So,” he tries eventually, “what sort of holiday traditions do you and your dad have?”

“Well,” Stiles starts, distracted by a one-eyed clothespin reindeer he’s just unearthed, “my mom’s side of the family is Jewish, at least in theory, so we’d do a menorah when I was little. Dad stopped after she died because he didn’t know the prayers and can’t read Hebrew, but he always makes killer latkes.”

“Yeah?” Derek smiles at the thought of the sheriff flipping potato pancakes. It fits; from what he knows of John Stilinski, he’s always prefered reassurance and emotional expression of the tangible kind. It’s something Derek relates to, something he wants to be able to provide, both for Stiles and for his pack: a safe space, a comforting environment, care provided through concrete action. “What else?”

Stiles shrugs. “You know. The usual. We’d get a tree, decorate it. Hang stockings. I don’t think I ever actually believed in Santa, but we pretended I did so Dad had a reason to fill them.”

“Aren’t you going to miss all that if you stay here?” Derek asks, steadfastly not looking at Stiles as he fixes a wobbly angel near the top.

“Subtle like a sledgehammer, Sourwolf,” Stiles mutters, but there’s an unmistakable thread of tension beneath the teasing.

Derek sighs. “I’m just trying to help, Stiles. He’s your dad; I’m sure he wants you home for Christmas.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, he can see that the second he turns and catches the look on Stiles’ face, the sheen to his eyes. He holds out his arm and Stiles comes to him without protest, and Derek hauls him close in apology. It’s just like any other member of the pack, he tells himself; wolves are tactile and so is Stiles, and if he holds him a little closer or a little softer or a little longer than he would Boyd or Isaac, that’s between him and the tree.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles mumbles thickly into Derek’s shoulder, and Derek just nods.

“Okay,” he says, and rubs a hand briskly over Stiles’ back as he forces himself to let go, to put some space between them. “But if you change your mind…”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, rolling his eyes and reaching for another angel, “I know. Thanks, Sourwolf.”

“So Stiles is staying with you?” Scott asks, and he and Derek have been at peace with each other for years, even if they’re not really what Derek would call friends, but there’s always that edge of suspicion in Scott’s voice that makes Derek have to force his hackles down.

“Seems to be.” Derek keeps his voice bland and shovels another french fry into his mouth. He’d stopped by the Argent-Lahey-McCall household ostensibly on a fast food run, but also in the hopes of gathering more information. Stiles had been deep into an internet deep dive on the particulars of homosexuality in mated penguin pairs (which was honestly fascinating, but Derek needs what info he can get from Scott and Allison) when he left, so Derek’s got a solid couple of hours before Stiles realizes that it doesn’t take this long to get drive-thru.

“I wonder why he didn’t come here?” Scott’s voice is a little mournful, and Allison rolls her eyes.

“Because we have three adults and a nine-month-old in a two-bedroom apartment,” she says, and Derek suppresses a snicker.

“Yeah, but…” Scott starts, and Allison shakes her head.

“I know you’re his best friend, but I’m sure Derek’s couch is infinitely better than our shitty air mattress in the baby’s room.”

Derek nods into his soda, carefully not mentioning the part where Stiles hasn’t been on the couch at all except for naps and video game marathons. “Do you know what they fought about?”

Scott shakes his head, looking even more mournful. “No, I don’t know the details. I know it’s about school, but he hasn’t really said anything else. And I don’t really see the sheriff these days, even if he is dating my mom.” He picks at his burger and looks mildly defensive. “She’s been on day shifts all year so they can see each other, but I’ve been working nights at Deaton’s so that Allison and Isaac and I can all trade off taking care of baby Vicky.”

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, pushing down the pang of disappointment. He’d known that Scott and Stiles weren’t necessarily as close as they had been since Stiles had gone away to college and Scott had stayed around, but he’d thought Stiles would still keep Scott in the loop on something as big as this. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Tell him he can always come here,” Scott declares, face firm, and Derek nods easily, refusing to acknowledge the tiny swell of pride that grows beneath his sternum at the knowledge that Stiles chose him over his long-time friend.

“I will,” Derek promises.

Allison catches him as he’s packing up to leave, shoving Stiles’ share of the curly fries into a paper bag with a burger.

“When Stiles and the sheriff have fought before, it’s usually because there’s a miscommunication,” she says, passing him a sleeping Vicky so she can open the cupboards and pull out a bag of cookies. “It’s not really that they disagree about much, but they’re both really stubborn, and if one of them takes something the other says the wrong way, it can be hard for them to figure out where it went wrong.”

Derek nods, pressing his nose against the softness of Vicky’s hair. He’s eternally grateful for Allison’s understanding of born wolves, regardless of how she came by it - having young wolves around to care for and protect is an essential part of a healthy pack, and he misses holding and playing with his little cousins as much as he misses his siblings and parents.

“You think they misunderstood each other, and now are too hurt to talk it out?”

“Yeah,” Allison sighs, packing several cookies into the bag. “They were honestly probably trying to protect each other from something, if you want my guess. Either one of them was keeping something from the other ‘for their own good’,” she makes air quotes and grimaces, “or else one of them is trying to sacrifice something for the other. They always put each other first, and it doesn’t always work out.”

Vicky stirs in Derek’s arms and he bounces her without thinking, her solid weight warm against his chest. “Yeah,” he agrees, “that does sound like them.”

Allison smiles at him, and holds out her hands. Derek reluctantly passes Vicky over and takes the bag of food she proffers instead. It’s a chilly substitute, and his disappointment must show, because Allison’s smile softens and she reaches out to grip his arm.

“You can do this, Derek. Stiles trusts you; he’ll listen to you.”

“Ha,” Derek snorts. “Sure.”

“You matter to him, Der,” she says, “or else he wouldn’t be at your apartment right now, waiting for you to come home.” Her grip on his arm releases, her eyes kind. “Don’t be a stranger, Derek. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Allison.” Derek leans in to kiss her cheek, and then the top of Vicky’s head. “I’ll try not to be.”

Derek wakes in the night to Stiles curled around him, one lean arm wrapped across Derek’s chest and their legs tangled together. He’s not sure what woke him at first, but then Stiles shifts restlessly against him, and knees him hard in the soft meat of his thigh.

Derek suppresses a wince, reaching down to gently guide Stiles’ sharp kneecap away from his leg. Stiles’ fingers are twitching and clutching at the sheets and his own skin, and his face is caught in a sharp frown. Presumably he’s dreaming, and not peacefully, so Derek untangles their legs and turns onto his side, pulling Stiles against him and setting up a soothing stroke of his hand over Stiles’ head and down his shoulders and arm. It takes a moment, but Stiles relaxes against him, breathing evening out and fingers clutching at Derek’s sleep-shirt instead of his own palms.

It’s easy like this, thoughtless, the communication of their bodies beneath the covers, the intersection of sleepy instinct and unconscious trust. It’s what Derek has dreamed of softly, quietly, for years. It’s what he longs for when he sees the casual intimacy of Allison with Scott or Isaac, when he sees the gentle devotion between Erica and Boyd. It’s what he remembers from his parents, and he wants it, wants it with an unabashed fervor that seems too much for daylight but feels at home here in the dark, here with Stiles in his arms.

It’s not real, though. He has to remember this. Stiles isn’t here because Derek asked him; he isn’t here because he wants to be with Derek. He’s here because he’s on the outs with his only family, because he needed somewhere to go when he couldn’t go home.

If Derek wants this for real someday (he does, oh, how he does), he can’t settle into it now. He has to fix this, has to figure out how to let Stiles go so that maybe, maybe, Stiles will want to come back.

Derek’s hand slows its rhythm and Stiles murmurs softly in his sleep, pressing his face to Derek’s arm. It’s sweet, and Derek closes his eyes before he chokes on the piece of his heart that seems to be lodged in his throat.

They’re making cookies when Stiles finally spits it out, the late morning sun slanting in through the windows and the smell of ginger and vanilla thick in the air.

“My dad told me not to come home,” he says, using a wooden spoon to stir cookie batter with a violence that belies the casual tone of his voice. “So I’m not going home.”

Derek lets the words fall for a moment, suspended in the warm air of the kitchen. He checks the oven temperature, then pulls out a baking sheet and greases it.

“He told you not to come home?” he asks eventually, voice carefully neutral. “How come?”

“Because he doesn’t want me there, obviously!” Stiles bursts out, thumping the bowl onto the counter. “I told him I wanted to come home after graduation, think about what I want to do next, and he told me not to! He said,” Stiles breaks off for a long, suspiciously damp breath before he continues more calmly. “He said not to bother, that there’s nothing here for me.”

Derek hums thoughtfully, carefully scooping cookie dough in even lumps onto the tray. “So,” he starts, “this was about coming home after graduation?”

“Yeah,�� Stiles rubs at his eyes with his sleeves, then resumes beating the batter like it’s personally offended him. “He wants me to go to grad school.”

“ You want to go to grad school,” Derek points out, and Stiles sighs.

“I do,” he admits, and lets Derek take the bowl of batter from his hands, replacing it with a rolling pin and aiming him at a mound of sugar cookie dough. “But I want a break.” Stiles exhales hard, shoving the rolling pin against the pale mound on the counter. “I’m graduating Honors with a double major, two minors, and a certificate, from Cal. It’s been… it’s been a lot. And I don’t know for sure what I want to do next. And I miss being home, I miss seeing everyone, and Scott’s got a kid now that I’ve barely been able to see, and my dad’s getting older, and-”

“Breathe, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles does, dropping his head and pulling in a deep breath.

“I’d like some time to regroup. Get a job, save some money, figure out which grad program I want to do. Some of them would let me be remote, and only go to campus a couple weeks a semester. But my dad…”

“He’s worried you’ll lose momentum,” Derek says, and Stiles nods.

“I know, but I need a break. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t see what… I just want to come home .”

“He didn’t mean for you to not come home for the holidays, Stiles,” Derek says gently, taking the rolling pin from Stiles’ hands and setting it aside.

Stiles leans over and thunks his head against Derek’s collarbone, and Derek gives in to the urge to wrap his arms around him. “I know.” Stiles goes quiet, his breathing deceptively even but his heartbeat still fluttering in Derek’s ears. “But I can’t go home. I’m just so angry , and so…”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and smoothes his hand up and down Stiles’ back. “It’s okay, Stiles. You’re always welcome here.”

Stiles shudders against him, hands clutching at the back of Derek’s shirt, and Derek rubs his cheek across the top of Stiles’ head without thinking, reassurance through touch the language he speaks best.

Sourwolf: Hey Lydia, do you have a moment?

Red Baroness: I’ve always got time to listen to drama about you and Stiles

Sourwolf: Technically, it’s only drama about Stiles…

Red Baroness: Oh, I’m sorry, is this not about him staying at your place indefinitely?

Sourwolf: I was thinking of it as more about his fight with his dad…

Red Baroness : So this is about the cause of the drama between you and Stiles, okay. Yes, I’ve got time.

Sourwolf: ...thanks. I think.

Red Baroness: What did they fight about?

Sourwolf: From what Stiles said, it sounds like the sheriff told him that he wants Stiles to go away to grad school immediately after he graduates, but Stiles was planning to come back here for at least a year while he figures out what he wants to do.

Red Baroness: Oh, Derek, honey. You know better than anyone how sensitive Stiles is. His dad told him he wants him to go away? How do you think he’d take that?

Sourwolf: Like way more of a rejection than the sheriff intended. I’m not stupid, I know how much that would hurt him.

Red Baroness: The sheriff probably thought it’d make him angry enough to accept the grad school offers just to be a pill, but he miscalculated.

Sourwolf: Yeah. But it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, and you know how close they are. I can’t stand to see Stiles muscle through tomorrow all sad-sack without his dad. How do I fix this?

Red Baroness: You’ve tried talking sense into Stiles?

Sourwolf: Of course. It went as well as you’d expect.

Red Baroness: He does have his moments, especially these days. But yeah, okay. You have to talk to the real adult involved in this, then.

Sourwolf: The sheriff? You think he’d listen to me?

Red Baroness: Sure. He’s very good at listening, and he respects you.

Sourwolf: ...sure.

Red Baroness: Don’t sell yourself short, Derek, it’s not a good look.

Sourwolf: Not all of us have the innate sense of our own worth that you were gifted with, Lydia.

Red Baroness: Oh, I’m aware. Nonetheless, the point stands: don’t sell yourself short, especially where Stiles is concerned.

Sourwolf: What do you mean?

Red Baroness: Of all the places he could have gone when he couldn’t go home, he came to you.

Sourwolf: Yeah, I’ve got the best couch and no small children or disruptive work schedules. Of course he came to me.

Red Baroness: Derek.

Red Baroness: You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to say you want things. We all know that you’re head over heels for Stiles; it’s okay. No one thinks any less of you for it, least of all him.

Red Baroness: He’s as crazy for you as you are for him, he always has been.

Sourwolf: Finding me attractive is not the same thing.

Red Baroness: No, it wouldn’t be. But he’s been in love with you for ages, Derek. Fix this for him, and then sort that shit out. You two are getting too old for pining to be cute.

Sourwolf: ...thanks, Lydia.

Red Baroness: Don’t mention it. :)

Derek wakes with Stiles in his arms before dawn, the stars still bright outside his window as Stiles snuffles softly in his sleep and clings to Derek’s side. He takes a long moment to breathe in Stiles’ scent, letting it ease his fear, his worry. Even if he doesn’t get to keep this, he has it right now, and so he lets himself feel it, lets himself sink into the sensation of being wanted, being held, before he eventually forces himself to pull away, carefully extricating himself from Stiles’ grip to dress and head out into the pre-dawn chill.

He finds the sheriff at the diner downtown before his shift. Dawn is only just beginning to lighten the sky with fingers of pink and purple, and the sheriff raises an eyebrow when Derek slides onto the stool next to him at the diner’s long counter.

“Morning, Hale.” The sheriff nods politely, and Derek returns it, pausing as the waitress settles a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Morning,” Derek answers, then pauses. He’s not entirely sure how to go about having this conversation.

“My kid’s not wearing out his welcome at your place already, is he?”

“Never,” Derek says without thinking, then hunches his shoulders at the dry chuckle the sheriff gives in response. He takes a deep breath, concentrating on gentling the grip he has on his coffee cup. It’s rude to snap the handles off mugs you don’t own. “But he should be with you, sir.”

The sheriff sighs, lifting up his hat to run a hand through his hair before replacing it again. “Did he tell you what I said to him, Hale?”

“Yes,” Derek answers honestly, “the paraphrased version. But he’s taking it very hard.”

The sheriff closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “But Stiles… you’ll get it if you ever have kids, Derek. Stiles is the best part of my life, and all I want is what’s best for him.”

Derek nods at the sheriff to continue. This much he knows already.

“I want better for him than this. He’s so goddamn smart, he deserves to be out there in the world making a difference, not stuck here in some backwater town because of me.”

“Sir,” Derek says evenly, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re everything to him.”

The sheriff sighs, fiddling with the fork on his plate. “That’s how it’s supposed to be when they’re little; you’re their whole world. But Stiles is too old for that - I’m his past. He needs to find his future.”

“You’re his home ,” Derek says, catching the sheriff’s eye and holding that. “Don’t take that away from him.”

The sound of the diner fades away as the sheriff holds him in a measuring gaze. “You could be, too, you know. His home.”

Derek’s heart gives a traitorous thump in his chest, but he schools his expression and shakes his head sharply, once.

“Not like this. Not because he’s running away.” He drops his eyes and plays with the edge of his jacket, where the material is starting to fray, then forces himself to look back up, not caring about what may be splashed across his face. “I want Stiles to come to me because he’s coming to me , not because he’s leaving someone else.”

“Goddammit,” the sheriff mutters, and drags a hand across his face. “When’d you grow up so much, Hale?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so Derek bites his tongue, swirls some cream into the coffee in his mug.

“Fine,” the sheriff grumbles after a moment, and Derek tries not to smile. “Fine. Dinner at my place at four, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek agrees easily, and downs the rest of his drink. “Pleasure talking with you, sir.”

“Not sure I can say the same,” the sheriff comments dryly, but flaps a hand at him in farewell. “See you tonight, Hale.”

“See you tonight,” Derek says, tossing some cash on the counter for his bill, and tips his head as he goes.

Stiles is still asleep by the time Derek gets back from his chat with the sheriff, so Derek busies himself with wrapping the last few presents and making dough for sticky buns. He’s kind of at loose ends after that, but he feels restless, uncomfortable in his skin and sad the way he always does this time of year, so he goes for a run.

It’s a good choice; the weather is clear and cold, but crisp in his lungs as he runs, first as a human and then as a wolf, bounding tirelessly through the woods of the Preserve before shifting back outside the parking lot to drive home. He climbs the stairs to his apartment on shaking legs, dripping with sweat, and walks straight into the shower.

The heat and steam are refreshing, and by the time he gets out, Stiles has the coffee pot burbling happily away. He hands Derek a cup wordlessly, and Derek takes it, settling at the kitchen island in what he realizes with a bittersweet pang is their new normal, watching as Stiles does something to eggs in a pan at the stove.

Stiles is cheerful enough but quiet, and Derek can see him pulling back as the day goes by. They watch TV and make fun of the characters in the holiday romances; they play a couple rounds of backgammon; but by the time it’s rounding three in the afternoon Stiles’ face is sliding into resigned sadness and Derek’s heart just hurts.

He puts the backgammon set away, pretending not to notice the way Stiles stares past him out the window, and heads to the kitchen. If there’s anything he’s learned from dealing with the pack in general, it’s that sugar heals a multitude of ills.

“Hey,” he says, pressing a mug of hot chocolate into Stiles’ hands a few minutes later. Stiles takes it with a smile that has misery lurking in the corners, but he presses his head against Derek’s side for a moment in gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says eventually, his beautiful eyes caught on Derek’s face, and it feels like the tip of the iceberg of what’s unsaid between them.

“You’re welcome,” Derek replies, instead of I love you, don’t leave .

He lets Stiles finish his hot chocolate, the silence thick but not uncomfortable between them. The lights of the tree glow dimly in the living room of his apartment, the heavy dusk starting to settle in the corners of the room as the sun slides down into the west.

“Come on,” Derek says when the ceramic of his mug has gone cold as well as empty. “Let’s go.”

The pale crescent moon is low over the horizon, the evening star hovering not far from it as Derek drives them into town. Stiles must know where they’re going, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything at all as they pull up in front of the Stilinski house.

Derek turns off the car and silence falls again, so he opens his door and climbs out, going around to pull Stiles’ door open too, and reach out a hand. Stiles takes it like a lifeline, his long, rough fingers clutching onto Derek’s own with a grasping intensity even as his face is still with concentration.

They climb the steps to the low porch, Stiles’ hand still gripping Derek’s. The door opens before they have a chance to knock, and John Stilinski stands in the doorway, his face tired and open, haloed with the warm light of the hallway.

“Stiles,” he says, and Derek feels Stiles’ grip on his fingers tighten in anticipation or fear, but then the sheriff opens his arms and Stiles’ breath hitches audibly. “Welcome home.”

Stiles doesn’t quite fling himself at his dad like Derek knows he did when he was younger, but he steps forward without a second thought, wrapping himself in his father’s arms as the sheriff rubs at his back and murmurs into his ear.

It’s close, intimate, and all too sharp a reminder of what Derek doesn’t, can’t, have, so he gives them a moment, then clears his throat.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” he starts, and begins to step away, but then Stiles is peeling himself out of his father’s arms, eyes big and earnest as he reaches for Derek’s hand.

He captures it, weaving his fingers between Derek’s like there’s nowhere else they should be, and Derek’s heart hiccups like a traitor in his chest.

“No, Derek,” Stiles says, his face happy and his smile sweet, “stay?”

#softderekhale #stereksanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

25 notes · View notes