#I was expecting an emotional gut punch and I didn’t even get a split lip

[cultivating-wildflowers]

finishing a book, staring at the cover for a minute, and going “huh. ok.” before carrying on with my day

[sinnabonka]

If you wish hard enough

Dean’s never been one to expect gifts from anyone, let alone God himself, but today he's gotten the best gift he could ever wish for, on AO3

Dean wakes up to a gentle caress on his cheek. It feels nothing like Miracle's wet slimy wake up call that's become a part of his daily morning routine, and he jolts, hands scavenging the sheets for his gun.

The emptiness under the pillow makes Dean’s guts flip, but his mind keeps searching for options. He remembers there’s a pen knife hidden in his boot under the bed, a demon blade in the jacket hanging on the doorknob, plus, there is always a lamp on the nightstand he could effectively fling.

Instead, running the numbers, he decides first to shed some light onto the scene, and paws his way to the switch and flips it.

He winces when the white dim light floods the room.

As his eyes refocus, he blinks, mouth falling open. Swallowing, his throat clenches around the fragment of a sound ready to escape. His fists ball on the comforter on both sides of his thighs as his stomach careens into the endless and weightless feeling of falling.

The light is weak, the outlines it draws are smudged and blurry.

“Hello, Dean.”

The room floor tilts like a ship deck in a storm, and Dean finds himself grasping on solid surfaces of the furniture in a rushed attempt to get out of the bed. His lungs ache at the lack of air to fill them up.

Dean makes one unsure step, then another. His knees buckle, but with the last ounce of strength he forces himself to stay upright.

He reaches out to what has to be a ghost, because what else can it be, and as he does, his fingers are trembling. A hopeful thought struggles, drowning in the white noise inside his skull.

And then there’s a touch.

“Cas.”

Dean chokes on the word, the one he kept whispering in the middle of the night for the last few months trying to speak it into existence. The name he was too broken and hurt to say out loud knowing the sound of it would defeat him if he did. The name he was sure he was never meant to say again looking into those familiar blue eyes, now staring back at him, expecting.

“Cas,” he repeats, finally finding the solid ground. His voice is low and trembling, but unlike all the times he’s been sobbing it half asleep, his voice is not hollow anymore. It may be a bit too emotional than Dean cares to admit.

“Hello,” the ghost repeats with an unsure smile.

“Hey,” Dean says back.

It’s just a moment before an unknown force pushes him forward. His hands fly, touching, grasping, pulling in. Dean abruptly exhales as the air gets punched out of him in a single moment when their chests collapse against each other.

“Cas,” he whispers, burying his face into the crack of Cas’ neck.

The wrinkled fabric of the trench coat under his palm feels real, so does the warm, soft skin under the pressure of his cheek and the hand slipping up to rest across his back in comforting circles.

Please be real. He squeezes his eyes shut and allows a single loud sob escape his lungs.

“I’m here,” says Cas, but Dean is not sure if he hears it or feels the vibration of the voice, pressing too hard to the source of it. “I’m right here, Dean. It’s alright now.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again. I thought the Empty…”

“Some things are beyond their control,” Cas says with a smile, before pulling away.

“But why?” Dean shakes his head at the way the question sounds and asks instead: "How?”

“Jack says hi,” Cas smiles knowingly.

It’s a short moment of silence between them, a moment of long-awaited comfort and relief, and Dean’s afraid to spoil it with words. He leans in closer and lets both his hands rest on Cas’ shoulders. He catches himself thinking that if he lets go, looks away or blinks too slowly, Cas is going to disappear, dissolve into nothingness, leaving him alone in the dim light of the bedroom.

He slowly shakes his head, staring into Cas’ eyes, as if gathering the fuel for his own bravery. He clears his throat before speaking up.

“I need to say something,” he starts, each word weighed and measured. “Last time you bailed on me and didn’t give me a chance to, so now I’m gonna jump straight to the...”

“Dean, I…”

“Goddammit, Cas, let me finish. I’m not the talking kind, you know that. This one is long due.” He clears his throat again, though it’s nothing physical he can simply cough out. Dean tries again: “I need to say it, okay? I never thought I’d get a chance, I’m still not sure I’m not daydreaming over a book or something.”

Cas looks as if he was about to interrupt him again, but never does.

“I promised myself that if I ever see you again, it would be the first thing I say, okay? No maybe laters, no tomorrows, just here, now, a’right? Last time it took Thee Death literally knocking at the door for one of us to speak up.” Dean smiles nervously. “That’s not happening again.”

Cas’ eyebrows raise, but he stays respectfully silent.

“I’m not losing you again, you hear me? So you gotta cut this self-devotion-take-me-instead crap. From now on, none of that. Clear?”

Cas nods, not sure if he still is not allowed to speak.

“Good,” Dean says with a dead serious expression etched across his face.

His heart is loud inside his chest, the even thuds echoing through his temples. He can’t think of what he’s doing even for a split second or he’ll find a thousand and one excuses not to. And he can’t afford it, not this time. His hand lands on the back of Cas’ neck and he inches closer, suddenly short of breath.

“Dean...”

“Shut up,” he huffs, freezing for a moment with his eyes glued to Cas’ mouth. He licks his own lips, he curses silently, and comes the rest of the way in one movement.

When their lips meet, Dean shakily exhales and sinks into the kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers against Cas’ mouth, as if just hearing it was not enough, as if Cas had to taste the sincerity of those words to believe them.

“I love you,” he repeats into the kiss, and he misses the moment when Cas’ hands wrap around him and press them together firmly.

“I love you, dumbass,” he smirks, “and I am not losing you again. You hear me?”

“Of course,” Cas answers.

It takes them another few minutes before they break away. Breathless, blushed, they look at each other with unmistakable fondness.

“What time is it?” Cas asks suddenly.

Dean looks over his shoulder on the clock, but for a moment can’t make out the numbers jumping under his blurry vision.

“Ten past midnight,” he says finally, and follows with, “Why? Gotta be home before you turn into a pumpkin?”

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas says, instead of reflecting on the joke, and plants another quick kiss on Dean’s lips. “Jack asked to wish you a happy birthday, too, and to remind you that if you wish hard enough for something, it’s sure to come true. I guess it was him…”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupts, his face warming up, “Yeah, I know what that's about.”

He rests his forehead against Cas’, eyes squeezed shut, and thinks of how it took him forty two years to finally take his first full breath.

He's never been one to expect gifts from anyone, let alone God himself, but today he's gotten the best gift he could ever wish for.

“I love you too,” Cas whispers, and Dean’s heart sings to it.

He smiles at the thought of how later today, when he will be blowing out candles on his birthday cake, he will have nothing left to wish for.

[honeytae]

I can’t wait to create more memories with you.

hi my loves! so this is a super fluffy little piece about jungkook and his s/o moving in together - it starts out on moving day and there’s a little flashback to when the topic of moving in together was first brought up :) it’s overall just really cute idk i hope you guys like it <3

tags: @ahgasearmyfan, @hoseokayy

genre: fluff

word count: 2.8k

Slowly turning the handle to enter your apartment, you tried your best to mentally prepare yourself for what you would inevitably see. That didn’t seem to work, though, since it felt like an absolute sucker-punch to the gut. 

The space looked brand new; a completely blank canvas for its next tenants.

Walking into the empty apartment you used to call your own now felt heavy instead of homey. The path to your bedroom felt routine, but slightly shaken with the absence of all your things. Photos of your family no longer occupied the walls, that little throw rug you’d picked out for the summer had been cleaned off the floor, and the various vases of flowers your boyfriend surprised you with were no longer kept front and center on the table against the wall. 

And even though those items were still in existence, even though everything was still intact and far from gone, it still made your heart clench a bit in your chest that they would no longer be here.

Rounding the corner to enter your bedroom, you leaned your shoulder against the door frame for a moment, admiring the pristine openness of your room in its empty state. You couldn’t recall it ever feeling so big.

Heaving a deep sigh, you let your legs carry your body over to the bay window, taking a seat on the ledge to peer out at the view one last time.

At the sound of Jungkook calling your name, you glanced back to the doorway of your bedroom, staring at your boyfriend as he tipped his head at your unreadable expression.

Although he’d been lifting boxes all throughout the morning and afternoon, somehow he barely looked strained. In fact, he was still annoyingly attractive. He had his grown out hair tossed back into a bun (with one of your hair ties), and he was wearing plain black shorts hidden beneath one of his many oversized t-shirts.

How he could make it all look so good, you had no idea.

“Hi.” You said, the man wordlessly approaching you with a run of his palms down his thighs, crossing the room in only a few long strides to get to your swinging legs.

“I didn’t expect to find you in here. You okay?” He asked, his brows pulled together as he took a seat beside you.

Taking a stray strand of your hair between his fingers, he pushed it back from your face, subtly analyzing the emotions written into your features with dancing pupils.

Immediately wanting to ease him, you leaned forward, pursing your lips underneath his jawline before letting your chin rest on his shoulder. 

Wrinkling your nose at the odor rising from his t-shirt, you tilted your head slightly to escape the smell, unbeknownst to Jungkook.

“You’re sweaty.” You observed, the man craning his neck to look down at you, comically raising his brows at your bluntness.

“I’ve been working!” He defended himself, making you chuckle a bit before picking your head up to smile at him.

“I know you have.” You said appreciatively, leaning forward to press your lips to his when he subtly puckered them out to you.

“Saying your goodbyes?” He offered in explanation to your presence in the apartment, having already successfully gathered every last box there was to take.

You laughed at that, nodding a bit in response.

“In a way.” You shrugged, letting your temple fall on his bicep with a sigh. Shifting your eyes down to your leg as Jungkook grabbed ahold of your thigh, you smiled as he lifted and draped it over his own thigh, drumming his pointer fingers on your muscle.

Feeling his lips purse against the top of your head, you let your eyes fall shut, the distant sound of birds outside the screened window behind you letting you zone out into a much more peaceful space than your mind had been in previously.

It was the only serene moment you’d had today. From movers bustling in and out of your apartment, your mom coming to help you label and sort all your boxes, your neighbors poking their heads in to the chaos to finally nose their way into seeing the layout of your place in comparison to theirs; it had been a lot.

“Are you gonna miss it here?” 

Peeling your eyes open at Jungkook’s sudden question, you lifted your head to properly look at him, curiosity evident in the slight widening of his eyes.

“Hm. The memories it holds, more than anything.” You answered, watching as he nodded in understanding. “I never liked the kitchen layout.” You added as an afterthought, causing the man to burst into giggles before shaking his head at you.

“I don’t think the kitchen was too bad. Although I love our kitchen.” He grinned at the emphasis he could officially put on the word, you sharing the same reaction at the phrase. Our kitchen. Our new apartment.

“I’m so excited.” You all but squealed, the man chuckling as you squeezed him tighter to you in your excitement.

“Me too.” He said, smile slightly closing his eyes as his face creased with the strength of his happiness.

“Remember how nervous you were when you first brought up moving in together?” You wondered, peeking over at the closet across the room that had started it all.

“I do.” He chuckled, making you smile as your brain took you back to the event that had taken place only a few months prior, in this very room.

“Hey.”

Looking up from the heap of clean clothes at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice, you had eyed a pouty Jungkook, raising your eyebrows at his expression as his eyes briefly fixed on the clothes before focusing back on your face as he shuffled into your bedroom. 

The tone and facial expression that Jungkook greeted you with had your eyes widened slightly, examining his approaching stature, his eyes squinted at you accusingly.

“Hi.” You responded, laying Jungkook’s clean boxers on your thigh to straighten the fabric before you creased it.

“Are you hiding something from me?” He asked, causing you to tip your head in confusion as you stared back at him, bottom lip jutted out slightly. 

“Not that I know of, no.” 

Jungkook’s eyebrows raised at that, walking further into the bedroom to approach where you sat on the mattress folding a fresh load of clean clothes. 

You watched as his eyes searched the pile, sighing dejectedly before turning back toward the closet to rummage through it some more. 

“What are you up to?” You asked, Jungkook’s actions stalling only a bit when he picked up on the annoyed tone you used at his messing up of the rack of clothes in there. 

“I’m looking for my hoodie.” He explained his actions, causing you to roll your eyes behind his back. 

Jungkook seemed to have an emotional attachment to each and every one of his hoodies, even though he had hundreds to speak of. Every time you borrowed one, he tracked you down and made you give it back. 

It was never in a mean way; he only wanted his stuff returned, and you understood that. But at a certain point, it was just annoying. 

“Which one are you looking for?” 

“It’s the black one with the blue flames on the hood.” He recalled, scanning the row of clothes for the design before grunting in disapproval upon coming up empty-handed. 

Shaking your head, you sighed as you diverted your eyes back to the clothes awaiting folding. You could still hear the man rummaging through the plethora of hung items over your music, pressing your lips together in slight annoyance at the stubborn man. 

The closet in your bedroom was now a fifty-fifty split of your clothes and Jungkook’s. You couldn’t recall when he had started keeping clothes there; you suppose it just happened naturally as he spent more and more time with you. 

In fact, you were going on two years. You had picked up his habits and him some of yours, you knew all his little quirks and vice versa. Including his necessity for keeping all his precious hoodies in check. 

“Why must you fret about each and every one of your hoodies' temporary absences?” You sighed, the man mumbling an “ouch” as something fell out onto his foot. 

“Because I know someone,” he looked back to you for emphasis, “likes to steal them and then I never get them back. I swear you’re renting a storage locker for my hoodies just so I can’t find them here.” 

At his dramatics, you merely sighed again, going back to folding your t-shirt before you paused, looking up to stare at the back of his head. 

Thinking back, you could picture the black hoodie in a heap on his bedroom floor the other day, tossed aside after some activities between you two and obviously forgotten about by your boyfriend. 

“Did you check your place?” You asked, Jungkook’s actions pausing at your words before he slowly spun around to you. 

His face was plagued with guilt, cheeks full in a different kind of pout than the bratty one he’d greeted with as his sweet doe eyes came out to play. 

“Ugh, sorry.” He said, cheeks heated before he made his way over to you, landing on the mattress with his head resting on your thigh. 

You chuckled at the embarrassed pout on his face as he nestled his head into your leg, staring up at you with a ‘hmph.’

“I just can’t seem to keep track of what’s at mine or yours.” He explained, you nodding with a fond smile as you brushed hair back from his face. 

“I know. You just get so damn protective over those hoodies.” You teased, the man scrunching his nose at your cooing tone. 

“It is really difficult to keep track of what is where.” He sighed, looking up at you with a gleam in his eye that told you he was thinking something he wasn’t saying. 

“It is. What’s going on in here, baby?” You tapped your pointer finger against the crown of his head, the man smiling shyly as he grabbed your hand in his. 

“Why don’t we,” he trailed off, hoping you’d get his hint so he didn’t have to come out and actually say it. When you only stared at him in response, he sighed, shaking his head to negate what he’d been saying causing you to grab his wrist with a pout.

“Why don’t we what?” You asked, jutting your bottom lip out at the disappointed look on your boyfriends face, smoothing your thumb over the corner of his mouth to ease his frown. 

“Well, you know,” he shrugged, “since it’s so hard going back and forth between each other’s places,” he trailed off, groaning when you only smiled back at him, eyebrows raised in amusement as you waited for him to continue. 

The look on your face told him you knew. The gleam in your eye told him you knew exactly what he was trying to articulate. 

“Baby,” He groaned, realizing you were messing with him as you pulled begging eyes down at him. He removed his hand from yours, pulling it away with a pout as you chuckled at his reaction.

“What, Kook? What’s on your mind?” You continued playing dumb, wanting to drag the words you’ve been waiting so long to hear out from the man. 

“C’mon, why are you making me say it if you already know?” He whined, you giggling as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Because I want to hear it from you. And I like seeing you squirm.” You smirked, the man scoffing underneath you as he recaptured your hand in his own. 

“Baby, my sweet angel, the brightest star in the entire universe-“ 

“Jungkook!” You laughed, lightly squeezing his hand as you grinned down at him, his teeth shining up at you as he shyly blushed at the words in his brain. 

“Can we move in together?”

“Hm,” you hummed, the man’s eyes bulging as he slightly panicked beneath you, “give me some good reasons to.” You smirked again, your boyfriend gasping at your words before he took control, flipping you over to hover above your frame as you squealed at the sudden action. 

“You brat.” He leaned his forehead down to yours, effectively silencing you with a kiss to your lips, your fingers tickling at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“For one,” he started, “you wouldn’t have to hear me complaining about my missing hoodies anymore. I can make a mean cup of tea, I’m really good at laundry, I-”

You cut the man off with a press of your lips to his, silencing him with a muffled noise as his hand squeezed at your hip. 

“You don’t have to give me any reasons.” You mumbled against his lips, feeling them curl into a small smile as he made a noise of delighted surprise. He knew you were only teasing, but he couldn’t believe you hadn’t dragged it out longer. 

“Really?” He grinned, causing you to giggle beneath him out of sheer fondness.

“Yeah, I’ll move in with you.” 

“Really, really?” He grinned, his doe eyes sparkling at you as you nodded to confirm, laughing at the man’s goofy repetition of the question you’d already answered. 

“So, we’re actually doing this? We’re moving in together?” He raised his eyebrows, face melting into a grin as you brushed his hair back from his forehead. 

“I think we’re ready, don’t you?” You smiled, the look of absolute happiness on your boyfriends face almost making you tear up as he all but hugged you to his frame. 

“I know we’re ready, baby.” He nodded, kissing you again as you both continued smiling like idiots. 

“Wait, how do we do this?” You asked, Jungkook furrowing his brows as he pondered your question.

“Huh. I don’t know.” He chuckled, you giggling along with him before sighing in thought. 

“Do we want to look for a new apartment altogether?” You wondered aloud, Jungkook bouncing his head back and forth in thought, hair moving with his head. 

“We could. Do you really want to leave here, though?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise when you shrugged in response, raising your hand to cup his cheek lovingly.

“I don’t care where I live as long as you’re with me. What about your place?” You offered, Jungkook mirroring your earlier response with a quirk of his shoulders up to his face. 

“You’re my home.” He put simply, laughing when your bottom lip jutted into a pout, pressing kisses over your face as your eyes filled with water out of pure adoration for the man. 

At the memory, you felt your eyes water again, looking up at Jungkook with a pout. Your boyfriend, wrinkling his nose at your expression, poked at your bottom lip, tutting his tongue at you.

“What happened to not caring where you lived as long as I’m with you?” He teased, squeezing your shoulder with a smile.

“I still feel that way, Kookie.” You assured him with a grin, taking his hand as he wiggled his fingers out to you.

“Good. We’re going to create so many more memories in our new home, I promise.” He said, baring his teeth to you again as he felt you squeeze your fingers around his hand.

“I know. I can’t wait to create more memories with you.” You sighed dreamily, leaning in for another chaste kiss on the man’s tempting pout. 

“So,” he leaned his forehead against yours, “are you feeling ready to leave now?” 

His words were soft, but they weren’t spoken with tentativeness. There was obvious excitement in his tone, an emotion that had you wanting to spring off your bay window and never look back. 

“Let’s go.” You smiled, coming to a stand as Jungkook remained seated, grinning at you in amusement at your sudden change in attitude about leaving this place. 

“Alright, boss.” 

With a grunt, he came to his feet, never letting go of your hand as you made your final stroll through the apartment together. 

Passing through the years’ worth of memories within the walls, you both took a silent few steps before pausing in the entryway, giving the place one last glance before meeting each others eyes with small, matching smiles.

Turning the handle to your front door for the last time, you let the latch slide closed like you had so many times before, tick-tick tacking as it came to a secure shut.

Shutting the door behind you, simultaneously opening a new one. 

[the-cult-of-russo]

No Going Back (part 2)

Pairing: Billy Russo x Reader 

Request : Hey love, can you please do a part 2 to “no going back” where the reader is with a new partner that treats them better and shows how happy y/n is (after a few months of heart break) & billy is upset and dealing with the aftermath of his actions - regret - or not being able to find someone like reader. I’m in the mood for sad!billy because my heart broke for myself in the last one lmfao, they could meet again with y/nS new partner idk go crazy babe!

A/N: Welcome to the Land of Pain. Enjoy the deep rooted sadness and heartache lmao why am I so invested in Sad!Billy? Like really, let me give him a hug or something 😂 this one kind of took on a life of its own and I couldn't help the comforting at the end lmao sue me.

Also, I keep the description of the new partner vague so you can imagine whoever you want. Personally I was thinking Charlie Hunnam because 👀🙃 but this way you can picture whoever. 

Warnings: cursing, some angst, heaps of sadness and despair (for Billy), very much Sad!Billy. Lil bit of fluff too

You never thought you'd find happiness, not after Billy. But sometimes you find things when you least expect it, or they find you. You'd spent months healing after what happened with Billy and at times you honestly thought the pain wouldn't stop. The saving grace was the fact Billy actually kept his distance and didn't contact you. At first you weren't sure if that hurt more or not. But the clean break allowed you to heal and you knew deep down that's why he did it. It had been hard knowing he loved you, that he wanted to fix things. If he had just been an asshole then it would have been easier to get over him. You could hate him. But you couldn't. Part of you would always belong to him but you had to move on. And you did. 

Jacob was a great guy and you'd met through a friend. He took you on dates, doted on you. He was there and he listened and he treated you amazingly. And for the first time since Billy, you hadn't compared Jacob to him. Previous dates were always measured up to Billy but when you met Jacob, you didn't even think about your past lover. 

You'd been with Jacob now for 4 months, it being half a year since the split with Billy. Everything was looking up for you and you finally felt like things were on the right track. You still thought about Billy sometimes. Wondered if he was okay, what he was up to. You couldn't help it. You just hoped one day he'd find happiness too. It hurt that he hadn't allowed that with you but you hoped he'd let it happen with someone one day. 

-------

Billy had experienced pain in all forms in his life. The pain of abandonment from his mother, from the shit in the group home, being in the marines and everything after. He'd always dealt with it. Picked himself back up and moved on. He got back up every time and was always stronger for it. But this time… this time he was weak and he couldn't do a damned thing about it. 

Losing you, all through his own bullshit fault, had been by far the worst thing he'd ever been through. The worst kind of pain. Being shot in the heart would hurt less than the agony and waking hell that had been his life since you begged him to leave your apartment 6 months ago. It felt like only 6 days ago yet 6 years at the same time. It was a never ending spiral of darkness and despair. 

And it was all his own fault. His inability to just be a normal fucking human with emotions had ruined the best thing he ever had. He deserved this pain. He deserved every bit of it. He'd done a lot of bad shit in his life but this was the worst. He couldn't get your face out of his head. How you looked at him with such betrayal and hurt. And he'd caused that. He'd caused those tears to stream down your face, he'd caused that pain. So he'd wallow in his misery and take every inch of pain he was in because he deserved it all. 

He'd thrown it all away, and for what? The sex with the other women hadn't even been good. He hadn't enjoyed it because it wasn't you. And then after, the guilt would eat him alive. But he kept doing it. He couldn't stop himself because he was overwhelmed. He loved you. He actually fucking loved you and he didn't deserve you at all. He never thought he'd love anyone. Didn't think he was capable of such a thing, yet here he was. And he never thought in a million years that anyone would ever love him. His own mother didn't, so why would anyone else? He kept replaying over and over when you told him you loved him that day. The pain had ripped through him like C4. He'd fucked up so badly and he couldn't fix it. He'd finally had a taste of what it was like to be loved and to love someone and it was snatched away in a heartbeat because of his own actions. 

He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. He lost some weight and was well aware of the dark circles around his eyes. He'd taken to drinking every night just to numb the pain and hope your face didn't haunt his dreams. He hadn't even slept with another person since. He couldn't bring himself to. He was a mess. All he wanted was you and he couldn't have you. 

------

You and Jacob were on your way to a little cafe you frequented for lunch. You felt happy, radiant even as you both walked hand in hand. The weather was warming up and the sun bathed you in its warm glow as you walked. Everything felt right. Just as you got to the outside of the cafe, his phone rang. 

"Shit, I need to take this, babe," he sighed. You smiled up at him, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"It's okay. I'll see what they have today," you smiled. He gave you a wide smile, kissing you softly before he stepped away a bit to answer the phone. There was no anxiety. No wondering who he was talking to. You felt settled and content. 

You glanced through the window of the cafe where they displayed fresh baked sweet treats. They had different ones every day and you pressed up against the window, eyes glancing around as you tried to decide if you wanted a glazed donut or a cinnamon bun. Probably the donut.

"Y/N?" The shocked voice felt like a splash of cold water. You knew that voice anywhere. You turned around to see Billy, wide eyed as he stared at you. He looked… oh Billy. Your heart ached at the state of him. He was still in his fancy suit with his hair neat and slicked back. But he looked exhausted, his dark eyes sad. It hurt.

"Hey, Billy," you murmured with a soft smile. You thought about what it would be like if you saw him again. You thought it would bring all the pain back. The anger. But you were hurting for a different reason. You were hurting for him this time. 

He glanced at the floor, looking somewhat out of place and his usual confidence seemed to be left at home. When he glanced back up at you, looking at you through his lashes, he looked like a lost boy. 

"You look good," he said quietly. You smiled sadly, shifting where you stood. 

"You look tired," you countered softly. He chuckled, the noise hollow sounding and you'd be a liar if you said you didn't miss him. Part of you wondered if you could have stayed friends but you didn't think it would help.

"Yeah, I'm uh… not sleepin' so good," he shrugged like it was nothing and you frowned. 

"Billy-" you started, only to be cut off by Jacob coming back over and wrapping an arm around your waist. 

"Sorry, I'm done now," he smiled down at you, kissing your cheek. It wasn't done as a display of possessiveness like Billy would have. It was simply affection. But you saw how Billy's jaw clenched, eyes hardening as he looked at him.

"Uh… Jacob, this is Billy. Billy, this is Jacob," you said carefully. You didn't need to say that Jacob was your boyfriend. It was obvious and you didn't want to rub salt in Billy's wounds. Jacob's brows raised a little, arm moving from around you as he looked at Billy. 

"Oh. It's a pleasure to meet you, I've heard a lot about you," Jacob said amicably as he extended his hand. Billy glanced at it like it was a poisonous snake before glancing at you. You gave him an imploring look and he swallowed thickly before shaking Jacob's hand. 

"Nothin' good, I bet,'' Billy smiled bitterly. Ouch. That hurt. 

Jacob looked at Billy hesitantly with a small smile. 

"Actually… Y/N had nothing but good things to say about you. Except for how it all ended but… there were a lot of good things," Jacob said softly. It made you smile. You'd told him everything about you and Billy and he'd never seen it as an issue. And the fact he was trying here really meant something to you.

Billy looked taken aback for a moment before his face schooled back to the mask of indifference he'd wear often. He glanced at you then at Jacob again as Jacob gave your hand a squeeze.

"I'll get us a table and give you two a minute," Jacob murmured to you. It wasn't lost on you how he purposely didn't kiss you like he normally would. He wasn't petty. He wouldn't hurt Billy or rub it in his face. 

Once Jacob was inside you looked at Billy as he glared off to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

"Billy… I'm sorry, I…" you frowned. You wished he hadn't found out this way. Not when you saw how badly he was hurting. He chuckled humorlessly and shook his head.

"Don't … Don't do that," he bit out. 

"Do what?" You asked with a frown. His obsidian eyes turned to you then, full of such pain and sadness that it felt like you'd been punched in the gut.

"Don't… apologise to me. I don't deserve shit," he muttered, jaw clenched. 

You took a step closer to him and he looked down at you, rolling his shoulder a little. 

"Look… you fucked up. It happened. But I don't … I don't hate you, okay? I never could. I don't want to see you hurting like this," you lamented. His lower lip wobbled a little before he clamped down on it with his teeth, glaring at the floor with glassy eyes. 

"You should hate me," he replied tensely. 

"Well I don't. I forgive you. I don't know if that's helps or anything but… you need to forgive yourself, Billy," you said as you moved closer, looking up at him. His eyes met yours for a moment before he looked away. 

He was so tense, hands in his pockets as his shoulders were set and his body was rigid. 

"Does he uh… he treat you good?" He asked, voice strained as his eyes drifted to the window of the cafe before back to you. You nodded, worried if you vocalised it that it might hurt him more. He scrunched his nose a little, his shoulder rolling again.

"He make you happy?" He asked quietly. It sounded like it brought him great pain to even ask and you looked away with a sigh.

"Billy…" you frowned, not wanting to answer. 

"Just… please. Does he make you happy?" He asked again, a little firmer this time. You met his eyes as you nodded. 

His jaw ticked as he nodded stiffly, glaring off to the side.

"Good… good, you deserve to be happy," he muttered softly. 

"So do you," you replied sincerely. Black eyes snapped to yours then as he scoffed. He opened his mouth to no doubt say something fueled by self hatred but you spoke before he had the chance. 

"I'm serious. I want you to be happy, Billy. You need to allow yourself to feel things and one day you'll get that. You'll find happiness one day," you implored.

He blinked at you for a moment, his eyes shining from moisture.

"I want that with you. And I know… I know I can't. I know we can't fix this. But I just… I don't think I could find that with someone else," he admitted softly. He looked so sad and it was wounding you. You hated seeing him so vulnerable and lost like this. It was so far from the Billy you knew and loved. This Billy was the Billy that woke from nightmares about the group home or from when he was overseas. The Billy you'd comforted many times before. It always hurt you when this side of him was out. 

"There'll always be a part of my heart with your name on it, Billy. I'm sorry it didn't work out but it doesn't mean I don't care at all," you breathed. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a shaky breath at your words. 

"This… this is why I never deserved you. You're too good for me, too kind and… caring. I don't deserve somethin' precious like you. I don't deserve anythin' good," he muttered bitterly. You knew this spiral well. How he got in his own head and went down the rabbit hole of hating himself. 

You took another step towards him and wrapped your arms around his neck. You just wanted him to be okay. To stop hurting. He may have hurt you, broke your heart, but you didn't want this for him. You wanted to comfort him and this was the only way you knew how. You felt his arms wrap around you, one fisting your shirt and the other in your hair as he held you close. He buried his nose in your hair and inhaled deeply. 

"Stop hating yourself. Do it for me. I hate seeing you like this," you whispered forlornly as you held onto him tightly. 

His hand in your hair tightened a little and you could feel a slight tremor running through his body. 

"I'm a mess without you," he lamented, slightly muffled by your hair. 

"You need to allow yourself to move on," you replied softly. You went to move away but his arms tightened and you allowed him to hold you a moment longer. He'd called you his anchor once. You hadn't really believed him but now it seemed like he was floating away and you were the only thing tethering him here. 

He pressed a kiss to your hair before releasing you but you didn't step back too far as you blinked up at him. 

"Maybe we… maybe we can…" he trailed off uncertainly and your chest constricted painfully. You really hoped he wasn't going to ask for another chance because shooting him down in the state he was in would kill you. 

"I wanna… could we be friends? I won't… I won't get in the way or anythin', I just… maybe if I could text you sometimes? Just to know you're okay?" He asked hesitantly as his dark orbs flit to the window of the cafe before back to you.

You weren't sure if it was a great idea. You didn't know if it would help if you were honest.

"Billy… I don't know if that's a good idea," you murmured sadly. His eyes bore into you, pleading and desperate.

"Please? I know that I-I can't have you. Not the way I want. But I need you in my life, even just as a friend. You not bein' there at all… it's left a gaping hole and I…" his hand went to his chest, rubbing over where his heart was. 

"Okay, you can text me if you need me. But only as friends," you relented, stating the last part firmly. A small smile graced his face then, eyes lighting up ever so slowly. You hoped this wouldn't be a bad idea. 

"I appreciate it. And… as much as it hurts… to see you with… Jacob. I am happy for you," he said Jacob's name like it pained him but his eyes were sincere as he looked at you. It made you smile a little. 

"Thank you, Billy," you murmured. He gave you another small hesitant smile as he nodded.

"I'll uh… let you get back," he said with a nod. Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him again, around his middle this time as your head rested on his chest. He didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around you tightly. His hand going to your hair like it always did. You could hear the rapid thumping of his heart in your ear. 

"It was good seeing you," you said softly. You meant it too. 

You always thought it would be difficult seeing him again, and it was in a way. It hurt seeing him this cut up about it. But it wasn't how you imagined it would go. You weren't angry at him, you didn't feel the same pain you did on that day. The only pain you felt was for the broken man in holding you. You wanted to comfort him and you'd missed him. He'd been a constant in your life for a while, even before you officially got together. 

"It was good seein' you too," he sighed, squeezing you a little. When you stepped back, he gripped your face and for a moment it startled you. But he planted a firm kiss to your forehead before stepping back. Once again, you allowed him that. You couldn't help it. 

You gave him a soft smile and he returned it with a sad one of his own. You forced your feet to move as you made your way into the cafe. Jacob was sitting there patiently waiting at a table with a coffee and a donut waiting for you. You grinned at him as you sat down and he leaned over to kiss your cheek.

"Everything okay?" He asked softly, stroking your cheek.

"Yeah," you sighed. You really hoped Billy would forgive himself for everything that happened. He didn't need to punish himself like this. 

"Good… he'll get over it one day. Just give him some time, babe," Jacob murmured as if he knew what you were thinking. You gave him a warm smile as you laced your fingers with his. 

You hoped he was right. You hoped that being friends with Billy would work and maybe help him. You still weren't sure if it was a good idea or not but he seemed adamant it would help him. It was hardly how you ever imagined it would go but it was how the cards fell. All you could do was wait and see what happened and hope that maybe you could help Billy through it. It was kind of upside down and all ass upwards. Helping the man that broke your heart get over you. But you still cared about him and you'd do whatever you could to help him through it.  

[thesupersaiyanprincess]

So yeah, here we go again, a highly slightly revised version of Splits' Chapter 1

It's set in some kinda AU where you're a saiyan and there are other saiyans alive and on earth, as if more than just Gokus parents sent them off to earth as babies to start a better life not just to destroy it. Perhaps part of the resistance against Frieza?

I'm expecting this to top out at like 10 ish chapters, if anything probably less, i don't want it to stray to far from the plot or spend another 6 months on it lmao

Warnings include: violence, emotional abuse, very dark Vegeta, sexual themes, choking but not in a good way

Word count: ~1,600

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

                      Chapter 1                      

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

You’re sitting in the living room, bored, surfing the channels on the TV when you hear the front door click. Your face lights up at the sound that you know means your boyfriend is home, and you run to the hallway to greet him. 

“Hey 'Geta,” you say with a smile as you plant a kiss on his cheek. You know he hates it when you’re cutesy like that, but you like riling him up. Little did you know, today was not the day for it.

“Get off of me, woman.” Vegeta shoved you away from him harshly and made his way to the bathroom after taking off his shoes at the door, he didn’t even look at you as he barged his way down the hall. There was definitely something wrong, even if he didn’t like kisses he never reacted like that. Something was up, and today you were feeling especially brave so you decided to follow him down the hall and grab his tail. Bad move. He swung around in an instant pinning you by your throat to the wall.

“Don’t. Touch me.” he said with a growl in his voice before throwing you to the ground and continuing down the hall. 

“'Geta that hurt, what’s the deal with you today Mr. grumpy pants?” you said in a huff as you picked yourself up from the ground, patting down your jeans. “I thought we talked about this; no aggressive wall pinning unless I ask for it.” He didn't stop or turn around to look at you. “Oh, so you're just going to ignore me then, that's great, I guess I'll just go back to watching TV since you’re being a big grump.” you waited a second longer to see if you'd get a reaction, but no, he just kept walking and eventually made his way to the bathroom, locking himself inside as you walked back to the living room.

You wondered what could've happened today to make him so irritable. When he left this morning he wasn't mad, so something must've happened while he was out training with Goku. Maybe Goku reached a new form and Vegeta was jealous? No, that's happened before and all he did was rant about how it should be him who gets to unlock new forms, not that stupid, low class, pathetic excuse of a Saiyan, Kakarot. He was the prince of all Saiyans after all, and he should be the one with all the power. No, this was something else entirely, and you were starting to worry what could have made the mighty Vegeta so angry. 

Against your better judgement, you decide to go knock on the bathroom door. “Vegeta! Open up! What's the matter?” you shout through the door, hoping he can hear you over the running water of the shower.

“Go away! Go make yourself useful and cook me something, woman” of course that's all he would say. Damn these Saiyans and their insatiable appetites. 

“No, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re mad.” you plant your feet outside the door as you hear the water shut off. After a moment he unlocks and opens the door with a towel around his waist. He always looked so good right after a shower, silky hair wet, tangles framing his face, water droplets glistening across his gorgeously broad Saiyan chest. He truly was a sight to behold. 

“Get out of my way” he said to you as he tried to emerge from the bathroom, you were blocking his way and he really didn't like that. “Move now, or I’ll move you myself.”

“And what if I don't, what’re you going to do to me?” you said with a smirk on your lips as you stared seductively into his eyes. Usually when he was mad you could make him forget about it for a while with sex. Today was different however, and instead of pinning you to the wall and devouring your mouth with his, he gave a blow straight to your stomach, instantly knocking the wind out of you and making you crumple to the floor. He stepped over you and headed to the bedroom to get dressed. 

“Food woman. Now. Don’t give me more reason to be mad at you.” he called over his shoulder as he entered the bedroom. As you were curled up on the floor, clutching your stomach and gasping for air to finally reach your lungs, you couldn’t help the thought that maybe he didn’t love you anymore from crossing your mind. A thought that threatened to bring tears to your eyes. But you were stronger than that. You stood up shakily clutching your stomach for a moment before straightening up and walking after him into the bedroom.

“What the fuck 'Geta!? What's wrong with you? Why’d you punch me in the gut like that!?” you yell at him with an anger that made the air crackle with energy. “I thought you loved me 'Geta! How could you hurt me like that? What did I ever do to you?” You hated to admit it, but you're an angry crier, and the hot tears came spilling from your eyes as your hair flickered flecks of blond. Even though you had reached Super Saiyan form yourself, Vegeta was still 100x stronger than you on a good day, let alone when he was angry.

He ignored you completely, dropping his towel and putting on a fresh pair of briefs. He acted like you weren’t even there at all actually as he picked out some clothes to wear. Taking his time to sift through his messy chest of drawers to find his favourite shirt. Black and skin tight with Shenron and the DragonBalls printed on the back, it hugged his muscles in all the right places. It was your favourite on him too and for a split second you forgot your anger and stared at how the fabric clung to his still dewy skin. It all came flooding back when he turned to face you.

“Did you not hear me? I said food. Now.” he snarled through gritted teeth. He hated it when you didn't follow his commands, but right now he wasn't your master, and it was so not sexy of him to treat you like this. 

“If you want food you'll have to make it yourself. I'm not cooking for you until you tell me what's wrong.” you say back to him, with the same amount of force, trying to make your voice sound as demanding as his to no avail. No matter how hard you try, you'll never get his aggressive tone of voice down pat, you just sound like a pissed off chew toy and it makes you even angrier. 

“Whatever.” He grumbles just loud enough for you to hear as he continued to search for some pants. 

“Whatever?! That's all you're going to say?” you yell as you stare at him in disbelief, one more dismissive or demanding word from him and you were going to snap. “What about an apology? For shoving me, then throwing me, then straight up punching me!? Are you even listening to me, Vegeta?” You pause for a long second to see if he’ll say anything, and when he pulls up his pants and heads for the door, that's it. You power up to Super Saiyan and block the doorway, glaring at Vegeta, daring him to step closer. 

“Silly woman. You think that just because you're a Super Saiyan, you can stop me? How pathetic.” he said, his voice hollow and cold as he goes Super Saiyan Blue and picks you up with one hand by the throat and holds you off the ground. “You couldn't stop me with both my hands tied behind my back,” he sneered at you before throwing you into the wall outside the bedroom door, almost knocking you unconscious as your head hit the wall at full force, leaving the plaster cracked. Your energy faded and your hair returned to its regular dark colour as your vision blurred and your ears rang from the impact. 

He walked over to stand above you, laughing menacingly. “You're weak and pathetic. The only reason I kept you around was so that you'd cook and clean for me. Oh, and so that I can fuck that tight little pussy of yours.” The edges of your vision started to go dark as he picked you up against the wall by your throat again. “You are nothing but a toy for me, a sorry excuse for a Saiyan. So low class I wouldn't let you shine my shoes with your spit. But you cook good and don’t complain whenever I want to fuck, so you’re not completely useless.” he squeezed your throat tighter, “I want you to know that I don’t want you anymore. I never loved you, not one bit. I was only using you for my own satisfaction. And now that I don’t want you, there's no reason for you to keep breathing.” as he said this, he was gradually squeezing your throat tighter in his grip. You didn't understand what was going on, Vegeta had never been what you'd call affectionate, but he was never so mean. The Vegeta you love would never say such harsh things to you, or hurt you in any way what so ever unless you were fucking and asked for it. In fact, he put several higher ranking Saiyan's in the med pods because they were antagonizing you for being the weakest Super Saiyan. The sudden change in him had tears pouring from your eyes as you tried harder to keep from passing out. “Now be a good little weakling and go to sleep for me.”

“'Geta… p-please… d-don’t… hurt… m-m…” You managed to spit out between desperate gasps as you faded from consciousness. 

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

So whatcha think? Please leave comments and likes, I'll also be posting this over on my AO3 when i can figure that out haha

Always remember, reblogs>likes <3

[tooweirdforyou]

Hi-yo💙 hope your having a great day/night i was wondering if i could request Zoro with a female reader confessed to him but he says no cause he want to focus on finishing his dream first.

You could end it how you want to i wont mind

Zoro Rejecting A Confession For His Dream

A/N : ;-; my heart hurts. Too angsty for me, especially it being Zoro too? God. 💚😖 thanks for requesting and I hope you enjoy.

note : I fucking loved this when I finished.

Summary : Zoro receives a confession. He rejects it to pursue his dream. However..

-

“I’m sorry, but I can’t return your feelings.”

You feel yourself forcing a weak smile onto your face as you nodded once at him, already understanding his rejection towards you.

You had just finished your confession to him, standing in front of him on the hill with the cherry blossom tree in center, it’s petals falling down on the both of you.

“That’s what I expected..” You mumble before seeing his brow raised and him about to speak. You quickly waved your hands to dismiss it.

“I-I mean, I just understand is all, I can’t force you to reciprocate my feelings or anything, you have your own choice!” You restated, offering a better smile to the swordsman.

Skeptical, Zoro just sighs softly and brought a hand to his hip, gliding over the hilt of his swords as he did so.

“I’m sorry, [Name]. I made a promise that I’ll be the world’s greatest swordsman, and I can’t have anything hold me back.” He firmly states, hands at his sides as he stares at you, waiting for your reaction.

You only smile softer and nod at him, which surprised him a bit. He didn’t think you would understand nor take his rejection so well.

“Of course. You have a dream and I don’t want to be in the way of that. If that’s what you wish, then I’ll support you from the sidelines.” You genuinely spoke, placing a hand on your chest as you smile warmly at him.

You couldn’t do anything but smile at him with closed eyes, ignoring the aching in your heart as your heart strings tightened inside.

Clutching your shirt a bit, you hoped to ease the pain that was building up as you tried to keep the smile on and prevent the tears from falling. You weren’t going to show weakness now, not in front of Zoro especially.

Zoro’s expression softens when he sees your forced smile, your eyes hiding the small, pained and hurtful look in them and small tears that were forming.

He already had an idea of your feelings, yet he never said a word. Only continuing to be close with you and enjoying time with you up until your confession to him just now.

He feels regret building up in him, aching his chest at the sight of you trying to stay strong for him. It made him sad and hurt but he couldn’t give up his dream now. Not when he was nearing the end of his goal. Even if he still had much to learn.

Looking down a bit, he bit his lip and exhales quietly.

“Thank you.. and.. I’m sorry.” He repeats gently, looking away and brought a hand up to his neck, rubbing it a bit. He wasn’t sure what to say anymore.

Honestly, if he wasn’t so focused on his dream, he most likely would have accepted your confession. He noticed he had some small feelings bubbling up inside him too, but he always suppressed it down.

He felt weird around you and knew it was feelings but if he let his emotions get the best of him, he would never get the title of world’s greatest swordsman.

“It’s okay, really, Zoro. Don’t apologize for having a dream. Don’t apologize for having a goal in life. You’re doing everything to achieve it, and I love you for that.”

Glancing to you, he saw the small tear drop falling down your cheek as you quickly wiped it away and continued to have a smile on your face.

His eyes widens slightly as he ignored his gut punching him inside, telling him to ignore his dream and take you into his arms right now.

“Though.. Can I ask you one favor?”

Zoro brings his hand down from his neck and furrows his brows slightly. “What is it?”

You smile softly and shake your head to shake off your nerves and look straight at Zoro.

“Can I kiss you?”

Zoro widens his eyes, taken back by your question. “H-Hah?” You shyly chuckle and rub the back of your neck.

“Can I kiss you once? Then we can forget about everything. I know.. it’s a weird request but, before I have to force myself to move on away from my feelings towards you, I.. I want to feel your lips on mine just once, if that’s okay?”

Zoro felt his cheeks warming a bit, unexpected of your question as he just exhales and scratches the back of his head. “..Fine, if that’s what it’s going to take..”

You smile in relief and bowed your head. “Thank you, it’ll be quick and simple.”

With that, you step closer to him and hesitantly reach your hands up to cup his cheeks.

Zoro stares with his usual expression as he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you close, it feeling comfortable and warm to be in such a position.

You stare into his eyes and ask softly. “..are you sure it’s okay?” You wanted his full permission before you did so.

Zoro rolls his eyes and then closed them, bringing a hand to cup your cheek and pulled your face towards his, and immediately locked lips together.

You instantly melted into the kiss, shutting your eyes as you kissed him back softly, counting in your head for one second, before trying to pull away.

But you couldn’t.

Zoro was holding you close, pulling your head and keeping you there, as he tilts his own and deepens the kiss.

It just felt so right.. as if you two had kissed a thousand times before.

Zoro opens his eyes to look at you as he kissed you, staring at your face relaxing in his touch and felt as the kiss became more passionate.

The petals of the cherry blossoms were landing around you two as you kissed.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was nearly a minute, Zoro let go of you and allowed you to pull away.

“Z-Zoro, I-“

“Shut up.”

In a split second, Zoro grabbed your wrists and pulled it towards him, staring down at you with his eye. He was dead serious right now.

“Wait for me.”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “What?-“

“Wait until I become the world’s greatest swordsman. It won’t be long. Until then, wait for me and I’ll be yours. You hear me?”

You could feel your heartbeat starting to pick up at his words, mixed emotions running through you. “W-Wait?! So you mean-“

“Yes. I accept your feelings. I love you. But I’m not going to be yours until I achieve my goal. Until then, you better stay single until it’s time for you to be mine.”

Seeing how serious he was, Zoro’s lips formed a smirk as he stares at you. “Got it?”

Speechless, you could only just nod slowly, mouth gaped at him. “O-Okay..”

“Good. I’ll be waiting for the day those lips meet mine once more.”

And the cherry blossom petals swayed as they fell gracefully, on both of your heads and dropped down to the ground around you.

The start of a blossoming relationship.

-

A/N : AAAAAAAHHHHH I LOVE THIS A LOT ACTUALLYYY!! 💚😍🥰 I hope you did too!! :D

Y’all really thought I was going to make it end angsty? You got me messed up-

[bakugous-abs]

Ok so,, I'm not sure if this should be two separate asks but here goes - headcanon/scenario where a reader who has never really worked out her feelings crudely and unfiltered confesses to bakugou? How would he react? Does he know or have feelings for her too? Are they both super awkward or does he take the lead? Reader is a bit tsun and considers him a huge jerk so is really confused at how she also finds him hot. Possible scenario is during/after combat training? Much thankies :3

Enjoy!! I really liked this one and you hope you like what ive done with it. It turned out a bit long. Oops - Bomb

.

.

.

Warm sun crashed down onto the training ground, pounding your skin with hot rays that forced your body to sweat. The drops flowed down your cheeks, dancing as the wind knocked them around, making them split and converge with each other till they reached your chin or the tip of your nose where they would drip onto the hard ground.

It sucked to be absolutely honest. The heat was draining as you were forced to move around, dodging massive explosions from a particularly angry training partner. His screams of irritation for you to fight him or die trying bounced off the buildings and into your ears, but they were barely processed in your head.

Bakugou Katsuki. Known asshole to all, a friend of very few, a lover to none. A relentless jerk who constantly bullied his classmates and his supposed childhood best friend. A boy who doesn't even bother to remember the names of those he may be working with in the future. An absolute dick.

He royally pisses you off. He saunters around school without a single care for those he bumps into like he's the best thing this school was graced with. 

And yet. He was extremely attractive. That can be seen by anyone. A strong body structure with an equally sharp face to pair with it. His muscles were extremely toned for a high schooler, and jaw line so incredibly sharp you might as well be able to get a paper cut on it. Skin clear of any blemishes with an ever so slight tan to compliment it.

He was incredibly hot. If only he had a personality to match. Though by the permanent scowl that was imprinted onto his face, you guess it was only expected that he was not very friendly.

You hated him.

So why was it that this asshole could make your stomach flutter, your heart palpitate, and get your cheeks to become a rosy pink whenever he talked to you?!

The scowl that had unknowingly made it onto your face became even more defined. A growl emanating from your throat as you dodged yet another attack thrown at you by the blond, just barely escaping with no more than a graze from a surprised attack from his other hand.

He had no qualms with beating the shit out of anyone he came across to prove his point that he was the top dog, no matter their size or gender. 

You hated how completely admirable it was.

Bakugou let out an angry yell, "Why aren't you fighting me?! Stop fucking dodging me!"

You gave into his request, and landed on all fours, unleashing your quirk. Your vocal cords twisted and lengthened, and you unleashed a powerful roar similar to that of a lion. The sound waves combined with the wind from your voice sent a swirling mass of wind that flew up several thin layers of dust and debris that had collected on the ground. Even a few whole rocks were picked up and flew directly at Bakugou, surprising him.

Truth be told he didn't expect you to obey immediately, and that was a miscalculation that ended in him getting flown back a few feet back. He barely had time to fix his standing on the uneven ground before you came out from the swirling wind, spinning towards him and sending a powerful punch directly into what you assumed was close to his gut.

However you were slow to react to an explosion he let off on your arm that had connected with him, and got burned pretty badly as he was sent flying. A short yell of pain erupted from your throat that sounded similar to the roar from before, your vocal cords not yet going back to the size of a humans. A few more seconds and they would be back to normal. 

The burn on your arm pounded with every beat of your heart, heat radiating off of it from the explosion. Your skin was smoking and the scent of burning flesh filled your nostrils. 

Rage filled your heart as you stared at it, but not because it hurt (even though it did), but because of the fact that he was just so quick thinking. You never would have thought to counteract that, not that you had the reaction time to do so. It was one more thing you admired about him that sent your heart racing whenever you watched him fight. 

You howled in rage in your head. He was so unbelievably admirable and yet such a pain in the fucking ass!

He used this time you were staring at your wound to blast back towards you from wherever he landed and recovered from and taking hold of your neck, pushing you harshly back into a building wall.

"So now you decide to fight back huh?! After avoiding my attacks like a scaredy cat-"

"I am not a scaredy cat you asshole!" You grabbed hold of his arm and hooked your leg under his own and pulled, simultaneously twisting your body and sending him underneath you. 

You could feel the dam of your feelings breaking with every violent touch you inflicted on each other. It seemed you both were venting your anger today. But what the hell was he angry about that he had to take it out on you for?!

"Don't you EVER assume you know how I'm feeling!" The first crack in your dam caused the emotional water behind it to spurt out, the words tumbling from your mouth. Your grip tightened on the collar of his hero outfit, a mix of rage and overwhelming sorrow filled your expression. "You don't know the first thing about what I feel towards you!"

Bakugou didn't expect such an emotional expression to decorate your face. In truth, it surprised him, and he hated the way it made both his heart and his stomach hurt. He was about to retaliate when you began to speak once more.

"I hate you so much! You're such an asshole to everybody! Even your childhood friend if you can even call him that!" You could feel his muscles stiffen at the obvious reference to Deku. "But I admire you in almost every way that I hate you and it makes me sick! I hate how I want to spend more time with you each and every day despite how I know you feel about me!" 

Everything was coming out, you couldn't cry and yet you felt an awful need to. You hated this. Why were you feeling this way?

A sudden slam to your back brought you back to reality. Bakugou had flipped you over, putting both his hands on either side of your head.

"Dont be a hypocrite and assume that you know how I feel about you dumbass! Have you jot fucking realized that I feel the same?! How could you be so smart and top of the line and yet so unbelievably dumb as well?! I feel the same way you do and it also pisses me off!"

You were stunned. He felt the same? What did that mean? How were you supposed to make sense of and know if that's a good thing if you didn't even know what the feelings meant!

And then it suddenly hit you like a truck. You liked him. You had a crush on him. And he had a crush on you too. You both liked each other. And it pissed the both of you off.

Good god you were so dumb.

"Fuck." You whispered. You did not have the mental capacity to deal with this.

"I quit! I tap out!" You yelled, pushing the blond off you with every ounce of strength you had, your adrenaline starting to wear off and the wound on your arm was finally starting to process in your head. You hissed in pain as you held your forearm to your chest and to your heart, trying to hide both of them from the outside world.

"What?! You can't just tap out loser! Come back here and fight me!!" And yelled, going up and grabbing your shoulder, but you slapped it away.

"If you hadn't noticed, baka, I don't want to fight you! Not after realizing I like you! You don't realize how much that hurts, do you?! Take a hint!" You roared at him twirling around, not actually angry but more than a bit defensive.

There was silence behind you for a few seconds as you walked back to the school, hoping to get first aid, until you heard footsteps catch up to you and walk beside you, a gasp escaping your lips when you felt something brush against your hand.

"Dumbass." he grumbled. "Assuming what I'm feeling again." Was all he said as he walked close to you, sticking by your side the rest of the walk back, his pinky curled around your own in a small display of affection. Your heart beat fast, and a blush showed upon your cheeks. You looked the opposite direction.

"Dummy"

[vercopaanir]

He Would Never

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 6

Masterlist for this series

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Words: 2.7k

Summary: The Mandalorian is on a hunt for a bounty, and while you recuperate, you struggle with your protective feelings over him and the child.

Ratings/Warnings: None. If I do miss something, please let me know!

Notes: This chapter ended up being so long that I split it in two! It was really fighting me, so I’m very self-conscious about this one. The next chapter is going to be a bit of a punch in the gut (in a good way?), if I’ve gauged things right. Thank you to everyone who’s been reading, tagging, commenting, and reblogging!!!

AO3

When you explain how you came by the pain in your side, the physician helps you out of your dress to examine you. You suck in a breath when her cold fingers tap along your back and up to your ribs, feeling the tender skin where bruises have started forming. She deduces quickly, trauma to the area of your back having caused significant nerve pain. All you remember is watching the Mandalorian with his son, so gentle and attentive that you forgot yourself. You’d been content in the warmth of their laughter, softened by the affection, and then harsh red lights and blaring alarms and-

“Spend time being thrown against walls?” the doctor asks, her light and teasing voice bringing you back to the present. You turn your head towards her as she moves your shoulders to the left and right to check your flexibility.

“Well...” you puff, face pinched with pain, considering the story that got you into this.

Shaking her head, she sets to work and makes a quick job out of you, narrating every step to keep you aware of what’s going on. “I’m using a micro-sonic vibration injector to administer an analgesic. The pain you’re feeling should disappear in a minute or so.” 

You don’t even feel the injection, which she administers into the fleshy curve of your waist before you can question her about it. She applies a healing sheath around your abdomen after that, and she instructs you not to remove it for a full twenty-four hours. You use your fingers to feel the edges where it lays flat, beneath your bust and down your abdomen to create a comfortable seal that still allows you to move. The sweat on your brow is quickly cooling as the discomfort recedes to a dull ache, as if you’d been struck in the side rather than stabbed by the control switch.

“I’m giving you two sterile heating cloths to sleep with. Try to lay as flat as you can so you don’t put pressure unevenly on your back. Make sure you don’t accidentally lay on anything,” she said, placing the packaged cloths in your hands after you pull your dress back up. “Or anyone,” she adds with a smile.

You blush at that, smiling in understanding, and nod.

Stepping behind you, she helps straighten the collar of your dress before saying, “You know, that hunter who brought you in was quite worried about you.”

You shut your eyes in mortification, rubbing between your eyebrows. Maker, what must he think? It’s been so long since you’ve fallen, not since you were younger and at least a foot shorter. You’re so careful now, and your pride is wounded to think of him treating you like glass, skittish and scared. Your fingers tighten around the cloths she’s given you.

“Pestered some of my staff for a while until he finally left. Wouldn’t sit down. It was making people anxious, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Your stomach tightens at her words, and it’s all you can do to meet her face with your own as you turn around. “He has a lot on his mind,” you mutter, thinking of the child sleeping so quietly back aboard the ship. You can’t stand it knowing he’s alone, and the longer you linger, the worse you feel.

The doctor hums, and you think she must be smiling when she says, “Seems to me you were the only thing on his mind.” 

Her words echo in your ears as you step outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. An odd, prickly emotion builds in your chest as you ruminate, because you know the Mandalorian has the capacity for compassion. His care and love for the child alone are evidence of that, but you wonder where you fall on that scale. You are both a boon as the child’s caretaker and a liability as an extra item on his list to be concerned about. This entire fiasco won’t endear you, and you’re upset with yourself all over again. The confusing feelings sliding back and forth like an uneven scale cause your head to hurt, and the bright sunlight of Tatooine hardly does you any favors.

It takes stopping and asking a pedestrian where the hangar is located before you can make your way to it, and when you enter through the same door the Mandalorian had shouldered you through, the mechanic pops up from being seated at a small table surrounded by her pit droids. 

You come to a stop, your heart dropping on the sandy ground when you see the child in her arms.

“He, uh, found some work. Said he’d be back,” the woman says, bouncing the child, but by the fussy noises he’s making, you know she’s been unsuccessful wooing him to sleep. “The Mandalorian, I mean.”

Your eyes trail to the dark shadow of the Razor Crest, unable to make anything out besides the black, blurry shape of it, before looking back at the child. 

“You two shouldn’t leave your baby alone. A little one like this needs someone to take care of him,” she went on with a disapproving huff, and it was all you could do to stay standing upright from seeing a stranger cradle the child. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t sit well with you.

“May I...please have him?” you ask, holding your arms out and stepping closer. You feel like demanding she give you the baby, a panic ready to bubble in your throat that’s been lying in wait since the dogfight between the Mandalorian and the starfighter. But you can’t bring yourself to it. Your natural inclination has always been pacific, polite, and you don’t like the idea of making enemies.

“Oh...oh sure,” she says, quickly putting the child in your arms. The baby curls into you instinctively, pressing his face near your collar and fluttering his ears in happiness at your familiar scent. You drop down into one of the seats between two of the pit droids, winded and exhausted. The healing sheath keeps you from slumping in any way, but it also prevents the discomfort you felt before from returning. You hug the baby close, laying your cheek against the small wrinkled brow, and close your eyes against the prickle of tears forming under your lashes as relief washes over you.

“I’m Peli, by the way,” the woman says, stepping back to her seat and sounding suddenly unsure.

“Thank you, Peli,” you murmur, smiling when the child grabs a lock of your hair like an object of security. You open your eyes, pale and sightless as they are, and try to meet her own. You are often told you are always just a little off from holding eye contact, but you still try. “I didn’t want to leave him alone, but-”

“Nah, I get it,” Peli says quickly. If you didn’t know better, she seemed uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. “You didn’t look so great before…” She pauses, leaning forward urgently. “He didn’t do that to you, did he?”

You can’t keep the laugh from bursting from your mouth, and it takes you physically putting your hand over your lips to stop yourself, on the edge of exhausted hysteria. “N-No,” you finally say, swallowing hard. “No, he would never.” 

The words hold more truth than you intended, and you’re surprised by them yourself.

“Well, good.” She sits back, satisfied with this answer if put off by your outburst. She cocks her head to the side and says, “Fed him a little while ago. You hungry? You look pale.”

“Oh, I’m alright now,” you say, brushing your fingers over the child’s forehead. “Thank you.”

The truth was, you were spent. If you could lay down, in that moment, you knew you wouldn’t wake up for hours, but the time spent away from the child had unsettled you. Knowing he was alone, and then returning to find a stranger holding him sent a bolt through you that wouldn’t easily be shaken. Even if Peli was a good person, it leaves you feeling discomfited, and you aren’t sure that sensation would go away until the Mandalorian returns. Being at the mercy of others never felt good, but it was all you’d ever known. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like to feel secure no matter where you are. You think the Mandalorian must know what that feels like.

You were also starved for interaction. As Peli went on to say you should at least try to drink some tea, snapping at one of the pit droids to fetch it, you realize that even if she just simply spoke to you, the presence of someone else felt nice, at least for a while. 

“You’re very kind,” you murmur, letting the child sit properly in your lap as you pick up the clay cup with a warm, floral note in the steam. You take careful sips, the soothing sensation relaxing your shoulders.

Peli hesitates. “Started working on your ship. Fixed the fuel leak, at least, but it’s got plenty more fixing to do.” You nod, listening attentively as you continue to sip. “I’m guessing he’s good for the money, since he’s got a couple mouths to feed.”

You set the cup down and nod. “He is. Where did he go? Did he say where he found work?”

“Well, he set off on a speeder bike with some young kid. Probably your age. They were making their way out towards the Dune Sea,” she pauses here, rubbing her chin. “He told me to tell you not to wait up.”

A smile curves your lips, thinking of the last time you’d tried and failed to wait up for him. Then, a small thought that he could be gone overnight occurs to you, and you frown, rubbing your arm.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“What’s someone like you doing with someone like him?” 

The question is not what you were expecting, and the surprise must show on your face. You rest your hands on either side of the baby, furrowing your brow. “I’m...sorry?”

“I mean-” Peli’s frowning, now, you can hear it. She slaps her hands on her knees. “Bounty hunters aren’t really known for being friendly. When you two stepped off that ship, I thought he’d kidnapped you. You seem like such a nice girl.”

Your response is immediate. “And he’s a nice man.”

“You sure about that?” Peli challenges, and your hackles go up. Your social capacity is quickly filling as your energy wanes, and you wish once again that you hadn’t gotten hurt in such a stupid way. It isn’t as if you ran for miles or got stabbed. Maker, you fell over. “Look, I didn’t mean to step on your toes,” she says when you’re silent for too long. “I’m just...surprised, is all.”

“I was a slave,” you say quietly, feeling your heart quicken to utter the words out loud. You had gone for so long without saying it that it felt like a sacrilege. “To a man on a planet closer to the rim. Before that, I was an indentured servant to an Imperial family, and-” You stop, feeling a tiny three fingered hand rest on your wrist. You look down to find the child staring up at you, his small mouth pursed in worry. You smile at him, lifting your other fingers to trace his ear. “-and the Mandalorian freed me, when he could have walked away. I don’t know why he did it, but it is the first kindness I have known in a long time.”

“That’s a fine thing to do,” Peli allows, her voice shrewd. “And you’ve never asked him why he did it?” 

“I assume he needed someone to take care of this sweet thing,” you say, tracing the shape of the baby’s ear and smiling wider when he sighs against your hand. “That’s what has made the most sense to me.”

“Well, you seem to be doing right by the little one. Just don’t let that bucket head leave him alone anymore,” Peli adds, standing up and stretching her back. You smile good-naturedly and nod, standing up yourself. 

“I think I’m going to rest. If he comes back, will...will you tell him that I’d like to see him?”

Peli pauses, hesitating at your turn of phrase.

You snort and wave your hand. “You know what I mean,” you say, walking off towards the Razor Crest.

“Right! Sure!” she calls, sounding anything but.

You climb aboard the ship, managing to make it up the ladder and shuffle into the cockpit with the baby in your arms. It takes you longer than normal to get him to relax, even once you’ve tried to tuck him in. Perhaps he’s still keyed up from all the excitement of the day, from meeting new people? You sigh, kneeling by the co-pilot chair that holds his cradle, and you begin stroking his ear. When his movements slow, a little smile curves your lips, and you start to hum. It isn’t any particular song-you don’t know many-but the combination of gentle touches and a soothing voice has his big, blinking eyes slowly drooping. Soon, the only sound in the cockpit is the soft snores coming from his tiny nose and mouth, and you step out into the passageway once you’re sure he won’t wake up.

The pain in your side has all but disappeared, only a faint tugging sensation when you move too quickly. You consider going back down into the hull to sleep in the bunk, but the thin padding of the cot providing no support doesn’t inspire your enthusiasm. Perhaps you could use your next bit of earnings to invest in better sleeping arrangements.

An idea strikes you, then, remembering when the Mandalorian crossed into the room across from the cockpit to dig out the cloak you’d borrowed on Quanera. Perhaps you can find something else to pad the cot with.

It takes you a few moments to find the door’s access panel, but when you open it and step inside, you’re hit with icy air. It’s completely dark, and you frown gently as you walk forward. The room itself is small, which is unsurprising for such a ship as the Razor Crest, but what does surprise you is when your legs bump into a short ledge. You nearly fall face first forward and catch yourself with your hands, landing on something...very soft.

A bed.

A real bed.

The sheets are tucked in military fashion without a wrinkle, a thick woolen blanket folded at the end. There’s one pillow, plump and firm, without any indentation. You realize you’re in the Mandalorian’s quarters and shoot up straight, biting your lip. 

Considering your own bunk, you trail your fingers over the soft sheets and sigh with longing.

You shouldn’t. You should really sleep in your own bed where he told you to stay on your first day aboard-or even moreso, in the cockpit with the child. Even though the air is frigid in this room, you have the sterile heating cloths and the softness beneath your fingers is more tempting to your body than any sin you could have committed.

Mesh’la, he called you, and you don’t know what it means, but the memory makes your heart ache. It’s a decision in itself.

It takes only a small bit of fumbling with your dress to pull it over your head, and you lay it across the foot of the bed, slipping your boots off quickly after. You’re left in a thin tunic and your underclothes, the healing sheath still hugging you around your middle. By the time you climb beneath the sheets and pull the blanket around you, the cold air has chilled you through, but the heating cloths on your back and side warm you up. You sigh in relief, allowing your body to sink into the cushioned mattress, and your head falls back onto the pillow. You’ve left the door open for a bit of light, and to make it easier for the child to find you, but it doesn’t truly chase away the scent lingering under your nose.

Forest and skin and soap, you think, having smelled it so many times passing by his beskar. It’s faint, though, and you wonder when the last time it was he allowed himself this bit of comfort. The room felt uninhabited. You knew for a fact he often slept in the pilot’s chair, near the child, and as your eyes begin to fall shut, you promise yourself to make sure he sleeps in it from now on.

-

Mesh’la - Mando’a for “beautiful”

Taglist: @lavenderl3mons​, @itzagoodthing​, @letaliabane​, @yodaswrinkles​, @kateb013​, @catsnkooks​

(Please message me if you’d like to be tagged! I don’t tag unless asked, because I never want to assume and bother someone. Thanks again!!!)

[weasleypogues]

caught (j.b.r)

so thankfully someone pointed out to me that i completely misread a request and mixed it up so here is a sistermaybank x john b!! im so sorry to whoever requested it but i hope u enjoy this one!!

i kinda got a little carried away and made this very long so bear with me

master list.

having jj maybank as your older brother came with everything you would expect. you did crazy shit with no repercussions or care. but there were other times where you would balance each other out because, at one point, someone had to use their senses and be the rational sibling. you two shared so much in your life that it was difficult to even think of doing things without him by your side.

however, one of those things you did without him was to date his best friend, john b. but hey, it’s not like you and john b weren’t friends initially either. when jj and john b first became friends, you weened yourself right in like the annoying little sister because you admired your brother and were basically attached at the hip. you liked the idea of having your own personal bodyguards but that didn’t mean that you couldn’t rock someone’s shit when you got the chance. but most of the time you preferred love not war, unlike jj.

when you and john b first got together, it felt like walking on eggshells. you’d tread lightly and watch your words carefully around jj and the rest of the pogues. yes, you trusted kie and pope with your lives, but it wasn’t fair to make them carry around that secret for the sake of your relationship. you weren’t sure why you kept it a secret from jj. i mean if he chose john b to be his best friend, that had to mean that jj found john b’s qualities and loyalty worthwhile and admirable. 

what you wouldn’t admit to john b, and barely wanted to admit to yourself was a different reason to not tell jj. because jj wasn’t the only person you were keeping this a secret from. you wouldn’t dare tell your father that you were dating someone. because someway, somehow, he would make that the reason to stir the pot to you, jj, or both. you would hate yourself if you were the reason for another bruise on your or jj’s body. so, altogether you decided it was best to keep it a secret to prevent anyone from getting hurt. 

it was a saturday morning when you woke up to a text from john b, you smiled to yourself at the mere thought of him. meet me at the chateau in an hour. you quickly hopped out of bed and went to pack a bag for the day. as you weaved through empty beer bottles and random trash on the floor, you tiptoed to not wake your father up. you peaked quietly into jj’s room and saw he was passed out as well, taking a mental note to leave him a post-it or send him a text to wake up to to let him know you were going to be gone when he woke up. 

after brushing your teeth and throwing on a bathing suit and a pair of shorts, all you needed was your phone and a water bottle from the fridge. treading lightly on the creaky floors, you began to walk towards the kitchen until you heard footsteps from behind you. your hands got sweaty and your heart sunk into your stomach.

“where you goin’ this early in the morning?” you father said to you in a husky and slurred voice. 

“just out with a friend on their boat for the day.” you responded with a slight smile to play it nonchalantly. if your father saw anything but a content look on your face, you knew he would pick apart your emotions and facial expression if you didn’t act like everything was a-okay. 

“who’s this friend?” your father interrogated, with an unpleased look on his face. you soon came to realize that no matter how normal you acted, he would still be the same old jerk no matter what. “is it a friend that left this in your room a couple of days ago? because i sure as hell know this don’t belong to you.” 

you saw his hand lift up a dirty and slightly faded black bandana, wrapped around his knuckles. fuck. 

“oh my friend gave it to me one day actually-” you responded quickly and nervously. it felt like your body went numb because you knew that there was no way in hell that this situation would end well.

“don’t lie to me, (y/n)!” your father yelled, with a look on his face that you knew too well but it would still leave you frozen in fear. it seemed a lot of the time that jj was the one to fight back because jj could take punches here and there and put on a front for everybody. you weren’t gifted with easily putting on a facade like he was so you would try your absolute hardest to extend the argument long enough that eventually your father would just knock out from the alcohol and that would be the end of it. 

“what the hell is going on?” jj walked out of his room with a tank top and shorts on, rubbing his eyes to get adjusted to the extreme sunlight in the living room. 

“is this yours, boy?!” your father raised the bandana higher and his face got redder as his eyes pierced themselves into jj’s path. jj quickly shook his head. he has no idea why his father brought this up to him but jj had no other reason to lie about it not being john b’s because yet again, no one knew of what was happening between you and john b.

“it’s john b’s.” jj answered, almost like a cadet to a colonel, following orders and meaning no disprespect. although jj wanted to disrespect his father to the end of the world for everything he put you two through. however, once those words came out of jj’s mouth you knew everything from here on out would be completely downhill. 

“it was in your sisters room actually.” you didn’t dare look around at jj. you could only handle one glare at a time from this family. although, you were surprised to hear jj back you up.

“dad, she can do what she wants.” jj responded, with no emotion to not set him off. however, whatever anyone responded with was going to stir the pot. 

“don’t talk back to me, you little shit!” you father huskily shouted at your brother. he took a couple steps towards jj and you knew this was going to get physical. you allowed the tears to well up in your eyes for the millionth time if your life because of him. 

you quickly whipped around and your blurry vision made it hard to see who was throwing what punches. it wasn’t until one loud thud to the ground was when you realize that jj had knocked your father out and looked up at you, blood dripping from his lip and nose. 

“let’s get out of here.” jj blankly stated and you nodded quickly as you ran to get your backpack and phone and basically booked it, trailing behind jj’s footsteps. you figured that his feet were taking him to the exact place that john b had told you to meet him: the chateau. you weren’t sure if this was the best idea or the worst. jj used the chateau as his safe space after things would get bad with your dad but you weren’t sure if that was the case this time or he was on a mission to find out why john b’s bandana was found in your room. 

you anxiously picked at your cuticles with your hands to your sides, nervous to hear the first word that would be spoken between you two. but you knew it had to come eventually but you didn’t know if you had the guts to be the first one.

“explain to me why the bandana was in your room.” jj asked, his voice softer than you expected but when you looked slightly up at him, his jaw was clenched and his eyes stayed darted in front of him as you two continued to walk. 

“i don’t know how you want me to answer this.” you responded, with your head slightly down because if jj looked over at you, you couldn’t look him in the eyes after he took a beating because your dad decided to snoop in your room. 

you weren’t sure how long you were walking and how long the pauses were in between each thing spoken but you ended up at john b’s house in no time. your eyes glanced up as you saw your boyfriend hop down his front steps and give you two a smile before his faced dropped seeing 1. your terrified face, 2. jj’s bruised and bloody face, and 3. the fact that he only invited his girlfriend over so why was his best friend here looking like he was going to rock his shit? 

“uhh, hey guys...” john b greeted, unsure how to approach the situation. when his eyes flickered to yours for a split second, you just gave him wide eyes back because you too were unsure about how to even begin. 

“are you dating my fucking sister?” jj asked, shoving john b slightly. john b stumbled behind as his jaw slightly dropped and he put his hands up in defense. this was your cue to go and try to break it up.

“no man! i mean yes but like we can explain!” john b responded, seemingly coming up with the worst responses ever when confronted with something like this. you weened your way to stand in between them.

“yes jj, we are dating! can you let us explain?” you practically yelled because you knew if you spoke in a normal tone, that anything you say would not get through to him because of the blood pounding in his ears from adrenaline. and because he would probably ignore you regardless. 

“no! there’s nothing to explain. this is clearly a secret you two fucking kept from me for how long? a month? two months? more? jesus christ if it’s any more i’m punching your teeth in, john b.” jj exclaimed, as his jaw clenched even harder and the veins on his forhead became more prominent. 

“just two months! okay?! can we all calm down and talk about this like regular people?” you slightly pushed jj, not letting him get any closer to john b. you were always afraid of this outcome but you never pictured it being like this. “you can’t just go around hitting people when things don’t go your way! just pull a ‘dad’ while your at it and beat the shit out of your best friend.” 

“don’t bring dad into this (y/n).” jj said through clenched teeth, although his face softened at the idea of you comparing him to your father. it was jj’s fear to resemble any quality that your father had and to hear that come out of his little sisters mouth hurt him. 

“look i didn’t mean it like you were dad. but clearly it doesn’t work when you both think violence is the answer. so can we just sit down and we’ll explain everything to you?” you asked, your voice softening as you threw your hands to the side in defeat. jj took a deep breath in before flickering his eyes between you and john b. he just nodded in silence and he lead the way to john b’s front porch and sat on the couch. jj simply waved his hand in the air, prompting you two to explain. 

you took a deep breath and let everything spill. you and john b had kept the secret from him because you were scared of how he was going to react. you two basically kept it a secret from everyone to spare them any stress. and you spilled to the both of them that you were keeping it a major secret because if somehow, someway, word got back to your father that you were dating someone, he would lose his shit. 

“look, me and john b didn’t plan for this to be the way you found out. and i didn’t plan for this to be the way that dad found out. and if i could go back i’d tell you immediately to save you from what happened back there. but i can’t. just know that i love you and john b. you’re my brother for fuck’s sake. your feelings matter the world to me but i also wanted to take myself into perspective and make myself happy. we aren’t doing this to punish you whatsoever, i did it because i can’t see myself dating anyone else.”

and with that you grabbed john b’s hand and rubbed your thumb back and forth on the back of his while he squeezed yours in response. jj lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair with his free ones and let out a deep breath he had been holding in.

“i really love your sister, man. i would die than let anything hurt her and would beat myself up if i was the one who did. i couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.” john b said, with the most sincere tone. a long, deafening silence followed and you felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

“look...you guys are going to have to let me get used to this. i know you guys’ve been together for a while but ease it up in front of me, this is all just like super weird for me right now. i guess i should be happy that it’s john b and not some douchebag kook.” jj responded, rubbing his hand over his face because he felt overwhelmed. “and as for dad, i’m sorry it went that way. but next time there’s a secret like this, you can tell me. i’m blood for fucks sake.” 

you gave your older brother a small smile and nod before getting up and taking a couple steps towards him. your approach quickly prompted him up and you pulled him in for a hug. 

“not too much pda in front of me also. and i’m keeping a hawks eye watch on you, john b. thin ice, brother, thin ice.” jj said, pointing his two fingers to his eyes and that pointing them at john b. you laughed and slightly shoved jj.

“gotcha, bro.” john b responded chuckling and than gave jj a bro shake. 

“soo... boat day?” you spoke up sheepishly, hoping to start the day fresh as you gave puppy-dog eyes to your brother and boyfriend. 

“you call kie, i’ll call pope and then we’ll head out.” jj answered as you excitedly pulled out your phone to call kie. as you placed the ringing phone up to your ear you felt a kiss on the top of your head and an arm snake around your waist.

“at least it’s out of the way now.” john b whispered to you, as you nodded and looked up at him before kissing him. 

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Don’t Be Over Me

John Wick x Reader (A/n-this should have been the third part of The Arrangement, but I got distracted and ended up writing this)

Warnings- Angst 

Blinking slowly, Y/n hoped the motion would brush the hurt out of her eyes while the long sip of her martini would numb the ache in her heart. Why wasn’t he hurting too? Hadn’t he ever cared, or had they simply been words cast out to reel her in? She wished she knew; Y/n definitely had the courage to kill a man with her bare hands, but approach John after they’d broken up? She could never. 

It happened a month ago, but still, it hurt like hell, and didn’t help that John seemed to have already been over her. Their break-up had been his idea- if it were up to Y/n, they’d still be together, but John had pushed her away, with the flimsy explanation that he wasn’t looking for a commitment. He’d tried once and it hadn’t turned out the way he had expected, and now that John was back in the life, the last thing he wanted was to be attached. Y/n though, Y/n loved John, adored him, messy, bloody past and all; she’d had the same kind, though unlike him, she wanted more than a casual, label-less involvement. But instead of trying with her, John had chosen his own path, walking out of her house without even a second thought.

It killed her, more and more everyday, but Y/n had done her best to put on a brave face. Even if he’d broken her down, shredded her heart, Y/n wasn’t going to let it show. If she did, she’d feel like she’d lost somehow, like it was just a game; John would ruin her and then they’d see who was better at coping. Arguably, he had an advantage. 

In his life, John had done a  lot, more than most, he'd killed, survived, made hard calls, loved and lost. He'd made countless decisions, and had regretted few. At first, breaking up with Y/n was just like that, a decision that he wouldn't regret; he loved her, but she wanted commitment and something that was lasting. But John wasn't ready for that, it had only been a couple years after Helen and he'd only just rediscovered stable ground in the criminal underworld, so naturally, cutting off their relationship seemed like the best way to go. At first, it was okay, she was better off without him anyway. But then it happened, maybe he'd have been okay if he hadn't been there right at that very moment, that movie moment, where one party regretted everything that had led to that very specific moment;

She laughed.

And because the world was a cruel, cold, unforgiving place, it just had to be genuine, full bodied, melodious laughter. She’d thrown her head back, loose tresses grazing the navy silk fabric constituting the back of her blouse and her eyes slipping closed, long, dark lashes fanning the tops of her cheeks. John hadn’t seen Y/n laugh like that since their split, and when it happened, and he realized he wasn’t the one making her rousing that reaction, in fact, he wasn’t even privy to the reason. That was how disconnected he was from her. Really, it should have been okay, it was what John thought he wanted. 

But instead, it hurt, like hell. Like someone had punched him in the gut then drove a knife through his chest.

After that evening, in the Continental's lobby, when she was checking out and he was checking in, every time John saw her, the knife turned; slow enough so he’d be sure to soak up every agonizing ounce of pain. He’d let Y/n go, and now, she was okay without him.

All while he was falling to pieces.

He’d never let her see though. 

That was why he was sat at the bar in the Continental’s lounge, fingers loosely closed around a half-finished, crystal glass of his favorite bourbon, stealing glances at her through the maze of patrons, as Y/n sat in a secluded booth, all by herself with a martini. John knew exactly how that martini was made; gin, always gin, never vodka, top shelf vermouth and a twirl of lemon peel instead of an olive. He recognized the dress she was wearing too; a short, black, velvet strapless one that hugged her curves and rode up her thighs when she sat. Her hair was held up in a high ponytail, strategic strands falling over her face and boasting her diamond earrings, she hardly ever wore her hair like that, but John always thought it looked nice when she did. But that night, Y/n looked better than nice, better than pretty or beautiful. She looked exceptionally stunning. Unattainably gorgeous. Light years better than he deserved. 

And she was perfectly fine.

No quiet tears or sunken eyes. No paled cheeks or quivering lips. No sniffles or fidgety posture. Instead, Y/n was okay. Sipping her drink without a care in the world, leaned back into the leather upholstered cushions with her legs crossed and her stoic gaze cast towards the uncaring sea of people. Occasionally, someone would stop by and she’d trade hushed words with them, sometimes chuckling quietly, other times just offering a soft little quirk of her deep red lips, waving briefly as they’d leave her to return to disturbed solitude. 

It was wrong, and utterly selfish, but John hated seeing Y/n like that. He hated that she was okay while he felt like he was dying inside. At least if she wasn’t, he could somehow summon up the courage to walk up to and admit defeat. Say the words that would ensure things went back to the way they were, “I’m sorry, I made a mistake.” But surely, he couldn’t do that when Y/n didn’t even seem to miss him. As far as he could tell, the only person John had hurt was himself. 

What was her secret for getting over him so quickly? 

Didn’t she ever love him?

When, eventually a man, younger than him but still older than Y/n, one he didn’t know very well, stopped at her table, talking for a bit before sliding in next to her, John’s stolen glances turned into a full on stare. At times, when some unknowing person or the other would temporarily interrupt his sight, John would groan quietly, hoping they’d somehow get the message and move out of his way. He needed to see. She couldn’t be over him that quickly.

But Y/n was.

Because soon chatting turned into low whispers, with heads drawn in, and then, whispers turned into huddling, and huddling turned into his lips on her neck. John had kissed her neck, as she emitted hitched, low breaths and soft pleading moans. His lips had traveled down her neck, slow, with his hot breath fanning her pulse erotically, just the way she liked it. He’d tasted Y/n’s skin, felt its softness and sought haven in her warmth. Her fingers had threaded through his hair and her bare leg, brushing his thigh had awoken something in him that John hadn’t felt in years. It was never just sex, it more than that, all encompassing, protective, soothing, it was love. 

And John had thrown it away, just so he could see her tangled up with someone else in a low lit bar. Her was drink forgotten, her eyes screwed shut in pleasure as Y/n’s new companion let his hand paw at her waist. Maybe to John it looked more provocative than it was. Maybe he was just a jealous, sore loser who couldn’t stand seeing the woman he loved give herself to someone else.

Maybe he was just too weak to have kept her.

But ‘maybe’ didn’t matter. Because it was actually happening, she had actually moved on. And now, she was letting her new friend urge her out of the seat, taking his hand as they weaved through the masses. And for a split second, John thought that their eyes met, just as she was being gently pulled along. There was no emotion in her stare though, it was brief and cold, yet John was anything but grateful when he was wretched out by a hand on his arm and a voice interrupting his thoughts, “Hey you.”

It was Addy, old friend and flame. In another life, she might have been the one that got away, but by then, the title had gone to Y/n. “Hey,” he pretended to clear his throat with purpose, turning to face her.

“On the house,” Addy, winked, topping off John’s drink, watching with dilated pupils as he downed it in one go, setting the glass to the counter with a thump, drowned out by the edgy jazz, “You know,” she dragged her lower lip through her teeth seductively, “My shifts a couple minutes from being over, and it's been a while since we hung out.”

John suppressed a smirk, Addy was always one to get to the point. Unfortunately though, John didn’t think he could bring himself to enjoy the company of another that night, “I think I’m just going to turn in,” he slid off the bar stool, fishing through his pockets for a gold coin, “Goodnight Addy,” nodded, slipping it onto the marble top.

“I told you,” she gleamed, sliding it back towards John, “On the house,” that was when she got closer, leaning over, probably standing on her toes so their faces would be within a hair of each other’s, “And Y/n’s already over you, maybe you should let me help you get over her.”

The smell of her perfume, mixing with the heady fragrance of booze was enticingly intoxicating, and John found himself drawing towards Addy. Their lips brushed, though just barely, not really in a kiss, but with enough contact to ignite the first sparks of lust. Besides, maybe if he kept his eyes close and her mouth shut, he could probably fool himself into thinking it was Y/n. “How long?”

“I can be done now,” she tossed a dish towel to the bar top, walking towards the edge so she could slip out and join him on the other side, “Let’s go,” Addy offered her hand, and when John took it, he kept his lips sealed, knowing that the sooner he sunk into the fantasy, they better.

Nothing. That was what he’d offered in his unaffected gaze when their eyes locked. It was what he’d shown when Y/n started leaving the lounge with a man who’s name she hadn’t even registered. John Wick had acted like Y/n was nothing to him when he took Addy’s hand, ready to leave himself. 

Not that she should have been surprised. 

And the worst part? Y/n still couldn’t even bring herself to hate him. In fact, she was jealous, she wanted him to hurt, for his heart to bleed and match hers. She wanted him to sulk up to her and apologize, just so she could tell him to ‘fuck off,’ only to take him back in the end. She wanted something. Anything but more heartache. But that was all John seemed to give her.

Maybe she was better off without him after all.

As Y/n let her mystery man lead her to the elevator, all she could think of was what John was doing with Addy. Were they just going to drink, she knew they had a history, so maybe they were going to do more. It was a dry, hard pill to swallow; the thought of John with another woman, sharing what they once did. Him, touching Addy the way he touched her, kissing Addy the way he kissed her, making Addy feel the things John had made her feel. It wasn’t fair, Y/n wanted that, she wanted that and more. She wanted to love him. 

The cool reflective doors of the elevator opened with an automatic ding, leaving Y/n and her companion to stagger out and towards his room at the end of the hall. By the time he was shutting the door behind them, there was barely a moment to slap the light switch before he was pawing hungrily at the hem of her dress, carnal desire over taking his being. With her fingers tangled in his short shock of dark hair, Y/n fought to sink into the moment, pressing his face to her chest as he crouched lower. But even as she stumbled backwards into the made bed, letting him nearly fall on top of her, still fighting clumsily to get her dress off, Y/m couldn’t do it. It didn’t feel right.

He, whoever he was, didn’t feel right.

His touch floundered about her body, quite unlike the way John's just glided across her skin. His kisses were far too sloppy, noisily trailing down the column of her neck, and all in all, he was in too much of a hurry. On top of that, it was hard to get out of her head, to accept that for a while, that might be her new reality, hook-ups with random men in an attempt to fill a John shaped void, nights spent with someone who seemed woefully inexperienced in savoring pleasure, or worst yet, with the kind of man that didn’t really care too.  

“Stop,” Y/n managed, suddenly shoving him off, immediately standing and regaining composure. Before the very confused man could protest, or even try to convince Y/n to stay, she was cutting him off, “This isn’t gonna work,” she huffed, readjusting the top of her dress, making sure that everything was in its place, “I should go,” and without another word, she turned on her heel, brushing a couple escaped tears away from her lids. 

Sniffing, Y/n stumbled out of the suit, shutting the door behind her, simultaneously as someone else a few doors down did the same. Her breath shook quietly, and she kept her head down, more interested in getting back to her room than seeing who it was. But apparently, they couldn’t condone her unspoken plea to be left alone, and tentatively, they interrupted her walk back to the elevator,  “Are you okay?”

Gasping quietly, Y/n jumped as she looked up at him. John. Looking quite unlike they way he’s looked back at the bar. His eyes were dimmed and his lips agape with surprise. “I….” Y/n trailed off, unable to offer more. Seeing him like that, with the hurt clearly painted on his rugged, handsomely worn features wasn’t half as satisfying as she’d imagine it would be. All of a sudden, she didn’t want to yell, scream or cause a row. She didn’t want him to break down a cry either. Instead, she wanted to make it better, wanted to hold him, tell him that despite it all, she still loved him with her whole heart. “No,” she finally sighed, her breath hitching in a quiet, broken sob, “I’m not.”

John’s eyes shone with mirrored pain, and he sniffled quietly as he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned on his heel to slowly approach her. For the first time, he seemed to be letting his guard down, showing everything that he’d kept hidden from the world. John wasn’t fine, he wasn’t okay, and certainly wasn’t over Y/n. “Neither am I,” he shook his head, his gaze panning to his feet before once again meeting Y/n’s. “It was a mistake,” they were closer than a foot apart by then, and all Y/n wanted to do was melt into his arms.

“Do you miss me?” Her inquiry was sorrowful, and Y/n’s lips quivered. Inside, she knew that if his response anything opposing a ‘yes’ would completely shatter her.

“Everyday,” John stepped closer, reaching for her waist in a leap of faith He seemed almost surprised when Y/n didn’t recoil or shove him away, the way he thought he deserved, “I was wrong Y/n. I don’t want casual, I’m ready for more. But only if it's with you. Please don’t be over me,” he pleaded with soft urgency

“I’m not, bu I don’t want you to just say that just-”

“This isn’t like that,” John interrupted, his eyes begging her to believe him, “I miss you so much Y/n. And it kills me to think that you could be happy without me, because I don’t remember how to be happy without you. I love you, and I promise, I just need one more chance to prove that this is exactly what I want.”

“Promise?” And John’s answer wasn’t verbal. Instead, he kissed her, deep and true, as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. Their tears mixed and Y/n felt like she was sharing the sheds of her soul with John, like they were pouring themselves into each other with just that one kiss. Shared breaths, salty tears and muffled noises held them together, reminding them both that it was always meant to be like that. 

There was no one else she wanted to kiss, there never would be.

“I promise,” cupping her face, John kept their foreheads close, the tips of their noses touching, just before he went in for another kiss, letting the walls around them fade away as they melded in to each other.

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana   @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx​  @danceoftwowolves​

[queenk00k]

but what if we were pure gold all along? jj maybank (chapter 2)

Summary: After the assumed death of their best friend, the Pogues are falling apart at the seams. With Pope and Kiara getting closer and JJ left with nowhere to go, he finds himself left to his own devices. Feeling lost and rejected, his luck seems to turn when he meets Scarlett - a Kook who doesn’t treat him like shit and has an affinity for partying. JJ gets sucked into her world as she promises to help him forget.

How much longer can he keep running from his demons? And what happens when he starts sharing a bed with one?

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, child abuse, angst, sexual content, drug use, underage drinking.

Author’s note: Hi all, this is my multi-chapter fic I’ve been working on. My oneshots & Rafe series have taken off so I thought it was time to share this one too. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 1.9K

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

the one where those damn kooks are charming when they want to be

JJ had never really gotten used to a beating. He knew when to expect one, based off Luke’s mood when he got home, the glint in his eye, the way his tone changed when he spoke to him. Thanks to being scared shitless of his dad for the majority of his childhood, JJ was well attuned to the subtleties of other people’s emotions. Silver lining, he figured. Means he always knew when the other Pogues were pissed at him without them saying anything, always knew when Rafe was looking for a fight.

Didn’t make having the crap kicked out of him any more enjoyable.

“You think I wasn’t going to find out you stole from me, you stupid boy?” Luke spits his words as if they were venom, standing over JJ who’s clutching his stomach in pain on the floor.

JJ looks up at his father, jaw clenched. “I was helping John B, Dad! I thought you’d be happy I was screwing over the cops! We didn’t know about the storm!”

JJ quickly comes to realise that was the wrong thing to say.

Luke’s eyes are aflame with rage, his stare boring holes into JJ as his dad hoists him up by the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall, fists clenched around the cheap cotton.

“Happy?! Boy, nothing about you makes me happy.”

A punch to JJ’s gut.

“You cost me thousands –“

Another blow, this time to his jaw.

“- spend your life doing fuck all except smoking weed-“

JJ attempts to throw Luke off him but the older man is stronger, despite clearly being drunk out of his mind, and he slams JJ back against the wall, knocking a picture onto the hardwood floor in the process.

“And now you’ve stolen from me, you ungrateful, worthless piece of shit!”

Luke slams his fist into the side of JJ’s head and his father’s red face, contorted with rage, is the last thing JJ sees before he falls, unconscious, onto the floorboards.

When JJ comes to, head pounding, he blinks his eyes open slowly and raises his hand to the side of his face. He brings his fingers away from his cheek shakily, notices they’re sticky with blood, touches his lip gingerly and realises that’s split and swollen too.

JJ grunts and moves to roll onto his back before attempting to get up.

Attempting the operative word, as a searing pain in his side forces him to lay back down briefly, hissing at the pain.

Great, he thinks. He’s really done a number on me this time.

JJ lays there for a few moments, staring up at the slightly dilapidated ceiling of the Chateau, listening for any telltale signs Luke was still in the vicinity. He wouldn’t be surprised if Luke stuck around to lay down another beating but he’s grateful for the silence that confirms he’s been left alone once again.

After a few shaky breaths, JJ finally finds the courage to stand to his feet, wincing at the soreness in his body and making a mental note to find an icepack somewhere in the kitchen. Kiara used to be the one to look after him when he showed up at the Chateau after disappearing for days, her gentle touch calming him more than he liked to admit, soothing his bruises and making him feel like someone gave a shit about him.

JJ swallows thickly. He wishes Kiara was here now.

JJ scoffs at the thought and the feeling of tenderness dissipates as quickly as it appears, replaced by the more familiar feeling of bitterness that rises up like bile.

Resigning to the fact that he won’t see Kiara for a very long time because she doesn’t want to see him (conveniently forgetting that it’s not like she has that much choice in the matter), JJ sighs heavily and makes his way down the hall.

JJ ignores the feeling of complete desperation and confusion as he enters his old, dead friend’s kitchen and opens the fridge, silently praying the cops at least had the decency to leave their beer alone.

For the first time in a few weeks, something’s gone his way and JJ cracks open a Budweiser, letting himself smile ever so slightly.

He’s surprised he remembers how.

--

Drinking alone is never as fun as you think it is.

JJ’s sprawled out on the steps of the porch at 1am, beer bottles surrounding him like a shrine, his Zippo the only form of light in an otherwise unusually dark night.

Suddenly, JJ gets the overwhelming urge to take his bike and ride it across the island to Figure 8.

Never mind that he’s drunk, never mind that he knows he’ll find his way back to places that painfully remind him of his friends, and never mind that by taking the risk of going to the other side of the island he could run into a Kook.

Maybe JJ was looking for a fight tonight.

Before he’s had a chance to think rationally (but when does he ever?), JJ is speeding through the streets of Figure 8, past big Kook houses and Kook golf courses, struggling to keep his bike straight as his vision blurs.

He’s doing reasonably well at staying on the road for someone of his inebriated state, and he’s honestly pretty impressed with himself, enjoying the feeling of the warm wind whipping through his hair.

That is, until he realises he’s going past the Crain house and he sees Rose Cameron’s face on a placard and he’s filled with overwhelming rage and he’s distracted and all of a sudden the bike swerves off the road.

JJ panics and makes a futile attempt to straighten up again, but its too late and he skids off the road and is catapulted into a thicket of trees.

JJ groans and pats himself down, checking that he still has all of his necessary limbs. He breathes deeply and squeezes his eyes shut.

Typical, he thinks.

JJ plans to stay lying on the side of the road for the rest of the night, if he’s honest with himself, before a girl’s voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“You know you’re supposed to keep the bike upright, don’t you?”

JJ opens one eye to see someone, a Kook, standing over him. She’s slender and dressed in a white sundress, the contrast stark against her tanned skin, her dark hair tied back in a braid.

JJ huffs. “What do you care, Kook?”

The girl crouches down and looks at his battered face, wincing. It’s not the usual disdain JJ is used to – he thinks he can actually see some pity reflected in her features.

“You look like shit, what happened?”

“Leave me – wait, do I know you from somewhere?”

--

JJ knows he’s a good friend, but sometimes it feels like he’s loyal to a fault.

That’s how he finds himself in the middle of a Kook nightmare, pressed against rich assholes dressed in designer clothes, all for the annual Midsummers party.

JJ’s walking around the perimeter of the country club, looking over his shoulder for Rafe and his henchmen and cursing John B under his breath for putting himself in this situation in the first place.

He’s needing to pretend to be a waiter, so JJ is absentmindedly picking up empty glasses as he goes, feeling grateful he hasn’t had to speak to someone yet.

That is, of course, until he almost trips over a figure crouched down on the patio.

“Woah, you trying to kill me?”

JJ looks down and sees a girl in a black dress, bending down, her fingers wrapped around the neck of a vodka bottle.

“Can I point out that you’re the one in my way? This is a tripping hazard.”

The brunette girl rolls her eyes and gives JJ the finger, but he can tell its not malicious.

“I’ll make you a deal, Pogue.”

JJ widens his eyes in panic. Cover blown.

The girl chuckles. “I know you’re a Pogue. I’m drunk, not stupid. Plus, don’t think I haven’t seen you around at the boneyard.”

JJ hates that he wants to flirt with her, and he clears his throat. “What’s your deal?”

“I won’t tell the Camerons you’re here, practically committing fraud, and you won’t snitch to the country club that I stole their top shelf vodka to spice up my evening.”

JJ’s mildly impressed. “I guess we’re both criminals,” he replies and moves to walk away, before turning back briefly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The girl smiled mysteriously. “Unimportant.”

--

“Yeah. You nearly tripped over me at Midsummers,” the girl replies, holding her hand out for JJ to take, which he does, and helps him onto his feet.

JJ attempts to dust himself off. “Do I get to know your name now?”

She smiles. “I’m Scarlett. You’re JJ, right?”

JJ nods. “How’d you know?”

“I know some people that know you, but it’s unimportant. I’m sorry about your friend.”

JJ doesn’t want to talk about John B, least of all with a Kook. “Right, well, I best get going,” he says as he turns towards his bike, dreading the ride back to the Chateau.

Scarlett looks at him incredulously. “You look nasty as fuck.”

“Thanks,” JJ responds bitterly.

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “You didn’t let me finish. Let me take you back to mine, help you clean up a bit.”

Then, sensing the hesitation in JJ, she adds “At least let me give you bandaid or something, and you can do it yourself if you’re so tough.”

JJ figures there’s no harm in using someone’s supplies, especially a Kook’s, and it’s not like he can go home to anyone else.

He shrugs. “Sure, whatever, thanks.”

--

After Scarlett convinces JJ his bike will be just fine hidden at the Crain property (the Camerons have more pressing issues at the moment, Scarlett tells him, her voice catching), they make their way to Scarlett’s house.

It’s the biggest and most impressive house he’s ever been in, and JJ can’t help but feel extremely uncomfortable at the thought of stepping into a Kook’s home.

“Where are your parents?” He asks, as Scarlett rummages around in her drawers for first aid supplies, his arms folded over his chest.

“They’re out,” she replies simply, and brandishes cream and bandaids at him. “Are you going to let me do this for you?”

JJ furrows his brow and snatches the supplies from her outstretched hand.

“I’m good, thanks. I can do it myself.”

Scarlett nods and sits down at the edge of her bed in silence, as JJ clumsily cleans his cuts, face scrunched in pain as it stings. He successfully places the last bandaid and looks at Scarlett, who hasn’t said another word.

“I, uh – thanks, I guess,” JJ says awkwardly, placing his hands in his pockets. “I should go.”

Scarlett looks at her phone at the time, 3:30am, and shakes her head.

“You can stay here, it’s late and I have a feeling you’re not quite up to the ride home.”

JJ panics, eyes wide, and resorts back to guarded defensiveness. “I’m not sleeping here. I don’t even know you.”

Scarlett sighs. “You didn’t seem to have an issue with that when you came home with me. Look, you can sleep on my couch,” she says as she gestures towards the plush couch in the corner of her large bedroom.

JJ huffs. Kooks, he thinks, but he nods reluctantly.

It’s the feeling of overwhelming loneliness, coupled with the fact that someone actually cared about him, that leads JJ to spend the night sleeping on a Kook’s couch.

taglist (message me to be added to my taglist for all works): 

@letsgofullkook @stargazingstarkey @harrysbbby @socialwriter @thatjohnd @ssjiara @jjsmentalpolaroids @bailspogue @jjtheangel @rafecameron​ @obx-direction-sos​ @pixelated-pogues​ @jjmbanks​ @ims0golden​ @obbx-tings​ @drewstarkey​ @teenwaywardasgardian​ @tembo-ndoto​ @prejudic3​ @starkeymarkey​ @snkkat​ @drewxxrudy​ @pogue-writings​ @pookie-cleary​ @jjmaybcnks​ @shawnssongs​ @obxjj​ @drewswannabegirl​ @curlybrownhairedboys​ @the-moon-looks-old-and-gray​ @peach97​ @k-k0129​ @broken-jj​ @annedub​ @starlightstarkey​ @starrystarkey93​ @jiaraendgame​ @sarahcxmeron​ @overly-b​ @erraaxh​ @pink-meringues​ @rollinsstuff​ @microwaved-timmies​ @iamaunicorn4704​ @a-golden-sunflower-vol-6​ @ptersparkers @jjmaybankx @sortagaysortahigh​ @honeyycheek​ @downbytheouterbanks​ @milamaybank​ @dpaccione​ @hbooth0411​ @girlsru1eboysdroo1​  @moldisgoodforyou​ @surfalldaybaby​ 

[rouiyan]

𝘚𝘐𝘓𝘓𝘠 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘚𝘞𝘌𝘌𝘛 [ 𝘭.𝘥𝘩 ]

⧏ part of the before i met you collective ⧐

synopsis: "how could i ever say no?"

✧ lee donghyuck x (fem.) reader, best friends to loverz

✧ genres : plotless fluff, tiny angst ✧ word count : 2k ✧ disclaimer : swearing

✧ author’s note — guys, hyuck deadass has my whole heart.

“ahh,” you hold your mouth wide open, eyes never leaving the screen, in the direction of donghyuck who had just returned from the kitchen, snacks in hand. he’s in his usual getup of an oversized hoodie paired with basketball shorts, glasses propped upon the bridge of his nose and a messy flop of hair cascading over it. 

he sighs, “geez, give me a break. i barely just sat down.” he pinches open a bag of spicy potato chips and pops one into his mouth before reaching to get another one for you. you’re clicking furiously and muttering various curses under your breath at the opponent and donghyuck's weak heart can’t help but flutter at how worked up you get every time you fail to land a punch. he’s about to put his hand down and wait for a time when you're not so focused but your mouth snatches at the chip and he almost jumps, his hand fearing consumption.

it takes your absolute all before you finally beat the boss, you eyes almost rolling back into your head and refusing to roll back out because of how exhausted they are. school was about to start, in three days to be exact, and if you didn't finish the game now, well, it was now or never. donghyuck sat by your side, mouth full of greasy potatoes, occasionally sipping from whatever drink he had brought. there was no reason for him to be here, he just insisted that he felt you tended to need some emotional support whenever you gamed, claiming that you were always far too 'out of it' to actually care for yourself. he said, as he always does, that it was his job to care for you. and that held true; no matter if you had a boyfriends at the time or not, donghyuck manged keep his word.

turning to look at him, your breath ragged, you see that his hood is pulled well over his forehead. chuckling, you take a fistful of the front of his sweatshirt and gently yank him towards you while grasping at the material of his hood with your other hand and tugging it back. this action causes his heart to topple and his eyes to stutter wide. your nose is close enough for him to move bare centimeters and place a gentle kiss on it. your lips are close enough for him to move bare millimeters and place a gentle kiss on it. he gulps. this can't be good.

giggling and awfully unaware of your best friend's crush for you growing by the second, you scrunch your nose at him (the very nose he wanted to kiss) and purse your lips, "i wanna see your face, silly." all donghyuck can do is swallow his feelings and instead be left breathless by your side profile. the more rational side of his mind is busy scrambling for a reply that doesn’t make him sound like the lovesick idiot of the century while the more irrational side is left in a blundering mess, bouts of adoration emitting from within. he collects himself and makes sure his countenance doesn't give away his rumbling inner thoughts. “you like what you see?” 

your smile grows fonder, if possible, at his comment but he doesn’t dare to take his eyes from your face just because he knows the little blush that’s to appear. soon enough it blooms across your cheeks and he lovingly coos at the sight while your smile reverses into a small pout. “ugh, so flirty,” he hears your muttered reply although he's unsure if he was meant to. your head is already turned back to the screen after the little exchange and he holds onto it as you press ‘resume,’ replaying it in his head just to see that bright smile and little pout that he could never get sick of.

a few more chips are fed to you while you continue playing, which would be completely fine if not for your incredibly low spice tolerance. it isn't long before donghyuck notices your aggressive hissing that is definitely not from the sight of your character frolicking through a field. he's on the cusp of bringing it to your attention when you abruptly speak between two seethes, "hyuck, get me water please," he immediately moves from his spot to get water from the kitchen when you voice out your struggles once again. "actually, just get me anything. it doesn't matter." 

donghyuck watches as your tongue curls at the tingles and he gauges the severity of the situation. he quickly snatches the drink he'd brought with him, despite knowing you wouldn't like it very much, and brings it up to your lips. you take one, two, three gulps before you turn to look at him with wide eyes. he swears your about to hurl the contents onto him and he winces in preparation but it never comes. you thickly swallow, the liquid almost threatening to bubble up once again, a gag reflex. the spicy sensation is gone but is now replaced by blatant disgust as your mouth hangs open as if you’d been force fed. 

"red bull? hyuck, you're fucking kidding me!"

he bites back a smile as he settles his eye on your disbelieving face, "you said it didn't matter!"

"yeah, i did say that but that's red bull! literal poison!"

"hey, you’re not gonna die from one sip." a smirk is now forming on his face, he feels equally bad and equally good for being the center of your current attention.

"i can't believe you're still drinking that, hyuck." the pout returns and donghyuck silently rejoices, "i thought you said you were cutting back."

he bathes in your eyes for a split second before he simply replies, "i am."

"so what's that?" you eye the can suspiciously, upset that your best friend still succumbs to the unhealthy beverage. 

"it's just a little energy boost, princess. i gotta stay awake to keep you company."

the nickname that accidentally slips past his lips catches the both of you off guard, his cheeks flaming a deeper red with each moment passing. you seem to handle the flustered silence better than he does, even going as far as furthering his state by scooting closer to him and placing both hands on one of his shoulders, propping your chin upon them. he can feel your fresh breath tickle and fan the skin under his ears and he knows that if he just so much turns his head in the slightest, he will be face to face with you in all your glory, without much space in between. he's not sure if he's ready for that.

clearly you don't give a shit because you tilt your head upwards to give him a kiss to the cheek. a soft, billowy kiss that leaves him stuck in that same trance, perpetually. withdrawing, you try poking at his sides to see if his expression will budge from the fazed out gaze he's sporting, but to no avail. "hyuck? are you okay?" he can hear you but he knows he's way too 'out of it' to answer. damn, you were supposed to be the one that was 'out of it.' 

the sudden quietness of the room unsettles you and you're suddenly aware of his reaction. weird, you think, hyuck is never like this. hyuck's always and constantly flirting back and making sure he has the last word. you have an inkling on what this could be about but you almost instantly flush down the idea of bringing it up but it's hard to suppress because your gut instinct tells you that you’re right, that you should go for it. no, he really can’t like you. no, you're just deluding yourself... unless, you're not.

"hyuck," you blurt before you can even stop yourself. his head snaps up at the sound of his nickname. "do you like me?"

where it was previously beating a mile a minute, donghyuck's heart is now at a complete standstill. he can still hear it thumping louder than ever in his ears but he knows there's no way he'll live through this. taking a second to zone out of the whole situation, he notes that your character on the screen is now being mauled by a mob of freakish creatures, though the volume is turned low. he notes how your fingers are absentmindedly drumming on the fabric of your sweats as you usually would when you're nervous and that your blinking more than normal. maybe that was a sign you liked him back? maybe, but surely no. there's a dull ache in his heart that yearns for him to be selfish and just say no. he'd spare the potential loss of your presence by his side and just cope with always being the 'best friend.' but then he thinks of you meeting someone, that's not him, and dating someone, that's not him, and maybe one day even marrying someone, that's not him. he admits that the pain will be far greater than the dull ache he's experiencing now and perhaps that knowledge is exactly what he needs to persuade himself. donghyuck steels his heart because he thinks he's finally found the perfect reasons, the perfect timing, the perfect amount of courage to confess. 

and he also knows that, if this were to go downwards, it might as well be the last time he sees you like this, dressed down in the dead middle of night, hair a tangled yet endearing (or so he thinks) mess, and eyes wide, holding galaxies upon galaxies of stars, none of which could compare to the sheer light you radiate. donghyuck makes sure to revel in your presence, for what could be the very last time, to capture your features, the ones he already has committed to memory. he breathes.

then, without warning, "hyuck…i love you," wait, what?! "hyuck, i love you as more than a friend." your pupils are shaking and there's tears that are unshed but visible. there's so much more that's stuck in your throat refusing to come out but the few words that made it past the threshold of your mouth already say enough. donghyuck expects the grim reaper to appear in a matter of seconds, he expects to be able to detach his spirit from his physically unmoving figure and watch as you say those words over his dead body. any minute now. but the more he sits there the more he realizes that this is real. you are real.

you can feel the emotions building up inside of you while he just stares at you. unmoving, he stares and stares and stares until you think that you've only imagined the last few moments. your crying now and perhaps that's the only things that slaps donghyuck out of his trance. he rushes his arms around you in the most automatic matter. it isn't until your the front of your face soaks the entirety of the front of his hoodie that you feel a little less shitty. your face is smushed flush against his chest and when you finally come to your bearings, you notice his heartbeat contracting erratically on your forehead. emerging from his embrace yet still in his hold, you meet your eyes with his. they're wide and scared, reminding you of just moments ago. 

"i was- i was going to say that, exactly that but i- i guess you beat me to it."

"then... do you wanna be my boyfriend?" i want to be your girlfriend.

"damn it y/n, stop stealing my lines!" can i be your boyfriend?

"is that a no?" just say yes. i want to hear you say yes.

"n- no, yes. i mean no, it's not a no. and yes, i want to be your boyfriend." how could i ever say no?

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

[spinelwritings]

Spinel goes out to run errands for reader but when she returns to the house, she sees that the front door is broken. Spinel runs inside to see that the house has been torn about and finds reader in a room crying and beaten. Reader tells spinel it was a jealous quartz gem that reader dated and broke up with a year before meeting spinel. Spinel wants to get revenge but reader won’t let her. Can I have this as a story? If you can’t, that’s ok.

Spinel didn’t do chores a whole lot. She was sure she would get distracted or mess up or something. On the other hand, you weren’t really feeling well that day and she knew you didn’t want to go out yourself. So, she went to do your errands for you, leaving a kiss on your forehead before she went out the door.

It took a bit longer than she wanted. She messed up a few of the groceries but she figured it out eventually! So, an hour or two later, she was on her way back to you, already excited to see you again.

She knew something was wrong the moment she got home. The front door was open, hanging crooked on its hinges. It felt like a stone dropped in her gut. Her steps forward were hesitant, the door creaking open.

“Y/N?” Spinel called, her voice wavering. The living room wasn’t in good shape. The couch was flipped over, the coffee table was broken in half and there were a few good-sized holes in the wall. She dropped the groceries at the door, rushing through the house to try and find you. The panic almost hurt, the dread overwhelming. She had no idea what she would find, she just hoped she would find you.

You were in the bedroom. Spinel could just make out your form under the pile of blankets you usually slept under. She could just make out the faintest of sniffles and whimpers. 

“Y/N?” She called again, a little quieter than before. The blanket’s shifted and you groaned but didn’t come out.

“S-Spinel?”

You sounded absolutely terrified like you expected it to be someone else. Spinel tiptoed across the room to you, shifting the blankets away till she could see your face. She felt like her gem would crack.

You looked terrible. Your lip was split open, dried blood dripping down your chin. A dark, ugly-looking bruise covered almost half of your face and even more dried blood matting your hair. You looked like you had been beaten nearly to death. But the worst part was the absolute terror in your eyes, like you had gone through hell and expected to see that demon come back to torture her some more. How could this happen? She had been gone for less than two hours!

She bent down, kneeling next to the bed and gently rubbing a trail of tears of your bruised cheek. As you stared deep into her eyes whatever fear you felt slowly vanished, dissipating into the comfort her presence alone gave you. 

She didn’t ask what happened. Now wasn’t the time. Your safety and health was far more important. She called Steven. 

When he came into the house his eyes went wide, looking over the extensive damage. Spinel met him at the door, grabbing his arm and dragging him into the bedroom. You were sitting up now, the blankets drawn close to your body. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see what was underneath, just how bad it was. She couldn’t take the thought of more bruises, broken bones, scratches, and scrapes. She didn’t want to face how hurt you must be. You were going to be better soon anyway. 

Spinel sat with you in the bed, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and looking at Steven with pleading eyes. You sighed when he kissed your forehead, the unbearable pain melting away as bruises faded, cuts closed, and bones reconnected. You were left slumped against the gem, completely wiped out after the ordeal you had gone through. Spinel may not know what happened she knew you should probably get some rest. She lowered you down, drawing the blankets up to your chin and giving you a peck on the cheek.

“Go to sleep, love. We can talk about this later.”

You nodded, quickly falling into the blackness of slumber.

Spinel led Steven out of the room, closing the door slowly behind her with a final loud click. She sighed, her forehead meeting the wood of the door as she fought off the tears. 

“Did she say what happened?” Steven asked. Spinel just shook her head.

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

When you woke up, for a moment, it felt like nothing had happened. It felt like you were just waking up from a nice nap, the late afternoon sun warming your body under your soft blankets. You stretched and yawned, slowly waking up, trying to remember what you were up to. Something important had happened or there was something important you had to do. What was it again? In the distance you heard someone moving and froze, your body going rigid as the panic-filled your mind. 

You calmed down a few moments later when you heard Spinel’s voice, mumbling to herself. Right. Now you remembered. You needed to tell her what happened. But you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed. Not yet. Just … just a little longer, another moment of peace. When you did finally get out of bed you weren’t even really thinking. You just needed to get this done.

Spinel was in the living room, picking up the last pieces of splintered wood. The room was almost empty now, the only thing not damaged being the couch. She looked up when you came in and was by your side in an instant, fussing over you like she always did, insisting you should sit. You didn’t say anything, just nodded and let her drag you to the couch.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Of course, you couldn’t do that. Didn’t even allow the thought for a moment.

You snuggled close to her side and she wrapped her arms around you as you told her what happened, or at least what you remembered. 

She knew you had dated another gem once before, Citrine. But you broke up with her because of how aggressive she was getting. You had met Spinel a few weeks later and thought that was that. You didn’t expect her to be at your door, almost a year or something after the breakup, but that’s what happened. You heard a knock at the door and when you opened it, Citrine was there, looking absolutely furious.

She had shoved past you, voice low as she huffed and asked you to take her back. She wasn’t really that bad of a person, really! And the two of you had something special and she loved you and this was a mistake and. You were shaking your head, waiting for her to stop. You had learned a long time ago that once she started in a rant like that nothing would stop her.

When she did stop you told her no. You’re already with someone else and much happier. There was no chance.

That’s when she started yelling, she worked herself up until she started punching the wall and throwing furniture. You begged her to stop and for a moment she did, glaring at you with burning eyes. That’s when she turned her anger onto you.

You stopped there, gripping onto Spinel’s shirt. Thankfully she didn’t force you to continue. You really didn’t want to remember. For a few moments, the two of you sat there in silence. You tried to calm down and not cry. You were failing at the not crying part. The tears fell onto your cheeks regardless

When you finally calmed down you looked up to Spinel. She wasn’t looking at you but you could still see the anger in her eyes. She was never really that good at hiding her emotions, even if she didn’t want you to know how she was feeling. You sighed.

“Promise me you’re not going to do something stupid.”

Spinel blinked down at you.

“I can’t promise anything.”

You glared at her, giving that look until she sighed. 

“Fine, I’ll… do my best not to do something stupid.”

“That’s the best I can hope for, isn’t it?” You sighed. “It’ll have to do.”

Spinel hugged you tighter, burying her face into your hair. You sighed, leaning into her. This was all you needed right now. You could worry about everything else later. You just wanted to be with her.

[zertzertzhang]

Stand and Deliver: My Life Turned Upside Down

A/N: This is my first time writing on Tumblr, so please bear with me! I am usually active on FFNet and AO3, but since this fandom is basically nonexistent except for here, I thought maybe I could post my works for this movie here. The story is a fanfic based on the 1988 movie ‘Stand and Deliver’ starring Edward James Olmos, and taking a deeper look into the lives of the impoverished students in East LA.

Eventual Angel/OC, and warnings of racial slurs with some physical violence.

:

:

Chapter One: Hellhole

The divorce shattered the Yang family to pieces. Vianne was no stranger to her mother’s scorn for her father, even at a young age. There were countless nights of screaming from Mrs. Yang, coupled with the frustrated curses her father threw in return. At one point, she was sure she heard plates crashing against the walls, but by the time she pumped up the courage to go check the next day, everything had been neatly restored. It was like the fight never took place.

Vianne was not stupid; the traces of her parent’s clashing were found in their silence. It was the harsh clatter of silverware against the bowls during dinner which reminded her that despite the calm nature of the family evenings, rage was just seconds from spilling onto the streets. Their house had just enough bearings to keep authorities from pounding the door on a weekly basis.

There wasn’t much left to solidify the hate between the spouses of the Yang household. By the time Vianne’s father suggested giving her a sibling to help bring her mother back, even she knew that it was a futile attempt to play house a little longer.

But to Vianne’s dismay, her mother agreed. Within months, blue paint littered around the spare bedroom in a massive heap, threatening to swallow the couple whole. Vianne didn’t react much when she realized a brother was coming her way, the increased shouting from Mrs. Yang frightened her as the due date neared. Her father would grumble incessantly about his wife’s mood swings and how that was what men got for marrying.  

All of that was lost to Vianne; she was too young to comprehend full sentences, much less understand the hidden meaning behind her father’s statement. Maybe her brother would make her mother happy for once. She could envision her father playing with her in the fields as her mother and her brother sat on picnic mats to the side. They would be laughing just like how it used to be. Vianne wouldn’t have to stay awake, pressing her ears against the doors as more kitchenwares were broken. There would finally be peace...

Her mother’s eyes held the warmth of motherhood for no longer than a few seconds before the cold hollow overtook them again.

Peace never came. What happened in its stead was her brother screeching from his crib, all the while as her parents shrieked at one another over changing diapers. It made Vianne’s head split with thunderous agony. She never wanted to yell this badly, to make them just hug each other for once and stop talking. But such thoughts happened in her mind only. And before she knew it, they were back to throwing pots against the wall.

That lasted however long she remembered. Then came the papers, and she soon found herself holding baby Jack in her arms as her aunt ushered her into a stranger’s car. They said they would be taking care of them for a while. It dawned on Vianne that this was her first time meeting her mother’s family. There was no such thing as a happy reunion in this household.

She didn’t get to see her father after that, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to anyway. Not when the last thing she saw him doing was spitting onto her mother’s face as he tried to stop her from stepping out the door. No one knew that Vianne hid under the covers to cry herself to sleep once she settled in her new home.

And thus, Mrs. Yang became Ms. Lin once more. But for legal reasons, Vianne and Jack’s surname stayed. The minor details flew over her head; Vianne didn’t put much care on the subject. In the long run, the privilege to listen to the crickets chirp at night was enough to keep her satisfied.

That’s how things went for a while, with the emotional charge from her mother coming down for once in a long time. It wasn’t a surprise when Ms. Lin began going out all dolled up and pretty. The scent of her Saint Laurent eau de parfum clung to her skin as she whisked past the older Vianne. The girl felt a twist in her gut; she didn’t want to smell the hints of cologne her mother brought back after every weekend. However, she kept her mouth shut.

Ms. Lin didn’t hold back on her monetary needs. Thank god her salary as a lawyer cushioned their lifestyle. Despite being a single parent, her income had left a spacious room for extra spending. A shopping trip once a month was guaranteed, and that was when Vianne saw her mother at her very best. Talkative and cheery, Ms. Lin wasted no time in purchasing the latest trench-coats from Burberry as she gushed over how cute it looked on Vianne.

Something about her giggling mother put her at ease. The punching of the credit card’s number sent a rush of high in her blood, which only increased with Ms. Lin’s blabbering praise of how beautiful she looked in the mirror. She was well-fed and well-clothed; Vianne figured that there had to be a trade off somewhere. Not everything could be given, so she happily accepted the allowance. It was the closest she’d ever get to having her mother smother her in a crushing hug.

School was another topic. No doubt she was expected to do well in it; Vianne was sure her college expenses would be covered as well once she got to it. So she put the worry on that to the side as well. Her social life at school was decent, with her own clique of Asian Americans making up most of her friend group. It was genuinely a decent life for her, and for a moment, she thought this was going to be her forever.

Until it was news to her that her current school was going to be a thing of the past. Ms. Lin had become engaged to one of her former clients. Vianne was near her senior year of high school when her mother broke the news to her.

“Scott has a family of his own,” Ms. Lin explained. “His children are having a difficult time accepting us.”

Vianne lost her appetite and tossed her dinner down the dump. Her brain refused to tell her how to react, so her first response was denial. She wasn’t interested in a second dad or a second family, this was her happy medium. Besides, she still had Jack, so there wasn’t any long-term loneliness. Why was her mother complicating things?! What the hell?

“I don’t see how it’s our problem.” She tried to keep her voice cool, but the hint of frustration leaked nonetheless.

Her mother looked almost ashamed. Almost. “I’ll be moving in with Scott next week, Vianne. It’s to help his children get used to the new family members.”

The pause after the statement didn’t help the rising anxiety within Vianne. Her fingers clenched around the fork, digging the metal utensil into her soft skin so much that it stung. There was a catch to that announcement, she could feel it.

“What about me?” she asked. “What about Jack?”

Ms. Lin sucked in a breath, drumming her fingers on the mahogany table in a frenzy. And from experience, that only meant bad news. “Scott lives in the Bay Area. It’s too far away from Napa for me to come visit constantly if you stay. So I’ve decided to have you move back with your father.”

The world came undone from below and swallowed Vianne whole. Her mind was a blank sheet of paper, with no idea how to respond. It had been a decade of little to no contact with Mr. Yang, and the sudden contact with him was not going to lead to a happy talk over a cup of coffee. This was fucking ridiculous.

“You said you’d never let him see us again.” Her retort sounded irrelevant at worst, and petty at best. Not that this was going to change her mother’s engagement.

And sure enough, it wasn’t. Ms. Lin gave an exasperated sigh and pinched her nose. The shake of her head reminded Vianne of the way she would scold her when she was a child.

“Your father is doing better now. He’s…different,” her mother tried. “He’s simply not living in the best places out there. But that’s ok! You won’t stay there after graduation, and after you go to college, you’ll be coming back to Scott and me over breaks.”

Vianne could hear the blood in her ears bubbling like an overboiled teapot. “I don’t even know Scott that well, mom! How am I supposed to be his new family after you settle in?!”

The matriarch rolled her eyes at the scene, clearly not taking her daughter’s response well. “It’s a work in progress. I’ll make sure to bring them to you every once in a while to let them get comfortable. That’s why I’m moving in first.”

Her reasoning failed to get past Vianne’s anger, spurring her on. “So you’re just gonna dump us in LA with dad so you can live your comfy life?!”

That comment seemed to be the final nail onto the coffin, as Ms. Lin’s frown turned to a scowl in seconds. “I’m not dumping you anywhere, Vianne. It’s only going to be a year, and your allowance is staying the same! So stop being dramatic.”

Her mother’s cold gaze bore into her mind, freezing her in her tracks. It would serve both of them better if she conceded right there. Once her mother came to a decision, she was like an ox in the middle of a fight. There was no arguing out of this situation. The friends she had and the memories she made in Napa were now pipedreams wrapped up in a dusky alley. Her failure to even voice her opinions squeezed her lungs tight with perturbation.

The familiar pounding headache cursed her forehead, making her wince. Vianne had the sudden urge to smash plates just like her mother had done before. But she didn’t need a grounding on top of everything else, so she settled with pulling her lips back into a painful grin.

“What's the name of the school?” She expected her mother to answer that at least. Donning an air of nonchalance, Vianne tried to appear as unbothered as she could. The trembling of her hands were the only markers of betrayal. If Ms. Lin noticed her plight, then she took no interest in it. Her mother reached for a brown packet and tore it open.

A stack of papers slid out of the package, with the name ‘J.A. Garfield High School’ printed in bold fonts in the front page. It was her transfer letter.

Ms. Lin took a sip of her red wine before she continued her trail of thought. “I’ve given them your transcripts and coursework history already. You’ll be admitted in the second semester.”

“You’re really sending me to the ghetto.” Vianne felt the veins in her head pop. Quickly scouring through the papers, she came across her schedule. There was no AP Biology on the list, and there was definitely no AP BC Calculus on it either. In their places was a section marked as ‘Teaching Assistant’. And that was enough to send her ticking with rage.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” This time, she didn’t bother to hide her fury. “Why did they drop my classes?!”

Slamming the files down so hard that the china rattled, the young woman seethed as she stared her mother down. Ms. Lin wasn’t having any of it either, her fingers gripping the wine glass had turned pale with the increased pressure.

“The school doesn’t have AP courses, Vianne. They’re offering full credits for your two AP classes as compensation.”

The words that came out of her mother’s mouth stunned Vianne into silence. Graduation credits were worth nothing to her in college, this had to be some sick joke.

“What about my AP tests next year?” she hammered. “How am I supposed to take the tests without taking the classes?!” Her complaints were like flies buzzing around an agitated human. Ms. Lin simply waved them off without a second glance, as if her worries were nothing but unnecessary trivialities in life.

“You’re smart, sweetheart. You can study for them by yourself.” Her mother threw out the response like it was the obvious solution to her problem. “There’ll be more than enough spare time in your hands to bury yourself in books.”

Vianne quirked a brow. “Why?”

Ms. Lin actually smiled. But behind it were the vestiges of an arrogant smirk threatening to show itself to the surface. “Their coursework is basically non-existent. The catalogs are dated, and the materials are easy enough to be mistaken for a middle schooler’s level. You’ll have no trouble boosting your GPA up and acing your tests.”

If pride was a thing in her family, then it was going out the window. Vianne couldn’t believe her ears, nor could she stomach the sight of the letters. At this level, she might as well turn herself to a thirteen-year-old and go back to primary school. All her hard work was about to go up in flames because of that ghetto school. Hot tears rimmed along her eyes, sending her into a vortex of despair once more.

There wasn’t enough time to say goodbye to her friends; Kimberly’s birthday was in two weeks, and the whole group had a surprise beach trip planned out. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Mountains of projects she had been dedicated to simply poofed into air. Her hands clenched at the sides, doing their best to contain the urge to hit something.

The shifting of bodies alerted her of her mother’s departure from the living room; Ms. Lin was already up the stairs by the time Vianne shook herself back to reality. She looked over to the stove and was struck by the time it displayed on the counter. It was way too late into the early mornings.

“Your flights depart in two days.” The voice of her mother was drifting away into the distance. Their hollow vibrations from the hall sent her stomach dropping to the floor. “You should start packing soon, Vianne.”

That was the end of the conversation. It was made clear with the slam of Ms. Lin’s bedroom door, rattling its hinges. Neither of them were in the state to argue, and she knew it. Standing alone by the dining table, Vianne sniffled. Her nose was unbearably stuffy in addition to the increasing sting in her eyes.

She didn’t catch a wink of sleep that night.

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

LAX was the definition of a madhouse. People shouted in all kinds of languages, deafening her ears and making Jack whimper on her side. Vianne held her brother close as she shoved their way through the gates of their section. The crowded mass on top of her migraine was slowly inching her towards a mental breakdown. After hauling off the last of her luggages from baggage claim, she ushered Jack to the main exit of the airport.

She knew she hadn't seen her father’s face in years, and the dreadful thought of not recognizing their only ticket out settled within her gut. Panic palpated in her heart as they came out of the building, with the sea of people not helping in the slightest.

Mr. Yang was next to unrecognizable when Vianne saw the massive sign with her name blaring in red. He looked different, much different than before. But then again, her seven-year-old perspective wasn’t all that trustworthy either. The face of her father hit her like a cold splash of water, and she found herself failing to greet him with the simplest ‘hello’. She merely stared at the balding man,  unable to tear her eyes away from the beerbelly and narrowed eyes. Her father was a stranger to her, and it was then she realized that Jack had never even met their father.

Her brother scooted away from Mr. Yang when the man approached them, looking up to her with his teary gaze. Jack looked like he wanted to burst into a wailing fit. It was going to be a long ride back.

Heavy silence filled the car throughout the ride to her new home. Mr. Yang asked about her health and her school life, repeating the same questions he wrote to her weeks ago. Vianne kept the answers simple and precise, nodding and smiling to make it seem like she was engaged.

Jack, on the other hand, fidgeted endlessly in his seat in the back, looking anywhere but the front of the driver’s seat. The introduction between father and son was awkward to say the least. Vianne was just happy that they were now on their way to get the year over with. She clutched the phonebook in her pockets, memorizing all her friends’ numbers. It took her mind off things, if that was a positive note.

There could never be enough distractions for her, especially now that the three of them were stuck in the worst possible position. As if whatever deity in the heavens wanted to lay more unto the cruel joke, Vianne shook from her revere and noticed the selection of houses they were approaching.

Rundown and abandoned were the least of her worries. The neighborhood was like the cardboard cutout from a horror magazine. Desecrated with graffitis and empty beer cans, the streets were littered with grime and dust. It was obvious the town duster wasn’t a frequent worker there. And was that a person sitting on the roof of a car?!

Vianne’s eyes bulged as she squinted at the flailing man on top of a red Chevrolet. Men donned in tall hats paraded the city roads like they owned the place, causing a line of angry drivers honking at the ruckus. The pounding headache intensified at the sight, and she grumbled a string of curses to herself.

“Monterey Park is a lot better,” Mr. Yang spoke out of nowhere. “We’re gonna be away from these dirty shitbags.”

She flinched at the harsh edge of his voice, but didn’t say anything. By the crinkled lines between his brows and the frown on his lips, her father wasn’t in the mood for a good-natured chat. It was better that way, Vianne herself could feel her spirits waning with each mile.

The trio reached a small neighborhood in no time, and to her relief, it looked miles better than the houses she previously saw. The structures still retained the brittle fragility in appearance, but the paintings were even this time. And the lawns appeared to be taken cared of as well. Vianne felt the corners of her lip tug up in a hopeful smile.

But like any other good news, it was crushed to dust as soon as it presented itself. Her father didn’t use his keys to unlock the door. Instead, it swung open on its own accord, revealing the face of a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and leopard-printed blouse. Vianne’s mind jumped to the worst possible scenario, jumping back a good distance. The young woman stared at the fresh face for what felt like a long time, before the coughing from Mr. Yang pulled her from the staring contest.

“Clara, they’re my children; Vianne and Jack.” Her father’s gruff voice held her to the ground. Gesturing to the women next, he continued to speak. “Vianne, Jack, this is Clara. She’s my girlfriend.”

Despite him being this close to the two women, Mr. Yang was oblivious to the scowl that now stretched across his daughter’s face. Vianne put two and two together and realized why her mother refused to share too much of her father’s living situation. There was no way in hell she would have agreed to come had she knew of this beforehand. Her living arrangements were fucked up to no end, and for a moment, she contemplated ringing her mother on the spot.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Clara didn’t move from her position. She gave the two newcomers a pitying look, but her lips turned up to a smirk. “I’ve heard a lot about y’all.”

Jack stared at Vianne, lips pouting in morbid curiosity. The older sibling sighed and rolled her eyes; she was getting worked up over nothing. They only had to stay here for another year till graduation, so she reckoned she would find a way to grin and bear it.

“There are rules to this household.” Her father wasted no time in listing the regulations under his roof. “You won’t be able to run amok like ya did with your mother here. First, Clara is to be respected at all times.”

Mr. Yang was blind to the seething glare Vianne threw him as she unpacked her bags across the room. It was one thing to be forced to live under these conditions, but it was a totally different thing to be mandated around by a stranger who she detested. A biting remark made its way to her tongue, but was cut short by his rambling speech.

“Curfew is 6 pm sharp. No loitering around the streets after the sun goes down,” he continued. “No boys are allowed, and there will be no parties here.”

No one, and she meant no one, told her when she got to come home. The last time her mother set her a curfew was in middle school. And it was definitely not at that time either. She wasn’t interested in dating anyone from this neighborhood, much less bringing a boy back home. Parties were out of the question, Vianne had already made up her mind that she was going to burrow herself for a year before she dipped.

“I’ll stay out as much as I want.” It was a crisp retort, and she turned up her nose. “My car will be here in a few days. I’ll be fine.”

Mr. Yang’s nose flared at the comment. His eyes darkened, reminding her of the way he used to look at her mother. She didn’t voice it, but the familiar shivers ran down her spine. Avoiding his gazem Vianne took a sudden interest in the rings on her fingers.

“This ain’t Napa County, Vianne.” Her father’s hand shook. “You’ll be down in the dirt in no time if you don’t adapt to the people here.”

She ignored his statement and pulled out her luggage of clothes. Everyone knew of the nature of the ghetto people there. That was the reason she brought her car. Whatever it was, Vianne wasn’t going to touch them with a ten-foot pole.

 “Whatever,” she mumbled. Sensing her displeasure in the conversation, Mr. Yang grumbled something about women, before throwing a stack of notebooks onto her bed. Vianne glanced at them, but made no attempt to retrieve the papers.

“These are the course intros for tomorrow.” Her father was opening a can of beer as he eyed her. “You and Jack are waking up at 7. No negotiations.”

“Sure, sure.” There was no reason to get into a fight, and she thought it was wise to choose her battles. A curt nod was all she gave him, before she slipped past her father to go find Jack. There was still time to brood over her state of affairs.

Time always flew when you were either panicking or on cloud nine. That would be the second night of the week where she didn’t get to sleep. Her eyes trailed to the calendar; today was her first day of school.

:

:

:

A/N: Sorry for the slow start! Juicy drama picks up in the next chapter! Reviews, criticism, and comments are welcome :3

And here's a shoutout to @classic80sand90smovieloves2 for inspiring and helping me write this out!

[subarubi]

Desert Days

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Summary: “If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him.”  

Warnings: 18+, profanity, angst for days, extreme injury and death (blood), mentions of PTSD, implied smut

A/N: 9.6k word count, goddamn. This is a very Sam heavy one-shot. Also, I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible! 

2001. 

A colossal mountain of mutilated steel and concrete rubble sits, smoking, in the center of the world. Lower Manhattan. Financial District. Eight blocks that make up ‘Wall Street’, some elusive playpen for the invisible but potent power of ‘stock’. Destroyed. And with it, lives, hopes and dreams. 2,606 bodies buried there in the debris. An illusion of invincibility crushed in too. In the flames that lick at ruins of the Twin Towers, an Indian summer. The warm September haze forcefully burrows itself in the guts of New Yorkers, Americans, the world. It’s fear, not flush. It’s anger. 

How could this happen? To us?

The news outlets evoke the memory of a vastly different war. They call it a day that will live in infamy. Which, it will. Undoubtedly. Yet, it’s hardly the same as Pearl Harbor. Perhaps, the only thing comparable, but dissimilar all the same. Since the greatest generation created generations of their own, the pastime of waging war happened elsewhere. On other lands. In other homes. To other people. 

September 11th, 2001 burst the bubble of willful ignorance. War is happening. And there is a debt to be paid for crimes. All crimes. Even American. 

Sam Wilson is only twenty when it happens-- 

--waking up next to a girl from English class that he’d been playing footsie with in the library the day before. Her cellphone, pink and bejeweled, rings at 7 am drawing them both from slumber. Sam rubs the hangover from his temple as she unwinds her limbs from his, both sticky with sweat. Through tears she turns and tells him. 

Four planes hijacked. Two crashed into the World Trade Center. One at the Pentagon. Another in a Pennsylvania field.

Sam’s from New York City. Harlem. He’s stood at the bottom of those towers before-- a kid with a skateboard carving lines over all five boroughs. But he hasn’t been back to the East Coast in years. No reason to. Mom was laid to rest next to Pops and Sam ran away to the other side of the country not long after. The news isn’t any less devastating.

He’s at UCLA, majoring in philosophy of all things. It all seems so pointless then. Studying knowledge, reality, existence, when the rest of the world is bleeding. 

Everyone is in pain. 

Soldiers. Doctors. Accountants. Car Salesmen. Kindergarten Teachers. They demand their pain be spread. They want revenge. They want blood. War is now felt by all.

In October, the US invades Afghanistan.

Sam enlists in November. 

2003.

“Superman School” is what it’s called. Sam thinks it should rather be called simply, “Hell”. 

Indoc is easy. Sam has always liked the water and it’s just nine weeks of basically swimming. But what follows is two grueling years of vicious emotional and physical exertion. The events, the ache inside that led him there, are practically forgotten when the training starts. In Combat Dive School, he’d panicked the first few times an oxygen tank was strapped to his back and a regulator shoved in his mouth. In Paramedic training, he’d slipped and stabbed his fingers practicing sutures so much that he lost feeling there for a week. During SERE, Sam lost a toe nail; that hurt like a motherfucker. It was probably the most physical pain he’d ever been in at the point of his life. The guys, other PJs in training, don’t let that one go for a couple of months. At least. 

The best part, perhaps the only remotely good part, is Army Airborne and Military Free-fall Parachutist training. 

“It’s not exactly flying, but it feels like it,” Sam speaks animatedly into the receiver after chow on a Tuesday night, “It feels like fucking flying and you always imagine that flying is cool but then you do it and, I swear--”

He spends the next fifteen minutes going on and on and when his girlfriend, Lisa from English class with the pink bejeweled phone, finally hangs up, Sam feels like there’s so much he still hasn’t gotten to say about it. 

In a different life, I might’ve been a bird, he says during a poker game later that night. 

They're all chasing their own highs after the first jump, but no one’s as dumb with it, as corny about it as Wilson. They give him shit for it. Sam is too hopped up on finding his first love to care.

It’s easy to forget why they’re there and what they’re working toward. Graduating. Deployment. War. 

Afghanistan is a long way from Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. But with every day, every training course completed, Sam Wilson closes that gap with flying colors. And eventually, in May of that year, he found himself in Nevada with the 58th Rescue Squadron. Impossibly, closer now to Afghanistan. 

There, he’s given a maroon beret and dubbed a “Guardian Angel”. Small consolation prizes for the news he’s being deployed. 

2004.

It’s hot in Afghanistan, he’s heard. Sam had never expected it to be so bad; it’s summer, everywhere’s hot in the summer. The hottest place on earth is the Lut Desert in Iran. Barren, sparsely vegetated, open scrub. 70.7 Celsius recorded. That’s about 160 Fahrenheit. But nowhere, not even the hottest place on earth, is as sweltering as Bagram Airfield in July. With fatigues stuck to his back with sweat, stomach coming up on ‘E’, split red knuckles being bandaged: 40 Celsius feels like 5,000 Kelvin. Dry heat with nowhere to go but through him. It adds ten pounds at least to the weight in his shoulders. 

Sam made one comment. Just one. But a scathing reply from his least favorite Squadron member was enough to unravel him. 

This is the land of your peoples, Wilson, stop bitchin’.

Sam flexes his fingers on his bouncing knees, sitting and waiting stoically; internally, he’s burning. 

When he enlisted just three years ago in a fervent bout of passion and patriotism, he didn’t anticipate the racist pieces of trailer park trash he’s supposed to call brothers. The amount of self-control it would take to not punch the asshole square in the jaw. The fucking heat.

Three years after waking up that fateful morning, turning on the news with Lisa taking calls non-stop, flames and smoke reflected in his brown eyes and he’s stuck waiting in a tent for disciplinary action. At least it’s reprieve from the merciless Afghanistan sun. 

The tent flaps rustle softly, heavy boots command Sam reflexively to stand at attention. It gets his knee to stop bouncing. It’s in his face when he sees you. The faltering expression in his eyes that he tries to hide behind a stone slate. You’re not his CO there to NJP him, he’s never seen you on the base and he’s sure he would’ve remembered your face had he, but the patch on your chest dominates him anyway. A stray bead of sweat tickles Sam’s temple underneath your blank stare. You’re not, but you look ten feet tall over him. He’s never been someone so easily intimidated, but you? You are formidable. 

He wonders which part of you gets to him the most.

It might be your impossibly straight posture, one that he could never fully get right much to the ire of his commanding officers. Or maybe it’s the sharpness to your eyes, dissecting him piece by piece before he even hears your voice. Or, it could be, that you’re really fucking hot. 

Christ, are you. 

But that last one might be skewed by the fact that he’s been on tour now for a couple of months and his girlfriend, not Lisa, now Kerry, has been giving him blue balls. Sending letters so salacious, they’ve found home in the john for everyone’s personal use. 

He’d remember you if he saw you. He’d never be able to forget. 

Another body entering the tent brings a breeze to save him from the downright oppressive warmth of your stare. A man, another Sam has never seen around, stands much more relaxed and close to your side. He’s tall and blonde and somehow pale even after hours spent in the sun. 

You look at him and smile. So nice and pretty without any trace of your previous hardness. 

“So, you’re Sam Wilson?” he asks with a hint of a smirk in his voice, “Heard a lot about you.” There’s laughter playing at both of your smiles and Sam’s fists instinctively clench. Are you making fun? He’s not in the mood. It’s hot and sticky, and he might be fighting down an embarrassing and painful semi. 

“Yes, sir.”

The man at your side laughs, digging his elbow into your side, “You hear that? He called me sir!” 

“Fuck off,” you roll your eyes, flicking his ear so hard it draws a hiss. The first words he hears spill from those lips, twisted now in a smirk, don’t match your silvery voice.  

Fuck off, so rough and yet said in dulcet tones with affection. 

Sam’s hot again when you step forward, away from your partner-- the breeze was only fleeting. Nowhere is as hot as in that tent on Bagram AFB, you, just five feet from him, hand held out with a soft smile to introduce yourself. Warm and sweet, but somehow it burns. 

God, he needs to get laid, like, yesterday. 

He didn’t even realize he shook your offered hand until he misses the feel of it as it slips from his own. “And this is Riley, he got dropped on his head as a baby,” straightening beside the man in question, Sam catches an all too short flash of white as you laugh. 

“So, what did he say?” Riley asks. At the quirk of Sam’s head to the side, he gestures to the wrapped right hand, “I mean everyone’s talking about it. You’re gonna be on latrine duty for weeks!”

“Riley,” you sigh, smacking his chest that shakes in laughter with the back of your hand. A comforting smile when you turn back to Sam, “We have business to do.” The file you hand him, which he had not noticed was in your hand until it was heavy in his, it changes everything. 

Why me? Sam doesn’t let the question slip past his tongue, but it’s there. 

You shrug, as if you’d heard him, “You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.” A soothing smile, big and easy. Like the one you sent Riley. He’d like to see it his way again. 

And you’re not lying. 

9 months in Afghanistan and word carries of a PJ falling from the sky like some vengeful archangel of salvation, laying suppressing fire steady as breathing, healing hands flipping the bird at death. Sam Wilson, orphan boy from Harlem, amateur philosopher, provider of quality spank bank material, was made for this.  

The first time he sees it, Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at. 

Like a big black horseshoe crab, washed up dead on the shore, metal back shining slick with sea water. Three of them, laid out on a table in a hangar removed from the rest of the air base. Engineers rattle off all sorts of specs, some Sam understands, some he hasn’t the slightest idea the meaning of. He looks to his right, at you, then Riley. The pair of you, grinning at each other, bouncing on the balls of your feet like children. Always so lively with each other. Always overflowing with enthusiasm-- in each other, something you now extend to him. 

All happening so fast. Too fast. Sam’s queasy from the whiplash. 

A month ago, he’d only just gotten used to the cycle: Jump. Find cover. Fire back if need be. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. Back to camp. Brush his teeth. One. Twice. Rinse. Repeat. 

How did the saying go? ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. Sam’s swallowed enough of his own vomit that the taste doesn’t even phase him anymore. Partially because he’s scrubbed his tongue raw and numb with toothpaste. 

Then, you and Riley ripped him from it. 

Bought him dinner in Kabul. Offered him a cold beer. Which, he hadn’t had one in a year and fuck if it wasn’t orgasmic on his tongue. You two wined and dined him, told him he was special, he was meant for more. Made him feel good. Reminded him he wasn’t just some cog, some tool in a war that was quickly losing support. That he had a chance to do something important. Christ, he was surprised there wasn’t a good old fashioned fuck at the end of it. He’d put out on the first date.  

EXO-7 Falcon. In a different life, I might’ve been a bird. He maintained a year out that jumps were everything. 

But wings? Actual wings?

It’s unbelievable. No. Fucking insane. He can’t fathom it. Not free-falling and convincing himself its as close to flying he’ll ever get, but actually flying without the disappointing fact that eventually he’ll have to pull the chord. 

It’s just a prototype, don’t blow your load too soon, you laugh, hand on his bicep, for now, we just get to ogle them looking all nice and pretty. 

He doesn’t have the balls to tell you he already has. In the showers. Numerous times. Your smile flashing behind his eyelids. 

It’s just a waiting game now for the prototypes to be approved. 

Sam finds his stride again, much quicker than the last, in this new routine. He suspects his easy adjustment has everything to do with you and Riley. PT at 0600. Showers at 0800. An emergency non Falcon rescue mission about two, three times a week. Chow together in the mess at 1730. Sometimes, the three of you eat MREs outside instead, watching the sunset like a bunch of cornballs. 

You guys talk a lot, typically always over a meal. And Sam, who usually speaks a mile a minute, is slowed and forced to take a breath. Between the three of you, the fight for air time is intense. 

Everything is learned and shared in that small circle of three, sometimes too much. 

In some sleepy Georgia town, five houses away from each other, you and Riley spent your entire childhoods not meeting until basic.

Kismet, Riley grinned between mouthfuls of a macaroni and chili MRE that he traded for. That green sucker had no idea what he was getting into with Riley’s chicken a la death. 

The pair of you, southern belles, you’d joked. Attended the same Sunday service, learned how to ride a bike on the same stretch of asphalt, enrolled in the same high school but different years. Riley lost his virginity to your older sister in the back of his dad’s wood paneled station wagon. You remember she complained about a cum stain on her favorite skirt around that same time. 

Too much? you ask with a widening smirk at Sam’s grimace.

The two of you are so close, Sam can only be grateful for how easily you’ve let him fall into place by your sides. As welcoming, as kind and as warm as you are, in those early years, Sam can’t help feel an outsider sometimes. 

You and Riley are so so close. 

He’s sure he’s only seen you guys separated by bathroom breaks and sleep. An inordinate amount of time side by side. Fond smiles come often and effortlessly. Only ever fully at-ease in each other’s vicinity. You’re left handed and Riley’s right handed and your elbows always knock when eating. Which seems purposeful because once, when Sam suggested you just switch your normal places at the table, he was met only with blank stares and shrugs. And when the three of you walk across the airfield together, Sam naturally has to fall back slightly because he’s pretty sure you and Riley are tethered together with an invisible string, footfalls in sync. Your right leg in time with his, strides equal. 

He’s not sure he’s met a pair of friends ever more suited to each other.  

So, are you guys, like, together? Sam asks Riley hesitantly one night when you’ve gone to speak with some other officers. The pair of them lay on their backs on the rocky ground, gazing up at the clear expanse of stars. The new addition to your little merry band of friends tries to appear casual when asking. But really, it’s been nagging at him for months now. 

It’s a valid question. 

You and Riley are almost abnormally close for two people that have only known each other for a couple of years. Sam’s never seen anyone, not even his disgustingly in love for 30 years parents, so attached. If he were honest, sometimes it’s scary. Uncomfortable. 

Mostly, because it’s never been defined. And Sam is, by nature, curious. 

Partly, because the things he thinks about you... well, he doubts Riley would appreciate him thinking about his significant other that way. Especially a friend thinking that way. 

Riley’s bellowing laugh draws angry hushes from surrounding PJs trying to sleep. He cackles so hard with hands clutching at his abdomen, he practically rolls.

You’ve got it bad, Wilson, is his only reply before getting up to go take a leak. 

2005. 

Euphoria. That’s the only word Sam can use to describe it. Like sex. Maybe, even better. Up there, in the clouds, where everyone below are just little black dots, his stomach lurches and flips and folds itself over and under. Actually flying, not free-falling and biding his time until he eventually must pull the chord. He’s shaky with it at first. Like a baby on fresh legs, wobbly and awkward. Even still, he’s fucking flying. 

Back on the ground, him and Riley gush with it. Joy. Freedom. Ecstasy. 

They talk a mile a minute, even though their burning lungs are screaming for them to just breathe. They brush off the medical staff urging them to put on oxygen masks for a few minutes. Can’t, Riley rejects it, too fucking wired. 

You’re up next, burning with the need to get yours too.  

It all moves so fast. Sam and Riley each in one of your ears, telling you how amazing it feels. How much you’re gonna love it. They watch, chests heaving, hands on hips, as you’re strapped in, take your place 50ft away and nod along to all of the instructions given. Giving you pointers like they’ve been doing this for years. You roll your eyes. The pricks only have an hour of experience each. Though, that’s an hour more than you have, so you listen despite your pride. 

You fail. And just as everything you do is, you fail brilliantly. 

Sam and Riley watch helplessly as you crumble in the clouds, tumbling in the wind, barreling towards the hard rock and sand beneath their boots. The limp wings thrash in the wind, punching sharp welts into your sides. Your blood curdling scream rips out above, echoing in the valley. They can see you scrambling, panicked brain searching for a fight or flight response. But you can’t do either. 

Can’t fly. 

Can’t fight the merciless pull of gravity. 

You get ahold of yourself long enough to pull the emergency chute at the lowest possible altitude. A heap of nylon lines and cloth on the ground, your impact striking up a cloud of dust. 

Their feet can’t move fast enough, rushing to your side, hearts in their stomachs and stomachs in their asses. 

Don’t fucking touch me! 

Riley’s hand that gently grabs your bicep swiftly retracts as if you’d burned him. You won’t let them help. You just lie there, forehead pressed into the sand, body shaking with adrenaline, pained wails vibrating behind your grit teeth. 

Silence except for the sick sound of your brokenness. 

More than the acid cuts on your palms and cheek. More than a cracked rib. More than the ugly smattering of red and purple that will appear on your torso later. You mourn what is lost in your failure. 

Back on the ground, you gush with it. Wrath. Anguish. Woe. 

Sam feels sick beside Riley. Watching you there is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He reminds himself of the careful routine. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. He remembers the taste now. 

The prognosis is: you are a no-fly zone. 

You barely hear the flurry of words thrown at you, in front of you, around corners when you’re not supposed to hear. Cracked rib. Major contusions to the trunk. Sprained wrist. Can’t handle it. Right side too weak. Six weeks recovery, then return to regular duty. Maybe, you can work on it in PT and try again in 6 months. Not likely. Third prototype destroyed. Only two Falcons. 

Weren’t supposed to hear that. 

The next few days are eerily quiet. Filled with silent tension, Sam and Riley sending worried glances your way, forcing down winces at your every labored movement. You’ve abruptly walked off at seemingly random points of conversation. You’ve lashed out at Riley when he tries to help a little too much, pushes back against your attitude a little too hard. You’ve retreated. No joking around, no smiling. They have, at least, the clemency to avoid any mention of the Falcon jetpacks in your presence. 

When they train, you avoid it like the plague. 

The crowds they draw. The hooting and hollering cheers of the other PJs as Sam and Riley defy all odds in the air. The time will come soon, for them to employ the EXO-7 Falcons in an actual rescue. You pray that you aren’t healed by the time the first mission comes. 

God, whomever, hears your pleas whispered into the tough canvas of your cot. 

Four weeks after your failed flight test, an Apache helicopter goes down in Taliban infested territory. You haven’t been cleared. 

Sam walks up on the Chinook, dressed for the first time in his full suit. It would feel so gratifying, had you not been standing there with Riley, heads bowed lowly in short whispers underneath the raucous whirring of the engine. 

You haven’t talked to Sam in more than a few words. Only Riley. You only really talk to Riley. Sam has walked in on an abruptly cut off conversation a few times now. Shut out. It burns at him in the middle of the night, keeps him from drifting off in much needed slumber. You and Riley are his people now. Confidants. Friends. Comrades. Family. He wants to be there for you both, but you don’t let him. Just, give her time, she’s upset, Riley had supplied a dejected looking Sam when you stormed away at his advance for the third time. 

Now, at his careful approach, you look up and force a tight smile across those lips he sees in his dreams. An awkward, heavy hand on his shoulder that makes his heart clench, Good luck, Wilson. 

He’ll still feel it burning through his fatigues hours later. 

When they successfully return with the entire crew safe and sound, the base is alive with celebration. A friendly football scrimmage is thrown together by Riley in amber skies of late afternoon, their focused play-calling set behind 50 cent blaring on the boombox. 

You’re noticeably absent. 

Sam stands outside of your barracks with his hands stuffed in his pockets, uncertain if you’ll even speak to him. You haven’t before. Why would you now? When everyone is happily relishing in something you can no longer be a part of. His boots scuff in the sand as he debates leaving. Letting you alone for the night to surely lament in your loss. 

“Shouldn’t you be out there kicking ass, superstar?”

Your face, a familiar smile there that he’s been desperate to see for weeks, evokes an overwhelming sense of guilt in his gut. It was you and Riley from the start. Always you and Riley. The two of you had recruited him. And now he’s taken your place and they’ve left you in the dust. 

His return smile comes out more like a grimace without his permission. 

The large tent, usually filled to the brim with airmen stacked atop of each other, is empty. Everyone’s either getting chow or at the makeshift field spectating or playing. It’s just you sitting on a makeshift bed on the ground, softly closing the book you were reading when he entered. Sam doesn’t think the two of you have actually ever been alone together. Not like this. No Riley, no one milling about in the background, no rescue mission. The closest thing might’ve been the first time you met. And even then, you hadn’t said anything to each other until Riley joined. 

“Honestly,” Sam swallows hard, shaking his head in what looks like a humorous gesture, but really, he’s trying to find his footing again. “How does Riley have so much energy?” 

You smile wider and his heart, it fucking aches. For you. 

Knees pulled up tightly to your chest, ignoring the sharp pangs in your ribs at the action, you tilt your head softly up at him, “It’s all sugar and tai chi.”

Sam nods, a ghost of a chuckle humming from his throat. He sits on the ground next to you, knees bent, forearms hung over them. Tries not to make the hitch in his breath known when your thighs brush against each other ever so lightly. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. 

You shake your head at the ground, sighing deeply in defeat-- as if it would magically ease the pressure in your temples. “I think I forgot, it’s so easy to forget. But I dunno, all this self-pity and for what? Because I don’t get a cool pair of wings?”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” his hand hovers over your back. Half afraid of hurting you, half afraid of you rejecting him. 

Eyes like the cosmos lift to his and you lean back to close the distance for him. The press of his palm over your shoulder is warm, his fingers flexing slightly in the contours of your back. Gooseflesh fanning out from where they indent your skin, hidden beneath the fabric of your shirt. 

“My last rescue op, that kid whose lower half was blown to shit?” Sam nods solemnly, he remembers. How could he not? “He couldn’t stop crying about how his girlfriend was gonna break up with his dickless ass. And then he broke into a whole other fit because he didn’t have an ass either,” you laugh humorlessly, “I’m alive and in one peice. I’ve got a sweet ass and a fucking elephant trunk of a dick swinging between my legs.” Sam snorts, can’t help the gap-toothed grin that makes his cheeks ache.

You pause, licking your lips. Sam’s got a smile is like the sun. All warm and bright. The way it feels to bask in it’s glow, a personal beach day, you don’t think you’ve ever been so content to just be looked at. 

“I guess, I just-,” brows furrow, struggling to find the words. “You spend months preparing for something, with your best friends, you’re all excited about it, mostly because you’re doing it together. Me. Riley. You. Demented three musketeers,” you smile sadly, a cracking phantom of a thing Sam has come to love. “And then it all goes to shit. So easily slips through your fingers.”

There are tears that you’ll never let fall, but you trust Sam enough to let him see the way your eyes shine with it. The glossy finish of your glum and how it paints you blue. 

“I’ve been with Riley since basic. Never been an op where I haven’t had his back and him mine.” 

You know. You know you’ll never fly again. No one’s said it outright, but they look at you like a kicked puppy enough for you to get it.

“Will you promise me something, Sam?”

Sam. Sam. Sam. He’s heard his name said a million times in a thousand different cadences, but never like that. Never so soft and honeyed and certain. All at the same fucking time. 

“Anything.”

“There are going to be ops for just the two of you that the rest of the unit, that I can’t go on. Will you look after Riley?” You’re so close, practically whispering. Sam could count your lashes if he wanted to. “I love him, but he’s a fucking idiot. Just doesn’t think sometimes.” 

Without question. Fervently. For you, “Absolutely.”

And you just listen to each other breathe. In and out. So steady and sure. Content in just the sweet sound of each other, living.

2007.

Hands, calloused from fast-roping down from a helo, splayed out on the contours of his shoulders. Hot and urgent, everywhere and nowhere at once. The emotion in them permeates through his skin-- flooding him, filling him to the brim. Had he always been so empty before? Or had that space always been carved out for your touch? Your eyes are above him, searching, pleading. Lashes fluttering down at his face. Lips falling open in soundless utterances, mouthpiece of the gods. Breathless. His ears are ringing, eyes blinking away that white hot blindness licking at the edges of his consciousness. You’re so beautiful there, rays of sun peeking out behind you, he might pass out.  

Wilson, can you hear me?  

And then a laugh. Loud and boisterous and Holy shit! You just got your world rocked! Riley beside you, his face a picture of delight, buzzing with adrenaline. 

Along with the rapid pops of gunfire and cracks of an AK returning, gentle jingling of hot casings hitting the ground, steady lines of communication running down the line of airmen, Wilson, I need you to confirm that you are okay.

He nods dumbly at your insistence. Remembering suddenly how to breathe when you grab him by the vest and yank him up off the ground. He’d been blown on his back by the sheer force of a screaming mortar impacting the earth nearby. Your smack on his helmet is enough to refocus him, and all attention is back on the vic, packing the wound, applying pressure. You radio in controlled and calm-- GSW to the leg and shoulder, hoist out exfil necessary, popping green smoke on our location. 

Helmand is hell. But you grin and bear it so well. 

Things have levelled out. The three of you adjust to yet another new routine; much remains the same. The months are filled with morning PT, showers, any and every conversation under the sun shared over chow, a game of Slapjack or Bullshit after the sun’s gone down. Standard combat search-and-rescue, thankfully, for your sake is unchanged. But you have to get used to watching Sam and Riley soar through the sky like it’s what they were born to do. You stick to field medicine when they become something altogether different than PJs. Though, they were never just PJs. And you pretend it doesn’t just ache the tiniest beat when they leave you behind for some confidential mission.

Being the failure is hell. You grin and bear it to keep the pain from spreading to them. 

Hours later he finds you pelting the metal floor of the HH-60 Pave Hawk with an unwavering jet stream of water, diluted blood dripping from the sides. 

“Any special plans for when you get home?” Sam watches your face as it remains focused on lazily hosing down any memory of a bleeding young Corporal laying slack in your helping hands from the bird.

Six weeks. His tour ends in six weeks. He plans on sleeping-- sleeping hard, sleeping in, sleeping around. Riley joked about Sam burying himself in alcohol and puss, ‘it’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’. Sam laughed and cheered in good fun, but the scent of JP-8 stung his nostrils. You and Riley have three more months left in this tour. Sam doesn’t like to think about the fact that he’ll be home, smelling apple pie and boob sweat, and you’ll be stuck here, sniffing jet fuel; that’s the smell of freedom, airmen say. 

“Might take up yoga,” he quips. 

Your eyebrows raise slightly, lips spreading into an easy and knowing smile, “Bet you would, you horndog.” Yoga pants, nylon and lycra second skins that hold everything just so, are all the rage all of the sudden. 

Sam laughs, leaning against the side of the helicopter with a cheeky smirk. That smirk you know so well now after three years. You count on that smirk. Pray on it. How something so small can bring you so much comfort, impossible to say. 

“If you come to LA, I can take you to all the studios. You’d love it.” 

Sam Wilson’s always been a social butterfly. The lifeblood of every party. The guy that gets along with everyone. The funny, effortlessly cool guy. He thrives on meeting new people and cracking jokes. 

But really, if Sam could do anything when he gets home, it would just be to see you. And Riley, of course. He wants you to come to LA, go to a bar, hide in some corner and just talk. Like you always do. Except, in civvies and heavily lubricated. He’d wait that excruciating month and a half before you’re back stateside too. He’d wait, not so much as think about alcohol, if it meant the three of you could share that first cold one together. You and Riley, you’re family. The first he’s had in a long while. 

He can’t help himself. “Will you? Come to LA?”

You smile, so nice and pretty, big and easy, like the one you’d once reserved only for Riley. 

2008.

Hands, softened with shea and two months R&R, fisting the back of his shirt so tightly he fears the fabric might disintegrate. Feverish and needy, fingernails digging into his warm skin, leaving ardor shaped crescents in wake of their campaign to conquer his back. Scorched in the spots first touched, soothed by the soft sound of sliding skin. 

Panting. Clenching. Burning. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking at the edges. Lashes, all 359 of them -- he’d counted -- fanning his cheeks. Sweet wetness. Trembling fire. Mouths, hot and urgent, moving against one another. Whiskey tongues, sliding together, worshipping every inch. Lips numb. Teeth clanging. Both chests heaving, humming with moans too gentle and too desperate. You’re so beautiful there, in a bar’s dark and dirty bathroom stall pressing chest, groin, thigh, and leg against him. 

Gushing with it: joy, freedom, ecstasy. Overwhelmed by what he swallows from that heavenly spout: wrath, anguish, woe. 

You’re so beautiful he might die-- without question, fervently, for you. 

2009. 

The world works in strange ways. People will pay a 1,000 USD for a mattress that perfectly shapes to the curves of their spines. Commercials demonstrate you can balance a wine glass and simultaneously jump like a giddy kid in a hotel room without any risk of stain-- and for good measure, in the event it does stain, some special formula ensures it’ll come right out. Such strange desires of men. Sam sighs into his pillow-- zero cost, no secret formula. Sand, his mattress covered in 1500 thread count egyptian cotton; rock, his feather pillow that corrects his posture; a heavy coat of dry heat, his comforting New Zealand sheep wool blanket. Riley snores soundly beside, drool dribbling from the right corner of his mouth, chest spluttering in his exhales-- his white noise machine. 

He’s never been more comfortable. And in strange ways, he’s glad to be back, just starting his second tour at twenty-seven now, another successful Falcon mission recorded with the capture of Khalid Khandil. 

Sam’s almost disgusted with himself. He’s so stupidly content to be there, in the middle of the Afghani desert, sleeping on the ground. As if it’s not a fucking war. 

Well, as the world turns. 

Do you ever think it’ll be over? you’ll ask one night, a whisper on his lips as soft as the dripping beside you. Never defined, never talked about, but most nights, when sleep evades you, you’ll slip from the barracks to the empty showers. And you’ll sigh in pleasure in time with the echoing splash of leaky faucets.

And Sam has to bite his lips from saying the words ‘God, I hope not’ into your neck. 

Stateside, he has a joke of a life. The year in between tours was almost unbearable. He’s supposed to call that land home? It feels more foreign to him now than Afghanistan. A place where people create mattresses with different settings on two sides for maximum comfort. 

Strangers see him in uniform and either say ‘thank you for your service’-- which always feels hollow-- or looking like they want to spit on him. Suffocating. He could only breathe the three times you visited him in Los Angeles and the five times he came to Virginia for you. Only felt comfortable there with his face in your thighs, heart and breast in his hand, lips in his teeth. 

Here, he has structure. Purpose. Brotherhood. You. In war, he’s important. He’s helping people, not in any misguided, easily skewed fight for freedom and self-righteousness. He’s actually helping people. ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. It’s what PJs do. 

In Afghanistan, he gets to fucking fly. 

In the US, his wings are clipped and everything feels so dull in comparison. 

Eventually, it has to, he’ll murmur back to spare you from his terrible thoughts. You’re so soft and sweet under him, and Sam knows just how much this war tears you apart. 

The guilt that plagues you because not everyone can be saved, but everyone should be. You’ve said before that the PJ credo implies death yourself. ‘That Others May Live’. But you’re alive and so many have died beneath your palms despite best efforts. Those trained fingers that sometimes feel useless apart from bringing Sam to bliss.

If you knew how he truly felt, how even if he’s a good man he harbors such selfish thoughts, it would only hurt you more. 

So he keeps it to himself and kisses your worries away. Soft pecks at your eyes that never cry but are always on the brink; the tip of your nose that’s become immune to the overwhelming metallic scent of blood; the crease between your brows that screw together in torment; lips, that despite all of the above, smile for Riley and for him. 

He’ll hold you so tenderly with strong steady hands, that it’s easy to forget the two of you are pressed together in a shower stall. You seem to have a habit of getting into compromising positions in bathrooms with Sam. 

A soft moan of appreciation escapes your lips, just to see that charming gap-tooth grin it draws from him. A taste of his light. So wanting, so desperate for that warm glow that emanates from Sam Wilson, you peel the shirt from his back sticky with sweat. Fingers scrambling to run across the smooth, hot skin there, chasing that tranquil day at the beach that is him even in the middle of a goddamned war. Greedy hands draw silken lines down the length of Sam’s spine, smiling in his mouth at his shuddering. How he leans into your touch reflexively. 

You’re drawn tight against him, his arms snaking around the base of your back, your hips flush against his, heels digging into his hamstrings. So close you become almost indistinguishable from him, simply a heap of warm skin and desert camo bracing the shower walls. 

A single kiss, languid and saccharine, suddenly turned quick. Sam is urgent in unfastening your top, splaying it open to lay you bare and panting before him. Each snap undone, a breath more labored. Your own hands, fumbling for the belt at his waist, mourning the loss of kissed raw lips against you. Hurried, as if at any moment one of you will perish. And the other, having tasted a body so divine, would simply crumble into dust-- there could never be another that they craved the same. Disappear forever in this desert, to perhaps be stamped down by another set of lovers’ boots. Here, in the sand soaked with your blood, Sam’s sweat, Riley’s tears

A vow taken in the sighs of pleasure quieted by amorous mouths. 

If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him. 

2010.

He’d wished for this, hadn’t he? 

To live in War. This ungodly, disorienting flurry of chaos that feigns a sense of order. Mayhem, no matter how many hours ripping apart his muscles to put them back in place in accordance with military regulation, how much firepower there is to decimate enemies. A messy, merciless machine, endless. Running on the energy expelled from eating-- young men chewed up and spat out, shoved back into the hungry mouth, and chewed and spat again. And again. An emulsified puddle of blood and sweat leaking from the bottom.  

This, is war. Not fucking in the showers, watching the sunset while playing cards, and trading MREs like it’s elementary school. 

Structure. Purpose. Brotherhood -- all of the things Sam craved. It all means jack shit once someone steps on an IED, the distinct crisp sound of AKs firing off, or staring an RPG straight in the eye. 

Sam can’t stop looking at the way the blood squeezes through his shaking fingers. Thick and scarlet and slippery, bubbling through the cracks, seeping into the lines of his skin. Unyielding to Sam’s hands desperately clasping at the ripped flesh, trying and failing to apply pressure to the wound. No matter how much pressure he applies, the blood persists. Gushing, oozing, turning black under his palms. Because it’s everywhere and he only has two hands. Why did God make man with only two hands? Why?

Come on, man!

It’s a pathetic sound, the way it rips from his throat, raw and pleading. His arms, trembling so hard they shake the body beneath him too. 

Sam removes one hand to pop a yellow smoke outside of the ditch he’d pulled them into, using his teeth to pull the pin from the canister. 

He’s whimpering, choking down the sobs he so desperately wants to let out, communicating in broken sentences through the radio. Deaf to the return chatter. 

His eyes refuse to leave his bloodstained hands when the Pave Hawk is hovering above, his team of six fast-roping down, quick and methodical in employing care under fire protocol. Four of them stationing themselves at a pole just outside of the ditch, laying suppressing fire. 

You’re there, he can feel you rushing forward with your pack already slung over and onto the ground at their sides. But Sam won’t look at you, can’t-- if he sees your face, he’ll lose it. 

Moving, but nothing feels like it’s by your own volition. Rather, muscle memory. Flipping up your NVG, your eyes flit over the scene fast, thinking, but not feeling. And somehow, you’re thankful you’re numb at the sight. 

You’ve never seen it quite so... he doesn’t look human. 

It was just supposed to be a standard op. A marine stepped on an IED, and no one had metal detectors so the normal PJ unit couldn’t land. They were supposed to fly in and out, barely even touch the ground. 

And it all got fucked. How had it gotten so fucked? 

Helpless. Nothing he could do. Like he was up there just to watch. Squint in the dark night for a body barreling towards the ground. So much like your first flight test. That sickness churning his gut. 

Sam. Sam. Sam! 

His eyes flit to meet yours wide and white in the dark and just can’t bear it. He careens over to the side, retching this morning’s powdered eggs ugly and loud. Emptied, body too spent, the sobs finally overtake him. 

Quickly, you cut open his top, pulling the tattered fabric from where it tangled up with his body. Your hands take up the spot where Sam’s once pressed, pulling out combat gauze with your teeth. Deperately packing until you run out of gauze. It does nothing. The white is quickly stained so red that it just resembles more mutilated strings of flesh. 

“Okay,” you breathe, but it does nothing to return the oxygen to your lungs, “okay we need to stabilize the wound, tourniquets”-- the wound, he’s more wound than whole-- “and I need someone on chest compressions.”

You’re met with stares. Seven red-rimmed eyes, just staring as the very fluid of his life drains from him, body going cold under your hands warm, soaked in his blood. The only thing holding him, all mangled chunks of burnt tissue, together is you. 

“But-”

“But what?” 

But, it was an RPG. So what? We’re fucking PJs, aren’t we? But, he’s lost too much blood. We’ll do a transfusion. But, he’s dead. 

“Just do it!”

No one has the heart to stop you.

You work over Riley’s corpse for the entire ride to the hospital. They have to rip you from him on arrival. Because he’s dead. And you’ve just spent an hour elbow deep in a mess of blood and guts that feel like your own, exhausting yourself-- keeping nothing alive but your own sanity. 

Riley’s a pair of boots, an M16, a helmet, and two shiny dog tags clenched in your fists.  

That’s it. 

The rest of him was put back together as best they could, shoved in a pine box shrouded in stars and stripes, and sent off to Georgia. He’ll be received by his parents, two little brothers, three nieces, and his dog. They’ll write about him in the paper, a hero he’ll be called-- when really, he was a dumbass that got dinked by a rocket. 

He’d enjoy the fame in your small town. 

Idiot. 

Dropped on his head as a baby. 

As you squeeze the dog tags hanging from his M16, so do you squeeze a tear from your eye. A warm thing running down your left cheek that feels just like Riley’s blood in your palm. 

Sam’s behind you, head bowed low, maroon beret in his hands. The amount of times he’s said sorry, some blubbery, some frustrated, some murmured in your hair, some screamed at you.

You’re both raw. 

Hands scrubbed with soap, but stained Riley red.

Those showers have been tainted now with the fresh memory of pink streams circling the drain. Where once you found yourself lost in lust, now, in misery. Riley in your hands disappearing into the pipes, into nothing forever. 

“My tour’s up in three months,” Sam watches you carefully as you release the silver tags imprinted with Riley’s information. You stand and face him, wiping away that traitorous tear. “I’m going to leave active duty.”

When he was twenty, and the world was bleeding fresh scarlet, he’d hardly imagined he’d be retiring at thirty. But twenty seems so far now, just as the aftermath of 9/11. Now, the blood has caked into a mountain of pain, dried brown. Revenge, and then some. 

He enlisted for patriotism, duty, selflessness. He stayed for you and Riley, for flying. 

He can’t stay anymore-- can’t see you die too.

"You’re retiring?” your cloudy stare, brows pulled together, eat at him, “Okay.”

Okay. Sam never tried to guess what you’d say, but ‘okay’ somehow seems like the only thing that would ever make sense on your lips. So soft and simple. You. Always supportive, always sure. 

You nod with a gentle smile, and while he doesn’t know where you’re headed-- somewhere that’s not Riley’s makeshift shrine-- Sam trails closely behind. Partially because he has more to say, but mostly, because he’s bound to you now. His chest is tethered to yours, feet instinctively falling in line. He heels, like a dog. For you. 

The barracks are empty for chow again. Neither of you are hungry. Meals are different without Riley.  

So familiar, the two of you sitting side by side on the ground, knees bent, forearms resting on them, thighs brushing. Alone together. 

Sam has ocean eyes. Warm brown eyes that look like the ocean. They’re still on you but they move. You’ve never noticed. How they swell and glimmer, so constant yet always in motion-- pure in how he allows himself to live so freely. Going with whatever flow his heart takes him: dropping out of college and enlisting; punching ignorant airmen; and giggling like a girl at the feeling of flying. Making promises you both know he has no control over. Kissing you in a bar because he can’t take the longing for a second more. Leaving the Air Force because it’s getting in the way of his light. Even if it means giving up flying. 

Sam slips his hand in yours, so warm and soft, his squeeze, a plea. 

“Come with me.”

You’ve never met a person who lives like him. 

You laugh, fondly. Sam Wilson is so earnest in almost everything he does. 

“Can’t.”

So tempting. You remember now, how close those words once were to falling from your tongue. I love you. It seems pointless to say now, he’s leaving, you’re staying. 

“Come on, don’t be a martyr.”

Like Riley, he says without ever needing to flex his vocal chords that way. 

Morbid as it may be, you’d be glad to die like Riley. He always believed in the cause more than either of you. He was dumb and goofy, but he truly believed in it. All of it. You’ve never been so bound by an unearthly force like that-- religion, ideology, patriotism. 

Must be nice, Riley mused, not having to answer to God. No, it really isn’t. It’s... lonely. You want to try your hand at it now. Might do you some good. You’re looking at another two years, or whenever your tour is up, alone now. Why not fuck around and find some higher power? God, the PJ creed, macaroni and chili MREs. You’ll figure it out. 

“Eventually, it has to end. Right?” It’s his own words. You knew he never believed them. And neither do you now, really. “So I’ll see you then.”

Or in a pine box. 

Ocean eyes are wet with his sorrow. You are so lovely. Love. He loves you. He thinks he might’ve loved you from the moment he first heard your velvet voice. Fuck off. So lovely. Sam kisses you, and the waves have come to drag you out to sea. If he could, he’d beg you to come home in his riptide. 

Wherever that is. 

2012.

A Goliath building with tall glass windows that turn sunbeams into rainbows with rows upon rows of fresh tulips surrounding. Brilliant yellows and oranges-- like poppy field sunsets in Afghanistan. In the center of the free world. So much meaning there now behind what it means to fight for freedom. No place knows it quite like this house of warriors. This is a place of healing. Of mending brains put in a blender, frozen in some eagle shaped mold, and then thawed out with guns in their hands and a burning vendetta to satisfy. 

Sam Wilson is thirty-one now, and remains a man of routine. 

He wakes to darkness. Unfolds himself from the tight ball he’d curled into at some point. On the floor. Again. Sam gives himself just five minutes to lay blinking at white walls painted 5 am blue, bleary eyed birds just starting up their morning songs. 

And then he’s up. His teeth are brushed, sneakers laced up, keys thrown into the pocket of his shorts. Sam runs along the Potomac with the familiar soft pink aura of dawn crawling along the horizon. Around the Washington Monument, past the Lincoln Memorial, down Pennsylvania Ave.

He feels so small among those giant monoliths of the land of the free. Not purple mountain majesties, but the marble Hill. 

Sometimes, he feels you and Riley running beside him, like all those years ago bright and early for 6 A.M. PT-- wearing ankle high socks, grey t-shirts with white wings splayed across the chest and those little navy shorts Riley complained crushed his balls. 

God, he misses Riley. 

He misses you too. 

In college, Sam was a philosophy major of all things. He studied questions of human nature while picking up ‘cerebral chicks’. 

A decade later, the questions he once pushed away have all come up again. It all seems so important now. 

When he closes his eyes he sees your smile, yes, but he sees fire and smoke too. Like the rubble of the Twin Towers, his memories of war are shrouded in destruction.  

Sartre said, Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from defeat.

So much cost, tangible and not. Cities riddled with bullet holes and missile craters, conquered and hailed as a successful operation so long as it forces the Taliban back. Beautiful landscapes marred with IEDs and shrapnel which will make the Americans wish they never step foot in Afghanistan. Invisible things too, like a mass grave of men, women, and children-- some military, some civilian. Glass shards of minds, not broken, but cracked. 

Sam is bleeding. Veterans are bleeding. Everyone is bleeding. 

The puddle of blood and sweat at the bottom of that machine, fathomless. 

He ends up in D.C., staring up at that Goliath building with the scent of fresh spring tulips in his nostrils-- Department of Veterans Affairs. He needs help and he needs to help. Post-traumatic stress disorder is such a big name, and he never fully understands his meeting. What he does know: sleeplessness, irritability, paranoia, numbness, waking nightmares. 

Healing is a process, but Sam’s doing it now. Himself, through others. 

Things are getting better. 

He’ll never be completely whole, but the circle helps. ‘It’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’, Riley joked. Sam laughs up at the sky, his dumbass friend was probably sporting a smug smirk wherever he is. 

This morning Sam is chipper, today is a good day. He smiles wide at the girl at the front desk; she’s pretty and shy and always tucks her hair behind her ear when he’s flirting. Sam  snags a classic glazed from the box of free donuts from Astro and it hangs from his mouth as he goes about setting up for a meeting. Unfolding chairs, he arranges them in a comforting position. In a circle, everyone is equal-- no one is alone or an outsider. 

And then he waits with a welcoming smile as everyone filters in. Some are regulars and he’ll exchange ‘how are you’s. Some are new and uncomfortable so he gestures to an open chair and says ‘Welcome’ with that beach day grin. Soothing, calm, comforting. 

Sam listens so well. 

For as much as he likes to talk, listening is sometimes better. He only speaks when he’s sure they’re done and comfortable, offering what has helped him best. 

Adjusting to civilian life is hard. No one expects how hard it truly is, because it’s never talked about it. They’re supposed to push themselves to the extremes of human experience and then come back as if any of that was normal. As if they didn’t just come from a war, that still persists. Even if by a different name, in a different place, against a different group, it persists. And no one ever tells them how hard it is to just sit there, surrounded by friends and family where you’re supposed to be happiest, and act like it’s not burning you from the inside out. 

But it’s important to remember the good things too, he’ll tell them. When the dark shadow threatens to swallow them up whole, there is always light. It’s important to know that and make sure they stay separate. 

Like Astro donuts and playing soul music all the time and showering without a dozen people next to you. And the freedom of getting to do whatever the hell they want. 

Sam tells them, if it makes them happy: do it. 

“You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.”

He’s seeing you, looking just the same as the last. With that smile, that’s only his now-- nice and pretty, big and easy. You are beautiful, so beautiful Sam wonders how he’s survived so long without seeing it. 

His own smile falters when his ocean eyes travel from your face.

You are exactly the same, except, you’re missing a few pieces. 

Your left arm, which he expects to lead down to those calloused hands somehow impossibly soft, is cut off abruptly, cruelly, above the ghost of your elbow. The left hand, your dominant one, that he had known the comforting feel of on his shoulder, burning through the cloth of his uniform, gone. The hand that breathlessly trailed down his torso, tickling and seducing, leaving goosebumps in its wake, missing. 

He’ll ask another time. You’ll tell him of more casualties of war, this one visible, and of others invisible. 

But for now, he’s rushing at you, and it’s still not fast enough to quiet his screaming heart. He grabs you, doesn’t care if there are still people lingering from the end of the meeting, and really kisses you. And your right hand still finds its way to his torso. 

I love you, breathless. It was never pointless to say. 

No, the war is not over, maybe not even eventually, but you’re here in D.C. wrapped in his waves, alive. 

He’ll never be completely whole, but you get him damn near close to it. 

[vnderoos]

reasons why ✧ damon salvatore

(gif is not mine, credit to the owner) warnings / language, minor injuries, little blood, bit of violence, mentions of death. word count / 5.1k

masterlist in bio ↴

⠀⠀⠀⠀"WE CAN'T JUST TURN our backs on him," Y/N protested, her hands latching onto Alaric's forearm to keep him from getting back into the car.

The tendons in his arm pulsed beneath her fingers as he clenched his fist and he turned his head slowly to look at her over his shoulder. "And why not?" He asked, ripping his arm out of her grasp and making a quick turn to face her. "Damon would turn his back on us the second he had the chance," he argued, swiping a diagonal line through the air with his hand as he did. Alaric was still pissed at Damon for snapping his neck in order to get the chance to kill Bill Forbes. Y/N more than understood why Alaric was mad, knowing that trusting a vampire was hard enough for him and having that same vampire betray him was just a punch to the gut, but she needed him to get over it for fifteen minutes so she could save that Salvatore asshole. She tilted her head downwards slightly and she flexed her fingers uncomfortably. "See? You know I'm right," he pointed out, jutting his hand forward.

Y/N lifted her head. "Alaric, please," she begged, dismissing his reasoning, and she could feel the strain of her voice as it broke over the knot forming in her throat. "If we don't do this now, he's gonna die!" She stepped forward to grab fistfuls of Alaric's button-up, pulling him downwards just a bit so that he could see the emotion glazing over in her eyes.

His blue-green eyes, steely with contemplation, swam around in her own and his jaw pulsed as he fished for a reason for her feelings. "Why do you even care what happens to him, Y/N/N? He's a dick," Alaric grumbled and balled his hands into fists at his sides, but he made no move to pull himself out of her grasp.

Y/N opened her mouth to respond to his question, every neuron in her brain charged up and ready to spit out a damn good reason why she cared about Damon's fate, but all she ended up doing was shaking her head. "I—" Her grip on Alaric's shirt loosened and she let her arms droop a little, the pads of her thumbs rubbing over the fabric. Now that she thought about it, she didn't know why this was even an issue for her. Damon had done nothing for her aside from manipulate her, taunt her, and practically force her and Bonnie to do his witchy bidding in the entire time that she'd known him, but even so, she couldn't help but feel like this was her responsibility. Like she owed it to him—which she didn't. "I don't know, Ric, okay? I can't explain it, but I can't just let some group of vengeful bloodsuckers rip his head off," she answered, dropping her hands from the man in front of her and straightening out the wrinkles on his shirt. "But just know that I'm going in there with or without you."

A few seconds of silence and a conflicted gaze on Alaric's end followed Y/N's words and, instead of standing around while he struggled to make his decision, she stepped along the side of the car and around to the trunk. She hooked her fingers in the handle and popped it open, a plethora of all things wooden and vervain-soaked flooding her field of vision. "Damon got himself into this mess, you know," Alaric pointed out, indirectly saying that it was stupid to risk her life over his mistake, but he moved to stand beside her all the same. "He dug this hole for himself when he turned those people and didn't expect them to come back for revenge."

His calloused fingers picked over carefully carved stakes and vervain-covered weapons, choosing what he wanted and tucking them into various hiding spots in his clothing and on his belt. "Damon digs every hole for himself," Y/N corrected, grabbing a couple stakes and a vervain shot and sliding them inside of her jacket. "And, you know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe he doesn't deserve help from either of us," she said, glancing over at the man beside her. "But if we sit here and let him die, then we're no better than he is." She made sure that Alaric's hands were well out of the way before she slammed the trunk shut.

Alaric's breath billowed out like an invisible cloud through the fog in front of him as he scoffed and he shook his head softly. "You know, you really get on my nerves sometimes," he stated, but his tone of voice was teasing. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and he started towards the small, seemingly innocent house that sat in the distance.

Y/N let out a small laugh, jogging the few feet until she could fall into step with Alaric, and she nudged his elbow gently with her own. "Yeah, only when I'm right," she retaliated, flashing him a knowing smirk when he rolled his eyes in her direction. Before either of them could say anything else, there was a rustle in the leaves behind them. "Wait," she whispered, holding her hand in front of his abdomen to keep him from walking any further. She wasn't sure if it had something to do with her witchy instincts or if she just had a really intuitive gut, but she could feel someone following them. It was like being able to look at things from a different plane for a moment. She could feel Alaric, she could feel herself, and she could feel the shadowy, staticky energy of another entity around them. "We're not alone," she mouthed and Alaric responded with a nod, his hand sliding beneath his jacket and curling around one of his weapons.

His facial features had fallen solemn and his mood seemed amplified by the shadows flickering across his face. His eyes jumped around their surroundings before he found the moment to glance at Y/N. "Which direction?" He mouthed, knowing if he said anything, their company would most likely be able to pick it up. She shook her head obliviously and shrugged her shoulders, just as in the dark as Alaric was.

Alaric pulled a stake out from the inside pocket of his jacket, resting over his broad chest. He waved it around briefly and made two pretend fangs in front of his mouth with his free hand, silently asking if what Y/N felt was a vampire. "Probably," she articulated silently.

He acknowledged her answer with a quick nod and progressed forward slowly. Y/N did the same, but she allowed herself to drift further right while Alaric was splitting left, figuring it would be better to cover more ground. Their steps were careful and mechanic, but even so, it was difficult to walk silently over the layer of crunchy leaves and snapping twigs.  After a while, he faded from her view as he went to search his side of their surroundings and she went to search hers.

Her eyes flitted over the tree line, scanning over the bases of the bare trunks as well as glancing up at the branches in search of an unwanted guest. She did this for a minute or two before there was a sudden woosh of wind that gusted past her as a black figure zipped by her in the safety of the darkness. She whirled around in the direction that they'd sped in but she was met with nothing except a cluster of trees. "Ric, you find anything?" She asked loudly, not bothering to be quiet anymore because their little friend had obviously figured out that they were after him. She waited for a few seconds in silence for Alaric's reply, but she got nothing. Her stomach churned uneasily. "Ric?" She called again, her heart drumming quickly in her ears as she grew increasingly worried.

After waiting a bit longer, she finally heard him. "Sorry, I got my foot stuck on a branch, but no. I didn't find anything," he shouted from somewhere in the distance and the nervous tension in her muscles dissipated. "How about you?" He questioned.

Y/N shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "Nothing too important. I think whatever it was ran by me, but when I looked, I didn't see anything," she replied with a pointless shrug of her shoulders. "Maybe I was just—" She cut herself off when a growl and a labored grunt sounded from over by Alaric. She cursed under her breath, but she wasted no time bolting towards him. She dashed up the little hill that she'd travelled down, doing her best to speed over to her friend.

When she got there, Alaric was pinned against the trunk of a tree and his hands were curled around a stake. The vampire was pushing the stake towards Alaric's own chest, but Ric was fighting back the best that he could. Instead of alerting their enemy that she was there, she held one of her hands out.

She could feel her power pulsing in her veins, traveling from the center of her body towards her fingertips. She stared intently at Alaric's attacker, focusing all of her attention on him.

The vampire let out a cry of pain, his hands practically jumping off of the stake and smacking against the sides of his head. He staggered backwards, falling to his knees. Alaric took that opportunity to push himself off of the tree, kick the vampire flat on the ground, and drive the wooden stake through his heart. He yelped as it punctured his chest, a disgusting plunging noise that she never really got used to filling her ears, and the color rapidly drained from his body.

When all was said and done, Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, the flow of her power fading away as she stepped closer to Alaric. "Are you alright?" She asked worriedly, watching as he bent over and ripped the stake from the bloodsucker's body.

He nodded his head quickly, heavy pants passing through his lips. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. The asshole just surprised me is all," he explained. "Thanks for your help, though. Who knows how that might've gone if you didn't show up when you did," he added, using one of his hands to clap her on the shoulder.

She managed a small smile at him, letting him jiggle her around once or twice. "Of course," she replied. "I'm sure you could've handled it, though," she reassured him somewhat playfully and he chuckled softly.

"I guess we should go save your boyfriend, now, huh?" He retaliated.

Y/N rolled her eyes and let out a quiet, sputtering laugh. "He's not my boyfriend," she explained quietly, shaking her head at him. "But yeah, let's go save his ass."

—

Alaric crept towards the front door of the dainty-looking house while Y/N watched from a bush not-so-far away. He'd told her to stay back, to stay out of sight in case his cover was blown, and she'd happily complied, but she couldn't shake the nervousness prickling under her skin. Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest and her stomach churned uneasily as she watched him sneak up onto the wooden porch.

The thick soles of his boots thudded softly against the surface, but he was being as quiet as he could be as he moved cautiously towards the door. His hand reached out slowly, curling around the doorknob and he tried to turn it once. He looked back at Y/N, meeting her eyes over the top of the bush, and she quirked her eyebrows. "Locked," he mouthed and she made an exasperated expression. "I'll handle it," he added, slipping two of his fingers into one of the pockets of his jacket and pulling out a lock-pick.

Be careful, Ric, she repeated in her head like a mantra, watching carefully as he slid it into the lock and started to work his magic. He jostled the tool around inside of the keyhole for a few moments, fumbling with the lock for a bit until it finally clicked. He looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows lifted slightly, and Y/N looked at him inquisitively. "Did it work?" She asked silently and he nodded his head.

He took the pick out of the lock and slid it back into his pocket. He opened the door painstakingly slowly and took a peek inside, making sure it was clear before he gestured for Y/N to come with him. On his order, she left her safe space in the bush behind and she eased her way over to the porch.

When she'd reached Alaric without any issues, he raised his eyebrows at her in a silent way of asking if she was ready. She nodded her head once and they slipped inside the house.

Everything in the house was completely dark, except for the flicker of light coming from one of the rooms down the hallway. "Think he's in there?" Alaric whispered so softly that she barely heard it and she closed her eyes, focusing on nothing except for that dimly lit room on an outer plane.

After using her powers like some sort of built-in thermal-imaging system, she nodded her head. "He is, I can feel it," she answered, "but he's not alone. I can't tell how many but we're gonna be in for it once we step through that door," she explained.

"Good thing we're armed, then," Alaric whispered, readying one of his stakes.

Y/N mimicked his actions, curling her fingers around it tightly and she took a step forward. "I'll go first," she stated.

He shook his head. "I got it, kid. Just back me up like you did outside and we'll both be fine," he explained and she nodded her head.

Alaric stepped down the hallway quietly, with Y/N following suit, and when they reached the door, he cracked it open softly. "C'mon, guys, haven't I been in here long enough?" Damon's quiet voice floated out, accompanied by a strangled laugh, and her heart dropped.

She looked over at Alaric, while Damon continued to taunt his captors, and she furrowed her eyebrows. "He sounds hurt," she whispered—not like she cared, but still. "How many are with him?" She asked.

Alaric leaned forward, his eyes peering through the crack and flitting over the four vampires that he could see. He was about to relay this information back to Y/N when one of the vampires stepped towards the door. "Isaac should've been back by now. I'm gonna see if he's alright, but keep fucking with him until I get back," the vampire said, stepping completely into Alaric's field of vision.

Y/N and Alaric frantically shuffled to get on either side of the door as it opened, realizing that their cover was going to be blown without a shadow of a doubt, but at least they'd only have to take on three more bloodsuckers once it was.

The vampire stepped out into the hallway, confusion flooding his face when he locked eyes with Y/N. "What're you—" He started, but before he could finish, Alaric buried the stake in his back, pushing it through to the middle of his chest and it was lights out.

A spray of blood splattered over the front of Y/N's clothes as the tip of the stake broke through the vampire's sternum, but she didn't have time to be grossed out. "Shit, no wonder Isaac's gone. Fucking hunters," another shouted from inside the room and the two took it as their cue to run in.

Alaric rushes towards one of the vampires, who'd isolated himself on the opposite side of the room, and Y/N started towards the other two, but she paused when she caught sight of Damon. He was covered in his own blood and he looked like hell, tied up in a wooden chair in the center of the room, but his ice blue eyes were as electric as ever. "Hey, beautiful," he croaked weakly, but before she had the chance to tell him to shut up, she caught the other vampires' attention.

"Not the time, Salvatore," she hissed, a bit of bite in her words, and she rushed to meet the vampires.

Without any help from fancy combat moves or juke-outs, she attempted to drive her stake straight into one of their hearts, but the vampire caught her wrist. The vampire, with fiery red hair and eyes to match, dug her sharp nails into Y/N's skin, squeezing and squeezing until the stake fell out of her grasp and rolled across the floor. Y/N cursed and she slammed her forehead against the vampire's, causing her to lose her grip.

She lunged towards the stake on the floor, snatching it up, but just as she did, the other one rammed his body into hers, sending her flying against the wall. Alaric, having killed his vampire already, rushed to her aid. "You okay?" He asked, helping her to her feet quickly, and she nodded. "Why didn't you do your witchy little aneurism thing?" He added and she shrugged, dusting herself off in the window of time that they had.

"Thought that'd take all the fun out of it, but I was wrong," she answered and when the last two vampires turned to charge at them, with veiny eyes wide and sharp fangs bared, she met their gazes.

One of her hands shot up, directing her powers, and it surged through her body, oozing out of her. The vampires fell to their knees almost immediately, clutching their heads in their hands, and Alaric wasted no time plunging the stakes into their hearts. Her hand fell back at her side when the meatlugs slumped onto the floor and she felt out of breath.

Messing with the minds of two vampires had a bigger toll on her body.

She looked at Alaric, who's chest was also heaving, but for other reasons, and he cleared his throat. "I'm gonna check the rest of the house. Get Damon back to the car," he instructed and she nodded, still catching her breath by the time he left the room.

Y/N leaned her forehead against one of the walls and she sucked in a deep breath. "Sorry to interrupt your intimate moment with the house, but," Damon called quietly from his prison of a chair, and she turned her head to look at him slowly. "Still stuck in vervain ropes here," he finished, nodding down at his wrists and his ankles.

"God, you look like hell," she told him, not bothering to think of anything smart-mouthed as she pushed herself off of the wall and made her way over to him.

His jet black hair was matted with dirt while his face and chest were streaked with crimson. The shirt he'd been wearing was hanging in strips off of his body and, on the right side of his abdomen, a few circular wounds from a round of wooden buckshot were blown into his skin. "I'd say the same about you, but I'd be lying," he hummed teasingly and she scoffed, shaking her head softly at him as she crouched in front of him. If he was cracking jokes, he couldn't be hurt that badly, right?

Y/N reached into the front pocket of her jeans and she pulled out a foldable knife. "You're awfully flirty for someone who's just been tortured for two days straight," she pointed out as she sawed off the rope around his ankles and tossed it to the side.

He shrugged his shoulders and she almost missed the way that he winced in pain. "Maybe I just missed you," he said, but the playfulness in his tone made her roll her eyes.

This guy, she thought to herself as she cut away at one of the ropes around his wrist. "I'm sure," she replied sarcastically and she continued to work on the rope. "How's your shotgun wound feeling?" She asked, just trying to gauge whether or not she'd have to take the pieces out now or if they could wait until they got back to the Salvatore boarding house.

"I knew you cared about me," he joked, deflecting her question and she shot him a glare.

"Damon."

"It's fine," he answered just as she freed one of his hands from the rope and he breathed a sigh of relief, twisting his wrist to relieve some of the tension. Y/N moved to the other one without skipping a beat. "Thanks for asking," he said and she shook her head.

"Whatever." She sawed a little bit quicker on that rope, just wanting this interaction to be over. When it fell on the floor, she kicked it aside. "Let's just leave, please. I don't wanna be here anymore," she told him, tucking the knife back in her pocket, and stepping out of his way so he could try to stand.

Damon pushed himself up slowly and his face contorted in pain. "Fuck," he hissed when he was halfway up and Y/N felt slightly bad for being so cold to him.

Before he could fall back in the seat, she slid one of her arms around his back and draped his over her shoulder so she could hold both of their body weights. Damon groaned when she adjusted her arm, accidentally pressing against his ribcage. "Sorry," she said and she looked over at him, color flooding her cheeks when she found him already staring down at her.

Their noses were about a centimeter or two away from touching as he nodded. "Whatever," he answered, managing a small smile despite the pain he was in. "Let's just leave," he said, calling back to what she'd said only moments ago, and she ignored the part of him that was mocking her.

"I think that's the first good idea you've ever had," Y/N told him and he sputtered out a laugh, before he fell into a coughing fit. Damon clamped his free hand over his chest and he would've doubled over if Y/N wasn't there to keep him upright. "Shit, sorry. I'm sorry," she apologized quickly, waiting his coughs out until all that was left of them was a droplet of blood in the palm of his hand.

He shook his head softly and he nodded his head towards the door. "It's fine, let's just..." he trailed off, leaning his body on Y/N as everything started to take its toll, and she nodded, moving them both towards the exit as fast as she could.

—

An hour had passed since Alaric dropped them off at the Salvatore house and they'd been sitting on Damon's bed ever since. Y/N pulled the last piece of the wooden buckshot out of Damon's abdomen and she dropped it in the bowl with the rest of them. She watched as the skin of the wound closed up slowly, healing properly now that there was nothing preventing it from doing so. "Thank you," he said as she moved the bowl onto the top of the chest at the foot of his bed and began to put all the first aid supplies away and she ignored him. "For doing this. For saving me," he added and she looked up that time, a blank look on her face.

"I mean, you're welcome?" She said, like it was a question, and she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know why you're thanking me because it's not like I did any of it for you," she continued and she could see his eyebrows furrow briefly. Something she didn't have time to identify flickered across her face.

Damon shook off his surprise and he leaned back on his hands. "Then, why'd you come at all?" He asked, not fully believing her. "Why didn't you just leave me there to die?"

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but in reality, she wasn't all that sure. All she knew was that the moment she realized that Damon was in danger, a large part of her felt like it needed to go after him and she'd listened to that part of her, but she knew how much his ego would inflate if she said anything like that. She adverted her eyes from his and she set her hands on her knees. "You keep Elena safe, so I was just looking out for her," she lied, but not well enough because he saw right through her.

Damon scoffed. "Last time I checked, you haven't spoken a word to Elena in weeks," he countered and he straightened up. "Because you blame her for what happened to your brother."

Y/N squeezed her knees at the mention of her brother and she clenched her jaw in an attempt to not think about him, to not think about how he would still be alive if Elena hadn't gotten all of them into that mess. She shook her head at him. "That doesn't mean I don't care about her. It's just too hard to face her right now," she defended herself, but he sighed.

His shoulders sunk down as he pushed the air from his lungs. "There's gotta be another reason, sweetheart," he told her and he leaned forward slowly, a crooked smirk on his lips as his blue eyes scanned over her features in search of her tell. "Why'd you save me? Really?" He asked, lifting one of his hands to her face and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Well, there's not. There's no reason," she growled, swatting his hand away despite the part of her that just wanted to lean into his touch. She pressed her hands against his chest and she shoved him away from her, getting to her feet before he hand the chance to spring back. "I saved you because of Elena. Nothing else. There's no other reason, no hidden meaning, so why don't you just take it as it is and—"

She started to yell, angry at the fact that he wouldn't just drop it, but he cut her off. "Because I can't, Y/N!" He shouted and she shut up. He stood up off of his bed and took two large strides until he was standing in front of her. "Maybe you did do it for Elena, but I know there's more. I know that this," he paused, gesturing back and forth from his chest to her own, "isn't one-sided. I just need to hear you say it. Tell me there's more," he whispered, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks.

Y/N didn't know why but her eyes were starting to prickle with tears, so she shook her head and blinked them away. "Look, Damon, you're wrong, okay? Can you just let me leave, please?" She asked, pulling his hands off of her face and putting at least a foot of distance between them.

"No," he argued, shaking his head furiously. "Not until you admit that you feel something, too. I know you do," he pressed, stepping towards her a few more times.

Maybe if she just came clean, he'd drop it.

"Fine, Damon!" Y/N snapped. "I do feel something, okay? I care about your stupid ass. I care about you and it drives me insane," she whispered. "But nothing can happen between us, alright?" She muttered, laying down the line, and he took another step forward. He closed the space between them and hooked an arm gently around her waist, pulling her body against his.

He looked down at her carefully, his eyes boring into her own. "And why is that?" He asked lowly, fitting one of his hands to the curve of her jaw, and it took all she had not to shy away from his touch.

"Because it's dangerous, Damon," she answered.

Damon couldn't help but laugh. "Of course it's dangerous, Y/N," he agreed, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "You're a witch and I'm a vampire, but that just means it'll be dangerous whether something happens between us or not," he explained and she just looked at him, her eyes fluttering around in his, searching for another sign because she'd never thought about it like that.

She'd only thought about him, about them, in the sense that because of who he was, how destructive he tended to be, and how many people despised him, they'd never catch a break.

But putting it in his terms made things seem possible, so maybe, just maybe—

No.

Before she could protest, though, before she could tell him once again that nothing could ever happen between them, Damon dipped his head forward and touched his lips against her own, because he couldn't hold back anymore. He needed to feel what it was like to kiss her, even if this was the only chance he'd ever get.

His other hand moved to cup her other cheek and his lips were soft and tender against her own. He tasted sweet, like cinnamon, and rugged, like scotch, all at the same time and his lips were much less hungry than she ever expected them to be.

She melted into the feeling, into the kiss, into him, as tingles spread from her head to her toes. She kissed Damon back softly, slipping her hands around his shoulders so her fingers could wrap themselves in the black tatters of his shirt and pull him harder against her mouth.

Damon pushed his fingers into her hair, tugging them through her locks, and she nearly moaned at the feeling. She tilted her head slightly, allowing him better access to her lips, and just when her mouth parted to let his tongue slip in, he pulled away.

He could practically hear her whine with disappointment, but instead of commenting on it, he simply smirked and looked down at her. "How was that for dangerous?" He asked, shooting her a cocky wink, and she rolled her eyes immediately.

Y/N pressed her hands softly against his chest and lightly pushed him away as a laugh broke through his lips. "You're so annoying," she told him through a soft laugh and a small smile and he tilted his head at her.

"Oh, c'mon, Y/N, you liked it," he teased her, bouncing back to her so his hands could settle on either side of her waist.

She simply rolled her eyes at him again, but she didn't push him away that time, because he was right.

She did like it.

And maybe, just maybe, a little danger could be a good thing.

↴

author's note / well, this was fun to write. i haven't watched tvd in months but this has been sitting in my drafts and i liked the plot so i decided to hurry up and crack it out. sorry if y’all wanted a marvel imagine, i just took a break because writing more characters and fandoms helps me stay motivated. thanks for reading!