#I’m on crutches and in a brace and working from home but I need background noise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gingrrfrog · 5 years ago

Text

these nights (11)

word count: 6k

warnings: slight gore(?), graphic violence

summary: finally awake, jeno digs in his brain to find out what happened while jaehyun deals with pest control

a/n: finally some mafia occurrences! there is graphic violence at the end so please be careful

It doesn’t happen anything like in the movies. Jeno doesn’t wake up with a gasp where he tears his wires out in dramatic fashion. The morning he woke up, it was rather…anticlimactic. His dick was stinging uncomfortably, groaning until he opened his eyes, looking around the hospital to see Jaemin and Yejin asleep on the small futon. He sighed quietly and glanced at the digital clock in front of him.

6:30.

He scoffed, there’s no way either of them is waking up anytime soon. He jumped at the sound of the door clicking, a nurse walking in with a chart and visibly straightening up in surprise.

“Oh!” She whispered, giving Jeno a smile. “Good morning, Jeno.”

“Good morning,” he croaked, his voice barely coming out as a rasp before the nurse handed him a bit of water. He thanked her quietly before taking a sip, “how long have I been out?”

“Since your admittance on Sunday, six days. Almost a week.” The nurse replied, “how do you feel? Does anything feel out of the ordinary?”

“I have a question about…the thing…in my…you know…”

The nurse laughed, nodding her head, “it might be there for a while, or until your ribs heal enough for you to comfortably walk around to use the restroom.”

“How long will that be?”

The nurse pursed her lips, “hard to say. Maybe about two weeks?”

Jeno frowned as the nurse continued her tests. They made idle chitchat while she examined him, feeling a bit uncomfortable when she had to turn him around a few times, exposing his bare ass embarrassingly. He cleared his throat, closing his eyes to save whatever dignity he had left.

“I’m glad that you’re awake, Jeno,” the nurse continued. “Your girlfriend and your brother were really concerned.”

“My brother?”

“Jaemin is your brother, isn’t he?”

Jeno snorted, “he’s not.”

“Oh, my mistake. Either way, they were very concerned. I think it’s nice that they’re as close as they are.”

Jeno pressed his lip in a tight line to avoid laughing, “yeah. I think so too.”

“Well, I’ll tell the doctor that you’re awake when she comes in. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Jeno shook his head, “no, I’m fine. I might go back to sleep, actually. Is it normal to still feel sleepy?”

“You might’ve not known it, but you were fighting the entire time, Jeno. It’s completely normal for you to be tired, your body worked really hard.”

“That’s reassuring,” he breathed, smiling at her once again. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“It’s my job,” she smiled. “Literally. But if you need anything at all, press the nurse button and I’ll be around.”

Jeno nodded and watched her leave, yawning almost instantly and feeling his eyelids droop.

He can’t pinpoint what happened exactly. He can barely remember untying his restraints and feeling nauseatingly dizzy before he managed to get up somehow. He remembered shooting someone, barely making it back to the car before he fell unconscious afterwards. Before Jeno could investigate his dream any further, it was over.

His eyes were still closed but he heard shuffling in the background as well as soft talking. Jeno recognized the voice to be Jaemin, a smaller sound that sounded like a kiss and Yejin’s sigh. They were awake by this point, but it didn’t sound like they were fully coherent. He heard the feet walk towards him, much lighter steps as he recognized them to be Yejin’s who pressed her lips to his forehead.

“Good morning, baby,” she said sweetly. Jeno wondered if the doctor had told him he had already woken up. If she hadn’t told him, would it be appropriate for Jeno to pop his eyes open and say good morning back?

He didn’t want to scare them.

Not only that, but he had to pee, and the catheter was really rubbing his dick the wrong way. Literally.

Jeno clenched his eyes, listening to Yejin’s breath hitch in surprise before he peeled them open again, seeing her bright face and a smile spread against her face.

“Oh my god, Jeno,” she laughed, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles. “You’re awake.”

“If it isn’t my morning angel,” Jeno beamed, smiling at Yejin’s kissing his knuckles over and over again. He looked around for Jaemin, confused that he didn’t see him anywhere despite just hearing his voice. “Jaemin…?”

“He went to go get some breakfast,” she reassured. Jeno looked at the clock again, rolling his eyes when he saw it was noon.

“Hardly breakfast anymore, Yejin.”

“You’re not allowed to scold me, you just woke up,” she laughed, standing up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I missed you, seriously. I missed you like crazy.”

“I missed you. Even though I wasn’t awake, I’m sure my subconscious missed you.”

“How do you feel? Does anything hurt like crazy?”

Jeno shook his head, “I get stings here and there, I think the doctor might’ve put me on something before I woke up again.”

“Again?”

“I was awake earlier,” he explained. “You and Jaem were asleep, though.”

Yejin frowned deeply, her bottom lip jutting out especially, “why didn’t you wake us up?”

“At six thirty in the morning? I could throw rocks at the both of you and neither of you would budge.”

“We were tired—" Yejin bit her tongue, the last thing she wanted was to make Jeno feel guilty when it wasn’t his fault. But it didn’t work, watching Jeno grimace almost instantly.

“I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sorry, I said I would come home to you in one piece.”

Yejin quickly shook her head, “no baby, don’t be sorry. Maybe you didn’t come home but you’re in one piece, that’s all that matters. Plus, we’re not tired for the reasons you think, I promise.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow before Yejin brushed her hair off her shoulders, revealing faint marks on her neck that leaned towards the end of their healing cycle. Jeno scoffed in disbelief, rolling his eyes. If he could cross his arms he would definitely do so.

“Unbelievable,” he smiled. He carefully raised the arm that was not bandaged ran his fingers over the mark. “Been busy without me, I see.”

Yejin laughed, kissing his fingertips, “it was make up sex if it makes you feel better.”

“Little did you know that makes me feel worse,” he sighed. “What was it this time? God—I really can’t leave you two alone without one wanting to rip the other’s throat out.”

“But we made up! We did it all by ourselves, like adults.”

Jeno snorted, “who apologized first?”

“Jaeminie.”

“That’s a first. What happened?”

“Just Jaemin being…Jaemin.”

Jeno narrowed his eyes but decided to let it go in response, sighing as Yejin intertwined their fingers together. They were quiet for a moment, Yejin had rested her head on the hospital bed, placing Jeno’s hand on her head as he gently scratched at her scalp with fingernails that were a bit longer than he was used to. Yejin, on the other hand, could care less. There was a distinct difference between the way Jeno and Jaemin scratched her head, and she preferred Jeno’s slender fingertips by a mile.

Jaemin arrived moments later, humming some idol song before tossing the food on the table. He walked over to the bed and jumped at the sight of Jeno being awake, his hand on Yejin’s head as the latter had fallen asleep again.

“Holy shit, Jeno—"

It took Jaemin less than three seconds to run to Jeno’s side, peppering his face in kisses as Jeno scrunched his face. With one eye closed, he looked at his boyfriend with a smile, removing his hand from Yejin’s head before holding his hand.

“You’re okay, you’re feeling better right? Nothing hurts too bad? Do you want me to call the nurse?”

Jeno shook his head, “I’ve been awake for a while now. Don’t worry. You should eat.”

“Fuck, I should’ve waited ten more minutes and I could’ve brought you something you liked to eat, I’m sorry—do you want me to go out and buy something else—?”

“Jaemin, chill out, please.”

“You just woke up after a week and you want me to chill out?!”

“Yejin treated it like a normal person, can’t you just kiss me instead?”

Jaemin scoffed in disbelief, gingerly taking Jeno’s face in his hands before pressing a quick kiss to his lips, “Yejin is not normal and neither am I, Lee Jeno.”

Jeno beamed as Jaemin pulled him in for another kiss, pulling away once they heard a surprised squeak from the door way. Jaemin cleared his throat and pressed his lips in a tight line before pulling away to look at the nurse. She had a bashful look to her face, somewhat embarrassed but confused.

“Not your brother…I see…” she added, a giggle hidden behind her lips. Jeno laughed, shaking his head.

“Not quite.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen something like it,” she reassured, shaking her head to concentrate herself on her job.

“Anyway, Jeno, these are your medications you should take for the next few days. I’ll leave some here for now, today’s dosage, but I’ll be around tomorrow just to make sure that your brain doesn’t turn into mush. There’s not much else we can do except wait for your injuries to heal but, if everything goes well, and there are no more complications with your head, we should let you go in two weeks? Again, the faster the rib heal, the faster we can get you out of here with crutches.”

“Will he need physical therapy?”

The nurse nodded, “yes. But that isn’t something that we’re concerned about until the braces and the casts are off. Right now, our main focus is that Jeno gets enough rest to ensure his bones heal properly.”

Jaemin bowed deeply, at a ninety degree angle, “Thank you so much for taking care of Jeno."

The nurse quickly shook her head and waved her hands, nervously laughing, “no, it’s fine! Really! You should really be thanking the doctor this deeply, if you ask me, she did way more than I did—"

Jaemin shook his head adamantly, “that doesn’t mean you did your best to make sure Jeno was comfortable. It means everything to me, to Yejin too. Can I ask your name at least?”

Jeno sighed, he knew exactly where this was going, “Jaemin—"

“Jang…Yeeun…?” She recited, looking at Jeno in confusion before Yejin lifted her head from her spot on the bed.

Jaemin walked around towards the nurse, taking her hands in his and looking in her eyes, holding eye contact as the poor nurse (Yeeun, apparently) could only keep it. “Yeeun, if you need anything, literally, anything in the world. Please, feel free to find me or Jeno again.”

Yejin blinked in confusion, knowing as much that Jaemin’s stare could captivate the weakest of hearts. She snorted, standing from her spot on the chair and pulling Jaemin away, “come on, Corleone. Don’t scare her.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeno mouthed to her.

“Thank you for your offer, but I’m really only just doing my job,” she chuckled shakily again. “Any other nurse would’ve done the same, I promise you.”

Yejin smiled at her, shaking her head, “don’t listen to him. He’s dramatic. But, it’s true, we’re really thankful either way.”

Yeeun smiled bashfully, bowing slightly, “I’ve got to go…I’ll be back soon! Call me if you need anything.”

“You do the same.” Jaemin beamed.

Once the door closed, Yejin was quick to spin on her heel, sending a slap with driving force to Jaemin’s shoulder, effectively wiping the moronic grin off his face, “you think she’s pretty, Jaemin?”

“It’s not like that!” Jaemin whined, rubbing his shoulder, “I just want to help her for helping Jeno, that’s all.”

“I think you scared her into giving me to another nurse,” Jeno laughed, taking Yejin’s hand as she walked back towards him.

“It’s not like I held at her gunpoint or anything,” Jaemin pouted. He walked over towards Yejin, putting his hands on her shoulders before she shrugged them off. “What—?”

“Go eat lunch with Yeeun.”

Jaemin scoffed, “you’re not serious.”

Yejin ignored him, listening to Jeno’s sigh as he squeezed her hand. Maybe he could pretend to go in a coma again.

Mornings in the Jung household were like any other morning in any other household, if Jaehyun were to speak objectively. Their lavish home perhaps wasn’t the norm amongst the majority of the population, but he liked to think that he shared a very normal morning routine.

On a morning very much like this one, Jaehyun would be the first to wake up, usually at 6 or 7am depending if Jihyun woke up and set his alarm later. Regardless of her waking up to reset his alarm, Jaehyun was almost always the first to get out of bed, walking to the bathroom before getting back in bed and looking through his phone.

He used to do work in bed for the first few hours of the day, but he stopped once he realized Jihyun liked to play dead and read over his shoulders on his laptop, finding out more than she should. This often led to her husband pulling at her ear for being so nosy.

He also avoided doing work in bed because it was so easy to give into his wife’s needs. Despite the strength Jaehyun presents, he is weak under his wife’s gaze, melting into her touch much easier than he would care to admit.

That said, Jaehyun got dressed to work at home, his outfits simple as it consisted of a darker shirt, sometimes a tee sometimes a button up, and a lighter pant before he walked downstairs to the kitchen. A small breakfast usually does the job, Jaehyun doesn’t usually eat breakfast and up until her pregnancy, neither did Jihyun. A fruit salad would suffice for today, he thought, taking the bowl into his office as he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Work consisted of several different things, varying on the scale of legality as he worked two different professions with two different names. He was born Jung Jaehyun, but the name was tainted under several misdemeanors and charges, so in order to keep his legal professional reputation intact, he went by Jung Yoonoh, co-founder along with Moon Taeil on several business ventures.

Taeil was in charge of the business in New York, where he did his best laundering what he could through the union and through their restaurant chains. Every month, Taeil sent an in-depth report of all that they’ve made, sealed, locked, and under key before it was mailed to Jaehyun through a private carrier. It was up to Jaehyun to distribute pay to his workers, businesses to cut, and people to cut after the report was done. He would sigh when he saw two were skimming from the top, leading Jaehyun to call Taeil immediately to rid of the two men.

It was simple. Two men would be dead with just a phone call, and Jaehyun had been doing this long enough to not blink an eye, going onto the next task as if nothing happened.

By 9:30, he would hear Jihyun awake and shuffling around the house as she chatted with the housekeeper about menial tasks around the house. She would knock at Jaehyun’s office door at 9:45, peeking her head inside to ask if he wanted to join her for breakfast, which he always did.

Jaehyun, again, didn’t eat but he liked to spend time with his wife. He also found out that it was much more fun to say my wife instead of my girlfriend, my fiancée, etc. While his wife cooked her breakfast, he leaned against the kitchen island, sipping on his second cup of coffee as they chatted quietly about their plans for the day.

Typically, Jihyun would be gone during this time, whether it be preparing for catering or for dinner at the restaurant, she wouldn’t be home from 11 to 11 until, again, her pregnancy came in. On maternity leave and with more time than she’s used to, she found love in cooking again, taking her time creating loving dishes for herself that Jaehyun often picked from her plate.

Finished with his cup of coffee he placed it in the sink before wrapping his arms around Jihyun, sighing as he kissed her neck and snuggled in her shoulder.

...don’t you think?”

“Hm? What, sorry?”

“I was saying I think I need to add more salt, don’t you think?”

“I’d say yes, but then you complain about your feet being swollen later,” he replied.

Jihyun sighed when she realized he had a point, instead opting to plate her dish despite her husband being attached to her back. They couldn’t honeymoon now, with the current circumstance, but cuddling like this would have to do until Jihyun poked his side for him to let her go.

Jaehyun munched on an apple as he watched her eat, again chatting along throughout the meal as they chat with the housekeeper as well. Jaehyun realized his home maybe was too quiet, maybe they should get a dog. He tried mentioning this to Jihyun afterwards, to which she scrunched her nose and quickly refused. She didn’t want the house smelling like dog, she much less wanted hair everywhere.

“Not to mention, you’re enough.”

Jaehyun frowned, “I’m not a dog.”

“You act like it,” she grinned, watching her husband roll his eyes.

Jaehyun would kiss her goodbye before he would go back to his office after his short break, where he continued to work until 1:30, where he would deem himself done for the day. The schedule was really for him to get work done earlier so he could spend more time with the baby, and later have time to make dinner once Hyerim started going to school and be around to play.

Jaehyun wouldn’t say his father was absent in his childhood, but he was absent in his own way. His father existed only when he was doing work, rarely did they see each other at home, often crossing paths while they did a job and seeing each other during meetings the older and more involved Jaehyun got. Jaehyun would also argue it was the same for Jaemin, but different for Jisung as he was more present in his childhood but obviously absent during adolescence.

He wanted to break the cycle in any way he could with Hyerim and any child they decided to have in the future. Setting a playpen in his office was a start, as was the schedule he enforced himself so that his afternoons were free for playing, shopping, or homework doing. Whatever Hyerim wanted, he would work for her to get.

At 1:45 he left and locked his office once again, shuffling towards the living room to see Jihyun asleep on the couch, her feet propped up on the end of the couch, swollen, as Jaehyun predicted. He laughed to himself and sat at the end of the couch, taking her feet and pressing his thumbs into the balls of her feet, watching her face contort in pain.

“Ow,” she mumbled.

“I told you they would get swollen.”

Jihyun dismissed him as she laid on her side, her hand resting on her belly as she fell asleep once more.

Jaehyun watched tv mindlessly until his phone rang, using his free hand to answer a call from his brother, “hey, Jisung.”

“hyung, I have a favor to ask but I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”

Jaehyun sighed heavily and listened to his request. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to, the same amount of money to be deposited into his account as his allowance because Jaehyun knew that he had used it on games yet again. He scolded Jisung again, telling him that the next time this happened he would be splitting his allowance in half, and the next time would be by 3/4.

The youngest tried to explain that he didn’t know how it happened, but Jaehyun heard none of it, warning Jisung to not to let it happen again or that he was going to sign him up for a job at a convenience store. Jisung quickly said that there would be no need, thanking his brother before he hung up the phone.

“Jesus Christ, Jisung,” he sighed heavily. He heard Jihyun laugh next to him, somewhere in between awake and asleep as she spoke with her eyes closed.

“Maybe we’re having a daughter because God already gave you a son,” she joked, smiling at her husband’s snort.

“He’s not my son, he’s my failed attempt at parenting,” he grumbled. Jihyun laughed again, sitting up and cuddling into his arms.

The two watched TV quietly, Jihyun’s head resting on his shoulder rubbing her stomach as Jaehyun ran his fingers through her hair. He teased her for it being so knotted, but she would only reply with a pinch to his thigh.

Jaehyun’s phone rang again, causing him to tilt his head back and groan. Jihyun noticed this and grinned, poking at his ribs to irritate him more, “do you think he spent it all already?”

“I’ll kill him, I’ll actually kill him—oh thank god, it’s Jaemin.”

“Your favorite son?”

Jaehyun squinted and gave her the finger, “yeah, Jaemin?”

Jihyun watched as Jaehyun’s eyes widened. Jaehyun sat up, pulling away from Jihyun and instantly standing up from his spot, she huffed at the sudden action but continued to watch with her arms crossed.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Is he okay, does he need anything?”

Jaehyun paused, his lip in between his teeth as he rolled his eyes, “I’m not going to try anything, Jaemin, thank you for having faith in me.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Jaehyun sighed, hanging up the phone before leaning in to kiss Jihyun quickly, “I’ve got to go.”

“Where? What happened?”

Jihyun followed Jaehyun to the front door where he shoved his arms through his coat pocket while slipping on his shoes.

“Jeno’s awake. I’ve got to see if he’s okay, maybe ask him a question or two, but I’m just want to go see him.”

“Is he okay? Is his head okay?”

Jaehyun shrugged, “Jaemin said he was mostly coherent, but I don’t know what he means by that so I’m going to go check for myself.”

“Don’t push him too much, baby.”

“I’m not. Jeno’s like my little brother too, I want to make sure he’s good as well,” Jaehyun sighed. “Not after I put him through the car accident.”

Jihyun frowned, “Jaehyun-"

Said man shook his head, kissing her forehead, “I can’t. I’ll be back later, maybe for dinner.”

Jihyun sighed regardless, nodding before squeezing his hand, “drive safely, baby. I love you.”

“I love you, I’ll call you.” He reassured, blowing her a kiss before closing the door behind him.

He arrived sooner than the fifteen minutes, making it to the hospital in a flat eight minutes before running towards the elevators. He was reprimanded for running by a worker, but he didn’t care, barely squeezing by elevator doors and shocking some doctors in surprise.

The next floor was the ICU, Jaehyun excusing himself out the door as a family pushed their way out as well.

He rounded the corner towards Jeno’s room. Jaehyun’s hand hovered over the handle, his fingernail digging in his hands before opening the door and walking inside. He heard chatting inside the room, a voice he recognized to be Jeno’s as he walked in.

Sure enough, he was awake. His head was still wrapped tightly with gauze, but he looked better than he did the last time he saw him, which was when he was first admitted. Jaehyun would admit that he didn’t visit Jeno as much as he would’ve liked, partially because he still felt remorse for putting him in the situation that he was in now. Not to mention, he’s not sure if Jaemin is happy with him either, despite being the first person he called when Jeno woke up.

Jeno made eye contact with Jaehyun, his eyes brightening as he sat up, “hyung-"

“Don’t Jeno,” he said gently, pressing Jeno back against the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Jeno smiled, “you’re like the tenth person to ask me that today. I’m fine, really.”

Jaehyun felt relief, exhaling softly before placing a hand on his shoulder, “Jeno, I’m really sorry that I sent you out there, I should’ve known that-“

Jeno reached for his hand, shaking his head, “no one would’ve known that, hyung. No matter how talented you are, I would’ve never seen it coming.”

Jaehyun tried to force a smile, but the closest thing that came out was a grimace. He looked around to greet Yejin silently, looking at his brother last who was sat on the couch. Jaemin made no effort to greet him until he made eye contact with him, nodding in response.

“He’s not mad at you,” Jeno said quietly, enough for only Jaehyun to hear, “and if he is, he’s deflecting.”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he was mad at me, if we’re speaking honestly,” Jaehyun reassured. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

“No, I’m fine really. But there is something I should tell you, Jaehyun hyung.”

“It can wait until you’re feeling better, Jeno. You just woke up.“

Jeno shook his head, “no. I have to tell you now.”

Jaehyun picked at the scab on his hand, looking at Yejin and Jaemin who were sat on the couch, “do you want them to be around? Or do you want to tell me alone?”

Jeno pressed his lips in a tight line. He beckoned Yejin over, giving her a shoddy excuse that he craved a specific type of chocolate milk, asking if she could please buy him one from the cafe on the lobby. Yejin agreed wholeheartedly, quickly making her way towards the door.

Jaemin looked up suspiciously, raising his eyebrows before he made it towards Jeno’s bedside, “what’s going on?”

“I wanted to talk to you and Jaehyun hyung, but I didn’t want to freak Yejin out.”

Jaemin looked up at his brother, glaring at him through his eyelashes, “you should get some rest, Jen-"

“I think you forget that I’m above you, Jaemin.” Jeno said firmly, “I hate pulling that card, but I told you that I’m fine.”

Jaemin shut his mouth, backing off and biting his lip instead. Jeno took a deep breath, looking at his hands before thinking about what to say next.

“I don’t…really remember,” he prefaced, “but, I do remember that I wasn’t in the car at first. Mark hyung had sent me to bring the car around, so I went downstairs. For some reason, the key wasn’t working, and I couldn’t unlock it. I think they might’ve switched the cars to get me standing there or something. I don’t remember.”

“But I remember getting hit over the head with something hard and being dragged somewhere. It might’ve been the orphanage, but I really can’t remember-“

“Don’t strain yourself, Jeno. I don’t expect you to remember anything.“

Jeno shook his head adamantly, “the point is, I remember being…barked at? Like, a dog?”

“What the fuck do you mean? Like woof-woof?” Jaemin pressed.

Jaehyun swallowed, his blood running cold, “do you know what they sounded like?”

“They were guys, but one was either a girl or a kid that hadn’t hit puberty yet.” Jeno clenched his eyes, “I think there were real dogs there too, but I barely remember leaving.”

Jaehyun’s fingernail was found in between his teeth, tearing at the skin before pulling away from his bloody fingers, “it’s fine, Jeno.”

“Do you know anything about someone barking, hyung?” Jaemin asked Jaehyun quietly.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. Jaehyun didn’t want to incite more fear than there already was. “I’ll talk to Johnny hyung before he leaves for Chicago. I’m leaving for New York next week to see Taeil hyung, I’ll ask if he knows anything too.”

Jaehyun looked up at Jaemin, “can I talk to you? For a second?”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow, following his brother outside, “what?”

“Have you told Jeno about what happened a few days ago?”

Jaemin shook his head, “no. Should I?”

Jaehyun shrugged, “what do you think? Do you think it’s useful?”

“Maybe not right now, but he’s going to be suspicious if we start talking about moving all of sudden.”

Jaehyun clicked his tongue pensively, “maybe…for the time being, you should move into dad’s house. Just temporarily.”

“You don’t think he’ll be more suspicious?”

“It’s not like you’ll tell him that you’re living somewhere else.”

Jaemin frowned, “I don’t like lying to Jeno.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem lying to Yejin.”

Jaehyun watched Jaemin’s eyes narrow, “whatever. I’ll think about it, but I’ll think about telling Jeno sometime soon instead.”

“Do whatever you have to do, Jaem. You’re in charge of your group until Jeno gets better.”

This was something he already knew but Jaemin still frowned, more so now that it had been confirmed. Jaehyun went back inside for only a moment, saying his goodbyes to Jeno and Yejin now that she arrived. Jaehyun gave a knowing glance towards Jaemin before the latter gave a nod.

By the time Jaehyun got back into his car, his head was pounding against his skull, groaning before he hit his head over the steering wheel. He glanced over the glove compartment and reached for the cigarettes he hid in there for a rainy day, only before grimacing and realizing Jihyun would not only be disappointed, but sad that he gave up.

He sighed, turning on the car and opting to drive home instead. He opened the window to let cold air hit his face in attempts to distract him from anything else, which seemed to work until he got home, the stress weighing heavy on his shoulders.

The housekeeper was on her way out when Jaehyun got home, smiling at her and telling her to get some rest before he walked inside. He kicked his shoes off at the door and shuffled inside the house, noticing that both the kitchen and the living room were empty. He heard noise from upstairs and made his way towards the sound, Jihyun was most likely in the nursery, except Jihyun appeared from the laundry room.

“Hey-"

Jaehyun quickly shoved her back inside the laundry room, her eyes widening in surprise as she fumbled her words.

“Jaehyun—?! What—?”

He pressed a finger to his lips, “stay here. Don’t move until I come back.”

Jihyun furrowed her eyebrows before her husband left the laundry room. With his gun gripped in between his fingers, he quietly walked on the side of the steps to make sure not a single creak was heard. The noise was coming from the nursery, and it was making his stomach churn. He took a deep breath as he walked towards the door, seeing that it was slightly ajar as he watched a shadow inside.

Jaehyun took another step inside, wincing at the sound of creak and watching the shadow move quickly for his belt. He kicked the door open, shooting the figure in the stomach and watching as he doubled over before Jaehyun pushed him on the ground with his foot, pressing into the wound.

“Don’t fucking try it,” he glared, the gun aimed for his head.

“Just leaving a gift for the baby,” the man croaked under him. His face was hidden by a mask. “A puppy, a new one.”

Jaehyun gritted his teeth, moving his foot from his stomach to his throat, pressing against the Adam’s apple as the man choked under him, “who are you? What do you want with my family?”

“The Whisperer protects us, protects people like us. Jeno, your baby, your wife, he wants to protect them.”

“My wife has nothing to do with you, you fucking creep,” Jaehyun seethed, increasing the weight on his foot. “Who. Are. You?”

“The Whisper protects us, protects people—"

Jaehyun unloaded the clip in the mystery man’s skull, his jaw tight as blood splattered on his clothing. Once empty, he tossed the gun to the side, reaching to yank the mask off his face and almost gagging. Jaehyun had seen his fair share of mutilated faces, and him unloading the gun into his face didn’t cause the disgusting face that was left.

The face was full of scars and burns, barely recognizable as a human. He had no hair, no eyelashes from what he could tell, and if Jaehyun could guess, he wouldn’t have fingerprints either. He pulled the gloves off and furrowed his eyebrows.

He didn’t even have fingers. Where his fingers would be were replaced by a metal prosthetic.

“What the fuck are you?” Jaehyun said in disgust, throwing the gloves on the dead man’s face.

Jaehyun reached for his phone, calling Johnny instantly.

“yeah?”

“Come over. Now.”

“Wait, why? What’s going on?”

“I can’t talk right now. Get over here.”

“I’m on my way.”

Jaehyun put his phone back in his pocket and remembered Jihyun in the laundry room, quickly closing the door to the room before running downstairs. It seemed that whoever that person was worked alone and might’ve been the same person who was in Jeno, Jaemin, and Yejin’s home almost a week ago.

He opened the door to the laundry room and held his hands up when Jihyun raised the gun to his head, “it’s me, baby. It’s me.”

Her eyes traced the blood patterns on his pants and beginnings of his shirt, “what…did you do? Jaehyun, what’s going on?”

“Someone was in the house."

“—what?! What do you mean—?!”

“Not important,” he said quickly.

“Jaehyun, you’re covered in blood, what do you mean it’s not important? I’m confused.”

Jaehyun smoothed his hand over her hair and kissed her forehead, “I need you to pack up some things. I need you to go to your parents’ house for a while-“

“I’m not leaving, Jaehyun. This is my home.”

“Please, Jihyun. Just this once, please just listen to me.”

“Jaehyun, you’re scaring me,” Jihyun said quietly, “what is going on?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, but I need to make sure you and Hyerim are safe.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll stay at the warehouse for a few days until I go to New York-“

“Can I come with you? To New York?”

Jaehyun shook his head, “not this time, baby. I’m sorry.”

Jaehyun sighed and kissed her forehead again when he saw her cry, holding her close and rubbing her back, “I’ll be fine, Jihyun.”

“Promise that you’ll call every day, Jung Jaehyun. Every day at four o’clock. I don’t care that I’ll be asleep, I just need to know you’re okay.”

Jaehyun nodded, “I promise. Let’s go get you packed, I’ll call your dad in the meantime.”

Jihyun followed Jaehyun up the stairs, looking at the closed nursery they always kept open. Jihyun looked to her husband, who only shook his head and led her towards the door. He sat on the bed and spoke to her father while she packed quietly, every so often letting tears fall over her cheeks.

Jinho arrived quickly, pulling his daughter into his arms and hugging her tightly. He took her luggage and told her to wait in the car, gathering the opportunity to talk to Jaehyun quickly.

“What’s going on?”

“Someone got in the house,” Jaehyun whispered. “He said he had a gift for the baby, that he was there to protect her and Jihyun.”

“I need her to stay with you for a week, maybe longer until I find out what’s going on.” Jaehyun scratched at his neck, “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to I just-“

“I understand, Yoonoh. Be safe, I can’t afford to lose my son.”

Jaehyun wished he could smile, but he could only nod, his father-in-law’s hand falling heavy on his shoulder.

Jinho put his daughter’s luggage in the car, shutting the trunk closed before sitting the driver’s seat, watching Jihyun look at Jaehyun through the living room window.

He put a hand on hers, squeezing tightly, “he’ll be okay.”

Jihyun couldn’t respond, she could only hold his hand.

masterlist

#these nights #nct mafia au #nct mafia #jaehyun #jeno #jaemin

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princeleyjeans · 4 years ago

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My first OC: An intro to Amelia.

As some of ya’ll know, Wallace and Gromit was what got me writing, literally, soon as i saw the movie all my chubby 10 year old butt wanted to do was make my own episode for the show and while I knew I was too little to work for Aardman Animations, that didn’t stop me writing fanfiction and beginning a fun and disturbing trot into the fandom world. Amy, was my first character, the one who started it all and yes, her story, is not one of cute mishaps and crime solving like that of her husbands (Well, husband’s dog but you know), it’s not twisted but it’s not light either, she is and always has been hella un-canon to the series, to the world they reside in and sure, as a kid I was told Mr Park wouldn’t touch such a mature plot-line with a barge pole, but it didn’t stop me and here we are today. Amelia Quartermaine: Age: 28 Gender: Female. Height: 5/11. Description: Pale skin, ginger/reddish hair with your stereotype freckles across the nose area of the face with piercing hazel eyes, larger than most cartoon creators like but not technically unhealthy, a physical blend of muscle and squish, huntress thicc, slight hourglass figure but the weight is a little wider than commonly described. --- Amelia begins as a brief glace during a routine visit to her almost stepmother/aunt figure, Totty, as I mentioned earlier, she’s appeared on the specific day to collect the last of Hutch’s things since he’s now living with her family, it’s not an idea situation and Lady T is less than okay with losing her one real link to Wallace, a missed love interest who declined her marriage/business proposal, but knowing of Amelia fondness for him and dedication to animals (Philip the dog, the family’s various large frightening birds and imported Vampire deer happily scattered around Victor’s less impressive manor house) she accepts the idea he’ll be happier there and leaves the matter at that. Speaking of love, it’s obviously Cupid firing arrows at a solid wall, nothing gets through for a while until Wallace suffers a minor injury during a tour of the Quartermaine estate, caused by Lady Tottington asking for his company on a visit to her ex boyfriends estate to attend a live auction of Victor’s hunting gear, various expensive/rare guns and weaponry finally being taken away from his weak grasp following the whole being beaten to a pulp by the angry mob and left needing rehab/reconstructive surgery on his legs/right shoulder. Don’t get confused, this isn’t a choice he’s made, no no, it’s his children, Amelia and her brothers, seeing his altered state and lack of ability to properly hold a rifle and deciding the best option is to save Victor from himself and remove temptation from his home, keeping the good shit for themselves but making sure he can’t get his mitts on any random weapons to use against animals, people, Wallace, you get the idea. He’s a cranky old man at this point and will happily deck the one who put him in crutches/permanent knee brace so what’s safer than remove 99% of all his shooty shoot toys. After said auction, Amelia walks her aunt and Wallace through the hand planted woodland, ranging 500 years old and full of some of the freakiest birds you ever saw, along with the little vampire deers that aren’t actually scary and really like people and small corn snacks, no sooner have they cleared a path and entered the most beautiful memorial pond area for the girls mother, Wallace trips over something and ends face down in the dirt with a vamp deer climbing on his back to reach a random grub on a nearby tree, the whole fiasco causes Tottys almost step-daughter to burst out laughing and thus begins the inevitable woo of the Quartermaine girl as any man capable of making even the coldest of people laugh must be one worth knowing. Of course, with all his love interests, this one holds an unspoken truth Gromit wishes to solve fast, especially given her status, and even with Hutch acting as a comforting example Amelia can be kind, he needs to uncover the other side, when things get tough, how many skeletons fall from the closet? ---- Now: A little background. Amelia is one of three children, being the youngest while her brothers, twins Marcus (Short for Machello) and Dametre are joint first, all birthed via Victors first wife and only love, Giovanna, who was lost to a long running genetic condition with no known cure or explanation. Amelia grew up under the wing of her father, favoring hunting/taxidermy/general gruesome hobbies as the twins preferred a variety of tailoring, cooking, knitting, gardening and lighter crafts, similar to Gromit. They were equally close to each parent although you get the idea that Victor held a certain admiration for his daughter given their shared blood lust, the familiar craving of the hunt and urge to display their kills for the world to see, plus being of similar mind yet him being the obviously weaker of the pair, Amelia dutifully going through with the plan while he either got angry with all the complicated steps or just failed to follow up. Victor, as a younger man, was very much one of those snobby “I’ll kill it, eat it and show you it’s skin because I’m hella macho”, while his daughter, was...well, a killer, a darker presence his weakness clung to, like a mother unable to let go of her son due to fear his partner will replace her in his heart, lack of power, lack of ones own worth so he taught her to be the best, the hunter capable of a big kill, no fear, all confidence and knowledge of entitlement and worth. No surprise, though never actually murdering a person, Amelia was a skilled fighter, handy with a sword, steady with a pistol and indestructible, mentally and physically....at least, until the death of her mother. Although staying strong, it left a rift, a rift concealed by a large vault door and locked tight so nobody could see just how sad it was to lose the only rational/in tact person in her life. Yes, she loved her father but Victor was a proud man, a proud father, giddy over having a child so devoted to the hunt just as he was, as his own father and grandfather, having someone to carry on not just the bloodline but that legacy, that path, despite loving his daughter, his sons, Victor was not someone you could actually...talk to. Giovanna was, she was that small hint of sanity in a strange, abnormal world, riddled in blood and destruction, she was that light at the end, the warm water washing away the deeds of the day, the listening ear and giver of advice, the forgiving hug, the confessional Amelia could tell her sins to with all the promise of them never seeing the outside. Regardless of being a hunter, Amelia also cared about animals, and her relationship with the forest was a complicated sort, it was hypocritical and ironic but she refused to engage that part of herself, she wanted to have her cake and eat it too, no matter of the internal struggles between just and evil. After the mothers death, the brothers took over, Amelia hunted but the twins were her protectors, the homemakers and general kindness of the estate as Victor got more into his cruel habits and needing of money, he did it all for them, but at the same time, he also did it to ease the heartache, the loss, the pain of having his wife around, without her being with him. He believed that the ones you loved never left, but at the same time, never seeing their faces was enough to put all those feelings to the test, all that faith, all that sense out the window. --- Back to the present: With her father’s condition now requiring support/aid, Amelia has taken position as one of the estates breadwinners, next to her brother Dam while Marcus stays home and looks after Victor, the arrangement is stable but with the intro of Hutch and her sudden taking to Wallace, things are looking...rocky, soon to become worse as Gromit gets involved to uncover just how much of her childhood has stuck. (Spoiler: SHE DECKS A BEAR AND PUTS THE VICAR THROUGH A PEW!) Welp Imma end this here, prob gonna do another story post at some point but for now I need a pee and my ass hurts from sitting so long

#Wallace and Gromit #OC #mine #kinda #meh #ew

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honestsycrets · 6 years ago

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Like Me VI: Giving In

❛ pairing | ivar x oi!reader

❛ word count | 3k+

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | ivar misses his dear friend. he seeks to give her all she wants. even if it includes him.

❛ warnings | rivalry, jealousy, arguing, one of them will kill the other.

The worst part of being a walking cripple was to have to endure the need to be in the goodwill of the only other cripple you knew that could walk as well.

“Ow!” Your fingers deepen in strokes upon the bird whose claws hollow the glove you wear. The blacksmith recoils from your nasty cry in the back of the royal quarters. Your earrings jingle as you shake your head to rid yourself of the sting that came from the blacksmith’s clanging. Your friend rears his head from his goblet of ale to your seat, grinding tooth together.

“What are you doing to her?” Ivar seethes. “She is screaming.”

“It is too tight on her legs, King Ivar. It is restricting movement.” He rumbles. “I was only adjusting them for improvement.”

Ivar droves off of his chair, dragging himself along the floor toward you. He sits himself up, dragging the leather strap of his bound legs directly in front.

“If her legs come out of that injured, you’ll answer to me, hm?” Ivar resounds with his war pick, flipping the blade at the blacksmith to reassure the man without question what will become of him.

“Uh-- of course, of course, my king. I will take these for repairs” He slips the braces off of your legs again, pulling the heavy straps of metal onto his arms as he stands. It doesn’t escape Ivar’s notice that you quickly chuck your dress over your notched legs to shield them from your view. Mangled legs, he reminds himself.

“Goodman,” Ivar replies with sycophantic smoothness as the man makes himself scarce from the room. You sit with your hands in your lap, one on top of another. Your lips have gone flat, calming your strokes across the bird. “Goodman… (Y/N)?”

“Yes?” You look toward the silken straps that bind your legs down. You need to bind them to be able to return home, this time on your forearms. The spirit of relaxation that you previously had with Ivar seems to have eviscerated in exchange for a tense and wary background.

“I did not mean what I said of your legs. And the prince. I was led by anger.” He reaches out to set his hand upon your knee.

“Rorik?” You say, leading him on to say the prince’s name. Ivar much rather eat his words than say the ruddy-haired prince that came with strange Persian, Swede and dark-skinned thralls. Yet if he had to in order to repair this relationship, he would.

“Rorik of Novgorod.” His thumb strokes your kneecap through your warm dress. Then, bouncing off your knee, he looks to you. “Sigrunn told me you saw him in the waters the other day. You enjoy his company, don’t you?”

“More than anything.” You answer too quickly. Enough that his face drops completely at your assertion. They are too soon, too raw. He clenches his jaw to avoid a raw reaction, tightening his grip upon your knee. He’s about to blow again, you know. In order to curb his brash reaction, your hands drop down to his gloved fingers. His Viking skin is calloused-- reflecting the days of his childhood and those of being truly Viking. The first touch that you had given him since the wedding and so he’ll take it.

“In another way, Ivar.” You say. “You are my friend, I understand our relationship. Freydis is a fair queen and you are a k--”

“A god.” Ivar cuts you off, dry in nature. “And you are a goddess. My equal.”

You’ve heard such things before from Freydis who worshiped Ivar’s feet in her own way. Still, you do not know what to say nor how to respond. Ivar brings the back of your palm to his lips, planting a gentle kiss upon the knuckle in tender care. Your love of the king always went like this. At times, tender and loving. At others, harsh and unforgiving.

“I have decided. As a goddess, you should be free to spend your time with who you wish without fear.”

Should you bend down on the floor and thank him for being such a fair and pious ruler? Your lips quirk into a smile, unable to contain it. Fighting Ivar in this state-- where his mind was degenerating… it would get you nowhere.

“So you approve of him becoming my lover?” You ask.

“I never said that.” Ivar sibilates when a white-hot prick of anger sears through his bones. “Only that I’m giving you an opportunity to choose.”

Your jaw relaxes, bending with your great beast on your arm. You lean to the shaved side of his head, planting a small kiss upon the scar that follows his cheekbone down. His cheeks almost could have reddened.

“Thank you, Ivar.”

He hates to admit it, but a gale of glee fills his stomach when you speak to him like that. Your voice is sweeter than his cups of mead. He feels as if he’s done something right when he notices the sharp eyes of the falcon on your other arm, his wings lifting as if he’s gotten too close.

“Where did you get that beast anyway?” He grumbles.

“Oh, the falcon?” You ask. “Rorik brought it to me from somewhere past Jorvik. Isn’t he cute?”

“He is anything but cute.” Ivar looks up and down the beast on your arm. “Babies are cute.”

“I heard Freydis is with child,” You gleam and know full heartedly that well, any child from their union was likely not Ivar’s in blood. You realize moments later, that it did not matter. The child was his in the soul. Freydis was right… this, this was good for him.

“I’m going to be a father.” His lips prick up, shifting the short hair of his mustache up along with it. “Do you want to be a mother, (Y/N)?”

Your heart drops, weak as you consider his suggestion. You shake your head at the absurdity of the statement and then look down to your skirts. Your face is practiced in emotion, eyes almost empty when Ivar shifts to look at you. No one expected a family of a cripple, of someone that could barely walk. How were you to chase a child? To care for a child? The thralls you would need!

“I don’t think so. I am a cripple.” You say after a moment in which your heart beats painful and deep. You relax your shoulders when Ivar leans up, coursing his hand along your thigh to your hips.

“So am I.” He leans in. His hand shifts up to the sky. “And Frigg has given me a child.”

“It is easy for you, Ivar. You are a man.” You then groan, a tremulous sound from your lips. “I can’t imagine the strain in carrying a child. I have heard of bleeding, malformations and small children in women like me as little as they may be. Even sex makes me...”

“Whitehair hasn’t fucked you?” Ivar asks.

“Of course not!” You shout. Dyr, or so you decided to name him, flared his wings. You hush him back down. “I’m sorry. I-- Can I tell you something, Ivar?”

“Yes.” Ivar hands you a chunk of meat for your beast. He pecks determinedly at his dinner. You take a wary breath as you decide to put it out there and far more than that, trust Ivar again. Your bird takes the meat with keen interest.

“I want to be a grown woman. Not just because I am married. But everyone will see me for only my legs. Like you.”

“I don’t see you as--”

“If I had been born like a normal woman.” You say sharp, but diaphanous in tone. Ivar feels the words before you actually finish them. “Would I have been your queen?”

There is no witty comeback from his lips this time. He turns to stare at you as if you’ve slapped him across the face instead of the other way around. You could have been, you think, and for a moment, you take in a long breath.

“No that-- that is…” Ivar stumbles.

“Ridiculous.” You say. The words scrape off your tongue, disdainful in an answer. Ivar has no other desire but to stop his slip up. Dyr swallows his dinner much like Ivar swallows his words. The gulf of emptiness in his stomach spreading. “Sigrunn!”

“Yes?” She turns the corner, clutching dark leather veils that are curtains. Her hands in front of her lap.

“Take Dyr. I am going home.”

As much as Ivar wants to ask you why you are like this… why you push him out, well, he can’t. He knows your affliction all too well. It’s his own.

It was late at night when Rorik heard the knock upon the door. His men shared the living space of the longhouse they took up in. His men were about the fire, roaring in laughter. He settles them down, roaring shut up! Shut up! As his booze sloshes over his pasty knuckles. As he works the latches, each harder than they should have been-- he hears the banter on the other side of the door.

“Why am I doing this?”

“To show her how deeply you care.”

“Yes and when she shows with child, what then?”

He pops the door open. Therein flesh and blood is Ivar standing arm and arm with his wife. Rorik stands in trousers alone, legs wrapped and stuffed in lazy boots. His tattoos blotch over his shoulder and chest.

“If it isn’t the god Ivar!” He roars, giving a lazy bow at the waist. Ivar’s hand flexes about his crutch, clearly debating if he should kill him now or later. “And Queen Freydis-- she’s far too pretty for you, you know.”

“Rorik.” One of his warriors intervene and cause a banter between the prince and his warband in words that Ivar truthfully cannot follow. They argue shortly in a quick swap of tongues before Rorik huffs forcefully out of his nose and steps aside to let them in.

“What can I help you with?” Rorik asks, forcefully closing the door with a lock. If Ivar was here to burn them too, as he learned Ivar was fond of, he probably wouldn’t do it if he was in here too.

“With her,” Ivar says.

“Her? Who her?” Rorik leads. Given the other day, he’s not sure if the moment in the bar or the wedding is the question. The men about him consider their prince as if they were entitled to know whatever was going on in his life.

“(Y/N).” Ivar starts. His headache was welling up in the front of his head. A furrow of newfound concern creases Rorik’s brow. He comes to sling his arm around Ivar’s shoulder to pull him from Freydis.

“Let us talk in private.” Ivar looks away from Freydis who sits confidently among the men. She motions him forward with a face as flat and hard as she ever wore among foreigners. His patience is visibly unwinding.

“What about (Y/N)?” He shows Ivar to his backroom, gripping the waistline of his pants once they got in. Ivar shifts around, head bobbing as he looks to the dark wooden walls, a spiraling shield up on the walls. A half wobbly smile takes his face. “Have you done something to her?”

“Have I done something to her?” Ivar’s gaze goes hard, voice grating at Rorik’s assertion. “If I were to do anything it would be to you.”

“Then get on with it.” Rorik flicks his hands into the air. He could have-- Ivar thinks. The man is drunk and incredulous. With his queen in the other room though, he would do nothing. To Rorik’s obvious amazement, Ivar holds up his gloved fingers.

“Shut up.” Ivar orders, soothing over any bite to his voice. “As little as I like you, I like seeing her upset less.”

Rorik snorts as he takes a few lazy paces around the room. The longer he stayed, the itchier his skin became. He scratches the long runic marks of his arms when finally Ivar finally admits why he is here.

“Have sex with her.” He says.It aches him to say, but he knows Rorik is the only one to see you than more than your disability. Perhaps, more than him. “She wants to be made a woman.”

Rorik’s brow lifts. He wants to laugh, but he can’t, he can only run his hand up through his loosened braids.

“Ahhh. King Ivar.” He says, acrid amusement festering in his gut. “I know you think you control her. I know you do! But you are late. She has asked me herself.”

“What?” No answers come to him though-- Rorik’s cocky smile simpers the waters of his tolerance into a full-blown boil. The foreigner comes up, patting Ivar’s shoulder.

“She wants me to deflower her,” Rorik says in a would-be-good-natured tone. “But I appreciate your approval, keeper of the keys. Truly. I’ve never heard anything better. I’ll keep it in my heart. Now is that all?”

Ivar’s hand flexes at his belt. His patience blown-- and the last semblance of a relationship torn.

“Yes.” He sneers, incredulously. “That is all.”

Perhaps Freydis was right. You needed someone. But there is no way that this man deserved you.

Rorik had sex with many women. But… not a cripple. He tried not to think of you in that way; crippled. His men consider it a fetish because why, in their eyes, would he want a cripple if he could want an able-bodied woman? Even Ivar did, making that heated request in the deep of night.

They didn’t understand.

“You won’t like them.”

“I’m certain I will.” He almost fights your hands upon your skirts, wet kisses moistening your neck as he ground himself against your shy body. Your knees knock together, too shy to let him see your pretty pussy behind your skirts. His other hand grabs all that you offer, squeezing your nipples between his thumb and index finger to tug gently.

“But what if you don’t?” You breathe out in a hushed gasp. “What if they are so disgusting that you run from them? Women are supposed to have gorgeous legs.”

“Shhhh…”

He knows why you’re so anxious. King Ivar, as he was told, told you that you had ‘mangled legs’ as you later recounted to him. It took work to dispel those fears and still you fought him. Even with Ivar’s so-called approval, men watched him wherever he went. They look for a foul up. A reason to kill him in justification so that you would not hate the king. His pride must be wounded because now, more eyes than ever, he feels the hate.

“You will,” Rorik says, growing hard in his heated desire against your side. The prince shifts over your body. “Just let me see them.”

You tug your blue skirts over your legs, squeezing your eyes and shifting your face away. It lets him take your body in. His piercing eyes glance over your twisted legs up to your hips. Rorik slides down between your legs, shifting one over each shoulder.

“Oh!” You squeak adorably.

“See! Look at you and that glorious--” Rorik spreads your lips apart, gazing at your well-kept pussy.

“Rorik, stop.” You say. He leans in, swirling his tongue against your inner lips. He pulls his head back once again, sweeping his tongue against your puffy wet pussy in smooth licks. Your head drops back, adjusting to this strange new feeling. Slowly you roll your hips down upon his tongue, gasping when Rorik gave a playful suckle against your outer folds.

“Why?” His laugh almost vibrates hot breath against your pussy. “I can’t wait to get my dick in that pretty pussy.”

Rorik moves on when you don’t respond, suckling playfully. The pads of his fingers playfully slap your wet pussy, delighting in the knowledge that you’re moist and wet for him. His tongue shifts down, flicking his tongue in the tight little hole.

“Mm, do you touch yourself, hm?” Rorik hums, nudging his nose against your folds. His beard tickles against your wetness, a soft but prickling feeling against your body. He goes to work, lapping and licking at your sweet pussy with loud slurping noises.

“No-- No.”

“You should. I can see it in my mind already.”

“Do you have to talk so much?” You weave his hair between your fingers, shoving him forward into your cunt when there’s a long, loud thwack, thwack, thwack at the door. You shift with your forearms, legs slipping off Rorik’s shoulders.

“Ignore it.” He says, turning his head to huff against your thighs.

“I have to get it. It could be Ivar.” You say and push past him. Rorik lets loose a long draw of annoyance. You slide down onto the ground, using your forearms and palms carry you over to the door, ignoring the hot pulse of your pussy engorged with the need for your orgasm that you denied yourself.

“It’s always fucking Ivar,” Rorik growls, low under his breath. You throw a look back at him that leaves the prince exasperated upon the bed.

“Be patient.”

“Patient!? Děva… I was that close!” Rorik drops back, flopping on the bed while you reach-- unfortunately with difficulty toward the door. The locks of the door are too high up when you’re out of your braces. Unfortunately, the blacksmith yet still had them.

“Rorik, please. Sigrunn needs her rest.” You call out to him, pointing toward the door. He flips his hand midway in the air, dramatically dropping on his chest.

“I’m coming.” He pushes himself off the bed, jamming his hand into his pants to adjust his cock comfortably. He grasps his uncle’s sword from the wall and sways over to the door, jerking it open. You drag yourself out of the way to avoid getting smacked.

The first thing he says, of course, is said with a sigh.

“Queen Freydis.”

Checkmate.

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434, @smileyparrots, @Moosemittens13, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @fangirls94, @mcuimxgine, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @astoryoffireandlight, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly--canthrope, @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @oneofthelothbroks

#ivar/reader #ivar x reader #ivar ragnarsson x reader #vikings/reader #vikings x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar imagine #vikings imagine #viking imagines #female reader #ivar ragnarsson/reader

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moiraineswife · 6 years ago

Note

Hey! I've been looking at your short stories and I think it's amazing so I thought you could do something about Philippa and Sheala, please? Something like Sheala comforting Philippa about something ³ haha I'm already grateful ❤️

As it happens I’m on another witcher/Philippa kick atm. so pls take this from me. (I haven’t read the books in a little bit, some of this might not be strictly canon but like, we will all just deal with this for The Lesbians)

All The World’s Escapes

The evening was quiet, peaceful, precisely the way that Sheala liked it. There were many reasons that she chose to live at the very top of a very tall tower, and the silence was just one of them. All that could be heard was the soft scratching of her favourite pen against her favourite parchment, and the crackling of the fire she had lit in the background for warmth.

All of it was shattered by the sound of smashing glass, and instant cursing. She recognised the cursing at once as Philippa, naturally, as there was no-one else present in her tower, save the ghosts that would never leave it, and they rarely made sounds. Though she thought she might hear them now.

Getting to her feet and leaving her present research, she moved into Philippa’s study.

The moment she had known they were simply perfect for each other, was the moment Philippa had requested the construction of her own space.

Sheala couldn’t abide living on top of other people all the time, even a person she happened to be very much in love with. It was simply too much.

Everyone needed their own time, and their own space, in Sheala’s view. The mistake other couples made was believing they had to live in one another’s pockets all day, every day, in order to somehow prove their devotion to each other.

She was, frankly, too old for that bullshit. And Philippa was simply too frank for it.

Pushing open the door she found her partner with both hands braced on her work bench, with a grip so tight Sheala was quite impressed it hadn’t splintered beneath it. Glass shards were littered across the floor, and Philippa was shaking, her teeth clenched to hold back the further stream of curses Sheala was quite certain were on the very tip of her tongue.

Moving into the room, she placed a gentle hand on Philippa’s shoulder. It was thrown off almost at once, with enough force that, had she not known better, she might have thought indicated hate.

Philippa would not look at her, let alone speak to her, but she did not really have to. Sheala was quite sure she know what had happened.

“You’re expecting too much from yourself far too soon,” she told her quietly. “Come to bed with me now,” she offered.

She was not in the least bit tired and, if truth be told, was itching to return to her research. But this was a time she judged Philippa most certainly did not need to be alone. She needed someone. She needed Sheala.

“Come on,” she coaxed, when Philippa neither moved nor answered her.

“I cannot come to bed,” she gritted out, between clenched teeth. She turned on her, her expression twisted with fury and frustration.

She had left her usual band from her face, and the empty pits of her eyes seemed to condemn her, and threatened to drown any who looked into them for too long in the hatred Philippa herself was bathed in these days.

“I cannot see,” she hissed, “I cannot restore my eyes. I cannot perform a spell to rid myself of the pain of them,” she went on, and Sheala flinched slightly at the venom in her voice. She moved a little closer to her as she spoke, clawing her way along the bench like a feral cat stalking its prey. “I cannot mix a tonic for sleep as I used to. I cannot even cast a basic spell to light a candle, which a five year old could master, because I cannot do a thing in the state that he has left me in, and you wish me to come to bed?”

“Philippa-” Sheala began, though without any real hope of stopping her. There was no stopping this, and Sheala’s heart broke for her, and broke again with every word she spoke, but there was nothing to do but let her speak them.

“Is that supposed to fix everything, Sheala?” Philippa spat, viciously, “If I sleep tonight, will I wake tomorrow with my eyes? If I rest, will my hands stop shaking, the way they’ve been shaking since I left that place? The way they’ve been shaking for a week, so badly that I cannot work a single somatic spell? If I come to bed will I be myself again? Or will I be stuck this useless, powerless, weak creature that I have become until death takes me?”

Her voice rose to a shout with her last words, and she lashed out blindly. Bowls, mortars, delicate glass tubes, vials, and instruments were flung across the room as though tossed by a sudden hurricane, shattering, and causing Sheala to cover her ears from the sudden, deafening sound.

When Philippa spoke again, however, she would happily have lived the rest of her life with that unendurable noise, rather than the haunting silence left in the wake of her words.

“Because if so, she cannot come for me soon enough.”

Sheala opened her mouth, to say what, she had no idea, but she never got a word out before Philippa had shifted into her owl form and bolted for the window.

She had spent more time as owl than human, since she had returned. The owl did not have eyes, any more than she did, but the rest of its senses were far keener than her human ones, and there was no pressure to cast spells, no pressure to speak, no pressure to eat, or to sleep, or to care for herself, while she was in that form. It had become her crutch, and there was little Sheala could do to stop it.

Sighing, she used magic to clean up the mess that Philippa had made. She repaired the instruments she could, and destroyed the ones that she could not.

It would be some time before she saw Philippa again. She had become quite used to this, to Philippa fleeing this tower in a futile attempt to flee her frustration, and her problems, and had developed the perfect routine for it.

She returned to her studies for as long as she could. When she judged it would be a little less than an hour before Philippa’s return, she used magic to begin warming their bed, went to select one of her favourite books from the library, before returning it again, cursing herself, then began to make Philippa’s favourite tea, infused with some lavender.

Just as she was pouring that into two cups for them, a bright flash of light in Philippa’s study announced her return.

She walked in, trembling from the cold now, not just her injuries, soaked to her skin. Sheala stood without a word, and helped her out of her clothes, and into the soft, dry ones she had looked out. Then she guided her towards the fire and sat her down.

Her head was lowered in shame, and it was that, more than anything else, that showed Sheala how low she had sunk this night.

She pushed the tea into her hands, but Philippa would not drink it. She simply sat, holding it between her frozen fingers, staring into a fire she could not see, but could no doubt feel the warmth of it upon her face.

After a long moment, she spoke.

“This world is so large, Sheala,” she said, her voice rasping a little from exhaustion. “It is so big, and getting bigger all the time. Yet no matter how far I fly, no matter how fast, or for how long, I can never escape the things he’s done to me.”

“No,” Sheala replied, briskly, and brutally, as was her way. Philippa turned away from the fire, back towards her, frowning slightly. “You cannot run from your ghosts, Philippa, any more than you might run from your shadow, or your bones, or your soul. You must carry them with you, as must we all.”

She reached out and took Philippa’s empty hand in her own, “The only place you can run is to your home. To me.” She squeezed her hand gently, “Where you will be reminded that all of your burdens, all of your demons, and all of your ghosts have a home here, too. They all belong to me as well. And you do not have to carry any of them alone.”

Philippa was silent for a long moment. Then, more surely than Sheala had seen her move since her return, she set down her cup of tea, got to her feet, and held out her hand.

Sheala took it.

“Come to bed, Sheala,” Philippa said, softly, turning and leading them towards their rooms without another word.

Philippa smiled softly and followed her without a word.

The tower was quiet once more. Her peace had returned to her. But more importantly, Philippa had.

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athedemonsqueen · 6 years ago

Text

I Found You, Again #9 (Finn/ Seth story)

Hello and Happy Fourth of July week! hehehe It is offically the summer month and it is HOT, HOT, HOT! It is nearly a 100 degrees in NJ right now!

It has been a week and I have not heard from Finn or hear of him. I’m a nervous wreck. It has come to the point where I would secretly sleep with a piece of clothing (particular a dirty one) that belonged to him. I would pray every night for him and through my prayers I would call for him, hoping he could hear me.

I felt utterly alone and broken as if I lost my husband in some form. At this point, no one could give me a striaght answer, and since the WWE has some of their best wrestlers over there, they are suffering in ratings. Now that Seth has broken his leg, they are suffering even more. I have to admit, Seth’s strength inspires me to keep going. I’m in love with it.

“Mama…” Liam called, “Yes, darling?” I asked.

“Is daddy home yet?” Liam asked.

I sighed, Liam knows daddy is in trouble and he may not be coming home for awhile. I closed my eyes knowing I have to lie to my son, “Soon…”

Liam groaned, “You said that yesterday…” I sighed, rubbing my eyes.

“Liam, come down stairs don’t harp on your mother…” Seth called. I heard Liam sigh as he made his way downstairs.

Liam likes Seth around it helps fill the void of daddy not being around. Finn is Liam’s playmate. Seth has been a big help with Liam. He likes to read to Liam and talk wrestling. Liam has told Seth ‘secretly’ he would like to be a wrestler just like daddy. Seth encourages Liam to follow those dreams. I spend my time at night with Seth when Liam is asleep.

I feel better around Seth. My worries go and I feel happy. I haven’t felt so happy in awhile. I laid next to Seth as we talked about work and watched RAW. We are struggling. Seth laid his head on my shoulder as we watched the roaring sand from across the world. I sighed, remembering my Finn.

I remember his warm smile, his strong, comforting hugs. The way he plays with Liam in the garden outside. Our happy life together gathered around holidays. The way he looks at me when I wear my sunflower dress. I miss his cuddles at night and how he greets Liam when he comes home from work. It’s always Liam first. The memories pierced my heart like a jagged edge. Leaving tears going down my face.

“(Y/N)...” Seth said, as I wiped my tears away. “What’s wrong?” Seth cooed, sitting up. I couldn’t hide it from Seth.

“I miss Finn…” I cried, putting my head to my hands.

Seth pulled me to him as he pushed my head to his chest to let me cry out my stress and worry. I tried to sob quietly for Liam not to hear. Seth caressed the back of my head. Caressing it lightly, hoping to calm me down.

“It’s ok…” He whispered to me, his voice soothing me. I lifted my head up to Seth who looked sad for me.

“It’s ok.” Seth said, repeated. He took his thumb and removed my tears with just one swipe. He gave a small smile as his thumb kept caressing my cheek.

I coughed before saying, “Im not crying anymore.”

“I know…” He said, indicating he just wants to touch my face.

He pulled my face to him and placed a soft and caring kiss on my lips. He pulled away then went back for more, going deeper into my lips.

I forgot why I was crying and an overwhelming feeling of joy and happiness came over me. I had not a care or worry in the world. Seth has taken that all away. He slowly pulled my leg to him, gripping tightly.

“Oh, you have no idea how long I wanted that…” Seth said.

“I bet…” I whispered. I glared at him. Seth placed a kiss on top of my head. I fell asleep in his arms, sleeping the entire night with him.

The next day, when I woke up, I had not a care in the world. I felt stronger like I can conquer the world. I had a small hint of guilt in me, but I pushed it aside. It was a one time thing sleeping and kissing Seth and I won’t let it happen again.

I manage to work with the creative team to make alternative storylines. We have to make this work as much as we could. I did it for Finn.

I ate lunch at my desk, I looked at the pictures of Finn and Liam like they were moving pictures. I sighed placing one of them down. I couldn’t look at Finn’s face. The guilt from last night has set in and I felt like all of my vows towards Finn had no meaning. I’m the biggest slut in the world and I deserve to feel like this.

“(Y/N)?” A soft and fimiliar voice came.

I looked up to see Seth walking with crutches. I was happy he was able to come today despite his limitations.

I got up, grasping him to me, I looked up and said, “Wow, you came today.”

“Yeah, um the doctor dropped these off right around the time I picked up Liam…”

My smiled disappeared as I said, “You picked up Liam?”

“Yeah, well I had to show I.D. and stuff but they let Liam go home with me...I hope that’s ok?”

“Yeah, um if you don’t mind you can have him until I come home” I said, feeling unsure leaving Liam with Seth.

“Really?” Seth said, with a smile.

“Yeah, I mean he can be a handful, but if you are up for the challenge?” I said.

“It’s not a problem, I’ll treat him like my own…” Seth glared down at me, his brownie eyes turning slightly gold. It didn’t frighten me, but trances me.

His hand went to my cheek and pulled me close, I thought he was about to kiss me, but he just smiled as if he just got the biggest approval in the world.

“Seth, about last night…” I said, I felt my lips trembling craving his again.

“It was the most memorable moments of my life…” his voice trembled. “I got to kiss the woman of my dreams…” I realize now I’m too deep into and all I did was dip my toe in. He smiled as he ‘walked’ away. I sat down at my desk in shock, I opened a can of worms.

My desk phone rang as I answered it, “Hello this is (Y/N)...” there is a lot of static in the background. Then suddenly through the static for a short moment I heard his voice. My Finn. My heart dropped to the heart as I stood up.

“Finn?!” I cried.

“(Y/N) you need too….can you….” then it went to voice tone.

“Finn! Finn!” I cried, pressing on the dial key. I sat in my chair feeling better, but also worried.

“(Y/N)” came Nattie’s voice, I looked up at her. “Did Finn call?” She sounded hopefully, but also confused.

“Yeah, it seems it.”

She sighed, “Lucky, I wish I heard from T.J.” She said, looking down. I nodded.

As I sat in traffic I fought back tears of heartache and I began to wonder of the strange occurrences that are happening around me. There are to many recall the one that sticks out the most is Liam’s drawings. Flashbacks of Balor erupted in my head, but quickly interrupted when the sound of horns came. Green light it’s time to go.

The house is filled with a Mexican smell, something we are not use to having. It’s always Irish food, always. The smell was a little unsettling to my nose as the spices burned it. I walk into my kitchen to find Seth cooking and feeding Liam. I’m in shock. Seth is cooking in my kitchen and I kind of like it. I sighed placing my keys down.

“Hi, mommy!” Liam cried hoping off the chair and hugging me.

It’s the first time I saw Liam so happy.

“Hi, darlin’” I said. I looked over to Seth who only smiled. I went over to him and said, “I guess your leg is all better?”

“Well, the last time I broke it I didn’t like spending time in bed, and I know you got your hands full with Liam…”

“I’ve played single mother before” I said.

“Yeah, but not for two weeks or more…” He said in a matter-a-fact way.

I sighed.

“Come on you must be hungry, please eat.” Seth begged as he placed a plate of food next to me. I’m hungry and I use to love Mexican food before Finn. It’ll be a change. I sat quietly for the most part next to Seth as we ate together.

“Do you like it?” Seth asked, with his mouth full.

“It’s delicious!” I said. I really liked it as a swarm of memories from my college years came back. It reminds me of the time when I was doing my Masters and I was pulling projects and papers out of my ass, hardly no sleep and any food in my stomach. Finn asked me what I wanted to eat, at first I declined his offer, but if I went on any further I was going to starve. I asked for a burrito, maybe Chipotle.

“A burrito it is!” He said. Finn went out in search of a Chipotle and brought me home a burrito. I smiled to myself still hearing his sweet voice in my head.

Seth standing on his leg was too much for him today as I helped him crawl to bed. He was in a lot of pain. “Maybe it’s best if we limit your mobility…” I said, sitting him on the bed. I reached over to the night stand. Seth put his head to his hand and sighed deeply.

I turned with curiosity, “What is it?”

“I’m just so tired.” He mumbled. “It is to be expect…” I said softly, as I helped his remove the leg brace. As I removed the leg brace he removed his shirt, exposing himself to me. That’s when I noticed the bruise.

The bruise was on his upper right shoulder, it look like someone took him and slammed him into something.

“Oh my God!” I gasped, caressing my fingers against the bruise, he flinch the moment my fingers grazed it. He quickly put on his shirt, obviously he didn’t want me to see it.

@igobypoet @mylittlepartofthegalaxy @finnbealor @finnabonthesinnabon @tina679 @soulofaravenheartofawolf @devitts-brat @calwitch @meremaidqueen @squirrel666

#balorclub finnbalor demonking fergaldevitt princedevitt rocknrolla finnbalorforever bulletclub

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ostrich-on-a-rampage-blog · 7 years ago

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I'm really interested in the Spot and Crutchie headcanons!! Do you mind explaining it?

Okay, you asked for an explanation and I gave you quite the l o n g fic. So, brace yourself. I initially tried to do those bullet points thingies that people do and are so fun and I just couldn’t. So, here we go. An 11K masterpiece. (This was 24 pages in Google Docs…) I really love this headcanon–if you couldn’t tell–so if anyone wants to send in prompts for different fics about these guys as brothers or just wants to talk about it PLEASE DO. I mean, clearly, there are so many more moments between theses boys and their brotherhood that can be explored. So, if you have any ideas or prompts for anything like that, send them my way! Anyway, without further ado, this fic…

Before they were Spot Conlon and Crutchie Morris, they were Sean and Charlie Morris. Only two years apart, Charlie adored his elder brother and followed him everywhere. Sean–forever fearless–dashed through streets, explored alleys, climbed trees, scaled buildings, nicked apples from the grocer down the street. And, his constant shadow: Charlie. The pair of them were practically inseparable.

And, they were happy.

As Spot would later think: Their happiness could never have lasted; Fate was too cruel to allow that.

As Crutchie would later explain: It was all an accident, a misunderstanding that blew out of proportion. Words and actions that couldn’t be taken back.

(As Crutchie would never say, but would forever believe: It was all his fault.)

Sean and Charlie’s parents weren’t exactly attentive. This hadn’t been much of a problem, as Sean and Charlie were constantly dashing around the City, exploring and playing. Then, it changed. Sean got caught stealing an apple tart. Or, rather, Charlie got caught, but Sean took the blame.

Suddenly, their father was far too attentive. He shouted and raged and threatened and–

He hit them.

Charlie was so young–only six. He didn’t fully understand why his father’s belt now glinted dangerously, didn’t understand why his father kept yelling at Sean, kept hurting Sean. Charlie did, though, connect the events. He had gotten caught with the tart. Sean had taken the blame. Their father now hurt them. It was Charlie’s fault that this all begun occurring.

Some nights, everything seemed normal. Sean and Charlie would sit in their room, laughing, playing a card game. Their father would leave them alone. The small apartment permeated an uneasy facade of safety. They were fine; they were family.

Other nights, though, the illusion shattered with the heady scent of alcohol. Sean and Charlie would hide, crouched together under the bed, squeezed into the back of the closet. Charlie would shake and Sean would whisper that it would be okay–that he wouldn’t allow their father to hurt him.

Their father found them.

Those nights ended with Sean and Charlie curling up together in their shared bed, bruises shadowy in the darkness. Sean wouldn’t speak, those nights. He would only pull Charlie a little closer and stare out the window, his eyes dull with memories.

And, it never seemed to stop.

Charlie tried to apologize to Sean one night, but his older brother only shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. When Charlie kept pressing the issue, Sean hissed, “Just shut up, Charlie.”

Sean was… different after that night. He stopped talking to Charlie, started slipping away from Charlie and disappearing for hours on end. Charlie would sit in their small, shared room, pressing at day-old bruises and waiting for his brother to return.

Then, only a week before Sean’s ninth birthday, he left.

Charlie stayed up all night, but Sean never returned. He didn’t come back the night after, or the night after that. Their parents noticed and their father raged once more.

This time, though, Charlie understood.

He understood that if he hadn’t been caught, their father wouldn’t have hurt them. He understood that if he hadn’t been caught, Sean wouldn’t have left him. Charlie spent dreary afternoons, gazing out the window and wishing to see his brother’s familiar grinning face pop up, and gesture for his younger brother to run off with him. Charlie knew it was just a dream; he never expected his brother to forgive him, after everything that had happened.

Their father kept saying that Sean was dead, but Charlie refused to believe it. He knew that, as the weeks and months passed, the odds of his brother returning, alive and well, slimmed. However, he could not relinquish that small nugget of hope, the dream that he clutched to on the darkest, most painful nights. He would squeeze his eyes shut and pretend that, any moment now, Sean would return and wipe the tears from his eyes.

That dream never came true.

The following winter, the polio struck.

While feverish, Charlie only cried out for Sean. All he ever wanted, in those moments, was his elder brother to return to him. His father demanded silence, and Charlie rolled over, wishing for a brother that he never expected to find again. Or, if he couldn’t have Sean in this life, let him have his brother back in the next. After months of no contact, Charlie knew that his brother could no longer be alive–there was no way that Sean would just leave him here to die a slow, agonizing death at the hands of their father, if he still lived. Charlie, now, just wished to join him. Be free of the pain, free of the man called father. Be free of a dark world without a brother.

Charlie closed his eyes and never planned to open them again.

But, he convalesced. It was slow, and it was painful. His mother, during the illness, had walked out–leaving child alone with heartless father. Charlie understood, the knowledge weighing heavily in his heart. Not only had he driven his brother away, but now he had driven his mother to leave. His father blamed him, and Crutchie accepted the blame, hanging his head. He accepted the physical, the emotional abuse. He thought, after everything, it was his duty to take the punishment.

He no longer dreamed of a brother sweeping in to save him.

Days grew monotonous–hours stretched into eons. His father worked, so Charlie would have the house to himself. He found himself staring out the window and watching the passersby that never noticed him. Some days, Charlie would imagine that he would catch a glimpse of Sean outside. It never was his brother.

His father would come home at five, each night. Some days, he would ignore Charlie, leaving the eight year old to fend for himself in regards to food. Those were the days Charlie liked best. Others, he would come home in a rage and shout and scream biting truths.

Charlie could never quite get those words out of his head.

It got to be too much, one day. He got sick again and, rather than worry about caring for the child, his father tossed him to the street. It was only two days before Charlie’s ninth birthday. He would’ve laughed at the awful irony of it all, if he hadn’t felt as if the simple movement would kill him. Charlie pulled himself into a corner of an abandoned alley and curled up and awaited Death to join him with his elder brother.

Death never came.

But, a brother did.

Jack Kelly stumbled upon the sick child and helped him to the Manhattan Lodging House. Charlie recognized bits of Sean in the Manhattan boy. He saw his brother in the mischievous glint that shone in Jack’s eyes, in the flashing smirk, in the crooked smile. They were even the same age; Charlie’s stomach had twisted when Jack had told him that he was eleven–barely.

Charlie refused to trust Jack, knew just how awfully that had turned out with Sean. To begin with, Charlie would not provide his real name to Jack. Jack suggested he just create a new one–start over, fresh. It was what most of the newsies did, he explained. And, thus, Crutchie was born out of the ashes of a young, terrified, abandoned boy.

Jack invited Crutchie to tag along wherever he went. Crutchie loved being with the older boy, but he couldn’t assuage the terror that curdled in his stomach. He feared that Jack would leave him if he messed up. So, Crutchie worked hard to sell all his papes, stay out of trouble, only eat after all the other boys had eaten. He hid behind a mask of smiles and laughter, didn’t make any friends, and stayed as safe as he could from the pain of broken trust.

It worked for a while–hiding. But, Jack refused to let his new friend simply disappear into the background. The first night Jack took Crutchie up to the roof, the younger boy only sat there, quietly fidgeting and picking at his palm. Jack softly said, “It’s okay to be scared. I know I was scared when I first got here. Didn’t trust anyone for the longest time. But, Crutch, I ain’t ever gonna hurt ya. You need to know that.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said, too,” Crutchie muttered, before his face darkened considerably. He hadn’t meant to let anything slip about his elder brother. In fact, only a few weeks earlier, he had decided to never think of Sean ever again–

It wasn’t working.

“Who?” Jack asked, ever the digger.

“None of your business, that’s who,” Crutchie shot back.

Jack smirked, leaning back. The motion was achingly familiar and Crutchie looked away angrily. “Yeah? Well, you don’t gotta tell me if you don’t wanna. I’m not going to force you, or anything. I’m just saying that you can talk to me. I don’t care who hurt you in the past, but I ain’t like them.”

But, you are! Crutchie wanted to shout. You are, you are, you are. Instead, he just picked at his palm. They didn’t talk for the rest of the night about Crutchie’s past.

The next night followed much the same pattern.

As did the night after that.

Each night, Jack and Crutchie would sit on the rooftop, tracing constellations through the night sky. They would talk about everything, about nothing. And then, invariably, Jack would broach the topic that Crutchie dreaded the most. “So…” he’d start. Some nights he’d paint on Crutchie’s arm, the chill paint calming him. Other nights, he’d rub his thumb along the back of Crutchie’s hand, reminding the younger boy that he would always be there for him. Crutchie would pointedly change the topic, and they’d move on, Jack unabashed, but planning on bringing it up the following night.

Then, one night, Jack started, “So…” and Crutchie didn’t immediately brush him off.

“I lied,” he said, instead.

Jack perked up, but didn’t say anything. He started painting yellow stars up and down Crutchie’s arm, careful precision focusing each individual point. Though he seemed wholly attentive on his artwork, Crutchie knew that he was listening.

“I mean, I didn’t lie ‘bout the whole mess. My ma did walk out and my pa did throw me out. But… it wasn’t just me.” Crutchie fell silent, staring into the distance, as if he could procure Sean, just by wishing for him. Though, if it hadn’t worked before, what was to say it would work this night? “I had an older brother. He… You remind me a lot of him,” Crutchie admitted. “He ran out on us, when I was six.”

When Crutchie didn’t elaborate for a few minutes, Jack spoke up. “Well, that’s a lousy thing ta do.”

Crutchie shook his head roughly, jostling Jack’s paint brush and jerking paint down his arm. “I don’t blame him. He left cuz’a me. I… If I hadn’t been an idiot, our pa would never ‘ave hurt him and he’d’ve stayed.” Crutchie scooted away from Jack, shivering in the cool breeze.

“That’s still a lousy thing to do, just leave ya there. Crutch, you gotta understand, you didn’t deserve any of that stuff.” When Crutchie only scoffed lightly, Jack pressed, “Crutchie, you shouldn’t have been hurt. Your pa shouldn’t have touched you, shouldn’t have said those things to you. And your brother should never have just left you alone in that hell hole.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Crutchie said softly, knowing that it was what Jack expected to hear.

Jack knew that the younger boy didn’t believe him, but he would not stop until Crutchie recognized his own worth, even if it took years. “Just know that I ain’t that brother of yours, and I ain’t gonna ever leave you alone, okay? You can always come to me.”

Crutchie nodded, and, for the time being, that was enough.

It was three years later, when Jack became the leader of Manhattan. Crutchie had turned eleven and Jack would be fifteen in a couple short months. It had taken over a year, but Crutchie finally felt as if he could trust Jack. They were nearly inseparable, the pair of them. Everyone recognized that you hurt Crutchie, and you’d be met with Jack’s fist. And, if you hurt Jack, Crutchie was not above fighting dirty. Together, they were unstoppable, and nothing would shake their friendship.

Trust, hard-earned, had even developed between the pair of them. Crutchie hadn’t told Jack any more of the story–he hadn’t volunteered his brother’s name, where he was from. Jack no longer expected him to. Crutchie would come to Jack with fears and problems that wracked his day-to-day life. The past would be forgotten; it no longer mattered in the face of their friendship.

The stasis couldn’t last forever.

It seemed so innocuous. “Let’s go to Brooklyn. They’ve got a new leader that just started last year. I should probably meet up with him. His name’s Spot Conlon.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Crutchie and he agreed to tag along.

Both Manhattan boys sold their papes fairly quickly, working together on a familiar street corner. Their combined efforts allowed them to leave Manhattan in the early afternoon and venture to Brooklyn. “You ever been?” Jack asked.

“To Brooklyn? Got no need to,” Crutchie told him. “I’ve got Manhattan, after all.” He grinned, punching Jack gently in the arm. “Why? You tryin’ to get rid ‘a me?”

“Hey, hey!” Jack said, backing out of Crutchie’s reach. “There ain’t no need to get all violent. I ain’t trying to get rid of you, but if you keep punching me, I may start considerin’ it.” Jack suddenly grabbed at Crutchie, pulling him into a headlock.

Crutchie yiped at the sudden attack, laughing as he tried to pull his head to safety. Jack gave him a rough noogie, before allowing the younger boy to slip out of his grasp. “You ain’t gettin’ rid of me and I ain’t gettin’ rid of you, ya hear me?” Jack said, smiling widely at his best friend. “We’se in it together.”

“Yeah, we is,” Crutchie agreed. “But, if we don’t keep going to Brooklyn, it’s gonna get dark.”

“It’s still light out, ain’t it?” Jack challenged, waving his arms around at the sky.

Crutchie shook his head, exasperated, but grinning. “Come on, slow poke, or I’se gonna tell this Spot Conlon myself that I’m leader of Manhattan.”

Still joking, the two friends continued their way to Brooklyn. They only stopped a sum total of five times, three of which ended with Jack in a headlock and all of which ended with laughter and teasing comments. By the time they reached Brooklyn, both boys were grinning and had dirt smudged across their faces.

“We’re here to see Spot Conlon,” Jack announced, once they reached the edge of the Brooklyn bridge.

One of the Brooklyn boys scowled in Jack’s direction. “And who should I say’s stopping by.”

“Jack Kelly, leader of Manhattan.”

The boy nodded, before disappearing behind a building. A couple Brooklyn boys remained at the edge, watching Jack and Crutchie with a bored expression flattening their faces. Crutchie started telling Jack about this strange customer that had bought ten papes from him a couple days ago. “–he just stared at me a little strangely when I said that it would cost a dime. And this was right before that storm, so the sky was all dark and rumbly, but this guy didn’t seem to notice. He just kept–” Crutchie cut himself off, every thought freezing for a moment, except one: Sean.

Sean–no, Spot Conlon stared at the Manhattan pair. He, too, seemed frozen, as he studied Crutchie. His sharp blue eyes hesitated on the crutch, observing the way the younger boy leaned on it. Jack noticed, but didn’t understand–couldn’t possibly understand–the shock that immobilized the Brooklyn leader. “Whatcha staring at?” Jack challenged, and Spot tore his eyes from Crutchie’s crutch to face Jack.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice deceptively impassive. “You’re the new Manhattan leader?”

“Yeah, and this is Crutchie. He’s my second.”

“Crutchie.” Spot repeated the name slowly, rolling the two syllables gently around his mouth. There was something almost dangerous in Spot’s eyes, something that sharpened the blue irises until they cut through any attempt made on Crutchie’s apart to hide his surprise at meeting his long-lost brother.

Crutchie nodded when Spot said his name, reaffirming that that was who he was–not the shell of a frightened boy he had abandoned all those years ago.

“We just wanted to stop by, be all genial-like. Brooklyn’s a good ally.”

“Yeah,” Spot agreed softly. His sharp eyes continued to flick in Crutchie’s direction.

Crutchie knew his elder brother, knew that there wasn’t much of his appearance that would escape Spot’s attention. He knew that the dirt that scuffed his face, stained his clothes; the way his hair had grown out, shaggy and long and definitely in need of a haircut, as Jack was apt to mention when he teased the younger boy; the shirt that was still a bit too large because it was a hand-me-down from Jack that the older boy had outgrown and had pain stains coloring its sleeves and the frayed hem; the bright smile that Crutchie wore, no longer as a shield, but now with proud because he was happy, dammit–all would be recognized by Spot. There was nothing that Crutchie could hide from him and he simply watched as Spot’s eyes continued to jump to the boy he had once called brother.

To the boy he had left behind.

These furtive glances didn’t escape Jack’s attention. “You got a problem with my friend?” he challenged, stepping forward, bristling with protective energy. Spot recognized this, recognized the way that Crutchie stuck to Jack’s side. Recognized that he had been replaced.

“No, no I don’t.” He snorted softly. “Don’t even know the kid. Well,” he continued, his voice louder and falsely jovial, “if that’s that, I’ll see you around, Jack Kelly.” He turned sharply away, motioning for his boys to follow him.

Crutchie tried to hide the wave of stabbing grief that swept through him. He could tell that Sean–Spot, now–recognized him. How couldn’t he? They were brothers, after all. But, his brother wanted nothing of him. Probably still blamed him for the apple tart and the following abuse. Not that Crutchie could ever blame him–the hatred, in Crutchie’s mind, was totally justified.

“You okay, Crutch? I didn’t think Spot would be such a jerk.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Crutchie whispered, hollowly.

He turned his back on Brooklyn, and walked away.

Crutchie never intended to speak to his brother again.

When the unthinkable happened, though, he had no choice, but turn to the brother he, once upon a time, trusted.

“I need to talk to Spot,” Crutchie said, not even bothering to hide the desperation that laced his words. When the Brooklyn boys scoffed at him, Crutchie continued. “It’s an emergency. He’ll see me, I know he will.” He had to. Spot was the only hope Crutchie had left. “Tell him that–that Crutchie, his– Tell him that Crutchie needs to talk to him. He knows me.”

One of the Brooklyn boys rolled his eyes, but jogged off to find the Brooklyn leader. It seemed eons later that he returned, gesturing for Crutchie to follow. “Guess you were right, Manhattan. Spot’s willing to talk to you. And he don’t talk to most people.”

Crutchie nodded, tightening his fingers into fists, if only to hide the shaking that had begun. The stress of the events earlier that day, the fear that Spot would just turn him away–would betray his trust once again–both, manifested themselves in his trembling hands. The Brooklyn boy led him to the Brooklyn Lodging House, up a flight of stairs, and to a small room with a single bed. And on that bed–

“Sean,” Crutchie started, the name ripe with all the pain, betrayal, love, trust, hope that had flitted across Crutchie’s memory in that moment.

“It’s Spot, now,” he said simply. When Crutchie just stood there, watching him, fearing he had overstepped a boundary, Spot smiled softly. He patted the bed beside him. “You can sit, you know. I don’t bite, Charlie.”

“Crutchie,” Crutchie reminded him. “I’m not… him, anymore.”

“Yeah, about that,” Spot started, before falling silent. He gestured weakly to Crutchie’s crutch. “What, uh, what happened? Pa didn’t–” he cut himself off, unwilling to even voice the fear.

“Polio.”

“Oh.” They were quiet, before Spot added, “I’m sorry.”

Crutchie turned to him, glaring. “For what? The polio? Or when you walked out on me, left me to be beat just about to death by pa?” And, while that may have been a slight stretch of the situation, Crutchie could remember far too many nights where he had lain in bed, wishing that his father would just kick him too hard, choke him too long. Just end it all.

“Charlie, you gotta understand–”

“It’s Crutchie,” he interrupted. “Look, this doesn’t matter, okay? What’s done is done. I’m not here to dredge up the past. Spot, I need your help.” Crutchie knew that unburying past regrets, past pains would only further drive a wedge between the brothers. It would hurt, far more than it would heal. Besides, Crutchie couldn’t focus on himself or his own issues at a time like this. He needed… He wasn’t the one hurting, currently.

Spot regarded his younger brother carefully, observing the anger that remained, pulsing beneath the skin, masked by the desperation that brought color to his cheeks. “What do you need help with?”

“Jack. He got… Snyder nabbed him. He’s in the Refuge and I gotta get him out. You’ve heard what they do to kids in there, right?”

“Yeah, I have. But, Crutchie,” he began, ignoring how the name felt strange on his tongue. Wrong, almost. “Crutchie, what exactly do you propose that I do? The Refuge is in Manhattan. That’s not my territory. Me and my boys can’t just go traipsing through Kelly’s turf.”

“What if I says you can?” Crutchie asked. “Please, Spot. We need to get him outta there. I can’t do this on my own. I need your help. I–I need you. He’s… He’s my brother,” Crutchie explained, ignoring the way Spot’s jaw twitched at that comment.

Spot hated doing so, but he shook his head. “I can’t risk it. There’s no way we could get him outta there. I would just end up getting my boys thrown in there, as well.”

Crutchie’s face hardened and he stood up quickly. “I never… Of course, ya won’t help. I shouldn’t have even expected you to understand: brothers don’t leave brothers alone. They don’t leave ‘em to rot, half to death, but– You’ve never– It’s always been about saving your own skin, huh?” Crutchie demanded, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You ain’t got a selfless bone in your body, yeah? Well, I’ll have to get him out myself.”

Spot leapt to his feet, grabbing Crutchie’s arm. “Don’t you dare, Crutchie. You’ll get… You’ll get hurt.”

“And when has that ever mattered to you, Sean?” Crutchie bit out, before tearing out of Spot’s gentle grip. He left the room, before Spot could say anything more. Crutchie rushed past the Brooklyn boys, aching for Manhattan. That was his home–Brooklyn felt foreign, as if he had never known it before. He would do whatever it took to get Jack out of the Refuge.

Who needed Spot Conlon anyway?

Who needed Sean?

The strike dawned, the morning air thrumming with excitement and faintly-hid worries. Crutchie hurried over to where Jack conversed softly with Davey, exclaiming, “Jack! Look what I made! Good, huh?” He lofted his crutch into the air, displaying the strike banner he had painted the night earlier. It shifted in the soft breeze, and Jack smiled at him, reaching out to gently finger the banner. Race interrupted by mocking Crutchie’s work, and Crutchie felt his stomach sink uncomfortably. Now that Race pointed it out, it did look sort of… lame. All Crutchie had wanted was to prove that he was just as much a part of the strike as the other boys.

Jack patted his back, comfortingly. His focus was on Davey, though, who was trying to inspire the boys to follow through with the strike. “Jack,” Crutchie said, waiting for the older boy to look back at him. “Jack, what… What did Brooklyn say?” When Jack had asked for volunteers for Brooklyn, Crutchie had pointedly focused his attention on the ground. While he wasn’t scared of Spot, nor his boys, he didn’t exactly want to see the Brooklyn leader again. It had been years since Crutchie had last approached his elder brother–and years more would pass, before Crutchie would willingly seek him out.

“They ain’t coming. Spot wanted to make sure we weren’t going to fold at the first sign of trouble,” Jack explained, his face souring with the words.

Crutchie scowled, his fingers tightening around his crutch. “‘Course they ain’t. That Spot Conlon’s a coward. Never knew how to face a fight head on,” Crutchie bit out. He had hoped that Spot would show up and help them, even if it weren’t for him. Crutchie no longer expected Spot to care what happened to him–his brother had never shown that much interest after the tart–but, he had hoped that Spot and his boys would come for, if not him, the rights of the boys across the city.

Jack glanced at his younger friend in surprise, his eyebrows raising. “I didn’t expect you to have such strong opinions on Conlon.”

“I just know a coward when I see one,” Crutchie muttered, shoving past Jack and approaching Romeo, who kept glancing at the Delancey brothers with apprehension. They would win the strike, and then Spot would feel like a fool. Katherine, the kind reporter, had said that they could even make the front page. Maybe Spot would see Crutchie’s picture in the pape and wish that he had been there. Maybe he’d even want to reconcile.

Maybe Pulitzer would divide his hefty fortune among the newsboys.

Crutchie blinked away hopeless dreams and focused on where Davey and Jack were rallying the boys. He joined in, raising morale and hope. They would win–no other outcome was acceptable.

And, for a moment, it looked as if they would win.

The Delancey brothers had run off, their tails between their legs. Weisel had disappeared in the chaos–they had won. Katherine had snapped a celebratory picture, and Crutchie had smiled as wide as he could manage. Let Spot see the picture, let him wish he had been there, beside his brother.

It was all so hopeful.

And, then, it wasn’t.

Weisel returned with a group of men–strikebreakers. The air shifted and the carefree attitude, with which the strike had begun, dissipated. Crutchie backed up, almost apprehensively. Suddenly, the outcome of the strike didn’t seem so clear. Loss taunted them on the horizon. Jack, ever the brave leader, commanded, “Get them!” and the uneasy stalemate shattered.

Boys surged forward, strikebreakers pressed them back. Papes flew across the air, knocking boys and men to the ground. Punches were thrown, weapons swung. Cries of pain, of victory, shot up throughout the crowd. Crutchie lost track of Jack, couldn’t find him. Everything was far too loud and familiar. For a moment, Crutchie wasn’t in Newsies Square–he was back in a tenement, crouching in the corner, awaiting a punishment he knew that he couldn’t avoid. A tentative hand on his shoulder, and Crutchie jolted to the side, his heart hammering. “S-sean?” he begged, needing his elder brother to crawl through that window and hold him tight, his fingers running lightly through sweaty hair.

“It’s Jack, but, hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Jack reassured him. If the name Crutchie had called out surprised him, he gave no indication. Though, Crutchie suspected that he would try and figure it out, later that night, once they were all home and safe. “We’re gonna be fine.” A shout caught Jack’s attention. The cops had shown up and viciously backhanded Romeo to the ground. Jack squeezed Crutchie’s shoulder. “You good?”

“Y-yeah,” Crutchie said, shakily. He wasn’t back there. He would never be back there, ever again. “Go help them.”

Jack nodded, his eyes still bright with worry. However, Jack’s stewardship extended beyond Crutchie, and there were so many more boys that needed his help. “Okay, be careful, Crutch. Nothing will happen, I promise.”

The words reminded Crutchie of when Sean used to calm him after nightmares. He’d run his fingers through Crutchie’s hair, reassuring his baby brother that he wouldn’t allow anything to happen to him. Crutchie had trusted him–and Sean had left him.

Crutchie watched Jack’s retreating back, burning fear roiling within his stomach. Jack wouldn’t– Jack wasn’t like Sean. He had said so himself, had promised Crutchie that he would never leave him. Crutchie pushed himself to his feet, noticing that the Delancey brothers were railing on Elmer. Shoving the fear to the back of his mind, Crutchie approached them, intent on breaking up that fight. “Hey, stop it!” he shouted, shoving Morris to the ground. “Ain’t two on two a little more fair?”

One of the Delanceys landed a good punch to Crutchie’s jaw, but he fended them off. They slunk away, and Crutchie helped Elmer up. “Stay safe,” he told Elmer, before the boy dashed off to where Mush was fighting back one of the bulls.

A sudden hit to the back of his head had Crutchie stumbling forward. He caught himself and started to turn around, but Oscar Delancey had grabbed his arm, his grip like iron. Morris grabbed Crutchie’s other arm, and they began dragging him away. Crutchie struggled against the brothers, but could not break free. “Not so strong now, eh?” Oscar asked, leering at him. “And what’s this?” he added, tearing the strike banner from Crutchie’s crutch and crumpling it into a pitiful ball.

Since Oscar had let go of him, Crutchie was free to swing his crutch, nailing Oscar–hard–in the ribs. He turned to attack Morris, but the Delancey brother punched him with a pair of brass knuckles. Crutchie fell to the ground, unable to catch himself. He scrambled for his crutch, but it had been kicked out of his reach. Before he could completely understand what was happening, Snyder had shown up and the crutch had bruised his ribs.

Crutchie hacked and coughed, struggling to breathe in the onslaught of attacks. “Jack,” he begged. He needed help–he needed his older brother. “Jack!” He was all Crutchie had left, all Crutchie could trust.

Snyder crouched down, grabbing his thin wrists. “It’s off to the Refuge with you, little man,” he hissed, his breath sour.

“N-no,” Crutchie begged. He knew what Jack had been like upon returning from the Refuge, knew exactly what that institution would do to young boys. “No, please,” he begged. Snyder didn’t pause, only gestured to the Delancey brothers to take him away. “Jack!” Crutchie screamed with a desperation that ached in his throat. “Jack, help!” Across the square, he saw Jack. Hope leapt to the tip of his tongue, dizzyingly bright. “Jack! Please!”

Jack’s face twisted with grief and pain. That confused Crutchie, until the older boy took a step backwards. “N-no! Wait! Jack, please!” Crutchie shouted, grappling at cobble stones to halt his impending doom. “Jack!”

With a regretful shake of his head, Jack disappeared.

For a blindingly painful second, it was Sean’s retreating back, instead of Jack’s.

“You promised,” Crutchie whispered, realizing that there was simply no such thing as a trustworthy older brother.

Jack practically collapsed onto the roof. Crutchie was gone–to the Refuge. After returning, Jack had promised Crutchie that he would never have to fear the Refuge, that Jack would never allow his younger brother to be taken there. Except, he had. He hadn’t stopped Snyder, hadn’t stopped the Delancey brothers. Jack had stood there, had watched as Crutchie was dragged away.

He kicked at the railing, burning anger sweeping through him. Crutchie was gone. Jack had gone back on all his promises, and now he couldn’t even guarantee that his brother would be able to get out of there. Jack knew, far too well, just how many lives were squandered within that hellish institution–he had watched young boys’ eyes dull and their hands fall limply from the bed. Jack could envision Crutchie, all too clearly, fall prey to the same awful fate.

Jack wanted nothing more than to just run off to Santa Fe, to disappear from New York and his mistakes for the rest of his life. But, he couldn’t just leave Crutchie alone. Jack, more than anyone else, knew how much Crutchie feared to be left behind. And, though Crutchie’s brother had done that to him, Jack refused to hurt his best friend, his brother, through that painful betrayal. He would go to the Refuge right now, get Crutchie out of there. It would be a fantastic rescue–one the boys would speak of for years to come–and he wouldn’t return without his brother.

Before he could leave the roof, the rattle of the fire escape alerted Jack to a visitor. “Go away,” he bit out, turning away from whichever of his boys was coming to check on him. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

“Yeah, well, as it turns out, neither am I.”

Jack turned in surprise, and was met with Spot’s fist. He stumbled backwards, his hand pressing to his stinging cheek. “Spot, what the hell?” he demanded.

Spot breathed heavily, his chest heaving. His eyes glinted dangerously. “How could you?” he hissed, his voice low. “I trusted you to–” he cut himself off, turning away. “How could you just…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jack said, tenderly working his jaw.

“You were supposed to protect him! I trusted you to protect him and now he’s in the Refuge!” Spot stepped closer to Jack, glaring at the taller boy. His hands were still balled into fists and the Brooklyn leader seemed to tense in preparation of a fight.

“Crutchie?” Jack asked, backing up in surprise and to keep a safe distance from the Brooklyn boy.

“Yes!” Spot shouted, before glowering at him. His jaw snapped shut audibly, and he threw another punch at Jack.

Expecting it this time, Jack dodged, stepping out of reach. “I didn’t think you cared about Crutchie. You’ve only met him that one time.”

The anger that radiated from Spot seemed to abate at the comment. “He… never told you?” Spot asked, his shoulders slumping. He hesitated, stepping backwards. “I had thought… I woulda assumed he told, at least, you. Unless…”

“Spot,” Jack started carefully, “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” He remained safely out of Spot’s reach, though he did know that the Brooklyn boy could move faster than a hawk, if provoked.

“He’s my brother.”

For a moment, Jack couldn’t believe the words. But, Spot remained silent, bristling with anger and… and, regret. Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re… the one that left Crutchie behind?” he demanded. It was his turn to be filled with righteous anger. “You left him alone with your father, left him to be–”

“I know,” Spot admitted, his voice bitter. “I know what I did to him. But, he has you, now. You’re his older brother. Or, were. You were supposed to protect him, keep him safe!”

“You think I didn’t want to? You think I didn’t feel as if I were being torn in two when he was dragged away?” Jack exclaimed, bitter regret seeping from each vowel. “You think I wanted this to happen? I couldn’t save him. I–I’d only be taken to the Refuge as well. You’ve got to understand.”

Spot breathed out a heavy sigh, turning away from Jack and leaning against the railing. His eyes flicked across the night sky, his face dark with memories. “Oh, I understand,” Spot said. “Probably more than I should. I… remember what it was like. You’ve got to save yourself. Don’t look back, don’t remember. Just… get out.” He turned to Jack, his eyes flashing. This time, the emotion was indiscernible. “I left him, too, as you know.”

“I hated you for it, hated you for what it did to him,” Jack admitted softly. “He wouldn’t trust me for the longest time. Because of you. And, now, I’ve gone and done the same thing.”

“Can you blame us?” Spot asked. “I was eight. I knew no better. You would’ve been dragged back to the Refuge. What other choices did we have?”

“There was always another choice.”

Spot straightened his shoulders. “Either way, it’s already been made. There’s no going back now. Only forward.” He turned to Jack. “You get my brother back. You make sure he is okay.” He nodded once, certain that Jack would do what it took to keep Crutchie safe. Spot started toward the fire escape, before pausing. “And,” he added, “if you’re still striking, Brooklyn will be there, every step of the way. For Crutchie. For my brother.”

Hollowly, Jack repeated, “For my brother.”

Spot had sent a messenger to Manhattan the day after his conversation with Jack. The small boy, Robin, returned rather quickly, knocking briefly on the door and waiting impatiently for Spot to indicate that he could enter. Once within Spot’s private room, Robin began to talk, his eyes flicking around the room as he took in his leader’s residence. “That one tall kid, Davey? He’s real pleased.”

“Jack wasn’t there?” Spot asked, glancing at the kid in surprise. “I told ya to talk to Jack directly.”

“Yeah, I know,” Robin said petulantly. “I ain’t no idiot. He wasn’t around. Davey’s in charge, right now. Him and Race, they was saying.”

“They got a reason for kicking Jack from the head?”

Robin shrugged. “Not that I know of. Davey said Jack’d be around, but until he was back, Race and he were stepping up. Davey didn’t seem to want to talk much ‘bout it,” Robin explained, leaning against the wall and ignoring Spot’s sharp gaze. “If ya ask me, I’d’a said he was embarrassed. Maybe that Jack Kelly ran, ya think?”

“I’m not here to just gab about Manhattan’s troubles,” Spot muttered, dark emotions clutching at the base of his stomach, pinching, painful.

“Just sayin’,” Robin finished, as he pushed himself off the wall. The young messenger was recognized for his perceptiveness and he could tell that the Brooklyn leader was displeased with the information he had provided.

“Thanks, Robin,” Spot said, dismissing the younger boy. Once Robin had left the room, Spot clenched his fingers tightly into a fist, punching the wall beside him firmly. Rage surged within him, his skin tingling with the sinking sense of helplessness. “Kelly,” he growled. His nails dug into the soft of his palm, searing pain only partially dulling the anger, the fear.

Spot Conlon didn’t depend on anyone, had learned at far too young an age that there really wasn’t anyone that he could trust beyond himself–had even instilled the same lesson into his younger brother. But, Jack Kelly–

For the first time in years, Spot had found himself in a position where he needed to trust someone, where he depended on someone to help him, because he couldn’t do it alone. As much as Spot hated it, he could not win the strike without Kelly’s leadership. Even worse, he could not get Crutchie out of the Refuge without the Manhattan leader’s support and assistance.

Jack Kelly, the coward, had just damned his brother to an early death at Snyder’s unfeeling hand.

Whose brother? an awful voice whispered, and Spot turned away viciously. He understood that Crutchie trusted Kelly more than his own blood, couldn’t even bring himself to blame the younger boy. If anything, he deserved the lack of trust. But, now Kelly had gone and betrayed him. Who did Crutchie have now? Just two cowards.

Spot refused to make the same mistake twice and determined that he and a number of his boys would be at the rally, no matter whether Kelly decided to show his face or not. He left the room, scowling, ignoring the worried, confused looks that a couple of his kids shot him. Robin looked up from a game of poker with three other Brooklyn boys. “You want something, boss?”

“Get Laces and Jimmy, maybe a couple other kids you trust. We’re going to that damn rally.”

Spot’s determination did not fade, even when they got to the rally and it became apparent that Kelly wouldn’t be showing up. Behind him, Robin muttered, “Told ya he ran. Ain’t ever held up in a fight.”

He whirled on the younger boy. “Shut up,” he hissed. “You don’t understand what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

Robin nodded quickly, and Spot watched the shock in the younger boy’s eyes fade into petulance. “Whatever you say, Spot.” He edged past the Brooklyn leader, finding Laces and striking up a conversation with her.

Spot let him go, unwilling to truly pound the lesson into the kid’s head. He didn’t understand what he said, didn’t understand the piercing truth. As much as Spot simply wished to hate Kelly for running from his past, he understood. He had done the same thing, left his younger brother in just as painful and dangerous a place. Spot, like Kelly, hadn’t held up in the one fight that had mattered. He was fighting now, but it seemed far too little, far too late.

“Welcome,” Davey greeted, spitting into his hand.

Spot quickly reciprocated the action, nodding tersely at the Manhattan boy. He hesitated for half a moment, before voicing the question he didn’t even want to know the answer to. “Kelly showing?”

Davey’s face darkened briefly. “He should be here any moment.”

The lie fell, solid and heavy, between the two boys. Spot very nearly called him out on it, but decided to allow it to slide. Perhaps he felt something akin to understanding for Davey. Spot nodded. “We might as well get started,” he suggested, nodding to where the boys from the various boroughs were beginning to get restless.

“Y-yes,” Davey agreed shakily. He quickly called the attention of the boys, but it didn’t hold. A couple kids from the Bronx began to murmur that they wanted Jack, that Jack was supposed to be leading the rally. Spot noticed the sweat that dotted Davey’s forehead, the way his lip trembled nearly imperceptibly.

“We can’t just wait around for Kelly,” Spot commanded, his voice rising above the soft murmurs. “We’ve got to actually–”

Kelly’s sardonic voice cut Spot off. “If you want to be talked to like an adult, start acting like one.”

Spot held his ground, glaring at the Manhattan leader. The glare softened, however, as he studied Kelly. His brown hair was disheveled, as if he had jerked his hands through it countless times. Kelly’s dark eyes seemed even darker in the light of Medda’s theatre–haunted, even. Those eyes alighted on Spot, flashing with something unintelligible, before flicking away. Spot watched as Kelly straightened his vest subconsciously, glancing backward.

“And here’s Jack Kelly!” Davey shouted, excitedly gesturing to the Manhattan leader.

Kelly waved the attention away, before glancing around the room, pointedly not making eye contact with Spot. His face was drawn, eyes lowered with something akin to defeat. Stomach sinking, Spot realized exactly where Kelly was going to take this rally. The goddamn traitor…

“Pulitzer raised price of papes without so much as a word to us and that was a lousy thing to do. We showed him that we wouldn’t be pushed around, so’s we go on strike. And then what happens? Pulitzer lowers the price of papes so’s that we’ll go back to work,” Kelly said, his arms waving tensely. He pauses, his face twisting into a grimace.

Spot stepped forward a half-step, aching to shout at Kelly, to grab him by his goddamn neck and throttle him for even considering what Spot fears his is planning on doing. His mouth did not open, only tightened.

Kelly continued to speak, confirming Spot’s worst fears. “And then a few weeks after that, he hikes up his price again. And don’t think he won’t.” Kelly’s voice nearly breaks and some of Spot’s rage fades at the crack. The Manhattan leader is cornered, and can only see one way out. “So what do we do then? And what do we when he decides to raise his price again after that? Fellas, we gotta be realistic here!” It almost sounded as if Kelly is begging the boys, begging them to understand just how trapped he is, Spot realized. Kelly continued, ignoring the way his voice wavered on the words, “If we don’t work, we don’t get paid. How many days can you go without making money? Believe me, however, long, Pulitzer can go longer.”

He took a shuddering breath, and continued, “But I have spoken with Mr. Pulitzer, and he has given me his word, if we disband the union, he will not raise his prices for two years and he will put that in writing. I say we take the deal.”

The entire rally devolved into chaos, boys shouting, angry–bewildered. Jack Kelly had betrayed them. Jack Kelly had betrayed them. The boys couldn’t, wouldn’t understand.

Spot did, though the knowledge pained him. It didn’t assuage the hurt, the anger that Jack would betray the boys, would betray Crutchie, in such a way. Spot stepped forward, grabbing Jack’s shirt, intending to pound some sense into the Manhattan leader. He had to force Jack to understand that there had to be another way, something else he could do to rescue his brother. Spot’s fist pulled back, but Jack jerked out of his grip, stumbling away. He was being railed on by the boys, but Jack ignored that stopping in the doorway, where a man dressed in black handed him a stack of cash.

The boys erupted into cries of outrage.

Spot’s stomach plummeted, watching as Jack shoved his way out of the theatre, the money still clutched tightly to his chest. The eyes of the newsboys turned to Spot and he steeled himself for the new leadership they expected. “We aren’t stopping,” he informed them, his voice steadier than his legs felt. “We’re seein’ this through.” A couple of the newsboys nodded hesitantly. “For our brothers,” Spot added.

He was determined that they would not allow the strike to fall into defeat, that they would not allow the sacrifices to be made for naught. They would fight, for each other, for the children across the city.

For our brothers, and for our brother’s traitors.

The newsboys won the strike. Jack was proud that they had stuck with it, had refused to give in, even against the pressures exerted by Pulitzer. Despite the impossibility of the situation, despite the towering odds, they had succeeded. It had all been worth it–

Maybe.

Jack surveyed the crowd of cheering newsboys, a somber smile pulling softly at thin lips. The strike had come at much too high a cost. He still felt… empty. Alone. Crutchie’s absence weighed far heavier than Jack would have ever thought possible. Each smile between his boys, the raucous laughter, the friendly shoves–all sharp, twisting daggers. Harsh reminders of who Jack had failed to protect.

He curled his fingers into the biting metal of the rail. Joseph Pulitzer continued to speak, consonants clipped. Jack just wanted to drown him out, but each sharp “t,” each popped “p”–they grated at his thinning nerves. The sun shone brightly, violently. Sweat itched at the collar of his shirt, discomfort prickling his skin. The heat, the sweat, the hushed sound of the newsboys comments to their success: all reminded Jack of where Crutchie was. Of what Crutchie wouldn’t be able to witness.

The kid had been so excited for the strike. He had been nervous, Jack could tell. But, as usual, Crutchie put the needs of the other boys first. He approached the strike with a bravado that Jack suspected he, alone, could see through. The boy had always been like that, ever since Jack first met him. He would put his needs second–always. Jack imagined that it arose from a deeply-rooted fear of never being “enough” for the other boys, of desperately searching for a way to prove his worth.

Jack suspected that Spot could be blamed for that.

It still felt strange to know that Spot was Crutchie’s brother. For years, Jack had wished that he knew Crutchie’s older brother, had wanted to punch the boy until the aching regret for Crutchie faded under the pain of bruised knuckles. Now, though, that he had put a face to the brother Crutchie had spoke of, Jack found that he couldn’t simply hate Spot. Not, when he felt as if he understood. Not after he had done the exact same to the younger boy.

A trilling whistle pulled Jack from his thoughts and he turned his attention to the edge of the square where a couple of cops were entering. Their badges glinted dangerously in the sun, billy clubs held at their side, harmless–for now. Instinctively, Jack’s muscles tensed and he prepared for a mad dash to safety.

Except…

There were other boys to think of. Jack calmed the surging adrenalin. No longer, would he run from a fight, if his boys were still there. Jack would be the last one to leave a fight. Never again would Jack leave someone behind. There would never be another situation such as Crutchie. Not while Jack remained the leader.

He swallowed down the fear that surged, watching the bulls carefully. Across the square, familiar laughter rippled through the air. Jack’s grip on the railing tightened, but this time with ill-suppressed hope. “Crutchie,” Jack breathed, as if speaking above a whisper would frighten the quite-possible phantasm.

“You miss me?” the boy called out, his voice ringing out in joviality.

Every fear, every regret lifted from Jack’s shoulders. He felt weightless as he leaped from the railing, dashing across the square. Boys stepped aside, but, if they did not move quickly enough, Jack shoved them to the side. He could not afford to be slowed down.

Mere inches from the younger boy that had quickly become a brother to him, and Jack hesitated. He stopped, he stared. Jack didn’t breathe, fearful that it would shatter the wonder of it all, the incredulity.

“Jack,” was all Crutchie said, smiling weakly.

His name spurred Jack into movement and he crossed the distance in one quick stride, pulling the younger boy into a tight hug. He gripped at Crutchie’s dirty vest, shakily breathing in the scent of dried blood and old vomit–far too aware of the hell Crutchie had gone through. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” Jack muttered, taking comfort in the physical presence of the boy he had grown to care for deeply.

“Jack,” Crutchie repeated, and Jack’s heart nearly broke at the way his voice cracked on the name.

“I ain’t ever letting you go there again,” Jack reassured him, his voice hushed and rushed. “You ain’t ever gonna need to worry about that.” Despite the confidence that exuded from the words, Jack feared that it would be yet another promise that would shatter in his hands. How many times, before, had Jack promised Crutchie’s protection? And, yet, the unthinkable had happened.

Governor Roosevelt drew their attention away from each other, but Jack relished in the fact that he could feel the rough fabric of Crutchie’s shirt against his shoulder, could hear each soft inhale and exhale. Crutchie was back; Crutchie was alive. Everything would return to normal.

Pulitzer slammed the railing, demanding the newsboys to return to work. Beside him, Crutchie shifted and Jack broached the conversation, the dream that had niggled at the back of his mind through the entirety of the hellish events. “What about Santa Fe?” he asked. Jack recalled those nights spent next to each other, painting a future where everything would be okay again. Now that Crutchie was back, now that Crutchie was home, they could go. They could go, and never return.

At the question, Crutchie flinched away. “Oh,” he began, his laughter stiff and forced. “You wouldn’t want–”

Crutchie was cut off as Katherine approached Jack. “What’s Santa Fe got that New York ain’t?” she challenged, hands on her hips.

Jack turned to her, grinning as she weighed in exactly why he shouldn’t go to Santa Fe. He had to admit that it wouldn’t be the wisest move to leave for Santa Fe immediately. If anything, Jack and Crutchie could go in a couple months, once they had saved up more cash. Speaking of Crutchie…

In the excitement of the win, of Katherine, Jack and Crutchie were separated. Jack grabbed his papes, stuffing them into his bag and scanning the crowd for his best friend. Jack froze. Crutchie wasn’t among the newsboys trickling out of the square. His breath caught, and, for an awful moment, Jack feared that it was all a horrible dream–Crutchie was still trapped in the hellish Refuge.

Hurriedly, Jack rushed from the square, praying that Crutchie would just be around the bend, already heading to his normal selling spot. Surely, Crutchie couldn’t have gotten too far ahead of Jack. The leader of Manhattan tried to calm his pounding heart, tried to reassure himself that Crutchie was fine, that he could take care of himself. For some reason, the words felt hollow and did nothing to assuage the bubbling fears. Jack scanned each alley way he passed. Nothing.

To Jack’s relief, he caught a glimpse of Crutchie’s blonde hair jutting familiarly beneath his cap further down an alley. Jack started towards the boy, then noticed who accompanied him. Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn.

Spot Conlon, brother of Crutchie.

Crutchie grinned as all the other boys came up to him to welcome him home. They pounded his back, pulled him into hugs. Crutchie hid his winces with practiced ease. He pushed down whatever dark memories whispered at the back of his mind, determined to enjoy his warm welcome. Everyone was there. Everyone–

And, Jack.

Jack, who Crutchie had thought of each dreary night within the Refuge. Jack, who Crutchie had not been able to decide how he felt about the older boy’s actions. It had crushed him, watching Jack turn away and flee. But, a small voice would remind Crutchie, what else could he do? You didn’t want him to get caught, did you? And, no. Crutchie would never have forgiven himself if Jack had been caught on Crutchie’s behalf.

It was better this way.

The conflicting emotions had battled within the Refuge. On a good night, he had written a letter to Jack, instructing him to keep everyone safe–to keep himself safe–while Crutchie could not be among them. That night, he had been thankful that Jack would not be cowering in dirty, shadowy corners.

There had been bad nights, of course. Nights when Crutchie would clench his fists, digging his nails into his palm, if only to distract himself from his situation. Those nights, Crutchie would compare Jack to Spot, categorizing them just the same: both untrustworthy boys who would rather save their own skin than help Crutchie. And, the thought would come, dark and indisputable, if Crutchie could not trust Jack or Spot, who could he trust? They had always been the closest to him and now…

When Jack stopped short in front of Crutchie, those thoughts came flooding back. Utter relief and joy at the mere sight of Jack leapt up to Crutchie’s throat, completely overwhelming whatever doubts and fears still remained. “Jack,” Crutchie said, and Jack engulfed him into a tight hug.

Jack held him tight, his soft voice tickling Crutchie’s ear. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” Jack repeated over and over, the words a soft mantra. Crutchie was unsure whether Jack meant to reassure him, or if the words were a reassurance for Jack, himself. Either way, it mattered not. Jack was there; everything would be righted.

Once again, Crutchie whispered, “Jack.” He didn’t know what else could be said at this moment. I understand, was a worthy contender. Jack had been… different, after his time in the Refuge. Crutchie now felt as if he understood the shadowed thoughts that had darkened Jack’s face, that had deepened his frown.

I never want to be sent there again. I’d rather…

Jack must’ve understood the words that Crutchie couldn’t quite speak because he murmured, “I ain’t ever letting you go there again. You ain’t ever gonna need to worry about that.” Crutchie nodded jerkily at the promise. It wasn’t as if Jack had to truly do anything to keep Crutchie out of the Refuge–it was closed, wasn’t it? For a heart-stopping moment, Crutchie feared that it had all been a terrible illusion that he had created in the rush of freedom. But, no. Across the square, Snyder was loaded into the paddy wagon. Crutchie watched the man as the cops took him away, an intense sensation of relief sweeping through him.

When Governor Roosevelt began speaking, Crutchie stepped back slightly. He didn’t mean to crowd Jack, who was clearly the focus of the governor’s comments. Jack didn’t allow Crutchie to step completely out of reach, their shoulders bumping together gently. Crutchie smiled at the sustained contact–maybe, this time, Jack wouldn’t allow Crutchie to be abandoned ever again. Maybe, this time, it would be different than with Sean. With Spot, who hadn’t ever tried to bridge the rift between the brothers.

Joseph Pulitzer slammed his open hand against the metal railing, the sudden noise startling Crutchie. He was still a little jumpy after the Refuge and sudden movement, sudden sounds recalled memories that he wished could just disappear. If Jack noticed, he didn’t comment, which Crutchie was thankful for. He wasn’t exactly eager to go over his experiences from the Refuge, though Crutchie expected that Jack would begin to pry later that night, when it was just the two of them and infinite stars.

The newsboys began inching toward the stand to get their daily papes, but Jack didn’t move. Instead, he shifted awkwardly. He glanced at Crutchie, before his eyes darted away. “What about Santa Fe?” he asked, and Crutchie’s stomach dropped painfully.

Of course.

Of course, Jack would want to go to Santa Fe. Of course, he would want to leave Crutchie behind. Crutchie believed himself to be ten times the fool to have ever allowed himself to think that Jack would stay with Crutchie. Forcing a fake smile, Crutchie backed away, allowing Katherine to speak with Jack. Let her talk him out of his crazy schemes. Jack may listen to her.

He wouldn’t listen to a brother.

Crutchie joined the line of newsboys getting their papes, smiling at Davey, who watched him carefully. “It’s good to have you back,” Davey told him, squeezing his shoulder gently.

“Thanks, Davey,” Crutchie said. He refused to allow his focus to drift towards where Jack continued to speak with Katherine. He refused to even care if Jack wanted to go to Santa Fe. What did it matter to Crutchie? Who even needed Jack, anyway?

He stepped forward in line, taking his papes from Oscar Delancey. Crutchie figured that he could just forget about everything that had happened, if he went around and sold his papes. Out of sight, out of mind–wasn’t that how the phrase went?

Crutchie left the square, intent on just reaching his familiar selling spot. Before he could completely distance himself from Jack, however, a hand reached out and yanked him into a nearby alley. Crutchie’s heart leapt to his throat, and he immediately pushed against his assailant’s grip. A scream bubbled from Crutchie’s mouth. Memories of the men from the Refuge, of the bigger boys, of the cold sneers, of the blinding pain and the pleas for help that went unanswered for far too long.

“Hey, Crutchie, it’s me,” his assailant said, his voice harsh in his ear.

The words and the voice didn’t process and Crutchie continued to shove at the arms, dismayed when they tightened around his chest. He couldn’t escape; he couldn’t get out. Snyder would be there any moment and he couldn’t stop the nearing onslaught of intense, immobilizing pain. “Jack,” Crutchie cried out, despite the pressing knowledge that Jack couldn’t–Jack wouldn’t–come help him.

“Charlie, it’s me. It’s Sean.”

Crutchie slowed his frantic movements, recognizing the boy holding him. He knew those sharp, blue eyes, the frown that lowered his chin, the firm hands that kept him from collapsing as the sudden rush of adrenaline abated. Before Crutchie could say anything, Spot pulled him into a tight hug. “You scared the crap outta me, Charlie. I thought…” Spot breathed heavily, before releasing Crutchie. “I’m glad you’re okay. I never would’ve forgiven myself if something had happened, if you hadn’t gotten outta there in one piece.”

“I’m okay,” Crutchie reassured him. “I-I’m fine. Ain’t nothing wrong with me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” Spot agreed, studying him. Crutchie knew that each bruise, each wince would not escape Spot’s steady gaze. “You are,” he continued, “but you might not’ve been. I can’t believe Jack would ever–” He cut himself off, gazing at Crutchie. Spot’s eyes sharpened–sparked with an emotion, an idea. “Charlie, come with me. Come to Brooklyn. I’ll set you up with the best selling spot and you won’t ever have to worry about anything like the Refuge ever again. I promise.”

The words echoed what Jack had promised him only minutes before.

What Jack had promised him, despite seeking Santa Fe, anyway.

“Sean,” Crutchie started, but was interrupted by his own name.

“Crutchie!”

He turned, surprised to see Jack hurrying toward him down the alleyway. Jack smiled, but there was a faint desperation that wrinkled at the corner of his eyes. “Crutchie,” Jack repeated, reaching out to the other boy. “You just disappeared. I had thought–”

“I’m fine,” Crutchie reassured him. Jack nodded, the movement shaky and nearly hesitant. He reached out to Crutchie, but his hand stalled, before dropping to pull awkwardly at the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Spot agreed. He straightened his back to his fullest height, his gaze steely, protective. Spot edged only slightly between Crutchie and Jack, the movement minute and hardly noticeable.

Jack noticed.

“Come on, Crutchie,” Jack said, gesturing for Crutchie to follow him–to leave Spot. “Let’s go.”

“Actually, I was just inviting Charlie to come stay in Brooklyn, at least for the time being,” Spot said. With the emphasis on Crutchie’s true name, Spot took a step forward, crowding the Manhattan leader.

Jack refused to back up and held his ground. His eyes, however, did shift to Crutchie, nervousness shining from the dark brown pools. “Crutch, you aren’t actually… You wouldn’t really…”

Crutchie didn’t know what to say, didn’t know who to choose.

Didn’t know if he ever actually had a choice, when it truly came down to it.

When Crutchie didn’t immediately interrupt Jack with reassurances that he would remain in Manhattan, Jack continued, the words tight and rushed, “Please, Crutch. Don’t leave. I–I’m sorry about the Refuge. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to keep you outta there.” Jack’s eyes were wide, desperate. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t enough, but, Crutch, you gotta believe me. I ain’t ever gonna let something like that happen to you ever again, I swear.”

“Yeah, you say that, and yet, you’re the one that let Crutchie get taken away, so–”

“It’s not as if you hadn’t done the same thing before!”

“I was eight; I was a kid! You, at least, should have known better.”

“What else could I have done? We both woulda ended up in the Refuge.”

“You still shoulda–”

“Will you both shut up?” Crutchie demanded, shouting at the two boys. “Just… stop, okay?” He waited for Spot and Jack to back up, deflating slightly. Each leader looked somewhat sheepish at Crutchie’s shout. Jack opened his mouth, as if to defend himself, but Crutchie cut him off before he could even begin. “No, Jack. It’s… I don’t have as much of a choice, as you guys make it out to be. I ain’t…” Crutchie took a deep, steeling breath, before turning toward Spot. “Spot– Sean, you’se my brother, yeah, but Jack… Jack, he’s my brother.”

Spot’s face tensed, whatever emotion that had been there only seconds before, disappearing into a smooth mask. “Yeah, whatever, Crutchie,” he said, backing up even further, edging to the end of the alley.

“No, wait, Spot! It ain’t… It ain’t you. You’se still my brother and I– But, I gotta stay with Jack,” Crutchie tried to explain, hating the way that Spot’s face remained emotionless, hating how Spot’s eyes, sharp, pierced through Crutchie’s explanations. “Spot, I still… I could never hate you. I just… Manhattan’s my home now.” He knew that the words were laughingly insufficient in the situation, but Crutchie didn’t know how to express the jumbled emotions that tightened his throat.

With a faint smirk, Spot nodded. His voice was flat, betrayed none of the thoughts that flickered briefly across his icy blue eyes. “No, I get it. We ain’t the kids we once were.” He stepped back again, glancing behind him at the bustle of the New York streets. “Well,” he continued, turning back to Crutchie, “if you ever need a place to stay, for whatever reason, you’ll always be welcome in Brooklyn.”

“Thanks.” That word, alone, was all Crutchie could say, despite knowing that it wasn’t enough, maybe never would be enough. Thanks, an apology for a choice that could not be made. Thanks, a plea for forgiveness and an acknowledgement of mistakes made, of mistakes remembered. Thanks, a peace offering, a white flag that trembled softly.

Spot nodded, the motion terse and firm. The motion, belied by a softening in his blue eyes.

Thanks, a promise between two brothers.

#my fanfiction #newsies #spot and crutchie #i absolutely love this fic #please read it and let me know what you think #it's one of my best fics i've ever written #and the hours that went into this #please validate me

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olga-eulalia · 8 years ago

Text

For ellelan, who’s an enabler of the finest sort and who championed the idea that the world needed more Flint’s Thighs Appreciation <3

Unbetaed! SilverFlint w/ background SilverMadi. Warnings: Non-native speaker writing here, purple prose, mature content.

At this point, the safe path between the camp and the seashore had become a well-known fixture. It allowed Silver to revise the sequence of movements he’d learned earlier in the day during sword practice. Flint's adeptness made wielding the weapon look so easy, like it didn't take months of commitment to imprint at least some skill in the handling of it. But Silver couldn’t afford years, so he worked differently, keeping a catalogue of moves and countermoves stored in his memory.

The frustrating part of practicing with Flint was that Silver could often predict the blade's trajectory, but was too inept to parry it nonetheless, thus depriving himself of several moves he'd foreseen his teacher would have made had the soft tap not found his shoulder so soon.

Flint's days were filled with the task of instructing his forces, maneuvering at sea, fight-training close to the shoreline. By rights, he ought to look more exhausted. But Silver had rarely seen him look more dejected than when he'd been denied access to Silver’s past. A dreadful, distancing mood had settled over Flint then, turning his gaze inward.

When Flint abruptly stopped walking and asked, "Same time tomorrow, then?" Silver, at his side, seemed little more than a distraction to him.

"You're not going back to the camp?" Silver stepped uncertainly in place. He looked at what Flint was carrying beneath the coat slung over his arm and relabeled it quickly in his mind. "I think I'd like to join you."

At that, Flint's eyes focused on him, opalescent. "Very well." Nothing but acquiescence, as the veil of brooding quiet lowered once more.

The sun on his shorn head, Flint, in full pirate captain attire, was talking to Madi's mother down in the street. His hands were locked behind his back, his weight rested on his left leg while the other appeared agitated. Watching him, Silver knew he was offering insight to the Queen, offering her possibility, making her stake in the mission to retake Nassau all the greater. Both of them were leaders, steadfast in their beliefs, and it was fascinating to see their visions slowly come to a compromise.

Madi stepped to Silver’s side, joining him in looking out from the banister outside her home. "Not so long ago, your eyes were watching my every movement," she said.

He smiled at the teasing note in her voice. Not so long ago, he had been suffering from great pain, and she had looked into his soul and found him trustworthy, and he had healed. A few days ago, he'd given her an answer as to why he was willing to share a friendship with Captain Flint. The man had entrusted him with many things -- his crew, his reputation, his battle strategy and the actualization of it, but most importantly, his private story. Which, until that special night, had been kept secured away from the world. Whether it had been Silver’s to tell was questionable at best, though it seemed to have become part of his own story in a strange way by then, but he had desperately needed Madi to know that Captain Flint was more than an ordinary man set on seeking fortune, that he was indeed someone fighting for a righteous cause not easily set aside, and that she and her people could trust in him because of it.

Madi studied him, head held somewhat aslant. "You want him?" she asked. "Like you want me?"

One more smile could have easily negated it, but Silver found his face uncooperative. All he managed to do was return her gaze in the hope that a non-answer would be acceptable to her. And as he struggled with the realization that here, at last, was somebody he could not and would not lie to, it occurred to him that her words had never been meant as a question at all.

Madi raised her brows and regarded him levelly. "I understand," she said, without trace of dismay.

They turned to face each other fully then. She was so lovely in her countenance, so compelling in her regal bearing, so fascinating in her wisdom. He wondered whether kissing her in view of all the camp was something she might allow. He took her hand instead.

"I did not meet you yesterday, John Silver."

It all came off. The studded leather belt was set aside. The sash unwound. The black shirt pulled loose. The many buttons on his garments popped free. The boots tugged off, accompanied by soft grunting. Silver didn't know what he had expected to see underneath, but it definitely wasn't gray-stockinged calves, and - once the breeches had been tugged down - white underpants with neatly tied bows beside the knees. To someone who'd come to associate the sight of Flint stripping down layers with him readying for battle, this was kind of a shock.

An onlooker would have said Flint took a long time dressing down to a single undergarment, whereas Silver had divested himself of all his clothes quite speedily. They wouldn't know about the calculations rattling off in the brain of Mr. Silver. Whose needle on the moral compass never sat still, whose convictions of propriety were able to adapt as the situation required. But for all the foresight he possessed, Flint failing to follow his example in getting fully naked, was also unexpected. Modesty? Silver thought, watching Flint brace the wet, the thin fabric of his underpants becoming transparent as he waded deeper into the pond and water sloshed about him.

The bastard hadn’t even glanced at him once.

With his walking aid, Silver followed. He drifted a good distance apart from Flint, glorying in the sensation of lessened strain on his limbs, and watched Flint, who was facing away from him, run a cloth over his freckled arms and broad shoulders and under his brushy armpits. Up to that point, Silver had never seen his captain bathe, only ever witnessed him use the inadequate basin in his cabin or splash water on the reddened back of his neck on a hot day, and therefore found himself spellbound by the view. Flint, he found, had much in common with the dramatic heroes of mythology populating so many paintings, the unbridled power of his physique only emphasized by the lack of hair on his head.

And what did heroes do for a living? Silver looked across the pond’s placid surface, head submerged up to his eyes. He dove under momentarily, wetting his hair so that it clung heavily between his shoulder blades on resurfacing. Then he began to make his way determinedly to shore.

There. As soon as he felt an unevenness in the ground's surface, he went under in a big splash and came up with a pained shout. His crutch was drifting off, making him balance in the waist-high waves on one leg.

Next time he looked, Flint had already retrieved the crutch and was coming towards him, striding a direct path through ever shallower water, like Poseidon himself come to claim him. The tug of both fear and arousal at the sight was already familiar to Silver.

“Here you are,” Flint said. The soaked garment clinging to his groin left little to the imagination.

"I think I'm going to need a tether for this thing," Silver said and, gripping Flint's left forearm tightly, steadied his stance by tucking the crutch into his armpit.

Flint probably expected him to let go of him then, but Silver didn’t. The skin of Flint’s arm was warm and wet and frustrating in its strength as it held completely still. All effort on Silver’s part to drag Flint closer was to no avail. Silver's gaze locked with Flint's, incendiary. Flint's jaw clenched.

For a moment, Silver thought he’d grossly miscalculated. He opened up his demeanor invitingly, but what it earned him from Flint was a sizing-up of his figure that felt much like a rake dragging across his skin.

“I thought you and Madi had grown close,” Flint spoke, somewhat haltingly.

Silver wetted his lower lip. “I thought you of all people would understand that someone can be close to more than one person at a time.”

Clouds now overcast the late afternoon sun and colours grew sombre. Water trickled, the pond being gently fed by a stream. Branches creaked and leaves rustled as a squawking bird took flight. But the noises of the forest were negligible compared to the loud slither of thoughts in Silver's head.

When Flint moved, it was like a colossal statue coming to life. He let himself be pulled in, eyes now fixed on Silver's lower face. Their mouths met, parted in excitement, and many breaths passed between them, before Flint, deciding to end the conflict, sealed their lips.

Silver was prepared for the heaviness, but not for the slowness, the care placed in every renewal of the kiss. Like in their sparring session, Flint pressed on, but allowed Silver to find his own countermoves. Kissing Flint speared him deeply.

As their mouths finally parted, the hesitation on Flint’s face had been replaced by perplexion, as though he did not fully understand why this was happening, or rather why the act itself had lacked any uncertainty and felt like a natural thing to do. Silver could relate to that sentiment even more strongly, because he’d just now discovered that part of him had been willing this turn of events into existence for the better part of a year.

Flint then pulled him snug to his hips, parting Silver's legs on his sturdy thigh, and, using sheer brute strength, walked him backward out of the pond, where he tumbled him with a thud into the shaking ferns at the water's edge and the crutch was discarded once more.

Silver instantly scrambled to untie the cords on Flint’s underpants, wanting to lay bare his sex; then reached around and tried to drag the clammy material down over his buttocks, but failed on both accounts. Desperate, he looked down to see the muscles in Flint’s thighs bunch the see-through fabric as they laboured with singular purpose. Silver spread his palms over them, feeling their firmness, only making matters worse.

“Take them off. Or I’m going to undo these knots with my teeth. I’m going to,” he gasped for breath, “rip them off with my teeth.”

So Flint, after a stunned pause, removed himself again and peeled his drenched underpants down his legs till they lay in a furled heap on the forest floor. Silver’s skin went ecstatic at the sight. Delight at the plenty of it all suffused him. Flint rose above him like a thundercloud against the paleness of the sky as he lowered himself and brought down his knees on either side of Silver’s hips.

“Better?”

Quite to the contrary. Silver was aching. He grabbed onto Flint’s waist and pulled himself forward so that he could kiss his way up the furred center of Flint’s torso and tease his tongue across the breadth of it, tracking the source of that deep rasping voice in a roundabout way. He hardly knew Flint without the smell of sweat and seawater on him, and eventually had to clasp the bud of one of Flint’s pectorals with his teeth and just breathe around it for a moment in order to contain his greed.

Flint, having gently held onto his hair, now framed his face with both hands and made him lift his head so they could look at each other. Flint’s eyes appeared luminous. He said, “You’re so-” But swallowed the rest.

“Yes?” Silver encouraged and put one of his arms around Flint’s neck, the powerful expanse of Flint’s shoulders shifting under his palm, as they both lowered themselves to the ground once more. He very much enjoyed the feel of Flint’s body molding to his, the urge in it.

“Unexpected.”

“And here I thought you were going to say-” Silver could think no further, as Flint had aligned their dicks and found the perfect rhythm on instinct.

“I was going to say?” Flint whispered in his ear.

“You were going to say, uh-” Silver clutched the back of Flint’s thigh, right below the swell of his ass, trying to keep Flint locked in place as need drove his hips up against him faster.

“Hmm?” Flint hummed, breath punching out against his neck.

Silver felt it resonate at his core. “Ingenious. Attractive. Irresistible. Good at this.” The words rolled sluggishly off his tongue. He wasn’t really only describing himself here.

Flint sank his teeth into Silver’s shoulder and groaned into the bite. “Shut up,” he said, sounding wrecked, then added more mildly, “You know you are.”

The admission licked into Silver like a sudden spurt of flame. For a moment he thought his climax was going to crash over him and rip him from Flint right then and there. But he managed to hang on for dear life, helpless to stave off the onslaught of Flint, who was grinding on his hips frantically now, squeezing around him, rutting into him, insistent on pleasure, and suffered the prolongation of a sweet torture that had him clinging to the edge of a bliss so vast that there could be no rescue.

Something cracked open inside his mind, and he said, straining, “I don’t want you to know me like I used to be. I want you to know me like this.” Then he took the warm metal of Flint’s ear stud between his lips and sucked on it.

Flint’s answering groan had a keening note to it, as he clamped down around Silver and his hips stuttered and his entire body shuddered so that Silver’s shook with the force of it too. Holding on to Flint just as tightly, somehow trying to keep him from shattering, he couldn’t not follow Flint’s example, and their bellies were slicked with the conclusion of their desire to know one another.

They walked at a leisurely pace, though the sky had already begun to darken. When they reached the Maroon camp, torches had been lit and the smell of burning wood and freshly cooked food hung in the air. A mother called for her son, who emerged in the street in front of them not seconds later. The child stopped for the briefest of moments, eyes very round, then jumped up the steps to his home. Today, Mr. Silver wasn't carrying the crutch in his hand upon his return, he was carrying the prosthetic.

#fic: black sails #silverflint

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