#I’m writing these like someone downing shots at the bar over their tragic past | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hermannsthumb · 3 years ago

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"different young (rebound) hunk on his arm every week…newton geiszler who?" CAN YOU WRITE THIS FIC PLEASE? Hermann as the new heartthrob of the science world, cheekbones that can cut glass, baby gay scientists everywhere using appalling math-related pick-up lines in an attempt to be the booty call of the week. Newton catches a glimpse of him at a fundraiser and the Precursors have to stop him from crying with lust.

so tragically I plotted a whole fic for this and then came back and realized this prompt involves PRU but I liked my idea too much so unfortunately I won’t be filling the PRU part 😔 but I DO love heartthrob hermann sooooooooo. this can be pre-PRU if you want to make it sad actually CW for drinking and mild allusion to not sfw stuff. when will these boys talk about their feelings?

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Hermann doesn’t like going out to bars at the best of times, least of all after he’s had the sort of exceptionally long day he’s had today (fighting his way through airports and hotel lobbies, fielding interview questions, having not even a minute’s break from Newton), but even he will admit that the one Newton has dragged him along to tonight could be far worse. The sorts of bars Newton fancied throughout their stint at the Hong Kong Shatterdome tended to be far hipper, far more becoming for a man of his (and, admittedly, Hermann’s) age, and likely aimed at tourists: pounding music, dark rooms, neon lighting, overpriced drinks, an inability to navigate through throngs of dancing bodies without bumping into at least half a dozen people. For that reason Hermann’s blood practically ran cold earlier that evening when, fresh out of their latest television interview, Newton insisted that Hermann needed to unwind a little. That Newton would help him unwind a little.

Hermann was pleasantly surprised to find that though the music (a live band) is still loud, and drink prices are still inflated, at least he can see Newton, and at least the few people dancing are dancing far away from them. And, well, perhaps it’s made him more amenable to (mostly) matching Newton drink-for-drink, and to indulging him in knocking back not one, but two rounds of the most disgusting-looking pink shots of all time, and— “Look, dude,” Newton declares, tossing an arm around Hermann’s shoulder. He’s shouting and leaning in too-close to Hermann, not because he’s intoxicated, but rather to be heard over the band, which has launched into a rather enthusiastic cover of some song Hermann’s sure he’s heard blaring from Newton’s iTunes before. His stubble tickles the shell of Hermann’s ear. “Just say it with me. It’s that easy. R-e-t-i-r-e-m—”

“We are thirty-five,” Hermann says. “We can’t just—”

“We absolutely can,” Newton says. He nudges his cocktail glass into Hermann’s chest, sloshing a bit of hot pink Watermelon Crush on his neat button-up. Hermann stifles a sigh; the shirt is brand new, bought just that morning for the interview, and will already be needing a wash. And smelling like liquified hard candy for the rest of the evening. “You and me, lying on a beach somewhere, sleeping in until noon every day, learning how to—to fish, or paint, or whatever the hell we want—”

“Not a beach,” Hermann says immediately. “I’m bloody well sick of beaches. Oceans, lakes, bays—no more."

Indulging Newton’s ridiculous little fantasy, even for a moment, is a mistake: Newton’s face lights up in a grin, and he tucks his arm around Hermann’s shoulder to pull Hermann flush against him. Hermann’s barstool wobbles dangerously. “Okay, no beaches. Far away from any coastline. The mountains, then.” It’d be just their luck, Hermann thinks, if the next Breach reopened far away from the ocean, too. Like it followed them somehow. “Let’s move to Switzerland or something and buy a log cabin or a cave and become weird recluses. I’ll learn how to ski, and you can grow a beard, and we can buy all our furniture at Ikea—” He frowns. “Is Ikea from Switzerland? Sweden? I haven’t been since college.”

“I don’t recall ever agreeing to move anywhere with you in the first place,” Hermann says, “let alone retire to do so. What on earth makes you think I’d follow you to Switzerland? I’ve no interest whatsoever in Switzerland.”

“Uh, because we’re best friends?” Newton says. “Anyway, what else would you do?”

“Anything,” Hermann says. He begins to tick off all the possibilities on his fingers while Newton watches him, unimpressed. “I could stay in Hong Kong—I’m sure they’d appreciate help monitoring what remains of the Breach. Or I could move back to England and resume my old teaching post, if they’d have me.” Hermann knows they’d have him; they’ve already sent him at least a dozen emails practically begging him to accept tenure. “Or back to Germany, with my parents.”

“I could totally do all that, too,” Newton says. “Well—not the Germany thing. No offense, dude, but your parents kinda suck. I don’t think I want them as my roommates.”

Hermann decides not to mention that the odds are very high they would not want Newton as a roommate, either. He’s tempted to ask Newton if he meant what he said about them being best friends—for Hermann can’t recall the last time someone called him their best friend, if ever—but Newton’s arm is slipping from his shoulders, and Newton is pulling out his mobile phone and tapping away frantically at it. Hermann feels strangely bereft without his touch. “Okay,” Newton says, his eyes scanning the screen, “Ikea was founded in Sweden, but they moved headquarters in—”

“Excuse me?”

Hermann and Newton both startle, Newton nearly dropping his phone, and the bartender who’d interrupted them smiles apologetically. He’s holding a pint of what appears to be beer. “Sorry to bother you guys,” he says to them, “but this is from the young man over there in the pink shirt.”

At the sight of the drink Newton brightens and puffs out his chest visibly. Bloody perfect, Hermann thinks. Just want Newton needs—another boost to his ego. “No sweat,” Newton says. He tosses his mobile to the bar counter casually and reaches to accept the glass. “Please tell him I’m super flattered, but—”

“Actually, sir,” the bartender interrupts, and—to Hermann’s surprise—slides the glass away from Newton’s grasp and over to Hermann. Hermann takes it without a word, not quite daring to believe it. Down the bar, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flash of a bright pink shirt, but he can’t quite make himself turn to acknowledge the mystery admirer. Is that rude of him? No one has ever sent him a drink before. He’s not quite sure of the etiquette. “It’s, um, not for you.”

Newton deflates like a popped balloon. A blush spreads across his cheeks, barely visible beneath his freckles, which have come out again in the spring sunlight now that they’re not spending all their time in the Shatterdome basement. Hermann likes the look of them; he thinks they’re sweet, and that if he traced his fingertip across them they’d make a pattern of some sort, like a constellation. Not that he ever would, of course. Newton would surely ridicule him. "Right, duh,” Newton says.

He waits until the bartender is gone to round on Hermann. “Dude!” he says, almost accusatory, “Fourth time this week!”

“It is not,” Hermann protests. It’s weak to his own ears: even he isn’t thick enough to miss the sudden influx of attention he’s gotten since their first television interview last month. Hermann was never exactly popular, never exactly the sort the drive people wild with lust or romantic longing, yet it seems as if he can’t go anywhere these days without turning a few heads (including mid-twentysomething heads, mortifyingly enough) and getting a few cellular numbers slipped into his hand. Yesterday, a young man on the metro asked Hermann if he might like to see a movie some time. The day before that, another man wearing a jean jacket full of enamel pins stepped up to Hermann in a Starbucks and asked him if he could call-cu-later. Last week, a starry-eyed college student stopped Hermann outside a hotel to ask him to sign his Calculus 3 textbook, excitedly telling Hermann he switched degrees to astrophysics not a few days prior after reading an interview with Hermann in a rather obscure pop science magazine, and had blushed when Hermann thanked him. Newton had laughed at that one, and advised the young man to give biology a shot instead. (Newton had gotten very cross when he was promptly ignored, and in referencing the incident later, rather bitterly called the student an annoying little punk.)

This is to say nothing, of course, of the multiple news articles (listicles, as Newton calls them) Newton has forced him to read about himself on something called Buzzfeed, which have apparently helped to cement Hermann’s fifteen minutes of fame. One was called Twelve Times Dr. Hermann Gottlieb Was A Fashion Icon and was accompanied with a rather embarrassing array of candid photos of Hermann. Newton has been particularly incensed over that one.

“It is,” Newton says. “At least third. You know, I think the worst part is that you’re not even getting laid. Dudes are throwing themselves at you left and right—”

“Am I meant to go home with any random stranger who shows me the briefest bit of attention?” Hermann snaps. “I like to think I have somewhat higher standards than that.” I’m not like you, he nearly adds, but decides that it might perhaps be too cruel, especially considering that Newton has not gotten a fraction of the attention Hermann has over the past month. He remembers what it used to be like in the Shatterdome, is all; Newton seemed to like anyone who would give him the time of day. Most of his romances didn’t fare well for that reason.

“I’m just saying you could, and you’re not,” Newton says.

Hermann taps his finger against the pint glass, watching bubbles release from the side and rise to the top. When he finally takes a sip, it makes him wrinkle his nose. He’s not usually much for drinking. “I don’t like IPAs,” he says.

“I’ll take it,” Newton says, and the corner of his mouth hitches up in a grin, “as long as your boyfriend won’t get offended.”

Considering that Newton has only just finished following up his two shots with a cocktail, Hermann questions the decision, but slides him the glass anyway. Newton starts on it at once. Hermann wonders if he’ll need to call them a rideshare back to their hotel tonight; he’s not sure he can manage guiding a intoxicated Newton through the streets of the city on foot, especially not after a day that’s been rather unkind on his hip. “Only I suppose I have trouble believing it,” Hermann admits.

“Believing what?” Newton says.

“That they’re genuinely interested,” Hermann says.

To Hermann’s surprise, Newton snorts. “Nah, dude. You’ve got—” He taps Hermann’s chest, and leaves his hand there. “—sex appeal. You’ve got the, like, soulful eyes, and the movie star eyelashes, and the cheekbones and—” He drags his fingertip along Hermann’s jaw, and Hermann masks his sharp flinch in a cough, hoping Newton can’t feel his face heating up. He doesn’t remember if Newton has ever touched his face before. It feels shockingly intimate. “People think it’s super hot.” He takes another sip of Hermann’s drink. "Plus, you’re so—like—uptight. It makes people wonder what you’re bottling up.”

Hermann arches an eyebrow. “Bottling up?”

“In a sexy way,” Newton clarifies.

He settles his hand back on Hermann’s chest. Hermann licks his lips. Has Newton wondered those sorts of things about him, too? “You’ve had—too much to drink,” he says.

“A little bit,” Newton agrees. “I’m right, though. I like this shirt, by the way, it’s a nice cut on you.” He toys with one of the shirt’s buttons, and when he speaks again it’s in a low voice that makes Hermann’s mouth feel strangely dry. Hermann has never heard it from him before. “Wanna go back to the hotel and rent a movie or something?”

He’s peering at Hermann through his eyelashes, smiling in an odd little way. How terribly close they are to each other, Hermann realizes. He can count every tiny scratch in Newton’s eyeglasses, every fleck of gold in his eyes, every freckle on his cheeks. He wonders if Newton really wants to rent a movie; he wonders what Newton would do if Hermann closed the inch between them, and... “I,” Hermann stammers, gaze fixed on Newton’s mouth (stained pinker from his drink), “er, yes, only—only I feel as if I ought to thank the gentleman who sent me—”

At once, Newton drops away from him. His face hardens. His smile hardens, too. “Oh, right. I forgot,” he says. He inclines his head down the bar. “Pink shirt, right?”

Hermann casts his eyes about, searching for the pink-shirted stranger. When he doesn’t immediately spot him, a small bubble of relief swells within him. Perhaps he left, perhaps he decided he’s not interested in Hermann after all, perhaps Hermann is free to go back to the hotel with Newton and watch a film and argue about retirement and… “Oh, there,” Newton says. A man catches Hermann’s eye and waves timidly. He’s wearing a pink button-up.

“Bugger,” Hermann mutters. His admirer is not unattractive—in fact, he’s the opposite, with curly hair and glasses even thicker than Newton’s—which Newton seems to notice, too. He claps Hermann on the shoulder, hard enough that Hermann sways with it.

“He’s totally cute,” Newton says, “and he’s totally into you. You gotta at least get his number.” He takes another large sip of Hermann’s drink. “Better yet, get yourself laid. You could use it.”

Hermann feels the oddest sense of whiplash. Just a minute prior, he was about to kiss Newton (and he was pretty sure Newton was going to kiss him back), and now Newton is practically throwing him at another man. Hermann does not want to get anyone’s phone number—he wants to fall asleep in his stiff hotel bed to some absolutely awful science-fiction movie Newton picks out. “Newton,” he says, “weren’t we going to—?”

“No biggie, we can do movie night tomorrow instead,” Newton says. He nudges Hermann’s calf with the toe of his boot, and holds out his cane to him. Hermann feels his heart begin to sink. “I won’t wait up for you. Just give me a heads up if he wants to go back to our place, and I’ll make sure to stay out longer.”

“I’m sure it’ll only take a moment,” Hermann says. He’ll make sure it only takes a moment.

“No biggie,” Newton repeats. He raises his glass to Hermann in a mock toast. “Good luck!”

When Hermann looks back over his shoulder, halfway to the man in the pink shirt, it’s to see Newton’s stool vacant, and the back of Newton’s leather jacket swishing out the bar doors.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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ourstarscollided · 4 years ago

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jatp fanworks appreciation - day 3 (wips)

wip wednesday - I didn’t think I wanted to join in on this day for my own stuff considering I’ve never posted anything original for this fandom, but I think this might just be the little boost I need from myself to actually finish the wips that I have sitting around. I am peer pressuring myself and holding myself accountable by posting this - or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Most of the past 6 mths has just been me screaming to no one in a Google Doc, so here are some things I’ve been ruminating about over the last 6 months (and if my secret agenda is to get other people to write about it so I don’t have to? Then that’s between you and me).

Everything’s under a read more because I like giving context and that usually spirals out of control!?!?

If you would like to see more from any of the below, feel free to shoot me an ask/message and I can definitely share some more! (Or you can just come yell at me about JATP in general.)

Strangers Fake Dating AU // Julie x Luke

I’m a simple person. I see a prompt, I latch onto it, and then I completely miss the entire point of the prompt as my imagination goes wild for no real reason. This really was supposed to be a super short drabble, but it manifested into a 3k+ thing that isn’t even finished.

Julie’s not really sure what she’s supposed to do now. Nothing has ever prepared her for a situation in which she’s supposed to pretend to be a stranger’s girlfriend, especially if that situation involves parents. Does she continue this ruse? Can she come up with a quick enough excuse to tell this Luke character that she actually can’t stay? What if this is just all an elaborate plan to kidnap her? Has she been listening to too many true crime podcasts? Why does Luke smell so good? Does he know how to cook? Why does his shirt not have sleeves? What-

“I can hear you thinking from here.” Her head whips up at the sound of Luke’s voice, which is now at a whisper and kind of frantic. “I just- I just really needed to get my mom off my back, so I kinda need you to pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for the night. I swear I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Julie studies Luke’s face and it’s nearly impossible to not cave under his gaze, which can only be simply described as ‘puppy dog eyes’. She finds herself smiling back, letting out a huff, “I hope you like lasagna.” And the grin that spreads across the boy’s face is enough for her to know that he’s incredibly relieved that she agreed.

“I’m Luke by the way. Luke Patterson.”

(Okay, he’s kinda cute. And no one this cute is a serial killer. Right?)

She gives a small smile back, “I’m Julie.”

5+1 alive!Juke AU // Julie x Luke

Inspired by paper - LANY

This is one of the first things I ever felt the urge to write down back in September because I love exploring the idea of how two people can appear to be the perfect relationship on the outside, but are actually fighting their own demons. Especially when it comes to celebrities and people who are in the spotlight. It’s basically a 5+1 fic about the moments from other people’s perspectives who happen to orbit around Julie/Luke that all revolve around paper. My outline for this is so long because I can’t manage to narrow it down, and there’s zero cohesiveness but I do have little things jotted down.

“Hey little man,” Luke’s knelt down to match his 5 year-old height, and a hand extends out to him for a high five, “What are you doing here?”

His eyes flicker to the left, towards his own apartment door, where his mom is giving him an encouraging nod. “ I- I just wanted to-” he stutters and finds himself looking at his feet as he shuffles back and forth on the spot. “I- I drew you guys something!”

He shoves the paper out towards the older boy in front of him, but doesn’t look up.

Reincarnation AU // Julie x Luke

I had a random thought in December about how magical it is that Julie and Luke are so tied to one another that their love transcends time and space, which will always lead them back to one another. I remember reading a book a long time ago about how the main character is fated to die at a certain age, and that kind of sparked this little idea. I can’t bring myself to actually plot out every single timeline right now, but I did manage to write a little bit.

It will never be as complex as Rosie’s idea and all the wonderful additions in the link here, and I don’t really plan on it being anything more than a small idea. But I really do still think someone should write some sort of reincarnation AU cause I’d hop on that so fast!!

“Okay- that’s not- Luke. You seriously just ran away?”

“What was I supposed to do Alex? We all know how this ends.”

His friend looks at him, face painted in understanding and he sighs, “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

Because it’s true, Alex does know, so does Reggie and Bobby. Most importantly, so does Luke. It’s the exact same tragic love story every time.

Call it a curse or fate or destiny. Maybe it’s because Mercury is in retrograde. Whatever. It always ends the same way - with a heartbreaking goodbye, a whisper of the promise that they’ll find each other again, and the possibility of a happy ending. He’s said the same goodbye at least 734 times, but it’s not like he’s counting or anything. Fuck the universe and its mystical ways.

Competitive Alex // Alex x Willie

No real thoughts or reasons for this other than I just think I self-projected my need to play board games with people in real life into a fic. And maybe a little bit of my competitiveness onto Alex and then threw in Willie because I think he would be able to handle it while also finding it endearing. I also have written nothing about the actual competitiveness, it’s just 2k words of Alex crushing on Willie.

“Wait,” his eyes dart between the three boys, “You both know Willie? How come I’ve never met him?”

His roommates look at each other, and there’s a smirk on Luke’s face when he says, “Actually Alex, I think you have. Remember that time you got really drunk after one of our shows?”

Oh no. He really hopes that it’s not the time he’s thinking of, so he tries to sound nonchalant. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Luke.”

“The night we played at that tiny bar at the edge of the campus! We got paid in those tiny colourful shots?” He doesn’t really know where Luke is going with this, so he’s slowly nodding along. “And you were super upset that the hot dog vendor at the end of the street was closed?”

Dear Julie, Love Mom series

I made myself sad with this thought when I first watched the show and was talking to my friend about how I think that Rose would’ve left messages for the Molina family, especially when we found out that Wake Up was actually from her mom. I wrote a bigger explanation for it here.

Anyways, I started with the one for Julie’s wedding and it kind of became an 8k monster with three different POVs?!? As much as I love how I wrote this, I feel too unsure about my writing to share it in full, so you will get carefully selected looks alkfe. (I’m also kind of stuck on some of the more emotional scenes and I may or may not have procrastinated by photoshopping a moodboard for it.)

Excerpt 1 (Julie POV): A look into where I’m going with this whole letters from Rose thing.

The key clicks into place, and with a turn, the latch falls open. She’s not sure what she wants to find in the box, and she’s too scared to think about it really. All she knows is that this was the sign from her mom that she was waiting for all week, and in true Rose fashion, her mom had managed to give it to her, even if at the last second. Her dad turns the box to face Julie, and gestures to her to open up the lid.

Tucked inside is a VHS tape, the words ‘For Julie, on your wedding day’ written in her mom’s cursive on the cover. Some loose glitter and confetti fall back into the box as she reaches in to pick up the tape and turn it over in her hands. There’s a little purple butterfly etched on the back, the same one that’s been drawn on all the other messages that her mom had left her. Her finger automatically finds its way, tracing the shape of the small doodle.

“Do you want me to leave you alone, mija?”

Excerpt 2 (Julie POV): This part has absolutely nothing to do with the main plot of the story, but it self-inserted itself into this fic after @tangledstarlight and I talked about You’re Still the One by Shania Twain being their first dance. This whole scene came to me at 4am one night and might be the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written.

They knew that when they had asked Reggie to be in charge of the first dance performance, that they (and Alex) weren’t allowed to veto any of his ideas. Luke had warned Julie that that would be a mistake, but the giddiness that radiated off of Reggie when she had told him he could have free reign was worth it. She just hadn’t thought that he would actually take it to heart and run with it.

Sure, they had chosen You’re Still the One by Shania Twain as their first dance song, and sure it was more or less a country song, but she didn’t really imagine that she’d be staring at her adoptive brother, Carlos and her Dad wearing cowboy hats and boots at her wedding. They had somehow managed to ditch their Flynn-approved suit jackets and were sporting a taupe-coloured suede-textured vest over their dress shirts. If she looked closely, she could see that they had somehow also found some gaudy looking bolo ties with a matching set of ornamental clasps to wear. When she envisioned her wedding, she really didn’t expect that her first (public) dance as a married couple would be a full-on Western themed occasion. The only exception was Alex, who had settled on his cajon in the back, still in his pink suit, eyes rolling when she met his gaze. But even she knew how there was no real annoyance in the blonde’s reaction or else he wouldn’t also be wearing one of the tacky ties around his neck as well.

“I’m gonna seriously kill him.” She hears Luke grumble under his breath, only low enough for her to hear. But she’s still too busy giggling to actually be mad, and she knows that Luke isn’t really going to kill Reggie. At least she doesn’t think so.

Excerpt 3 (Luke POV): Idk man. My mind went “What about Luke?” and I said “You’re right!! What about him?!?”

He doesn’t realize that he’s just been silently staring at the woman in front of him, until a gentle voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Julie’s peering at him from under her eyelashes, a curious look on her face.

“You just-” he gives a little shake of his head, trying to come up with the right words. He wants to tell her she’s beautiful. Stunning. A wicked beauty. But she’s more than that - she’s almost angelic. “I can’t believe you’re my wife.”

“Luke, we’ve been legally married for like, a whole year.” Her lips are quirked up in a grin, amusement in her voice. “You’ve only just realized that now?”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah? Different how?”

This feels a little strange to post and a little like my inner self seeking validation but let’s not talk about that.

Kskssj anyways present me @ future me: finish one of these because writing has been really cathartic for you and you didn’t think it would bring you so much joy!!!

#gotta tag this so that it doesnt ever show up in any tags on tumblr.#i like that what got me to post about my writing was a fanworks appreciation week. but i will say that a couple weeks ago when i was feeling #extra good about my writing. i made a promise to myself to post smthg for the 6 mth mark of jatp and that kinda got backtracked because of #my requirements to be an adult and my general insecurities about putting out content that is mine for the works to judge sjsjsj #so this is me making it up to myself by sharing some things.#thank you rosie for indulging me in my ramblings. you’ve really given me confidence in my work even tho you’ve never read anything of mine.#just know I APPRECIATE YOU A LOT!!!!#i hope you dont mind that i tagged you!!!#anyways this is gonna get thrown into my queue for wednesday and whenever it posts is whenever it will post.#i also typed this on my phone (i DO NOT RECOMMEND IT) so sorry if the formatting is janky. i didnt wanna give myself time to second guess #myself and end up not posting it. sjjs #jatp fanworks appreciation week #sometimes i write #personal #<- need to come up with tags for myself welp #sunset queue

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legionofpotatoes · 3 years ago

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alright here’s ma thoughts on that flick I mentioned

we hatewatched a*my of the dead because we were CONVINCED “zombies in las vegas” would be an impossible concept to screw up, but in so assuming we obviously invoked a holy wager with the universe and got reminded, once again, that hoping for improvement from someone who’s dependably put out bad art is never a wise choice 😐

but we were honestly kinda roped in by the marketing??? and expected a goofy fast-paced flick with the odd traditional undead metaphor thrown in, framing some sort of relationship drama maybe or hell even nothing at all! we’d have taken pure indulgent storytelling, idk italian job with zombies in las vegas, I don’t know fucking anything but??? whatever this was???? spoilers below for it is time for One Of My Rants

I mean the main reason I really want to write all this and complain. this film here probably has the most unappealing cinematography I have ever experienced in my life and that is saying something. who the fuck signed off on that CONSTANT shallow-ass depth of field that imprisons your eyeline and turns every shot into bokeh paste???? and I mean every shot almost!!!! I promise if you think I am overreacting just throw a dart at the seek bar and watch twenty seconds from wherever it lands. it is horrifying to look at. at least it gave my girlfriend a good visual shorthand for what it’s like when I lose my glasses

why was sean spicer in this movie. did they pay him to be here. was sean spicer paid hollywood money for his scene in this film because fuck everyone who was involved in that decision

the legitimately baffling hints at the extraterrestrial origins of the infection that went absolutely nowhere and had no dramatic or plot-level bearing. we love to see the franchise sprouts fellas

yet another big budget waste of everything hiroyuki sanada has to offer. and bautista too I guess? I like him but man was this an odd career move

what was the crux of his conflict/resolution with his daughter btw. I understand it was rooted in miscommunication over their forms of grief irt mom but uhh… it was all rather clunky and didn’t land for me. I tried I really tried to buy in but something was wrong fundamentally with the groundwork there, it did not click and their catharsis felt unearned. I know there’s massive amounts of tragic baggage being projected there from the author so I’m not slapping any judgment down really;

but again it would be an easy thing to wave off if they just had a vibrant cast of lovable simpletons with good chemistry and the kinetic sense of plotting the trailers promised (and this premise never discounts good drama, either). but instead it was just two and a half (!) hours of meandering into situations the filmmaking instincts had no idea how to flow in and out of

to wit. I know talking about “bad pacing” is associated with armchair bullshit but consider the example of the scene were dieter does an out of nowhere little dance after childishly screaming but then still-killing a zombie, with the film framing this as a micro character triumph, and not a second later the bg soundtrack instantly fades into an orchestral score dramatizing a nearby mcguffin reveal, completely 180 degreeing the tone without a semblance of deft insert shot stitching or even I dont know a fucking jump cut maybe. now imagine this whiplash for 2.5 hrs uninterrupted

I will keep complaining about the length yeah because this was not a story requiring this much real estate to be told. Uhh in my humble and personal opinion, of course

[man sees zombie tiger] “this is crossing the line!” you can in fact write dialogue that is not utter nonsense that falls apart once you drill down its single fickle layer of referential meta winking. what line are you talking about. you have rules in this insane situation you’re in? total nitpick moment I know but it got burned in my brain for some reason. like a microcosm of the mismanaged dramatic instincts paired with weird writing that dots this movie. I am sure the director calls this either satire or genre deconstruction. I am SO sure

tumblr domino meme that goes from “dude getting sucked off while driving” to “entire las vegas literally nuked”

tig notaro is always great to see but once you know she’s been filmed as a separate greenscreen plate months after photography wrapped - cause she had to apparently replace some abusive asshole but that’s a whole other pig not worth fucking - it becomes impossible to unsee her odd detachment from everyone else in the movie lmao. it doesn’t really “ruin” anything on its lonesome but it is hard to unsee

why. was. sean. spicer. in. this. movie

a very simple key ingredient missing from fully turning lip service sympathy for main uruk hai dude into actual empathy that would generate meaningful conflict with hero family would be to spend a bit more time articulating what he internally wanted the most. because he was obviously trying to do something here with pointed agenda. a family, to have kids, build a caste system, save his wife’s head, return to his planet??? all of these could represent the bigger context in his psychology that spurred his vengeance but none of them are dramatically emphasized long enough for you to cheer him on. I’m not asking too much I promise. Articulating interiority of a mute character is pretty doable with deft cinema language, just gotta linger and hold a shot here and there for a few seconds, frame as his POV, donezo. I know this is also one of those like. “who cares” moments but the movie does, very evidently so, in making this guy an actual character. you can kinda piece it together and create a framework of sympathy for him, sure, but then again he ultimately becomes a foil to be killed and not defeated, so. Ehh whatever

quarantine zone stuff was not a wildly childish covid allegory quarantine zone stuff was not a wildly childish covid allegory quarantine zone stuff was n

the rooftop helicopter fakout at the end was such an ass-backwards, manufactured moment of what could be a simple setup/payoff it just pissed me off??? you gain nothing by giving sad dad five seconds of pointless crisis that flips right back to previous status quo ANYWAY, except for a weaksauce waste of runtime, which could be used instead to get inside notaro’s head and actually SHOW the remorse form as she took off, literally maybe even a frown playing on her face as she’s headed for safety right before we cut back to drax and the kid. just a simple-ass, minimal, momentary setup for what is the most basic filmmaking trick of creating macro catharsis moments. Just???? g o d if you can’t even land that shit why are you even doing any of this

that lil run final pam did was very very charming and super choreographed in a way that was the tiiiniest bit overdone

the whole intro with the simul-backstories and posing with family photos was just… oddly motivated. what was the goal? “here’s what we’re fighting for” vignettes? why? it’s not a functional setup in that vein. what was all that

also I am sorry if this is insensitive but the reasons most characters end up articulating to justify going back into the hell that destroyed their lives makes them sound seriously insane

I dont like complaining about CGI (honestly) but so much of it in modern movies can achieve higher fidelity if the animation is simply subdued. Do not overengineer and over-apply 2D cell methodologies and kinematics to each tiny twitch and movement in a hyper 3D model and I promise you. it will look a thousand times more natural. look at thanos in those last two movies. your rendering and detail are absolutely perfect with the tiger you just have to let stuff sit instead of constantly simulating swaying hair strands and firing off all facial muscles at once. great moment at one point where makeup zombie horse and CG zombie tiger are both in one shot together and just by unnecessary amounts of movement alone you can tell who doesn’t belong. again; detail, rendering, compositing, lighting, all picture-perfect; but y’all just gotta let the animation breathe sometimes, and chill it out

plot holes don’t really matter to me but it was kinda funny how lilly decided not to mention the enormous wrinkle in intel pertaining to an actual territorial tribe of intelligent zombies that require human offerings to let you pass, just so that reveal could play out in real time through the joyous punishment of the cartoonishly misogynistic dude

total chad move for mister uruk hai and final pam to rule from a rusted swimming pool complex

the ending with vanderohe oh my god. with the. cash stacks at the airport register. and specifically them working in his favor. that is literally something you do to get arrested under suspicion of theft. it was almost played for laughs and I respect that. coulda been goofier. make these movies goofy ya dorks

anyway, weird, weird movie. bad marketing. message unclear (something something sins of the father???), baffling editing instincts, literal worst-looking cinematography I ever laid eyes upon. Confidently dying on that last hill

#text #long post #aotd spoilers #aotd critical

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reinabeestudio · 4 years ago

Photo

To celebrate Valentine’s Day, I wrote a humble one-shot featuring Phantom Thief Karamatsu and Detective Shinshia, inspired by the Phantom Thief set from Hesokuri Wars lol.

It is very simple, and I did it just to cater myself LMAO. But maybe some of you find it cute✨. As a small fact, I titled the story “Alone Together”.

Story under the cut!

Finally, February was here! Heart-shaped decorations in every store, roses of different colors were seen over different parts of the city, cute sweets… last but not least, there was the romance. For a long time, this was a sour month for the sextuplets. They were phantom thieves of renown, yet they never got a single chocolate in their whole lives by their fans! It was truly demoralizing, almost as bad as Christmas.

Tradition said that women were the ones that gifted chocolate for the men they had chosen. This year, however, the blue phantom thief had a mission. An important gift to give.

Karamatsu tried so many times in the past to convey his feelings to the new detective: Shinshia Doremi. She acted rough and distant at first. “We are enemies,” she declared coldly. But in the rare moments they could spent together, her behaviour softened and the real Shinshia Doremi was exposed: a warm, yet shy girl. Sadly, everytime he tried to tell her about what he felt, someone or something would interrupt their moment together. Often their separate duties, as detective and phantom thief.

Oh, Cupid, how cruel was he! Keeping the hearts of this couple in the scale of Lady Justice, its pans so close but never together! Such a tragic fate!

Well, perhaps the vision he had of their love inside his head had evolved into something more dramatic than what it actually was in real life. But it added some excitement to whatever their situation was.

Karamatsu was no fool, either. He knew there were others interested in the girl… Mostly, his boisterous, shitty eldest. He noticed the way that idiot looked at her, and it wasn’t love. At least, not the the type of love he felt inside. The blue thief decided it was time to strike while he still had the chance, and ask her out. Subtly.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♡ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

Once more the young detective ended up being one of the few remaining people in the department. Rookies got so much paperwork, it was just ridiculous. She had to keep a dictionary close to her, too. Some of these characters looked like an amalgamation made of nightmares.

To keep boredom away, Shinshia started singing, the words echoing throughout the empty office. A soft duet, the name of which she could not call to mind at the moment. However, she did remember that it was a popular love song. It was one of the first songs she heard when she first arrived to Japan.

The sun goes to sleep once more

In this lonely time, I wonder

Is your heart dreaming of me?

The detective finished with the paper she had in front of her, and grabbed the next one in the pile. “How tedious,” she thought. She kept singing to herself.

Stars twinkle above our heads

And the moon gives us her best glowing smile

But tonight, I’ll be yours...

“... And yours alone.”

Another voice joined in with her song, singing along. Shinshia went silent and turned around, but she saw nothing besides empty desks. She went back to her paperwork, along with her song.

However, before she could sing another word, Shinshia stopped entirely when suddenly a pair of hands covered her eyes. “Who is it?” a familiar male voice asked in a sing-song tone.

“The sweet release of death, I hope.”

She resumed her work when she regained her sight as the infamous phantom thief, Karamatsu, casually leant against her desk with a subtle smile. “Long day, I presume.”

“You have no idea,” she sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears . “You should leave before someone sees you. Unless you want me to handcuff you.”

Karamatsu laughed quietly. “Heh, being helpless at your mercy sounds like a very tempting offer, darling. ” Shinshia’s face immediately flushed and he laughed again, genuinely. “But I am here to steal you away.”

“Steal me away?” Shinshia asked, not even looking away from the papers. She put some loose locks of hair behind her ear again. She was often pulling hair away from her face lately. “Sorry Karamatsu, but I have a ton of paperwork left to do. I can’t be stolen right now.”

“C’mon, Shia-chan! It won’t be for long. I’m just asking you to take a break.”

“I told you, I’m busy right n-”

The phantom thief put a hand over the paper she was writing on, and the scowling detective finally looked up at him. It was in that moment when she noticed that he was wearing casual clothes, and not his usual garish outfit filled with blue glitter. The only part that did stand out was, perhaps, the black eyepatch on his left eye. He felt triumphant over this, how she looked at him.

“Tonight, be mine alone ♪.”

After a minute of silence and a staring competition that was perhaps getting a bit too intense for the situation, Shinshia got up from her desk grumbling. “Fine. A short break.”

With a triumphant spring in his step, he suddenly scooped her up in his arms effortlessly and left the office. His plan was working so far.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♡ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

Now this was strange.

Karamatsu dragged Shinshia out of the office. That was not the strange part, but instead of avoiding crowded places like he always did, they just… kept walking. Out in the open. Walking didn’t bother her, it was just unusual. He was a famous criminal, after all. It was a miracle they left the building so easily. Or maybe the author was just too lazy to think of something smart.

Wait, author? What author? That makes no sense. Just ignore it.

It was snowing outside. Snow wasn’t common where she was from, so she still marvelled at the sight of it everytime. Despite how much she enjoyed watching the snow fall, it was still cold in the streets. So smart was she, that she forgot to grab her jacket before they left, and now she was constantly rubbing her hands together.

Karamatsu laughed. “You’ll end up setting them on fire, Shia-chan.”

Shinshia snorted. The comment was lame, yet she snorted, like the fool she was. Karamatsu took her hand on his own and blew on it, before he decided to put both of their hands inside his coat pocket. She glanced at him, noticing that he was actually doing the same at her. However, as soon as he noticed her eyes on him, Karamatsu quickly looked away and instead focused on the cars that passed by.

After spending their evening with an impromptu stroll, they finally headed back to the building. Karamatsu spent most of the time silent, which was even more unusual that this whole situation. Usually, he loved doing long monologues filled with inscrutable flowery words that probably sounded cool only in his mind. But during that evening, Karamatsu seemed focused in whatever was going through his head at the moment. Then again, Shinshia didn’t talk much herself.

The poor detective couldn’t help it! He was a man that had to be put behind bars for his crimes, she knew this. However, everytime they were together, her mind just stopped working properly. This had been happening since she actually caught him once: Karamatsu, one of the six-colored phantom thieves that stole valuable pieces of art all around the city. He was pretty popular among the youngest members of her department, some of them even called themselves his fans. That was done in secret, of course.

Shinshia knew little about the man next to her. Truth be told, she wanted to unveil that air of mystery around him by herself. Not as a detective, but as… something else. Maybe as a friend. Or maybe as something deeper. Only the author knew.

Hold on, what-- you know what, nevermind that.

First she thought, maybe she was just starstruck. After all, as soon as she arrived to that building, she was assigned to the case of the phantom thieves. Shinshia was in a country that was so different to her native Spain, and she knew no one, besides this guy. A criminal. But he kept coming back when she was alone, giving her advice and listening to her troubles… And then a bond bloomed between them. So sudden, yet so natural, as if it was destined to happen.

“Shinshia,” Karamatsu called to her softly, pulling her from her thoughts, “I have a little present for you.”

“A present? Why?”

“Just a little something I got for you! It’s fine, I promise.”

Shinshia sighed. “Well, fine.”

His eye glittered as he clasped his hands happily. Gosh, what a big baby. “Good! Close your eyes, and don’t open them until I say you can, understand?” He said that last part in English, for some reason.

Strange request, but Shinshia did what he told her anyway, and closed her eyes. She could hear Karamatsu fumbling with something- not sure with what, but it was small, she supposed. He did say it was a little something, after all. Suddenly, she felt his hands on the sides of her head, playing with the locks of her hair. He put them back, and then she felt those same hair locks being slightly pulled back by something. She feels his warm hand linger on her chin, delicately caressing along her jawline before pulling away.

“Open your eyes.”

Shinshia opened her eyes, feeling really curious about what Karamatsu did. He took out a round pocket mirror and then he showed her: a blue hair bow was holding back her hair.

Karamatsu smiled at her softly. “Your hair is growing long, Shia-chan. It keeps getting in front of your eyes, doesn’t it?” She nodded, impressed. When did he notice her annoyance at her hair? It was such an insignificant detail. “Now I can see your cute face again.”

Shinshia looked down, feeling her face warm up. “T-Thanks.”

After he put the small mirror back in its place, he took an envelope out of the same pocket. He gave it to her. It would have looked like a normal letter, if it wasn’t for the small heart on the back… And the blue glitter. So painful.

“What is this?” Shinshia took the envelope and opened it. Inside there was a single piece of black paper with text in gold letters. “An invitation?”

“Observant as always! It’d make me very happy to see you there.”

“I’m not sure, Karamatsu… this is very sudden.”

“But, Shia-chan! It will be so much fun!” Karamatsu looked at her with puppy eyes. Uh, eye. “Do it for me. Please?”

How was that working so well, what the hell. Shinshia sighed in defeat. “I will think about it.”

Feeling victorious yet again, Karamatsu took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Good night, Shia-chan. I hope to see you there.” Those were his last words before he turned around and walked away, quickly melting into the crowd. Now Shinshia Doremi was left alone at the doors of her workplace with her heart beating incredibly fast.

The detective looked down at the sparkly envelope. This thing was so shiny that it hurted to look at it for too long. It was so painful! It was so tacky!

“You're so troublesome.” she said to no one. She released a deep sigh.

She was in love with the blue phantom thief called Karamatsu.

Shinshia decided to attend to the party, after all.

She didn’t go to parties often… mostly because she wasn’t invited to any of them. But, if she was being honest with herself, the promise of meeting him again was too tempting to resist. Also, free food and drinks.

Woah. She really had to have a deep crush on the man of strange monologues, if she was going to ignore her insecurity just for him. What a guy, he was making miracles happen even when he wasn’t present.

So she got ready, donning the prettiest dress she could find inside her closet. She wore the blue bow he gifted her, and after checking herself in the mirror, she grabbed her clutch purse and left to the party.

“Even if Karamatsu isn’t there, it’s better than to be alone during Valentine’s day,” she thought as she locked the door of her house behind her.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♡ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

It was a Valentine’s dance party. It should have been obvious, considering the day it took place. But she wasn’t aware that Valentine’s Day parties existed at all. Of course they do, why wouldn’t they? Maybe the host was single as hell, and this was their attempt in trying to find a partner. Or maybe it was a Jay Gatsby trying to find their Daisy Buchanan. Yikes, hopefully not.

Also, every celebration needs a party, obviously.

Somewhere, someone in the world will throw a party for Cat Day. Maybe they will put a silly little hat on top of their cat’s head, followed by the confused pet trying to swat it away with its little paws and failing as the owner was in the floor laughing to tears.

That turned to be a very amusing thought, after all. It’d be so funny if someone celebrated Cat Day like that. She didn’t even know if Cat Day existed at all, but now she really hoped that it did.

Back to reality, Shinshia grabbed a glass from the nearest table as she looked around, moving between the many guests that were having fun together. Where in the world was Karamatsu? How could a single man wearing a black eyepatch be so difficult to find among so many colorful outfits? Pretty sure his full name was Karamatsu Sandiego. A famous thief whose signature look features a blue, glittery matching top hat and long cape. Of course, it all checked out, she just solved the case.

The detective was so into her own dumb line of thought that she didn’t notice the carpet, and her shoe caught. There was barely time to react; carpet veered up, her drink tipped forward, and suddenly the floor was very close. Extremely close. However, she hadn’t bit it, and that didn’t quite make sense. Gravity existed, and through gravity, she should have hit the floor.

There was something holding her up. A hand, which connected to an arm, which led all the way to a well-tailored suit. A delicious, familiar fragrance reached her nose.

“Well now,” a voice purred so slowly, and hands turned her to face upwards. Karamatsu’s face slowly turned into a tender smile. “I see you decided to come after all, darling.”

“Ah, well…” Shinshia really couldn’t say much with her waist held so enticingly by those hands, as warm hands brushed up against her skin and tickled. “I... I had to make sure that you didn’t steal anything! There are many people here wearing valuable jewelry, I’m sure you’d manage to steal something.”

“Heh, it seems my plans were ruined by the great Shinshia once more!” Karamatsu continued onwards with that smile just deepening at her sight, and somehow, he seemed to be leaning a bit closer. The room rang with cheery laughter, and the party carried onwards without a single glance towards the thief and the detective.

“You always seem to be,” one hand caressed its fine way up to her shoulder, “Stumbling around me. I’m starting to wonder if you are tripping on purpose now, hmmm?”

He knew well she wasn’t doing it on purpose. But before she could complain about that, he pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her completely. The hand on her waist pulled her just a little closer that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. He laced his fingers with hers. “I enjoy our moments together, darling.”

The orchestra struck up a mesmerizing waltz, and Karamatsu’s eye perked up enough that Shinshia could practically see the lightbulb above his head.

“Let’s dance!” he invited her without a second thought, and Shinshia stumbled as Karamatsu guided her to the dance floor. A violin hummed and a key plucked, and then his hands were on her waist, a smile beaming away.

Unexpectedly, he was good at the waltz. What the hell, that was not fair. Shinshia found herself tripping quite a lot, and the phantom thief just chuckled everytime she crashed into his body. It didn’t seem to phase him either, he just grinned all the wider and adjusted until she fell back into rhythm.

Finally, somehow the rhythm came to Shinshia. Maybe it was the guiding steps of Karamatsu. Maybe it was the smile he gave her as she fumbled along. Or, perhaps, it was the hand he still had on her waist, caring as it kindly led her along despite her inexperience. Whatever it was, it had her steps synchronize with Karamatsu’s, and suddenly she started noticing other things: how his rings glistened in the light as Karamatsu led both of them through the swarm of couples, or how his brown eye never looked away from her face. Small details, yet they were such lovely little things that made her heart beat wildly inside the detective’s chest.

“Say, Shinshia.”

“Yes?”

“You said you came here to make sure I didn’t steal anything, right?”

Shinshia raised an eyebrow in confusion, but she nodded. Where was he going on with this? Was he actually going to do that? She told it as a joke, she didn’t want to work tonight.

“Heh, well, my beloved Shinshia... ” Karamatsu leaned down slightly and whispered. “I believe I already stole something.”

Shinshia didn’t really notice the song grew faster until a violin screeched in delight and suddenly Karamatsu was really close. When the song was over, he had dipped her just as the last violin ended with an exaggerated flourish.

Karamatsu leaned forward, his lips brushing hers, and perhaps it hadn’t been such a bad thing, tripping over her own shoe. Not when she could feel him gaze at her in rapt adoration. Not when Karamatsu had her so lovingly wrapped in his hands, and clutching as if she was the most fragile, most precious thing in the world that had happened to him.

No, perhaps it was for the best.

#Self Insert #Shinshia Doremi #Karamatsu #osomatsu san #My writing #my art #HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!!! HAVE SOME CRINGE <3 #the lyrics song she's singing to herself was written by me!!!#the song is called ''alone together''. hence the title lol #also yeah shia gets distracted easily by her own thoughts (bc shes me AKLSDMA)#i have no idea if valentine parties exist actually. they prolly do tho #btw if you wonder: ''Also every celebration needs a party obviously'' part?? yes it was sarcasm LMAO #more or less what you can expect in Nil Admirari #albeit the romance wouldnt happen so fast AJKSFNAJKS this is a oneshot after all

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thedeviltohisangel · 4 years ago

Text

Whiskey In A Teacup/1

When Santi first got out of the military, he hadn’t known what to think of his options. There was always the option of giving up and going back in. The option to join a shadowy private military company. Go into private security. Go on the recruiting circuit. Maybe even become a cop. But none of them seemed like the best path. They all seemed like giving up. He had been trained by his country to be an elite, lethal machine. Being anything but the best felt like a cop out. So when an old friend of his reached out with an offer from the Secret Service, he accepted it on the spot.

masterlist is my url/writing or on ao3

send me any one shot requests for these two

----

The election had recently ended with a brand new administration being ushered into the White House. Pope thought he looked cookie cutter. Like he was aging perfectly, his wife wasn’t aging at all and his family had all done Cotillion. He was in an empty conference room flipping through the personnel files that had been left for him before he waited for his friend to pick him up for whatever orientation he had to go through.

“Santi! Glad you were able to make it in.” He stood and shook his friend’s hand, happy to have someone to talk to.

“Yeah and was cleared to read the briefing materials,” he answered as he dropped the folder back down onto the table.

“Good. So the basics are out of the way. Now, I vouched for you hard with leadership and they want you on the detail. Close circle, last line of defense type of shit.

“Perfect. Exactly the stakes you know I’m cut out for.”

“I know that. But the future First Lady doesn’t.” Santi furrowed his brow.

“Why does that matter?” His friend cleared his throat.

“She has requested she look every agent in the inner circle in the eye before they are officially assigned. Protective wife and mama bear.”

“You’re not saying the debutante daughters are included in my assignment are you?” Santiago hoped he wasn’t. They looked like stuck up brats and he would rather join Will on the speech circuit than put up with attitudes like that.

“I’m saying the other agents have been tripping over themselves to try and get conversations with the older one.” His friend pointed at her picture on the table.

“That’s disgusting,” Pope whined. “How do I get her approval? I got to wait a week for an appointment?”

“Her and the daughters are at a photoshoot right now for the cover of Vogue. Said she would talk to you there.”

“Great.” It would be one of his more unconventional interviews but Santi was eager. Chomping at the bit to get back in the game. Feel useful again. Devote his life to something other than thinking about the past.

----

The people allowed on the set were few. His friend introduced him to a few other agents and pointed to where the incoming First Lady was smiling for the camera.

“Let’s find somewhere we can wait for her to be done.” Santi kept his head down, smiling politely and shaking hands where appropriate, as they made their way towards the rooms in the back of the studio. There were two agents standing outside a door, nodding once as they let Santi and his friend into the room.

“Marnie, can you help me zip?” The female voice was coming from behind the dressing screen in the corner. Both men looked at each other, not sure what the appropriate thing to say was.

“Sorry, ma’am, we can go-”

“No that’s fine. I think I can do it myself.” Pope stayed silent as the woman, he thinks it was Penelope, stepped out in a beautiful blush pink dress that hugged her like it was made for her. He hates that his mouth ran dry and his tongue felt thick. But he pushed it aside as quickly as it came. “You’re new. And not in a suit. A friend of yours, Sam?”

“Yes ma’am. This is Santiago Garcia. Old Army buddy. He is here for a job interview.”

“A pleasure to meet you ma’am.” Santiago extended his hand and Penelope shook it even though her eyes were rolling.

“So stupid she makes all of you talk to her first. But I guess that’s why I am not in charge,” Penelope shrugged. “I’m sure it will go well and I’ll see you around, Santiago.”

“Santi,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “Just...Santi.”

“Santi,” she whispered like she was just testing it out. “The pleasure was all mine.” She smiled as she spun, the skirt flying around her like a Disney movie, and then she was out the door and gone.

“Isn’t she something?” Sam mused as he still stared at the door she had just disappeared through.

“Beautiful. And probably a troublemaker,” Pope replied.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” his friend teased with a slap on his back. The sad thing was, he thinks he did.

----

Penelope hated that no such privacy existed in her life anymore. It hadn’t for awhile but it had only gotten worse in the past month since her father won the election. Even now, lying in bed flipping through fashion magazines, there were people bustling in and out to pack her stuff for the move. People asking which fabric and color she thought looked best for her inauguration dress. If she liked this or that singer for the National Anthem and if she thought her peers would find this or that choice relatable. She answered with a smile and took it all in stride but couldn’t wait to shut the door and go to bed. But even there she dreamt of flags and men in suits and waving until her arm felt like it was going to fall off. There was no such thing as privacy and there was no such thing as peace. Penelope felt she was no longer her own person but everyone’s. They told her that’s what being in the first family meant. But she didn’t like it and she didn’t want it.

“Ma’am?” It sounded like her new assistant on the other side of the door.

“Yes?” Penny had just started winding down for the night. Her face was soft from copious amounts of moisturizer. Her hair was fluffy after she took her time drying it. Her silk nightgown was kissing her legs with every step. She was tired. She wanted to curl up in a ball under a pile of blankets and dream of simpler times.

“Your new agent is here. I just wanted to introduce you before he started his first shift.” Penelope sighed and moved back towards her closet to find a knit robe that would help protect at least some of her humility.

“You can come in.” She recognized him instantly as the handsome man from the Vogue set. He looked even better now. Well groomed and in a suit that must have been tailored by an old school professional.

“Ma’am this is-”

“Santiago,” Penelope said before the introduction could be finished. “I’m glad to see the interview went well.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“We’re practically the same age. Any other title other than ma’am would work better.” He made her blush just by looking at her. It was tragic and sad. That she had to meet him like this. That he had to be someone that worked for her father. That he had to be stoic and professional all the time. That they hadn’t just met in a bar on a Saturday night or bumped into each other at a mutual friend’s backyard picnic.

“Of course. I’ll think on it and get back to you,” he offered with a smile.

“Agent Garcia is on interior duty tonight but I am sure you’ll get used to his presence quickly, ma’am.” She didn’t bother correcting her assistant. She didn’t care what she called her.

“I look forward to it.”

----

“Alright let’s go over Polar’s schedule for the day.” It had been a couple of days since Santi had started and so far he was enjoying it. His fellow agents were nice enough and had a similar sense of humor to him. Many of them had even served and it was nice to swap stories with people other than the men in his unit. He was posted close to the action and was never really bored. Penelope was his principle. Her safety was his only priority most days and he was by her side at morning show appearances, fancy dinners with campaign donors and visits to DC elementary schools. Things were moving faster and tighter the closer they got to the inauguration.

They hadn’t spoken much since his first night. Just nods and smiles as they made elusive eye contact throughout the day. She was beautiful. That was the simplest way for Santi to describe her. The most professional way. It was wrong but he wanted to know more about her. Learn what made her life. Made her cry. What she liked to eat and what she would order at McDonalds. Santi was someone full of life and warmth and love for those around him. Sometimes it was hard to be so cold. He hadn’t had to be so since he retired from the military. It was dredging up old feelings from the past. But he was more concerned how he felt more comfortable than he had before. How being alert and hearing radio static and a gun at his hip made him feel more at ease than the creature comforts of home ever could.

“We’ve got a pilates class, Skype call with a dress designer and then a private dinner.”

“Private dinner?” Santi hadn’t heard that on the schedule before and it made his ears perk up.

“She’s been seeing this guy-”

“Kind of a douche,” one of the other agents chimed in.

“-and it's very underwraps, very lowkey.”

“We normally draw straws or play rock, paper, scissors to see who has to take it.” Santi furrowed his brow as all the comments flooded his system.

“What’s so awful about a dinner date?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“It’s the company she keeps,” one chimed in.

“He’s dull and chews weird.”

“Hurts to listen to and hurts to watch.” They all groaned in unison.

“I’ll take it then. The watching and listening part.” He was a low man on the totem pole anyways but he was also curious. He wanted to see this train wreck with his own two eyes. He took the file when it was offered, leaving the room when they were dismissed.

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” Sam muttered as he fell into step next to him.

“I know. This will satiate me,” Santi replied.

----

He stood dutifully by the car, waiting to open the door for Penelope whenever she was ready to go. The twisted part of him was excited to see how this night played out. Maybe it would at least be worth the good story. How the beautiful first daughter dated a slob and he was paid to be a third wheel.

“Santiago? I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Her fingers tightened around her clutch as she squared her shoulders to face him.

“Yes…” he froze when he remembered he had agreed to not refer to her as ma’am.

“Still thinking of something else to call me?” she asked with a smirk. Penelope didn’t wait for him to respond and instead slipped under his arm and into the backseat of her car.

The drive was dead silent. Santi felt awkward but knew this was a part of the job he would have to get used to. She wasn’t his friend. Wasn’t a girl he had picked up at a bar. She was his top priority in the least romantic way possible. He would take a bullet for her. When they arrived at the restaurant he moved swiftly to open her door and escort her into the dining room. They moved towards the back where a man was sitting alone. He looked like a college lacrosse player to Santi. In the most stereotypical of ways. His hands itched to pull Penelope’s seat out for her when her date didn’t, his eyes going to the menu instead of complementing the black dress she was wearing. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe this was going to be torture.

#santiago garcia #oscar isaac #triple frontier #santiago garcia fanfiction #oscar isaac fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction

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yoonjinkooked · 5 years ago

Text

On Call | part 1

moodboard by the lovely and amazing @flajka

Pairing: Y/N / Jungkook

Rating: 18+

Genre: Strangers to lovers / Rom-Com / Humor / Smut

Warnings for part 1: ranting, mentions of blood and injuries, good ass flirting, lots of good looking doctors, mentions of sex. The explicit stuff is saved for part two.

General warnings: (explicit sex, cursing, more to be added)

Word Count: 5147 +

Summary: After a catastrophic first date, you end up leaving the hospital angry, tired and date-less. Hoping to have a drink or five, you end up in a nearby bar, sitting next to the same doctor who caught your eye earlier.

A/N: I had to split it into two parts. I REALLY did not want to do that but I am absolutely not happy with how I wrote a large chunk of this, so I am writing it all over again. I can’t keep you waiting anymore so I’ll split this one. The smutty stuff comes in the next chapter.

I’m sorry for the long wait, life got in the way. I will have a day off before the weekend so I think I’ll manage to finish it then. To make it more specific - Part 2 by Sunday!

Let me know what you guys think! :)

First dates are horrible.

Even if they’re going well, even if you end up meeting the love of your life, that first date is always going to be horrible, at least just a little bit.

You’ve had shitty first dates and some not so shitty first dates but you’ve never had something that you’d call a traumatic first date. Until today.

Giving Tinder a shot wasn’t something that you really wanted to do. Dating apps were always something you were skeptical about, despite having a good friend who had met his current fiancé over one of said apps. A place for horny people who want easy sex – that’s what those dating apps were for you.

You have refused to install one, until you have become just that – a horny person who wants easy sex. Two glasses of wine and three dick pics later, you have actually managed to find someone who seemed… okay. Good looking, but not loud about it. No dick pics – big bonus. And he actually managed to avoid cheesy pickup lines and just… asked you to meet up for coffee. So, you have decided to give Adam a shot. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? Save from horror movie scenarios, of course.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Well, Adam could turn out to be an idiot who doesn’t watch where he’s walking and he could end up stepping into an open manhole in the middle of the street, grabbing you by the hand as he fell, knocking you on the ground in the process, all while still managing to break his leg.

But what kind of bad luck would you need to have for that to happen?

Apparently, the amount of bad luck you have is sufficient. Adam did indeed fall into a manhole but not before grabbing hold of you while trying to keep himself balanced – you were too surprised to react in any way, so not only did he end up falling but so did you, hitting your head on the pavement and scratching your arm on concrete.

All you can remember clearly are his yells and blood. The rest is a blur, from the point of you calling 911 to you sitting here, in a hospital, waiting to be checked by a doctor.

In the history of bad first dates, this has to be the runner-up, at the very least. All of that before the biggest plot twist of the night – the arrival of Adam’s girlfriend. The girl was worried sick and the moment you saw her throw herself onto a broken Adam, you silently decided to not go into his room after all.

At least the cut on your hand isn’t too bad – it stopped bleeding over the last few minutes and other than a light headache and an immense feeling of embarrassment, you’re doing pretty okay. Well, you’re also annoyed with waiting in a very crowded waiting room – apparently your situation is not serious enough to earn you a room, bed or even a simple chair.

“Taehyung, go check on him,” the voice belongs to a doctor walking past you, obviously giving some instructions. He’s handsome as hell, tall and with dark hair – much better looking than Adam. He probably watches where he’s walking too. “Check back with me when you’re done, okay?”

“Excuse me,” he turns around when you call him, finally deciding to no longer wait in silence. “Can someone tell me where to go or what to do? I have been waiting for more than an hour.”

“What are you here for?” he ask as his eyes go over you quickly, narrowing down on your arm. “Bad fall?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “I hit my head a bit too. I feel okay though.”

“Any pain?” he asks, walking closer to you. Close enough to make you swallow a lump because holy fuck, he is really good looking.

“Just a regular headache kind of pain,” you explain. “And my arm does hurt a bit too.”

“I’ll have a nurse clean that up,” he tells me. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Y/N,” you force a smile. “Y/L/N Y/N.”

“Okay Y/N, please do what I say. Lift your right arm up,” he instructs and you do as he said. “Put it down. Now please stick your tongue out,” you follow his lead, even though you feel like a bit like an idiot, sticking your tongue out in the middle of a hospital waiting room. “Good. Now please follow my finger – just with your eyes, don’t move your head. Okay?” you follow his finger left to right, gulping yet again as you become aware of very direct eye contact. You repeat a mantra in your head, reminding yourself that it’s literally his job to look at you.

“Just a weak headache you say?”

“Well, if we ignore the growing death wish, yes,” he frowns at your tragic joke, causing you to smile and shake your head. It’s too complicated to explain anyways.

“You seem to be doing just fine, Y/N,” he reassures you. “If you feel any pain, just a regular pain medication should help. If your headache doesn’t leave you by tomorrow night, I’d advise you to come back here for a checkup. But for now, you don’t need a CT. I’ll just have… Jimin!” he calls for someone. And boy oh boy, it’s someone alright - a very good looking, blonde young man in blue scrubs walks towards us. “Jimin, please clean up her wound and see if stitches are needed,” he tells him.

“Sure thing, Dr. Kim,” Jimin smiles at the doctor.

“And Y/N, remember, if you feel anything unusual, come back here. Okay?” Dr. Kim asks.

“Okay,” you nod obediently, knowing damn well you will already be on your way back to the hospital the second you feel anything out of the ordinary.

“Follow me, Miss Y/N,” Jimin instructs you with a smile and you follow him. As you do, you can’t help but wonder if every damn person in this hospital is good looking – both he and Dr. Kim could be supermodels if they really wanted to. Or maybe they aren’t that good looking and you’ve just hit my head a bit too hard.

“MOVE!” you jump up when a yell carries through the hallway. Before you can even react, Jimin is grabbing your intact hand and pulling you to the side. Backed up against the wall, you watch in shock the scene that unfolds before you. A group of people is literally running through the hallway with a stretcher between them. “Move, move, move!” you realize now who is yelling – it’s the doctor who is all but lying on the stretcher. You don’t see much as they pass you – it’s a blur of people, different colored scrubs and blood. What you do see is that a doctor is literally above the patient, who is lying on the stretcher, his hands too bloody for you to see and understand what the hell he is doing. And then they’re gone, taking a turn to the right at the end of the hallway. You can still hear him yelling commands, his voice fainter by the second.

“Holy shit.”

“Yes,” Jimin chuckles. “Just another day at the office,” he starts walking again and not knowing what else to do, you just follow him, avoiding stepping onto the droplets of blood that coat the floor. It looks like that’s also a part of their every day schedule.

“Isn’t that patient more important than I am?” you wonder. “I mean, this is just a scratch. I could probably even clean it up at home, he looks like he needs more help than I do.

“Miss Y/N, there were three nurses around that stretcher,” Jimin smiles back at you. “If I go there, I would do more harm than help. Doctor Jeon and the team can handle it.”

Agreeing with his subtle suggestion that this really is none of your business, you shut up and follow him. Finally, you have a chance to sit down when the two of you end up in a small office, equipped with what one would call basic doctor supplies. You wait as Jimin collects what he needs, before he turns on the light and takes a good look at your injured arm.

“Ouch, that’s not pretty. Did you fall?”

The snort that leaves you causes him to raise his eyebrows in confusion. “You could say that. My date fell into a manhole,” you almost chuckle when I see Jimin’s eyes go wide in surprise. Honestly, you would have laughed hard if Adam didn’t actually get seriously injured. “And nearly dragged me into it with him.”

“That sounds like… a bad date,” he comments.

“Yeah. First date too,” the grimace on Jimin’s face says it all. “We barely even shook hands before he was falling down. I guess I’m gonna go celibate now. Did I mention his girlfriend showed up at the hospital?”

“Ouch,” he comments. Before you could respond, the touch of an alcohol soaked swab makes your hand flinch as Jimin start’s cleaning your injurty. “You are having a rough night.”

“More like a rough year,” you mumble.

“Miss Y/N, you need to look at the bright side,” Jimin smiles at you. It’s easy for him to say – he strikes you as a big ball of fluff and positive. You, on the other hand, are a walking disaster. “After the rain comes the rainbow. Karma has her way of doing things.”

“If you say so.”

Jimin works in silence while you stare at the floor and contemplate your life, deciding to leave the hospital as soon as he is done with fixing you up. A part of you wanted to find Adam and his girl, cause a scene and tell her to get away from him. Hell, if you had more energy, you would have gone with that plan. Now you just want to leave and get yourself a drink. Or five. When Jimin finished with cleaning your arm and applying some cream, you smile and thank him, asking for directions to the nearest bar.

After spending a few minutes wondering whether or not you should call your best friend and ask him to join, you have reached the conclusion that Hoseok’s bright and cheerful personality is not something that you need tonight.

He would chuckle at the story, telling you to look on the bright side, to be glad your leg wasn’t broken and that you got out before you ended up being ‘the other woman’. And while all of that would be absolutely correct, you do not need a ‘cheer up, buddy’ tonight. What you need is a decent amount of time to be alone and gloomy, wallow in self-pity and maybe drown in alcohol. With the day you’ve had, you deserve it – all of it.

“You sure you want another one?” the bartender asks when you point to the almost empty glass of Long Island Iced Tea in front of you – that’s what he served when you asked for a ‘drink that may end up killing you’. “Those things are pretty strong. You’re not driving, are you?” he asks, forcing you to make a mental note to tip him well because he’s actually worried about my well-being, even if I’m not.

“Not driving. And trust me, these are not nearly as effective as I want them to be.”

“Drinking to forget?” he’s asking too many question but he is getting the drink ready, so you take it.

“Hopefully.”

You have deleted Tinder the moment you sat down at the bar. It’s impossible to know when you’ll be ready to try again but one thing is certain - you won’t be trying on some cursed, shitty app. From this point on, you will go through my life without focusing on men and dick. You solemnly swear that you will not look for anything – in fact, you will wait for it to come on its own. And if it doesn’t, well, life goes on. With a job you like and a fairly cool group of friends, even an occasional hobby, you’ll have plenty of things to keep yourself occupied.

But. No. More. Men.

“Evening, doc!” the bartender’s cheerful voice snaps me you of a daze. “The usual?”

“Yep,” the voice next to you speaks up and against better judgment, you turn my head to look at him. As he sits down in the chair next to yours, you realize this is the same doctor that was yelling his way through the hallway earlier. Looking away from him, you decide not to draw attention to yourself. No particular reason why – attention is just the last thing on your mind now.

“Rough day today, doc?”

“No rougher than usual,” he chuckles. You focus on your drink, pushing the lemon around the glass with a straw, kind of pretending that it’s Adam and you are pushing him around. “You seem like you’ve had a worse day, what the heck happened to your arm?” it takes you a second to realize that the doctor is directing the question your way.

“I was dragged to the ground,” you mumble, not bothering to look his way. “Hurt my arm and hit my head.”

“Is your head okay?” he asks and even without looking at him, you know he is asking this as a doctor and not just a guy at the bar – there is literally a change in his tone, which suddenly turned serious.

“One of your colleagues checked it out and unfortunately, my head is okay,” you reply.

“You look way too young to sound so pessimistic,” he chuckles and you turn to him, slightly annoyed with his pestering. The earlier theory you had on how every employee of the hospital across the street is handsome is proven to be true because holy crap, he’s hot. You didn’t get a chance to notice it when he flew past on the stretcher earlier but now, even with the dim lights of the bar you’re at, you can see him much clearer. His face is gorgeous, flawless, with big brown eyes looking at me and a tiny smile on his lips. From what you can see, his physique is equally impressive. He is, simply put, hot as hell.

“I’m also way too sober for this conversation.”

If you had met him yesterday, who knows, maybe it would have ended with an offer to suck him off in the back alley – that’s how hot he is. But today sucks. Therefore, you won’t.

“Seems like you’re going to fix that soon enough,” he chuckles at you, probably because you are downing the drink much faster than one should down such a strong cocktail. “As a doctor, I’m obliged to tell you that you should hold back on your drinks if you’ve suffered a hit to the head.”

“How ‘bout a hit to my pride?” you turn on the stool to look at him, challenging him. It’s evident that he is simply trying to have a conversation. His tone wasn’t condescending either – it was more of a good natured suggestion than a doctor’s advice. Still, it annoyed you, just a little. “That one can hurt just as hard as a hit to the head, can it not?”

“It can,” he nods his head. “But what can possibly be that bad?” he asks.

Do you speak up or keep your mouth shut?

To hell with it. You need to rant, are almost drunk and will never see him again.

“Had a date today,” you pause to take a sip of my drink. “First date. He fell into an open manhole.”

“Wait, is that the dude with the girlfriend?” he asks and you turn to him so fast, you think your neck muscle is strained. “Are you the girl who made a scene?”

“No I didn’t!” you gasp, shocked that he’d even suggest something like that. “I haven’t said a word to him! The girl showed up, I put two and two together, went to get my hand fixed and ended up here.”

“Who fixed your arm?” he asks, frowning in suspicion.

“A very hot blonde guy.”

“Jimin,” he chuckles and I nod my head, remembering the name now. “That explains a lot.”

“That explains what?” you ask, momentarily distracted when you notice the bartender serving the doctor his drink – mineral water. Sure, there’s ice and two slices of lemon in the glass but it is just mineral water. If that’s his regular drink, you don’t even want to know what he drinks when he’s feeling a bit tamer.

“Jimin has a habit of meddling into people’s lives a bit too often,” the doctor chuckles and a lump forms in your throat as you focus on his side profile – clear skin, chiseled jaw, cute nose and messy hair. Even his speech, now a bit slower than earlier, is hot. “He must have put two and two together because from what I’ve heard, he asked the dude where his date was, right in front of the girlfriend,” he tells you.

“Serves him right,” a dark chuckle leaves you as you realize just how thankful you are for the overly meddling nurse who did my work in your stead.

“The chick flipped and caused a ruckus,” the doctor continues. “With the way you’ve been sulking at the bar, I thought it might have been you. Stupid, I know – you even said it was a first date.”

“I’m just glad that’s behind me,” you mumble in response. “Or, will be, when I finish this drink.”

“The guy is a dick,” the bartender suddenly joins in, having obviously listened to your conversation. You can’t blame the guy – you’re sitting right in front of him. “You seem like a decent girl,” he tells you. “Why would you waste time on cheaters when you have nice guys like Doctor Jeon around?” he hits the doctor on the shoulder, hard, beaming down at him.

“You’ve always been a bad wing-man Chris, but I think you might have just outdone yourself.”

“Doctor Jeon isn’t even drinking,” you smile at the bartender. “I’m sure he’s not interested.”

“Doctor Jeon needs to drive home and hopefully get there in one piece,” the doctor laughs. “And please just call me Jungkook – the doctor thing is getting a bit weird,” he adds, obviously ignoring your comment that he isn’t interested. Could it mean that… no, probably not.

“Take a cab, Jungkook,” you tell him, turning around to stare at the shelves full of drinks, expensive and cheap, dark and colorful. Looking directly at him would be a very bad idea. “Life’s too short.”

“Mineral water is just fine,” you can hear the smile in his voice. “Besides, I might get called back to the hospital tonight. Probably not, but I never know. I’d rather be able to help someone than drunk.”

“Did you save that guy from today?” you ask, this time risking at all and looking at him, seeing the confusion on his heavenly face. “The one on the stretcher, the guy you were all but sitting on?”

“Ah,” he nods his head in understanding. “He’s in intensive care but most likely will make it through the night. He’s in good hands.”

“Doctor Jeon is a trauma surgeon,” the bartender, Chris as you now know, tells you with a knowing look. “Very big deal in the hospital.”

“Trauma surgeons or Doctor Jeon in particular?” you laugh.

“Chris, I think some glasses want to be polished,” Jungkook’s jaw clenches but you can still see a hint of a smile as he looks at his friend. “Don’t meddle, please. I can flirt just fine on my own.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” you laugh. This is becoming… very interesting.

“I’m about to, as soon as I find out your name,” he smirks your way. That one action, that one tiny smirk, made him 10 times more attractive than he was seconds ago.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats. Okay, it may be too soon to tell but you have an inkling of where this might end up going and at this point, you are ready to pray to god that it ends up going that way. More than once.

“He’s single,” the bartender suddenly pipes up.

“Chris.”

“And the kindest guy I know,” Chris still continues, ignoring Jungkook’s glares.

“Will you stop?”

“No,” you laugh at Jungkook. “No, I like this, he’s telling me all I need to know. Tell me, Chris, how often does he flirt with lonely ladies at the bar?” you ask.

“First time I’ve seen him do it,” Chris replies without blinking. “Beats your guy from earlier today by a mile.”

“That he does,” you agree immediately. Just superficial conversation and one look at Jungkook was enough to reach the same conclusion. Granted, you haven’t really had the chance to properly talk to Adam but his girlfriend did and based from what you’ve heard, she doesn’t like him that much at the moment.

“How about you talk now, Y/N, before Chris here finds my birth certificate,” Jungkook turns to you.

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you’re willing to share.”

“I doubt you’d be interested in hearing my life story,” you chuckle. “I’m a real estate agent. I’m tired and not as drunk as I want to be.”

“That’s all you think I need to know?” he laughs, leaning just a tiny bit closer. “Tell me who you are when you’re not angry at some random dick. Tell me about your hobbies, your interests, the things you hate the most, your plans for the future.”

“Are you trying to flirt with me or are you scouting for a would-be wife?” you frown.

“Play your cards right and ask me that question later.”

It’s so fucking endearing – he laughs at himself as he delivers such a cheesy, yet somehow smooth line. He is literally laughing at himself and that makes you chuckle too – he’s not taking himself too seriously and is genuinely funny. Hell, if he plays his cards right, you might just ask him to marry you.

“I hate cucumbers,” is what you decide to tell him. “Tom Cruise too – he’s creepy. I don’t like people who waste my time. I’m a TV show addict, I could live on popcorn and I never wear high heels. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” your eyebrows are raised as you throw the ball over in his field.

“Not even close,” he responds. Judging by the little smirk on his face, he can definitely tell that your interest is peaked in all the right ways. “You’re just making me want to know more, Y/N.”

“Unfair,” you pretend to glare at him. “It’s your turn now – it’s only fair if I know as much as you do.”

“Alright,” he nods his head. “I’m a surgeon, as you already know. I’m… a pretty boring guy if I’m being honest. I work, workout, occasionally meet up with my friends and sleep. I like cucumbers but I can’t stand eggplants. I never really gave Tom Cruise much thought but you do have a point, he is a bit creepy,” Jungkook grimaces and you laugh, glad to hear you’re not the only one with that opinion. “I barely even have a life outside of work.”

You were goofing off at first but by the time he finishes, the humorous tone of the conversation isn’t really there anymore. He’s a doctor, a surgeon at that – it’s not hard for you to imagine just how big of a price his personal life had to pay in order for him to have a career like that. While it’s a shame, in your opinion, it was a decision he was very much aware of – as well as its consequences.

“Seems like maybe I’m not the only one who needs a drink tonight,” you give him a pointed look.

“Nah,” he smiles at you, shaking his head. “I still need to drive. Besides, you’ve had a bad day. This is just a regular day for me. Well, almost regular – I don’t usually talk to a pretty girl by the end of it.”

This time around, you stay silent.

It’s not something you can say and seeing as you do find him attractive it’s not the logical response either. You should smile at him, run fingers through your hair, try to appear as sensual and as flirty as possible – or as much as you can be, with dirty jeans and a big ass scratch on your arm. Doctor Jeon ticks off all the boxes, or at least all that you can think off, with your mind a little bit hazy, thanks to Chris’s mean cocktail. You should play the game and see where it’ll take you.

But you don’t. No, you stay silent and you look at the drink before you, ignoring the pair of eyes you feel on you. Perhaps you have had enough? Perhaps Adam was the last straw, your last chance before giving up completely? Maybe, maybe not. But for whatever reason, you decide to stay silent.

To his credit, Jungkook follows your lead. He doesn’t push you and that makes him look even better in your eyes. He was following your lead, pushing as far as you’d let him. Not all men have that ability, sadly. Jungkook does, he has something you can only describe as a peaceful aura. He strikes you as a laid back, everything is going to be okay, kind of guy. He’s not desperately trying to impress, nor is he trying to pull off a bad boy vibe. Thinking about it now, he seems like the most mature guy you were ever interested in, even in passing, even if you’ve only talked to him for a few minutes.

Now you want to speak up, say something, anything, but your mouth just opens and closes, as you find that as much as you want to, you’re not capable of forming words.

And why would you? Come to think of it, seriously, why would you? You barely even talked. You have had a day from hell, you are tired and there’s not much he could provide you with, other than a distraction. It would do it’s trick, you might get a good night and a few worthy memories but at the end of it all, you would probably never see his face again. At least outside of the emergency room.

Your brain is playing tennis with itself, throwing the ball from one side to another as you debate whether or not something should be done, mentally listing all the pros and cons to each option, asking yourself further questions that simply lead you nowhere. That’s the way overthinking works and you should know, since you do it all the damn time.

His glass hits the bar a bit too hard and you flinch, looking at it from the corner of your eye. It’s empty, the tennis match in your head is slowly coming to an end – no winner. You do nothing, don’t say a word, don’t look at him. You only look at the bartender as he tells Jungkook to keep an eye on the bar as he goes to get more tequila from the back.

“Y/N?” Jungkook asks and the moment your eyes meet, the beat of your heart turns frantic. You wish you could slow it down somehow, or at least ignore it and focus on other things. Nope, none of it could work even if you tried – your heart is going berserk and all you can look at is Jungkook’s face. His eyes really are a one hell of a sight. “I’m going home now,” he tells you, his eyes looking around your face, from your eyes to your lips, back to your eyes again. “I would very much like to take you there with me. You had a horrible day and you deserve something to keep your mind off it. I’d be happy to oblige. It would also be a nice change for me, to not go home alone once,” he adds.

Okay, it’s happening. The ball is on your side now. The problem is, Jungkook’s suggestion sounded more like a ‘let’s go steady’ than ‘do you want to fuck’ and that leaves you uneasy. Not a single thing about this screams one night stand to you, other than the fact that he is very much a stranger.

But you want to. God, do you want to. You want to suck him dry and run your hands through his hair as he fucks you – on a desk, on the floor, up against the wall, in the shower, on the bed – wherever it’s physically possible, really. You can’t remember the last time someone so stupidly handsome was offering you what Jungkook is offering now. Even if he makes it sound way more romantic than it should sound like, the hidden promise is there – you’d get dicked down.

Fuck it, you want it. Even more so, you need it.

“What kind of distraction are you suggesting, exactly?” you ask, praying to everyone and everything that your poker face is as stable as you want it to be.

“I think you know exactly what I’m suggesting, Y/N,” he mumbles, still keeping his eyes directly on you. It’s a little uncomfortable and your first instinct is to look away, to save yourself, but you can’t. With every word he says, he is drawing you in, deeper. “We can play coy, if that’s what you want, but you know very well how this is going to end.”

“And what about my head?” you do play coy, but you also throw in a subtle smirk, to make sure your intentions are clear, even though they are very much different than your words. “Weren’t you worried about me drinking after I’ve hit my head? How could a… distraction be healthy for me?”

“Oh, it could be,” he chuckles. “Healthy, enjoyable and dare I say, addictive. And just to settle your worries – nothing better than doctor supervision over the course of the night.”

You laugh because fuck it, it’s sold and you want him to know that.

“I trust I’ll be in good hands.”

“Oh, you will be,” it sounds both exciting and sinister and it stirs you in all the right ways. “Let’s go,” you are surprised with how quickly he takes out a couple of bills from his back pocket and throws them onto the bar, paying for both of your drinks and then some. He doesn’t wait for Chris to get back – he’s already on his feet and reaching for your hand. “Let’s go – I don’t want to waste more time.”

You let him drag you out of the bar, hoping that his dick is just as good as his game.

#jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #doctor jungkook #jjk #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfics #jungkook scenarios #jeongguk

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sergeanttpoliteness · 5 years ago

Text

➹one love confession, please➹(peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who’s become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn’t something new; you can’t count with both of your hands the times you’ve heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn’t experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART I)

word count: 12.3k (oof)

warnings: cursing, alcohol, and mentions of sex (let me know if i missed something!)

a/n: it’s five am where i live and this is already awfully long so i’m gonna make it as brief as i can. first, i’m sorry it took eight months, but at last, it’s here, and i’m so happy and proud of it ! thank you a million times for the amazing support this story got, seriously. second, this was also for @connorshero 1.6k followers writing challenge, and i can’t express enough how ashamed i am that it took so long lmao, i’m a clown. it’s here, tho, and i hope i hear your thoughts and that y’all enjoy it (:

taglist: @fanbase-jumper

Never in a million years would you have deemed possible a human could undergo through such a crushing feeling of dread, yet, sadly, you found yourself to be wrong, for there you were, a pressure smothering your lungs and an iciness washing over you. You never would have imagined yourself hiding in the bathroom from a certain Peter B. Parker, either; but then again, contrary to your previous thinking, there you sat on the closed toilet seat, your eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily as a frostbite in your heart eclipsed any other thoughts in your head.

For the last few days, you had tried to repress a memory which physically pained you as you worked at the bar, almost as if it were nothing more than a bizarre dream you had one night, or a movie you watched as a little kid and couldn’t figure out as a grown-up whether it was real or not. It didn’t take long before in your restless little brain, that date did not exist in the calendar. So… strange, how all of sudden you couldn't remember anything from that night. Yeah, nothing happened. There’s no reason or possible explanation as to why you nearly dropped dead to the ground every time the entrance opened, or why your lower stomach erupted like a geyser refusing to rest whenever you caught a glimpse in the mirror of the bruises on your neck and, just maybe, somewhere in the back of your head, recalled how they came to be in the first place; how the small vessels burst, why they’re there. Your self-induced amnesia surprisingly worked. Yeah, like a charm. Until you looked up for the billionth time and it wasn’t another false alarm. The fortress of protection you constructed collapsed as if it took no effort to build it, because there he was— there stood Peter, just a few feet away from you.

Of course, you panicked; hysterically searched your surroundings for an excuse to leave, but no one wanted to bother you when you most needed it. Terrible luck, indeed. You only had two choices (although, really, you most likely had more): you could be, you know, smart and face your problems, or, Peter, to be more concise, or you could run away to hide and wait it out in the bathroom. So, after analyzing it thoroughly for approximately two seconds, what did you do?

Get the fuck out of there, obviously; you threw your towel, sped out of the bar, and instantly headed to have the meltdown of the century in the bathroom.

You screamed into your hands as you relived everything in your head, stomping your foot on the floor tiles. Remorse didn’t suffice anymore to explain the sharp pain in your stomach. You’d sabotaged yourself— you got a nip that night, a morsel of something greater, a catalyst for ‘what if’s and a total loss of self-control, because once the temporary high didn’t satiate you any longer, you’d seek it again. Regardless of your constant imbecility, you weren’t oblivious: it was nothing more than a distraction for Peter’s troubles and conflicting emotions over a woman he’d married, and it would never mean anything to him. It never would, despite how much it meant to you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out, narrowed eyes reading the recent message while your heart went ballistic.

‘You can’t stay there forever, he’s starting to get suspicious.’

You breathed out, partially relieved. It was your friend. You texted him earlier as you lost it in the bathroom stall, as one does. You were close to getting on your knees and start praying to any superior entity that he was simply imagining stuff like most of the time, attempting to read in between the lines when, in reality, all Peter did was drink his whiskey served over ice, totally unconcerned. Yes, perhaps, you running away didn’t signify ‘subtle’, and the fact that you two hadn’t shared a word or texted ever since you fled his apartment a week prior didn’t brighten the situation at all. Why should it matter if you chose to continue escaping your issues? You could stay there forever, and it was no one’s business. The bar’s urine-scented bathroom could be your new home.

Your phone rang again. ‘Dude, c’mon.’

Goddammit.

Your friend shouldn’t have the power to knock some sense into you with just two messages, but he did anyway. You required an abundance of courage you did not carry to hesitantly walk out of the stall, and then the bathroom. You were sure your heart could hop out of your chest, as gruesome as it may have been, at any moment as Peter’s figure came closer and closer to you with each dreadful step you took. It wasn’t as dramatic in real life, most likely (most definitely). But as if you finally understood your situation, the charisma awakened from its sleep and, in an instant, you let out a disappointed ‘aw!’, replacing your terrified features with an exaggerated pout. “Oh, man! Somebody else already took your order? Unbelievable.”

He reacted as though he overheard the most unbelievable noise— a call from God itself or extraterrestrial life, because he could’ve gotten some whiplash by the way in which his head jerked up.

Peter cleared his throat, unsure of what to do with his hands as he showed you a tight-lipped smile. “Uh, hey! Hey…” He exclaimed and you winked at him. “I thought you weren’t here, or something.”

You thought for a moment. For real this time. You couldn’t say ‘I was just having a breakdown in the bathroom’. “Nah, my boss just needed my help… with stuff,” You waved your hand, aware that your boss had left an hour ago. He hummed and nodded, downing his shot. Wait. Your eyes returned to his glass when you fully took it in. It wasn’t whiskey served over ice.

You pointed at the empty drink in his grasp. “What’s that?”

He glanced down at it, raising a brow. “What, you’ve never seen a shot of vodka?”

“No, no, I mean— yeah, but what the hell happened to your whiskey?”

Peter pressed his lips together, shrugging one shoulder. “I dunno, guess I just… got tired of it?”

The corner of your lips tugged down momentarily. “Ah, I see…” You distracted yourself with a glass, cleaning it despite its already pristine look. You just needed anything to focus on other than Peter. “This is so tragic, your whiskey days have come to an end.” You joked, laughing quietly and disguising the aching in your chest.

He tilted his head, quirking an eyebrow and grinning a confused smile. “What’s wrong with vodka?”

“It’s just… so boring.”

An incredulous grin stretched across his face. “More boring than whiskey?”

Your smile faded, a frown taking its place. “I… I’m guessing I had just grown used to it— I don’t know.”

For the first time in a whole year of weekly meetings and ongoing chatter, an uncomfortable silence sat amongst you two. And for the first time, too, you did not know what to say. “Y/N?” You looked up at him attentively, although you did not want to hear what he had to say at all.

Peter avoided your gaze, instead focusing on his lap, and opened his mouth, closing it when you couldn’t think up any words. “I think, uh… we gotta talk, right? About… y’know.” Your face heated up as red as a field of roses.

You laughed nervously, your hands on the bar as you slanted forward. “...About what?”

“Just, about what happened, and that thing you said the morning after—”

“Did I say anything the morning after?” You cut him off, wishing you’d stuck with your plan of moving into the bathroom.

To your horror, your biggest fear unfolded as Peter let out air through his nose, chuckling without humor.

“Are you gonna try to convince me it was a dream again?” You nearly passed out as Peter cited the words you so vividly remembered uttering. “‘You’re just dreaming?’” It all came back to you, everything— your forced memory loss received a fatal blow as memories bombarded your brain: Peter’s face twisted with puzzlement and sleep after you blurted out your utter nonsense and— how could you forget, oh God, how could you— the cherry on top, your uncomfortably intense five-second staring contest as you headed for the door and dashed out of his apartment.

“‘Wake up?’” He continued and you merely blinked back at him. He didn’t need to fucking quote you and remind you what a joke you were— who does that? But also, who tells the guy you just hooked up with that he’s dreaming after he caught you in the midst of trying to sneak out? B-B-Bingo! Of course, of course it had to be you out of all people.

You stood frozen, like you did that embarrassing morning, begging your head to stop it with the callbacks and breathing out. “What if it was a dream? You never know.” You said, unwilling to give up your idiocy. Peter stared at you, his lack of amusement terrifying you further.

“A dream.”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N—”

“What?”

“Stop acting like an idiot, please.”

“Peter, you literally could’ve brought up anything else other than this.” You hissed, exasperated. “Any other fucking thing.”

“I can’t not bring this up.”

“Well, why not? I surely can.”

“‘Cause it was weird.”

You grimaced and covered your face with your hands, muffling your words, “Oh my God, I know, I fucking know. What did you want me to do—”

“I don’t know, maybe just talk, you know!” He suggested with raised hands, the harsh sarcasm in his voice deepening your pained expression. “Wh-why did you even say that?! Like—”

“I didn’t want to be there! I just wanted to leave, okay?!” You admitted loudly, uncaring of your blatancy. When you didn’t hear him, your shaking hands slowly unveiled your face. A man two seats away eyed you two as he drank, while Peter stared at the counter with knitted brows, digesting what you said.

“Do you wish it had been a dream?” He asked quietly. You began to tap your finger, your lips shaping the words you wanted to speak, but didn’t exactly know how to.

“No. That’s not it, I…” You croaked out. You couldn’t continue when you noticed what you thought was a flourishing desire in his eyes which you saw that same night back at his place. Just say it. Your fingertips thudded the wood faster, your feet shifting, voice stuttering. Say you’d do it again.

“It was just a one-time thing, right?” You whispered. Then, you doubted if that lust had simply been a delusion your brain fabricated. That, perhaps, you yearned for something bigger so badly you’d projected your own silly cravings onto the man, for all trace of that weakening glimmer was now nothing more than the familiar amity the always held.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Right.” You breathed out.

“It was just a one-time thing.” He repeated as if it were obvious.

“Yes.” You both nodded, unable to look at each other straight in the eye without squirming. As soon as some clients called for you, you shared a last glance before you left. When you returned, all you found were some crumpled dollar bills and no sign of Peter.

You didn’t buy him a gift. And neither did he, but he did send you a message saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’, and there exists a possibility that you broke down crying whilst drunk because of the smiley face he wrote along with it, but that’s something you wouldn’t ever disclose— even if it happened one more time during New Year’s Eve as your head pounded with the people around you religiously blowing their party horns. That was it, though. You didn’t see him at the bar, which a part of you could only be thankful for, but the remaining kicked itself for not fixing things when you had the chance to. For not being honest when you could have.

Your friend yet again with his wisdom from the gods told you to stop wasting time and move on with your life, albeit not as kindly, as if saying it in such a way wasn’t hurtful enough. However, after being too sensitive for two seconds, you sucked it up and knew that he was right.

You managed to keep Peter out of your thoughts most of the time, focusing on your job and getting additional money with your paintings to treat yourself. You could go out more with your friends, buy a new TV, maybe save for the vacation you’d been dreaming of for the past years. For some time, as there was no Peter in your head nor at the bar, it was just like before the man nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose sat down in front of you.

You could only maintain him out of your orbit for so long, though.

You sat at another bar two blocks down your place, hunched over and your eyes glued on your cell phone’s screen, anticipation pulling imaginary strings connected to your fingers which fidgeted, tossed the device from hand to hand. Your friend was the fourth person you texted in the last thirty minutes, an act born from desperation, perhaps; created upon an urgency for an anchor, a quick fix that would momentarily patch up the heaviness in your chest that made an unwanted visit too many times to your liking and dissipate all the thoughts in your head. You needed something, a distraction, anything— hell, you’d even texted your boss, a known shopaholic, asking if she wanted to go shopping. But everyone appeared to be doing something that night, too engaged in their own affairs to remember you. It was selfish, you understood, to think that way; they had lives, after all. Nevertheless, that selfishness was a blemish you couldn’t vanish as the three dots emerged, followed by the exact same message you dreaded: ‘Can’t tonight, I’m with dad. What about tomorrow?’ There was no tomorrow, though. No, you ached for it right now, in that instant, something.

Peter.

No. You couldn’t. Another decline was a final blow you couldn’t withstand, anyway, especially from him. However, you weren’t the one making the decisions anymore. Your heart manipulated your limbs, and in a blur, you’d searched his contact. Too soon to your liking, you heard that tedious beeping, your heartbeat then the sole noise in your ears once it halted. All of a sudden, you couldn’t talk, your words lodged in your throat, because it was strange to hear that voice again and it was too much for you right now.

“Y/N? Are you there?” Peter said after you didn’t make the slightest sound, hesitance evident in his tone, for he wondered whether it’d been an accidental butt dial. You took in a big breath and pressed your phone closer to your ear, your elbows aching from the hard counter they rested upon.

“...Hi.” You scrunched up your nose, shaking your head at yourself.

“What… what’s up?” It was odd, you both knew, because when did you ever call each other, and when was the last time you two talked? But turning a blind eye to your friend’s advice, you itched to fulfill your own cravings that night— it didn’t really matter what kind, but just a friend was all you needed, just someone.

You stuttered for a while, internally grateful he remained silent and waited for you to clear your mind. “Nothing. That’s why I’m calling, I guess. Just wanted to talk.”

“To talk?” You could hear the engines of driving vehicles in the background and you frowned, scratching the back of your head.

“Sorry, are you busy? I didn’t mean to bother you. I can call another time—”

“No, no!” He stopped you, your heart growing wings, fluttering and capable of flying out of your chest with how gentle he sounded. “I just got done with something and I’m going back home, you don’t have to hang up.”

You hit the tip of your shoes against the bar, tense brows still not relaxing. “Oh, okay…”

“Are you at work?

“No, my shift ends at a normal time on Friday’s, thankfully.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I see— so you’re home alone and bored?”

You observed the place around you, focusing on the bartender and then on your drink. “Eh, not exactly.” You closed your hand into a fist, struggling to not dissect the skin around your nails like an animal in a biology class. “I know this is unusual, we never really talk outside of the bar and we haven’t seen each other in a while, but…”

“It’s kinda our first phone call, isn’t it?”

You smiled, your lip trembling. “Y-Yeah. Our first phone call.” You almost cursed when your voice wavered.

“Hey, you alright?”

You sighed, scratching your head. “Not gonna lie, I’ve been better.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s stupid, I don’t know. It’s a Friday night— everyone’s out having a good time, and I’m just… here, in a bar and on my own.” You shrugged, your nails carving the timber.

“It’s not stupid.” He murmured and you snorted, unconvinced. “If it makes you feel any less alone, I’m not exactly out partying and having a good time, either.”

“Do you even still party, grandpa?”

“Just ‘cause I’m old, it doesn’t mean I still haven’t got the moves.”

“It definitely sounds like you don’t.”

“Don’t sound so sure, you haven’t seen me at my best.” Seeing him wasn’t necessary, you could easily imagine his teasing grin.

“Hm, yeah, I’d immediately take off my clothes if you pretended to lasso me at the club.” You both giggled and you hugged yourself, glancing at the empty stool beside you, biting the inside of your cheek. “Do you maybe want to come and have a drink with me?” You shot your shot, to your thumping heart’s dismay. Guessing by the click you distinguished, he probably just got back home.

“...Have a drink with you?”

“J-Just to hangout, you know.” You quickly explained. “Chat for a while. I can pay, if you want.”

You waited for a response, a rejection. But it didn’t come.

It was quite embarrassing, to say the least, that after he agreed and you hung up, you almost dropped your phone with how the fright weakened your arms as you tried to send him the bar’s address. You eagerly waited, too, like a damn puppy anticipating its owner’s return at the end of the day. Using your phone’s selfie camera, you checked your appearance, tidying up all just to make yourself look way more put together than you actually were, even if you were in a bar, alone, and, well, drinking. Despite your awaiting, though, you were taken off guard when a man chose to settle down beside you and cleared his throat.

“I gotta say, it’s weird to see you on the other side of the bar,” Peter smiled as a greeting. Your eyes scanned him, taking in his presence, struggling to process it as if he were a ghost. In your defense, it did feel as if he hadn’t been part of your world for the last two months.

You chuckled, shyly moving your view to your beverage. “Sorry, I won’t be playing bartender tonight.”

“Too bad, I like it when you give me free drinks.”

“Technically, you still are getting free drinks from me tonight.”

He huffed, a crooked smile lingering on his face. You called for the bartender and side-glanced at Peter, quietly asking what he wanted and biting back a disappointed grunt when it wasn’t whiskey served over ice. Whatever. It was just a drink. You two didn’t share a look after that small interaction, though, your face flustered, redder than the bartender’s awful and painful-to-look-at-from-how-bright-it-was shirt. You preferred to believe it was the alcohol, regardless of the truth that you hadn’t drunk that much yet. But your skin burned since he was there, and suddenly, the last disastrous meeting you two experienced replayed way too loudly in your head, the scorching sensation only spreading further and gaining more vigor with the possibility that it did the same in his, too. The unspoken and evident discomfort was enough to make you assume that it definitely was on his mind.

You made the effort to spark up a conversation with the dreaded small talk. ‘How have you been?’, ‘Anything new?’, ‘The weather’s been pretty cold lately, huh?’— blah, blah, blah. Nonetheless, neither of you had more to say other than short, boring responses. It became so unbearable, you knew the only way you could get through this night— seeing as you couldn’t leave after he’d just gotten there— depended on your current and whoever many you could afford future drinks. Quite an alcoholic mindset, perhaps, but there was no way you were the only one or that Peter didn’t have the same wish as you.

Holding your third drink, tispy thoughts pressed you to climb out of the hell you were in. You turned your body to face him, nudging his leg with your foot. He’d been paying attention to a wildlife documentary and an animal hiding from its predator before he lifted an eyebrow and nodded at you. “What?”

“Where have you been?”

A crease formed between his brows as he found it hard to differentiate this question from the one you asked earlier. “I told you, I haven’t really been up to much—”

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked. Where have you been?” Peter pursed his lips, contemplating.

“New York.”

You hummed, bringing your drink up to your lips. “Okay. So if you were here, how come I haven’t seen you since, uh—” You pretended to count in your head, tongue poking out of your mouth as you summed with your fingers. “—December?”

“I was busy.” You narrowed your eyes.

“I thought you hadn’t been up to much?”

“I… haven’t,” Peter said slowly, too far in to escape the contradiction. You bit your lip before finishing your half-empty drink all in one go, head spinning, the weight in your stomach drawing you down to the Earth’s core.

It’s difficult to perceive the line between overthinking and legitimacy. It’s so fine and faint, like a message written with chalk in the middle of the neighborhood’s road that can only be deciphered if you stare at it long and closely enough after the days have passed by and the rain showered upon it. On one side, the message was nothing more than scrawls and nonsensical letters, an unnecessary distraction on the road disrupting you from reaching your destination on time. But then, there was the other side: the truth. A truth that, funnily enough, you reached by overthinking in the first place. Which was what occurred when you suspected the reasoning behind the lack of Peter in your life could be pinpointed to the man purposefully avoiding you; and, right now, grasped that, after all, it wasn’t just another case of irrational overanalyzing.

“Do you hate me?” You blurted out, your eyes going round with the disappearance of your filter. Confusion overflowed Peter’s head and spilled into his expression, adorning his face.

“Huh?”

“Do you hate me—”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Where the hell did that come from, though?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.” You stated the obvious, visibly hurt. Peter denied with his head the misconception, sighing.

“It wasn’t intentional.” He assured you not just with his words but his gaze, too. You pressed your lips together, not fully convinced.

“Was it not?” You asked with a small quirk of your mouth. He stared at you, embarrassment crawling across his skin.

“Alright, maybe it was.” He admitted sheepishly. You let out air through your nose, turning on your seat.

“So you do hate me.”

“Y/N,” Peter called for your attention, although he knew it was half-joke. You returned your attention to him. “If I hated you, would I be here, sitting next to you?” He questioned, motioning around him. You shrugged one shoulder, a grin growing on your face.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re just being nice.” You said and he groaned jokingly, sporting his very own lopsided grin.

“I’m being nice because I like you.”

Your smile fell for an instant, but you put the expression back up, reminding yourself that, once more, it didn’t go further than platonic. “Good. But you were mad, then.”

“No, not exactly.”

“You left without saying goodbye last time.”

Peter frowned, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I did. Sorry.” He apologized, the sincerity interlaced in his voice worsening your state. You wanted to place your hand on your chest, as you diagnosed with your zero quantity of medical knowledge that you had a high chance of having a heart attack before the night came to an end.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?”

“Well,” You placed your chin on the palm of your hand, moving your eyes elsewhere. “First, for being a dumbass back when we hoo—”

“You know what? You’re fine.” He interrupted you. “Save yourself some time.”

Your brows snapped together. “But—”

“You were right. Let’s just not talk about it and move on, alright?” He waved his hand, grabbing his drink. “If you do talk about it, I think I’m actually gonna get up and leave.”

You laughed, nodding. “Ah, I see. So that’s why you’ve been ignoring me, then?”

His actions halted in the midst of taking a sip. “Maybe.” He answered vaguely.

You rolled your eyes. “You can’t just run away from your problems, Peter.” You pointed out like the hypocrite you were, particularly after that was exactly what you were doing not too long ago. Peter, unaware of this, however, had to admit you spoke the truth as he rubbed his nose with his knuckles, grumbling.

“You see, you say that, but I’m still gonna continue doing it.”

“No, you’re not, because we’re going to discuss this like adults—”

“As an adult, I’m telling you that all is good and I’m over it.” He finished with a warning tone you couldn’t take seriously and you giggled. “Next topic.”

“Okay, grandpa. Sure thing. All is good.” You grinned, the ice in your heart melting off as he copied your countenance.

“For real this time.”

“Yeah. For real this time. Can I be honest with you, though?” Peter waited for you to go on, paying close attention, his gaze soft. You stared at him for a moment too long ‘till your eyes moved to your hand now feebly holding your empty drink. “I missed you. Kind of. Is that dumb?” You mumbled, your voice small.

You couldn’t properly see him, but through your peripheral vision, you didn’t catch any movement. That’s when you prepared to scream ‘sike!’ to his face— a real-life undo button to delete the emotions you couldn’t take back and shove down your system anymore. However, it felt… good. For once, it wasn’t spilling your guts out and regretting everything as you attempted to cram your organs back into you; you had plucked out a thorn that’d been hanging inside the palm of your hand for far too long. It was liberating. And you peered up at him, expecting that relief to be temporary, but his tender features didn’t let that happen.

“...No. I missed you, too.”

You both smiled.

The conversation began to flow. Words started to spill, and although you weren’t at the bar, you enjoyed that exact same security and blissful buzz. You realized then— a revelation that did not help your case— the location didn’t play an important role, and perhaps it never did; bar or not, if Peter was there, you’d still feel stupidly and overly content. Your worries faded away as you two caught up with no drop of MJ’s name, but some lingered anyway, because change was inevitable, looming over you. Laughter left your lips, his hand rested close to yours on the counter. You noticed, but couldn’t bring yourself to pull away, to walk away from the euphoria tainting your body. More liquor entered his, over time you stared at his mouth one, two, three, four seconds too long as you became intoxicated along with him, and so did he with yours.

“C’mon, tell me.” You pouted for an instant, interchanging it for a drunk smile. “Your secret dies with me.”

Peter slammed his fifth drink down, cheeks tinted pink. It was wrong, indeed, to take advantage of his condition and try to get out of him something you’d wanted to know for the longest time, and that he kept to himself as if it were government classified information. In your drunken brain, it did not seem too far off. Perhaps he went on outrageous underground missions. You laughed at yourself. Peter didn’t seem like a spy-type of guy. Unless…

“Do you, like, work for the government?” Peter screwed up his face at your absurdity.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter opened his mouth, a giggle escaping. “I can’t.” You dragged your stool closer to him, as you weren’t close enough already. Actually, when did you get so close? It didn’t matter. You analyzed his face, hoping that somehow, if you looked at him long enough, you’d gain the ability to read minds and crack into his. Peter drew his lower lip between his teeth, studying you like you were the most interesting being. You didn’t know why, but you felt tempted to move that strand of hair that always hung in front of his forehead away from his face. As any rational person wouldn’t, you did, your thumb brushing against the barely visible scratch that started the conversation in the first place.

“What are you thinking?” You questioned, brimming with interest. He went crossed-eyed as he tried to follow your hand.

“About stuff. Whatcha thinkin’?” He asked back, his view traveling down to your lips. You bit your lip.

The closeness, your full-blown pupils, the actuality that you could lean closer to him and you’d meet his lips. It all seemed too familiar. And so you wondered, if you did move and kiss him, if you stopped resisting and glanced down at his lips, too, what would happen?

“I don’t know. What does it look like I’m thinking?” You asked, lowering your voice. The stench of alcohol should have been enough to stop you both from advancing any further, but Peter licked his lips, smirking.

“It seems to me like you wanna fuck me.”

You gasped, hiccuping. “Oh, my! I didn’t know this part of yours, Peter B. Parker. Is it just the alcohol speaking?”

“Maybe. But is it true?”

“What?”

“What I said.”

Your upper body swayed closer to him, tired, dizzy, and wishing to lie down. You gripped his shoulder and helped yourself add some distance, your other hand landing on his knee. “Maybe.” You simply said. Your eyes remained interlocked into one another, your hand running up his shoulder to his neck, and then all the way up to the back of his head, sensing his goosebumps. “Maybe…” You repeated as your touch on his knee traveled up his thigh. Peter took in a sharp breath, his hand unconsciously wrapping around your wrist.

You couldn’t help it anymore. You leaned in and captured his mouth in a rough kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. Pull away, a voice said in your head as you felt his tongue momentarily slide against your bottom lip. Pull away, the nagging voice went on and you did, shaking your head.

“I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen again.” You whispered, yet your mouth came back into a messy kiss, even messier hands craving touch. Breaking glass startled you two apart and you looked down, sighing when you saw your drink’s contents all over the ground. “You owe me a drink.” You panted, your lips swollen.

Peter scoffed, his half-smile blurring your vision as he tilted his head towards your ear. “Nothing has to happen if you don’t want it to.” He said, mouth ghosting near your cheek despite his words, yearning to continue. You pecked his jaw, lips resting against his hot skin, careless about the other customers in the bar.

“I do want something to happen, though.”

You both ignored the conversation your sober selves had. ‘It was just a one-time thing, right?’. Peter slammed your apartment’s door closed whilst your lips were still connected, your hands clumsily coming down to try to unbuckle his belt. ‘Yeah’. His own hands aided yours, the clinking of his belt buckle speeding up your heartbeat as if it weren’t already dangerously fast. ‘It was just a one-time thing’. Peter groaned into your mouth, tasting like liquor, like something you’d both regret the next morning but did not care about the consequences, even if it was a lesson you’d already learned. Not at the moment.

But nothing happened.

You couldn’t recall much the next morning. The first proof that it didn’t go further from a make-out session was that you woke up in your bed, alone, and wearing the same clothes as the previous night. The second evidence you gathered when you barged into your living room and there slept Peter on your couch, his appearance also identical to the one in your hazy memories. He didn’t remember anything. As you struggled to cease your trembling legs, he simply laughed and asked if he got so wasted he had to crash at your place. You shrugged and smiled, still capable of tasting his lips and vividly feel his hot breath.

From then on, you avoided drinking or being too exhausted to have any common sense when you were around Peter. One day he invited you to go out and have a few drinks again, to ‘repay’ you, and to which you responded as calmly as you could that you had other ‘plans’; other plans that, truthfully, were faker than the disappointed expression of yours that followed. Then, as if you couldn’t ever reach a state of peace, he asked again a month later, and you had no other choice than to invent a faulty reason for why you didn’t feel like drinking that night, the next night, or the one after, even if, according to all the drunk stories you’d recounted to him in the past, you never really turned down a drink or the opportunity to get inebriated. Guilt poisoned you when he never brought up the idea after that, fingers crossed that he didn’t get the impression you didn’t want to meet him in other circumstances other than the bar; regardless that that’s exactly what was going on. Every other night after he helped you with closing the bar, you’d also nod goodbye at him and stand in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting until he turned around the corner so your feet could dreadfully carry you to the subway station, your now-unfixable car present in your head like an aggravating piece of gum that stuck to your shoe.

Nothing could be more vexing than this, though.

Eventually, you began to wonder. Perhaps, yet again, you were as weary as that time you slept with Peter, seeing as you couldn’t think straight, almost as if you’d suffered from a concussion and all your neurons died, to your utmost dismay. But there was a dissimilarity: the unfortunate detail that, unlike physical fatigue, mental exhaustion wouldn’t pack its bags and wave farewell after a night-long sleep. Not when immediately after you woke up, the same worries still found their home within your head. So your imagination took it as an initiative to force feelings and schemes onto you, ones which involved the stomach-churning plausibility that maybe, just maybe, Peter liked you back and you could happily come clean. You had to laugh. But then you really started to wonder.

You needed at least six reasons to follow through with it. First. He was the one who made a move months ago. Second. He wasn’t drunk. Third, you listed in your head, you kissed. Again. And, fourth, this time he might have been drunk, but if he did it both as a sober man and a drunk one, it had to mean something, right?

You were struggling to distinguish the line between overthinking and legitimacy again.

You went to work that day, decided, the fifth reason simply being that you couldn’t get him out of your head, but the sixth reason missing. A truck landing on you would probably do the job, you thought. You didn’t mean it whole-heartedly, of course. But, apparently, the universe didn’t know about sarcasm and how it worked since, an hour after the thought passed through your head, it sent you a nice little gift and Spider-Man just so happened to get in a fight near the bar and an actual truck broke through the walls of the pub.

“I can’t fucking believe a truck landed right here. This is why I hate living in this city so much,” You scoffed, holding a towel wrapped around ice up to your bruised forehead as you observed the gigantic hole where the truck happily invited itself into. Peter barely reacted to your comment, too focused on disinfecting the wound in your arm. You pulled the makeshift ice bag away from your head, screwing your eyes shut. “I’m starting to get a headache from how cold this is, can I—”

Peter grabbed your hand and forced it back up to your forehead, shaking his head and focusing again on your arm. “No, trust me, it will reduce the swelling.”

“Should I be worried that you know so much about injuries?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, looking down at your lap. “I know. Thanks.” You smiled, recalling the urgency in his voice after he called you, saying he’d seen what’d happened on the news. He moved on to the gauze and began to bandage your arm, making sure his movements were delicate lest he hurt you more. “I met Spider-Man, though. I think I can finally die in peace.” You caught the way the corner of his mouth lifted upward.

“Really? Did he apologize for almost killing you?” Peter grumbled, accepting the scissors you offered him to cut the cotton fabric. You released a huff of air, admittedly offended and immediately going to defend the masked superhero.

“He didn’t almost kill me, it was the other guy. Bad guys, you know? They’re everywhere.” He huffed. “He checked up on me and offered to take me to the hospital, though. Pretty cool guy.”

“And why didn’t you say yes?”

You contemplated his question. “Stranger danger.” You shrugged. Peter laughed softly, muttering ‘fair enough’. “It also wasn’t necessary. I didn’t want to interfere with his, uh… superhero duties…”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t making sure you’re okay part of his duties?”

“I guess, but I’m fine, it’s no biggie.”

“Y/N, you could have died.”

“But look at me,” You patted your torso, then holding your arms wide open. “I didn’t. You’re making it sound much worse than it actually was.” Peter ran his hand through his hair, exhaling tiredly.

“Whatever,” He said, hesitance showing through his eyes. “I just think the guy should be more careful. His job is to protect the people, not to… hurt them.”

You scowled playfully, kicking him lightly. “Dude, fuck off, don’t talk shit about him like that. He’s Spider-Man. Give the poor guy a break.” He didn’t say anything, though, stirring your concern as you realized he seemed off since he first arrived. “Are you okay?” You inquired, frowning.

Peter glanced up at you before rubbing his face. “Yeah. It’s just been a long day.”

“Every day is a long day when it comes to you, isn’t it?” You joked lightly, nudging him a second time. “You helped me, now let me help you. What’s up?”

He moved his head from one side to another. “You’re always helping me.” He said almost as an apology, smiling sadly. You smirked back, standing up from your seat next to him to jump over the bar. You grasped an empty shot glass, checking no small debris had made its way into for the sake of Peter’s health (now, that’d be a hell of a lawsuit) before you slid it towards him.

“It’s my job as your bartender.”

He peered down at the glass and then up at you. Chuckling defeatedly, he took ahold of it, and you read it as ‘ah, the hell with it’ as you reached for the bottle of vodka. “I fucked up.” He whispered while you poured the liquid.

You screwed the cap closed, your eyebrows lifting high. “How come?”

Peter placed his head in his hands, nose crinkling. “I, um… talked to MJ?” And just like that, your mood took a fall as well, an inaudible ‘oh’ fleeting past your lips. “It’s the first time we talked in a long time.”

“...And?” You asked anxiously, folding your arms across your chest. Peter clutched onto the shot of vodka, watching the liquid dangerously reach for the edge of the glass after he slowly tipped it.

“Well, she’s trying to move on.” Surprise crossed your face. “And I was so distraught by it for the rest of the day that I really fucked up at work.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“That maybe I should move on, too.”

Your arms fell down to your sides. Maybe you really did hit your head too harshly, you thought, as your body started to feel heavy and you had to support yourself on the bar, for all this information you were hearing at once was colliding against you more vigorously than the pieces of wood which fled towards you earlier. Swallowing to bring moisture to your throat, you continued with the million-dollar question pestering you.

“What’s stopping you?”

You regretted uttering the words, something you seemed to be doing too much to suit your taste as of lately. However, Peter, although the question troubled him the same way it did you, clasped his hands together and you studied him whilst he went through every thought in his head and through every feeling, seeking an explanation he himself needed to know as well.

“I’m not sure if I want to. But I know that I have to.” He finally breathed out. You leaned forward, not satisfied, needing to hear more and more even if it’d hurt, because nothing was more vexing than this feeling.

“But you love her,” You said matter-of-factly. Silence. Your heart pounded rapidly enough you could sense it in your head. “Right?” You asked, embarrassed by the apparent desperation in your tone.

“Huh?” Peter snapped out his thoughts, blinking up at you.

“You love Mary Jane?”

He bit his lip as he went back inside the isolated room of his brain after only just sneaking his head out, evidently growing stressed. “It’s okay,” You brought him back out, sacrificing your curiosity as you gently smiled at him. “You don’t have to answer.”

Peter exhaled thankfully, downing his shot. “What’d you wanna tell me earlier, anyway?” He asked expectantly, his voice scratchy from the liquor. Oh. Yeah, right. Plans might have changed an hour ago, yet for some reason, you still wanted to come clean to Peter. However, right now, after hearing about Mary Jane, you forgot about the sixth reason and remembered why you never did in the first place after all this time.

“Do you… want to go get a drink?” You cursed your imagination for not working when it was necessary. Peter’s forehead creased with astonishment as if he never thought he’d hear that sentence again (in his defense, though, it’s exactly what you were planning to do).

“You finally wanna go and get a drink?”

“Hey, just be glad I’m feeling like it.”

It was an understatement to express you were feeling like it.

You continued searching for that sixth reason for the next weeks, even if the entire world knew that after you found it, you’d keep your lips sealed. Your friend put your friendship at risk when, during your September lunch with your boss, he couldn’t resist but telling her about your ‘secret crush’, saying he simply did it for a third opinion, but neither of you gained no new eye-opening advice for your boss dragged on about how Peter could be ‘the one’, which honestly worked in scaring you away from the topic. One day after, as you couldn’t fall asleep, you deliberated the reasons why you should forget about Peter.

One. He’s your friend. Your really good friend. You liked him being your friend. He’s funny, a nerd, and you could talk to him forever, even if it was merely absolute nonsense. Two. He’s a lot older than you. Not that eight years mattered that much, but it could. You were just entering your thirties whilst he was nearing his forties. Even if he’d made it clear kids weren’t his cup of tea, he could change his mind. You weren’t ready to settle down yet, despite most people reminding you the clock was ticking and you should start considering it.

Three. The iconic Mary Jane Watson. Peter’s ex-wife whom he loved dearly. He might have not talked about her since he mentioned the idea of moving on, but you knew it was easier said than done. If you opened up, he could shut you down and reveal he’s still in love with MJ. Or worse, if you two did wind up dating, he could decide to leave you for her. Four. Your friend helped you with the fourth one. He had yet to tell you about why he’s bruised most of the time. It admittedly awakened the cynicism in you, for it could be something which had the potential of putting you at risk, or get you killed. Plus, if he did not want to give you an explanation, it meant he didn’t trust you enough.

Five. You couldn’t lose him. You already almost did. Your absurd crush could be the last straw and get rid of him for good. If that was the case, then you’d do anything to muffle your heart singing its love songs when he crossed your mind or simply stood in front of you. You’d do it, even if it’d hurt.

Again, you couldn’t come up with a sixth reason. You established, then, that whichever reason you uncovered first, would be the final word. Your friend knew both a sixth reason for why you shouldn’t forget about Peter and why you should that, trying not to influence you any further, he kept to himself; it being clear in his head which one he hoped you’d find first.

It was another Friday night. You’d just returned home after wasting your money on some restaurant that definitely was not worth the price (goddamn New York) when your phone blared its ringtone in your pocket. Your heart clenched as you read the name and were about to answer immediately, until you stopped yourself. Counting eight seconds in your head, your thumb slid across the screen after you got to the last number and picked up the call. “Peter?” You were audibly and justifiably perplexed— why has he calling you at… you checked the time— ten P.M,? It may have not been the first one anymore, but phone calls were still a rare occurrence between you two.

“Hey! Are you busy?” His breathing was heavy, which made you wonder what he possibly could’ve been up to before he called you.

You opened your apartment’s door and blindly searched for the light switch. “No, I just got back home, actually.” You muttered, and then voiced a victorious exclamation when the room lit up in front of your eyes. “Why?”

He inhaled profoundly. “Cool. Great. Yeah.”

You guessed the barely distinguishable quiver in his voice could be defined as uneasiness as you sat down on your couch’s armrest, squinting.

“Is everything okay?”

“...Yeah. Yeah!” He repeated, firstly too quietly but now with faux confidence. “I needed to talk to you.”

Ah, hell. You had one important question and one only: when would you get a break from confrontation and those words? The last time you and Peter ‘needed to talk’ didn’t exactly go as smoothly. That in mind, your organs plummeted down into an expanding black hole in your stomach as you brought your fingers up to your lips. “I’m all ears, as always.” No, not really, but you didn’t exactly have any other choice.

“Okay, okay. Um, I, uh… what am I doing?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I wanna say sorry in advance.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

You could solely hear what sounded like wind. “You’re not gonna believe me, so just, just look outside your window.”

The black hole having devoured the contents in your system, you raised to your feet and sped to the window, not capable of painting in your head a single picture of what in the heavens the man could be planning. You unlatched the lock and glided the window upward, your head gradually peering out. Your eyes went as big and round as the full moon glowing above you when you saw it.

You stared dumbfounded, close to pinching yourself to do a reality check. It had to be a dream. A strange dream. There was just no way. No fucking way, it was absolutely impossible. It was beyond the innumerable existing possibilities that Spider-Man looked back at you, stuck against the wall. Similar to someone’s lack of subtlety, it couldn’t have been any more evident. You didn’t even need a big brain or to think, to analyze deeply as if it were a riddle in a newspaper. Because it was just right there in front of you, plainly obvious and transforming your blood into ice: the phone he held up to his face.

“Hi…” Said the masked hero. And so did Peter through the phone call.

Your phone slipped from your grasp, yet you didn’t glance down at it. You continued to gawk at the man as he flicked his wrist and saved not only your phone, but simultaneously also your bank account from having to spend hundreds of dollars on a new one. You did not mutter a thanks, let out no relieved sigh when he gave it back to you. You just stared.

“I know I’m pretty cool to look at, but can you please say something?” He laughed nervously. Ignoring him, you took a step back and retreated your head, eyes close to falling out of their sockets. The phone in your shaky hands rang a second time and you answered without needing to look at the contact.

“H-Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Peter, what the fuck.”

“I’ve done this so many times but I still don’t know what to say.” He groaned to himself. You put your hand on top of your head, disbelieving.

“Get in.” You abruptly ended the call and plopped down on your couch, clutching your stomach, blinking furiously after black dots uncontrollably twirled in your vision. You heard a thump, the floor shaking slightly; however, you didn’t turn around to look at your guest, instead focusing on the wall in front of you. It wasn’t until the cushion beside you sank with the man’s weight that you blew up. “Holy shit.” You cupped your face with your hands, laughing out of pure shock. “Holy shit… holy shit!”

“Don’t freak out.”

“How am I not supposed to freak out?!”

Peter— Spider-Man shrugged, his white lenses wide. “I don’t… I don’t know.” He admitted.

You scanned his mask, the mask you’d become familiar with after seeing it so many times on TV and pictures. Somehow, however, regardless if you knew that mask and the person behind it, you couldn’t believe its authenticity. “Take off the mask.” He didn’t move or respond. “Please.” You begged.

You first saw the stubble. Then his lips. Then his crooked nose, and soon, those eyes. The whiskey eyes. Peter’s whiskey eyes. Your hands wound up on his broad shoulders, and for some reason you yourself couldn’t work out, it just dawned upon you how muscular they were. Your eyes came back to his face. Yeah, that’s Peter. That’s Peter B. Parker. Peter Parker was Spider-Man. All the revelations crashed against you quick, glass shattering in your head, everything suddenly making sense. The bruises. His constant fatigue. Everything.

“Peter… oh my God.”

“I know I-I kept this from you for a really long time, and I know it’s hard to fully digest it, but I did promise I was gonna tell you one day.” He said, the corner of his lips twitching. But you weren’t smiling— all the terrible fights you’d watched on the news throughout the years flashed in your head, going all the way back in time to when you first discovered Queens’ brand-new superhero as a seven-year-old.

You gasped, covering your mouth. “You’re telling me you’ve been at this since you were a fucking kid?”

Peter let his mask drop to the carpeted ground, his back sliding down the sofa’s backrest. “Since I was fifteen, yeah.”

“Peter…”

He grimaced at your concern. “I know it sounds sad, but it’s not… it’s not that bad.” He promised you, but you couldn’t take him seriously. You picked up your legs, sitting cross-legged and playing with your fingers as you continued to go through your racing questions.

“I used to look up to you when I was little.” You revealed quietly. Peter scoffed, grinning playfully.

“What, you don’t anymore?”

You shook your head vigorously. “I do. Shit, I still do. I never thought I’d meet my childhood hero the way I did, though.”

“Sorry I’m just a sad, old man.”

You rolled your eyes, prodding him with your elbow. “You’re so much more than that.” All humor fled his expression and he shut his eyes, throwing his head back.

“Am I? I constantly feel like I’m letting everyone down.” He huffed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. There it was, of course; he couldn’t talk about Spider-Man in a non-degrading way.

“You’re fucking Spider-Man!” You exclaimed, not accepting his utter bullshit, but he was willing to accept it as he peeked one eye open to look at you.

“I know, you always say that.”

You gave up in trying to change his mind and shifted closer to him, copying his position, unable to focus on your view of the boring, mundane ceiling; so you turned your head to see Peter getting lost in the white square. “You really didn’t have to tell me. This is a big secret.”

“It’s alright. I trust you.” You were glad he kept staring up as you felt the blood rush to your face.

“You do?” You asked, your chest warm, illuminated with glee. Peter glanced at you, nodding nonchalantly.

“I mean, yeah. I really do.”

You turned your face away from him, your muscles close to tearing from how big and proudly you grinned. “Spider-Man trusts me.” You hushed to yourself.

Peter breathed out, exasperated, his eyes fluttering closed again. “Stop.” He pleaded, laughing himself nonetheless. You bit your smile back, moving to sit straight in what your friend liked to call your ‘parent worried about their kid’ sitting position.

“I guess I was right for worrying, huh?” You smiled sadly, taking in the severity of the situation. He poked his cheek with his tongue, shaking his head.

“I don’t want you to worry.” He sighed. You snorted.

“That’s dumb. You’re saying you’re always putting your life on the line? Of course I’m gonna worry.”

“Well, I worry about you, too.”

“How come?”

“If you’re close to me, then you’re putting your life on the line as well.”

You frowned, squeezing his arm to comfort him. “No, don’t say that.”

“Y/N, it’s the truth, though.” He fully sat up to turn toward you, his eyebrows furrowed. “It’s the worst thing about this. How many times have the people I care about gotten hurt? All ‘cause of me?”

You remained speechless. Moments later, he placed his hands flat against the sofa, preparing to stand up. “Y’know, I get it if you want to keep your distance from now on. I actually think it’d be a good—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” You warned him, expression stern. “It’s stupid.”

“I almost got you killed that other time—”

“You didn’t almost get me fucking killed, for Christ’s sake!”

Peter’s jaw tightened and he ran his hands through his hair, that strand of hair falling back in front of his forehead. “Whatever. You can’t be so sure, anyway.”

You pressed your lips together, knowing that he was right. You nervously placed your hand on top of his. “Can I hug you?” You asked like a child, giving him a half-smile. Peter looked down at your hand before his eyes moved to you.

“Sure. Y-Yeah.”

You wrapped your arms around him, hugging him hard, your eyes squeezing shut. You felt him slowly embrace your waist, scared of underestimating his strength. “I’m glad you told me. It must have been really hard.” You murmured against his chest. He chuckled humorlessly, his cheek on top of your head.

“You have no idea.”

“I’m gonna be here for you no matter what, okay? Whether it’s to vent or for some weird spider shit. I…” Love you. “You’re my friend, dude.”

After he left that night, you’d never been more conflicted about your feelings. It was a conundrum; a whole headache-inducing brain-teaser. You’d striked out the fourth reason why you should forget about Peter, the original five down to only four, but you still searched for that sixth— now fifth reason. As if it didn’t scramble your brain enough that it left you dazed and your thoughts impossible untangle, Peter unknowingly joined the game with the objective of rattling you up more.

You noticed he didn’t disappear without notice ever again, and if he did, he didn’t leave you hanging, rather he sent you a text the day after with an entire clarification. Then, you caught onto the increasing meter of his touchiness: new and unexpected hugs, holding your damn hand— although that only happened twice, but still. Your overdramatic friend didn’t even need to point it out.

One Saturday, he sat down in front of you, and before you could greet him, he surprised you. “One whiskey served over ice, please.” He smirked. You gaped at him, laughing, face astonished.

“What’s up with that?” He shrugged, grin never disappearing.

“I dunno, I guess I missed it.”

You never thought you’d continue hearing ‘one whiskey served over ice, please’ ever again. But you did.

This year, you did give him a present for Hanukkah and Christmas. A painting of one of your favorite photos of his that he showed you one day; a day you so vividly recalled, for he asked you to come with him to take pictures of an exhibition at a museum, and you accidentally broke a statue after you leaned against it in the attempt of doing an extravagant pose. To your surprise, he gave you one, too: a photo album with pictures from that day, and a message that read, ‘Merry Christmas!’, accompanied by a smiley face. In the blink of an eye, it was New Year’s Eve again, except that this time, you and Peter were talking.

You came out of the party’s bathroom, unable to tear your gaze away for the fourth time from Peter’s New Year’s Eve message, until you bumped into someone and had to force yourself to pocket your phone. You lazily swayed to the music, your vision blurring out, turning it harder to find your friend amidst the people. While your body was there, all your five senses working perfectly, feeling the heat from the enclosed space, the music vibrating in your chest, the smell of alcohol and smoke fixed in your nostrils, your mind lived in December 20th. December 20th being last Monday: a date that continued to echo in your head, the entirety of the day playing from the beginning until the pitch-black hour of midnight. It played, played, played relentlessly, exhaustingly. December 20th, it continued, a stupid date that your drunk self could not let go of.

You distinguished your friend in the crowd, comfort kissing your body and your tired legs guiding you to him, until you moved a person aside and saw the full view of his lower body grinding against a girl all over him. “Ah, fucking gross,” You groaned, pushing the unlucky same guy as you took a turn and headed for the glass door leading out to the balcony.

You firstly bumped into the door thinking it was open, but successfully slid it open and made it out into the winter weather, the city more awake than ever twenty minutes before the New Year. But you weren’t focusing on the future. No, you held onto last Monday, gripping it so tightly it hurt, hanging onto it as if you’d be nothing once it left. You stumbled towards the bench to your left, falling defeated on it. December 20th. You turned on your phone, squinting down at the screen, eyes struggling to focus through the brightness. Last week. You opened your contacts and without hesitation called a number, bringing your phone up to your ear, humming along to the beeping whilst you awaited for the person to pick up.

“Hello?” Peter said. You hung up, eyes wide. What the fuck were you doing? You didn’t answer your own question, though; you pressed the button to call again.

“...Hi?”

You ended the call a second time, growing frustrated with yourself. Having finally made up your mind, you called him one last time, jumping when he answered in what appeared a worldwide record-time. “Y/N, what the fuck—”

“Peter! You answered.”

There was a short silence. “I did.” He agreed, undeniably puzzled. You slumped against the wall, muffling your dopey laughter with the palm of your hand. You could hear… ah, wait. You could see, not hear, his face in your head with no problem: his furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

“How are you?” You wanted to hear about his day. What had he eaten that day? What had crossed his mind? Hopefully you’d made an appearance at least once. That’d be nice.

“I’m good, thanks for asking.” You hummed happily. “How drunk are you?”

You shook your head, failing at rubbing the haziness out of your eyes. “Just a bit tipsy, maybe.”

“How much exactly is ‘a bit tipsy’ for you?”

“How many phone calls have we had?”

A question out of the blue, you knew, and you were expecting yet again the quietness as he processed your sudden need to quiz him about such insignificant rubbish. Well… did he think it was insignificant? So many questions bouncing off your skull all at once, worsening that awful migraine you could already feel coming… or was it the booze? No, who cares. All you cared about at the moment was his response, because knowing how many fucking phone calls you’ve had wasn’t that hard unless you didn’t care.

“What?” Really? He was going to make you repeat yourself? You dug the heel of the palm into your closed eye, white fireworks blowing up in the darkness behind your eyelids.

“Like, for these past two years. How many phone calls?”

“I… don’t know, maybe like three?”

Your face fell ever so slightly. “It’s six, actually.” You heard an unenthusiastic gasp.

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Do you remember the sixth one?”

“Isn’t this the sixth one?”

“This is the seventh one.”

“Okay, and why are you giving me a class about how many phone calls we’ve had?”

“Because you don’t remember the sixth one. I’m sure you don’t even remember the fifth one that well.”

He remained quiet for a moment. “It’s a blur.” Peter murmured.

“You were drunk…” You shut both eyes now, trying to dig through the fog to recall. “It was after you came to the bar…” Peter’s embarrassed stutters, similar to his inebriated ones, helped to uncover the memory further.

“I-I was drunk, yeah,” He admitted, “just like you are right now.”

“And what did you say?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “I think you remember better than I do.”

You grinned. “You’re embarrassed.”

“Of course I’m embarrassed, Y/N.”

“Well, what about the sixth time you called me?”

“I seriously can’t remember a sixth time.”

“It wasn’t a failed booty call.”

He breathed in harshly. “Ah, I’m glad, I guess.”

A frown took over your features. “You really can’t remember?” You needed him to. He had to. Or else... or else…

“I swear on my aunt.”

Your heart shattered, the sharp pieces prodding and hurting your chest. “So… so I guess you didn’t mean what you said?” You mumbled to yourself, realization sobering you more than you wanted it to.

Peter couldn’t help but begin to panic a bit at the mention of expressing something without his knowledge, or at least without his not drunk self’s knowledge. You immediately grew conscious of it for this time, the silence was different. “...What did I say?” He questioned, somewhat afraid. You didn’t speak. “Y/N? What did I say?” He pushed more urgently.

“It doesn’t matter,” You changed your mind. Calling was just another bad idea. You took your phone away from your ear for a second, jumping off from your seat, but your foot accidentally knocked over your drink. You stared down at the growing pool of alcohol staining the floor, seeping underneath your shoe. Blinking, you looked at your phone, at Peter’s name, and the numbers of the counter below it rising, marking each of your thumping heartbeat.

The sixth reason. You needed it to stop you right now; an instruction to back out, the reassurance that it was still an option and it didn’t stop being one long ago. But as your finger came down to end the call for the better, your head screamed, freezing you.

Sixth. You were in love with Peter Parker.

You dropped back down on the bench, eyes glazed over. That was it. The sixth reason. Peter. The man nearing his forties and with the loveliest messed up nose. The customer you met last year and that continued to come to bar you worked at just to talk to you, his bartender. The guy you laughed with, sang with, slept with, became too close with, fell in love with. You put the phone back up to its right place, anxiously licking your lips. “Look, I’m gonna regret this. I know I am. But that hasn’t stopped me in the past, so why should it now, right?” You chuckled, your eyes wide.

“I’m really concerned about that phone call, though.”

“Peter,” You glanced up at the sky, gulping. “I’m so glad I met you. I really am.”

“I-I’m glad I met you, too.”

You smiled momentarily. “Good. Working at the bar had become such a pain in the ass, and it still kinda is, but then you came that first time, and you called me ‘kid’ which annoyed me, but I was still hoping that maybe you’d stay, you know?”

“Why?”

“Because…” Your free hand came up to aid the other which trembled too much, grasping it tightly. “I don’t know, it was weird, I just couldn’t… I-I really wanted to get to know you. And it took some time but eventually we did talk— you said that stupid pick-up line and somehow it worked. I really need to higher my standards.”

“Hey, it was a great pick-up line.”

“It really wasn’t.”

“You gave me your number, didn’t you?”

The corner of your mouth twitched upward, and you laughed softly at yourself. “I did, I did. And I’m glad I did, even if you were just trying to get your mind off of MJ.” The truth stung as it glided out of your mouth.

Peter thought for a moment before continuing, “Maybe I just wanted a friend.” But it lacked sincerity, and you both could recognize that.

“But, Pete,” You bit your lip, looking down at the mess you’d left on the ground, the sole of your shoe now sticky. “Am I really just a friend?”

More silence. You breathed in, your chest moving up. “Be honest with me, please.” You begged, your voice hushed.

“Okay.”

Your stomach began to cramp up. “That time we hooked up,” You paused, the eerie shortage of noise on the other side of the line pushing you to go on. “Did it mean anything to you? Was it anything more than just a distraction?”

“I…”

“Or what about that other time at my place? Why did nothing happen?”

“We were too wasted. It was wrong.”

“So you do remember.”

“I do.”

You placed your hand on top of the other, beginning to pace around. “Are you lying about that phone call, too?”

“What is it with this phone call you say? What happened?” He repeated, desperate and with a hint of irritation. You approached the railing, placing your elbows on the metal.

“Just… be honest with me.”

“I am, Y/N.”

You kneaded your forehead with your knuckles, shaking your head. “I can’t take it anymore. It’s been too long, and it’s so confusing. You’re so confusing. Or maybe I’m stupid, I don’t know. There’s… there’s this thing, I know you can feel it as well, and sometimes it’s as if there’s a chance that you might feel the same way I do, but then the next minute it’s as if not, a-and it’s so confusing.”

“Feel the same way you do? What do you mean?” He clearly knew what you meant. Your eyes traveled around the city, the cold and strong breeze nearly knocking your body backward. If he knew, why couldn’t he simply outright admit it? Why, all of a sudden, was it taking him so long?

“The phone call…”

He groaned. “Y/N, just please tell me why you’re so hung up on that phone call?”

“It was last week. You said you liked me.”

You said it. He heard it. He finally heard it, and you waited for anything like an idiot, yet it never came. You checked if you had accidentally hung up the call, but when you saw that it was still going, you sighed and decided to end it for once and for all. “We can be anything. Anything, okay? I can just be your bartender, you can be my client, we can be friends, w-we can be more. If it’s not supposed to be, then just as long as you’re there, I really won’t mind. Just, please… I’m begging you…” You whispered, not capable of discerning whether your body quivered from the winter or the fear brutally gnawing on you.

“Be honest.”

Peter held his breath. “Y/N…” You waited, shoulders shaking, the stupid fucking silence clutching you by the neck as you waited. Just say it. Just say it—

“I’m still in love with MJ. I’m sorry.”

Oh.

“Oh.” You said aloud, voice cracking. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Pete, no, I’m…Thank you. It’s just kinda hard to take it in, but I...” You tightened your jaw, your throat aching, swallowing back your pity. “I will. Thank you for being honest, though.”

“I really hope this doesn’t ruin things,” You could barely hear him: your brain too loud compared to his voice. You shook your head frantically, scrunching up your nose to hold back a sniffle.

“Never. I love you.” It wasn’t the way you wanted to say it. “You’re my friend. And I’m not going anywhere because you said I was stuck with you, remember?”

He laughed, a beam of light that almost mended your fractured heart. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten about that.” You smiled brightly, wiping the tears you’d tried so hard to stop from running down your cheeks. You stood straight, but it was only for a mere second, for your arms plopped back down onto the railing from the lightheadedness which threatened to bring you down.

“Okay,” You slurred, the bile rising up and burning your throat. “I’m gonna leave you. My friend will hate me if I miss the countdown…”

“Sure. Happy new year… be safe.”

You giggled, waving your hand at no one, really. “Don’t worry about me grandpa, I do this every year.” You doubted the idea that popped in your head, but voiced it anyway, “And if you need any help with MJ, I’m here. I can give you a discount at the bar for a date night!” The excitement you forced onto yourself was salt on the wound.

“I’m not sure if that’s a romantic idea, but thanks, I’ll think about it.” You both hesitated, waiting for something once again. But when you realized that it’d never arrive no matter how much time passed, you nodded quietly and unwrapped your arms from yourself, preparing to let go of that feeling you’d clutched onto for the longest time as well.

“I’ll see you around.” You finally said and hung up. You stared at your phone, grief by your side, holding your hand. Yet, to your surprise, a weak smile started to creep on you, relief slowly sewing your heart together. You told yourself that the heaviness in your heart didn’t matter, because at least you had Peter. At least he would still be there, at the bar, with his whiskey served over ice.

As you stumbled to your feet, ready to join your friend and drink away your bittersweet ache, your phone began to vibrate. Your brows twisted together and you looked down, sliding your thumb across the screen.

“Peter?”

#peter b parker x reader #peter b parker x you #peter b parker x y/n #sm:itsv #spider man into the spider verse #peter b parker one shot #peter b parker imagine #one make out session #fem!reader #male!reader #gender neutral #sadies1.6kwc

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turnupbrock · 5 years ago

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Perfectionist -Chapter One - Colby Brock

This was a requested series by @black-colby-pink “ dude you should write a series, I would read it. “ So that’s what I’m doing. I really hope you guys like it because I like writing it so far and I have interesting plans for it in the future.

Tags list: @absolute-randomness-forever @scottybrock @black-colby-pink @softboybrock @now-imagine @azurebrock @sweetxplr

(Let me know if you want to be tagged :) )

As your group of friends sat around Sam’s living room, eyes focused on the TV screen in front of them. Mouths dropped open, the fear radiating off every single one of them, creating a ball of it in the middle of the room. Making the air feel thicker, harder for them to breath but they didn’t notice. The only thing that had their attention was the ‘Public Service Announcement’ that was blaring on Sam’s TV that was hanging from the wall. The only sound in the room was the loud beeping and the women’s loud voice that was spilling through the speakers that Sam had placed on the floor and the flatscreen. You and Colby basically fell through the door, laughing your asses off from a joke that Colby made before swinging the door of Sam’s apartment open. The fearful looks that you got from all of your friends sobered you and Colby up really quick. “You guys are looking at us like someone died, “ You joked trying to enlighten the heavy mood that was set. Your remark only caused your friends eyes to widened impossibly wider, “Someone did die,” Katrina spoke, her voice was trembling as she spoke. Colby’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you tighter against him. “What are you talking about?” Colby asked from behind you. His voice was one of wonder and nervousness.

The blaring noise beeped again causing all of our attention to snap over to the TV once more, “This is not a test.” A women’s voice came through the speakers, almost sounding animatronic like. “This an emergency announcement sanctioned by The U.S Government. There has a murder that took place tonight outside the club ‘Boarder’s Night Club’ located in North Hollywood. Officers and the F.B.I are working to find who the main suspect could be. The sex, age, and name of the the victim is being foreclosed for their privacy.” The same voice continued to flow throughout the apartment. Your eyes were wide and your breathing began to pick up, your hands shaking violently by your sides. Colby slipped his arm from your waist to your hands, holding them tightly, trying to calm your nerves. “Everyone is being advised to stay away from any Night Clubs or Bars until further notice. We are trying to keep everyone as safe as possible. If anyone has any information on the murder that had taken place this tragic evening, please contact 911 immediately. May you all be safe.” The announcement ended with the same ear splitting static blare.

Your eyes dragged from the television to all of your friends, who you’re sure their faces mirrored your own. Mouths agape, eyes wide, hands shaking, and eyes watering out of fear. “ They wouldn’t announce it if it was like any other murder,” Sam’s voice broke through the silence of the room. You nodded your head, lifting your hand wipe your tears, “ Yeah, if were any other murder it would’ve been on the news, not an emergency announcement,” you agreed. All the voices of your close friends rang through the space, it was a whirlwind of yelling and concern. You’re sure that you head a couple of sniffles from the girls and maybe some of the guys but you couldn’t exactly pinpoint who they belonged to. Your heart was racing, your eyes raking from one friend to the next, mind running one hundred miles an hour as you desperately tried to take in the situation. However, everyone's mouth snapped shut when the door flung open to reveal Aryia and Corey. Their own eyes wide and disbelieving, “ Did you hear?” Ariya asked locking the door behind them. Colby dragged you to Sam’s moveable loveseat, pulling you onto his white jean covered lap. Wrapping a protective arm around your waist he replied, “ Yeah we heard. “ Your eyes searched the boys that had just walked in. Taking in their appearance. You could see that their hands shaking and they looked just as nervous, if not more nervous than you guys. But the thing that stood out the most was how their hair was mussed and clothing rippled in some places.

Other than that nothing about them struck you as odd for all of you were scared, shaking like you were in shock..and maybe you were. Maybe the news of the newly found murder had shocked you all into fear. It was weird, not only because it was a murder but because it was such a bad one. So bad that they broadcasted it as a ‘Public Service Announcement’. It’s nerve-wracking to say the least. There is someone out there that murdered someone and they are still walking around as if they hadn’t just ended someone's life. “It feels like the purge had just begun and it’s making me more creeped out,” Mike spoke from his seat on the couch. His comment broke through the uneasy silence that once filled the room, “It does feel like that, and those movies never turn out well,” you replied shifting in Colby’s lap. Sam sat up, rubbing his chinstrap, “Okay, well let’s think of it realistically. It happened at Boarder’s Night Club, we have no idea the time estimate of the murder. We only know where it happened. If we can somehow get into the files of who was there that night, we might be able to get a suspect.” Reggie sat up as well, chewing on his bottom lip, “That might work. I could get into Boarders security footage and the bouncers list. I just need my computer and I’ll have to be able to pinpoint the exact I.P address.” I nodded my head, “ I can help with the I.P and security footage. I used to do that all the time in highschool.” you said looking around to see if everyone was following. After receiving nods from everyone, you knew that everyone understood what we were talking about. “But how long would that take?” Cassie asked pulling her newly dyed black hair up in a messy bun.

You hummed, chewing on the inside of your cheek while you thought. To be honest, it won’t take that long with you and Reggie both working on it. You both are good with tech and hacking since you took tech/ electronic classes in high school. Plus you practiced it past school as well, “ With both of us working on getting into the Clubs’ security, it won’t take long.” You said looking back at your boyfriend who was just sitting there silently debating in his head. You could tell that he was thinking something through, “Are you okay?” You whispered. Your voice was enough to pull him from his mind, his blue eyes snapping up to meet your own. Colby nodded, “ Yeah, just thinking. I remember that someone I follow on instagram was at that night club tonight.” He said. Your eyes widened and you jumped off of his lap, “ Well check!” you exclaimed. Colby hurriedly pulled his phone from the front pocket of his white jeans. “Wait, what is happening?” Devyn asked. You whirled around to face your worried friends that were spread throughout the apartment, “Someone that Colby follows was at Boarders’ tonight, if we find out who it was then we could talk to them and see if they know anything about what happened tonight.” You explained. Just as Tara was about to say something, Colby revealed who was there tonight, “It was Brennen, he was there tonight with this girl he has been talking to.” “What’s the girls name?” Corey asked pulling out his phone. “Umm...Ruby,” Colby said looking up from his phone. Everyone was silent for a moment before he held up his phone, “Got it. Her name is Ruby Lopez. She posted on her story thirty minutes ago. It was of her and Brennen dancing in his apartment.” “What about her earlier slides?” you asked walking over to where Corey and Ariya still stood by the door. You glanced over his shoulder to see the screen of his iPhone. “Uh yeah. Two hours ago she was at Boarders’ with Brennen, taking shots at the bar. An hour ago she posted a video of them dancing on each other, still at Boarders’. Then that’s it before her post at his apartment.” Corey said shutting off his phone and sliding it back into his pocket. “Okay so two hours ago was ten o’ clock pm,” Mike said rubbing his tattoo covered arm, “ And since that place is always packed, it wouldn’t take long to find the body. The announcement sounded out twenty minutes ago which means that the murder couldn’t of happened too, too long ago.” You said walking back over to Colby. “You’re right. It would’ve taken place about an hour or two hours ago.” Colby said while pulling you down into his lap once more. A short lived silence filled the room once more, “We know what we need to do,” Kevin said. You nodded your head,

“Hack the program, find the murderer.”

#absolutelynobody #colby imagine #colbybrock #colby brock x reader #colby brock fanfic #colby brock imagine #colbybrockoneshot #colby brock

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trashpandaorigins · 5 years ago

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Stop for Me

During the GOTG Comic Run Faithless, Rocket is dying. He's run away from the Guardians and cannot be found. It is implied/stated later by Groot that Gamora actually found the ringtail and was secretly going back and fourth to see him and drink with him. She was keeping his location and condition secret, killing any of his enemies before they could get to him so that he could die in peace. She was, according to Groot prepared to bury the ringtail and honor his desire to choose how he gets to be remembered. It's all tragic and emotional and sappy so I leapt at the chance to write this. My interpretation of that behind the scenes.

I'd recommend googling a summary of the gotg comic run Faithless before reading this fic. It will help you understand things. I jumped around quite a bit so be warned.

Heather Douglas aka Moondragon has the ability to invade someone's mind and control them.

Also I am basing this off my understanding of the comics. I don't know where Gamora actually was, her status with the rest of the team etc. This is my interpretation.

*Warnings: Themes of death/dying/mortality. Implied animal abuse, torture, scenes with hospitals/medical equipment (not explicit but mentioned).*

“Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.”

Because I Could Not Stop for Death - Emily Dickenson

Tyressel - Deserted Forest Planet 11th Quadrant

Target locked, armed with two Kree evart guns. Gamora crouched in the branches of a large tellwart tree, squinting between the branches at the lone Estarian down below. The fool stopped, glancing around the dark trees. She lunged, landing on the Estarian’s broad shoulders and disarming her in one fell swoop.

“Where is he?” Gamora growled, pressing her blade to the assassin’s thick purple neck. She flailed, twisting, trying to reach her arm out for her evart gun, scattered across the forest floor. “I know you were after him, where is he?” The alien made to bite, cursing in some foriegn tongue. Gamora pressed the blade harder, keeping her grip tight. “Take me to him and I will make your death painless.”

“Wh….who are...y...you?” The Estarian whimpered through her beginning to weaken under Gamora’s weight. She could feel it in the way the assassin’s muscles tensed and loosened, tensed and loosened again.

“I,” Gamora seethed, watching blue blood pucker from the Estarian’s neck, “am the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. Take me to your target or I will gut you like an orloni on a spit.”

Gamora, sucked a breath, counting down before she made her move. One, two...three, she flicked her blade from the assassin’s mouth, instantly checking her in the temple with the helm of her sword. It worked. The Estarian stumbled, in time for Gamora to leap off of her and grab the tossed guns. The assassin stumbled weakly to the side, tripping on an unassuming root. Gamora sprinted after her, taking aim best she could with the cumbersome weapon and shot. The assassin screamed, buckling.

“Take me to him NOW!” Gamora shouted, voice cracking. Assuming he is still here. He’d better be.

“.....I’ll….t...tale you to him...if you promise not to k...kill me.” Gamora caught up to her, tackling the alien unceremoniously to the ground, pinning her once more. ….I’ve come too far to give up now. Risked too much, lied too much. The thought of it made her stomach churn. She shook Peter’s face from her head; turning again to the Estarian bleeding on the ground.

“Deal.”

---

“H….here,” Gamora stopped, smirking. A Tellinian cruiser, I might have known. She tightened her grip on the limping Estarian. Dragging the wounded assassin closer and trying to stifle the panic rising within her. What if she was too late? What if all the lying was for nothing? What if it’s not him? Gamora held her breath as she neared the ship. A window on the port side.

“What’re you w...waiting…” Gamora clamped her hand over the assassin’s mouth, tightening her grip.

“Shut up.”

She peered through the window, heart dropping in her chest. All the imagining, all the speculation and wandering had not prepared her. Her hand tightened over the assassin’s mouth, trying to stop her own shaking.

“Rocket!” She pounded her fist against the metal door. “It’s Gamora! Open up! Now!” She sucked her breath, waiting for any sound. “I mean it! open this door or I will….hey!” Gamora spun, realizing the Estarian had slipped from her grip and was darting away through the trees. Forget this, she gave me what I wanted. Gamora fingered the evart gun, holding steady, aimed and fired true. The assassin went down without a cry, the bullet going straight through her skull. She ran, I had no choice. She would’ve come back and finished Rocket off some other day, Gamora rationalized. She unloaded the gun and dropped it to the ground. Waiting in the heavy silence. Now it was just the two of them. Her stomached flopped again, her arms shaking. Every time she thought of the image she had seen through the ship’s window Gamora swallowed down the panic. I knew it was bad...I didn’t realize it was that bad.

“Rocket,” she tried softer this time. “It’s just me. The others are quadrants away. I’m here alone. Please, open up.” She waited, some distant bird called in the canopy above. Through the trees she three green suns cast emerald light around her. It would be a pretty planet, if it didn’t reek with rot and swamp water and muck. What a fitting place Rocket had chosen to die, she thought darkly. Something inside the ship shuffled, metal against metal scraping. She waited, standing square before the ship’s main door. Finally, the red door slid upward. Gamora took it in by degrees as Rocket slowly came into view, from the claws on his paws, the shaking legs, the thin whip of a tail, no longer bushy and ringed but dull like a piece of frayed rope. A sunken chest.

Calm yourself.

Gamora ordered, swallowing a lump in her throat. Rocket’s neck was thin, eyes red and swollen nearly shut, patchy fur dull. Bandages fixed to his arms, an intravenous line on each limb, tubes stuck out every which way. If she didn’t know better he may have robbed the nearest emergency room on Retaok. That is most likely exactly what he did. She watched him pull down the clear breathing mask that was strapped across his muzzle. He looked her up and down, cocking his head.

“Staring is rude Gamora,” he wheezed. She did her best not to flinch.

Of course he wouldn’t want to be found.

She tried to ignore the sight of his lungs under paper skin, pushing against his ribs with the effort. She strode past him.

“Got anything to drink?”

“I th….thought...thought you’d never aa..ask!”

His hollow laughter only made her want for more alcohol.

“G...gams, what’s with the ...d...dead b..broad?”

She stopped, turning.

“That dead broad wanted you dead. She was on her way here to kill you.”

Rocket shrugged.

Gamora turned on her heel, taking off down the corridor. The screech of metal halted her step. Rocket limped behind her, dragging the metal poles that hung heavy with liquid bags. Inexplicable rage mounted in her, misplaced. She stormed back over to him, forcing herself to calm down and walked in step with his lame gait. It took everything within her not to offer help but she knew what would come if she did.

“You...you said it's just you?” He sounded so uncertain. Refusing to meet her gaze. She walked consciously slowly, allowing him to lead the way with his equipment until they made it to the ship’s main bay and low and behold an makeshift bar.

“Yes, it’s just me.” She snapped, reaching for a bottle of clear quasian liquor. It’s stinging taste burnt her tongue and tingled her stomach. She set it down with a firm clink. Watching him take the bottle with trembling hands and pour it liberally.

“You don’t have to do this,” Gamora spoke through jaw clenched frustration. “We will find some way to stop whatever is happening to you. Come back to the ship. To Peter and Groot….come home Rocket.”

His ears twitched, looking away. She watched him take a drink. The veins in his neck swelling as he swallowed. When had his fur begun to fall out? He tapped his claws against the glass.

“I ain’t going soft.”

“What’s wrong with being soft?”

Rocket shook his head,

“It’s..” he devolved into coughing. Gamora took another drink. “I’m protectin’ them!” He sputtered.

“You’re being selfish.” She snapped back, the fiery alcohol adding a bite to her voice. The ringtail poured himself another drink.

“I never got no say in this,” he gestured weakly to himself. “Didn’t get much say in anything. So let me have a say in this.” He whispered, staring into his glass. “Lemme have a say in how I go.” He looked up at her, eyes glossy, unfocussed. He looked at her without seeing her. Gamora shifted uncomfortably. Pouring another drink. “I…I’m not going soft,” he repeated.

That was it. Gamora slammed her fist down on the table, sending the glasses scattering.

“Why not choose life?! We can get you help. There are places all the across the galaxy that can save you.”

“I ain’t going nowhere!”

He tried to yell but it came out a grating whisper. Too late, she’d seen it already. Fear. Terror. Horrific speculation that whatever it would take to heal him would be worse than that which was already happening. She twinged with sympathy, what an awful choice...what would I do..? If I had to go back to Thanos or...or die? What kind of a choice is that? Gamora steeled herself. Determined. There was only one way to find out.

Gamora snatched one of the tubings, a clear chord running from the raccoonoid’s mouth to the oxygen tank beside them. She pinched it, kinking the tube, the whine of the gass erupting. Rocket went rigid.

“G...Gamora!” He shook, thin chest heaving. She glared even as he collapsed. She knelt, looming over him. He gagged for air. “G….Gamora...I...I can’t.” Red eyes bulged, kicking weakly.

“What?” Her fingers tightened around the coil. She knelt over him, watching him struggle. His nostrils flailing. “You can’t what?”

“G...gmora…”

She held her own breath, whole body tense. Her sweaty hands held fast to the tube, the squeak of the building gas arched, building her anxiety. Beneath her Rocket shuddered, eyes roving. His chest puffed in and out, limbs going heavy. Gamora had seen it plenty of times. He looked at her, making his choice.

Gamora let go, the rush of the air spouted back through the tube. Rocket arched upward, tubes and contraptions shuttering. Gamora reached out, gingerly taking his fragile arms and helping him upward, her own heart sinking.

“So you’ll die alone and in pain for your pride?” She fumed. Gamora had long prided herself on measured emotions and logic, it was the only thing that had kept her alive for most of her life, it was what had allowed her to survive. But this? This she could not muster through. Confused, helpless rage coursed through her. She glared at the raccoonoid with righteous vitriol.

Rocket fiddled with the monitors attached to his chest, still panting.

“I’ll….die with...d..dignity the way I want.”

“Because drinking yourself into oblivion, stumbling around in your own piss and shit is so dignifying!” Gamora snarled, blazing. Rocket bared pointed teeth,

“Then why’d you even come Gamora? Did the tree put you up to t...this?” The ringtail heaved for breath from his outburst, lifting the oxygen mask and taking three deep breaths. Gamora looked away. He teetered for a moment on his shaking feet, but watched her carefully like a deer wary of a coming wolf. For her part Gamora wrung her hands together; as soon as the rage had flooded her, it was gone.

“I came,” she began slowly, “because I watched my parents die in front of me...and I was helpless to stop it.” She took a shaking breath, trying to suppress the memories. “But not this time. This time I can do something,” she continued with renewed determination. “I’m not standing by while someone I love....”

Rocket’s mouth fell open, his whiskers twitched.

“You….you l..love me?” He breathed.

The most dangerous woman in the galaxy rolled her eyes, then stopped realizing his genuine shock. She stopped short, stepping closer to him.

“Why do you think I’m here Rocket?” She whispered gently, “Why do you think we’ve all been searching for you since you left? Why do you think I went behind everyone’s backs to come here?”

Rocket looked away, coughing for a moment. Gamora reached out a hand impulsively but he shook it away. He’d made his choice. He has a right to his own decisions.

“If this is what you truly want, fine.” She watched him cling to the pole for support, sucking a few more breaths of air. “I’ll be back in two Xandarian turns. Medicine, bandages, supplies, whatever you need.”

“More booze?” Rocket gestured to the spilled liquor and remaining bottles.

“There will be others like that Estarian,” she thought aloud. “You’ve pissed off a lot of people and they will be coming. I’ll take care of it. If you are determined to die,” she forced the words past the lump in her throat, “you deserve to do it on your own terms.” Rocket nodded. “I’ll keep your location secret for now, but they’ll find you eventually. Either Heather will with her powers or Groot will find you by sheer force of will.”

“If Groot’s gonna find me you better grab this oxygen tube again and be done with it,” he fingered the clear tubing in his claws, managing a wheezing laugh she did not reciprocate. Instead she turned back down the hall of the ship, making for the exit.

“I appreciate you doing this for me...” Rocket called after her softly. Gamora turned, looking down at him. Something gray and heavy overwhelmed her inside, taking her reason and dashing it to pieces. Her chest synched.

“Of course. That’s what family does for each other,” she managed, tears welled the rims of her eyes. “They respect the wishes of their loved ones. No matter how much they h...hate it. No matter how much..it hurts. And you’re right. You never got a say in how or why you were made. They never gave you that right. But you have it now. And I respect that.” She sniffed, watching his own large eyes dampen. She forced a smile. “And besides, you’d do the same for me.”

Rocket punched the controls, opening the large door of the ship.

“I’m gonna miss you Gams,” he managed.

Gamora sniffed once more, wrapping her grief around resolve. She straightened, clearing her throat and smiled good naturedly.

“I’ll see you in two turns....and every two after that.”

---

Thirty Three Xandarian Turns Later

The Benatar:

“Where is he?” Groot bristled, angry thorns erupting from his broad shoulders. Gamora planted her feet on the metal floor, folding her arms.

“I’m sorry about this Groot, but I’m not going to tell you.”

Groot grimaced, before she could react he unleashed one long arm, seizing her in his vines and lifting her off the floor, slamming her into the hard wall of the ship’s bay.

“Unhand me Wood God...I don’t want to hurt you,” she leveled with him, staring into those ruthless brown eyes. Who knew Groot would go from easy going and peaceable to stalwartly angry so soon after Rocket disappeared. The flora colossus’s tight grip loosened.

“You already have.”

Gamora twisted, landing on her feet just in time. She swallowed her shame. Groot stalked past her, sitting heavily in the co-pilot's chair.

“He wants to be left alone Groot,” she tried. “I know it’s...it’s terrible but...it’s his decision. I told him I’d honor that.”

“No it’s not his decision.” Groot growled. “It’s ours. He is part of this team,….I won’t just let him...,” the flora stopped short, words choked. Heather reached out gently touching the flora’s shoulder.

Peter looked up from his hands, wary.

“Groot’s right Gamora, we have to do what’s best for Rocket. But..what’s best for him and what he wants...might be different.”

He’s right. You know he is.

Gamora grumbled.

“Gamora,” Heather reasoned, “I don’t want to do this, but...if I must…I will make you tell me where,”

“Try it,” She dared, casting a glare at the woman.

Groot stood abruptly, turning for one of the small pods.

“I’m going to find him. I don’t care what he wants.”

Gamora stood, hand going to her sword but Peter jumped between them, raising his arms, placating.

“Gamora, let him go.”

“I’m going with him,” Heather stood, following the Flora colossus. She returned Gamora’s contemptuous look before disappearing down the hall.

Gamora stepped forward, startling as Peter gripped her shoulder,

“Let them go. If they find Rocket and manage to talk to him, well….if anyone can get him to come back, it’s Groot.”

Gamora frowned,

“I doubt it Peter.”

---

The Benatar After The Battle

with The Universal Church of Truth

“What are you doing?!” Gamora shouted over the sound of gunfire as the Benatar sped away. Peter frantically punched coordinates into the ship’s navigation. She stood, looking over his shoulder, sweat beading on her forehead. She sucked a breath, heart nearly stopping.

“Halfworld?!”

“They are the only people who know Rocket’s biology and how to fix it. If anyone can save him it’ll be them.”

Gamora rounded on the Flora colossus, who held Rocket tight to him in a protective cocoon.

“We're not bringing him to Halfworld! They were the ones who tortured him!”

Gamora’s unyielding restraint and reason were crumbling, fast. She knew it but at the moment there was no time to care. Groot only stared straight ahead as the ship lurched across another jump point.

“Groot!”

Gamora beat her fist against him in a rage. The ship raced onward, she curled her fingers into his arm for stability, and in anger, pieces of bark flaking off.

“He’d rather die than go to some hospital or lab, never mind Halfworld! You bring him back there, you're no better than the people who created him! You'd hand him over to those sadists! How could you do that?!” Her voice cracked. Groot grunted, throwing her off of him with a single uncaring shrug.

“Guys….” Peter tried from his position at the wheel.

Gamora regained her stance, only to have Drax’s impenetrable arms wrap around her. Any other time, she’d easily free herself with her sword but her mind was not working, not focusing on tact or precision. Somewhere amid all those branches Rocket lay without any life-saving equipment, his own cybernetics rebelling against him. He was being unmade and he’d only sped up the process trying to save them. And this...this was how Groot was returning the favor? She’d seen the hollow terror in the raccoonoid’s eyes when she even suggested getting help. Now that fear was becoming hers.

“How can you do this to him?!” She screamed, thrashing in Drax’s hold. “He doesn’t want to hurt anymore Groot don’t you get that?! He doesn’t want to be put back together again and again!”

“Gamora we will be with him the whole time,” Heather tried to intervene. “We won’t let anything happen to him.”

“You can’t take him back there, you can’t betray him like that! Groot!” Her voice rose to a shriek, unable to contain her outrage. Groot, Groot out of all of them. That was the worst, most heartbreaking part of it all. Rocket trusted him, loved him above everyone else and Groot was going to hand him over to them.

“He’ll die! And if he doesn’t die he’ll suffer! They'll make him and unmake him again! How can you live with that?!”

When the flora finally looked at her it was with eyes as cutting as steel.

“I’d rather do something than nothing.” he rumbled. “At least I could say I tried to save him ....unlike you.”

Gamora only gnashed her teeth, trying to free herself.

“Halfworld coming up,” Peter announced.

Gamora twisted, elbowing Drax in the ribs and darted forward, blade out and aimed at the wood god, who’s attention had returned to Rocket. Gamora ran, swinging the sword upward and...fell to the ground, Heather’s presence crashing into her mind. Heather now possessed control of her body and, despite Gamora’s will, steered her to the copilot seat, strapping her in. Through the large windows, the forbidding planet loomed, half forested with pinkish trees, half bare and covered in buildings visible even at this distance. Halfworld.

I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me Rocket.

She’d failed him.

---

Halfworld BioEngineering Facility

Keystone Quadrant

Four Terran Days Later

Gamora bypassed the security on the door and entered the small, sanitary room with caution, her stomach one wrong motion away from expelling itself at any given moment. Rocket lay motionless in the too large bed, monitors beeping steadily, which if nothing else she assumed was a good sign. The scientists at Halfworld had welcomed Rocket into their care, perhaps a little too enthusiastic at the prospect. Going so far as to offer “further enhancements.” But between threats and constant vigilance however the team more or less agreed to allow the procedures that would save the raccoonoid’s life. For her part she’d reserved herself to silence. Trying to recover the embarrassment from her outburst on the ship. It had all happened so fast. Heather had not released her from her possession until they’d whisked Rocket back behind the O.R. doors and by that time she was too exhausted to fight anyone.

She crept closer, Rocket appeared to be sleeping soundly. His little chest going in and out still unnervingly skinny but breathing better. Gamora stopped short, only just realizing Groot. He sat hunkered at the bedside, a freshly grown bouquet of flowers on the nightstand, adding a pleasant smell to the otherwise chemical stench. His eyes only stared at Rocket, still as stone.

“I should not have yelled at you.” Groot murmured after a time. Gamora remained stoic but took a step closer eyes surveying the chart that hung on the other side of the bed. She plucked it up, reading the report.

“They completely upgraded his mods,” she read aloud. “Skeletal, muscular, nural.”

“I know what it says.”

She threw the chart down on the nearby table and collapsed in the chair opposite Groot, watching the subtle fur on the raccoonoid’s ears twitch with every tiny motion. She ran a hand across her face, her own exhaustion catching up with her.

They sat in tense silence. An occasional beep or innocuous announcement interpreting their brooding. She watched Groot who watched the ringtail. He picked at his own bark mostly, doing anything but looking at her.

The blankets shifted, Rocket stirred. Gamora’s heart leapt into her throat only to fall when he did not open his eyes, but fell back into a steady sleep. Groot stood, and beant down over his friend, gently touching his own brow to Rocket’s, one large hand cradling the raccoonoid’s face and closing his eyes.

“You are the most important person in Rocket’s life,” Gamora whispered, rotating the rings on each index finger, anything to avoid looking at the imposing flora. “You were right. His choice to run away and die affected all of us, you most of all. And I was going to let him die without saying goodbye.” Tears threatened to resurface.

Groot withdrew his embrace and stood, looking down at her; that rigid cracked face unreadable.

“You were honoring Rocket’s wishes without question. Protecting him. Sacrificing your own feelings to do so. You were going to bury him.”

“Yes.”

Groot nodded.

“That takes more honor and more of a different kind of love than even I could muster.”

Gamora glanced up at him, raising a brow. Groot only opened one large hand, and she watched in memorization as a small blue and white flower grew from his palm.

“Rocket will like that,” she attempted a lighter tone.

“It’s not for Rocket,” Groot held it out to her. “I was right, that he is a part of this team. This family. His life and his death do not belong solely to him. But you belong to this family too.”

With that the tears escaped her, she took the flower, gently snapping it away from his palm.

“I am sorry,” Groot professed. She watched him walk around the bed carefully to her and open his arms. Gamora fell into the hug with as much overwhelming joy as exhaustion. The strong bark steady and assuring.

“I’m sorry too Groot. I didn’t want to hide things from you.” He’d never know the insatiable guilt that had wracked her during those months. He’d never know how it took everything within her not to say anything. How it had haunted her. “But I promised him I’d honor his choice and I know he’d do the same for any of us.” Groot’s arms tightened around her. “He didn’t want to come back here, he’d rather die and...I’d make the same call if I had to go back to Thanos.”

Groot’s large head leaned on top of her own, pulling her tighter into his embrace.

“I know.”

She let herself remain in the flora colossus arms a moment longer, a safe warm place. No wonder Rocket liked to curl up with the tree creature when he went to sleep. Gamora finally reluctantly withdrew, tucking the flower behind her ear.

“I’ll give you two some privacy. He’ll want to see you when he wakes.”

“You can stay Gamora. He’ll want to see all of us.”

The rest of them filed in later, after the Halfworlders approved it. They gathered around the raccoonoid shortly before he woke up, cursing but relieved.

“I know I’m not doing any good by lying here. I’ll get better,” he breathed.

“Hey,” Peter took the ringtails hand. “Don’t worry about that, take all the time you need.” Rocket surveyed them all. Gamora stood beside Groot, her heart light for the first time in her recent memory.

“I knew we got a whole galaxy to save….”

“The galaxy can wait.”

Rocket nodded, happy tears formed around the edges of his eyes. He moved from person to person, finally landing on Gamora.

Thank you,

The raccoonoid mouthed to her. Her heart hitched in her chest but she grinned, standing there with all of them. Rocket would be okay. Groot forgave her. She’d kept her word after all. Peter was right, the galaxy could wait. For all of them.

#my writing #gotg #Guardians of the Galaxy #rocket raccoon #gamora #groot #peter quill #drax #heather douglas #moondragon #gotg faithless #gamora and rocket are friends damnnit #i love their friendship #gotg fanfiction

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years ago

Text

Real Monsters

Two empty bottles of cheap shoddy beer stood on the bar counter, right next to a cup with a finger’s width of whiskey resting in it. Emily blew a strand of fire-red hair out of her face and, for no apparent reason, glared at the bartender as he collected and removed the empty glass containers from in front of her.

Over the course of the hour she had spent there, she slumped more and more over the bar counter where she sat. Every now and then, she glanced at the flat screen TV hanging over the bar, watching the news flashing across the screen with mild disinterest. The lights of cars on the city’s street outside the bar’s windows drearily passed by. The more she drank that night away, the more those lights outside turned into hazy blurs, contrasted by the soft illumination in this quaint pub.

Emily’s willowy frame and symmetrical features would lead to anybody describing her as an attractive woman in her late twenties—if you could stomach the strong stench of cigarette smoke clinging to her like a dark miasma—so it was nothing unusual for her to have some guy sidle up next to her with a warm and friendly smile. He even did a decent job at holding back from cringing, once he inhaled some of the air in Emily’s vicinity.

“Hey, I was just—”

“Fuck off,” she told him without looking up from the glass of whiskey she was nursing, swirling the liquid inside her glass in one hand. She trained her eyes on the TV screen even though the lines and text on it were getting blurry for her.

The young man’s face turned sour in an instant and he uttered a string of profanities at Emily while leaving her to herself, causing the bar stool next to him to scrape over the floor with a loud noise and prompt some other patrons to turn their heads.

The regular murmurs and conversations and clinking of glasses continued without incident though, as this sort of thing was a common scene in a bar like this.

Emily sighed when she saw a familiar segment rearing to come up on the TV. While some advertisements fired up with obnoxious lettering and white-washed imagery on the screen, she waved the bartender over.

“Can we change the channel? Isn’t there, like, a fucking game on, or something?” she asked him, clearing her throat in between the sentence fragments, taking her voice from raspy to gravelly. She pointed her index finger past the glass of whiskey she was holding.

The bartender, seemingly nice enough all evening, slung a small towel over his shoulder and leaned in over the counter to her. He seemed to register her request with a bit of a delay, then forced himself to smile. He nodded, then pointed to someone at the opposite end of the counter.

“I’ll get right on it after taking care of the gentleman over there,” he said.

She watched him saunter over yonder, taking his sweet time. Stifling a groan with a sigh, Emily muttered to herself, “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, I guess.”

Right about when the bartender returned to her end of the counter, the ads ended and the segment started. Some shaky, grainy pictures flashed across the screen, commented on by a lady with one of those perms that looked like it was made of plastic. The graphics heralded an exposé about human trafficking discovered on the Canadian border between Vancouver and Seattle.

With a rosy color flushing her pale cheeks, Emily emptied the glass and covered half her face with a hand as if to bury it there, though all she wanted to do was hide.

The bartender leaned down and grabbed something from behind the counter, then froze mid motion of aiming the remote control at the TV set. He blinked as he saw a red-haired reporter with a mean green-eyed glare on the screen—one who happened to look a lot like Emily. Or rather—exactly like her, if you could tell the change in outfits apart. His head went on swivel between the Emily at the bar and the Emily on screen until he lowered the remote and casually leaned against the counter.

“Holy shit, is that you? You some kinda reporter, huh?”

“Fuck,” Emily hissed under her breath, managing to eke out a smile that refused to reach her eyes. She hunched even deeper over the counter towards the bartender and then hushed him with the words, “Yep, that’s me, Sherlock. Let’s not make a big deal out of it, ‘kay? I’m trying to unwind tonight.”

The bartender scanned her face with what was growing interest, but he turned to look back up at the screen again, giving her a curt nod in response.

“Gotcha,” he whispered. Watching the footage fly through, inter-cut with pieces of interviews and Emily being followed by a shaky camera switched into night mode, the bartender still couldn’t help but emit a short little whistle between his teeth.

“Damn, I’m not gonna turn the audio up, but that looks like some rough stuff,” he said.

His features softened as he could spot Emily’s mien darkening. He slid to lean over the counter and keep his voice down as he asked, “You okay? No offense, but you’ve been lookin’ down in the dumps all evenin’.”

“No offense, but whenever anybody starts anything with 'no offense’, it’s gonna offend, buddy,” she said, glaring at him.

“Jeeze, okay, I get it. You’re not here to talk. But I feel like I’d be an asshole for not asking,” he said, absentmindedly scratching the fashionable stubble on his chin.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Brian.”

Emily smirked and said, “Okay, Brian? You keep the drinks coming, we both mind our own business, and I’ll make like a tree soon enough.”

Something sparkled in Brian’s eyes and he shook his head with a strange slowness. Emily struggled to read what it meant or where it was coming from. A couple of drinks earlier and she would have had him figured out easily, but the meds mixing with the booze were doing her signature skills no favor. Her gut instinct swung wildly between him either feeling pity or genuine care for a fellow human being.

“I do have some responsibility here. I wouldn’t let you walk outta here knowing you had to drive after all the drinks you’ve been pounding down on, and I sure as hell am not gonna just pretend you can see that kinda—”

He cast a sidelong glance up at the TV screen, then continued, “That kinda shit doesn’t just bounce off o’ ya. Just seeing something like that on the news is enough to upset me. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be there, and talk to the monsters who do shit like that. Or, y'know, the victims of those monsters.”

The sparkle in his eyes turned wet, glistening with empathy. Brian was good, Emily thought.

“C'mon, humor me. I bet it’ll be a load off o’ your shoulders to talk about it. I hear plenty o’ sob stories and have to pretend that they’re oh-so-tragic, but even all that petty bullshit eventually gets to me.”

Emily said nothing. Continued studying his face.

“Costs you sleep, leads to drinking to sleep more, which leads to—eh, you know where I’m going with this.”

He shrugged and bit his lip, awaiting a response from her after all his rambling. The other people in the bar never turned silent, but the silence that welled up between Emily and Brian became so thick that you could have cut it with a knife.

“Okay,” she said. She put the glass down and repeated herself with another smirk, this one far less convincing and with far less confidence than any other expression she had brandished that night. “Okay. Brian? You might wanna buckle up, because this is a wild ride. Fuck, I don’t even know where to start. Much easier to write these things than to present them.”

She shot a glance up at the TV, conveniently presenting one of the monsters Brian had unwittingly mentioned.

“See that schmuck right there? Married, three children, successful business owner, respected in his community, loves walkin’ his dog in the park, probably tips generously, and also responsible for making twelve Vietnamese women live in a filthy fucking dungeon of a basement for ten years—forced into sex work, allowed out only to assemble and package counterfeit watches. Real piece o’ shit, sub-human, scum-sucking trash with a heart so fucking rotten that it might as well be a black hole. And he wasn’t even the mastermind or anything, he was basically middle management in this outfit of human-shaped turds.”

Emily kept getting more worked up as she swore up a storm and recounted the discoveries from her research. Brian visibly swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat and she could tell he was only moments away from breaking out into a cold sweat just from hearing the fury in her account.

“Her name was Tran. These dirt-bags trafficked her across the ocean to America, together with other girls, in containers that must have reeked to the high heavens of human shit and piss, subsisting on nothing but scraps of rotten fucking food. She was separated from her 5-year-old kid when they took her after promising her a better life for her family, and then these rat bastards on our side of the drink tried to ferry her over the border to Vancouver with some others by sticking her in a fucking refrigerator truck where she froze to death behind some pallets stacked with meat. With fucking meat,” she said with some spittle frothing on her lip. “Because that’s all she was to these monsters.”

Emily crammed a fist into her jacket pocket and produced a crumpled up pack of cheap cigarettes from it. She dumped it on the counter in front of her, together with a smartphone with a display so cracked that it would be close to impossible to read anything on it, and a plastic lighter clattering out onto the counter next to it.

“I don’t even know if they deserve to be called monsters. Because a monster at least acts upon instinct, like a fucking animal. Eat, fuck, shit, sleep, rinse repeat. But these motherfuckers, I swear,” she dug a cigarette out of the pack and swiftly lit it up.

Brian’s face had long fallen into a twisted visage of disgust and despair, paralyzed and incapable of escaping her cutting monologue, and his speechlessness extended into his inability to tell Emily she wasn’t allowed to smoke inside the pub. He feebly pointed at the cigarette she now took a long drag from and then rubbed his face instead.

With the force of frustration, she blew out some smoke before continuing her furious rant. She pointed at the TV screen with the burning cigarette clamped between her fingers. Some heads at the other end of the dive now turned to look at her again, the murmurs likely questioning what was going on there.

“They go home, they go shopping in a grocery store like you and me, they go to barbecue parties, they tuck their kids in at night, and they probably play poker or some shit. All the while they are quietly committing passionless murders; just cold calculated without any remorse. Enriching themselves with the suffering of the human beings they treat like fucking meat.”

More smoke billowed out of her nostrils like a dragon breathing fire when she picked up again, not missing a beat, “By the time Tran was twenty-seven and they recovered her body from the back of that truck, the autopsy showed that all the slave labor and all sex work had given her permanent spine damage. So, she was in constant crippling pain for the final fuckin’ years of her life before she died an undignified death without a single fucking soul to mourn her passing. And don’t you fucking give me that bunch of rotten, disingenuous politicians farcically conveying their condolences while scampering around to cover up for anybody in the police or border control who were in on this whole operation before we popped the lid on the entire stinking cess pool. Allegedly,” she said, letting the final word ooze out with bitter contempt.

Emily stopped herself, arched her head back and released an almost satisfied groan. It did feel good, at least somewhat. Sweet, sweet release.

She looked at Brian the bartender, now staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers, rendered speechless by her outburst of pent-up rage and verbal diarrhea that came from a festering disease that was what Emily’s view of humanity had become.

Her heart raced, but the frayed ends of her nerves had stopped screaming. For now.

After taking a long drag from her cigarette and savoring the next cloud of smoke she exhaled, she dug around in her pocket to get out some cash, spilling it out onto the counter in form of crinkled dollar bills and coins and leaving a pathetic tip because that was all she had on her.

Her voice dropped in volume, “Thanks, Bri. Good talk.”

She patted the money she was leaving on the counter and stood up straight. Or as straight as she could manage, because she drunkenly swayed a bit—which she elegantly masked with her years of drinking experience by slinging her jacket on.

One of the other patrons whose stare lingered on her for too long drew another deadly glare from Emily.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” her words muffled as she kept the cigarette clamped in between her lips. His eyes widened and he lowered himself over his drink while the other people at his table went silent with him.

Brian stammered out something, but Emily was too wasted already to really make out the precise words, and too far gone for that night to give a damn. He was probably going to check in on her and see if she was alright, yet again. Bless his soul.

She pushed open the front door. The jingle of a bell overhead caused her to flinch when she staggered out into the drizzle of rain outside the bar and she let the door slam shut behind her. Emily popped the collar of her jacket and wandered off into the city’s night.

After taking a final angry drag from her cigarette, she tossed the butt into a gutter and buried her hands in her jacket pockets while she stumbled on her way home, in the rough direction of her dingy downtown apartment.

She came upon a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign right next to him, but the letters written on it blurred into something incomprehensible to Emily’s drunken stare. He was wrapped up in layers of sweaters and jackets and had a hood up over his head, with some newspapers spread out on top to shield him from the rain. But the sheets of paper were turning dark quickly, soaking up the raindrops as they grew in size and frequency.

With the rustling of the newspapers, the homeless man looked up at her, but the darkness concealed most of his features beyond a gray beard and skin that looked like a roadmap of sunburnt wrinkles.

“You should get outta the rain, buddy, s'gonna be a downpour tonight,” she told him.

He just stared at her. Shadows cloaked his eyes and a pit formed in Emily’s stomach.

“I ain’t got any change. Just pissed it all away just now. Sorry, man.”

She tried to lock eyes with him, but found no eyes underneath that veil of darkness over his own. The lack of a reaction began to creep her out. She gave him a bowing nod and walked on with a clipped, “Night.”

A few steps further down the sidewalk, she figured she might regret it, but considered inviting him home. The poor bastard might freeze to death on a late autumn night like this.

“When the world is a prison, there are those who are the prisoners cursed with unknowing, and the jailers who hold the keys to their unseen cells. Which are you?”

Those words rolled out with a fluid clarity and a gravity to rival the weight of the world. There was something about them—a sense of finality—that lent them a sinister air. They came from behind Emily—from that homeless man.

She turned slowly. Her heart raced, this time not with anger, but a growing sense of dread. She feared to see what this homeless man had turned into. His voice was as voluminous as that of a giant, as imposing as a king.

But there was nobody there. Emily looked around in disbelief. There was nobody else in this narrow street. The drizzle intensified until it turned into full-blown rain.

A cold shudder ran down her spine and Emily shivered. She suddenly remembered the pictures of Tran from the autopsy report, pale and lifeless, with eyes closed. An innocence destroyed by the monsters of this world. A horrible truth that Emily had helped unearth.

Emily went home and locked all three locks of her apartment door, shooing her three cats off her bed and crashing onto the covers without undressing.

The dark void of a dreamless sleep enveloped her within seconds and the next day, nothing would be the same, ever again.

This was the final night before her awakening.

—Submitted by Wratts

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charmingturkeysandwich · 5 years ago

Text

I Could Use a Love Song (2/22): where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases

Pairing: Emma Swan/Killian Jones (AU) Words: 3k(ish) Rating: T for this chapter, I’d say. (M overall) Chapter Summary: The band’s first day with their new roadie gets off to a shaky start.

Read on AO3.

---

Having grown used to shitty sleeping situations through foster homes, homelessness, couch surfing, and now touring, Emma awoke the next morning refreshed and ready to fight.

Yep, fight. Because the prior evening she’d been exhausted and hovering in that weird stage of drunk where you’re basically pre-hungover, and life had thrown a hot roadie at her. Except it wasn’t life that had done that. It was David. David who in the year of our lord 2019 most fucking certainly had a cell phone and could have shot her a text that a stranger was going to crash her quiet night alone.

Not that Killian crashed in any sense beyond sleep. They were seemingly both out before even the first song had finished playing through her speakers and he was still eyes-closed and breathing steady now that Emma was crawling over the seat and out the door, dead set on properly raging about the ridiculousness of this decision in addition to the lack of communication that shouldn’t exist among people who literally write words for a fucking living.

Seriously. How hard is it to send a text? Don’t wanna do your dirty work yourself, you can just tell Siri to piss of your bandmate on your behalf.

A little warning might have been nice. But she got none. So they weren’t getting any either.

“Rise and shine, motherfuckers!” Emma squawked as she flung open the door to David and Mary Margaret’s bedroom (they knew she had a copy of it, so really they should have thought twice before giving her no warning that she was going to have to deal with some weird ass alternate universe, very fuckable Captain Hook every single day for the foreseeable future. And pay him.

“Emma!” Mary Margaret gasped, yanking the comforter over what was probably her bare chest, but Emma didn’t bother to even glance at her. Accomplice in lack-of-communication, probably… but David was her object of fury.

Speaking of… “What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted, more confused than angry at her intrusion.

“I have a leather-jacket-wearing bone to pick with you, sir.”

“Aw, shit. You met Liam’s brother then?”

“Met him, slept with him, you know, the basic first steps in an employer-employee relationship.”

“Emma! You had sex with Killian?!” Mary Margaret sounded positively scandalized, which made sense for her own personality in addition to the fact that Emma hadn’t slept with anyone in … well it would probably be measured in years and not months, so. It would have been a shock if it were true.

“No, mom, but he slept in the van with me, which is my happy place. Not a place for strays.”

David stood up from the bed, raking his fingers through his hair in what looked like frustration or perhaps the pain of a hangover headache (good).

“We’re all strays, Emma. Can’t you be a little more accepting?”

“Can’t you be a little more with the warning?! You’re lucking I didn’t punch him when he approached me in a dark fucking alley, David.” Which was true. After much of the shit she suffered in her younger years, she didn’t take a chance or give anyone the benefit of the doubt if they seemed to have ill intentions.

He paused, daring blankly at her before taking a swig of the water next to their little bed. Light was just barely filtering through their curtains, so it was still early. No rush to hit the road quite yet, still time to get breakfast and drink their weights in coffee.

Usually the mornings were more pleasant than this.

Usually it was just the five of them in a diner, and usually she was listening to their post-gig stories, not sharing much of her own.

“Where did you leave him, then? Or did you already fire him?”

“Now, David, how could I fire someone I never even hired?! You remember we voted that we didn’t have the money to add staff.”

At that, Mary Margaret perked up, her back straightening as her mascara-smudged face scrunched in guilt. “That one is actually on me. We were on FaceTime with Killian and he’s just so… he’s in a bad place, Emma, and he needs money and people and we couldn’t just let him… “

“Go to the pound with the other strays? Fine. I get it. He doesn’t seem like the worst person in the world. But, like, give a girl a heads-up? And to answer your question, David, I left him soundly asleep in the van. I’m not a goddamn monster.”

Emma stormed out with no real destination in mind, just a deep craving for coffee and a bear claw and space from any other living human who might attempt to converse with her when she needed a minute to wallow in her semi-justified rage.

Of all the people to find her, of fucking course it was Killian.

Known him 12 hours or less and he was already the biggest pain in her ass.

“Swan, fancy seeing you here!” His voice was bright despite the wrinkles in this clothes and the hair that was no longer ‘artfully mussed,’ but more… hurricane-ravaged.

“Why are you so chipper?” is all she croaked back in response.

“Well I’ve already had an unpleasant encounter with Brother Dave and figured I would try to make this one a little less fraught with tension and don’t get any ideas about Emma you wanker.” Killian plopped down across from her, already clutching a coffee from somewhere that definitely was not the diner she’d wandered into and been sulking at for at least 2 hours.

“Why would he yell at you? And why are you calling him brother? And… just why?”

“Apologies, Swan, I assumed you’d had enough coffee and sugar to cope with me by now. I was warned of that. You see, apparently I was supposed to just go ‘sleep on a bench in a park’ or something to that effect and then not introduce myself to you or the rest of the crew until morning. Silly me. So David, who appears to think of himself as your father but who was best friends with my brother, proceeded to lecture me about how I’m not allowed to get in your pants. As if you didn’t have a say in the matter. Don’t worry, darling, I clarified that you will without a doubt never care for me beyond tolerance and he seemed to unbunch his knickers.”

“You know, Jones, if I’m not your love I’m probably not your darling, either.”

“Goodness sakes, woman, can you perhaps glean the important information from my babbling and not focus the filler?”

“Fine. Fuck your filler. We’re probably late for leaving by now, though,” Emma said, glancing at the clock on the wall and then at her message-filled phone. She rose from the table slowly, downing the rest of her lukewarm coffee and shoving a doughnut toward Killian in the process. “Shall we?”

He did some type of bow/curtsey nonsenense and flourished his arm toward the door as if to say ladies first and Emma stomped right past him, already 110% fed up with his weird country boy/Jane Austen hero attempt at chivalry when she knew he was no gentleman and she was no goddamn lady.

It appeared that the new guy had already met the rest of the team, Ruby fist bumping him and Graham giving him a hungover nod to acknowledge his return. David and Mary Margaret were blessedly silent about any of the morning’s arguments and simply hopped in the driver and passenger seats so they could meander over to the next tiny ass New York town full of Their People.

Some days were harder than others when it came to the places they played. None of them were the hellish ‘hometown’ she’d steadfastly refused to ever revisit, but each seemed to capture some kind of echo of her past. It was really a shame that scent was so tied to memory, because dive bars were smelly places. The right combination of Marlboro Menthol Lights, Miller, and whatever was in that black bottle from Avon and suddenly Emma was back at the Buckhorn, drinking to forget the hurt she hadn’t quite sustained yet, but was inevitably coming.

She always got past it. Rage was good like that, strong enough to overcome the heartbreak of individual memories. Whiskey helped, too.

Graham and Ruby were sprawled on either side of the middle row in the shabby van, both passed out (clearly they hadn’t done enough sleeping wherever it is either of them had gone the night before). David and Mary Margaret, meanwhile, were quietly singing to each other from the front, songs too cheesy for the other three bandmates to ever agree to allow to be performed on stage.

So that left her and Killian, the only two life forms currently active in actual reality.

“So what’s your story, Jones?

He rolled his head on his shoulders, sliding his line of sight from the video to meet her (probably too-harsh) stare. “What makes you think I have a story?”

“You’re on the road with a country band. In my experience you don’t get to that point without some stuff preceding it. Come on, Jones. Someone stole your truck, shot your dog, or screwed your wife. Which one?”

“Where are your manners, young lady, you definitely take a bloke to dinner before you ask for his Tragic Backstory. That’s got to be written somewhere. For shame!” he whisper-shouted, quite overdramatically.

Maybe he’d gotten his heart broken at drama camp.

“What else am I supposed to ask you? I don’t have much information to go on here.”

“Why don’t you start with, ‘Killian, it’s so nice to meet you. How about you tell me a little about yourself?’”

Her answering eye roll reminded her she hadn’t properly removed her makeup from the night before, not having taken her usual five minutes in the lovers’ hotel room bathroom to allow for proper skin care. Fuck, her pores were going to be pissed.

“I’m not quite that polite, but fine. We’ll have it your way. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

That “little about himself” went on for about an hour, covering everything from his love of football to how underrated asiago cheese was on casual dining menus. They disagreed on silly subjects like the best fast food and what to take on a deserted island. They pretty much only agreed that David and Mary Margaret were insufferable and that love was for losers.

(And yes, that was the closest she got to unlocking even one small detail about his Tragic Backstory.)

They talked all the way to the next hole-in-the-wall bar, which did, in fact, like it might have some holes in it in the light of day.

“Thank the fucking lord we’re finally here. Will you two shut up now?” Ruby moaned into the seat cushion, apparently not as knocked out as Emma had assumed from her unmoving silence the entire ride.

“’s not our fault you two oafs don’t use the nighttime for sleeping,” Killian snarked back at her.

Hmm. Maybe they’d gotten more acquainted than Emma had realized.

Add that to the pile of Killian Jones-related mysteries.

Graham had been so exhausted, he didn’t even awake when the van emptied out, still snoozing even as they hauled all their shit into the bar. Just to be a jerk, Emma even tossed a drum stick at him. But he just grumbled and turned, unfazed by her minor assault.

“Hope he lost sleep for the good reason, if you know what I mean,” Killian said, as he bumped his shoulder into hers. He was carrying a guitar case in his right hand and had his left forearm wrapped around one of the boxes carrying electrical equipment.

“Yes, in that tone, I’m pretty sure people up in Vermont know what you mean?”

“I’m not sure about that one. Have you been to Vermont? I don’t think I’ve ever met a fuckable person from that whole state.”

“Don’t say that around David. I’m 99% sure he’d fuck Bernie Sanders.”

The two of them laughed so hard they almost dropped their very expensive equipment, especially when David, as if on cue, turned back toward them: “what’s in Vermont? There’s this ski place I’ve wanted to go to…”

Their laughter turned to near howling as poor, out-of-the-loop David rambled on about Mt. Snow being a great place to take a date and how exactly that could be so funny that two people who’d met last night had already been reduced to giggling middle schoolers.

Mary Margaret and Killian quickly started setting up for their set, even though they had a few hours until people would actually show (she was a worrier, and it was technically his first day on the job). So that gave the other slackers some time to rest and eat greasy food and hopefully get properly buzzed before the show so Emma didn’t have a random panic attack at some dude wearing a blue plaid shirt with pink Vans like Neal used to, once upon a time.

Catching up on the night before was usually their breakfast routine, but having avoided that, Emma assumed she’d just end up not knowing how Graham and Ruby had spent their time. Thankfully, both were perfectly happy to provide a secondary replay of their evenings.

Well, Ruby was happy to. See, she hadn’t done anything scandalous the night before. No fucking strangers for her! Turns out, a friend of hers from college lived in that little town and she’d gone over to her place to catch up. Friends old and new were there and she mostly missed out on sleep for conversation and a few truly ridiculous board games (who played Chutes and Ladders when they were plastered?).

Graham, on the other hand, had not had as enjoyable an evening. He’d met a girl, a very pretty girl, and she’d asked him back to her place. He had enthusiastically agreed right up until he was pounding into her against her kitchen counter only to be interrupted by her boyfriend. Thankfully there was no macho how dare you touch my girlshowdown, but it did leave Graham with a bad case of blue balls and nowhere to sleep.

“Wait! Why didn’t you come to the van with me? I don’t bite,” Emma protested as Graham was describing wandering the roads with streetlights until it was appropriately light enough to be breakfast time.

“You don’t think that’s the first place I went? I peeked my head in the fan and saw his shaggy ass and thought you might actually have taken the leap and met someone. No chance in hell I was going to spook you if you finally found a guy you didn’t want to murder on first sight.”

She yelped out a very offended hey, but deep down, he wasn’t wrong. He and David were just the only two men to ever prove to her they were interested in her as a human being and not a punching bag or human fleshlight. She was thankful for finding them and realizing that the whole not all men has some merit, but not enough to take any chances on a guy.

“Well now that you know your assessment couldn’t have been further from the truth, I bet you’re feeling pretty silly for missing out on sleep.”

“No, I stand by my decision. But, yeah, tonight I’m crashing in the van with you two. Unless, I mean, if you ever want privacy with him…”

“YES!” Ruby squealed. “You two would make the cutest babies. You know, someday. With little leather jackets and horrendous attitudes. It would be legit adorable.”

From the corner of her eye she could see David’s face turning fuchsia and she was reminded of the speech he’d apparently given Killian that morning (as if she needed protecting). Not even close.

“Hah, very funny there, Rubes. You think he’s so good looking, you can go for it.”

“Oh, no you will not!” David shouted. “No casual sex within the band.”

(Hey, at least he was yelling at someone who wasn’t her.)

“But you and Mary Margaret!” she protested.

“Nothing casual about that. Marry Killian, fine. I’ll throw the bridal shower. But do not fuck him for fun. We need him and he doesn’t need another mess.”

Before Emma had a chance to ask David to elaborate on that clear Tragic Backstory Hint, Mary Margaret and Killian plopped down at the table, set-up apparently finished.

“So… what do we do now?” Killian asked, the blunt end of his left arm fiddling with the thick ring on his right thumb.

Mary Margaret, David, and Graham collectively responded, “Eat!”

Ruby and Emma were more of the let’s get drunk frame of mind and instead replied, “Shots!”

So the crew of six ordered shots for 12 and their first official day as a team had begun.

By the time they were being announced for the stage, Emma was red-faced and stumbling, Mary Margaret was giggling about the word “banana” and Killian had already told sixteen different dirty jokes, all met with a deeper scowl from Emma each time.

That night Graham’s drumming was just a tad out of sync and David forgot that he wasn’t actually supposed to sing the girl parts of their one duet-style song, but none of that mattered. The crowd was wild, totally tuned in and screaming their hearts out right along with them. Halfway through their set, just before Emma relinquished lead vocals to Mary Margaret for Sappy Hour, she clutched the microphone in her hand, swaying as she returned it to the stand at the edge of the stage, yelling, “I love everyone in this bar!”

This whole ‘having friends’ thing just got better and better every single day.

Especially when puking in the dumpster at 3am. You find out who your friends are, right about then, and only Ruby was mockingly taking SnapChat videos. Killian got her water and Graham held her hair and the last thing she remembered before she passed out was telling the other strays she was just so glad they all somehow found each other.

#cs ff #cs au #multichapter #keisha writes #i could use a love song

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survivingthejungle · 6 years ago

Text

soft; jerome x reader

ive never written anything this fluffy in my god damn life... hopefully its not a complete flop? idk

You hadn’t committed a crime.

Regardless of whatever conclusion the jury had come to, you would always maintain that you hadn’t committed a crime. Because, what crime is there in justice?

One of the men who had tried to assault you had just been a little too lazy with his knife, and in a moment of instinctual self-defence, you had pushed it back in on himself.

Unfortunately for you, the other man—the one who hadn’t been stabbed—had managed to pay off the jury to convict you of first degree murder, and the only way you would avoid going to straight-up prison would be taking the insanity plea.

You fought it—oh, how you fought it, tooth-and-nail— but in the end, you and your family didn’t have the resources, and the corrupt rich of Gotham once again won the day. The playout of your hearing had caused outrage throughout the city, and no one believed that you deserved to go to an asylum, but the public backlash surrounding your conviction still was not enough to get the decision overturned.

Some of the staff at Arkham were sympathetic to your case and did all they could to treat you like the normal girl you were, not like one of the truly mentally-ill patients who were there for good reason. Of course, not every staff member was this accommodating— Dr. Strange had been wanting to use you as an guinea pig for a while now. The only thing keeping him from doing so was your family’s constant visits and the fact that he couldn’t be sure that the nurses and guards who knew you and your story wouldn’t rebel against him.

About a month into your incarceration— one down, two to go— there was a change in atmosphere. An unusual burst of activity came about one morning; while you were in your cell, brushing your teeth and washing your face, a handful of guards all stormed past, seemingly guiding someone along with them. You peeked out of the small window on your door, but couldn’t see much aside from the guards and a quick flash of a tuft of bright red hair.

To ensure that your safety was never compromised and that all of the staff knew you were no real threat, it had been decided within the Asylum that you were not to wear the same black-and-white striped garments as all of the other inmates. Instead, you had been given a handful of simple, white cotton slips, and you had been allowed to bring some of your own sweaters, shoes, and socks from home. You had been allowed your own pajamas from home, so you decided to bring two pairs of basketball shots, two t-shirts, and a big sweatshirt to sleep in. In addition, yo also brought a handful of your favorite scrunchies and hair clips, and a notebook and pen to keep track of your thoughts and write letters while you were away. To say you stood out like a sore thumb would be an understatement; you didn’t look exactly like an inmate, you certainly didn’t look like staff, and you didn’t look like a normal teenage girl either. You just looked different, and you were okay with that. You were content just keeping to yourself, minding your own business, writing and reading when you had the opportunity, and getting the hell out of this asylum.

Until recently. A new inmate had recently been admitted; around your age, tall, vivid red hair, an unnerving laugh, and arrested on a count of matricide. When they brought him in, he was strapped up in a straight jacket and being wheeled around. He caught sight of you in the rec room and winked, and you, being caught in a trance-like daze, had simply lifted your hand and waved with a straight face. It didn’t help that he was an objectively attractive guy; if you had seen him anywhere outside of an asylum, you probably would’ve heart-eyed him with your friends. But you were in an asylum, the both of you, so you decided to maintain your earlier resolve of keeping to yourself and not interacting with anyone else.

The next day, you saw him come into the rec room. You were sitting in an old, worn-out bean bag reading one of the old hand-me-down books from a shelf in the corner. It was Madame Bovary, a title you’d heard repeated many times but never really looked into until now. You were halfway through and so engrossed with the tragic story that you didn’t notice a presence seat itself beside you until you heard a voice speaking.

“Hi gorgeous, I’m Jerome.” It was the redhead from yesterday, grinning at you.

“Hi. That’s not my name,” you responded, pulling your eyes away from him and back to your book.

“Well then, by all means, spill! What can I call you?” His voice was deep but had a childlike lilt, like everything he said was purposefully over-theatrical. He placed his chin on his fist, staring intently at you.

“My name is (Y/N). I don’t really wanna talk to anyone right now, so can you just leave me alone?”

“Jeez, just trying to be polite… Y’know, a girl could really use some friends in a place like this.”

“No, not really. I’m fine how I am. Thanks, though.”

He paused and looked at you quizzically as though he had just noticed something that he hadn’t before. “Hey, how come you don’t wear stripes like the rest of us, huh?”

“Because I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not supposed to be in here.”

“Ugh, believe me, babe, I tried that line too. Didn’t work. C’mon, what’d you do to get in here? Now I’m curious,” he prodded.

You were silent for a moment. Some people had no problem admitting that they had done something like that; in fact, some reveled in it. But you were not the kind of girl who could just openly declare that I killed a man. “...It was self defense.”

“Oh yeah,” he lightly scoffed, “Then how’d you end up here, and not scot-free out there?”

“This is Gotham,” you shot back, “There’s no justice in this city. If a rich man wants a girl locked up, she gets locked up. End of story.”

“Ain’t that the truth, sister.” He let out a sigh and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Tell me something, though,” he started, staring at you. “Are you being serious?”

“You tell me… I’m already in an asylum. If I was really guilty, I would’ve admitted it by now, right?”

“Huh.” He shook his head, looking away from you. “Huh. You got me there. Well… that sucks for you, doesn’t it?”

“You’re telling me; I’m the one wrongly incarcerated.”

“Hey! That’s perfect! So you really do need a friend in this place, otherwise all the rest of these crazies are gonna eat you up…” he got closer to you before continuing. “Y’know, it’s really not safe for you here if you’re the only sane person. I think we should be friends.”

“If it gets you off my case, then sure, I guess.” A grin lit up his face and he leaned back out of your personal space; he did not, however, show any signs of leaving you alone anytime soon. “Will you leave me alone now, please?” you asked.

“What kind of a friend would I be, leaving you alone out here to fend for yourself? Nah, see, these other guys in here, they’ll do bad things to a pretty girl if she’s all alone. I’m just looking out for you.”

You considered his words for a moment. Although no one had truly tried to harm you yet, you hadn’t been here long. And some of the creepier inmates had been staring you down recently, now that you thought about it… “I’m not gonna, like… talk to you, a lot. I just read a lot. And write. And draw, sometimes. But I’m not a big conversationalist. So if that’s what you wanted from me, you got the wrong girl.”

“Hey, that’s fine by me,” he responded. “You just sit there and look pretty till you get to go home. I’ll be your silent protector.”

Not very silent, you thought. “Why… why do you even wanna be my friend, then? If you’re not looking for someone to talk to… You just wanna ‘help me out’? You’re a wannabe serial killer, you don’t really seem like the kind of guy who tries to help a girl out of the goodness of his heart.”

“What can I say?” he asked you. “I can be unpredictable. And you seemed kinda… Sad. Lonely. I dunno. But a pretty, innocent girl locked up in here shouldn’t have to fend for herself. I may be bad, alright, but I’m not completely souless!” He snickered to himself. “Heh, get it? ‘Cause I’m a ginger.” You let out a soft, breathy laugh at that; one you couldn’t contain. “Hey,” he reached out and nudged your cheek, “There’s that smile. Go on, I’m sorry, read your book. I’ll just chill here… Hangin’ out.”

The asylum was particularly chilly today, so you slipped an oversized, washed-out pastel sweater over your dress, as well as a pair of mismatched thick socks. You slid into a pair of plain brown ankle boots with loose laces and clipped two red barrettes into your hair, a yellow scrunchie on your wrist. According to the little red antique clock in your cell, it was nearly eight A.M.— breakfast, which Jerome would always walk down to with you. He always delayed the guards as much as possible before passing your cell, so that you could be escorted down with him.

It had been about two weeks since your first encounter, and while you were initially wary of the prospect of being chummy with a convicted murderer, there was something about him that drew you in. Maybe it was how charming he could be, or how protective he acted of you or how he definitely wasn’t the most unattractive person you’d ever seen, but you weren’t as opposed as you used to be towards being his friend. You heard the sound of struggling increase as it got closer and closer to your door, and you knew it was Jerome come to “pick you up” for the day. You waited at your door, looking out the barred slot as the guards got closer and closer.

“Excuse me? Could I be taken down to breakfast as well?” you asked them, and one with a key ring unlocked your door and let you step outside into the hall.

“Mornin’, (Y/N).” It was Anthony, a guard that you felt you had a good standing with. He was always respectful to you because he had been keeping up with your trial while it was in the news, and he firmly believed that you had done nothing to end up in this place.

“Good morning. How are you?”

“I’m just well, thanks! Did you sleep alright?”

“Yeah, I did! Do you know what variation of gruel they’re feeding us today?” Jerome snorted at this. “Hey, Jerome. What’s up?”

“Oh, y’know, not much.”

“Sounds fun.”

Breakfast was, in fact, another variation of gruel. You had been given a choice between cinnamon and apple oatmeal, lazily slopped onto a tray before being shoved into your arms with a spoon.

You took a seat at an unoccupied table and began to eat and read— you were rereading Gatsby, now—until Jerome joined you.

“Hey, J,” you greeted him, not looking up from your book.

“Hey there, girlie,” he greets, nudging you when he sits down beside you. “What’s the plan today?”

“They have me in group today. Something about having to ‘act like we’re making progress’,” you slightly mocked.

Jerome gasped. “Well, hey! Whadaya know? I’m in group today, too!” The possibility that you were not in the same group was slim to none; your proximity in age and the fact that both of your cells were on the same floor meant that in any group setting, you were bound to end up together.

“Have they put you in it before?” you wondered.

“Oh, yeah, once or twice,” he told you, taking another spoonful of oatmeal before continuing. “Don’t be nervous about it. All they do is sit you in a circle and give you pens and paper and have you talk about your feelings and why you killed people.” That was still a touchy subject. You’d never verbally say that you ‘killed’ a person; there was a difference between murder and self-defense, and there was absolutely no way in hell you’d ever be convinced they were the same. Jerome noticed a shift in your attitude. “Well, I mean, you never killed anyone. So I guess you won’t have to participate too much.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you agreed. A burly looking man the approached Jerome, eyeing you all the while.

“Jerome.” He looked up and rolled his eyes at the man.

“Can I help you with something, Greenwood?”

“Yeah. Just wondering when you’re gonna share your little lady friend with the rest of us.” He sat down opposite both of you. “She looks tasty.”

In shock, you couldn’t properly formulate a response to the man’s lewd comments, so while you sat there, eyes fixated on your oatmeal, Jerome took the liberty of speaking up on your behalf. “She’s off limits, pal. Don’t touch her,” he told him, grinning all the while. “Or I’ll flay you and feed you to the rats.”

“Oh, little J’s got himself a girlfriend now, huh? What, you gonna chop her up just like you chopped up your mommy?” Greenwood inched closer and closer to Jerome while taunting him, and your friend was getting visibly aggravated.

His fist clenched and he slammed it on the table. You put your hand over his forearm to draw his attention over to you instead. “Jerome. Stop,” you requested.

“What?” he asked you. “Why me? What about him?”

“Because I know you can be rational,” you told him, maintaining eye contact. “It’s not worth it. Don’t give him the reaction he wants.”

He let out a short breath and turned his attention back to Greenwood. “You know what? She’s right. You’re not worth my foot. Go back to playing with your little dolls, Greenwood,” he taunted, gesturing with his free hand. Greenwood snarled, but got up and walked away anyways. Jerome looked back to you. “Y’know, you’re starting to rub off on me. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be a goody two-shoes just like you!” he joked, snickering. You just rolled your eyes, the ghost of a soft smile on your face.

“Hey,” you warned, “Don’t start getting soft. That’s my thing,” you shot back.

“Yeah, I know,” he smirked at you, catching your hand—the one that was on his forearm—in his. “Jeez, (Y/N), why are you so cold?” he asked you. His hands were exponentially warmer than yours, and you appreciated the heat warming up your own.

“It’s the middle of January and I have terrible circulation. Plus, no one in this place cares enough to turn the heat up.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he laughed. Then he was putting his head on top of yours, so you leaned your head onto his shoulder.

“What time is it?” You yawned. He told you that it was roughly eight-thirty. “Gross.” Jerome chuckled and gave a murmur of assent. He took his hand out of yours and put his arm around your shoulders instead.

“I’ll wake you up when they make us leave,” he assured you as you closed your eyes, thanking him. Then you were off to sleep again, catching up on all of the hours you had missed since you had been incarcerated. He grabbed your book off of the table and began reading it for himself. He kept one hand lightly trailing through your hand while the other was used to flip the pages until, at 9:20, the nurses came to inform the both of you that it was time for therapy.

If someone would’ve asked you what had been discussed in that session, you wouldn’t’ve had a clue. You sat next to your only friend in the place, of course, latching onto the only person you’d truly felt comfortable with since you’d been brought in. The two of you had passed notes back and forth the whole time, decorated with goofy little doodles and cartoons to entertain one another. When Jerome had cracked a joke to you following one of the other inmates’ comments, you could barely suppress your giggle, and you both had ended up making a bit of a scene.

“Jerome. (Y/N). Cut it out,” the therapist had reprimanded you. Jerome just gave her a nod, but you had verbally apologized and promised that it wouldn’t happen again.

A few seconds later, another note was passed onto your lap. SORRY FOR BEING A BAD INFLUENCE, it had read. You flipped it over to respond on the other side.

we balance each other out

like a negative and a positive

Two months later, and you were finally free to return to the rest of the world. You were overjoyed; you couldn’t wait to get back to your friends and family. You couldn’t wait to get back to school, something you never thought you’d say to yourself. You were also surprised at how well Jerome had responded when you’d told him that you were finally going home.

“You’ll write to me, right?” he asked you.

“Of course,” you verified.

“And visit?”

“I’ll try my damndest,” you promised.

He had seemed like he was making so much progress when you were around. At least, that’s what the nurses and therapists had all noted. For his own sake, they all secretly wished that you would keep coming back to help him out.

After another month, the whole city was erupted into chaos.

There had been some sort of gas leak at Arkham, followed by a breakout; your friend among the escapees. The next time you saw him had been on the T.V. in the midst of attempting to blow up a school bus full of cheerleaders from Gotham High.

You felt your heart break in your chest as you sat on your bed that morning watching the news. You’d really, truly let yourself believe that he wasn’t as bad of a person as the media had portrayed him, especially during his trial. You knew him firsthand! He was such a good friend to you, and was always watching your back. It was hard for you to believe that the boy who passed you notes in therapy and made you laugh all day was the same boy who had just kidnapped and murdered seven dock workers and attempted to blow up a bus full of cheerleaders the same age as him.

But, sadly, this was the reality that you lived in. I guess he really fooled me, huh, you thought to yourself.

Around noon that same day, while watching some documentary on Netflix and sending texts back and forth with one of your best friends, you heard a loud knocking outside of your window. “Holy shit!” you exclaimed, heart nearly leaping out of your chest. When your adrenaline rush finally slowed, you looked to see what had caused the noise, and—

“Holy shit!” Lo and behold; it was none other than Jerome Valeska. He grinned at you, waving emphatically.

“Open up, wouldya?” He spoke through the window. “Let’s catch up!”

You walked over to your windowsill but didn’t open the window, instead choosing to lock it. “Why should I let you into my house, Jerome? I’d be harboring a fugitive. That’s a crime. Just like kidnapping, murder, and arson,” you glared at him. “Why would you do that, J?” you asked, hurt evident in your eyes, even through the glass separating you.

“Let me in, (Y/N), I really wanna talk. You know I’d never hurt you.” You immediately believed him, having to consciously remind yourself that you might’ve been being led into a trap. That was, until he held up a fist and extended his pinky. “I pinky swear.” Damn, the boy knows I love me a good pinky swear. You gave up your resolve and cracked the window just enough to reach your own hand through, locking your fingers together before opening it the rest of the way.

“Okay. Talk,” you told him as he climbed through and stepped into your room. You took a seat on the edge of your bed, and he followed suit.

“This guy, Theo… he’s the one who broke us all out,” Jerome began to explain. “Kinda boring dude. But also kinda cool. He’s like the weird, rich uncle I never had,” he joked, making you crack a small smile. He smiled himself at that, nudging you playfully. “Anyways, he gives this whole speech about how we all have ‘vision’ and ‘talent’ and yada yada yada… So I know he gets me.

“Says he wants us to just go crazy, right? ‘Paint the town red’, other junk like that,” he continued. “The last guy who tried to leave, Sionis… He had him stabbed to death. Right in front of us all.” Your eyes shot up to his, shocked. “I can’t very well follow in his footsteps,” he told you.

“Oh, Jerome… That’s awful. I’m sorry.” You wrapped an arm around his side, implying that you’d mostly forgiven him for what he’d been doing recently. It’s not his fault, you reasoned, he’s scared for his life. “What if I call the cops so they can keep you safe from him? You don’t have to keep hurting people,” you offered.

“No, (Y/N), please don’t,” he begged. “They’ll just send me straight back to Arkham, I don’t wanna go back there, I hate that place—”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I understand. I won’t call anyone. Be safe, though? I mean… try as much as you can to not hurt anyone if you can help it.”

“I will. You were right, y’know. About balancing each other out. I think we make a good pair,” he told you, a smile that looked genuine on his face.

“Best friends,” you offered back. Then you gave him a solid hug, burying your face in his chest.

And you’d never have seen it, but that genuine smile suddenly became cunning and devious once more. Gotcha...

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hotoffthepressfics · 5 years ago

Text

Broke But Not Broken: Chapter 7

MASTERLIST

Part VII

Previous | Next

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 4,918

Summary:You make progress in your job search. An upsetting encounter brings you and Bucky closer.

Warnings: Angst

Inspiration/Chapter Soundtrack:

“Armando’s Rhumba” - Chick Corea

“Bird Set Free” - Sia

“Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Yiruma

A/N: I have been trying to write this chapter for the past week! My sister’s wedding was right in the middle of it so I kept having to put it aside. As a result I feel like this might be a little choppy and ramble in some places. I did make this one a little longer too to make up for it being a little later than I wanted it to be. Thank you all for sticking with me! Please Enjoy!

Y/F/F/N - your fake first name

“Tía, this really isn’t necessary.” You beg.

The woman was determined to have you eat your weight in chorizo and eggs. You’d come over to make sure she was set for the day before heading out. As soon as you walked into the tiny apartment Tía Maria had strong armed you into a chair and piled up a plate.

Thanks to Tía’s efforts you were making quick progress to a healthy weight. The sharp angles of your frame softening as you fill out. You appreciated her for it, though your stomach had a few complaints with how much it was forced to stretch from all the food.

You rise from the chair, ready to make a break for the door. Tía pads back into the room with a paper bag in hand.

“Alright mi hija, but you take this for later. I don’t want you going hungry out there.”

Resigned you pull the rolled bag from her hand. She feels her way up to your face. You give her your cheek and she gives it a tweak. You smile, enjoying the endearing gesture and walk out of the apartment.

While waiting on the elevator you unroll the pack and peek inside. Two foil wrapped burritos sit at the bottom. You wrinkle your nose. Tía’s food was very good, but you weren’t keen on eating cold scrambled eggs and meat.

Ding.

The elevator doors spring open. You re-roll the bag and scurry into the small compartment. The metal doors slide closed and the elevator begins its descent only to stop a floor down. As the doors reopen you can make out two familiar voices.

“Oh hey sugar, how are you doing today?” CiCi asks as she and Bucky come into view.

Bucky’s face sports a rather harried look while he awkwardly carries a microwave in his arms. Your heart flutters at the sight of him.

You shuffle to the side as both of them make their way into the elevator.

“All I’m sayin’ is I’m about ready to chuck this damn thing out her window. This is the third time I’ve had to take this to fix it. She ‘claims’ it’s broken but every time I make the call it works fine!” Bucky finishes his rant to CiCi.

You watch in befuddlement wondering what they had been discussing. CiCi notices your quizzical stares and supplies,

“Mrs. Carlyle, no. 303. Fussy little old lady who just might break Bucky here of his good-natured spirit.” CiCi pats Bucky's shoulder sympathetically.

He puts on a martyred expression, letting his head droop a little. You raise your hand to cover the smile spreading across your face.

"I'm sorry. That is tragic." You giggle through your fingers.

Bucky sighs. He lifts his head. His eyes catch onto the bag hanging from your hand. He nods to it.

"Whatcha got there?" You track his gaze, looking down at your hands.

"Oh! Tía Maria insisted I take some burritos with me." You explain.

Immediately, Bucky perks up and leans forward.

"Really?! Tía's burritos are the best!" Excitement practically comes off him in waves.

"Would... you like one?" You hold up the bag in offering.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm very sure. Tía stuffed me so full already I won't be able to eat anymore." You unravel the little sack and reach in. Grabbing hold of one of the wrapped burritos you pull it up. You stick your hand out toward him.

Bucky shifts the microwave in his grasp.

“Actually, would you mind just opening it and sticking it in my mouth?” He deadpans.

You blink. “You…want me to feed you?” You ask incredulously.

“Well… as you can see I’ve kind of got my hands full. Pleeeease?” Bucky pleads a little pathetically.

You feel your cheeks heat. Stuffing the paper bag carefully under your left arm you unwrap the burrito. He opens his mouth wide as you raise it for him. He takes a hearty bite and moans happily. You wait patiently while he chews, then offer him another bite.

The elevator dips and the doors ding open. You have reached the first floor. Bucky widens his mouth, taking another giant bite, but this time he pulls against your hand for the burrito. You release it. He mumbles an incoherent thank you around his food, winking at you. You shyly wave him away as he ambles away out of the space.

Watching him leave you can feel CiCi’s gaze on you. You glance over to her. When you meet her eyes she folds her arms over her chest and cocks an eyebrow.

“I saw that.”

“What?” You feign ignorance, not wanting to examine what exactly had started between you two.

“Don’t you ‘what’ me. You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”

You shrug, “We got to know each other a little last night. It’s just a friendship.”

“Oh, I know about last night. It’s been all he can talk about this morning.” CiCi answers back.

Your face flames a bright, cherry red and you flee the elevator, CiCi hot on your tail. As you walk out the entryway you spin back to CiCi.

“What exactly did he tell you about last night?” It wasn’t as though you had told him not to talk about last night, but you were leery of what details he gave away. It was a pretty stellar meltdown you had had.

CiCi examines you a moment then replies, “Just that you can play that piano in there beautifully.”

She tilts her head towards the building. You relax a little. If Bucky had told her about your fantastic waterworks display CiCi at least was gonna keep it to herself. CiCi digs into her work overalls and pulls out a slightly wrinkled bit of paper.

“Here,” She says as she slides it into your hand. “I wrote down the names of some bars and other places that have live piano music. It might be worth a shot. Don’t take no for an answer!”

Cici cuffs your chin with her index finger and then heads off down the street. You unfold the paper and read some of the names.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try. I’ve got nothing left to lose.

You gulp a big breath and start walking into your day.

•••

The sun had just gone down and the city’s nightlife began to come alive. You determined to hit the bars and little clubs CiCi had suggested just as they opened. That had left you the day to roam, following up on applications and making inquiries for hiring opportunities.

Now you stand in front of a place called The Grandstand. The little bar is tucked in between two brownstones, inconspicuous save for the awning with its name covering the entrance. A flickering, neon sign proclaiming they were open sits in the front window.

Butterflies burst to life in the pit of your stomach. Maybe you should just turn back. After all, there had to be something else you could do. This anxiety was wreaking havoc with your system. You shake your head a little, almost in an effort to reset your line of thinking. No, your friends were right. It would be best to use what talents you had to find some gainful employment.

Rolling your shoulders, you straighten your spine. Before you can talk yourself out of it you yank on the door handle and step inside. The little bar is dimly lit. Old black and white photos lined the walls, 40’s memorabilia tacked up in between. Booths line the wall opposite the bar, with small tables set in the middle of it all. Towards the far back wall stands a small stage with band equipment set up, a baby grand piano wedged against the wall. It all combined to give the place a cozy, retro feel, albeit a little cramped.

Though the place had just opened it was fairly populated with patrons. A few waitresses milled

Between the tables and bar, serving their customers. A young man with unkempt blonde hair stocked and cleaned the bar, periodically pausing to serve drinks. There seemed to be something off with the environment, though you couldn’t really pinpoint it yet.

You timidly meander through the tables towards the man. Once you reach the counter you attempt to get his attention.

“Umm… e-excuse me…” your voice trails off into a whisper, your confidence flagging.

The man continues working, oblivious to your efforts at conversation. You try again, imbuing more strength into your words.

“Excuse me?”

The man pauses, turning a questioning glance behind him. He realizes you’re speaking to him and turns around fully.

“I’m sorry ma’am, can I help you?” He asks.

You nod.

“Yes, I was hoping I could speak to a manager or owner if they’re around?” You force yourself to stay still instead of fidgeting under his scrutiny.

His stare turns wary, unsure if you’re there to complain and cause trouble. He shrugs after a moment and gestures towards the stage.

“The manager is over there.” He returns to his work.

Your eyes follow where he directed. There standing just against the stage stood a rather frazzled looking woman with medium, brown hair. She appeared to be having a heated conversation on the phone.

Moving closer, you stand against one of the tables near the stage waiting for her to finish with her call. You tried not to eavesdrop, you really did, but some things you just can’t help hearing.

“I swear to God, Michael! This is the third time you’ve left us without a pianist in two weeks! I know Marcus puts up with this and doesn’t care, but this is complete bullshit! How can we be a piano bar without someone to play the music?!” The woman hisses into the receiver.

That was when it dawned on you. The thing that seemed off about the environment. There was complete silence underneath the murmured conversations of the customers. No music. You suppose you should have figured that out when you noticed the stage.

The woman listens to someone on the other end before she scoffs and hangs up. She breathes out a suppressed scream and runs her fingers through her hair.

“P-pardon me.” You speak softly, stepping over to her.

She stiffens a moment before she straightens and swings around, pasting a smile to her face.

“Oh hello! How may I help you?” She responds politely.

You take a breath and return her smile, hoping it doesn’t look too frightened.

“Yes… I, uh, was hoping to see if you were hiring? It sounded like you could use a piano player, I –“

The woman’s demeanor shifts; it wasn’t unkind, just more firm.

“I’m sorry, but we aren’t currently hiring for any positions, and unfortunately our owner, Marcus, doesn’t like for patrons to play the instruments.” She smiles apologetically and walks away, leaving you a little flustered.

You stand alone, feeling slightly embarrassed and at a loss for what to do. You look up and watch the other customers. A few who had come in the same time you had were already leaving, clearly unimpressed with the experience. You turn back to the stage pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

Taking a surreptitious glance for the manager and other employees you’re relieved to find no one paying you any heed. CiCi’s words flit across your mind.

Don’t take no for an answer.

Quietly you move behind the piano taking a seat on the bench. In your mind you sift through your mental catalog for a good jazz piece you could remember.

You settle on a piece that starts slow and builds to a fun, uptempo beat. Gently plucking at the keys you play. Just like the night before the music swept you up again. This time, however, your heart felt lighter. Happier. You add a little more flare to the piece, playing around with the melody.

As you close the song you’re startled by a smattering of clapping from the patrons around the bar. You’d forgotten you were playing to anybody. You look up and see the manager gazing in your direction; her expression unreadable. You stand as she approaches, steeling your nerves for a confrontation.

The woman stops just short of the stage, resting her hand upon the piano. She looks away to the piano and then considers you again. She sighs.

“Look, I can’t offer you a position. Marcus has the last say when it comes to the musicians, so you’ll have to audition for him, but…” she sucks in a breath, holding it for a moment. She blows it out.

“Would you mind playing for us the rest of the evening, please? I have enough of an emergency fund to pay you for that. I’m desperate for a player.”

Your heart leapt. Nodding enthusiastically you begin to slide back under the piano. The manager gives you a relieved smile and goes back to work.

By closing time your fingers felt sore, unused to all the constant playing. You step down from the stage and head over to the bar. The manager sits upon a stool, looking over some paperwork as you approach. She looks up to you. Setting the papers down she swivels away and reaches out for your hand.

“Thank you got your help tonight, my name is Maggie.”

You shake her hand replying with, “I’m…Y/F/F/N.”

You’d been so content and happy you’d almost forgotten to use your borrowed name. Maggie paid you for the evening and the two of you made arrangements for you to come again tomorrow night to meet with Marcus.

Back out on the street you hug your coat closer to you, breathing the cool fall air. Your blood hums through your veins and you feel like you could float away from the elation running through you.

The bus ride back to your street was almost unbearably long. You were itching to keep practicing to prepare for your meeting tomorrow. The bus pulled up to the curb and your feet flew out and down to your apartment building.

Once inside the building you turn the corner into the laundry room. You halt. Where the piano had stood was now just empty space. Apparently someone had finally come to claim the instrument.

Deflated you exit the room and make your way up to your apartment. As you enter the elevator a woman pushes passed you into the space. You ignore her and her rudeness, pressing the number three button next to the lit up four.

You reach your floor and get out, never once glancing at the rude woman. Trudging into your apartment, you flip on the switch and freeze.

There resting to the right of the living room window was the piano. You cautiously walk over. You examine it, running your fingers across the keys. A part of you was a little alarmed someone had been into your apartment, but the other part of you knew there would be only one person who knew what that piano meant to you and had the means of getting it into your place.

You spin on your heel and head back out the door. Running back to the elevator you go up another floor. As the elevator doors slide open you think you see a shadow dart around a corner. You hesitate, uncertain that you should continue.

Don’t be silly. No one is looking for you here. It must have just been a trick of the light.

You try to shrug it off and make your way to Bucky’s door. Sudden nerves burst into butterflies in your stomach as you knock on the wood. The door swings open. The moment Bucky comes into view your nerves kick into overdrive. As soon as he’s standing in the doorway you launch yourself at him, hugging him tightly.

“Whoa! I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I gotta find out so I can do it again.” He chuckles as he returns the hug.

Your cheeks flame but you smile. Your hands fidget a little as you step back out of the embrace.

“You know what you did. Thank you.” You say shyly.

Bucky smirks a little and runs his metal fingers through his hair. His ears pink once again

You open your mouth to say more when suddenly a streak of blonde passes between you two. Bucky stumbles back stunned as a small blonde woman strikes him across the face.

“I cannot believe you! You don’t return any of my calls then I find out you’re cheating on me with this little slut!” She whirls around to you.

You’d frozen in shock to the spot until she levels you with her glare. If looks could kill you were certain you would have dropped dead from the venom injected into her gaze. You backtrack towards the other end of the hallway as she prowls over to you. Certain she’s about to strike you as well you raise your arms to defend yourself.

You were sure you’d seen this girl before, back in the laundry room the day you’d assisted Bucky. What was her name? Rebecca?

Just as your back hits the hallway wall you see Bucky lunge for the woman. He wraps his flesh hand around her wrist and yanks her back. She stumbles back as Bucky maneuvers between you and her. Rebecca rights herself and fumes, a wide – eyed, disbelieving expression on her face.

“I cannot believe you’re defending her!”

“Dammit Rebecca, lay off! I have told you, we are not together. I’m sorry if you’re feelings are hurt but you knew from the start that this wasn’t anything!” Bucky shouts over her.

You can hear a few doors click open down the hall, some of the other tenants curious about the commotion. Bucky swears.

“Please Rebecca, go. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

She scoffs, “I’m not the one who should be embarrassed! You’re the one who’s been stringing me along! And I am not leaving until you talk to me!”

With that Rebecca stomps into Bucky’s apartment. He sighs heavily, turning around to face you.

“Are you okay?” He asks gently, his metal hand reaching up to wrap a loose strand of your hair around his index finger.

You nod, a little shaken, but you’d be lying if you said you’d never experienced that kind of jealous rage directed at you.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine. Ar-are you gonna be okay?” You weakly gesture to his red, swollen cheek.

He chuckles bitterly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, doll. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten myself into these situations before. It doesn’t happen often but…” he sighs again before he looks up into your face. He shakes his head, his metal thumb rubbing softly against your cheekbone.

He quickly ducks his head and plants a chaste kiss to your temple and releases your face and hair.

“Have a good night, Y/N.” Bucky says softly.

He walks to his door and pauses.

“And you’re welcome.” With that he goes into his apartment and closes the door.

You stand there a little numb and flustered. As the other doors begin to close you rush with your head down back to the elevator.

•••

After retreating back into your apartment, you ate and showered. The excitement of Rebecca’s outburst gone for the most part. Though occasionally you could hear a raised voice and things smashing around above your place.

A twinge of guilt twists in your gut.

This must have been what he meant by “B-Day”…

You were fairly confident it had been you who’d let Rebecca into the building when you rushed home. Now she was in his place and he couldn’t even retreat to his backup apartment to hide from her craziness.

Another crash sounds followed by a dull thud. You wince, beginning to worry about Bucky. You wanted to go and check on him but you feared you’d only make it worse. You weren’t afraid of Rebecca; you’d been around delusional women like her enough these past couple years to feel sorry for them rather than threatened. They always thought more of a relationship than what was really there. They hated you for your relationship with Colton. If they only knew how much you wanted to be out; what was really lurking behind closed doors…

You shake off the depressing thoughts. You didn’t want to dwell on that stuff anymore. You walk out to the living room and seat yourself at the piano. Testing the keys you run through some scales and practice pieces.

You continue practicing some of the songs you’d performed that night, trying to smooth the parts you’d struggled with playing. Growing bored with those songs you decide to play something else. Thinking through the pieces you used to play for your mother, you recall one that she’d been very fond of. It was one you hadn’t been able to play since her death, but given all you’d been through you were craving it’s calming, sweet melody.

Sitting up straight you place your fingers back on the keys and begin a slow rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me”.

It was a little rough but your fingers recalled the movements well enough. You let the final notes fade out. Out on the fire escape a faint clapping sounds. You start, leaning over to peer out the window. From that angle you can see a pair of feet resting on the stairs a floor up. Rising you cross over to the window and unlatch it. Sliding it up you poke your head out and look up. There Bucky sits, reclining against the brick of the building watching you with a sheepish grin. You cock your head to the side.

“What are you doing out here? Did you get Rebecca to leave?” You inquire.

Bucky lets out a huffed laugh.

“I wish it was that simple. This is self- imposed exile.” Another crash sounds from inside his space. He grimaces.

You guess with all your playing you’d drowned out the chaos that Rebecca was still creating.

“She’s refusing to leave. I guess her thinking is if she stays long enough I’ll change my mind and be with her… now she’s barricaded herself in the bedroom. So here I am. Hiding out until she gets tired of waiting.”

At that moment a chilled wind blows through, you shiver in your thin sleep shirt. You glance up at Bucky again chewing on your bottom lip. He looks down on the street, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

“That song was familiar. What’s it called?” He muses.

“Dream a Little Dream of Me.” You offer in reply.

He hums, resting his head back onto the brick façade.

“Any chance I could persuade you to play it again for me?” He looks down on you with his best puppy dog eyes.

Before now being asked to play made your skin crawl. It was another way he could humiliate and use you. Bucky, though, with all his exuberance and sweetness made you feel like your mother had. Special and important. You give a faint smile and wave him down, “Come on.”

You step back away from the window and hear the creak of the fire escape. You watch impressed as Bucky glides in, graceful as a cat, and plops down onto the recliner still stationed next to the window. He groans appreciatively, stretching against the seat as you close the window with a snap.

“This really wasn’t a ploy to get inside your apartment. I really did just want to hear you play that song again.” His words contradict his actions as he nestles into the recliner cushions.

You bite your bottom lip.

“It’s probably my fault that you had to sit out there anyway. I… think I may have let her in when I came home tonight.” You admit to him.

Bucky contemplates this a moment then shakes his head.

“No, this is really my fault. Cees has warned me and I knew better… perhaps it’s just what I deserve.” The last part he says so quietly you don’t think he meant for you to hear it.

You puzzle over that. You couldn’t imagine why a guy as nice and kind as Bucky would think he deserved a psychotic woman destroying his apartment and assaulting his person. However, you didn’t feel you had a right to pry. If he was going to allow you to hold onto your secrets, you could let him do the same. You change the subject.

“Yes well, how can my audience enjoy this masterpiece if they are freezing to death?” You inquire dramatically.

Bucky snorts and you smile wide. You liked being able to joke and tease with someone again. It helped you feel normal and sane. Like you never were the person you’d been in that dark place just a little over a month ago.

You take your seat on the piano bench again and play for him. When you finished Bucky claps and cheers while you bow and giggle. You retell your day and how you might have possibly found a job. His excitement over the news touches you. All Colton ever did was sneer and belittle you whenever you told him good things that happened in your day. As though your little successes meant nothing.

You become a little somber. You draw your hands back into your lap. Bucky notices and leans forward, trying to catch your eye.

“Hey, hey… Where’d you go, rabbit? Why’d you start to hole up on me?” He reaches his hand out to you but stops just short of touching you.

His beautiful, blue eyes are full of concern. You meet his gaze, letting the cool softness of it wash over you like a balm.

You exhale slowly and offer a weary smile.

“I’m fine,” you yawn wide. “Oh, sorry, I guess I’m just exhausted from the day.”

It wasn’t a total lie, you were feeling the strain of the long hours walking around the city.

“Ah,” Bucky nods in understanding, reclining back into the chair. “It is pretty late. Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

Dipping your head in agreement you slide off the bench, walking towards the bedroom door. You pause, turning back to look at Bucky.

“What are you gonna do for the night?” You ask.

Bucky gestures to himself and the chair. “You’re looking at it.”

You give him a doubtful look, “Bucky… I’ve been in that chair and it is not comfortable enough to sit in for long, let alone sleep in.”

He waves you off, remaining nonchalant.

“It’ll be okay Y/N, go sleep.”

Hesitating for a second, you concede and walk into the bedroom. You close the door with a quiet, little snick. In your isolation you pace between the bed and doorway. You turn again and face the room’s little window, turning an idea over in your mind.

It probably wasn’t a very smart idea, inviting a man to share a sleeping space with you. It usually led to you being forced to do things you’d rather forget. You didn’t have to do this; you could just let him sleep out there on that old recliner.

Except that you couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. The self – deprecation laced in his voice. It had made your heart ache for him. He was too gentle and friendly to feel he deserved to be treated like dirt.

You roll back your shoulders, resolved. Walking towards the bed you lean down and snatch up your sweater, throwing it on over your head. You crawl onto the mattress and begin arranging the pillows down the middle, creating a small barrier. Once you’re done you curl up on the side closest to the outer wall, pulling the covers tightly around you. All settled you call out for Bucky.

The door creaks open but you don’t look over. It’s silent for a long moment.

“What… are you doing?” Bucky asks, skeptical.

You glance over your shoulder at him, then nod your head to the empty side of the bed.

“I’m sharing.” You say matter-of-factly.

You lay back down, unable to maintain eye contact for fear of losing your nerve. Already your stomach was twisting in knots, afraid you might be misplacing your trust. You push the uncertainty down. While you have your internal fight with yourself, you feel the mattress dip as Bucky carefully sits on it.

“You do realize that… these pillows would do nothing if I really wanted to try something, right?”

You throw your head back to eye him warily, his comment making your heart jump in fear a little.

“Well then, you can go back to the recliner if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.” You tried to keep it light but you thought you heard a slight waver in your voice.

Bucky throws his hands up, bowing his head like a little schoolboy scolded.

“No, no, no! I’ll be on my best behavior I promise. Cross my heart, doll.” He makes the gesture over his chest.

You stifle a giggle into the covers and settle back in, facing the wall. Bucky rustles around a bit more to get comfortable then all is still. After a minute or two you hear him begin to hum lightly the melody of your mother’s song. Your muscles ease and soon sleep pulls you under as the last lyric flits through your mind.

Dream a little dream of me...

EVERYTHING TAGLIST:

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BUCKY BARNES TAGLIST:

@bloodiedskirtts @igotkatiepowers @misplacedorphan @superwholockwannabe @moonstruckhargrove @ladysergeantbarnes

BBNB TAGLIST:

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robinrunsfiction · 6 years ago

Note

okay one more thing and i'll shut up: what about a human!gerard x vampire!reader?? i've literally never seen one anywhere. "What's your tragic backstory?" "My what now?" "Y'know, you're a fuckin vampire, isn't your past supposed to be dark and tragic?" "Listen, dude, I've literally only been a vampire for a total of three months and that's because I fucking ASKED to be one." "You're the strangest person I've ever met." "Indeed I am. But you're the one who asked me out."

My Monster

Pairing: Gerard Way x Female Vampire ReaderRating: GeneralRequested by: @pest-ill-enceWord Count: ~2,700Author’s Note: So I started writing this in July (Does that seem right?Because that seems like… really long ago… But I started writing it on tumblr,and had it saved as a draft file and when I go to it, it says July 12th which is bananas, but ok!), but I left off writing it. Then I got the above request and I still had this and I’m actually finishing it off! It’s set circa Bullets era, hence the Umbrella Academylevels of technology haha

Gerard scanned the crowd of the small venue as he sang. Thecrowd was rowdy, fired up, but in the back of the room he spotted you at thebar, drink in hand, watching with a smile.

Feeling the singers gaze on you, you locked eyes with him andsmiled even more. He was gorgeous you thought as you sipped your drink.Throughout the performance his attention kept coming back to you.

After the set, crowd dispersed, and the band members talkedto the fans who stuck around. You had turned back to the bar to pay your billwhen someone sat down on the next stool. You glanced up and the singer from theband was sitting next to you.

“Umm hey, I’m Gerard, thanks for coming out to the show.” Hesaid running his hand through his hair.

“I’m (y/n). You guys are really great, you know?”

“Thanks,” he said with a bashful smile and your stomachflipped. He was even cuter up close.

You two continued talking for quite a while before younoticed the time.

“Hey Gerard, I really want to continue this conversation,but I have to go get ready for work.”

Gerard looked up at the clock above the bar, it was almost 2AM and looked back at you with a confused look.

“I own a bakery,” you explained. “I have to get the breadand pastries baking for the day.”

“Can we meet up some time soon?” He asked hopefully.

“Yea, that would be awesome,” you said with a smile beforereaching over the bar to grab a pen and a napkin.

“Hey, don’t just go grabbing shit,” the bartender calledfrom the end of the bar behind you. You whipped your head around and shot him aglare that made his blood run cold. Gerard saw the look of fear on thebartender’s face and looked over his shoulder trying to figure out whatelicited such a look. He shrugged when he didn’t see anything out of orderbehind him and turned back to you as you held up the napkin with your phonenumber on it and a sweet smile.

“Call me,” you said as you got up to leave.

“I will,” he replied as he watched you walk away. Gerard waslooked at your phone number on the napkin when the bartender approached him.

“Hey man, watch yourself with that chick, she’s scary,” hesaid.

“What the fuck are you talking about man?” Gerard asked incredulously.The bartender just replied by holding his fingers over his teeth like fangs andsnarled at the singer.

“Ok,” Gerard said as he waved him off and went back to thestage where his bandmates were starting to pack up their equipment. It had beena great night in his book.

The phone ringing on your nightstand woke you from yourslumber. Sitting up against the pillows in your cool dark room you answered,trying to shake the sleep from your voice. “Hello?”

“Hey, (y/n)? Its Gerard, from the bar.”

“Oh hey, how’s it going?”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, it’s ok. What’s going on?”

You and Gerard talked for a while about life, his band, andsome new songs he was working on. You agreed to meet up for coffee in a coupledays before their next show.

The night of your date, you got up early to do your hair,and makeup. Your signature look was a bit mod; winged eyeliner and a neutrallip. It wasn’t exactly the trendiest look, but you knew what you liked. Youpulled on your coat and headed out.

When you arrived at the coffee shop, Gerard was out frontsmoking a cigarette looking a little nervous. You smiled as you approached inthe cold early dusk air.

“Hey, how’s it going?” you asked as you approached.

“Great,” he said with a smile as he snuffed out hiscigarette under the toe of his boot. He held the door open for you as youwalked into the small coffee shop. You both ordered black coffee and settled inat a small table a silence overtaking you both, until you both started takingat the same time.

“So you own a bakery?” He asked as you asked “How often doesyour band perform?” You both laughed as Gerard ran his hand through his blackhair.

“Umm yea, I’ve owned the bakery for a while. It’s been afamily owned since the 30s.”

“Wow, that’s really cool,” Gerard said with a smile. Therewas something about him you really could not put your finger on. You just feltso comfortable with him.

“Are you excited for your show tonight?” You asked aftertalking about your bakery for a while.

“Oh yes, we have a couple new songs. You’re coming tonightright?”

“Of course! How soon do we have to go?”

Gerard glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh yea, weshould get going.”

You both grabbed your cups and headed out into the coldnight. As you walked down the street, you felt his hand brushing against yourstentatively. You glanced up and he glanced down shyly and took your hand.

When you got to the bar they were playing in, a line wasstarting to form out front and you both slipped around to the back.

“I got to help set up, so I’ll see you after the show.”

After the show, you found Gerard and he was grinning andfull of energy, as the show was just as energetic and exciting as the last one.He threw his arm over your shoulder and introduced you to the other guys in theband. After they finished tearing down their equipment, Gerard offered to walkyou back to your car.

“Thanks for the good time tonight Gee,” you said as youleaned against your car. Gerard had been much more confident about taking your handas you walked the blocks back to where you parked.

“Thanks for coming out, I’m glad you had fun,” he said,looking down at your hand in his, then looked back up at you. You bit your lipas you glanced at his and Gerard took the hint you were not so subtly sending. Heleaned in, pressing his lips softly against yours at first, until you reachedup and pulled him in a little more strongly and then he was wrapping his armsaround your waist.

You instantly felt a spark, the connection you felt fromback in the coffee shop solidifying even more. When you pulled back the look inhis eyes told you he felt the same.

“Wanna do this again soon?” He asked quietly. You nodded andsmiled at him. “Good, then I’ll call ya.”

“I’ll see ya around,” you said as you got in the car. Youwaved as he watched you drive away. But then Gerard did a double take. Heglanced at the rear-view window, he didn’t see you. His eyes quickly scanned tothe mirror on the door and again saw nothing but the interior of the car. Hechalked it up to the adrenaline in his veins wearing off, or the dim light. Butsomething nagged at the back of his mind that there was something else goingon.

The next night Gerard ventured back to the bar where he hadmet you. The bartender that was working that night was still behind the bar, dryingglasses when Gerard approached.

“’Scuse me,” Gerard said to get his attention.

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing, umm, I was here the other night, I was talking tothis girl and you said to be careful,” as Gerard spoke a look of recognition spreadacross the man’s face.

“Oh yea, now I remember you, she try to bite you?”

“No, what? No, that’s what I was wondering about. You saidto be careful around her.”

“Yea, she’s been coming here for years, never ages. Rumorhas it she’s a vampire.”

Gerard looked at the bartender like he was nuts, but his curiositywas piqued. “You really think?”

The bartender nodded. “Why not. I’ve seen a lot of crazyshit over the years. Why not believe in vampires too?”

Gerard thanked the bartender for the information and headedout, his head spinning. He was always intrigued by vampires, but he thoughtthey were the stuff of legend. Now this beautiful girl that he really wanted tosee again was supposedly one of them, and he was even more intrigued.

You and Gerard had been going out for a couple months nowand growing closer. After your first date, you felt like he was watching yourbehaviors a bit more closely at first, but he seemed to have gotten used to theway you lived. You noticed that unlike other guys you tried to date, Gerard didn’tinvite you out to eat, which really made life easier. You didn’t eat likepeople, because you weren’t people. In fact, you ate people. Not really,though. You had a friend at the Red Cross who brought you what youaffectionately called your juice boxes from their donated supply.

After another late night with Gerard, you had hurried home.When you got in, you saw you had a message on your answering machine. Pressingplay, Gerard’s voice filled the room.

“Hey, I just noticed you left your scarf here, if you want,I can drop it off when you open your shop up this morning. I don’t want you tonot have it when we’re out of town for a few weeks. Umm yeah, I’ll see youlater.”

A smile crept across your face as you changed into freshclothes. You didn’t need that scarf, but any chance to see Gerard again beforehe left town was welcome. You quickly called him back and told him to come tothe back door any time after 6 AM.

You went downstairs and set to work on the day’s baked goodsas well as a special-order birthday cake. You opened the store when youremployee, Martha, came in to work the counter. As you placed the finishingtouches on the top layer of frosting you heard a quiet rapping on the backdoor. “Hey, come on in,” you said opening the door for Gerard.

“Thanks, here’s this” he said handing you the scarf. Youtook it from him and with a glance toward the front of the store, pressed yourlips to his for a brief makeout session before redirecting your attention backto the cake.

“It looks great, you’re really good at that,” he repliedsitting down on the stool across the small kitchen watching you get back towork.

“Thanks, I’ve had a lot of practice. I should be done soon.”

The bell above the front door rang as a customer came in andMartha greeted them.

“You see sweetie, I used to bring your mother here when welived in this neighborhood” you heard a familiar voice say. It had been a longtime since you heard that voice, and it had aged.

You glanced up from the cake, and without meaning to, metthe old woman’s eye. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

“Lorraine? Is that you? No, no it couldn’t be, you haven’taged a day since we moved!” She babbled and you felt a rush of irritation andembarrassment wash over you. You glanced nervously over at Gerard who lookedbetween you and the old woman with a confused expression on his face.

“Oh, ah, no sorry, that was my Grandmother. She owned thebakery before me” you said with a smile.

“My goodness, I’ve never seen a family resemblance sostrong!”

“I hear that a lot, excuse me won’t you?” you said with awave before turning and hurrying down the stairs to the basement. You heard asecond set of footsteps behind you.

“Are you ok?” Gerard asked as you paced the dim room.

You hung your head as you stopped pacing. You thought enoughtime had passed, that you had changed your hair enough, your modern clotheswould disguise you, that you wouldn’t actually be in the store when someone recognizedyou from before, from impossibly long ago. But it happened. No one would give asecond thought to a doddering old lady thinking you were practically a twin ofyour supposed grandmother, but it unnerved you especially with Gerard there towitness it.

“What is going on?” Gerard asked again, placing his hands onyour shoulders. You looked up at him and sighed. May as well rip off thisbandage.

“I- I, didnt want to tell you because I really like you, whichsounds really fucked up and backwards, but,” you took a deep breath and sighed.“I’m going to tell you something, because I trust you. And you can leave andnever come back if you want but promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

He furrowed his brows even deeper.

“You may have heard some rumors about me. And depending onwhich ones you’ve heard they may be true.”

“So, the rumors about you being a vampire?”

“Are accurate.” You stated and let your gaze fall to thefloor. Gerard gently placed his hand under your chin and tilted your face up tolook you in the eyes.

“My girlfriend is a vampire? That is the coolest fuckingthing I’ve ever heard!” He said with a grin before planting a kiss on yourlips. When you separated you laughed.

“I should have known you would react like that,” you repliedwith a laugh. “And I promise I will tell you everything, but I have to finishthat cake and you need to get on the road to your next show.”

When the band returned from their short tour up the coast,you as you found yourself outside Gerard’s apartment door, a wave of nervesrushing over you. You knocked and heard him on the other side before he openedthe door.

“Hey sugar, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said pullingyou against him, lips connecting. “You want anything?” he asked politely when you separated,shrugging off your coat.

“No thanks, I’m ok. How were the shows?”

“Awesome! We got some real fans coming out now.” Gerard saidleaning against the kitchen counter and you hopped up on the counter acrossfrom him.

“So I suppose we should have that talk now?” You suggested apprehensively.

“Yea. I was wondering what’s your tragic backstory?“

“My what now?” You asked, slightly taken aback.

“Ya know, you’re a fuckin vampire, isn’t your pastsupposed to be dark and tragic?”

“Listen, I’ve literally only been a vampire for like 40years and that’s because I asked to be one! I kinda fell in with a crowd thatreally knew how to party back when I was… really younger, and I didn’t want theparty to ever end and they gave me the opportunity to do just that. The problemI after about 30 years, I really was ready to grow up, or at least leave thatlife behind, but I was stuck. But at least I’m always gonna look like I’m in my20s. People pay good money for this and I got it for free. Well, free plus thecost of my humanity.”

“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

“Indeed I am. But you’re the one who asked me out,” yougrinned.

Gerard pushed himself up from the counter and crossed thesmall distance between you and put his hands on your waist. “(YN), you may be avampire, but I fucking love you.”

You gasped lightly then a grin spread across your face. “Eventhough I’m a sixty-seven-year-old monster?”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. “You’re not a monster, you’re my monster.”

“And you say I’m the strangest person you’ve ever met. Haveyou ever looked in a mirror?”

“Have you?”

“Low blow, Way. Low blow.”

Gerard cracked up at this.

“Ugh I love you too, you weirdo,” you laughed, and he kissedyou again.

Masterlist

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