#In fact I then became a wander hazard. I would wander off to go talk to strangers. Simply to chat with them. I was a terrible toddler | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

galvanizedfriend · 4 years ago

Text

The Wolf Outtake

This is a little outtake, if you will, of The Wolf universe. It actually fits within the post-TW2 headcanons I've been writing to keep myself happy, so somewhere in S3. It's something that would never fit within the actual story because it's pure domestic fluff. lol I wrote this for @recyclingss, baby Eve's number one fan who yells at me when the child doesn't make an appearance and who’s also the biggest cheerleader this story’s ever had. 💖

This is set much later in the future, and you will notice baby Eve is actually more of toddler Eve here, but I've removed any specific context to make it so this would fit into any point of The Wolf post S2E14, I guess.

Summary: Just random KC+baby moment in The Wolf. It's fluffy, domestic, features the child and Klaus' bitter feelings for Bayou wolves. Nobody asked for it, but I figured, after the WEEK we've all had, maybe people could use some fluff? Hope you guys enjoy it! :)

______________________

Klaus doesn't even realize it's morning already until Caroline stirs next to him, making a lazy hum deep in her throat that pulls him out of his idle reverie. He blinks his surroundings back into focus; the fluorescence that had been filtering in through the windows last time he checked has now been replaced by warm sunlight. He didn’t even notice so much time had gone by.

Caroline rolled onto her side and was quickly lulled into blissful sleep after their late-night exertions. Klaus was distracted by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest for a long time until his mind was ensnared by its usual culprits, thoughts trapped in the latest batch of torments and woes to take over the Mikaelsons’ lives.

When Caroline opens her eyes and offers him a slow smile, Klaus feels himself touch ground again.

"'Morning," she slurs in that husky voice, still thick with sleep.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he replies with a short grin.

Caroline yawns as she stretches out her body under the thin sheet covering her modesty.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asks, blinking sluggishly at him.

"I'm well-rested, if that's what you're asking."

"It's not." Caroline props herself up on one elbow to stare levelly at him. Some of that drowsiness in her eyes dissipates, disappointment panging through him for bringing her back to the harshness of reality so fast. This is why, sometimes, especially on those not-so-rare nights when he ends up not getting any sleep, he'd rather not stay in bed. It allows the reprieve that slumber offers Caroline to last a little while longer. "Is it about Elijah?" she inquires, a knowing look on her face.

Klaus' eyes wander away from hers. "It's about everything," he states vaguely, but not untruthfully.

Caroline hums unconvinced. "While I know you don't need to sleep, I also know it spells nothing but trouble when you can’t. It’s never good when you spend the whole night thinking."

"Well, not the whole night," he says with a suggestive leer. "I did spend a good portion of the time engaged in far more pleasant activities."

She rolls her eyes at him, but her smile is more than a little satisfied when she leans into him. "You're not as smooth as you think, Mikaelson."

"I beg to differ." Caroline chuckles, shifting under the sheets to press herself against his side, placing a kiss on his shoulder, then his neck, his jaw. Klaus snakes a hand around her back, pulling her closer still, feeling the familiar stirrings of heat in his underbelly. "Shall I prove my point?" he all but purrs.

Caroline smirks against the corner of his mouth, her palm coming to rest on his chest. Klaus covers her hand with his, angling his face to take her mouth into a kiss. Her breasts pressing against his skin sends a tingle shooting through his body, and his other hand is already sliding down her spine, ready to guide her to straddle him, when lively conversation in the next room makes them pause.

"Oh-oh," Caroline mutters. "I guess that means Mr. Wolfy is up early today."

Klaus lets out a disappointed sigh.

Eve doesn't cry so much when she wakes up anymore. Now, she either stays quietly in her crib until someone sees to her, or she starts playing with her toys. A social butterfly like her mother, she loves to engage in complex conversations with that hideous stuffed wolf Jackson gave her and her absolute favorite toy, the wooden knight Klaus carved for Rebekah when they were children.

When he started to wake up to the sound of her talking to herself, he became worried, thinking maybe she was seeing things they weren't - which, in New Orleans, could mean a number of horrifying deals. But Caroline assured him that it is perfectly normal for young children to talk to inanimate objects, especially one who lives exclusively amongst adults.

Apparently, it's good exercise for her imagination, or something.

When Klaus is watching her, he will make a point to take part in her debates, always highlighting Mr. Knight's grandeur compared to Mr. Bog Scum.

"Sweetheart, this filthy dog here is the enemy. He wants to shroud you in flannel, carry you away to the swamp and bore you to sleep. Mr. Knight is here to save you from this stinky animal's claws."

He's convinced one day she'll understand what he means.

What’s most troublesome, however, is that Eve has started to attempt to climb out of her crib on her own. They always lock the other door to her bedroom when she's asleep, but the door connecting her room to Caroline's is always left unlocked for safety reasons. One of these days, Klaus thinks, their little wolf is going to catch mommy and daddy in very compromising positions. The idea mortifies him, especially because he and Caroline can get a tad carried away. They are a hybrid and a near-hybrid, after all. Too much energy and whatnot.

"No rest for the wicked," Caroline speaks around a sigh before peeling away from him. Klaus watches her naked form with wistfulness as she climbs out of bed, his prospect of a lovely morning enterprise disappearing alongside the shape of her beautiful breasts as she shrugs on a fleece robe.

Caroline vamps off to the en suite bathroom to freshen up a bit and then follows to Eve's room.

"Good morning, sweet cheeks!" she greets their daughter sunnily. "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wolfy!" Oh, for goodness' sake, Klaus curses inwardly. "And Mr. Knight!" Much better.

Minutes later, Caroline returns with Eve, comfortable in fresh diapers, right on her heels, carrying Mr. Inconvenient and Mr. Knight.

When she sees Klaus, she takes off towards the bed, her little legs getting more and more agile by the day. He pulls the sheets and covers up to his chest while she tries to hoist herself up. With ease, using just one hand, Klaus lifts her up and puts her sitting on his stomach.

"Good morning, my littlest wolf," he says. "Where's my kiss?"

His daughter leans down and smacks a loud kiss on his cheek, and then holds Mr. Fleabag close to him for a kiss as well. Klaus makes a face. "Not the dog, Eve."

"Seriously?" Caroline says with a bored air about her. "You're antagonizing a stuffed animal now?"

"This thing is a health hazard."

"That thing has a cute little name, Mr. Wolfy, and your daughter loves him."

"I refuse to treat a swamp dog as though it were a gentleman. Besides, I'm sure she loves Mr. Knight way more, don't you, love? Where's Mr. Hero?" She shouts something that sounds like Miter Nigh before pushing it onto Klaus' face. He cracks a proud smile at her. "There you go." He attacks her with tickles, and Eve bursts with sweet laughter.

Caroline shakes her head at him, but he notices she's quite clearly biting back on a smile. "You're impossible."

"I’m quite possible, I assure you," he replies smoothly. "Where are you going?" he asks when she starts tying her hair into a ponytail and taking clothes from her drawers.

"Running with Marcel."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," he protests. "Can you believe this, Eve? It's not even seven in the morning and your mother is willingly stepping out of the house to run. I sometimes fear she might be a psychopath."

She scoffs loudly. "You would know, wouldn't you?" While she walks by him to go into the en suite, she slaps him lightly across the legs. "Stop telling my child that I'm a psycho, psycho."

"How else am I supposed to explain this insanity? What kind of person runs for pleasure when there is an infinite array of far more gratifying activities to invest your energy into? Just now we were about to -"

"Not in front of the small child, Klaus!" she chides from the bathroom.

"She doesn't know what daddy is talking about, do you, love?" Eve giggles while he lifts her up above him, holding her like a flying superhero. "Blissfully clueless."

Caroline steps back into the room, already in her exercise gear. Klaus lets out an infinitely despondent sigh. He would love nothing more than to get her out of those.

"It's inappropriate conversation to have in front of the toddler," she remarks, putting on the smartwatch she bought recently to exercise with and measure her sleep patterns or whatever the bloody hell that is. She showed him all of this gizmo’s functionalities, swearing it’s the best thing ever invented by human minds. Klaus thinks it’s adorable, however incomprehensible, that someone with such close ties with the supernatural world would still be so impressed by technology. There’s literally nothing that cannot be sorted through magic. How is a watch that counts steps supposed to awe you once you’ve seen someone brought back from the dead? Caroline’s attachment to her humanity goes way beyond her empathy. "Besides, it was gonna be a quick activity because I'd go meet Marcel anyway,” she adds after a beat.

"I can make you see stars in five minutes," he leers, a smirk growing on his face.

Caroline whips her face at him with what is clearly an attempt at outrage but turns into something else when she can't hold her own smile. She can't deny him when his point was proved just the night before. Several times, in fact.

"Shut up," she retorts simply. "Can you give her breakfast? I left chopped fruits in the fridge. You can wait about an hour after the bottle and give it to her as a little treat - not Fruit Loops."

"She loves that thing."

"Of course she does, it's pure sugar. That's exactly why we don't let her have it all the time. She needs to eat real fruits."

Klaus rolls his eyes, sitting up in bed and putting the baby beside him. "Honestly, sweetheart, your mother sometimes..."

Caroline narrows her eyes at him. "You really love to make yourself out to be the cool parent, don't you?"

"I don't have to make myself out to be anything, love. I am the parent who doesn't deny her the little joys of sugary treats. If that makes me cool, then you’ve only got yourself to blame."

"You're the parent who'll spoil her rotten, that’s what. Let's see how you'll feel when she's 16 and her boyfriend is climbing the balcony in her room in the middle of the night because she never learned how to take a no."

"Oh, I would love for her suitors to climb her window in the middle of the night. It’ll be the last thing they do,” he says, smiling innocently at Eve.

“You’ll be such a ray of sunshine when she starts dating.”

“As per usual," he says with a bite of arrogance. "Hold the child so I can get decent, will you?"

Caroline picks Eve up and keeps her looking firmly the other way while Klaus flashes out of bed and into the bathroom. He hears Caroline teasing her with “Where did daddy go?” and laughing at what he knows is Eve's extremely confused but astonished face. She thinks they're magicians. It's one of her favorite things, to watch as Klaus makes full use of his vampire speed to all but vanish right before her eyes. Modern technology has got nothing on him.

There's something extremely heartwarming about his daughter's innocence. One day, she'll be old enough to understand why he can do the things he does. When that day comes, Klaus will cease to be a creature of magic and wonder, to become what he truly is: darkness made flesh.

He has never been ashamed of what he is, hardly ever had any qualms with filling the villain shoes, quite glad to do it, in fact, but he suddenly finds himself dreading the day when his child will figure out what it means to carry the Mikaelson name. When their family’s history will weigh down on her shoulders as it does on theirs.

While making people cower in fear at the mere sound of his name has brought him an obscene amount of satisfaction and pride over the centuries, Klaus has to admit he's fascinated by the pure sparkle in his child's eyes. She's the first human being in a millennium who does not see even a fraction of monstrosity in him, no shadow, no taints, no mortal flaws. Not yet, anyway. All she sees is a funny man who makes her laugh and can hold her up with his finger, tells her stories about evil werewolves and keeps her safe and that's enough for her to adore him. Sometimes, he feels unworthy of such love. As though he's a fraud, deceiving his own daughter and taking advantage of her innocence.

It still astonishes him that he should ever be capable of making something as pure and bright as that little girl. In a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson has only ever brought misery and pain into this world. Eve is the first genuinely good thing he's ever done. Then, of course, she inherited all of that from her mother, who holds herself open for compassion and kindness even though she is herself in a symbiotic existence with her own beast. Caroline has taken control of her darkness in ways Klaus doesn't think he's ever seen a vampire as young as her do before. She truly is extraordinary, and every day he hopes, from the bottom of his withered heart, that Eve will turn out to be every inch Caroline's daughter more so than his.

Klaus can still smell last night’s sex all over himself, so he takes a quick shower and puts on a pair of denims and a shirt and vamps back to the room again, just to surprise Eve. She gasps when he materializes next to her, flinching, and then starts laughing like a little maniac, reaching out to him.

"Remember," Caroline says as she lets Eve slide over to Klaus' arms. "Bottle, fruits. No Fruit Loops. I'll tell your other child you said hi."

"A child who enjoys running has clearly learned nothing from me," he grumbles. “Hopefully I’ll do a better job with this one.”

“Start by not feeding her Fruit Loops,” Caroline remarks with a grin before she smacks a loud kiss on Eve's cheek and then one on his.

When she’s gone, Klaus turns to look at his little wolf, watching him with those dark blues of hers as though she's studying her father. Sometimes he wonders if toddlers know more than they let on.

"Do you want to do magic?"

"Yes!" she practically screams, her face splitting with a wide, toothy grin.

"Get ready, then. Are you ready?" She gives him an exaggerated nod. "Keep your eyes open. One, two..." And then he flashes out of the room with her.

______________

✨ Thanks for reading! :) If you’ve enjoyed this silly thing, please drop me a comment! Your reblogs are also much appreciated to help this reach more people. ✨

#klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline fic #kc fanfiction #kc fic #kcfic #klarolinefic #yokan writes #The Originals rewriting #is this me writing fluff again?#fluff with BABY?#why yes it is #the wolf outtake #klaus x caroline #+ child

126 notes · View notes

inawickedlittletown · 4 years ago

Text

Can I Be Close To You

Summary: Buck doesn't have a "covid crush", which doesn't mean he isn't hiding something. A look inside Buck's head during 4.01 and 4.02.

Words: 3,249

Notes: Cannot escape writing fic, apparently. So here we are. Obviously there be spoilers here for the aired episodes. This fic is pre-relationship/pre-buddie. Title from Bloom by The Paper Kites. Enjoy.

Read on Ao3

The one thing that Buck was grateful for was that Chimney wasn’t teasing him about his “covid crush” outside of the apartment. It was something he only ever brought up when Maddie called or whenever Buck made the mistake of being too loud or using his phone or laptop outside of his bedroom when Chim was around. Chimney of course also noticed whenever Buck got alerts or calls on his phone that had him rushing away. Buck didn’t really care about the teasing. He did care that no one find out why he was being so secretive. It was just easier to be teased about something that wasn’t true, than to be teased for what was true.

The problem was that they were in the middle of a global crisis. A pandemic the likes of which hadn’t been seen for about a hundred years. It was a lot. In March when everything started to go wrong it had been easy to convince himself and everyone else that it would be over fast. That lockdown would work and in a few weeks or a few months everything would go back to normal. Hen and Bobby had been the firsts to question that logic because they only expected things to get worse. Buck really hated when they were right. Of course, nothing was normal anymore.

Hen was the one to bring up concerns about them doing their jobs during the pandemic and bringing the virus home to their families. Between all her work to put her in the path of becoming a doctor, and being an amazing paramedic to boot, Hen was the first to start pushing them on the road to taking extra caution. Her concern for her family and for the families of the others was real and unfortunately necessary.

“I don’t want to stop working. I want to help people and we are more important than ever right now,” Hen had put it into words back then. It was everything they were all feeling.

Buck had lost count of the number of calls that made them practically just collectors of the dead or dying. Not just that but they all knew first responders that had been personally affected by Covid-19 and it wasn’t just them but their families too. Buck was the only one with no one back at his apartment waiting for him. That’s what gave him the idea.

“You can come stay with me if that makes you feel better,” he offered.

Hen hadn’t hesitated for long. She and Karen had had a long conversation about it and before Buck knew it he had Hen and then Chimney living with him. It was nice. It made it easier to bury all the anxiety and worry that had been clawing at him with every article or video or news report that he consumed. His living room had been taken over by an aerobed for Hen while Chim took the sofa.

Eddie showed up a week after Hen and Chim with a sleeping bag under his arm.

“I have Carla staying with Christopher. It seemed — it’s for the better, you know? Can I — is there room for one more?”

In reality, Buck’s apartment wasn’t all that big, but Buck wasn’t going to turn away his best friend. So, Buck just welcomed him in. And for a while, despite everything going on in the world, things were okay. Buck wasn’t freaking out with every new report on the rise in cases and the rise in the dead and how the curve wasn’t flattening and yet the intrusive thoughts nevertheless showed up in his head and late at night when everyone else was sleeping his phone was right there with more information and facts and figures that made it hard to imagine that the world would ever be set to rights.

Eddie was the first to notice that Buck wasn’t getting a lot of sleep. It became a whole thing with Eddie and Hen and Chim feeling like they were being imposing and Buck not being able to voice that it wasn’t them, but everything else. Somehow, he managed to convince them that they weren’t in his way.

Buck had tried to reach out to Frank, but he was overwhelmed with clients and all of them of the first responder persuasion. Buck had felt weird asking the department to help him find someone else to talk to and it was only partially to do with the time he slept with his therapist and certainly more to do with how Buck knew other first responders probably needed the help more than he did. In other firehouses, some firefighters and paramedics had succumbed to the virus. Catching it was the newest hazard of the job. Frank did him the favor of sending him a few names. At first, Buck figured it wasn’t that important. So, he put it off.

He focused on being present. In sitting with Chim while they video called Maddie and in jumping in to say hello to Denny, Nia, and Karen and in reading a bedtime story here or there to Christopher when Eddie wasn’t available and even when he was, the two of them sitting in the kitchen or up in Buck’s room, shoulders pressed together. He tried not to watch the news, and he tried not to keep looking at the numbers.

Pretending wasn’t easy, but after two nights of Eddie catching him up at 3am eyes glued to his phone, Eddie made a point of taking his phone away at night. And then, instead of sleeping down on the first floor, Eddie moved up to the loft on the small camping mat and sleeping bag.

He and Eddie talked until they drifted off, and sometimes it felt better to not be able to see Eddie and to stare out in the shadowed ceiling. Talking to Eddie made it easier to let go of the day, to not let his mind wander and come up with more of the world’s problems to worry about.

So, Buck didn’t think about therapy. Not while he had Eddie near him at night keeping him distracted and willing to stay up until late discussing nothing at all. Buck couldn’t imagine Chim or Hen bothering to do that for him. Rarely, it did happen that Eddie was the one wrung out and needing a conversation. He missed Christopher too much or something they’d seen at work had been just a little too close to home. They were there for each other and all of it just worked.

Of course, that was when Hen decided that it was time she go back home. She missed her kids too much. She missed her wife too much. Eddie didn’t last more than a few days after Hen’s decision as if Hen making that first move made it okay. Buck didn’t blame him, not with the way that Buck missed Christopher which just meant that it was twice as bad for Eddie. And once they were gone and there was just he and Chimney left, Buck found himself falling into old habits. Chimney wasn’t as much of a distraction especially when he spent so much of his time talking to Maddie or reading parenting books, and because Chimney didn’t turn off the news like Eddie or Hen would.

Being in his room alone at night without anything to keep his mind occupied and missing Eddie’s voice and the way that Buck could calm himself to the sound of his breathing brought Buck to a breaking point. He needed help.

Dr. Copeland was the second therapist he had a video call with. She was calm and friendly and she didn’t push him to talk. It felt okay to share his concerns with her in a way that he couldn’t say out loud to everyone in his life. Buck didn’t know if it was somehow easier because she was someone that didn’t know him in real life, or if it had something to do with how Buck could tell that she cared and wanted to help, but he found himself opening up. Dr. Copeland didn’t push, but she did give him insight. She made him aware of the ways that he was being unhealthy about the pandemic.

Chimney picked up at once that Buck was keeping a secret. It took him a little longer to figure out that Buck was talking to someone through a screen and in the same breath to assume that it was some woman that Buck started dating. It did make Buck wonder if people were actually doing that — the whole dating through skype or zoom or facetime. Buck didn’t try to correct him or to be too bothered by Chim teasing him. He didn’t even worry too much once Maddie found out because Maddie wasn’t there in front of him to get the whole thing out of him. So the “covid crush” gave him an excuse to not tell them the truth. Dr. Copeland kept telling him he should tell them how he felt, but Buck didn’t want that burden on his friends and family when the world itself seemed to want to crush them. And either way, he’d been feeling a lot better about everything. He wore his mask and he followed protocols, and he didn’t allow himself to think in “what ifs”.

Emergencies were his job. He better than most knew the quick turn that things could take for the worse. But as Dr. Copeland reminded him, fear couldn’t rule his life even if there was a lot to be afraid of. And it wasn’t the virus that Buck feared, it was loss. Losing his friends and losing his family and being incapable of changing anything. He was, thus, hyper alert. About the pandemic, and about anything else that might prompt worry. Dr. Copeland thought that too much information could be harmful to his mental health, but for Buck knowing facts and doing research kept him from spiralling.

It was Dr. Copeland that made the connection to Buck’s past trauma and realized how likely it was that his worry stemmed from that — from the truck falling on his leg and the tsunami and perhaps even more than that, other parts of his life that he retained and that still bothered him on a deep level. She asked him how much he hid away and didn’t deal with — how much he coped with by researching and by using facts against worry. It made Buck think.

Then, the micro-quakes happened. And Buck got all the alerts, he read up on the dam and he pictured all that could go wrong.

Worrying didn’t mean panicking for him. Buck was cool under pressure, he was good at his job. Most of the problems came after when he considered what might have happened and also how many hadn’t made it out alive. Not because of the virus. But because of a disaster. But by the end of the day, Chimney had finally moved out and Buck had a new roommate in Albert, and after everything that happened in the day, Buck figured that he maybe needed to take his own advice and realize that he couldn’t let fear hold him back.

So when his next therapy session came up, he admitted it to Dr. Copeland. Confirmed what she’d been telling him about himself. He hid his true feelings. He hid away behind platitudes and facts and letting things go because it was easier to move forward than to linger and make things weird with his friends and with his family. Examining that fully meant talking about the past and Dr. Copeland, as gentle as she was in letting him lead the conversation, asked the kind of questions that weren’t easy to answer.

She pressed him about why he feared sharing his feelings and why he felt he had a need to keep so much to himself and Buck was cognizant enough to realize it was his fear of being alone.

“I just...I don’t think they get it,” Buck said. “I don’t think they see it. At the beginning of this whole thing — the pandemic — they all had someone. My sister is pregnant and she had just moved in with her boyfriend and his brother. Hen has her wife and kids. Bobby has Athena and their kids. Eddie, he has Christopher. And the reason I even have Albert here right now is that he rather not be around my sister and her boyfriend now they’re finally together again. I’m alone. I’m always alone.”

“But you aren’t,” Dr. Copeland insisted. “You have people. Your team, your sister. Evan, you are not alone. It may feel like you are, but that just isn’t true. I haven’t known you very long, but the way you talk about your team and your sister it is clear you have a support team. That is why I’m encouraging you to speak with them and share your worry and share even this — that you are getting help and looking at things with a new perspective.”

It was easier to hear it told to him that to do something like admit to Maddie that he was so full of issues that he actually needed therapy. Of course, Maddie herself had gone through a long bout of therapy after Doug and yet compared to that, Buck didn’t feel like he was all that messed up.

“I get what you’re saying. I do. I just...it doesn’t feel like it. And I don’t want to burden them with more just because I’m feeling left behind or just…”

“And that brings us back to you hiding your true feelings,” Dr. Copeland said. “Is there even one person you feel comfortable talking to about this. Your sister perhaps.”

Buck shook his head at once. “No. No. I couldn’t bother Maddie. She has enough on her plate.”

But his mind went to Eddie. Eddie had noticed he wasn’t doing well. Eddie had moved to sleep on Buck’s floor and then talked to him until he fell asleep. And since going back home to Christopher it wasn’t like Eddie had forgotten about Buck, because when he had the time sometimes he would call Buck and they would talk over the phone and it had brought him back to those nights. At work neither of them brought that up, they just worked as seamlessly as ever.

“I don’t want to pressure you, Evan. You’re doing so well and admitting and realizing that you’re holding yourself back is an amazing place to be. I just know that you’ll feel even better once you start sharing your feelings or working through them.”

Dr. Copeland always gave him plenty to think about. And he considered the notion of coming clean to someone — to Eddie — and maybe getting other things off his chest. His fears about the pandemic, the things about his parents that had made them horrible parents to him and Maddie both, how Buck had so many things about himself that he left unacknowledged, and the loneliness. Eddie wasn’t exactly good with emotions either, but he would at least understand the therapy aspect. Eddie had stopped seeing Frank a while ago, but Buck knew that Frank had done what he could to help Eddie and that Eddie had come out the other side lighter and less jaded.

“I’ll think about it,” Buck said.

“Good.”

They talked about other things for the rest of the session and then Buck went back down to join Albert. He’d let Maddie and Chim go, so instead he was busy on his phone.

“Seriously, dude, how did you meet someone? Now that I’m here, I need to know.”

Buck rolled his eyes. At times Albert reminded Buck of his younger self, the guy that had been interested in nothing but chasing tail and hoping that that would fill the parts of him that were broken. It hadn’t ever worked, at least not for long. Vividly, he could recall wanting to make connections with those girls and the way that they’d all looked at him like he was asking for far too much.

“For one thing, I’m not seeing anyone. For another, dating apps are still a thing even if completely inadvisable because we’re in the middle of a pandemic. It might even be good for you to not be hooking up with random girls.”

Albert just pouted at him and groaned. “I just want this to be over.”

“So does everyone,” Buck pointed out.

Albert would probably have made a good choice in finding someone to tell about the therapy. He was a good kid and if Buck asked him to, he wouldn’t go blabbing to everyone else. Not to mention that Albert was a bit removed from it all too in his own way. Still, when Buck opened his mouth to say something, the words didn’t want to come out.

The next time he was at work and Eddie was walking at his side, Buck turned towards him, and Eddie’s gaze met his. They shared a quick smile. It was easy, a habit.

“How’s Christopher?” Buck asked.

“Misses Carla. Misses everyone, really, but after all that time with Carla he got used to having her around all the time.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you around, man,” Buck said.

Eddie nudged him. “You know, Buck, I didn’t even think about it that way.”

Buck shrugged at him. Being around Eddie made most of everything else fade away. And when later that day, they were walking from the ladder truck onto a call, Buck just threw a grin his way and Eddie returned it.

At the end of their shift, Buck walked with Eddie to their cars.

“Do you remember, before all this, we’d just head over to mine or yours with Christopher. I miss those nights,” Eddie said.

Buck hadn’t thought about it. He tried not to think about before — about how different life had been back then and how similar because even then he’d done that thing where he pretended that everything was alright. He’d kept it to himself how alone he felt and he’d kept it to himself that sometimes when he and Eddie were sitting in his living room side by side, he wished that it was permanent. It wasn’t about Eddie — or even about Christopher — it was about how Buck longed to have people. Family.

That had been a thing for a long time. Long before Abby and before he’d moved to California when he’d gone from place to place trying to find himself and trying desperately to belong. The 118 had been one of the first places where he began to feel like he’d found a place, but he’d soon found that it wasn’t enough. It was one thing to love a job and to make it all that he was, but if his time recovering from the ladder truck incident had taught him anything, it was that he needed more outside of the job. It was just that he had no luck finding it.

“Me too,” Buck said and then before they had reached their cars. “Hey, Eddie, can we talk tonight?”

Eddie’s face showed some of his surprise. They had never acknowledged it before, not out loud outside of the phone calls or outside of Buck’s bedroom.

“Sure we can,” Eddie said, crinkles around his eyes forming as he smiled.

Buck nodded and then he climbed into his Jeep.

#911 fox #911 fic #evan buckley #evan buckley fic #911 fanfic #coda #my fic

18 notes · View notes

agoodgoddamnshot · 5 years ago

Text

Glamour - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account.

Geralt is observant. His job calls for it, Jaskier supposes. He’d be a pretty shit Witcher if he was killed by a monster who managed to sneak up behind him in the thickets.

It was probably something ingrained into him during the trails and mutations. Travelling around the Continent together only gave Jaskier an insight into how sharp the Witcher’s instincts really were. He heard things that Jaskier didn’t. In taverns, he would be able to tell what people were talking about at each table: even those who would give them side-eyes and keep their whispers to themselves. The noise always got to him. Jaskier noticed how Geralt could only be in one place for a certain amount of time before the noise grew deafening.

And on most nights, he doesn’t even think that Geralt sleeps. He has every ability to sleep. After a particularly long trek in between towns and cities, or even after a round of lovemaking, Geralt sleeps. But sometimes, noise keeps him awake: the creaking of a floorboard, crows cawing outside, or even the distant hum of conversation floating up to the upstairs rooms of inns.

So Geralt could be one of the most observant people that he’s ever met.

But, gods divine, could he be dense.

Emotional constipation and an incredibly short temper aside, it’s the little things that manage to slip by.

Though, in Geralt’s defence, Jaskier has been wearing a glamour for most of his life. In fact, the more he thinks about it, he isn’t entirely sure when the glamour was placed in the first place. He can remember the first time he saw a mage in his mother’s drawing-room, pouring over some old, leather tome on his lap. He remembers his mother beckoning him over, explaining that the mage was a friend. That Jaskier was ill, apparently. And the mage was very good at making sure that Jaskier would always be healthy and safe.

It wasn’t until he got a bit older, when the glamours started to flicker and fail, did he realise what his mother meant by all of that.

He imagines how the whole thing would have sounded: the Viscountess de Lettenhove had, at some point, fallen into an elf’s bed. The union produced a halfbred bastard – something entirely concealed at Jaskier’s birth, when the Viscountess demanded that the mage be in the room with her, when an army of midwives requested that he stay well out of the business of ladies.

But he understands now.

She just wanted to keep him healthy. And safe. For all that his father knew, Jaskier was his, and that was that. How could he have thought any differently? Especially with the help of the mage who, for all he knew, was only there to monitor the health of his son.

It’s only for his ears. That was the only thing abnormal – though, Jaskier never really liked that word. But he could never find a word that did match how he felt about the entire thing. The faintest arch of the top of his ears: too faint to be belonging to an elf, but enough of an arch to set him apart from human men. Enough of an arch to earn looks.

And he definitely wasn’t the only one who wore glamours. If people actually paid attention and looked, they would be able to see them everywhere.

And it’s not like Geralt hasn’t seen him bare. If anything, he knows the plains of Jaskier’s body better than most. People he had only spent nights with, he didn’t care much for them. They only saw what they were interested in seeing and that was it. Lovers he kept for longer started to scout, but Jaskier never kept them around for long enough to actually map.

Geralt is the only one that holds that kind of information.

And not once did he ever think, or give the inkling of a thought, that Jaskier might have been something else than human.

His ears stayed covered, glamoured to have a rounded arch – a human arch – for most of his life. That was one thing he could hide. Other things were more complicated.

Then Jaskier arrived at the conclusion that Geralt of Rivia was either very bad at acknowledging the passing of time, or he knew what Jaskier was, and made no mention of it.

And Jaskier, knowing Geralt for as long as he has, he’s absolutely convinced that it’s the former.

He met the Witcher when he was starting to claw his way out of his teens. And ageing had kept up well with him; he might have looked like a young eighteen-year-old, but he was eighteen years old nonetheless. And his half-elven blood allowed him to trudge through the years, gaining small little tokens with each year that passes. His skin does start to dull, after a time, and albeit not too noticeably. The faintest of lines scratch at the corners of his eyes and lips. But his blood kept him just out of the reach of whatever claimed other people his age. Or other people that should have been his age. He watched as other people gained white hairs and their muscles starting to slink away. He’s not going to lie and say he didn’t feel a modicum of joy at seeing Valdo Marx squinting at a tome in the middle of Oxenfurt library, adjusting his spectacles, and then huffing when he couldn’t make out anything no matter how close he pulled the book to his face.

Hiding what he was only became complicated when he found himself injured.

Something he can’t hide is how well his body can knit itself back together again. Elf blood is good at extending a life – either through shooing away the effects of time, or making sure that the body it inhabits doesn’t do anything too stupid to kill itself.

He’s never sustained an injury for something like that to be shown. If anything, it’s a very good testament to how well Geralt protects him. The most he’s ever gotten while out on the Path are collections of cuts and bruises – all of them disappearing within a couple of days.

This, though. Jaskier grunts as Geralt lifts him up the last couple of stairs. This could be more difficult.

Then again, it’s the last fucking thing on his mind at the moment.

“Thank you for your help, Witcher!” their contractor calls up the staircase. He’s still covered in rainwater, dripping it on to the floorboards at his feet. Rubbing some manticore blood off of his brow, he offers them both a grateful smile. “I’ll be sure to tell the town about how your deeds here tonight!”

Geralt grunts and takes Jaskier further down the landing, towards their own rented room for the night. As soon as he drags the bard inside, he ushers them both over to the bed. Geralt pulls at the blankets, tossing them down towards the foot of the bed. On the dry mattress, he sets Jaskier down. “Stay here,” he says firmly before wandering over to his bags.

If his lungs didn’t feel like they were caved in, Jaskier would muster up enough air to shout at his Witcher. Where the fuck would I be going? A manticore corpse fell on me. Because of you and your hunting partner not looking where you’re going. Do you know how disgusting that is: a corpse falling on you? Do you know how heavy those fuckers are?

He can’t verbalise it: so staring at the man across the room will have to do. It could have been worse. He’ll give the Witcher that. He could have been pierced by teeth or claws. But gods divine, his right side feels like Roach kicked it. There’s a hefty and deep bruise. He’s sure of it. And possibly a cracked or broken rib.

Or a punctured lung.

Geralt gathers what he needs; a collection of salves and ointments all encased in glass vials and bottles. He sets them at the edge of the bed. As soon as one of the vials is uncapped, Jaskier nose wrinkles. A pungent scent of tea tree coats the roof of his mouth. He turns his head away, staring at the wall at the other side of the room.

Geralt gathers some of the salve in his palm, warming it up a bit, before smearing it along the worst of the bruise. A sharp hiss leaves Jaskier. It might be nothing, but he’s sure that he hears Geralt mutter a soft sorry under his breath.

His blood will knit himself back together again. But it never dulls pain. A design flaw if ever he saw one: living with Geralt is a hazard to his health and wellbeing.

Night fell quickly. Though, winter has long since settled over the Continent, shielding the land from the sun for the past couple of weeks. Any light that does manage to fight its way through the thick, grey, heavy clouds doesn’t last long. The days have grown shorter and the nights stretch out longer. The hunt started when a sun still sat high in the sky. But rainclouds tumbled in, and soon night fell and in all, it has just been a wholly unpleasant day.

With their room only lit by the hearth’s fire and candles sitting on tables, Geralt works mostly in darkness. His eyes aren’t back to their normal gold just yet. Some small trace of black still clings on. Jaskier stares at the wall, holding his breath when Geralt’s hand drifts over a spot that took most of the hit.

Time drifts by. Jaskier blinks when the lip of a glass vial is suddenly set at his lips. “Drink this,” Geralt says gruffly. Jaskier can smell it. Poppy’s milk. It’ll dull the pain, and possibly put him in a coma for the next few days if he takes too much. He lets Geralt tip the vial, judging how much of the potion the bard needs.

Jaskier only tastes a drop of it on his tongue before the vial is gone. He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “This stuff is addictive,” Geralt frowns, putting the vial away completely.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I know that,” he sighs, wincing slightly when Geralt prods at the bruise at his side. “Bards are rarely sober. Especially when they’re in college.”

At that, Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “Did you raid your professors’ opium gardens yourself, or?”

A light laugh leaves Jaskier, though he quells it when his lungs start to tighten. “Gods, no. We would have been found out. They had those gardens on lockdown. We...just became very friendly with passing traders.”

Geralt snorts. He works silently, offering the occasional apology whenever Jaskier’s face screws up in pain. It’s been ebbed with the potion, but it still hurts when Geralt presses his fucking fingers into his ribs—

“It’s not broken,” he says after a time. “But it could be cracked.”

“Then stop poking it.”

“Are you like this with physicians?”

“I never see physicians so I wouldn’t know.”

A small frown creases Geralt’s brow. “You don’t see physicians?”

Jaskier’s tongue swells in his mouth. “...No?”

“I can’t say I’ve met a human with such a strong immunity then,” Geralt goes back to his work. There’s a new ointment now; crushed arnica petals, with a strong scent of pine wafting off of it.

You love the Witcher, something in his brain whispers to him. In an otherwise quiet room, he flinches. The thought seems loud enough that it could be heard within the room. But Geralt offers another apology, before smoothing out the last of the salve. You love him. And he loves you. Shouldn’t you tell him?

And it occurs to him, just then, that outside of his mother, a long-since passed away mage, and himself, that no one knows. He’s never told anyone.

Swallowing a lump clawing up his throat, Jaskier rasps. “Maybe it’s because I’m not human.”

Geralt’s hands still over Jaskier’s skin.

He rushes to amend. “Well. I’m half-human. My mother is human.” Jaskier chews the inside of his cheek. “My father...I don’t know who he is. By all accounts, I suppose, Father is my father. He didn’t suspect anything else. But in a biological sense,” why is Geralt staring at him, “Mother told me that he was an elf. But...I don’t know who he is.”

And if the room wasn’t quiet before, it’s certainly quiet now.

“Say something,” Jaskier breathes. “Please. Stop staring at me and say something. Anything.”

And he swears he can see pieces fitting together in Geralt’s brain. It’s a long time before anything resembling a word leaves Geralt’s mouth. “We’ve known each other for so long. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Jaskier lifts a shoulder – as much as he’s able without his ribs hurting. “It never came up, I guess.”

“It never-” Geralt’s mouth opens, but no more words manage to come out of it. The Witcher catches the bridge of his nose between his fingers before sighing heavily. When he’s finally composed himself, he looks back to Jaskier’s body. “So you’ll heal?”

“Quicker than most,” Jaskier nods, “but not as quick as your lot, I imagine.” He hasn’t dashed out the room yet, or jumped out of the window. That’s good.

Geralt hums. His eyes still run over every stretch of exposed skin lain out before him. The bruise really only takes up one side, spreading from the peak of his hip bone to the foot of his ribs. It’s been almost an hour and it’s already beginning to change colour. What was once red and blue is now turning yellow around the edge. His body is starting to knit himself back together again. And with whatever salves Geralt smeared on him, he’s sure that the worst of it will be gone in a few hours.

Jaskier lifts a hand to Geralt’s jaw, skimming his fingers along the ridge of the Witcher’s jawline. “I’ll be fine,” he assures him. “When the sun rises tomorrow, I’ll be right as rain.”

Geralt stares at him blankly for a moment before nodding. “Alright, then.”

It’s not the nicest inn they’ve stayed the night in. But he didn’t expect much for a small trading town on the axis of a crossroads. But the pillows and mattress are soft, and the sheets are clean. And these days, that’s all he ever asks for.

Geralt has every capacity to be gentle with him. He lifts Jaskier just enough to fluff the pillows behind him, and sets him back down again. He gathers the sheets from the foot of the bed, bringing them up to Jaskier’s shoulders. “Do you want the furs too?” he asks, nodding to a collection of pelts.

Jaskier smiles. “If you wouldn’t mind. The nights are getting darker and colder.” So Geralt gathers them, spreading them out across the whole bed, but making sure that they cover Jaskier from chest to toe.

Jaskier stifles a yawn. The poppy’s milk loosens his muscles. If the bed was any softer, he thinks it might sink deeper and drown. Eyelids become heavy, making them difficult to stay awake. He does though, because Geralt is still padding around the room doing menial tasks. He stokes the fire, placing a spark-guard against it. He strips down to his underclothes and sets his armour, shirt, and breeches over the backs of two chairs.

Jaskier must mumble something that resembles a Geralt. Suddenly the scent of the Witcher is all around him. The bed dips by his side and warmth follows. “I’m here,” gentle words mumble against the shell of his ear. When they’ve settled, a peaceful sort of silence blankets over them. Geralt lies on his side, an arm folded underneath his head. His other hand sits in between them both, twitching to reach out but unsure.

“I have a cracked rib,” Jaskier mumbles, rolling his head to look down at Geralt’s hand. “I don’t have the pox.”

And the Witcher reaches out, fingers gentling along the crest of Jaskier’s collarbone. He shuffles closer, and Jaskier only hums with how warm his Witcher is. The last of the winter chill is chased away.

He’s almost asleep when he hears it. “You know what I am,” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of his chest. “And yet you still stay with me. You love me, despite all of that. Why do you think I would be any different with you?”

Jaskier sighs. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I guess even those who are prejudiced against by others can hold prejudices of their own against something else.” He hears Geralt click his tongue, shushing him. Sleep tugs at him. His body is lax and warm, and Geralt knows where to skim fingertips so sleep can creep up on him more quickly.

“Sleep now,” Geralt gentles, his thumb smoothing over Jaskier’s cheek. He drifts off to sleep like that; a chest suddenly, despite being crushed by a beast, lighter than before.

316 notes · View notes

octoberobserver · 5 years ago

Note

For the kids prompts, Can you do 45 and Reddie?

Hi Nonnie! Of course, I’m happy to fill 45. Thanks so much for the ask 😊 hope you like it ♥️

45) Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

Fuck Fight Club and Pretty Woman too

“You wanna fill me in on why you’ve been a grade-A asshole all night, Eddie?”

Richie was pissed. More pissed than Eddie could ever remember him being.

And it was all his fault.

Not that he’d admit it

He took his time hanging up his coat, staring doggedly at it and ignoring Richie’s piercing gaze burning a hole into the side of his head.

“I don’t know what you’re—

“Oh cut the crap, Kaspbrak, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Richie practically growled, shirking off his jacket, draping it over the couch and throwing his keys onto the coffee table instead of the key holder in the exact way he knew drove Eddie up the wall.

Eddie did in fact know what he was talking about. His sour mood had not gone unnoticed among some of Richie’s associates the entire latter half of the evening. It hung over him like a dark cloud as he grew quiet and withdrawn, excluding when he threw more than a few barbed comments at one of the particularly obnoxious attendees.

But Eddie was never the type to give in this early on in an argument. Well, unless it was against his ex-wife back when they were miserably married and he just gave her her way to avoid having to talk for long periods of time. With his best friend/roommate, though? He only dug his heels in deeper. Always had. Since the day they met in third grade.

“No Richie, I don’t know,” he replied through a clenched jaw, snatching up the keys and depositing them in the little dish by the door, where they were meant to go, “why don’t you enlighten me?”

Richie stormed into the kitchen, wrenching open the fridge door roughly and pulling out a beer, twisting the cap off and angrily guzzling it.

Eddie watched him, a spike of irritation beginning to form under his skin.

Richie’s infuriation was infectious.

“Don’t throw the—”

The words died in Eddie’s throat as he watched Richie fling the bottle cap towards the garbage can like he did most nights, despite nine times out of ten missing the shot by a mile.

The cap bounced off the lid and clinked to the floor.

Eddie saw red.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Richie! Why do you always—”

“Were you jealous?”

Eddie blinked.

The atmosphere in the room began to shift.

Heat rushed up his neck, to his cheeks as Richie tilted his head, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Why would I be jealous?” Eddie asked, gaze lowered as he bent down to pick up the bottle cap. “You’re entitled to flirt with whoever you want.”

Richie snorted, and even though Eddie couldn’t see his face, he knew he was rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t flirting with him, Eds. He was flirting with me.”

Eddie’s entire body tensed as he straightened up, shuffling over to the trash can and muttering over his shoulder, “Whatever. It’s not like I’m your boyfriend or something.”

He could feel Richie’s stare piercing into the back of his head as he continued, “We…we’re just best friends who get each other off, Rich. And that…that can change whenever you want.”

A beat of silence met those words.

Eddie refused to turn around.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He couldn’t decipher anything in Richie’s voice, it sounded almost robotic, but a dart of pain shot through Eddie’s chest, right under his scar anyway as he tried to prepare himself for what he had to say next.

“It means…” he began as evenly as he could, moving across the kitchen to get a glass, his back still turned, “if you wanna date, or…or fuck other dudes, or whatever…have at it. We’ll…we’ll stop this…” he waves a hand over his shoulder to where he estimated Richie was standing, “arrangement. No questions asked.”

Because if anything was obvious to Eddie after seeing him flourish tonight, it was that Richie…he deserved more. More than their little arrangement allowed. And Eddie would be damned if he held him back from that for his own selfish reasons.

Another silence followed his words. He had to turn around sometime. He knew that.

He managed to delay it just a little longer by walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet, resting his palms on the counter, hunching his shoulders, making no move to fill his glass. The rush of water almost drowned out Richie’s quiet reply, barely above a whisper.

“Do you wanna stop, Eddie?”

Hell no.

It had all begun three months earlier when Richie accidentally walked in on Eddie ‘punchin’ the upside down clown,’ as Richie so fondly called it. Their eyes had locked, Richie frozen in shock, Eddie in embarrassment. Richie could have hightailed it outta there, they could have brushed it off, marked it down as one of the hazards of being roommates and maybe, after a time, even laughed about it. Instead, Eddie had choked out Richie’s name, his cock still gripped in hand, so impossibly hard as Richie’s eyes began to lower.

They had just watched each other, breaths ragged as Eddie’s hand began to move, slowly at first, then gradually speeding up, pumping his cock hard, over and over and over, a surge of confidence flowing in him that was fuelled by Richie drinking in his every move, until his orgasm started to rake through him, causing him to cry out and begin to come all over his stomach.

That had lit a fire under Richie, he scrambling over to the bed and dropping to his knees, his giant hand covering Eddie’s, squeezing and moving in time with his jerks.

“Shit, fuck—Richie,” Eddie gasped, his voice broken as they pulled the last of orgasm from him together.

“Eds—I—can I…?”

Eddie had nodded, happy to grant him anything, whatever he could possibly want in that moment.

Turned out, what Richie had wanted was his mouth around Eddie’s dick.

Wildly, all Eddie could think as Richie’s head lowered to his lap was how Dick wants my dick.

He almost passed out when the wet heat enveloped him, hissing a little as his over-sensitive nerves tingled.

“R-Richie, oh my god,” he wheezed, his hand reaching up and clawing at his hair, pulling it tightly through his fingers.

Richie groaned, the vibration heading straight to Eddie’s cock and causing his back to arch off the bed.

It was then that Eddie realised three things.

One, the hand currently buried in Richie’s hair was covered in Eddie’s come, it smeared into his locks in a way that should have had Eddie recoiling in disgust, but instead sent a bolt of arousal through him, despite his exhaustion. Two, Richie’s mouth was ridiculously talented—the type of talented that could get a 41 year old man’s refractory period shaved significantly down—holy shit. Eddie may never call him a Trashmouth ever again after this. And three, Richie was rock hard. His erection pressing into Eddie’s side from where he kneeled along the bed.

At that revelation, Eddie’s free hand had wandered almost unbeknownst to himself, out to cup Richie through his pants, causing him to jump in surprise, his mouth pulling off Eddie’s dick with a pop that had him shivering.

They stared at one another, Eddie marvelling at Richie’s plump, crimson-stained lips that had a bead of Eddie’s come gathered in the crease of his mouth.

A beat passed where their eyes met, they on a knife-edge, the precipice of something unknown.

Then Eddie squeezed his hand a little tighter, causing Richie’s breath to hitch.

And the rest…was history.

It became a regular thing, then. Just them…tending to each other whenever they needed it. Quick hand jobs before Richie had to meet with an exec, sloppy blowjobs to celebrate Eddie’s promotion and Richie’s Netflix deal and one very memorable rim-job on the eve of Eddie’s one year ‘death-day.’

They hadn’t talked about it much. But they had unwritten rules.

One — don’t talk about Fight Club. AKA The Arrangement.™ So no spilling the beans to any of the Losers.

Two — don’t talk about Fight Club. Seriously. If the Losers found out they would be un-fucking-bearable and put a screeching halt to the most (and best) sex either of them had had in years. (Maybe ever.)

Three — no kissing. Eddie had deemed that a step over the line. Which, Richie had easily countered with, “Oh, so you can have my tongue in your ass, but not your mouth? Some logic ya got there, Eds.” But Eddie wouldn’t budge. So Pretty Woman rules it was.

And Four — no fourth base, going all the way, the whole enchilada, whatever you wanna call it.

They both agreed that that would definitely be over the line.

And so, with those firm set of rules alá Fight Club and Pretty Woman in play, Eddie and Richie made it work, it somehow slotting almost seamlessly into their daily lives, their friendship and cohabitation hardly changing at all.

Until Eddie’s green-eyed monster reared its ugly head, of course.

Except…that isn’t exactly true, is it? You were compromised from the start, asswipe.

Eddie ignored his inner-voice that sounded irritatingly like a thirteen-year-old Trashmouth as he shoved his glass under the water, letting it fill.

“That Eric guy seemed pretty into you,” he murmured, pivoting from the question as he shut off the faucet, “it would probably be a good idea to uh…call off The Arrangement if you wanted to call that number on your hand.”

He turned, then. Just in time to see Richie blink in surprise.

Yeah. Eddie had seen the exact moment the hot, young blond had reached across and playfully tugged on Richie’s hand, scrawling something onto the palm of it. It didn’t take a genius to know what.

“Eric’s a kid,” Richie snorted as Eddie’s eyes finally met his.

“He’s 29.”

“Exactly. He’s a millennial.”

“Your new fan base is made up of mostly millennials, Richie. And Gen Z’ers,” Eddie rolled his eyes, crossing the kitchen and realising in his haste that he had left his water but was too stubborn to turn back, trudging on towards the living room.

Only to have his way blocked by the garish, tuxedo T-shirt that Richie had insisted on wearing to his press junket despite Beverly desperately pleading with him no to. In compromise, she had designed him a very sexy faux-leather jacket that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders very nicely.

Not that Eddie noticed, or anything.

Liar liar pants on—

He slowly raised his gaze, eyebrows furrowing as he saw an enigmatic expression cross Richie’s face.

“That Ron guy seemed pretty into you.”

Eddie frowned.

“You mean Ross?”

“Whatever,” Richie waved a hand dismissively, his eyes bouncing around the room, “he was flirting up a storm with you at the bar.”

Eddie snorted, “Ross was just being friendly, Richie. He saw that I was on my own when you were—”

“He was flirting with you, Eddie. He couldn’t have been more obvious than if he shoved a rose between his teeth and asked you to tango.”

Eddie’s lips, the traitors, twitched at that. He cleared his throat.

“I’m pretty sure I know when someone is flirting with me, Richie.”

“Really?” Richie scoffed, the pitch of his voice climbing as he threw up his hands in exasperation, “see, I don’t think you do, Eds. Fuck, I’ve been flirting with you since 1986 and look where—”

He cut himself off abruptly, but it was too late.

Eddie watched as Richie froze, his eyes as wide as saucers behind his glasses.

His heart began to race.

“You…what? Rich—”

“Nothing, forget it,” Richie held up his hands in surrender and that’s when Eddie caught it.

The remnants of a dark smudge.

Eric’s phone number.

Or what used to be his number anyway.

Eddie’s own hands shot out before he knew what was happening, both grasping the larger hand and tugging it closer.

“Did you rub it off?”

He kept his gaze carefully trained on Richie’s palm as he heard his breath hitch.

“…maybe.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t wanna get ink poisoning—why the fuck do you think, Eddie?”

His grip tightened around Richie’s fingers as his eyes slowly lifted.

They stared at one another, the silence ringing loud in the kitchen.

“I…” Eddie floundered, desperately wracking his brain for some words to form a coherent sentence.

Don’t get your hopes up, Kaspbrak. You know how that always ends.

Richie must have taken his hesitance for a dismissal however as he heaved a heavy sigh and began pulling out of his grasp.

“Forget it, Eds, I’m tired and a little tipsy. I’m just gonna go to—”

“I was jealous.”

Richie stilled, his eyes darting back to Eddie’s, his hand still firmly in his grip.

“You were?”

Eddie heart hammered against his rib cage so hard he felt it might burst out of his chest Alien-style any second now.

What the fuck are you doing, dickwad?! This is not a part of The Arrange—

“Yeah, Richie, I was. Am. Jealous,” he swallowed the lump in his throat, squeezing Richie’s hand tight as he forced himself to continue. “I—that guy was hot and young and I’m not and—”

Richie closed the space between them, crowding Eddie back against the kitchen counter, bending his knees to catch Eddie’s eye.

“Eddie, trust me when I say this, man. You were the hottest person in that entire bar tonight.”

Eddie let out a loud snort, refusing to meet his stare.

“Yeah righ—”

Fingers clasped his scared cheek, forcing his head up.

His breath stuttered at the sheer sincerity in Richie’s eyes.

“I’m serious, Eds. I could barely take my eyes off you all night. I—all I kept thinking about was getting you home and…” he trailed off, his hand breaking from Eddie’s face to drag down his neck, chest, stomach, to finally rest, feather-light on his belt.

A bolt of arousal shot through Eddie’s abdomen.

Along with his mouth, Richie had very, very talented hands too.

But they were getting off track.

Shaking his head, Eddie forced his foggy, horny brain back online, stepping around Richie and trying to catch his breath. This was important, he couldn’t get sidelined with the promise of sex. He had known that this was a long time coming, pretty much ever since they started in the first place.

All good things must come to an end. Literally and figuratively…

“We need to call it off, Richie.”

He watched as Richie’s shoulders sagged, his entire body deflating like a balloon as he drained the last of his beer and shuffled across to the recycling, avoiding Eddie the entire way.

“Okay, Eds. If that’s what you want. Consider Fight Club disbanded.”

There was that almost robotic voice again. Completely void of emotion. So very hard to read.

“It’s…it’s not what I want,” Eddie found himself admitting before he could think better of it, “but it’s what you need, Rich. What you deserve.”

Richie whirled around suddenly, brow furrowed, eyes shining bright.

“What I deserve ? The fuck does that mean?”

Eddie sighed, not wanting to have to explain himself further but knowing he had to. Shrugging, he ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to maintain eye-contact.

“You just…you deserve more than my dry hand-jobs and amateur blow-jobs, man. I—I know when we started this it was a way for us to blow off some steam but…you’re out and proud and deserve so much more than our arrangement. So much more than what I…”

He trailed off, eyes lowering.

“I just want what’s best for you, Rich.”

And it’s not me.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might already have what’s best for me?”

Richie didn’t sound robotic, anymore. Now he sounded downright incredulous.

“Uh—”

“No, ‘course it didn’t,” he continued, stepping closer, ducking his head to catch Eddie’s eye, “‘cause instead of asking me, you just went ahead and decided you knew what was best for me. But you’re wrong, Eds. So fucking wrong I—I don’t even know where to begin explain—”

He cut himself off, tilting his head to the ceiling as if asking the heavens for help. Which, for Richie, was really saying something.

Shit.

“Why were you jealous, Eds?”

Richie’s voice was small, now. Resigned. As if fearful of his answer.

“Was it—was it that a hot, young blond was flirting with me and not you?” he asked, tilting his head back down from the ceiling and staring straight into his soul, laser-focussed.

“Or was it that I was flirting with a hot, young blond and not you?”

Eddie’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I thought you weren’t flirting?” he gasped out, biting his bottom lip.

Richie let out an awful, humourless laugh, his eyes shining in a way that had Eddie’s stomach twisting painfully.

“Okay. Okay, Eddie,” he held up his hands again, taking several steps backwards, out towards the living room, “I hear you loud and clear. Say no more,” he paused, sounding more resigned than Eddie had ever heard him, lifting his shoulder in a one-armed shrug, “‘S like you said. We’re just best friends who get each other off. That can change whenever you want. I get it. Good night.”

Eddie watched as he turned on his heel and began walking out of the room.

“I was jealous that he was flirting with you and laughing with you and…fucking touching you when that was all I wanted to do!”

Richie stopped dead in his tracks.

Eddie scrambled forward, his mouth running away from him, “I was so fucking pissed that some hot fucking himbo got to drape himself all over you, without a care in the world as if you were free and single because—”

The rest of his sentence lodged in his throat.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath, staring at the hard line of Richie’s shoulders, his heart samba drumming in his chest.

Well, you’ve come this far, Kaspbrak.

“Because I…I want you. All the time. Not—not just since The Arrangement. Since…shit, since I was a kid. And these last few months have given me just a taste of what life would be like if I could…if I could have you. And I…I hate that it’s just made me realise that I want more. Not just hand jobs and blow jobs here and there. I wanna…I wanna flirt with you in public, and flaunt you on my arm and…and fucking kiss you goodnight and good morning and just because I feel like it. I wanna sleep next to you and fuck you and get a fucking dog with you. I want all of it. All of you.”

A horrible, heavy silence followed his words, marred only by Eddie’s gasping breath as he fought to catch it. His heart sank lower and lower with each passing beat. He couldn’t ever remember a time that Richie had gone this long without making some kind of noise, so he did what any good risk analyst would do. He started mentally making contingency plans for how he could salvage their friendship.

I’ll move out immediately. Leave the group chat for a while. It’ll be awkward, but eventually we might be able to—

“Himbo?”

Eddie gaped as Richie finally turned around, staring wide at him, a small but definite smile on his face.

“W-What?”

Richie’s smile grew bigger.

“You called Eric a himbo. I didn’t think you kept up with today’s slang, Eds,” he tilted his head, apparently amused as he started to close the distance between them.

“Really?” Eddie groused, staring at him, “that’s your response to everything I just said? What the fuck, Rich—”

Lips crashed into his, a large hand clutching his cheek and another squeezing his hip, propelling him backwards, colliding them both into the kitchen counter. Eddie let out a rough ‘Oomph!’ but there was no way in hell he was breaking this kiss. Whose dumb idea was it to enforce Pretty Woman rules anyway? To withhold oneself from a mouth as talented as Richie’s? That was just fucking martyrdom.

The kiss was feverish, desperate as they clung to one another, knocking over various knick-knacks that Richie insisted on keeping on the kitchen counters, Eddie’s tongue tracing along Richie’s bottom lip, his teeth nipping just slightly. He sighed as Richie groaned, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss, his hands raking up and down Eddie’s body as if he couldn’t decide where to rest them. Eddie buried his own hands in Richie’s hair, clutching tightly, using the leverage to do a little pushing of his own, shoving him back against the kitchen table.

Richie let himself be manhandled, stumbling backwards, almost tripping over his own feet if Eddie didn’t have a firm grip on him. The back of his legs bumped up against the table with a soft thump. Eddie’s grip left Richie’s hair to fly to his waist, tightening as he urged him up. Richie took a second to get with the program, too preoccupied with sucking on Eddie’s tongue to do much else. But eventually, he scattered the place-mats and newspaper and stress-ball from off the table and he heaved himself up, arms reaching down to clasp the back of Eddie’s legs, lifting him up with him until he was kneeling, knees either side of his hips.

The kiss broke.

Their eyes met.

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat when he saw moisture gathered behind Richie’s glasses as he stared at Eddie like he was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

“I’m in love with you, by the way,” Richie murmured, quietly but firmly, as if they were words he had long since lived with, “have been since I was twelve years old. In case that wasn’t clear.”

A little line formed between his eyebrows as he cleared his throat, “It’s—it’s okay, though. You don’t have to say it back or anything, I know it’s a lot and—”

“I’m in love with you too, dickwad. In case that wasn’t clear.”

They stared at one another, twin smiles gracing their faces before Richie leaned forward, capturing his lips once more.

This kiss was softer, slower, but god…

Eddie could feel thirty years of emotion flowing between them, as if Richie was pouring every ounce of pining, yearning, ache and love that he had ever felt for Eddie into it.

The burn of tears welled up behind his eyes as Richie’s hands clasped his cheeks, his thumb gently tracing his scar. They eventually had to break for air, but didn’t go far, their lips barely an inch apart as they heaved in breaths, until Eddie leaned forward again, pecking the tiniest of kisses against Richie’s mouth.

Fuck Fight Club and Pretty Woman rules.

Richie leaned up, returning the kiss that was more the pressing of smiles but still had Eddie’s stomach flipping with butterflies.

“God, Eds. I’ve wanted to kiss you practically my whole life.”

Eddie hummed, raking a hand through his hair and straightening his slightly askew glasses.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” he sighed, resting their foreheads together, “I just…I just knew that kissing you would be too much. Would make me wish too much and hope too much and—”

“Me too,” Richie nodded, bumping their heads gently, practically going cross-eyed as he fought to keep eye contact, “you were right. I wouldn’t have coped with kissing you without constantly wanting more and hating myself for it. Even though I did anyway. Always have,” he laughed a little self-deprecatingly, “but ya know, I’m used to that.”

Eddie’s heart panged.

“Fucking Derry.”

“Fucking Derry,” Richie agreed.

“Dumb Eddie.”

“No,” Richie shook his head, leaning back to properly look at Eddie, “not dumb at all, Eds. We—that shithole fucked both of us up, right? All seven of us. So, don’t feel dumb about not picking up on my giant heartboner for you back in the day, alright? I…I did everything in my power to hide it ‘cause I was scared shitless. Homophobic clowns and Bowers, you know? And now…now we’re so fucking repressed I still marvel we managed to con ourselves into The Arrangement in the first place.”

Eddie snorted, silently agreeing until that snort turned into a groan, this one of discomfort as his knees gave a painful twinge.

“We’re too old to fool around on the kitchen table, Rich…” he breathed, his breath bouncing off Richie’s mouth, “my knees are fucking killing me.”

Richie huffed out a laugh, squeezing his hips and nudging him back down to the ground and shuffling to stand up himself.

“Fuck!” He hissed as his thigh roughly collided with the leg of one of the chairs, knocking it over with a clatter.

“As graceful as ever, Rich,” Eddie teased, reaching down to gently rub his palm along the back of Richie’s thigh, a small smirk spreading across his face.

“If you take me to bed, I can kiss it better. And other places too.”

Richie Tozier had never moved so fast in his entire life. And that included the time he was chased by a murderous space clown.

They collectively collided with no less than four pieces of furniture, one novelty-sized pencil that Richie insisted on keeping in the hallway, and tripped over a copy of Bill’s new book before they made it to bed. But that just meant there was more to kiss better.

They were allowed to do that, now. Kiss and so much more.

And all because they stopped living their lives using the ‘logic’ of two dumb ‘90s movies.

Read my other friends-with-benefits Reddie fic here

@tinyarmedtrex @reddiegays @richietoaster @and-thats-when-she-snapped

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #friends with benefits fic #they’re way too in love to make it work though #my fanfiction #hope nonnie enjoys

186 notes · View notes

ericsonclan · 4 years ago

Text

A Chance At Something More

Summary: Omid and Christa anxiously wait to meet their newest foster children.

Word Count: 4238

Read on AO3:

Christa paced back and forth by the door. She knew that it didn’t help make her kids feel any less nervous seeing her pacing, but she couldn’t help it. Her stomach was twisting with nerves and excitement. Just what kind of kids would she and Omid foster? Would they get along with Violet, Louis and Omar? Her mind was becoming consumed by the endless questions. Suddenly she felt her right hand being covered with a comforting warmth. Looking up, she saw Omid’s smiling face.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll take this one day at a time,”

Christa felt her shoulder relax at her husband’s words. “Right, alright,” She gave a small smile towards Omid when suddenly Louis jumped up from his chair.

“I see them!” Louis pointed at the front window. Christa and Omid ran over to stand by their son who pointed to two redhead girls who were walking hand in hand with the social worker.

As soon as the doorbell rang Louis ran forward, throwing open the door. “Hi! I’m Louis!” Louis gave a huge grin and extended his hand.

Christa ran forward and placed her hands on Louis’ shoulders.

“Louis, honey, give them some space,” Christa looked back at the girls. “Please, come on in,” She moved along with Louis out of the way for them to enter. Omid stood impatiently in the front living room, giving a cheery smile to the two girls.

Both of them looked up and around at everyone before looking down again. The grip of their joined hands grew tighter.

The social worker talked for a few minutes and wished the family the best of luck then went on their way.

The room was filled with silence as Louis stood behind Omid, poking his head out, and Christa stood closer to the girls.

Christa knelt down and gave them a small smile. “Hi there, my name’s Christa and that is my husband Omid,” She gestured back at Omid who gave a friendly wave.

“That’s me. This here is one of my sons, Louis,” He ruffled Louis’ dreadlocks affectionately while Louis giggled. “Violet and Omar are in the kitchen I think,” Omid moved into the next room to find his other children.

“What’s your name?” Christa’s voice drew the attention of the two girls.

The girl on the left with shorter red hair took a shaky breath, willing all of her courage to speak her name. “B-brody,” she cleared her throat awkwardly.

“I’m Ruby!” the girl on the right said with a raised voice as if she was trying to draw all the attention away from Brody to help her. It seemed that Brody was definitely the shyer one. She wouldn’t maintain eye contact for too long and seemed to be shaking slightly. Christa looked in Ruby’s eyes and saw a fiery determination in them that grew her curiosity.

“Those are lovely names. I-” Christa was suddenly cut off by a loud, high-pitched scream coming from the kitchen. Christa immediately ran over along with Brody and Ruby who were expecting that something awful had happened.

When they got to the kitchen, however, it seemed like nothing was really wrong. Omid had his hands on his head while he looked at a blonde girl who was hovering over an empty baking pan of brownies.

“Those were your new sisters’ brownies to make them feel more at home,” Omid gasped. “Spit them out right now, Violet!”

Violet looked at him for a second then back at Christa. Slowly she opened up her mouth, making a bleh sound when a dark brown blob fell out, hitting the baking pan. Violet stared back at Brody and Ruby for a second, her expression unreadable before looking away and sprinting off.

“Oh no,” Omid looked at the pan with a sad expression.

“What did you expect she’d do when you told her to spit it out?” Christa shook her head while placing a hand on her hip.

A small sniffle drew their attention to Louis who fidgeted with his dreadlocks. “I ate some too,”

Omar walked forward and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder before walking forward. “Don’t worry, I hid some in the upper cupboard,” Omar stood on his tiptoes and took down a container filled with brownies.

“Good thinking, Omar,” Omid gave a thumbs up before turning back to Brody and Ruby. “So, care for some brownies? They’re super good! Omar made them,” Omid placed a hand on Omar’s shoulder, a proud, beaming smile appearing on his face.

Brody and Ruby looked at each other for a few seconds.

“Okay,” Ruby whispered.

Omar walked forward with the container and the two sisters took a brownie each, cautiously biting down on the treat. Their eyes immediately lit up from the chocolatey goodness of the brownie.

“It’s delicious!” Brody exclaimed and took another huge bite.

Omid and Christa shared a smile. They stood around in the kitchen for a few minutes, giving their two new additions to the household some time to relax and enjoy the snack. Christa kept glancing back from time to time, wondering when Violet was going to show up… if she was going to show up.

“Louis,” Christa’s voice drew the dreadlocked boy's attention up from his own brownie. “Why don’t you show Brody and Ruby that song you wrote for them?”

Louis’ eyes practically sparkled with excitement. Scarfing down his brownie in a single bite, he ran over into the next room. His dreadlocks bounced with each step he took. Omar soon followed behind him along with their two new siblings.

Christa turned to Omid and was about to speak when he held up a hand.

“I got it. I’ll keep an eye on them and you can check on Violet,” Omid gave a reassuring smile. Christa leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on his cheek before walking back outside. She had a fairly good idea where her daughter had run off to.

----

“Okay, so this is a song I wrote just for you two and Vi. It’s called Sisters ,” Louis turned on the piano seat dramatically before raising his hands up with a grand flourish. His fingers pressed down on the keys, playing a living yet calming tune. It seemed to make him happy to be able to play this song for them; his smile grew as the song continued, only lessening whenever he hit a sour note or two.

Brody and Ruby shared a look of utter surprise at the song. They couldn’t believe that Louis had written the song, let alone the fact that it was for them. Louis’ fingers danced across the keys until he reached the ending where he slammed down on the keys. Turning back to face his audience, he was met with a lively round of applause from his dad and some light clapping from his brother. Brody and Ruby were still too shocked by the gesture to even clap.

“You wrote that for us?” Brody’s mouth was slightly open as her mind tried to comprehend it. Ruby didn’t seem much different.

“Yep!” Louis beamed. “I spent a really long time on it too,” Louis nervously scratched the back of his head. “Did you like it?”

Brody and Ruby nodded excitedly to which Louis’ smile grew even more.

“Well, Brody, Ruby why don’t we play an ice breaker game to get to know each other better? We can start with easy questions.” Omid sat down on the couch and motioned for the rest of them to join him.

“Oh, oh!” Louis slid across the couch. “Can I choose the first question?”

“Is that okay with you two?” Omid looked over at Brody and Ruby who sat at the other end of the couch.

“Yeah,’ Ruby’s hand was still holding Brody’s.

“Ok, so what’s your least favorite food?” Louis asked with excitement. “Mine’s cantaloupe,” Louis stuck out his tongue and made a disgusted face just at the thought.

“It’s not that bad, Louis,” Omar commented while he took a seat.

“It’s the worst!” Louis huffed, falling back further into the couch. Omid laughed at his son’s dramatics when his eyes wandered over to the backyard. He sure hoped Christa was having some luck with Violet.

-----

Christa wandered the backyard, sidestepping a few toys that had been left out back that her and Omid must’ve missed when they were cleaning the house for their foster kids’ first day. She continued to make her way further into the backyard until she reached the rickety, half-built treehouse. Omid had started on it a few months ago when he got caught up in the excitement with their kids when they asked for one. After a few days of giving it his best shot, it became clear almost immediately that this project would be better if they got professionals. So Omid and Christa put up a sign to remind their kids not to climb up into the treehouse. With Violet’s love of climbing trees and her desire to hide away whenever she felt too overwhelmed by her emotions, Christa would bet that that was where her daughter had ended up.

“Violet?” Christa called out from the ground below the treehouse. Even though Violet didn’t respond, she could see her blonde hair peeking out from the half-built bones of the treehouse. “It’s not safe up there. You should get down,”

“Why do you care?” Violet snapped. Her words were muffled by her knees that were drawn up to her chest. Her arms wrapped around her knees, squeezing them tightly while her face was buried, hiding away from the outside world.

“I care because you’re my daughter and that treehouse is a safety hazard,” Christa stated in her usual matter of fact tone, but Violet could feel the worry within her mom’s voice. Christa placed her hands on her hips. “So will you please get down from there?”

“No,” Violet turned her face away from her mom. “It won’t matter soon anyway. I won’t be your daughter for much longer,” Violet’s voice wavered at the end of that statement. Violet cursed internally as she wiped away furiously at some of the tears that had escaped her eyes.

Christa’s hands fell down to her sides, her eyes wide with shock at Violet’s statement. “Why do you say that?” She moved to try and get a better view of her daughter, her eyes searching the tree carefully in fear that the treehouse could fall apart any minute.

“You’ve got real daughters now, so you don’t need one like me,” Violet looked down angrily at Christa and locked eyes before her gaze was hidden once again by her knees. Violet knew that she was less than the ideal daughter. She wasn’t a social butterfly, she never cared that much for girly things and just never seemed to fit the right mold for what a daughter should be. She always knew that.

But when Brody and Ruby had walked into the house, that fact became cemented in her heart. They were two nice, well-behaved girls who seemed to more fit what an ideal daughter would be than she ever could. It didn’t help that they were sisters. It was pretty obvious that her mom and dad had become tired with her and wanted to replace her with better kids. Better daughters. “I already had my last meal, so you don’t need to worry about that,” Violet whispered, her eyes stinging with more tears. “You can just send me back to the orphanage,”

“We’re not going to do that, Violet,” Christa’s voice was calm and gentle even though her eyes searched wildly for a way to climb up and safely retrieve her daughter. “Omar and Louis would be devastated if they heard what you said. So would your father.”

Violet remained silent for a minute. The only sound was her soft sniffle which she tried her best to hide.

“Violet, your father and I love you with all of our hearts,” Christa grunted as she lifted herself up onto the first branch. “We’d never send you back,” She focused on climbing the next branch. Violet was still quiet.

“Do you remember the day you said you wanted to stay here? That you wanted to make this your home?” Christa’s hand reached blindly for the last branch she needed to climb. “That day was one of the happiest days for us. Do you know why?” Christa had successfully climbed up to the partially built treehouse. “Because we had wanted you to stay and be our daughter. We love you for who you are,”

Violet’s wide eyes shot up and turned to look at Christa who had a comforting smile on her face. She studied her mom’s face for a minute and realized just how genuine her words had been.

“We’re hoping that Brody and Ruby will find this place warm and comforting and - if they want it to be - their home. But that doesn’t mean for a second that Omid and I don’t want you. Alright?”

Violet looked down and gave a short nod. The whisper of a smile played on her lips.

“Now, how about we get down from here?” Christa offered Violet her hand which she took only a few seconds later. Violet immediately jumped down to the next branch, swinging off of it and onto the next. Within seconds she was back on the ground.

Christa shook her head as she made her way down. Sometimes she swore that Violet was part monkey with how fast and with ease she could climb trees. Christa landed hard on her feet, stumbling a bit, and looked back to see that Violet was waiting there for her. The pair walked together back into the house where they found the rest of the family still playing the icebreaker game with Brody and Ruby. Violet quietly sat down next to Louis and Christa took her spot by Omid. The two quickly joined in the game and soon the living room was filled with laughter.

----

It had been two weeks since the first day that Brody and Ruby had come to the Farhad's household. So far everything was going great. Not only was there really good food and a nice room that they could share at this place, but everyone seemed really nice.

Well, that was except for Violet, who neither Brody or Ruby could get a read on. Whenever she was in the room she was usually quiet and didn’t open up much unlike Louis who seemed to be practically bursting at the seams with the information he wanted to share. Still, this family was a lot nicer than all the previous households the sisters had been put in and for that they were thankful.

Brody woke up with a smile on her face. Today was Saturday which meant that they had the whole day to play with their siblings. Louis had promised the other night that he would show them all the cool hidden spots in the house that he and Violet had found when they first got here. Brody was so caught up in the excitement for the day that she failed to see that she was walking too close to a side table. Her hip hit the side of it sharply, causing her to wince in pain before realizing that she had tipped over a lamp. Brody tried to grab the lamp in time but it slipped through her fingers, hitting the floor with a loud crash.

Brody closed her eyes when it did, her heart pounding at her mistake. I messed up. Brody’s hands shook. I’m gonna get us kicked out again! Brody’s attention was pulled away from the broken lamp by a pair of footsteps running through the house. Violet appeared through one of the doorways, her eyes wide with shock at what happened. She’s totally going to tell her parents. Without a word, Violet walked over and knelt beside the lamp then stood back up again.

Ruby suddenly appeared in the doorway, her eyes studying the scene with concern.

“I-I’m really sorry, I can clean it!” Brody leaned over and snatched up the first shard only for it to slice open one of her fingers. Brody stood up and clutched her finger, causing Ruby to run to her side.

Violet’s eyes grew larger for a second again before she reached out and wrapped her hand around Brody’s wrist.

Brody felt her stomach twist at the gesture and she violently pulled away.

Violet looked alarmed by the harsh reaction. She was even more surprised to see that Ruby had gotten in position to fight her. Violet crossed her arms and looked away. “I was just going to show you where the first aid kit was. We need to get a bandaid on that,” she whispered.

“Oh shoot, I’m sorry,” Ruby uncurled her fist. “It’s just… I…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Violet mumbled. Her eyes seemed to hold a level of sadness to them when she started to walked away only to stop in her tracks when neither of them had followed her. “Come on,”

Brody and Ruby immediately joined Violet’s side. The three walked quietly over to a cabinet in one of the hallways. Violet grabbed the kit and found a bandaid and some ointment. Cautiously she held out her hand for Brody who, after a few seconds, held her own hand out. Violet carefully put some of the ointment on the wound before wrapping it with the bandaid.

“My dad says kissing the bandaid makes it heal faster, but I just think that’s a load of shit,” Violet’s eyes were focused on the ground.

“Thanks,” Brody looked up at Violet who turned away without a word and started walking away. She could’ve sworn she saw the smallest smile on Violet’s face. After a minute or so the sisters heard another sound, drawing their attention back to the room where the lamp had broken.

Violet had gotten the broom and had started to sweep it up. Brody and Ruby shared a look of surprise. They thought for sure they had figured Violet out. But instead Violet had not only helped them out with Brody’s cut and cleaning up the mess, but when Omid and Christa had asked who broke it Violet lied and said she did.

Louis had also jumped in on the blame, hoping to lessen the blow for his older sister. That day stuck with the two sisters, repeating in their minds for the next week or so until Louis talked with them.

“Yeah, Vi can be a bit prickly at first but she grows on you, I promise,” His classic charismatic smile seemed to give Brody and Ruby some confidence in his words. After all, they had been wrong about Violet so far. “Hey, since you two have been here for a while, why don’t we throw a party to celebrate!”

“A party?” Brody raised an eyebrow. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal to throw a party.

“Yeah! Hang on a second,” Louis scampered off, sliding across the floor before calling upstairs. “Violet, get down here!”

Violet grumbled, hunching over while she went down the stairs. “What, Lou?”

“Let’s throw a party for Brody and Ruby to celebrate them being here,” Louis beamed over at his sister.

Violet looked over at Ruby and Brody and then gave a shrug. “Okay,”

Ruby and Brody could feel their excitement for the party grow.

“So when’s the hootenanny?” Ruby asked, the anticipation clear on her face.

“Hootenanny?” Louis cocked his head to the side.

“It means a party,” Brody added.

“Oh! Let’s have it tonight,” Louis looked around. “Just gotta find Omar and let Mom and Dad know,” Louis was off like a shot before any of them could comment on that. After a few minutes Louis had gotten permission from Omid and Christa and Omar had joined in by Louis’ side.

“I’ll go get the pillows,” Louis pointed his thumb to himself. “Vi, get the blankets for the fort,” Violet nodded and went off to gather the items. “Omar will be in charge of the snacks.” Omar disappeared into the kitchen to start on his task.

“What should we do?” Brody walked forward to Louis.

“Oh, can we be in charge of the decorations?” Ruby bounced on the balls of her feet.

Louis grinned at the question. “Yeah! Mom and Dad said we should use the back living room. There’s some cool candles and stuff in the hallway cupboard.” Louis gestured behind him.

Soon all the siblings were off to their respective tasks and returned to the back living room after about fifteen minutes. Ruby and Brody had already gotten started on the decorations, placing a cool sign up and getting some candles out in case they wanted to use them. Omar was the first back of the other three siblings, carrying with him his special snacks, and gently placed them on the table.

Violet was the next to appear with her hands filled with all the softest blankets she could find. There were so many that she could barely be seen behind them.

Louis sprinted behind her, barely dodging her while he stumbled back and forth to not knock down the tower of pillows in his arms. “Okay let’s get this party started,” Louis tossed aside the pillows and then raised up a finger. “I mean... hootenanny?”

Ruby nodded causing the dreadlocked boy to smile brightly.

Everyone seemed to buzz in agreement at Louis' suggestion.

“Would it be okay if we put on some music?” Brody looked over from her task of putting up the sign.

“Sure! What kind of music?”

“Country?” Ruby looked unsure if she would get her wish, but Louis, Violet and Omar didn’t seem to mind the music choice. Soon the room was filled with country music which made Ruby’s usual warm smile seem even brighter now.

“You sure do like country music,” Omar stated while he ate a snack.

“Sure, I mean, don’t it make you wanna boogie?” She looked over at Louis and Violet.

Violet gave a noncommittal shrug. “I guess, I like-” she was suddenly cut off when a pillow connected with her face, sending her back a few steps.

Louis chuckled and raised up his pillow in a victory stance. “Pillow fight!” he declared in a fancy voice.

Violet shook her head before snatching up a pillow and attacking Louis with it. Both siblings got a few good hits in when all of the sudden Omar landed a good hit on Violet. The three siblings laughed, pausing when they noticed that Brody and Ruby hadn’t joined in.

“Come on, guys,” Louis pleaded, receiving another hit from Violet. “Join us!”

Ruby and Brody smiled at each other and in a silent agreement grabbed a pillow each and started to attack. It was all going smoothly. Everyone seemed to be having a good time until Louis had hit Brody with a rather hard attack.

Ruby immediately got serious. Using her pillow, she sent Louis flying backward, landing hard on his butt. Omar and Violet looked over at Louis who had the same shocked expression as they did.

Ruby instantly regretted her decision. Last time she had let her fiery side through it had cost them their home. “I-” Ruby stopped when she heard Louis devolve in a fit of laughter.

“Damn,” Violet smiled at her sisters before looking back at Louis who was still laughing.

“I guess we know who to look out for in pillow fights,” Omar stated and walked over to help Louis onto his feet.

“You’re super strong! The only other person who could do a hit like that would be Vi,” Louis nudged Violet’s shoulder playfully. “I gotta step up my game.”

Ruby felt her shoulders relax when she saw them all pick up where they had left off. Soon everyone was on the floor, each of them catching their breaths when Louis jumped up to his feet.

“Onto the next part- let’s build a fort to sleep in!” Louis looked expectantly at his siblings, anxious for their response. They looked around at each other and soon all came to an agreement.

Violet and Brody helped set up the blankets while Omar and Ruby crawled through, making sure each pillow and chair helped hold up the foundation of their fort. Louis jumped around between the two teams helping out in any way he could.

It took a couple attempts (the first few had ended with more than one of the siblings caught in a web of blankets), but eventually they had gotten it right. They all stood together, looking on proudly at their accomplishment. After a few minutes to brush their teeth and get into their PJs, they each took turns getting into the fort. Louis led the way followed by Violet, then Brody and Ruby with Omar bringing up the rear.

In the center of their fort Louis and Ruby had worked hard to set up five beds that created a circle. Everyone chose a spot and lay down. Louis started off the conversation about favorite movies while Violet and Omar interjected at certain points. Brody and Ruby whispered along with the three siblings before they shared a secret smile. They couldn’t believe how happy they were. It had been a super fun evening. One that they hoped in the future they could do again.

#twdg #twdg christa #twdg omid #twdg louis #twdg violet #twdg omar #twdg brody #twdg ruby #ruby brody brotp #louis violet brotp #omista #fanfic #everett bunch au

8 notes · View notes

poptod · 5 years ago

Text

Brought To Your Knees (Kenny x Reader)

Description: 7-Elevens are a lot more versatile than one might originally think. AKA, sometimes you can get locked in them with your long-time crush and, following that, things can happen.

Notes: Freshman means you’re around 14-15 years old, Sophomore is 15-16 I think, Junior is 16-17, Senior is 17-18. Idk the American schooling system too well. Completely male reader.

Warning: Smut :) not sure why its there but hey everyone needs a gratuitous blow job every now and then

Word Count: 6.1k

You were expecting rain. You even brought an umbrella along, tucked away in the side pocket of your backpack, but an umbrella clearly wouldn’t work very well. Snow fell harsh upon the earth, cold and freezing near instantly, making a very thick layer of snow trap you inside the 7-Eleven, the doors frozen shut despite the fact that the heating was still on.

How exactly one gets trapped inside a 7-Eleven with the only person they’ve ever really loved probably needs some explaining, so let’s go back to the beginning; seven years ago. Seven years ago you transferred schools due to an unfortunate accident with a classmate, at least that’s what’s on your record. Half of you is grateful no one knows what really happened, but the other half wishes people knew you punched someone in the face hard enough to dislocate their nose. Though, looking at you, most people probably wouldn’t believe you, considering you haven’t got the strongest body structure. Your (at the time) new school was better than the last one in several ways, but the most important to you was the fact that it was a public school. There were horror stories about public schools, of unruly students and horrible teachers, and by god did you want to experience that - private school was far too clean, far too organized for your mind, and you were going slowly insane.

If there’s a term to describe you, it’d probably be ‘thrill seeker,’ if asshole can’t be said out loud. For the first couple of years you were a nuisance to classrooms, the well known class clown and always up for distracting the teacher (the history teachers were the easiest to distract, math teachers the hardest), and always ready to fight back for what you believed was right. Then came your first year of high school and you found the greatest thrill of all - boys.

Previously you hadn’t taken much of a romantic interest in either gender, and most people said it’d kickstart sometime in high school, which was about right - freshman year you had a crush on a boy named Everett. It wasn’t a particularly strong crush, not compared to your more recent crushes, but it was your first, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do. You wanted him to fall in love with you, hopelessly and endlessly, you wanted him to hang on your every word and dream of your affections... but you didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. No, you just wanted his adoration, and nothing more - only to lead him on and drop his heart to break it. When this didn’t happen and he didn’t fall in love with you, you realized that most boys are not attracted to other boys, and you became deathly silent when it came to crushes.

Several other boys (and maybe a girl) caught your fancy in the remainder of freshman year, but there was one boy you hadn’t yet met that would become the greatest thrill of all. Junior year you had a class with him, and on the first day of school when you walked into English class your bag fell from your hands, clattering to the floor with a loud thump.

He is perfect, in every conceivable way he’s everything you’ve ever imagined, shy and kind, sincere and genuinely interesting - just the sight of him from that day on and your heart speeds up tenfold. You’re a horror story that teachers talk about, so Mr. Davis is clearly flabbergasted at your silence, and for the most part he leaves you alone even though you’re barely paying attention to the blackboard at the front of the classroom. Instead your attention is focused on the boy sitting two seats in front of you and a row to the right. It’s almost surprising he hasn’t noticed your staring, but clearly Mr. Davis notices because about two months into the school year he pulls you aside to talk about it.

“I wanted to talk to you about your attention,” he says quietly, sitting behind his desk as you stand at the other side. You’re playing absentmindedly with your fingers, barely listening to him, only staying where you are to avoid another hour of detention today. “I know you’re usually very loud in class, word gets around easily here, but you’re staring at your classmate a lot.”

“And?” You ask, not really seeing the point. In your mind, he should be thankful you’re not a disruption.

“Is… is there anything you want to tell me? About Kenny?”

“Who’s Kenny?”

“… that’s the boy you keep staring at,” he says slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Ah, you think to yourself. That’s his name.

“Listen, (Y/N), I want you to know you’re always welcome in my classroom. This is a safe space for you, okay?” His voice goes to a whisper as he says, “I have a boyfriend, so we aren’t so different after all.”

“I’m not gay,” you spit out quickly, the venomous tone of your voice not deterring him.

“I know it can be hard to admit at first, and at your age I understand the confusion within yourself. Just know you can talk to me, okay? And try to pay more attention in class? I know you’ve got it in you.”

Without word you pick your backpack up from the floor, slinging it onto your shoulders and leaving. Just as you exit the main doors, noting the dark clouds low in the sky, you’re called back by one of the vice principals, ordering you to your detention.

“C’mon, it’s Friday,” you groan, walking backwards to stare at the teacher as you walk away.

“I’ll call your parents!” She threatens, whipping her flip phone out of her pocket.

“Oh yeah? What are they gonna do? Fuck off,” you laugh, throwing double middle-fingers at her, which lands you in three hours of detention.

At five thirty you’re released, an absolutely sour look on your face as you walk down the pavement. There’s a seedy part of the city that has a 7-Eleven you’ve been to so often you know the workers’ shifts. All of them are pretty nice, though all very tired of life and if you had to hazard a guess, mildly suicidal. At least that’s the look in their eyes, and you don’t blame them - customer service is one of the most horrid jobs in history. Friday evenings Alan has shift, and he’s rather nice, but upon opening the freezing door to the inside, you don’t see him. The door shuts behind you and you wander the aisles for a little while - you don’t have much change, you note as your fingers fiddle with the coins and bills in your coat pocket.

Several minutes later your attention is brought to the weather - it’s snowing, bad, and you groan internally at the wind force practically blowing down the stop sign out front. The few trees that survive in the city are barely hanging on now, flimsy limbs and branches ripping away from the main trunk. Again you groan, a grimace on your face when you think about having to go home in that. With a calming sigh you turn back to the hotdogs, spinning slow and peaceful in the warm light.

Heaven is one big 7-Eleven, you think to yourself. One of the very few things that calms you down is rotating hot dogs that probably aren’t real meat.

From the corner of your eye you can see someone else enter, but the wind blasting through the doors is enough for you to turn your head.

It’s Kenny.

Of course it’s him.

Gulping you turn back to the hot dogs, hoping beyond belief that Alan will get back soon. Kenny is the only person that’s ever rendered you speechless, the only one that’s ever made your cheeks blush without a word. Even in fluorescent light he seems to glow, peaceful and careful as his fingers drag a feather touch across a row of snacks. He hasn’t noticed you, not yet, so you have time to plan out how to hide from him. Instantly you turn to the cash register, wondering if you’d get kicked out of Alan found you hiding behind the counter.

Too late - you can feel his eyes turn to you, burning into the back of your neck as you hold a viselike grip on the edge of the plastic red counter.

“Um, do you, uh, work here?” He asks, now standing directly behind you. Trying to smile, you turn to face him, feeling your heart burn with the speed it beats at.

“No, I - I just know the guys who work here, I don’t know where they are now, though,” you say, oversharing a little bit and praying he doesn’t notice. He’s right in front of you, half confused as his lips part just barely, brows furrowing above grey eyes. You can practically feel your legs giving out beneath you, but he turns to the door before you fall in front of him. Practically gasping for air as he leaves your personal space, you watch as he goes to open the door.

“Is... is this supposed to be locked?” He asks.

“No, it shouldn’t be,” you breathe out, making your way over to the door to try and open it. It’s stuck, hard - you even back up to kick it and it doesn’t budge.

“Wait, you’re… you’re (Y/N), aren’t you?”

“You know me?” You ask incredulously, even though it’s not that farfetched that he would know your name.

“Of course I do, you’re like a legend at school,” he says, getting quieter as his sentence ends. As he fiddles with his fingers, awkwardly trying to look somewhere else, you can’t help but stare as you nearly always do.

“I’m flattered,” is what you manage to say, just as choked and embarrassed as him.

“I’ll stay out of your way, just - just don’t beat me up?” He requests, holding his hands up defensively as he backs away towards the corner of the small store.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I don’t do that,” you say, taken aback by his words. You know your reputation isn’t great, but you didn’t think it was that awful - you’d never beat up an innocent person and you didn’t plan on starting. “What are you doing here anyway? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Um, my friend… he told me to meet him at the library, but the weather got bad and I needed to get inside,” he explains, still not meeting your eye.

God you’re perfect, you think to yourself in reaction to nothing in particular - he’s just so beautiful, so supple you can’t help but wonder what he’d feel like with his bare skin against yours. More than anything you want to belong to him, which you realize is strange for you; generally you enjoy others belonging to you, but… Kenny is different for no reason, but he’s so incredibly special you can’t understand your infatuation beyond the fact that it’s insurmountable and achingly enduring.

“I might be able to make a flamethrower,” you say, trying to think of ways to not be suffocated by nearness to the object of your unending affections.

“Wait, a flamethrower? What -“ he follows you frantically as you begin to search for flammable sprays - “what for!?”

“The door is frozen shut, we might be able to get out if I melt the ice away,” you say quickly, but he’s pulling at your arms to stop you from digging through the shelves. At the force you whirl around, face to face with him as your chest practically touches his, and in an instant you can’t breathe for fear of losing the moment. You both pause, frozen into shock before he steps back like you’re poison.

“I don’t think that’s, uh, necessary,” he says slowly, and just as slow you agree, nodding as you put the lighter away.

“Sure. You have a phone?”

“No, you?”

“I keep mine at home,” you mumble, untensing as the adrenaline of the moment fades away.

“Well this sucks,” he huffs, crossing his arms and turning awkwardly to the shelves as though he didn’t want you to see his face. “At least it could be worse.”

“No, don’t say that, the power’s gonna go -“

Darkness falls over the store and the heating system goes quiet, the dull background hum going out. A loud sigh comes out of you, letting your eyes accustom to the dark before thinking of what to do next.

“I think we might be stuck here till morning,” you grumble, the dim light of streetlamps casting a gold glow over the various rows and, of course, putting Kenny in a perfectly beautiful light. You can practically feel the blood rushing into your cheeks, and you quickly look away with crossed arms.

“I’m… sorry,” he says rather suddenly, just barely making his way closer to you.

“It’s not your fault,” you sigh. “A beautiful coincidence.”

“… beautiful?” He asks, confused by your wording - it can’t possibly be a good thing to him.

“Yeah, I -“ you look over at him, fiddling anxiously with his fingers as he looks up at you - “Never mind. You tired?”

“No, don’t think i will be for a while,” he says, sitting with his back against the refrigerated drinks, the back of his head clunking against the cold glass.

“I’ll get a flashlight and a boardgame,” you tell him, the only idea in your head that didn’t sound stupid; the entire time you’re looking through the back for games, you’re kicking the thought of cuddling him out of your mind. The situation is perfect, far too perfect for it to work out well. Besides, these types of things generally don’t work out for you - as previously said, you’re a bit of an asshole, and that trait has a tendency to screw you over.

He just sits and waits, and when you come back a good five or ten minutes later, he’s still sitting in the same position. It strikes you as odd how he hasn’t even fidgeted considering how much he was doing it earlier, but you just shine the light in his face and cackle when he winces away from the brightness.

“All they had is chess. I guess Marie took back her game, which is fair,” you add as you sit yourself down across from him, putting the box in the middle of you two. “She got fired a while back and didn’t get her game when she left. I helped get her a key for the backroom,” you recall, chuckling, but Kenny looks partially terrified, so you stop.

“You know how to play?” He asks, rubbing his hands together as he starts setting it up.

“A bit. My brother tried to teach me when we were little, I never caught on much though,” you say, thinking distantly of how your brother was doing in university. “He’s a big math guy, loves strategy games like this.”

“So you don’t like strategy…?” He asks slowly, as though worried he’d offend you - you just shrug.

“It’s not that. I’m… just more of a romantic guy.”

For a good three seconds he doesn’t breathe, but when you raise your eyebrows questioningly, he picks up again with an absent nod. Once the last pieces are set into place, he does a quick run-through of the rules, and by the end of it you’re fully aware you’re going to lose at least the first few rounds. Neither of you have a grasp on time as you go through the first round, then the second, and onto the third - you lose very fast, that’s all you’re aware of. He’s sweet about it, for which you’re confused if not thankful. If you were to play chess with some of the people you hang with, they’d be mean about winning and they’d cheat on you, which is fair; you’d do the same to them. Now you’re being nice, trying to actually understand the game, and he’s being a complete sweetheart about teaching you the rules.

It isn’t something you’re used to, but it’s something you could be used to, and something you want to be used to - this sort of kindness. Despite all the thoughts running rampant in your head you manage to stay concentrated on the game - well, him more so than the game - and it almost feels like he might like you. That’s an improvement, you think to yourself, recalling his initial fear of you.

“Could I ask you something? If you don’t mind,” he requests after you both come down from a laughing high, and you agree easily. It’s only far too easy to be open with him. “There’s lots of stories that go around about you - there’s this one, this one’s my favorite, mostly because I don’t think it really happened, but it is really funny.”

“Really? Well, rumors are half right sometimes. What horrid thing did I do this time?” You ask, using the bottle opener on your swiss knife to pop open a beer bottle.

“It’s mostly just… inappropriate, not that it was a particularly ‘bad’ thing. I heard you… slept with Isla and Gianna like, at the same time, like every high school boys’ dream. The guy I heard tell it said you snuck into a sleepover or something?” He says slept like it’s disgusting, so that paired with absolutely everything else about him you assume he’s very unexperienced.

“That’s an interesting story, which I - I don’t usually tell the truth about,” you confess, waiting for him to make his next move in the game, but the moment never comes. He’s far too engrossed in your conversation, and as wonderful as it feels to be having a real conversation with your crush, you can’t help but hate the subject.

“Will you tell the truth this time?” He asks, quiet and sincere in a way that you don’t fully expect. It pushes you to trust him just a little bit more, and it’s all you need for the truth to come out for the first time about that story.

“I went to sell them some weed because they called me up n’ said they’d pay the price for bothering me so late at night, so y’know, I said ‘fuck it,’ you only live once right? I climbed into Gianna’s window for this too, and then they offered for me to share it with them. To be fair to myself I wasn’t feeling… too great about myself,” you grow quiet, “so I said yes. And then they started bringing up sex, and they kept trying to get me to make a move on them, but I wasn’t really feeling it. I didn’t want to do it, but it.. sort of happened anyway?”

He’s quiet, sort of nodding his head but he’s too far in thought to commit to the motion fully.

“Why haven’t you told anyone the truth before?” Is what he asks at first, and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you realize it’s one of the easier questions.

“Didn’t want to seem like a pussy, that’s why,” you scoff, taking a smooth swig from your bottle. “It’s not a big deal anyway.”

“Kind of sounds like it,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a virgin,” you say, that asshole part of yourself that you were so worried about earlier rearing it’s ugly head. Right on time too, right when you could’ve opened your heart.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. You know what they say,” he says defensively, leaning back against he glass.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“The safest sex is no sex at all.”

“Yeah, and abstinence won’t get you pregnant 99.99% of the time,” you laugh. When he just looks confused, you explain, “Virgin Mary, dude.”

He opens his mouth to let out a tiny ‘oh,’ and at last the game is resumed. Throughout the next several rounds he asks more questions, but those times he doesn’t ever lose track of the game turns. By the end of the night, when you’re both finally yawning with dewey eyes, you’ve only won one round, which you’re very proud of.

“At least I beat you once,” you remark as you help him look for blankets to stay warm with. “I won a round against Mr. Chess Master.”

“And I won fourteen rounds against Mr. Sex,” he says, his eyes bulging out of his head as his hand slaps over his mouth once he realizes exactly what he’s said. You turn to him, shocked yet pleasantly surprised to find him so flustered. Dreadful is how you’d describe him, dreading your full reaction.

“Those aren’t the rounds that matter if I’m Mr. Sex,” you respond, trying to remain as smooth and deep as possible when you wink to punctuate your sentence. His mouth falls open when his hand drops back to his side, and you walk out of the storage room with a small smile.

You heave a massive sigh, gathering yourself back together once the door shuts behind you. It only takes a few seconds before he’s following you, but it’s all that’s necessary for you to gain your chill again.

“It’ll probably be easier to sleep back here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the entirety of the backroom - it’s a tad warmer and carpeted, which is a plus for comfort. The one office chair is cheap and heavily scratched by god knows what, so you roll it into the corner and lay out a blanket on the floor. It’s not an especially nice blanket, which is what you expected. The only real source of warmth you have access to is the leftover coats from employees who didn’t care to take theirs home.

As you lay down on the blanket, covering yourself in a too-large trench coat, you wonder of the different ways the evening could progress. In fact it’s all you can think about, all your brain can stress about when Kenny lies down right beside you. He has his coat as a pillow, and without word you offer your coat to help cover him - he declines, mumbling something about how he’s already warm.

I could kiss him right now, you think, the thought sending shivers of anxious excitement and fear through your veins. He’s staring at the ceiling, and though your body is facing the same direction you’re looking at him, watching the slow movement of his chest and the tired blinking of his eyes. Or we could leave and never talk again.

You don’t know what you’re doing, hardly aware of your own movements as the back of your fingers caress the side of his face, pushing unruly hair away from his eyes. His breath catches in his chest for a moment before he turns to you, eyes wide but curious despite the obvious fear.

“You’re really handsome,” he barely gets out, a whisper that he stumbles over. Judging by his uncertainty in himself you’re confident in saying he’s being sincere - that and the fact that nothing about him insinuates he’d lead you on like that. There’s so many silent words shared between you, a bond that one hold tights while the other wonders how it’s possible.

One wrong move, you think, one wrong move and I fuck this up, just like everything else. The urge to hold him close, to grab his hands and keep them intertwined in your own runs strong through your cold fingertips, but you wait. You wait for him to make the first move, but he doesn’t even blink; he’s far too enraptured in the way your lips part just slightly, the way your eyelashes flutter when you glance nervously up and down.

“I really like you,” you say, though the words don’t fully come from your conscious self. Something grabs you, ties away your thoughts and says what you mean - exactly what you mean, something you hardly ever do. He reaches up towards your hand lying dormant beside his cheek, trailing over your skin till he tangles his fingers in yours, holding your hand tight in his as he presses a kiss to your knuckles. The entire time you stare, watching his eyes flit downwards as a blush you can barely see in the dark crawls up into his face.

In a swift movement the old coat is off of you, crumpled in some corner as you rest your forearms on either side of his head, supporting your body held above him. His breathing picks up and at last he finally looks into your eyes again, careful to watch for any sign of what comes next, but even you aren’t sure as to what you’re doing. Still you move down, inching closer till your lips press against his.

He’s clearly startled, even though he immediately moves against you, kissing up into you even if his hands don’t know where to go. In your position you can do very little, but you manage to thread your hand into his hair, tugging on it lightly as you move deeper, pulling a tiny, broken hum from him. When his hands wrap around your wrists it’s painfully obvious he’s never done this before, so you break away, letting the both of you breathe and smile when it’s finally, fully, consciously realized what just happened. It’s so starkly different than any other romantic encounter you’ve had, so openly loving and yielding you wonder if you’ll ever be able to kiss anyone but him again.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” you murmur, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. He almost laughs, breathy and unsure as he runs his fingers down your spine.

“You could’ve done it sooner,” he tells you, whispering the words into your ear, his lips tickling the edge of it as he speaks. “I’ve had a crush on you for months.”

“Really?” You ask, pulling away to look at him fully. He stammers when you rest your weight on his hips, the heat of your thrill burning through the layers of clothes to intoxicate him. “I haven’t ever seen you look at me once in class.”

“We have class together?”

“I sit behind you, Kenny. English class,” you chuckle, watching his lips purse together in embarrassment.

“I mostly watch you during lunch. I - I never said anything because… well, you know why,” he mumbles, once more unsure of where his hands are supposed to go, so he crosses them on his chest.

“I know,” you say, quiet as you think over your words. “You still could’ve come up to me, but… this works too.”

He breaks into a grin, giggling when you join him till you’re both coming down from a high - as the wide grins dissolve into contented smiles, you kiss again, moving slow and soft, softer than the girls you’d been with, sweeter and more innocent than any love you’ve known.

“It’s strange you know,” you mumble against his lips, interrupting yourself by kissing him again. “I usually go for degenerates, you know, people like me?” You kiss him again, deep and needy - “but God, I’ve never adored someone as much as I adore you.”

“Really?” He manages to get out amidst your attack, trying to get ahold of a rhythm you could kiss him to but you’re chaotic, switching from his lips to his jawline and pressing kisses up his neck.

“Yeah,” you rasp out, the beginnings of a hickey blooming red on his neck.

“Oh, I - oh, don’t leave a mark,” he says, but by the way he tugs at your hair and pulls you closer, you’re sure he really wants you to.

“Let me guess, strict parents?” You ask, pulling away to look at your work. He nods as though it’s something to be ashamed of, but you just sigh and smile, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “This is probably the only time we’ll be able to make lots of noise, though.”

“You mean this’ll happen more times?”

“If you want it to. I want it to,” you say, watching as he nods furiously.

“Yes, please,” he practically whimpers, pulling you in for another searing kiss, his new ferocity biting at your lips and making you moan. You’re grinding on him, hardly realizing your actions before you’re both far too worked up from the friction.

“Fuck, I need you,” you say, your hands going up his shirt to scratch at the soft skin there.

“I haven’t ever done this before,” he tells you, almost glaring at you when you mumble, ‘I knew it,’ but the glare is quickly cut short when you palm at him through his jeans.

“Do you want this? We don’t have to, you deserve better,” you stop for a moment, letting your hand grip at his hip while the other strokes soothingly through his hair.

“Better than a quick fuck in the back room of a 7-Eleven? Probably,” he says, a smile breaking across your face at his humorous tone. There’s a delight that runs through you when you hear him swear, but you try not to think about it. “But I don’t think either of us are gonna be able to sleep well with… this.”

“Fair enough,” you say with a shrug, pulling him back into a kiss.

With fumbling hands he works at your pants, managing to unbutton the ragged material and push them partially down your hips. You do the same for him before pulling his shirt off, kissing down what you find to be a surprisingly toned chest. For as much as he’s bullied he’s incredibly attractive and rather fit, and for a second you wonder why he’s bullied so much, before remembering a lot of people are pretty racist, and the whole ‘being gay’ thing was pretty obvious to everyone.

A long, saccharine moan is pulled from his lips, forcing you to think only of him. At the sound you practically gape, a sudden virility going straight to your cock, which is now straining painfully against your boxers. You can’t remember what it was you did that made him moan like that, so you do everything you think could work - it proves a lot for him to handle. Tiny gasps leave him as you trace your fingernails over his chest, biting tiny love marks into his ribs as your own chest occasionally rubs against his crotch.

“(Y/N), please, just friggin’ touch me,” he whines, his head thrown back and staring blankly at the ceiling, too focused on the sensations to care. You almost laugh at his desperation, but when he grabs your hair and practically grinds his dick into your face, you don’t. As demanding as it is you can’t help but acquiesce. You mouth at him through the fabric, and by the time he’s begging you again there’s a prominent wet spot on his underwear from where you sucked. When at last you begin to pull them down he looks at you, watching intently with flushed cheeks as he’s fully exposed to you.

Standing, you undress yourself, making a little show of it when you notice him staring. The moment you finish you’re back on him, just as needy as he is when your bare cock brushes up against his; his shoulders shake at the contact, and he falls back onto the floor, his eyes shut tight. To soothe the ache you kiss him, as tender as it was when you first kissed, and he finally lets out an anxious breath when you part.

“Tell me what you want,” you murmur, running your hand slowly down his chest till you reach his waist, your fingers just barely curling around him and pumping slower than what he deems should be possible.

“I just need you, anything, please,” he replies, breathy and still as wanting as ever.

“God, you really like begging for me, don’t you?” You tease, smirking when he just whines as you speed up your pace. With a kiss to his neck you whisper in his ear, “I love hearing you moan, though.”

“Then make me moan,” he says thoughtlessly, regretting his words when you smirk and move down his body. Regret is the last thing on his mind however, once you wrap your lips around the tip of his dick, sucking and practically drooling as you pump him.

“You taste wonderful,” you hum, attempting to take him deeper.

As experienced as you are it’s chiefly with girls (even if you aren’t as attracted to them, it’s just easier to pretend like you are), and this would technically be the first time you’ve sucked dick. It’s a lot harder than girls make it seem, you note to yourself, but try to take him deeper anyway. A long whine tumbles from his lips when you both realize you don’t have a very strong gag reflex and take him to the hilt, sucking and still roaming the expanse of his thin waist with your hands. He’s close, you can feel him twitch in your mouth, paired with the precum dripping off him and into you, but he yanks you away by your hair and pulls you up for another passionate kiss.

“What about you?” He asks, panting, and you almost laugh again - it’s so odd for someone to ask about you first.

“The sight of you like this is enough for me,” you assure him, laying wet kisses that have his eyes fluttering into the back of his head down his neck and onto his shoulder.

As you continue pumping him, focusing the majority of your energy on sucking a hickey into his skin, you hardly notice yourself grinding against him. In fact you only realize you’re doing it when his legs wrap around your hips, pulling you in till your cocks are slotted next to each other, both achingly hard. The intensity of it has both of you coming soon after, the imprint of your nails a semi-permanent fixture on Kenny’s hips, paired well with the blossoming hickey on his clavicle. He’s not the only one marked up by the end, though - angry red streaks line your back from his scratching, and you only notice when you collapse on your back beside him.

“Would you happen to have a rag?” He asks, both of you breaking into giggles soon after.

“I’ll go get paper towels,” you offer, reaching for your underwear before realizing you need to clean up before putting on clothes. Instead you peck his forehead, leaving him smiling as you leave the room.

Eventually you’re both cleaned up, clothes on, and the trench coat is covering the both of you, cuddled tight in the back room of 7-Eleven. When the story gets out, as all stories do at some point, there’s a lot of varying accounts on what happened in the night. The most popular, and probably your least favorite, was that you terrorized him the entire night, and though most people don’t believe it considering how close you and Kenny act, it’s still the most popular. Another theory was that you introduced him to drinking and you stayed up with him all night, drunk out of your minds; you don’t mind that story as much, but he does, so you try to tell people that isn’t what happened.

He does ask at one point if he’s allowed to talk about your relationship, and your answer is an ardent yes, which surprises him. You adore every part of him, and you find no shame in that, even if he thinks you should. Sure, you do get bullied a lot more, but it’s nothing brass knuckles don’t sort out quickly.

It’s an odd pairing, you acknowledge that. Punk doesn’t usually go well with sweetheart nerd, but it works surprisingly well, and for that you’re endlessly grateful. In-between classes you run by his locker even though you’re on separate sides of the school, always kissing him before each class. Your little expeditions leave you late to every class but English, and by the end of the year all your teachers hate you as usual with the exception of Mr. Davis.

“You concentrate a lot better these days. Did my talk help you out any?” He asks after class one summer day. Kenny is waiting outside the class, so you try to find a quick answer.

“Well… a little. I talked to Kenny at least,” you answer with a smile, bidding him a kinder good-bye than you usually give your teachers, saluting him as you close the door.

“Everything alright?” Kenny asks, walking shoulder to shoulder with you down the empty halls of the school.

“Everything’s perfect, sugar,” you answer, your arm hanging around his shoulders.

#kenny al bahir x reader #kenny al bahir #war at home #rami malek x reader #rami malek #male reader

98 notes · View notes

shutupandshipit · 4 years ago

Text

Little Life - Ch. 3

Summary: A baby could ruin his career before it had even started. If anyone found out, he would be kicked out of the Hero Course at the very least and UA at the very worst. Even then, how was he supposed to care for a baby once it arrived? He was a fucking seventeen-year-old boy, not a twenty-nine-year-old omega with their shit at least somewhat together.

…..

Or where Katsuki get pregnant, but is determined to make it to graduation. No matter what it takes.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T (just for language mostly)

Chapter: 3/16

Previous <- Chapter 2

Chapter 4 -> Next

Master Post

Chapter 3: 1 Month

"Kacchan, we shouldn't," Izuku whispered below him, mouth swollen and red from Katsuki's kisses, eyes closed in pure bliss as their bodies slid together despite their boxers still creating a barrier between them.

Izuku was intoxicating. Had always been. His face, his eyes, his mouth, his voice, his body, his scent. Everything sending Katsuki closer and closer to the abyss of his volatile emotions.

It had taken Katsuki the better part of two years of high school to pull his head out of his ass to realize that all of the fantasizing and skirting around each other when they were close to their cycles meant something. That it had always meant something. That it wasn't just his body's natural reaction to a nearby alpha, and that it wasn't going anywhere. He was around alphas all day every day which was just an occupational hazard of working to become a hero, but he'd never once imagined himself being with any of the others the way he almost religiously fantasized about Izuku. The one time he'd tried in first year had resulted in several days of no eye contact with Kirishima.

Even after they'd finally fallen into each other, taking that headlong dive off of the cliff they'd always been teetering on, they'd been careful. Condoms. Birth control. Suppressants. They never did anything close to their cycles, Izuku happily bottoming often times, kept their hands off each other during the day as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed as it inevitably would though, and Katsuki was starving.

His body was heated almost to discomfort, his cycle right on the cusp of kick starting, and he needed Izuku. Needed him like a dying man needed water.

"Need you, Deku. Want my mate, want you," Katsuki rasped against Izuku's throat as he gently scented him, "Need my alpha, Izuku."

Izuku positively keened beneath him, turning his head to catch his mouth again in another slow, searing kiss.

Izuku had gone pliant beneath him, following his lead as he stripped them of their boxers and straddled his hips. They'd been less careful that night, indulging in each other. Drunk on each other. Relying on the birth control.

Their sex had been different that night, slow and steady and loving as Katsuki took everything his body had been screaming for. He reveled in the heat and feel of Izuku filling him, moving inside him, gripping his hips with bruising force, coming apart beneath him.

When they were both panting and sweat drenched and satiated, Katsuki marked up Izuku as his without sinking in his teeth like he so desperately wanted to. Deep red love marks were his next best option, and he readily used them. Then they lazily made out for hours before passing out together.

Katsuki had never felt more fulfilled in his life.

.....

Katsuki woke up retching which was absolutely the worst end to the best dream, and before he could puke in his bed, he hung his head over the side to use the trashcan he'd put next to his bed just for that reason. "Ugh," he groaned, rolling over onto his back when his stomach was empty.

His bed was empty, and he felt worse for the fact that it was his own fault.

That night... that night had been one of his best experiences in recent memory. He couldn't bring himself to regret any moment of it, every moment of bliss and touch and silent communication.

Even during, he was pretty sure he knew. He knew in his bones that even if they'd used a condom, he still would have ended up pregnant. No matter how careful they were, this would have been the outcome. He'd heard of horror stories like that from other omegas, but he never thought it would actually happen to him. They were all just stupid. They had missed a pill or forgotten to get their shot or they were in the full swing of their heat. Something, anything, to pretend like he wasn't like them.

Here he was though, reliving a blissful memory and puking in a trashcan without his alpha to comfort him. He was no better than any of them. Worse because he was a teenager, still in high school.

He didn't regret that night, but it didn't feel worth it in that exact moment with his mouth tasting of bile and his throat burning.

Rolling out of bed, exhaustion weighing heavy on him as it did more often than not in the past weeks, he staggered into his bathroom. He readied himself for another grueling day. Another day of constant roiling nausea, of napping on the roof at lunch instead of eating with his friends, of fielding questions from Kirishima, of ignoring or all together hiding from Izuku.

All of it just made him that much more exhausted.

He dug out one of the shirts he'd stolen from Izuku's drawers that only smelled faintly of him and pulled it on. The nausea eased just barely, but he hissed as it slid over his overly sensitive nipples. So sensitive that rather than being pleasurable, the stimulation was painful. He hadn't figured out a workaround yet. Women had bras, and he figured that probably helped. Their nipples wouldn't be subjected to the constant shift of fabric. He had half a mind to start tapping gauze over them or something, but he didn't think there would be any explanation that would make sense when the others saw him in the locker rooms.

He finished getting ready, biting back snarls of irritation every time the fabric rubbed, and stuffed a bag of ginger candies into his pocket.

.....

Training got harder. He knew it would, but he wasn't expecting just how intensly.

With his heat, training would be at the very least uncomfortable as those days approached. His body would get heavy, mind wandering more easily, tiredness making a home in his bones, nausea curdling his stomach.

Being pregnant was similar to his heat, but ten times worse for the simple fact that it never stopped. There was never a point where it all became easier, where the nausea faded and he was suddenly wide awake. That, and his tolerance of his idiot classmates had plummeted to levels relevant to his first year of high school.

The thing was that his heat had a designated end. He had no idea when this was going to end. He'd read that the symptoms usually faded by the end of the first trimester, but he was 99.9% sure he wouldn't make it through another two months.

In training, it was embarrassing how hard he was panting from less than half of what he normally did. His head and vision swam, his legs jelly beneath him as they barely held his weight. Luckily, no one was paying attention to him, focused on perfecting their own techniques. Except, of course, for Kirishima who seemed to possess a sixth sense for the slightest change in Katsuki whether emotional or physical. In soft quiet moments when his head was nearly empty, he'd had thought that if Izuku hadn't been the only mate truly worthy of him, he probably would have chosen Kirishima in the end.

He shook head, trying to clear out the weirdly affectionate thought and his vision.

"Hey, Katsuki-" Kirishima started towards him.

Katsuki's legs buckled beneath him. Before his hit the ground, strong familiar arms wrapped around him and cocooned him in Izuku's ever calming woodsy-minty scent. He hung limply in Izuku's arms, just allowing himself for inhale his alpha's scent. The first inhale steadied his legs. The next eased his stomach. The last cleared his head enough for him to shove Izuku away from him with a snarl, "Don't fucking touch me, Deku!"

Izuku's expression was fiercely uncompromising as he glared back, the green lightning of his quirk crackling along his skin and in his eyes. "What's going on, Kacchan? Are you sick?"

"Stay out of my business!"

Aizawa and All Might both took steps in their direction, ready to break them apart.

Expression hardening further, Izuku took a purposeful step forward. "What is that supposed to mean? You are-"

Kirishima slotted himself between them, hands up in supplication and neck bared in submission. He grinned disarmingly. "Alright, you two, let's not start something right now. You've been doing really good not starting unnecessary fights. Let's not end that streak, yeah?"

They continued to glare at each other over Kirishima's shoulder, but after a moment, Izuku calmed and softened until he took a step back. "You're right."

Scoffing, Katsuki turned his back on the pair. He knew Kirishima followed after him when he heard his quick footsteps catching up to him.

"Maybe you should call it a day. You haven't been in top form the past couple weeks. You should rest. Maybe we can talk?" Kirishima asked hopefully, but when Katsuki shot him a glare, his hands raised again, "Okay, okay, but at least rest."

"No." Just the short time with Izuku's scent had nearly completely cleared out his symptoms, and his rolled his shoulders. "I don't need a break, I need a fight. Let's spar."

Kirishima frowned, but followed him to an empty portion of the gym.

#my hero academia #mha #bakudeku #dekubaku #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #omegaverse #omega!Katsuki #alpha!izuku #my writing #multi-chapter #little life

20 notes · View notes

letsbenditlikebennett · 4 years ago

Text

What the Howl, Man? || Ariana & Damien

TIMING: Current-ish (as in not on an actual holiday) PARTIES: @damienxsheppard & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: While checking out the funeral home for some restoration related projects, Ariana comes across Damien and tries to talk wolf-y things. CONTENT: Sibling death mentions

The last time Ariana had been at this funeral home had been tense to say the very least. Noah had tried to hold her back from overreacting, but her anger quickly boiled over. Somehow, today’s mood was completely different. She was mostly willing to give Erin the benefit of the doubt and this restoration project was entirely too cool to turn down. The experience factor alone was enough to make it worthwhile, but the fact it allowed for some more creative work really had her eager to show up and get started. With the kids’ games schedule winding down with the holiday season, this was the perfect time to hop into a paid project. When she arrived at the funeral home, the foreman advised her most of the crew was out for lunch, but that she could start looking over some of the areas that needed a more detailed restoration process. Subconsciously, she found herself drawn to a room toward the back not even realizing her nose was leading the way. As she entered, she saw a lone worker plugging away. She could smell the wolf in him almost immediately and froze in place. Her head tilted as she looked at him curiously. “Hey,” she said to announce her presence that he likely already sensed, too, “I’m Ariana. I’m helping with the restoration project. And you are?” A werewolf, for starters, but he had a name.

Damien hadn’t really asked any questions about the project they were gathered for, even when they pulled up in front of the funeral home and the other guys began to squirm, he continued on. The death of the only family he had loomed in the back of his thoughts but there hadn’t been a funeral for them. The men carried off to their stations and began their work, Damien had learned some of the construction trade from one of his members, though honestly, he was drawn to the demolition aspect of it. He had been hammering into a wall when he caught the patter of feet coming down the fall, as far as he knew the guys weren’t due back for some time. He kept going, assuming it was some passerby but there was something else, something had changed. Damien didn’t want to pay attention to it, believing it to be an afterthought from the guy’s unease but then he heard a soft voice that broke his focus. Turning to face the source he found the stranger some distance away, confusion flickered on his face, both at the sight of her there and the sensations she provoked. Maybe he was dehydrated. “Damien,” he answered a little breathless, “are you organizing this project then?”

The hint of confusion in his features hadn’t been lost on Ariana. It was still evident he could sense their kindred nature. In such close quarters, it was hard to ignore the sense of a familiar though she had to guess as much had to be hard to understand for wolves who hadn’t always been wolves. Damien. Was this the case for him? With how much trouble she always seemed to find herself in, was she even equipped to help anyone? It was hard to tell if her efforts did more harm or good lately, but not trying felt so much worse. “Good to meet you, Damien,” she said eagerly despite her own uncertainty of the best way to approach this. She’d never been good at subtly. “Oh, not exactly. I’m not the foreman or anything like that. Just working on more of the restorative efforts. Not to sound like that person, but I happen to know the owner.” More like had chewed the owner out on several occasions for her formerly sketchy business, but Erin had made things right. She got herself out of that situation and wanted to be better. That was something. Also, seemingly unimportant when standing in front of another werewolf she hadn’t met before. “I take it you work with the rest of the construction crew?” Her eyes glanced over at the door to the room, not that there had been anyone immediately outside it. They’d be able to hear if there were. She began looking over some of the moulding in the room and she thought her words over carefully for a moment before she asked, “I’m not sure of a better way to put this, but do you know what it is you’re sensing here?” That was better than just straight-up dropping the word werewolf, right?

He could not shake the sensation that hummed in the air and bit at his nerves, Damien felt compelled to raise his guard despite the girl’s seemingly friendly demeanor. The only other werewolves Damien had crossed before had torn the only family he knew to shreds and left him to the crows. They hadn’t exactly come back for an introduction and discussed the life he had now been thrown into. “Nice to meet you too,” he replied but it lacked sincerity and felt more like an automatic response. Damien nodded his head as she explained her role, so she seemed to have a hand in the project he had been hired to work on. His gaze trailed her own as she glanced at the door, “yeah,” he simply began, “they usually send me in first for demolition, I break down a few things before we rebuild.” Damien felt whatever sensation this girl brought with her haunt his thoughts the longer she lingered, he didn’t understand the impression her presence brought. He felt a sense of familiarity, it was almost instinctive. He had no reason to feel such a way for a stranger and became more defensive. “I’m sensing you’re a safety hazard walking around here without steel toe boots,” Damien lifted the hammer in his hand and struck the wall once more, “and that the owner will chew me out if she finds out something smashed your toes.” He struck the wall once more hoping the sound would disrupt her attempt at a conversation and drive her off.

Normally, Ariana preferred the putting things back together aspect of carpentry. There was something soothing about taking broken pieces or smaller parts and turning them into something whole. Into something beautiful. As if maybe she could do the same with herself again, but lately, she could hardly recognize herself. She looked at the wall he was working on with a somewhat morbid fascination as she imagined it crumbling to pieces. “Not the part I normally enjoy most, but it sounds kind of freeing. I’m not sure that’s the right word.” She shrugged and almost missed the change in his demeanor as her mind wandered. Almost. Damien was closing himself off to her and she couldn’t decipher why. What could she have said to warrant it? Her head tilted and confusion crossed her face as she spoke. “They are steel-toed boots. You can be stylish and safe apparently.” The words safety hazard still resonated in her mind. Somehow they felt too on the money when everyone around her just kept dying. “I’m not a safety hazard,” she grumbled with arms crossed over her chest. “And I doubt she’d blame you even if I wasn’t wearing proper gear.” In her annoyance, she’d almost forgotten her original question. “Hey,” she said more assured this time, “You can’t just distract me from the question by being a dick. There’s no way you can’t sense something, even if you don’t know what it means.” In her frustration, any sense of tact left her. Not that she had much tact to begin with. “Do you know what you are or not?”

Freeing was the right word, Damien didn’t have to hold back when it came to demolition, he could unleash whatever hell he wanted on a structure and start over. In his life, it had hardly ever been so simple. Not that he was going to tell Ariana as much. He kept quiet as she drifted closer absently thinking aloud, the steel toe boots had been little more than a diversion, a reason for her to rethink her position here. That clearly had failed as she explained her attire appropriate and safe. Damien’s jawline tensed as she changed her direction, taking the conversation from something light and easy to dance away from to a subject he had been trying entirely to avoid. “What I know,” he began as he raised the hammer to hit the wall once more, “is that I’m annoyed.” Again, he struck the wall, audibly louder and harder. Plaster crumbled beneath the blow, cracks reached out in every direction. If it hadn’t happened to him he would have never believed it but when Damien’s bones began to break and shift, when his skin peeled away to reveal something else. Well, he knew he was a monster. The days that followed his first transformation he had tried to piece what memories he had together and rationalize it somehow. Maybe he had been drunk, or high, maybe it was all just a nightmare or some illusion brought on by grief. Then it happened again. “Listen, if my boss comes down here and finds me chit-chatting with some girl he’s going to be put me out on my ass,” that wasn’t really true but Damien was grasping for some sort of excuse, “so you can either pick up a hammer and help or you can get out.”

That had been far from the reaction Ariana had been expecting. Instinctively, wolves liked to stick together, but he kept pushing her away and she couldn’t help the way her arms crossed over her chest when Damien called her annoying. Well, stated he was annoyed which was pretty much the same fucking thing. By the tone of his voice, he meant because of her which was incredibly rude. She let out a huff. “No need to be an asshole about it,” she grumbled before grabbing one of the hammers on the ground. It felt light in her hands, especially with the full moon just around the corner. The glare mostly hid her confusion. “I usually think being straightforward about what we are is less annoying, but go off I guess.” She gripped the hammer tighter and noted, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, bud.” She eyed the wall already eager to smash it. To let out some of the pent up anger that still lived inside her even with Lydia dead. Her knuckles whitened as she tightly gripped the hammer and began smashing it into the wall. Wood and plaster crunched underneath the weight of the hammer and a cathartic sense washed over her. All the grief and anger she’d been trying to shove down for the sake of getting through her day to day life poured out into the hammer. There was probably something metaphorical about it all, but didn’t have it in her to contemplate that. She just plugged on without a word until she made a good dent in the wall. “You’re welcome,” she said with an eye roll.

Ariana’s displeasure had not best lost on Damien, but that was the point. The last werewolf he met before coming into this town had ripped his life apart. He did not care what feelings her presence provoked, the only thing he had learned about their kind so far was how far their teeth could dig into skin. Something about the way she said it, so casual, about what they were unnerved Damien. “What we are?” Damien’s voice was nearly a low growl, “we are not the same.” When she spoke to him there was no separation, even with the distance he tried to create between the pair. In a way, he knew she was right, they were the same in a way he didn’t understand and couldn’t change. Damien kept hammering into the wall but truly his attention stayed on Ariana. Frustration rippled throughout him, why wouldn’t she just leave? He had almost nothing to offer her but gruff remarks and an agitated front. He hadn’t actually expected her to pick up the hammer and get to work, she wasn’t getting paid for this and her efforts would only make his job easier. What was more surprising still was the force behind her blows. Damien could not believe the impact her hammer left on the wall, it was inhuman, the strength behind it. He stopped hammering his section and moved to inspect the damage Ariana had left on the wall, he was done trying to drive her off, if she wanted to be upfront then he’d be just as aggressive. “You going to take that hammer to me next?” Damien’s tone was even and lacking humor, “is that why you came looking for me?” He didn’t really know how packs operated, or if she had any affiliation with the one that attacked his family, but he wasn’t going to overlook the possibility she was here for violence.

It was becoming more and more apparent to Ariana that he didn’t want her here. That he was still new to being a werewolf and she knew that she’d have to be the calm one here despite the annoyance brewing just under the surface. She’d have to be mature here and it dawned on her how exhausting that was becoming. It made her miss Celeste that much more and for a second, she felt her breath hitch in her throat. She finally let it out as a huff and said with the hammer still gripped firmly in her hand, “We are the same and I’m picking up that maybe this is all new to you. That still doesn’t make being an ass to me okay.” Not when all she wanted was to help. Finding a pack seemed like a long lost dream more days than not now. There was Luis who was so deep in denial she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to fully help him. Now this brooding werewolf who wanted to write her off the moment he met her when clearly he could use her help. She looked forward at the crumbled wall in front of her for a moment. How much tension that destruction had released. How the man next to her seemed surprised by the strength her small form could yield. She finally set the hammer down as he seemed to think she wanted to swing it on him. She looked at him genuinely confused. “Dude, what,” she asked incredulously, “You may have a shitty attitude, but I don’t want to bash your face in.” Being bitten had to be scary, she could give him that. She was trying to understand despite her own impatience. Trying to remember the different reminders Celeste had given her throughout her life and tried to remember compassion. They were both wolves after all. She let out a sigh, “No, that’s not why I came looking for you.” She stepped back from the caved in wall now and looked to him a bit more gently as she snuffed out her own temper. “I could sense you, so I found you. Life usually isn’t kind to people like us and there are certain dangers we both face and pose. So I wanted you to know you’re not alone. That if you find trouble or need help, there’s someone who has a good grip on what they’re doing here to help.”

Damien hadn’t dropped his front, he kept his guard up even as Ariana pointed out how immature his actions were. He didn’t confirm or deny her suspicion that this was all new to him. Maybe if he had been equipped with the knowledge that not all wolves were like him he might have behaved differently, that they weren’t primal, ravenous things. Maybe if his only experience with their kind hadn’t been limited to an event saturated in blood he would have been less aggressive. Damien’s ignorance reinforced his suspicion but it began to crack the moment Ariana dropped the hammer and revealed her motive. The other’s demeanor shifted from irritation to something more tender and Damien wasn’t sure how to manage it. The grip Damien held on his own hammer loosened, almost reluctantly, he placed it on a nearby work table.

Despite her assurance Damien still felt like he was alone. He’d lost the only people that mattered to him, moved to a strange town with little more than a bag full of tokens from his past and a gun. He couldn’t even picture himself being part of something again, and he didn’t see how someone so young could offer any help to him. “You don’t even look old enough to drink, how could you possibly help me?” Damien’s tone lacked the animosity it carried before, but he kept his arms crossed and guarded over his chest as he leaned against a nearby wall. “And what the hell do you mean the dangers we face?” Damien only knew of the dangers werewolves were capable of, he couldn’t imagine any creature like the one that’d torn into his skin and the handful that had ripped his gang apart were prey to something worse.

There was a certain reluctance in his demeanor that made Ariana wonder what he’d been through. She was almost positive her hunch about him being new to this was right. Maybe it was why he found her so off putting. Why he seemed to be so dead set on getting her to just fuck off, but he was softening up a little. Not to an extent that anyone would consider him warm or welcoming, but enough that she knew something was getting through even with his pointed remark. She rolled her eyes and retorted, “I’m not, but I have more life experience than most.” And loss experience, but that was too fucking depressing. “I also have a good grip on what I am and how to find a safe balance with it.” Which was something he was likely struggling with if he was in fact recently turned. Though his next questions only confirmed it. She shook her head, “If you’ve never come across a fucking hunter before, you’re definitely new to all of this. I’m not. There are people who hunt werewolves… so like, whatever this whole loner vibe thing you’ve got going, probably not your smartest bet. Just saying.” Though not even a pack could stop casualties. She thought of Celeste, Winn, and her parents and frowned slightly before shaking her head.

Damien almost laughed. This girl wasn’t even old enough to drink but had enough experience that she felt like she had something to offer him? He shook his head, “and where does your experience come from?” He knew life didn’t spare anyone when it came to hardship, Damien had learned that well enough when he was younger. For now, he’d hear her out. “There is no balance with this,” at least, Damien didn’t feel like there was. He doesn’t tell her about the fights, how he managed to work out some aggression through alley brawls. The clothes he wore covered the bruises to his torso well enough and it was easy to blame the job for the damage done to his knuckles. He sighed when it became apparent that he was new to this life, he’d spent so much time in this town considering who he’d have to chase down that he didn’t consider who might be after him. The possible threat of violence didn’t spark caution in him however, strangely enough, the danger felt familiar. It didn’t kindle a need for an ally either. If anything, he was more concerned this girl would just get caught in the crossfire. He had not been convniced she’d be capable of helping him, “fucking great, well when they come knocking on my apartment door, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

Ariana wanted to be patient. She truly did, but the look of annoyance on her face wasn’t so easily hidden. Just because she was young didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of helping others or didn’t have life experience. Her arms crossed over her chest as she shot him a glare, “Oh, I don’t know-- I’ve only been hunted since I was three because of what I am and have managed to stay alive. I’ve lost my whole family. I’ve even been up against mimes and dangerous fae. I know where to go for full moons so I wreck a bunch of deer and forest creatures instead of people. But clearly I’m just an eighteen year old who isn’t possibly capable of helping you.” His shitty attitude really made it difficult to keep herself sympathetic to what he was going through. Then he said there was no balance with this and she brought herself back down for what felt like the umpteenth time during this conversation. She calmly shook her head and assured, “It takes time and practice, but there can be balance. Which hey, something else I’d probably be helpful for.” It seemed like Damien wrestled with that new bit of information in his head momentarily, but his reply came out just as detached. “It’s generally helpful if they don’t have a chance to figure out first, but two or three wolves is always better than one.” Not that she was looking to kill hunters. The only active werewolf hunter she knew of was Kaden’s uncle and she couldn’t quite stomach the idea of making Kaden lose anyone else. She sighed, “Look, I get maybe not trusting me because you were turned and that had to be traumatizing, but if you ever decide you’d rather not be alone in all of this, I’ll be around.”

Ariana’s displeasure from Damien’s gruff and careless remarks did not persuade him to change his attitude. It had been his initial goal to agitate her enough she’d abandon the conversation, and while she seemed too stubborn to leave, he had at least achieved some of his objective. Though he would not admit it and still maintained a barrier between the two, Damien had become interested. He had wanted to learn what the hell made this young wolf so tough and when she began to list the circumstances that have built her up and torn her down something in Damien’s exterior shifts. The most noticeable came when Ariana confessed to him she’d lost her entire family. For just a moment, Damien’s features broke into terrible understanding, his eyebrows drew down with anguish and the corners of his lips dipped into an evident frown. Damien had been quick however, to catch himself, he rebuilt his composure and the expression on his face faded into his typical rough front. He should have taken notes about where exactly was a good place to go during the full moon, but he didn’t want to confess his inability to control himself and encounter Ariana when he was a wolf. He had no idea how he’d behave around her when he was little more than some monstrous thing. “I don’t want to practice,” Damien’s voice was harsher then, sharp with honesty. He wanted to find the people who murdered his gang and raise hell. He wanted to go out with a bang. “I don’t want to deal with this.” This being his condition, the animal in his bones. Coming to terms with what he was now, it wasn’t part of his plan. He didn’t anticipate surviving the war he wanted to kick up. Damien picked up the hammer from his work table, let it slide through his fingers till his grip tightened on it and hit the wall harder than he had before. “I’ll keep you in mind. If you come around here again, bring a hard hat.”

As big and bad as Damien seemed to come off, there were cracks in the face he put forward. It was subtle and he regained his rough edges quickly enough, but Ariana could recognize it well enough. While it didn’t make it any less agitating, it indicated there was hope for him yet. Even if he was stubborn as all hell. She sighed with her arms still crossed over a choice. “There’s not really another choice. Not wanting to deal with shit doesn’t make it just go away.” If he was such an “adult” he had to know that, but she wasn’t going to push it any further. There were other parts of the home she still needed to look at. So she let her arms fall to her side and calmly said, “Good.” She decided to ignore the hard hat comment and gave him a wave before continuing on throughout the rest of the funeral home. She’d check back in with him soon enough.

#damien #wickedswriting #sibling death tw #it's a mention

5 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019 - “Flowers, Ink, and Window Panes” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Aziraphale opened his flower shop across the street from Crowley’s tattoo parlor three months ago, and in that amount of time, they’ve said a grand total of six lines to one another - the same six lines they recite every morning before they start their day. That’s not to say Crowley hasn’t been trying to find a way to break the ice, invite the man out on a date, but past anxiety is holding him back. What in the world would he say to him? What could they possibly have in common. Until one day, Crowley finds a way to talk to Aziraphale without saying a word. (9777 words)

Notes: Written for @scribblemakes and their prompt ‘Florist/Tattoo artist AU’. I hope you enjoy it <3 Fluff, light angst, human AU.</b>

Read on AO3.

Crowley sits at his work station and watches the clock, the second hand hopping from dash to dash, ratcheting up his heart rate with every jerky bounce. He hasn’t opened his shop yet, doesn’t normally open up in the mornings without an appointment, and even then, not before eleven.

He’s a man who appreciates his sleep.

Normally.

But for the past three months, he’s gotten up early, showered and dressed, to sit at his station and babysit his wall clock until ten.

When the man across the narrow street from him unlocks his doors.

The last five minutes are the hardest as the minute hand creeps toward the twelve and the hour hand lingers, hovering close to the ten but not quite touching it. A bizarre anxiety builds in Crowley’s chest that it might never get there, that his clock might break down and throw everything out of whack. Irrationally, he has imbued his clock with far too much power; that its running out of battery may cause the man across the way to show up late.

Or not at all.

Crowley can’t even recall the last time he changed the batteries in that thing. Or his smoke detector. Or the remote to the in-shop telly.

Half the time he’s convinced these things run on sheer will alone.

But after the longest five minutes of his life, his clock finishes its journey to ten a.m., and across the street, thankfully, the man with the keen sense of punctuality makes an appearance.

Crowley doesn’t rush outside to greet him, not even after all that waiting and clock watching and sweating through questions of battery life.

No.

He rises up from his stool leisurely, rolls his neck on his shoulders, takes a deep breath in through his nose, then lets it out through his mouth. He counts to five, then counts to five again. He grabs his leather jacket and strolls towards the front door, unlocking it and sauntering outside as if he, too, were simply opening up shop for the day.

Calm, cool, and collected (on the outside) he raises an arm in greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Fell!”

The man turns, catches Crowley’s eye, and smiles.

Smiles as if he’s just seen the sun for the first time and fallen in love.

That smile alone is worth getting up early for.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley!” the man answers, waving back with his whole body as if Crowley were standing on the bow of a ship across a channel as opposed to the curb across a single, one-way street.

It’s worth acknowledging, as Crowley zips up his motorcycle jacket, bracing himself against the chill morning air, that the constantly cheery and pleasantly plump object-of-Crowley’s-affections dresses like an unfortunate toddler saddled with a generous but drunk grandmother. Every day with him is a new adventure in tacky, floral-themed jumpers (today’s selection something resembling daffodils if they were featured in a Tim Burton movie) accompanied by khaki pants and a pair of Derby shoes that last saw their heyday when Vaudeville died.

But his jumpers, and the fact that he can go an entire month without wearing the same one twice, are part of his charm.

“Mr. Fell!” Crowley leans forward so far off the edge of the sidewalk, a stiff breeze might shove him into the street. “How many times have I told you? Call me Anthony.”

“And I’ve told you as many times to call me Aziraphale, my dear boy, and yet … here we are.”

Crowley laughs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and busies himself with the mindless task of inspecting the sidewalk outside his shop for trash. But the sidewalk isn’t just clean this morning. The cement is immaculate, the city having come by in the night and done their jobs well for once. Still, he slips on a pair of the latex gloves he keeps in his pants pocket and starts collecting up infinitesimal pieces of debris – the curled corner of a Snickers wrapper, a cigarette butt smoked way into the filter, and a decrepit piece of what could have once been chewing gum, and carries them to the wire trash can by the curb. Then he inspects his window, checks the edges of the decals that spell out his shop’s name – Eden Ink.

For what, he hasn’t a clue.

Anything to keep him outside until Mr. Fell, doing much of the same, calls out to him again.

“Have a lovely day, Mr. Crowley!”

“And you as well, Mr. Fell!”

Except this time, this one time, as Crowley turns to go back inside, he distinctly hears Mr. Fell say in a soft voice, “I mean, Anthony.”

Crowley stops in his tracks. He spins around. He catches a glimpse of white teeth biting into a pink lower lip before Mr. Fell hurries into his shop, the bells above his door tinkling behind him.

“And you as well,” Crowley repeats, watching Mr. Fell’s back as he begins lugging flower buckets from his cooler to start working on his orders, “Aziraphale.”

***

Three months.

It’s been three months since Aziraphale Fell opened the florist shop across the street, and those few lines of dialogue, recited daily, are the farthest Crowley has gotten with regard to asking the man out on a date.

God! He’s gotta come up with better material!

And maybe grow a pair. That’d help, too.

But Crowley doesn’t know how to talk to the bookish man who owns the flower shop. It shouldn’t be that difficult to strike up a conversation with him. Crowley talks to people all the time. Occupational hazard and all that. If he could get Aziraphale into his chair, then he might have a chance at learning the man’s secrets. People seem to equate the tattoo artist’s chair with the therapist’s couch. The second his gun starts buzzing, they spill their secrets.

Maybe, in Aziraphale’s case, he’d find an in to spill some secrets of his own.

And if he ordered coffee and donuts from the deli down the street, it would come close to something like a date.

Crowley sighs at this plan.

Sure. On the off, off, off, off, off, off chance Aziraphale ever wanders over looking to get a tattoo, coffee and donuts might be considered a date.

In the truly pathetic sense.

Which could mean that Crowley and the bubbly grandma who came in a week ago to get the Tasmanian Devil on her upper arm (altered here and there to resemble her late husband, Arnold, since that was his favorite cartoon) and offered him a butterscotch candy had also been on a date.

She’d been sweet and everything (and from the pictures she’d shown him, a looker in her day) but a world of no.

As much as Crowley would like to start a relationship with Aziraphale, even if it were simply the coffee and donut kind, he can’t seem to find a jumping off point. It sounds cliché, and a hundred rom-coms have done it better, but what in the world could they ever have in common?

Rationally, looking past the shallow, they both own small businesses in the exact same neighborhood. That’s one thing they have in common. Sounds like a pretty big jumping off point.

Crowley could find out the rest by talking to him.

But it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Not for Crowley.

People tend to assume Crowley is fathoms more exciting than he is because he owns a tattoo parlor and drives a motorcycle. But nothing could be further from the truth. His business and his bike are the limit lines where interesting things end. Otherwise he’s a simple man who spends much of his time outside work tending to a few small plants and watching retro 80s television.

(Plants! That’s another thing they have in common! Wait – are flowers the same as plants? Must be. They both have leaves, right?)

But the persona his job earns him, which he plays no active part in cultivating, is one of the reasons it’s difficult for him to open up to anyone, particularly potential love interests.

He doesn’t want to show people the real him and risk their being disappointed in what they don’t see.

So, Crowley watches Aziraphale instead of risking rejection, has turned watching him into a sport. Not in a creepy way. He’s not stalking him or anything. But watching the man assemble his arrangements is cathartic, seeing him interact with his customers mesmerizing. Fell’s Flowers became popular overnight when Aziraphale moved into the neighborhood. He must have brought clientele with him from a previous shop that stayed loyal to his business because Crowley has never seen any store apart from the food markets do the kind of business Aziraphale’s does daily.

There was a time when Crowley thought Aziraphale might be a drug dealer, using his shop as a front. If he is, then he’s the kindest, friendliest, most compassionate drug dealer Crowley has ever met. Some of the people who stop by stay for close to an hour while they pour their hearts out to him. And Aziraphale listens to every word while he puts their orders together.

But that’s not all he does.

He makes them feel at home – serves them tea, feeds them biscuits, and, from the back and forth Crowley has observed, gives them advice. It must be good advice, too, because there hasn’t been a single person he’s seen who hasn’t left smiling.

Looking back at it now, Crowley feels the odds of Aziraphale being a drug dealer are very slim.

But if Aziraphale is a drug dealer, that wouldn’t make Crowley admire him any less.

***

Aziraphale runs his shop on a schedule Crowley could set his watch by. With the exception of which customers come in and when, he opens his shop at ten, has his buckets out of the cooler and lined up by 10:15, and starts putting together arrangements by 10:30. These aren’t estimations. These are on the dot times. Once or twice, Crowley has used them to keep track of his own schedule, like how long his kettle has been on the stove, how long his tea bag has been steeping, how long he’s been shading, how long his pizza rolls have been cooling, and the like. Aziraphale takes lunch promptly at noon, closes up to go for a walk around the block at noon thirty, starts his cleaning up at five forty-five, and closes at six.

So it definitely attracts Crowley’s attention (even though there’s a man in his chair getting the wrist portion of his sleeve touched-up) when, at around three in the afternoon, Aziraphale pops out of his shop carrying a bucket and a rag with him. He puts the bucket down, dips the rag inside, then starts scrubbing his window – as far as his arms can reach, anyway. When he’s done, he stands and stares at it with hands on hips, contemplating something.

The pigeons nesting on the fire escape? Have they been messing his window? No, that doesn’t seem the type of thing that would bother Aziraphale. Crowley can’t see him putting up bird wire or anything like that. More than likely he’d invite them in, give them birdseed on toast, and ask them about their day.

Crowley turns off his gun and makes a few adjustments as an excuse to watch Aziraphale without distraction. He sees Aziraphale pull a square of paper from his pocket, unfold it, and tape it to the bottom right corner of his window. Crowley squints to read it, but the writing is so faint, he can’t make it out from this distance. From the same pocket, Aziraphale pulls out a black marker and begins writing on the glass.

‘What in the world?’ Crowley thinks as he watches Aziraphale draw an outline, referring back to the picture from time to time. He shakes his head, pulls the rag out of the bucket, wrings it out, and erases a few lines. He waits for the window to dry, then goes back over the same lines slowly. Without even looking at the picture to check his progress, he shakes his head again, mumbling to himself, and erases what he’s drawn. He waits for the window to dry then starts sketching again. Halfway through, he steps back to take a look.

Crowley can’t see the window clearly. But from Aziraphale’s posture, he seems positively defeated.

“Hey! What’s the hold up? I’m paying you by the hour!” the man in Crowley’s chair grumbles when he sees Crowley motionless, staring blankly out the window.

“Hold yer horses, a’right?” Crowley snaps. “My gun’s gone dodgy. I’ve gotta switch it out. I’ll comp you fifteen minutes.”

“You’d bettah.”

Crowley gets up from his stool and grabs his spare gun to save face. He’ll comp the man thirty in the end to shut his pie hole. He is a repeat customer and besides, Crowley is eating up his time. He’ll admit that.

From this change in perspective, Crowley snags a better look at Aziraphale’s drawing on the window and … yikes.

It’s not … bad.

It’s just …. not … good.

But drawing on windows can be difficult. It takes practice. A few more tries and Aziraphale will get it right.

Crowley thinks so anyway.

He wishes he could stick his head out the door and tell him so, but that might be awkward, all things considered.

Aziraphale drops his head.

He tears the paper off the window, crumples it up, and tosses it in the wire trash can by the curb. He fishes his rag out of the bucket and scrubs his window clean, eliminating all traces of the black outline. Then he grabs his bucket, walks sadly to his front door, and goes back inside his shop, leaving Crowley to wonder what in the world happened.

And how can he fix it.

***

It’s close to eleven o’clock when Crowley leaves his shop and ventures across the street. Aziraphale closed up precisely at six, went upstairs to his apartment, and had his lights out by eight, but Crowley had appointments till well past. After his final customer bid him adieu, Crowley could finally investigate the picture in the trash can.

The picture whose presence has been burning a hole in his brain ever since Aziraphale tossed it away.

Unlike the trash on the curb outside Crowley’s shop, few people use the trash can outside Aziraphale’s, so the crumpled ball sits right on top a stack of abandoned newspapers, courtesy of the douchebag who dumps his daily haul without delivering and then cashes his paycheck. Crowley reaches a gloved hand in, snatches it out, and straightens it, smoothing the wrinkles between his fingers. He holds it up to the light of the street lamp overhead to get a better look.

It’s a picture of a rose – line art printed off a computer, simple enough to recreate. But drawing on glass, especially a large window like Aziraphale’s, can be a challenge. Plus use the wrong cleaner and the paint won’t stick. Crowley should know. He’d been doing the art on his window for years before it became too much of a chore. Now he mainly sticks to throwing stuff up for the major holidays, or paints something silly on nights when he gets sentimental and drunk, which hasn’t been in a while.

He’s curious why Aziraphale thought to paint his window now, at the tail end of February, with nothing particularly spectacular going on. Curb appeal? He definitely doesn’t need to attract new business. Or maybe he wants a change. Something fun to look at.

Something new.

The neighborhood outside their window isn’t always the most pleasant. Not that it’s a bad neighborhood. There’s not much crime, they don’t need gates. But it can be dull. Uneventful. That’s one of the reasons Crowley had started painting his window to begin with. He’d wanted something different to look at, a new vista every once in a while.

Crowley smiles.

He has an idea, and a whole load of paint in the back room of his shop.

Maybe he can’t find the courage to ask Aziraphale out for coffee, but he can definitely change his view.

***

Crowley takes longer than he anticipated finishing up his masterpiece, so by the next morning, he goes straight from his endeavor into a shower. He gets dressed, makes himself a fresh pot of coffee, grabs a cheese Danish from the fridge, and sits at his station.

There he waits.

He doesn’t watch the clock this time. He watches the window, the rising sun touching the glass and making it twinkle. As the new day dawns, brimming with promise, so does Aziraphale, coming down to open up at ten o’clock exactly. He rounds the well of the staircase that leads to the upstairs but before he gets anywhere near the door, key in hand, he stops.

And he stares.

Stares so long that Crowley begins to worry.

Aziraphale approaches the window, a careful hand outstretched, but he doesn’t touch the glass. Fingertips tremble within reach of a single petal but they don’t make contact.

Roses.

Crowley had painted roses.

A waterfall of tea roses rendered in multiple shades of red and pink, shaded in white, yellow, and blue to give them depth. Aziraphale looks around, searching for the person responsible, his face glowing from a smile that doesn’t seem to stop. When Crowley strolls out of his shop, fighting to remain nonchalant in the presence of that smile, Aziraphale calls out, “Anthony! Oh, Anthony! Did you … have you seen what someone’s done to my window?”

“Good morning, Mr. Fell. I …” Crowley stumbles in the midst of his usual script when he realizes Aziraphale called him Anthony. Not once, but twice. “Y-yes, I have,” he says, switching gears to accommodate. “Do you like it?” He can’t help asking though it might seem an odd thing.

But he needs to know.

“Oh, it’s remarkable! Simply breathtaking! I had wanted to do something just like this myself, only I don’t have a talent for drawing!”

“Nonsense,” Crowley rebuts, saying what he’d wanted to say yesterday. “Art is a pursued interest. If it’s something you want to do, keep at it. I’m … I’m sure you could find yourself a teacher. You know, to get you started.”

It’s an invitation, and he tries to make it sound like an invitation. Of course, saying the words, “I could teach you to draw. I’d be happy to!” apparently never occur to him.

“I might do that,” Aziraphale says, a blush to rival the roses rising to his cheeks. “Have a lovely day, Anthony.”

“You, too, Aziraphale.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks deepens, blossoms into a full-fledged flame as he turns shy eyes back to his window one last time, then opens up his shop.

***

The roses stay up for over two weeks, the paint keeping its brilliance long past what’s stated on the can, and during that time, Crowley and Aziraphale add more lines to their morning dialogue.

“Fine weather we’re having.”

“We are, aren’t we? Quite surprising considering the cold.”

“Good thing. Keeps my roses from wilting, so to speak.”

“Yes.” Crowley smiles. “That is a good thing.”

“By the way, I meant to tell you, if you know someone who might be willing to teach me to draw, I’d be quite interested in learning.”

“I …” That one catches Crowley off guard, the batting of Aziraphale’s blue eyes nearly knocking him off his feet. Crowley had been musing over Aziraphale’s adorably awful bright yellow and orange sunflower jumper when Aziraphale said it, so it didn’t sink in right away. But now, with those words out of Aziraphale’s mouth and hanging in the air, Crowley can’t seem to cough out an answer.

The answer he’s been dying to give.

“I … I’ll give it some … I mean, if I think of anyone, I’ll … uh … yes. Right. A teacher.” And with that, he turns back to his shop yelling, “Coming, coming, I’ll be right with you,” as if someone called his name from inside.

Of course, there is no one, so he looks like an imbecile.

When the roses start to chip, Aziraphale tries to patch them up with paint he’d bought to begin with. Crowley is sketching the template for a complicated piece he’ll put on a customer later in the day and doesn’t catch him before he tries.

By the time he sees, it’s too late.

Mixing the two paints makes it chip even more. Eventually, Aziraphale’s patching does more harm than good and he’s forced to take the painting down. He gives the paint job one last, longing look, then starts to scrub, his shoulders hanging as the roses bleed away.

And Crowley watches him. Watches him when he should go outside and offer to help, or reassure him that he’ll replace it for him. But even though he has no customer to monopolize his attention, he can’t bring himself to. He simply sighs and frowns along with Aziraphale as he scrubs his window clean and then retreats inside his shop, going back to his arrangements, his wistful expression heart wrenching from across a street with two plates of glass between them.

***

Crowley gazes at Aziraphale’s window throughout the day, every time he has a moment free. He knows he can’t leave it bare. He just can’t. He’s been dismal as a neighbor, a coward as a potential romantic interest. If all he can do to bring joy into this man’s life is paint his window then, by Someone, he’s going to do it.

He waits until Aziraphale’s lights are out and his own customers have gone. Then he pads his way across the street, paint in hand, and heads straight for the window. He’d made a decision over his choice of flower about a week ago, inspired by one of Aziraphale’s disastrous jumpers.

Sunflowers.

Yellow and orange sunflowers. As many of them as he can fit in the space between the red brick. That way, Aziraphale can wear that horrendous jumper as many times as he likes and he and his window will match.

Besides, Aziraphale’s smile reminds Crowley of the sun.

***

“Sunflowers have to be one of my favorite flowers in the universe.” Aziraphale sighs, staring at the field on his window, painted to look like it goes on for miles and miles beneath milky clouds and a blue sky.

“Really?” Crowley asks, taking a few steps out into the middle of the street so he can talk to Aziraphale without yelling. “And why is that?”

“They make you happy, for one.” Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at Crowley inching closer to him. “They’re bright and cheerful. You can’t help smiling when you look at them.”

“I suppose …” Crowley takes another step.

“In the language of flowers they mean friendship. And faith and loyalty. Those are such lovely messages to give. People get so caught up in this need to only express passionate love, which, let’s be honest, is usually passionate lust.”

Crowley chuckles at hearing the word lust pass over Aziraphale’s lips. Never in a hundred years would he have pictured that happening. But Aziraphale’s statement reminds him how many times over Valentine’s he’d put someone’s name, or their face, on a customer’s arm, knowing he’ll be covering it up again come April.

He’s already done a few and it’s barely the middle of March.

Most artists would turn down a request to do some of the portraits he’d done last month, but for Crowley, who’s famous for his impeccable cover up work, he sees them as guaranteed business.

Humans can be impulsive creatures.

Stupid ones, too.

But he doesn’t judge his customers based on their poor decision making skills.

They pay his rent.

Aziraphale tilts his head and sighs again. “It’s so nice to be reminded that passionate friendship exists. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” Another step.

“Seed-bearing sunflowers carry a sophisticated mathematical pattern in their centers. The Golden Ratio. I used to sit in my mother’s garden and stare at it for hours. Still do when I get them in my shop. It mirrors the stars in the Heavens, the swirling galaxies. To my eyes, at least. Of course, what do I know about the stars? I own a flower shop.”

“You’re not wrong,” Crowley agrees, stepping onto the curb. “The Fibonacci sequence. I learned about it in art class.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale’s gaze travels over his shoulder, assessing Crowley’s progress. He motions with his head to the space beside him in what seems like a request.

To come stand beside him.

And Crowley accepts.

“Yes,” he says, sauntering over. “You don’t need to be an astronomer or a mathematician to understand it. Patterns and sequences? They occur everywhere in nature. You probably see more of them in your line of work than most people.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I never realized. Well, then …” Aziraphale winks at Crowley “… maybe that’s something my new art tutor will be willing to teach me.”

***

Crowley no longer waits for the paint on the flowers to chip before he changes them. He does it weekly, too impatient to bring joy into Aziraphale’s life to wait for the old flowers to degrade on their own.

After the sunflowers, he paints poppies.

Then posies.

Azaleas.

Carnations.

Gerberas.

Orchids.

Every morning after, Crowley sits at his station and waits to see Aziraphale’s reaction.

And Aziraphale never disappoints.

It gets to the point Aziraphale rushes down his staircase on Monday morning to see his new flowers. Crowley wanders out after Aziraphale has time to examine his creations and they talk, Crowley crossing the street proactively so he and Aziraphale can stand side by side.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I’m beginning to think you don’t want me to learn how to draw.”

“Why’s that?”

“You haven’t given me the name of a teacher. It’s been weeks!”

“Well, I …” Crowley stutters, not sure how to answer that one. He doesn’t want to recommend anyone. He would love to teach Aziraphale to draw himself. Of course he would! But sharing that with him seems so intimate, much more so than grabbing a coffee, which he also hasn’t asked him to do. So for lack of a better answer, he comes out with the lamest thing he could possibly say. “I’m sure you could Google someone in the area who could teach you. Or look on YouTube. There’re some good how to videos on there.” Then Crowley closes his eyes, praying that a hole will open up beneath him so he can disappear into the concrete.

“I think I’ll wait until you come up with someone,” Aziraphale says, a smile in his voice. A forgiving one, thank the Lord. “I’d rather get a teacher on the recommendation of someone I trust then go hen pecking through Craigslist. Probably end up in the boot of someone’s car then.”

“Ngk …. you have a point.”

“Thank you, by the way.”

Crowley opens his eyes to check why. What has he done since he made that asinine YouTube suggestion that warrants a thank you? Aziraphale is still staring at Crowley’s latest creation – bluebells swaying gently in an unseen breeze. He’s getting better. Crowley has to admit that about himself.

Then again, putting paint on paper is something he’s always been good at.

The only thing, it turns out.

“What for?” Crowley asks, nervous because he thinks Aziraphale has him figured out. Why that would be bad, Crowley hasn’t the foggiest idea. Aziraphale loves his paintings. But Aziraphale knowing that he’s putting them on his window fills Crowley with anxiety nonetheless.

“For coming out and talking to me. To be honest, I’ve thought about crossing the street and stopping in so many times, only I … I just couldn’t seem to …” Aziraphale swallows the end of that sentence, seems to jump on a different horse and change course. “I’m not very good around people.”

Crowley snorts. Is Aziraphale kidding him? Not good with what now? He said car engines, right? Speaking Greek? Training ferrets? “Now that I don’t believe.”

“It’s true. Even people I get on with right away, I just … I get so nervous. I’m so afraid I’m going to mess things up and they’ll never want to speak to me again.”

“Rough owning a shop that people like then, huh?”

“Yes, well, I opened the shop because I love flowers, not because I like people. Don’t get me wrong, people can be great. And I like my customers. But I love being surrounded by flowers. And I do need to pay the rent but …” Aziraphale pauses, leans in towards Crowley’s ear “Can I tell you a secret?”

Crowley’s heart races. One of Aziraphale’s secrets? “Of course. Anything.”

“You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”

“No, I won’t. I promise.”

Aziraphale’s eyes dart to Crowley’s face, double-checking to see if he’s being sincere. Crowley schools his face into the most genuine mask of sincerity he can muster. He’s not going to blow this chance at finding out one of Aziraphale’s secrets.

At this rate, it might be the only chance he gets.

“I switched neighborhoods because my last shop was so popular, it became overwhelming. It was nerve wracking opening the doors every morning. I thought the change would do me good, but everyone found out where I was headed and followed me here. If I could own my shop and never sell a single flower, I’d do it in a second. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so in love with these paintings.” Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the bluebells and looks at Crowley with an expression that tugs at Crowley’s heart. “Does that sound weird?”

“No,” Crowley says softly. “Not as much as you think.”

***

Crowley starts carrying a sketch book with him everywhere he goes, and he’s filled it cover to cover with drawings of flowers. He thought it prudent to get his thoughts down ahead of time, get the painting he wants under his fingers so it’ll take him less time to copy it.

Painting a window in the middle of the night – a window that belongs to a shop other than your own – can be a tricky business.

The idea came to him weeks ago when he was stopped by cops while trying to paint angel’s trumpets on Aziraphale’s window. It took him forever to convince them that he wasn’t a vandal and that yes, Aziraphale knows him, and also yes, Aziraphale would approve, but please don’t call him to verify because the man is asleep and there’s really no reason to wake him. Barely did he convince them not to haul him off to jail, but he had to stop where he was, with the angel’s trumpets nowhere near finished to his liking. He waited hours till shift change, then snuck back out after sunrise to get them done.

He may have gotten a few strange looks from passersby, but it was well worth it.

When Aziraphale saw them the next morning, he gasped; stood with a hand to his mouth, staring at them until well after opening. One of his customers, arriving to pick up a communion bouquet, had to remind him to unlock his door. That’s how long he stood. And when they left, he went back outside and stared some more.

Later, Aziraphale told Crowley that they’d taken his breath away.

Knowing he’d had that effect on him was more than enough to ensure that Crowley would die a happy man someday.

Carrying a sketch book is something Crowley had done most of his life, during high school and college, through till he first opened his shop. It’s something he did when art was a passion for him and not a job. He still loves drawing. Nothing in the world could ever take that away from him. But he does much less in the way of work on canvas now than he did when he first became a tattoo artist to pay the bills, bushy tailed and determined to someday have his own show in a famous gallery.

He hasn’t wandered too far from that dream except his shop is his gallery. He still puts original art up on the walls from time to time.

And his art isn’t stagnant, doesn’t hang in a single location.

He has canvases all over the city.

The jingling of bells signals the arrival of a customer. Crowley has no one on the books so he has no clue who it could be. He figures it’ll take whomever never a minute to decide on what they want so he steals a moment to flip through his sketchbook and survey the latest flowers he’s drawn. He found most of them by doing a search on his phone so he didn’t have the benefit of accurate colors or lighting. How much easier (and better) would it be if he could lamp in Aziraphale’s shop and draw the flowers from the arrangements he has there! But all in all, Crowley is pleased with them.

He’ll put them up in his shop, offer them as tattoos. They’re beautiful, some of his best work.

But they’re not quite worthy of Aziraphale’s window.

“I’ll be right with you,” he murmurs, putting the finishing touches on an iris, giving the yellow eyes on the petals dark rings, like kohl liner. “I’m just … I need to … oh, what the fuck do you care …”

“Hello, Anthony.”

That voice saying his name sends a rampant twist up his spine, torqueing it so tightly it gives him an immediate headache.

“Ugh …” Crowley groans with not a single care that anyone can hear. He takes a reluctant gander at the person strolling about as if they own the place.

The dreaded ex … sort of.

They never properly dated. Crowley took her out for coffee, but it was apparent five minutes in that they had no connection. At least, Crowley didn’t think so. His date, however, has other opinions on the subject …

“Whaddya want, Carmine? Happen to be very busy, me.”

Carmine stops, looks around, taking in the sight of the empty shop and Crowley, sitting in his chair with a pad on his lap, doodling flowers.

“Looks it,” she says dryly. “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by. See if you’re free for coffee … tea … me …”

“Well, I’m not. So why don’t you run along? Find some other poor sap to harass? There’s hundreds of willing victims on Tinder. Go. Be fruitful and multiply. Just not here.”

“You know, Anthony,” Carmine starts in that tone Crowley knows means she has no intention of going anywhere, “it’s been a while. We’ve taken a break. Re-grouped. Don’t you think you’re being a tad childish?”

“Childish?” Crowley sets his pad and pencil aside so he can stand and continue this argument eye to eye. Besides, the faster he gets this witch out of his shop, the faster he can go back to finishing up his latest piece for Aziraphale’s window.

“Yes, childish,” Carmine repeats, raising a hand to pat down flyaway strands of crayon red hair on the column of her complicated up-do. “You don’t return my phone calls, you don’t answer my text messages, you’ve blocked my number … Childish.”

“Seeing as I’ve changed my number twice, you’d think you’d get the hint.”

“About what, dearest?”

“We don’t have a relationship, Carmine! We never had a relationship!”

“That’s because you never gave us a chance!”

“I gave you the chance you deserved!” Crowley argues as he tries to usher Carmine out of his shop without actually having to touch her. “Five whole minutes wherein I introduced myself, gave you a brief rundown of my likes and dislikes, and paid for your triple-shot espresso with cayenne pepper and three packets of Splenda! Like that’s a real coffee order! Meanwhile, you started a long and frankly scary rant about feeding homeless children to their parents! And when I called you on it, you said it was a metaphor!”

“What can I say?” Carmine shrugs. “I’m a journalist. A writer. An artistic type, like you.” She runs stiletto nails up the lapels of Crowley’s flannel shirt while she speaks, toying with the soft fabric between the tips of her fingers. “I deal a lot in metaphors. I like to make people think. Shake them up a bit.”

“Feeding children to their parents is not a metaphor, Carmine! And it doesn’t shake me up! It makes me think that you’re a disgusting, heartless human being!”

Carmine pouts, but then she grins, too white teeth gleaming viciously through blood red lips. “Oh, but I do like it when you get all hot and bothered, dearest!”

“Grr! I’m not hot or bothered!” Crowley growls as he herds Carmine towards the door and throws it open. “And don’t call me dear—“

He bumps her accidentally with his hip. She stumbles back on five inch heels. As a reflex, Crowley reaches out to catch her, his arm circling her waist. He may detest her, but he doesn’t want to see her slam her head on the pavement.

Especially not right outside his shop. His insurance premiums would skyrocket!

Her hands curl into the lapels of his button down. Before he can put her back on her feet, she cuts him off with a more painful than sensual kiss on the mouth. He balks the second her lips touch his and tries to yank himself away, but she’s surprisingly strong, locking him against her for a full ten seconds before he manages to get her upright and at arm’s length.

She smiles at him coolly. Crowley pants in shock and anger, wanting nothing more than to lock his front door and hide between the pages of his sketch book. She runs a finger over her lips, then blows him a kiss.

“Why don’t you ring me when you’ve calmed down a bit. You can take me out to dinner, hmm? That way we can talk about this in private.”

“Private?” Crowley’s eyes snap up, his stomach sinking to his knees as Carmine turns on her heel and struts away, shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out. With her out of his line of sight, he can see straight through the window across the street. He doesn’t make out Aziraphale’s expression fully. Aziraphale turns away too quickly. But in profile, he looks as wistful as he did that first time he had to scrub the roses off his window, his effervescent smile, the one that lingers like a shadow on his mouth regardless of what he’s doing, conspicuously absent.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit!” Crowley spits, slamming his front door with such force he’s sure he’s cracked the glass.

Irony.

It knows no bounds.

Why does he keep fucking up!? If he’d just had the balls to talk to Aziraphale in the first fucking place, invite him out for coffee, this wouldn’t even be an issue! Aziraphale would be rushing over to make sure he’s okay instead of possibly thinking that Carmine is Crowley’s girlfriend!

His volatile and possessive girlfriend!

What does Crowley do now!?

Does he run across the street and explain?

Does Aziraphale even care as much as Crowley assumes he does?

What can he paint on his window that would convey the sentiment, That person you saw me talking to? The one who kissed me like they were trying to remove my tonsils? They mean nothing to me!?

He pulls out his iPhone and jumps online in an attempt to find such an eloquent and expressive flower, one that will say all the things he’s been trying to say for the past few months, but, unfortunately, no such savior exists.

Since he can’t seem to find one, he decides to go in a different direction.

And he prays it works

***

When Aziraphale arrives at his shop in the morning, he is confronted by an intricately painted, hyper-realistic Drosera – a uniquely fascinating (according to Crowley’s research) carnivorous plant, commonly known as the sundew, one of the largest genera of carnivorous plants, with at least 194 species. Crowley didn’t actually care about any of that. He didn’t care about its country of origin, its temperature requirements, its soil pH, or its preferred humidity levels. He cared about the fact that it appeared frighteningly alien, mildly grotesque, and thirsty for blood (he was projecting). He drew its prehensile leaf-parts shimmering with venom, one curled around a plump and wriggling fly.

A fly with the faintest suggestion of a crayon red up-do.

Crowley has no idea what came over him when he painted it. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s style. But in all its glory, it took him less than an hour to complete.

And whether or not Aziraphale understands the message (unlikely since he doesn’t know who’s painting his window as it is) he doubles over with laughter when he sees it. When he’s done laughing, he shakes his head, his face nearly as red as Carmine’s hair, but his smile returns.

And it doesn’t leave.

***

“Oh my goodness! Come in! Come in! How have you been! I never thought you’d finally find time to visit!”

Crowley hears the words so loud and clear, they sound like they’re coming from his own front door. He peeks around the side of his work station and out his window at Aziraphale’s shop and spies the man dressed in a red and brown fall themed jumper standing on his landing, arms wrapped around a young couple stopped from entering his shop by the whole of his body embracing theirs.

As friendly as Aziraphale is with his customers, Crowley has yet to see him touch anybody. Watching him now, he can’t help feeling jealous.

Aziraphale looks like he gives incredible hugs.

What would he have to do to earn one of those?

Crowley doesn’t know who the couple are to him. Children are his first bet. That would open the footlocker to a slew of questions and he hasn’t even gotten answers to the first ones yet! They don’t look a thing like him, but the couple seem to know Aziraphale well. The young woman wraps her arms around him, then pulls away and shows him her finger.

And Aziraphale squeals for joy.

A wedding.

The couple are getting married.

And Aziraphale couldn’t be more thrilled.

He drags the couple into his shop and locks his door, flipping the sign on it to ‘Closed��, adding another one underneath that reads, ‘For pickups, knock twice.’

Crowley feels like a voyeur as he pulls his stool around to the front of his shop, almost in front of his picture window, and watches Aziraphale excitedly show the young couple buckets of flowers – roses in every shade, tulips, irises, carnations, daisies, and other seasonal blooms Crowley doesn’t recognize, but which he makes a mental note to Google later.

The couple stay for over three hours, and in that amount of time, they laugh and reminisce, look at pictures on the young lady’s phone, call someone on the phone of the young gentleman, and present Aziraphale with a bottle of champagne and what looks like a piece of their wedding cake.

“Is he … is he not going?” Crowley asks out loud as if expecting an answer. “Is that why they brought the champagne? Why wouldn’t he go to their wedding? That seems so cruel!”

Crowley decides to reserve judgement until … until when? When in Hell is he going to get an answer to that? Who’s going to tell him why if he doesn’t …?

He gets up from his stool, turns away from the scene playing out across the street, and brews a cup of tea.

When he’s less agitated, he returns to the window.

As close as the couple seem to Aziraphale, Crowley manages to determine that neither man nor woman are a relation of his. Not by blood. But they’re close. So close that watching them leave, watching them hug Aziraphale good bye, knowing that he’s not going to be present on one of the happiest days of their lives, brings tears to Crowley’s eyes.

When they depart, Aziraphale stands by the door to watch them go, calling out Good bye! and Take care! and Be safe! and Have a good time! till they’re well and truly gone.

And then he watches a while longer.

Crowley assumes Aziraphale will clean up and head upstairs to his apartment when they’ve gone. It’s close to eight-thirty as is, long past closing.

But he doesn’t.

Aziraphale drags an antique gramophone out of his back room, sets it up in a corner, and puts a record on. Muffled strains of romantic jazz music fills the air as he pops open the bottle of champagne and pours himself a glass. He reaches underneath his counter, in a drawer beneath the cash register, and pulls out a binder. With its puffy white, quilted cover, its pages overflowing, it’s stuffed beyond closing correctly. Crowley has seen it before - from a distance, but he knows what it is.

He has one himself.

Only his isn’t white and it’s much less puffy.

It’s an idea book, filled with photos cut from magazines to help inspire customers when they’re stumped. Aziraphale opens it to the middle and starts browsing from there. Crowley slides up closer to his window, to a corner that best looks into Aziraphale’s shop, leaning forward as far as he dares to get a better look.

Aziraphale flips through page after page of wedding arrangements – bridal bouquets and groom boutonnieres, centerpieces for tables and church pews and altars. Aziraphale pours over each one with a trembling smile on his face.

A smile that becomes smaller and smaller with each page he turns.

These aren’t his memories. They’re mass produced for the wedding market, which makes how long Aziraphale lingers over each one even sadder. But somewhere between the captions and the msrps lie his own hopes. His own dreams.

He sniffles, raises his glass in the air … and toasts nobody.

A tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn’t catch it before another one follows.

Crowley turns away.

He curses himself for watching. For intruding.

For doing nothing worthwhile to help.

For being so blind.

He’d been searching for a middle ground – something in common that they shared while somehow overlooking the most glaring.

That even with all the customers that stop into Aziraphale’s shop, day in and day out, Aziraphale is lonely.

Terribly lonely.

Crowley is, too.

He doesn’t mind being alone, but being alone and being lonely are two different things. Crowley doesn’t have any friends. No one he can call at a moment’s notice to grab a drink with, no one to text after a rough day. But the mornings he’s spent talking to Aziraphale before they open their shops have been the most fulfilling of his life so far.

That has to count for something.

***

Around midnight, Aziraphale puts his gramophone and his idea book away, and carries his bottle of champagne upstairs to bed. Crowley had opened a bottle of wine himself, toasted Aziraphale whenever he raised his glass.

His bottle is much more full than Aziraphale’s by the time Aziraphale calls it a night.

While he watched Aziraphale drink away the day, Crowley shelved the painting he’d been working on in favor of something new.

Something with the potential to be a bit more melancholy, but perhaps a bit more apropos.

He thinks back to the flowers Aziraphale had been showing the young couple. He’s not too certain what they settled on, but what had he shown them?

Which flowers in particular had made Aziraphale smile the most?

Tulips.

Pale pink tulips.

And calla lilies - bright white and light purple.

Roses. Pastel yellow roses, buds holding hard to their youth a hair longer, not ready to bloom.

There had been others, flowers Crowley had to look up, and he includes those as well: paper thin gladiolus, sweet pea, lily of the valley, buttercups, freesia, gardenias, larkspur, baby’s breath. Crowley crafts a wedding bouquet on Aziraphale’s window deserving of the young woman with the olive skin and the flowing brown hair who had walked up to Aziraphale’s shop and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Deserving, he hopes, of the kind but lonely man who secretly longs for companionship.

Just like him.

***

Crowley’s stomach has rolled itself over and over throughout the night till, by morning, it’s one hard bolt, wringing itself to nausea. And even though his pounding head begs him to abandon his ego this one time and go to sleep, he can’t.

He needs to know that he did the right thing putting that bouquet up on Aziraphale’s window.

He needs to see Aziraphale lay eyes on it for the first time.

Aziraphale shows up to work late for the first time ever and Crowley doesn’t think to blame his clock. He trudges down his stairs at a crippled snail’s pace, a hand holding up his head as if it’s pounding as hard as Crowley’s.

Probably polished off that bottle of champagne, Crowley thinks.

If that’s the case, Crowley hopes his painting will help take some of the sting off his hangover.

Aziraphale shouldn’t be expecting anything new on his window since it’s not Monday. He doesn’t even look, the throbbing in his head tunneling his vision so that he turns the corner and heads straight to the front door.

Crowley, holding his breath since he saw the toes of Aziraphale’s Derbys start to descend the staircase, begins feeling lightheaded.

Suddenly he realizes he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Aziraphale aims to stick his key in the lock but misses, fumbling them in his grasp and dropping them on the ground. He looks down at the mess of metal at his feet and sighs, debating between bending over and picking them up or climbing upstairs and going back to bed, praying that one of his more honest customers will find them and slip them in the mail slot for him.

Crowley knows this. He’s been this drunk before.

He decides to pick them up, crouching at the knees, lowering his body like an elevator. He doesn’t make it to the bottom floor, however, swaying forward and backward, threatening to keel over. He reaches slowly between his legs and sweeps left to right. His key ring catches on his right middle finger and he scoops them up.

In his shop, tucked behind his picture window, Crowley cheers for him.

Standing is easier, the bricks in the wall spaced perfectly, giving him holds to hoist himself up with. He slips the key in the lock and opens the door, glancing subconsciously around to see if anyone noticed his little ballet.

That’s when he sees the window.

It draws him out to the sidewalk.

And like with Crowley’s first masterpiece, Aziraphale stares – stares so long, Crowley begins to sweat. Aziraphale puts a hand out, reaching for the petals as his eyes take in the elegant wedding bouquet. He doesn’t touch it, but unlike the first time, his fingers curl around air like he’s trying to grab hold of it.

His empty hand clenches into a fist.

His shoulders shake.

He begins to sob.

He runs inside his shop, straight to his back room.

And Crowley’s heart, bouncing on an emotional trampoline since Aziraphale first called him by his name, stumbles over the side and shatters.

‘What have I done?’ he thinks, slamming his hand on the counter, breaking his pencil in two.

He considers rushing across the street, scraping off the bouquet, and replacing it with something else. Or maybe not. Maybe he should wash it off and leave the window bare. Leave the poor man alone.

Give him a fucking break from the burden of Crowley’s unspoken affections.

Crowley knows Aziraphale loves his paintings. The bouquet was one mistake. One setback. But is it worth the grief behind making another mistake if he can’t find the guts to walk across the street and ask the man out for coffee? Or apologize? Or fuck it! All those times he’s walked across the street to talk to him, why didn’t he bring a damn cup of coffee with him!?

Is this really about the fucking coffee!?!?

Why is he overthinking this?

Aziraphale likes him. Likes his company, anyway. They have to be something in the vein of friends by now.

Acquaintance-friends.

There. That’s his open door.

Now walk across the Goddamned street and go through it!

Why can’t he get up off his arse and do it?

He leaps up off his stool and walks towards the door. Reaching a hand out for it, he sees red.

Literal red.

On his hand.

He’s bleeding.

His broken pencil speared his palm.

He stares at it. It’s a scratch, not all that deep. He should wipe it on his pant leg and continue on.

But he doesn’t.

He turns around and heads for his back room in search of a bandage he doesn’t need.

This isn’t an emergency. He isn’t bleeding to death.

Why does he overthink everything?

That’s his problem. His big problem. It’s what builds walls between him and other people when he hasn’t consciously lifted a trowel.

It’s what pushes people away when he would like them to get closer.

But that doesn’t matter, does it, since not a single person he’s met in his life has tried to climb those walls. Or break them down.

Except for Carmine, but she’s got issues of her own.

And that sort of emphasizes his point.

It’s not up to other people to climb his walls. He needs to take them apart, build a door or lower a rope ladder.

But he doesn’t know how.

Professional help? Therapy? A support group?

Good. That’s a start.

But until then, companionship would be nice. Someone to talk to, share a meal with, watch a movie with.

That’s all he’s looking for.

It’s all he wants.

Why is that so damned …?

“Hello?”

Crowley’s head jerks up, his neck cracking with the speed. He stands in silence, Band-Aid open in his hand, waiting for another word.

“Is anyone … Anthony?”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “Aziraphale?” He peeks out the doorway of his back room. Aziraphale’s voice somehow preceded the sound of the bell above the door. Crowley doesn’t know how that could have happened, but …

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale walks in the rest of the way, cradling a large bouquet of flowers in his arms, of all things. “Am I interrupting anything? I know I don’t have an appointment.”

Crowley’s gaze meets big blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep.

But also a Heavenly smile.

“An appointment? Appointment for what?”

“I … I would like to get a tattoo, please. Also, I wanted to bring you these.” He hands the flowers to Crowley. “As a thank you for all the work you’ve done on my window. You’re quite talented.”

“How did you know it was me?” Crowley asks, tongue-in-cheek since his gig is obviously up.

Aziraphale shrugs. “Lucky guess.”

“Thank you for parting with these,” Crowley says, giving the flowers a gentle hug when he turns his back in search of a vase to put them in. “I know how you feel about your flowers.”

“Well, you’re across the street. I can stop by and visit them, replace them when they wilt … like you’ve done for me.”

Crowley finds the vase he’s looking for and sticks the flowers in. On his way to the sink to fill it with water, his eyes find the window, and the wedding bouquet that brought Aziraphale to tears.

Crowley sighs. “Look, about your window. I’m sor—”

“Do you have time to do my tattoo right now?” Aziraphale interrupts, his eyes watery but his smile effervescent. “Or would you prefer it if I came back another time?”

“I have time,” Crowley says. Aziraphale doesn’t want to talk about it. So they won’t talk about it. “Do you have any idea what you’d like to get?”

“I do.” Aziraphale walks over. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his gallery. Crowley tries not to look over his shoulder, but at the angle Aziraphale is standing, he can’t help catching a glimpse at a handful.

They’re pictures of the paintings on his window.

Every single one.

And the more peeks Crowley catches, the more he begins to notice a theme.

Aziraphale has taken a photograph of each painting from two perspectives - one from outside his shop looking in as well as from inside looking out. And in each inside picture, somewhere in the background, Crowley can be seen looking out his window towards Aziraphale’s shop.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale noticed.

He wonders if he framed the photos that way on purpose.

The tips of Crowley’s ears begin to burn.

“This one.” Aziraphale settles on a picture and turns the screen so Crowley can see more clearly.

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale’s choice. It seems fitting. “The angel’s trumpet?”

“Oh no, my dear. That’s a devil’s trumpet,” Aziraphale corrects with the slyest of grins on his face. “They’re very similar until you know what sets them apart. Sometimes Google search switches them around. But that’s what it is.”

“And you would like it where?” Crowley asks, leading Aziraphale to his chair.

“I was thinking my right bicep would be a nice fleshy place to get my first tattoo.”

“Sounds good.”

“You know, dear boy, if you wanted to come over and talk, you could have just popped in and said hello. It would probably have saved you time. And paint.”

“I don’t mind sparing the time. Or the paint.” Crowley sits on his stool and readies his gun. He peeks over at his iPhone sitting beside his pots of ink and gets an idea. With a few swipes across the screen, he places an order on the website of the deli down the street for two coffees and a dozen donuts. He smirks when he receives a confirmation text.

Just because it’s a pathetic plan doesn’t mean it isn’t actionable.

Crowley looks over his shoulder at Aziraphale reclining in his chair, smiling at him the way he’d pictured dozens of times.

His heart does a double thump, and he smiles back.

“It didn’t go to waste.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #goholidayexchange #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #frankie writes

159 notes · View notes

emgkheadcannons · 4 years ago

Note

Hurt kells headcanons?

Hurt Kells Head Cannons

I don’t know if you mean physically, emotionally, or mentally, so let's see where this goes. Well it turned out really long and is more a fanfiction I’m sorry. So the story under the cut, WARNING, part of it is really sad, and brief mentions of suicidal thoughts. It’s a happy ending though. Okay enjoy.

Well it turned out really long and is more a fan fiction I’m sorry.

Kelly is always hurting himself and Em is right behind him making sure he is okay. Kelly loves the attention and pampering, and Eminem is pretty sure Kelly is making him go gray.

Kelly is hazard prone. He has broken his arm running over parked cars, while drinking, cut his chest with a broken Jameson bottle, leaving scars, and has been hit by a double decker bus when he was in London. Kelly does a lot of reckless things all the time, he just gets back up, dust himself off, and continues on, even when he shouldn’t.

Kelly does not like not being able to do something, or having to slow down or worse having to have others slow down for you because he is hurt, but most of all he hates the useless feeling he gets from being injured. Sitting around, getting nothing done, depending on someone else for things.

It’s not so bad when he is with Em. He doesn’t feel like a burden, or that Em is only being nice to him because he has to. He is Eminem, Rap God, Slim Shady, if he doesn’t want to do something he doesn’t have to. So Em choosing to help him, check on him constantly, and genuinely want to be with him, makes Kelly feel

Eminem actually likes taking care of Kelly. He wishes he could dote on him all the time, not just when Kelly is hurting. Em is various about injuries and illnesses. He doesn’t mess around, and while he loves being able to dote on Kelly, he won’t let him get away with some of his usual antics.

When Kelly gets hurt for doing something stupid like flipping over the back of the couch, or jumping off the roof of a car, you can bet Em Lectures the Hell out of him, after making sure he’s okay. Then he cuddles the hell out of his stupid boyfriend.

It is one thing if Kelly gets hurt doing something stupid, it’s another if someone hurts Kelly. Em is very protective of his people, and Kelly is one. When a shitty reporter goes too far, making Kelly self conscious, Em hits back hard, black listing them from a ton of events, and getting other artists to refuse interviews with them.

Kelly’s interview on Hot Ones made EM so mad. Watching his idiot boyfriend eat those hot wings, when they both know they are mild taco bell guys, is frustrating. Kelly is hurting himself, Em can’t stop him, and when he gets home his stomach will probably be upset. At least Em will get a night in with Kelly, even if it’s him watching a movie with Kelly, rubbing his back, while the blond chugs Pepto Bismol.

Mentally

Kelly struggles with depression and anxiety. He is doing better now, but there is only one way to go when you hit rock bottom, and Kelly hit it back in 2018.

Kelly was mentally hurt at the end of 2018, after EM’s diss track came out, and it seemed like the world hated him. He could barely go outside without someone telling him how Em wiped the floor with him. He had people following him, threatening him, some even attacked him. He was worried about not only being booked, but also being able to perform, with how hostile people were being. Kelly was worried about Cassie being with him. What if someone decided to go after him, and she got caught up in it? He couldn’t live with himself if something happened to her, especially if it happened because of him

Kelly kept busy shooting movies, writing music, and whatever he could think of, to keep his mind from spiraling. Thinking those dark thoughts. ‘Would Cassie be better off without me? Would everyone be better off without me? What if I don’t get another gig, or role? How will I support her? …...Would anybody miss me?’

Kelly fell into depression, and his anxiety got out of control. Getting out of bed became a chore, and the crushing fear of failing everyone, made him wonder why he should even try if he was probably going to fail. He was able to get himself going most days, but the constant anxiety was draining, and he turned to alcohol, and drugs harder the weed to numb the feeling, which worked for a while. The problem is he had to use a little more every time to numb the pain.

Becoming good friends with Pete Davidson and Dominic ‘Yungblud’ helped Kelly out a lot. He drank less, it was easier to get out of bed, and the crushing anxiety of living quieted down but they didn’t go away. It wasn't until Eminem found him during a panic attack, at a festival they were both performing at that things began to change.

Eminem was wandering around the performers area one evening, close to some of the tour buses, when he heard something. He had nothing going on and wanted to find out what was making that noise. As Em got closer to the source of the sound, he saw a figure hunched over on themselves. He realized that it was a person, and it looked like they were having trouble breathing. Eminem rushed over to see if he could help. Kneeling down next to the person, Em sees that it is Machine Gun Kelly, and it looks like the kid is either having a panic attack, or a really bad trip.

Taking a deep breath, Em wrapped an arm around the other rapper's shoulders, trying to steady him, before he started talking “Hey, can you hear me? I need you to listen. It will all be okay. I need you to calm down. Take a deep breath.In, and out, in, and out.” The kid was responding but not as much as he would have liked. Making a decision, Em sat down in the grass, and pulled Kelly into his lap. It was a little awkward, but he made it work. “Alright Colson listen to me. I want you to match my breathing. Ready, in, and out. In, and out.” Em was finally getting the response he wanted, the guys breathing was slowing down, and becoming less erratic. “Okay, that's it. Just breath. It’s okay.” He didn’t smell any alcohol on his breath, so at least he wasn’t drunk, but he could still be high.

Eminem looked around and noticed that his tour bus was only two buses down. He couldn’t leave the kid here, and his band mates would most likely make it worse, so the last option was to take Machine Gun Kelly to his bus. He hated being so responsible. He didn’t even like the kid, but helping him was the right thing to do.

Eminem stood up, dragging Kelly up with him. He got under Kelly’s arm to help support him, but their height difference made it hard. Em gave up about three steps in, and just picked the guy up, carrying him the rest of the way. The older rapper noticed that Kelly was light, probably too light for someone his size. Em began to worry about what was going on with him.

Once safely inside his bus, Eminem placed Kelly on his couch. He pulled out his phone and called Paul. He needed more information before he goes any further.

He got his answers.

Apparently he has been receiving death threats lately, and someone broke into his tour bus tonight. The kid hadn’t gone out partying in a while, and seemed to be out of the public eye as much as possible.

Em turned to look at the younger rapper, and really looked at him. Kelly’s eyes had dark circles around them, like he hadn’t been sleeping, and his skin looked pale and ashen. His face was gaunt, like he wasn’t eating well. His nails were chewed short and were unpainted. Looking at his outfit wasn’t his usual put together, fashionable self. He looked like shit.

Marshall could tell that Colson was broken, he just didn’t know that he had a hand in breaking him.

Kelly wasn’t bad at ignoring what other people say, he just wasn’t the best at it, and if you paired that with how his life had been going for the past few months, it was pretty damn hard to ignore everything. The fact that Eminem, his rival, his idol, the man he liked, the man who destroyed him, found him during a panic attack, made him feel even worse. Crying in front of the man was just icing on the cake, of the shit show he called life. He had hit rock bottom and he knew it. Eminem knew it, and soon everybody else would.

The shocking thing was that Eminem didn’t go after him. He didn’t insult Kelly, didn’t use his panic attack against him. He didn’t throw Kelly out once he had calmed down. Instead the guy let him stay the night. He even offered to help Kelly.

Kelly was wondering if he was hallucinating. After all that has happened, after everything he has done why would Eminem offer him help. He didn’t know whether to trust the older rapper or not, but he has already lost so much, what else does he have to lose?

Emotionally

Trusting Eminem was the right thing for Kelly to do. They publicly squashed their beef, and that really helped with people coming after him, and the death threats have slowed down a lot. It didn’t end there though. Em convinced him to see someone about his depression and anxiety, which now that he knows that he has, he has a better handle on them. He has given up all his drugs, except weed. This is the cleanest he has been in years. He now drinks occasionally, and when he wants, rather than feeling like he had to drink or high to function.

Another benefit of trusting Eminem is that Kelly and Eminem were becoming friends. Em saw that Kelly was going down the same path he was years ago until Uncle Elton intervened, and now he was doing the same for Kelly.

Everything was going pretty well until Eminem realized that unlike him and Elton, he had feelings for Kelly, and that was a problem. How could he help him if he wants to date him. Only a few people know that Em is bi with a preference for men. He couldn’t tell Kelly. So Em does the dumb thing and starts to pull away.

Kelly was starting to feel like he was getting his life back together, and was doing well. But with all things in Kelly’s life something has to go wrong.

It starts with him and Em not hanging out as much, but Kelly just tells himself it’s because he is probably just busy. Then Em starts canceling plans on him. Their text conversations get shorter and shorter. The final piece is when Kelly finally gets to visit him, after months of trying, Em basically ignores him, won’t look at him, and practically dismisses him.

Kelly can’t take this rejection, not after everything that has happened. He makes it halfway down the hallway when his legs give out, and he starts to cry quietly. He is going over everything in his head trying to figure out what he did wrong.

He doesn’t know how long he is there on the floor, crying, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Why are you on the floor? Why are you crying” Em asks, wiping away a tear.

“I'm sorry.”

“Why are you sorry.”

“I...I don’t know.” Kelly sobs while tears run down his face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t … don’t know what I did to make you so mad at me. Please..hic...please don’t hate me”

Eminem is shocked. Why did Kelly think he was mad at him let alone hate him. Em was so confused.

“I’m sorry.” Kelly kept on repeating between sobs.

Em did the only thing he could think of. He scopes Kelly up in his arms and takes him to his bedroom, placing Kelly on his bed, and wraps him up in his comforter. Kelly continues to apologize and sobs the whole time this is happening. When he finally quiets down, Em is holding him, like he did when Kelly had his panic attack months ago.

“What did I do wrong?” Kelly rasps, voice hoarse from crying.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, but you haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m not mad at you.” Em replies.

“Then why don’t you like me anymore. You helped me get my life back together, and we were like friends, but then you started avoiding me, canceling on me, and today you ignored me and then dismissed me, like I was nothing. I don’t understand. I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends, Kelly I promise. You have done nothing wrong. I did something wrong.”

Kelly was so confused. The look he was giving Eminem was adorable and pitiful; it makes Em’s feel terrible for how he treated Kells. Looking back he can see why Kelly thinks he hates him. With a heavy sigh, Em makes himself more comfortable before telling Kelly the truth.

“Not a lot of people know this but I am bisexual, and the reason I was avoiding you was because I have feelings for you. You don’t need me around wanting you when you are trying to make yourself better. I thought it would be better if I removed myself, but I clearly didn’t think how it would look to you. I’m sorry.”

Kelly buries his face in the junction of Em’s neck. He can feel the tears, from the other man, falling onto his collar bone. Kelly mumbles something that Em can’t make out.

“I’m sorry Kelly I couldn’t understand what you said.”

“Do you still like me?” Kelly asks a little louder.

EM takes a deep breath, and breaths out before replying.

“Yes, Kell-”

“Colson. My real name is colson.”

“Yes Colson, I still like you.”

“You really hurt me, Em-”

“Marshall. If I get to call you Colson, you can call me Marshal.”

“You really hurt me Marshal. I thought I had done something to make you hate me. I thought I was going to go back to how I was. Drinking and being high to just get through the day.”

“I’m so sorry Colson. I promise I won’t ever do that again.”

“That’s good, because I like you too.”

After clearing everything up between them, and working on their communication, Em and Kelly start dating.

(Using there real names are for serious, and super important moments)

Physically

A few months into their relationship, things are going well for them, and the people important to them know they are dating. Most took it well, and the few that didn’t (Rook), didn’t like it because they don’t like one of them (Rook still hates Eminem). Most people have stopped bothering Kelly for the beef, and the death threats have basically stopped.

Kelly had just finished his final concert in Detroit, and a whole week off to visit with his boyfriend, before he had to be somewhere. All they had to do was pack up the equipment, and make sure everyone was good then Kelly could head out.

About thirty minutes past midnight Kelly is heading to his car, when he gets jumped. Three guys come out of the shadows and corner him. Before he could say anything, never mind hand over his wallet, he gets punched in the gut. They continue to wail on Kelly, punching and kicking him, as he struggles to get away. Once beaten to a bloody mess, the men stop. He hears one of them say “that’s what a bitch like you gets for coming to Eminem’s town.” He always knew Detroit was dangerous, but he never thought he would be beaten up for his beef with Em after they ended it, especially after they started dating. He laid there for a moment trying to get up. His whole body hurt. He was bleeding from a few different cuts, his head really hurts, and his vision is blurry. He doesn’t know the extent of his injuries, but he hopes that he won’t need a cast.

When he finally gets into a sitting position, he sees his phone a few feet away, and miraculously it only has a few cracks on the screen from him dropping it. He calls Em, to come and get him.

Em rushes to Kelly. He brings his security too, to make sure no one else jumps Kelly. EM drives them to the hospital to have him checked out; his boy doesn’t look good.

Kelly is worse for the ware but he will be okay; it could have been much worse. He is covered in cuts, and bruises. He needs 4 stitches for a gash on his back, and gets his nose reset. Beside those injuries Kelly ends up with cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, two broken fingers, a badly sprained ankle, and the doctor confirms he has a concussion. The antiseptic hurt like a bitch, but it’s when they pop his shoulder back in place that he starts to tear up. The doctors agree to release Kelly into Em’s care, with strict orders on what the blond could and couldn’t do, and a few different prescriptions.

Eminem is beyond furious. Some dipshits thought they could jump his boy, beat the shit out of him, and get away with it. Fuck no. He will deal with them later. He wants blood but Kelly needs him right now. He sends two of his guys though to find out what they can.

It’s after four am when they get home. Em carries him up the stairs and tucks him into bed, careful of his injuries. He pulls the curtains tight, and makes sure the room only has a soft, dim light. He reviews the doctor's notes on how to take care of his boyfriend, and puts Kelly’s meds on the bedside table. Em checks the mini fridge in his room is stocked up on water and Gatorade. Once he feels good that he has done everything he could for now, he sets an alarm to wake Kelly up in an hour, and joins him on the bed.

Kelly wants to sleep most of the morning, but his boyfriend keeps waking him up.

“I know you want to sleep sweetheart but you have a concussion. You can go back to sleep in a minute okay. Come on pet.” This goes on until nearly three. Kelly is still tired, but he hurts all over, and his head is killing him.

Em is sitting on his bed, his back against his headboard, with his legs stretched out in front of him. Kelly’s head is pillowed in his lap, and he is carding his fingers gently through the blond hair. A notebook on his other side, so he can write some lyrics.

“Hey Em, I’m kinda hungry.”

“Does anything sound good to you?”

“Not really, sorry”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’ll figure something out. Will you be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah you don’t have to worry about me.”

Em untangled himself from Kelly and headed to the kitchen. He had thought ahead and ordered some chicken soup, and already had the good bread from the bakery Kelly likes, for his visit. He passes on the sweet treats he had ordered with the bread. Kelly’s stomach is probably not up to it, but he does snag a banana before heading back up.

Kelly is right where he left him. If it wasn’t for all of the bandages he would have thought his boyfriend had dozed off. Kelly should be up, chatting his ear off, doing something ridiculous, and generally just moving about. It broke his heart to see him like this.

For the next few hours Em resumes gently, petting Kelly’s hair, and softly talks to him, about anything he could think of. Kelly isn’t really listening, but Em didn’t expect him to. Kelly does fall back asleep later, and the older rapper gets to work.

He takes his phone out, pulling up Paul’s contact, and seeing if he has any news, on the guys who attacked Kelly. He’s not really expecting much, but is hoping for something good. Paul messages him that there is some grainy security footage and the police have a few leads. It was better than Em expected, but not as good as he was hoping for. He then checks in with the two men he sent out this morning. Their news is a little better. They think they have the name of one of the men.

Em would love nothing more than to beat the shit out of these pieces of shit, but he keeps himself in check. He has to be smart about this, beating the shit out of them would only make him feel better, not Kelly, and if he throws a punch, they could sue him, and it could make things messy for Kelly and him. People would want to know why he would go to such lengths for the blonde.

He gets up, making sure Kelly will be okay for a bit before heading to his office to make some calls.

Kelly wakes up, and is confused. His head really hurt, and his body felt like a giant bruise. It all came back, the concert, the attack, the hospital, and Em. He reaches an arm out, trying to feel where his boyfriend was. When he couldn’t feel anyone, he opened his eyes, which wasn’t great. Even the very dim light hurt his eyes, making his headache even worse, and his vision was still blurry. He shut his eyes quickly, trying to make the pain stop. Where was Em? Kelly didn’t know what to do. Em had left him by himself, and he was hurting so bad.

‘Was Em upset with him? For being such a burden? For being so weak that he couldn’t defend himself? Does Em even want to be with someone so useless?’ Kelly knew that these thoughts weren’t true but his head hurt and he couldn’t concentrate. He had to do something though. Anything but lay there, with his thoughts sprilling.

Kelly gingerly pushes himself up into a sitting position, careful of his shoulder and ribs. It wasn’t great but it was better. He then scoots to the side of the bed and tries to stand up. It takes a few tries, but he does manage to stand up, leaning heavily on the bed side table. He takes a few steps toward the bedroom door, before his knees give out, and he crumples to the floor. Tears begin to well up in his eyes from the physical pain, and from the feeling of complete failure. Not only was he in more pain now, he couldn’t even make it to the damn door. His thoughts came back, even worse. Kelly’s breaths began to grow quickery, and shallower the longer he lay on the floor, panicking over what Em seeing him, and realizing how useless he was.

Em had finished up his phone calls, and was heading back to Kelly, when he heard a weird sound. He knows that sound, but couldn’t remember where he heard it before, then it hits him. It’s almost the same sound he heard Kelly making, the night he found Kelly, having a panic attack.

“Shit” Em says, as he rushes to the door of his room, opening it quickly, to see Kelly, curled up on the floor, tears running down his face, and breathing very fast and shallow. Not wasting a moment, Em kneels down, gently scooping Kelly up into his arms, before heading to the bed. He sits down holding the injured man close, making sure not to aggravate any of his injuries more than they already had been, and gently starts rubbing circles on his back.

“Shh it’s okay, Colson. You are okay. I’m here. I promise I won’t leave again.” Em says, trying to calm the younger man down.

Kelly falls asleep like that, in Eminem’s arms. His boyfriend doesn’t know why Kelly tried getting up, or what triggered his panic attack, but he’s going to ask him when he wakes up.

Kelly ends up spending the next two weeks with Em in Detroit, being doted on. Em hardly left his side, after the incident. The first few days were ruff. Em was waking him up every few hours because of his concussion; he was sore and didn’t want to move. His medicine was hard to keep down. Also his concussion made him dizzy, and nauseous; his vision would sometimes get blurry, and his head almost always hurt. Em was with him, helping him do everything, which made Kelly feel like dead weight, and doubt his self worth, but Em saw the signs. Em was there when the younger man was at his lowest, he knew the signs of Kelly’s depression and anxiety, and was always watching for them. He made sure that Kelly knew that he was not a burden, that there was no way he blamed the blond for the attack, that he still wanted him around, that he wasn’t useless, and that he still loved Kelly.

Em would change his bandages, treat his wounds, help him around the house, and just take care of him. Whenever Kelly was hungry, Em brought him food he could handle, and he enjoyed, like the garlic tomato soup, and skyline chili. They also discovered that Em likes hand feeding Kelly, as much as Kelly likes being fed. Em always wants Kelly to eat more, and if hand feeding the blond then it is a win, win in his eyes.

When Kelly would say that he was sore the older rapper would run him a bath. The warm water felt good to his achy body. Em wouldn’t put any of his bath stuff in the water, worried it might aggravate something, but he did join Kelly a few times.

Em kept him away from electronic screens as much as possible, but by the end of the two weeks, Kelly really wanted his phone back. He knew looking at his phone, and watching tv was bad for his concussion but he wanted to mindlessly scroll through instagram, see the new drama on twitter, and catch up with everything going on.

The best part was when Em would sit with him most of the day. Sometimes he would literally sit with Kelly, sometimes with Kelly in his lap, and work on verses, other times he would cuddle Kelly, telling him about what's going on with friends, and people in general. Em holding him, petting his hair, checking on him, and even simply being near to make sure he was doing okay, made Kelly feel better. These actions made Kelly feel cherished, pampered, and loved, and for once didn’t feel terrible about being taken care of. He was learning the difference between being a burden, and being taken care of, and he liked it.

Em loved that Kelly was seeing the difference between wanting to doting on him, and being forced to take care of him. Hopefully Kelly continues to let Em take care of him, even when he’s not hurt. Slow days at home together, being domestic are his favorite.

Note: EM’s feeding thing is a mix between his own body image issues, wanting Kelly to be healthy, and him actually enjoying feeding Kelly.

#emgk #hurt au #send me asks

16 notes · View notes

barnesxplum-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Steve Rogers x FemaleReader

Summary: Steve Rogers is working as a builder on a construction site right outside of your apartment building, and causes you some *ahem*problems *ahem*

A/N: this is my first time writing anything on tumblr so pls be nice! Also I’d love any feedback! I’m still learning so much :)

Warnings: Smut (18+ only), catcalling, fluff(ish), swearing, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 4,119

Shoutout to @shxrirogers for the kind words and support in helping me start writing :)

(GIF not mine)

You don’t know if it was the rippling muscles, or the soft, semi-sexual grunts tumbling from his lips that made you do a double-take. Either way, you were in a whole world of trouble, purely because of your wandering eyes. Because your mouth hung open for just a second too long.

“Hi, sweetheart!”

The words alone made your hairs bristle and caused numbness to bloom in your chest.

Reluctantly, you slowed your gait and even dared to turn your head towards the construction site fully. It wasn’t your imagination. There he stood, his shirt was completely off, looking like he had just leaped out of one of those provocative calendars with half-naked men plastered across every month. His lack of clothing was unsurprising in this blistering heat, but all the same it a tugged at a cord somewhere deep inside of you. A cord that threatened to unravel and show no sign of stopping.

The shirt in question was stuffed carelessly in the back pocket of his utility trousers, which of course, he wore low slung, the tops of his briefs peeking out and taunting anyone who dared to look.

‘Surely this is a safety hazard’, you thought.

Below his hard hat were two cocked eyebrows, and even further below were a set of pink lips twisted into the most irritating yet beautiful grin you’d ever seen.

“You’re blushing,” he remarked, in an irritating sing-song voice, using the back of his hand to wipe away sweat from his forehead roughly.

“She’s blushing, guys” he called over his shoulder, rousing incoherent grunts from the other men.

“Can you blame her, Steve?” One whistled, crudely slapping his workmate’s butt before laughing loudly. Steve turned back, eyes following you closely as you moved slowly towards the door of your apartment complex.

‘Of course, I’m fucking blushing, you’re standing there, half-nude in front of me with...with those out’ You thought, your eyes roving over his abs, though you pleaded with them to stop looking.

You chose to look away and hurry inside and away from him. The inside was safe, at least. The only problem was, it was your building he and his crew were working on. It had only been a couple of days and you hadn’t had the guts to ask anyone how long they would be there for. All you knew is that they were there in the morning when you left for work and when you got back, they would be starting to pack up their equipment and head to whatever godforsaken bar they could hijack for the night.

You heaved a sigh out, dropping your bag next to the door and collapsing onto your worn futon.

“Rough day at work?”

You dared to open just one eye to greet your roommate and best friend.

“Not even, Bucky.” you sighed “not even...”

Work was fine. Being a nurse was great. All you had to concern yourself with was stopping people from dying, and making sure they were reasonably comfortable while you did so.

“So, why are you sulking?” He used his metal finger to prod at your cheek, the cool metal stunning you for a moment, causing you to gasp and twitch away from him. The sharp intake of breath caused your roommate to chuckle, and flop down beside you.

“Mmnot” You slurred, burying your head in the arm of the sofa, your new sanctuary away from prying roommates and hot-as-sin builders.

“Whatever,” he sighed and heaved himself up. “You so are”

You watched him saunter back into his room, but leave the door open. You knew he wanted you to talk to him, but he would never push you. Just like you did for him all those years ago. He stood a little past his doorway, so you could see his silhouette fixing his hair into a tight knot. Not a bun. Not a ponytail. Certainly not a man bun. He hated all of the above variants.

“Jesus, will those guys ever shut up?” Bucky muttered while gazing out of his window at the gaggle of construction workers making their way home for the night, as rowdy as a bunch of schoolboys. “When the hell are they gonna be done?” He mused to himself.

You gathered the strength to stand and stare out of the open living room window, which had the same view as from Bucky’s room. You could hear them quite easily from the cracked open window.

“Steve- Dude stop!”

“And if I don’t?”

You watched as the annoyingly hot construction worker finally released his colleague from a headlock, not before messing up his hair with his fist.

“I hope soon,” you whispered under your breath, but you couldn’t help but feel you truly wanted the opposite.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before you were back on duty at the hospital. At least at work, your mind was occupied enough to forget the hot, humid night you spent trying to get the man out of your head manually and failing miserably at it, resorting to an evening alone with your right hand and your own vivid imagination.

You shuddered at the thought of him finding out just how much he had affected you. Your colleague, Matt bounded up to you and took your state in - Buried in paperwork but somehow still whistling and smiling.

“Y/N..?” He asked warily “is that really you?”

You laughed and smacked his arm.

“What? I can’t be happy?”

“By all means!” He chuckled “It’s just normally you kinda despise admin”

“Not today,” you winked cheerfully.

“Well, if you’re happy doing paperwork you’ll be even happier demonstrating some stitches for a student doctor, wouldn’t you?”

You picked up the stack of paper you were working through and tapped it on the table to straighten it out.

“That does sound more exciting than filling these out.” You muse, scratching your head.

He pulls out your chair with ease, making you yelp in surprise.

“Off you go Y/L/N, I’ll take this from here” he sighed as he gently pushed you towards the hospital ward.

You chuckled softly as you wandered towards the baffled looking student Matt had bestowed unto you. You introduced yourself to her and gave her some quick reassurance before whipping open the curtain separating yourself and the patient. You immediately picked up the chart and read aloud to the student.

“Patient’s name is Mr. Rogers, 38, sustained some minor puncture and laceration wounds from a fall at work... what do we do doctor?” You ask smiling up at the student before you

“Remove any debris, clean and suture?” She mumbles and you nod.

After sliding the chart back into its place, you look up to assess the extent of the injuries and find yourself plunged into the depths of a pair of icy blue eyes. You jump back as though you had been burned by a hot stove.

The exact same stomach-churning wave you had been feeling yesterday night washed over you, and your knees threatened to buckle and made you shift your weight from foot to foot nervously.

Why the fuck was Steve from the construction site outside of your apartment here?

The student threw a confused glance at the both of you, before sliding a stool to sit at Steve’s bedside. Thankfully, he looked just as surprised to see you and even had a flushed tinge to his otherwise pretty tan, uniform complexion. You cleared your throat and finally detached your eyes from his, gesturing for the student to begin.

“So, Mr. Rogers, how did this happen?” The student asked while she disinfected the wounds on Steve’s arms and torso.

“I was working,” he grunted, wincing at the sting “and I fell”

You caught the subtle eye-roll the student gave in response to his obvious answer and smirked.

It was as if you were saying the words before they even reached your brain for approval- “This would never have happened, though, if you were wearing a shirt and protective gear” You blurted, your eyes growing wider with every word you uttered.

By the end of the sentence, you were almost literally kicking yourself. Steve’s eyes snapped up at you, a grin now plastered across his face, not dissimilar to the one he flashed at you the day before.

“Then how the hell would I have gotten your attention” he squinted at your chest to read your name badge “Nurse Y/N...?”

Hearing your name tumble from his lips was enough to force you to squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to suppress the tingling feeling emanating from between your legs, and pretend as though you didn’t hear him.

Finally, your protégée was done with her clean up and switched places with you so you could show her how to suture up a wound properly.

“Now, you grip the needle just like this...” you began.

Absentmindedly, you placed a hand against Steve’s bare abdomen to steady yourself and instantly regretted it.

He was warm. Very warm, in fact. It was strange that this surprised you. It was hot outside, after all. It was probably something to do with his muscle bound body looking like something that had been carved out of a cold block of marble, and placed in a museum to be marvelled at. Nevertheless, you became more and more self-conscious of how you touched him, and even more aware of his eyes boring into you as you nimbly finished up the stitching.

“And...you’re all done.” You sighed, slightly disappointed. “Hope that helped,” you turned to your student.

“Thank you, Y/N. It did.” She smiled at you and rushed off to lunch.

“Yes, thank you Y/N.” Steve mimicked, now sitting up and smirking over at you. You raised an eyebrow at him as you fill out his chart.

“What, are you not gonna say thank you back?” He teased “I could see how much you enjoyed feeling me up.” You blushed but maintained your silence. He shook his head and laughed a little.

“I’m messing with you. You know that right?” He chuckled, but stopped quickly, as he noticed you only offered him a weak smile.

“But seriously, thank you.” He sighed. “I guess I can get out of here now?”

“You’re free to go, Sir” He gave you a meaningful look, and you could almost see his eyes darken a shade before he pulled on a dark grey Henley and strolled out of sight.

You hated to admit it, but you disliked seeing him leave, and it was almost devastating to see him put a shirt on. The only consolation being that his butt in those pants worked wonders for your mood.

“I’m telling you Y/N, don’t invite Sam if you want to have a quiet night in with no hijinks,” He grumbled

“I thought you were friends” you chuckled, flicking through yours and Bucky’s extensive DVD collection.

“We are ... but he’s a problem” he explained, slamming the microwave door on the popcorn he had just placed in it.

You rolled your eyes and raked a hand through your hair, before finally settling on a classic.

“We’re watching back to the future...again?” Bucky feigned annoyance, shoving the bowl of popcorn between the two of you and curling up underneath a blanket on the other side of the couch.

You could only see his eyes peering at you as he drew the blanket up above his nose, his legs stretched out and his ice block feet were planted on top of your thighs, draining their warmth.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you retorted as the opening sequence began.

Much to both of your annoyance, a sharp knock at the door interrupted your movie just at both of your favourite part- the skateboard chase scene.

“Did you order in?” Bucky paused the movie and gave you a confused look You shook your head, equally confused, and drew your knees up to your chest as Bucky stood and walked over to the front door.

“This better be important.” he sighed as he pulled open the door forcefully.

“What the hell?” Bucky whispered, his voice dripping with incredulity. Bucky was not a man who was easily surprised, so you quickly upped your seat and padded over to the door to see what could have possibly unsettled your normally stoic best friend/roommate.

It was Steve. He wore a similar expression on his face to when he had seen you at the hospital early that morning. Only this time he had a shirt on and was clutching a bouquet of flowers.

“Bucky?” It looked like all of the life force had drained from Steve’s face. After a few seconds of staring and silence, you decided to break the awkward silence.

“I’m assuming you two know each other?” You chimed in.

Bucky shuffled back to include you in the conversation and nodded.

“Steve and I used to work together.” He explained, his eyes still fixated on Steve, who was now looking down at the ground.

“You mean, back when you were an a-“ Bucky flinched beside you. You had almost forgotten how much Bucky hated talking about that.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, briefly patting his tensed flesh arm.

“Well, it’s nice to see you again,” Bucky continued, still holding his gaze.

Steve looked up and offered Bucky a weak smile. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed.

After a pregnant silence, Steve’s eyes widened.

“Oh, you’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he chuckled nervously.

You raised an eyebrow. This was a new side of Steve you’d observed. Not to say that you knew the guy well, but from what you had seen, he seemed to be a confident, bordering on cocky kind of guy, who loved attention. To cut it short, you had him down as a womaniser, but the way he was scratching at the nape of his neck and shuffling anxiously before yourself and Bucky gave you doubts.

“I-I wanted to say thanks properly for today, Y/N” he tripped over his words a little as he thrust the bouquet towards you.

Bucky now looked at you with that all too common confused look.

“I did his stitches,” you explained, and thankfully that was enough for Bucky.

“I was just doing my job,” you took the flowers “but thank you, Steve, that’s really sweet”

“How did you know our door number?” Bucky asked, completely ignoring the heartwarming scene before him.

Again, Steve blushed and smiled. “Maybe you should’ve been a detective, Buck” he laughed, “I asked one of your neighbours. I guess I got lucky”

Bucky smirked at his comment and nodded, accepting the explanation. The conversation reached a natural end, and Bucky looked to you expectantly to bring it to its official close.

He tended to rely on you in certain social situations, and you had grown used to it. “Well, thank you again, Steve...” you began. And just then you had a thought.

“Why don’t you stay? We’re having a movie night.” Steve looked momentarily caught off guard and he stuffed his fists into his pockets.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he admitted.

Bucky rolled his eyes and pulled Steve in by his wrist.

“It’s back to the future tonight,” he muttered and resumed his usual position on the couch, watching intently as Steve sat between yourself and him after you had found a vase to place his flowers into.

He could tell something was going on. Steve hadn’t acted like this since...forever ago.

Finally, the ending credits rolled, and you noticed Bucky was fighting to keep his eyes open, his eyelids drooping and his mouth hanging open slightly.

“Okay, I think we might have officially overtired the old man,” you remarked, chuckling as Bucky shot you a dirty look.

He rose from his reclining position and announced he was heading to bed, not before shooting a long, meaningful glance at yourself and Steve. You were alone. At night. With Steve. You blushed as memories of you needing to touch yourself to satiate your yearning for him crept into your mind at what felt like the worst possible moment. You crossed your legs quickly to try to counteract the spreading warmth from your core.

“Wanna watch something else?” You quickly offered.

Steve shifted in his seat so he was closer to you, his arm draped over the back of the couch, almost brushing at your hair. “Whatever you want,” he smiled lazily at you.

Though it was pretty dark in the living room you could see his pupils were blown, and were focused on your mouth.

“Uh...I think they’re showing some old films on channel-“ “

You’re nervous,” he sighed, cutting you off.

You shifted awkwardly in your seat, not knowing how to respond to his statement. Luckily for you, Steve seemed to have a plan of his own. Before you could properly react, he had brought his hand to your face, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear before dragging a finger down your jawline to your chin, and resting it there. By now he was close enough for you to feel his body heat radiating from underneath his clothes.

“You’re real pretty, Y/N.” He whispered. His eyes were now scanning your whole face.

You felt your jaw drop and your mouth hang open, unsure of what was going to happen next. You couldn’t even summon the strength to say thank you. He was now firmly holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger and he gently brought it closer to his own face. You watched as his eyes fluttered closed and he pressed his lips to yours. His tongue darted playfully, asking for entrance, and you immediately moaned, granting him access. He brought his hands down to your waist, then your hips, and then squeezed at your ass. He smirked into the kiss.

You caught your breath as you finally pulled apart from him, but relentlessly he attached himself to your neck, nibbling and sucking at the sensitive skin there. “Steve...” you sighed, embedding your hands in his soft hair.

“Mm?” He hummed, his hands exploring your body.

“Steve, I need you” He quickly pulled away, and stared at you. You could barely see him now in the darkness, but you could make out his chest rising and falling due to laboured breaths.

“Say it again.” He demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Steve I need you. I need you right now” you said, adding a whimper at the end for effect.

With a deep growl, he rose to his full height and picked you up bridal style as if you weighed nothing. Somehow, through your shocked state, you guided him through the dark apartment to your room. He tossed you onto the bed and started ravaging your body with his mouth, kissing every inch of bare skin with desperation. You felt his erection pressing against your thigh as he removed your top and fiddled with your bra strap. He ripped the bra from your body, and instantly attached his mouth to the peaks of your breast, rolling the other bud in his hand. This drew a primal moan from the depths of your body, and you clamped a hand over your mouth, knowing Bucky was sleeping nearby. You bit your lip as Steve continued to massage your breasts and flick his tongue against your nipple simultaneously. You started to palm him through his jeans.

From what you could feel, he was large. Your mouth watered and your pussy clenched at the thought of it. It seemed Steve noticed this and almost read your thoughts.

“Can’t wait to feel me inside you, Y/N?” He whispered, sitting up suddenly to remove his shirt, the outline of his ripped torso catching the dim light of your bedroom.

“Please, Steve,” you whined, rolling your hips against his leg.

“I’m gonna taste you first, darling” he muttered, pulling your sweatpants down and exposing your panties. He dragged two fingers over the material of your underwear and chuckled.

“You’re wet,” he mused, tugging the material to the side. He began by rubbing your clit slowly, causing you to lift your hips into the air jerkily, overcome by a wave of pleasure.

“Look at you,” he sighed so violently you could feel his hot breath against your pulsating opening

“You’re so pretty, coming undone for me, Y/N” And with that, he dove between your folds, lapping at your core enthusiastically. You tugged at his hair, steering him as he continued to eat you out. Your toes curled at every movement he made with his fingers and tongue, almost knocking the breath out of you.

“Cum for me” he murmured against your heat, noticing you getting close to your climax.

“Soak my face.” His dirty words alone sent you over the edge, a wave of euphoria crawling out over your body, leaving you a shivering wreck.

You didn’t have much time to recover from the first orgasm that Steve Rogers had so graciously given you, despite it being so intense. You had barely finished twitching when you looked up to find the man angling his sizeable cock at your entrance, his face flushed and his hair flopping into his face- a perfect picture of impatience.

The tip brushed frustratingly against your folds, teasing what was to come. You moaned and rutted your hips against him.

“You sure you want this, darlin’?” He whispered, his breath hot on your skin.

You couldn’t nod fast enough, and he grinned. He loved your eagerness. It was endearing, and something he hadn’t experienced in a while. He watched your mouth involuntarily fall open as he pushed himself into you so fast, that his balls slapped against your skin. Instinctively you reached out to grasp onto something, anything and squeezed your eyes shut as you stretched around his girth.

Steve continued to thrust into you, but took a more gentle rhythmic approach, allowing you to grow used to his size. Noticing your raised hand, he interlocked his fingers with yours, and gently rested your intertwined hands on the bedsheet above your heads, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“F-fuck, Steve, you feel so good” you groaned as he picked up the pace.

“Yeah? You like it when I’m fucking your pretty little pussy hard?” He grunted, releasing one of your hands and running a finger along your bottom lip. You nodded, and licked at his fingers, before sucking on two of the long, calloused digits.

He raised an eyebrow at you, growled, and quickly flipped you over so you were riding on top of him.

Now you could see his body clearly. You couldn’t help but run your fingers up and down his toned chest, now coated in a sheen of sweat, all while grinding against him teasingly.

You stuck your chest out so your breasts bounced just that little bit more, and it seemed to do the trick. He pulled you down forcefully by the arms and buried his head in your cleavage and his thrusts became sloppy and erratic.

“I’m gonna...Y/N I’m gonna cum right now...” he warned you. Quickly, you slid off of his length and pushed your tits together in front of his tip.

“Cum for me, Steve,” you whined, looking up at him through thick lashes. This, was enough to push him over the edge. His mouth contorted into a crooked “O” shape and his eyes rolled backwards slightly.

White, hot streams of cum shot out at you, coating your breasts thickly. You smirked, maintaining eye contact with him whilst scooping up some of his seed and sucking it clean off of your finger. His eyes widened and a pink hue rose at his cheeks once more, surprised at how dirty you could be.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to give you another one,” he mumbled sheepishly, as you cleaned yourself up. You shook your head and slid between the covers beside him again.

“Steve, I’ve never cum that hard in my life. Don’t worry about it.” He smirked, and reached out under the thick covers to wrap his hands around your wrists and pull you until your chest was flush against his, and you could feel his heart beating through the warm skin of his chest. All was silent until you heard feet on the floorboards outside of your room.

“Thank fuck that’s over,” you heard Bucky grumble petulantly before hearing his door slam shut once more.

#steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #the winter soldier #steve rogers smut #steve rogers and reader #steve rogers au #steve rogers and bucky barnes

462 notes · View notes

spacebookettes · 4 years ago

Text

Witch

The Witch had strange objects the local people said. In her cottage. Warm metals. Smooth tools. Strange rocks. The Witch had long realised the potential of leaving these seemingly alien objects out in her cottage. The locals suspicious, but also grateful for future knowledge that helped them. Of course the old matriarchs of the small villages must be respected and kept distant. Politely shyly asked for help with some medieval problem. This Witch was especially good. She used only slight chanting and incantation; strange objects though she always seemed to have for any medieval problem.

The Witch used the intimidation of the old matriarchs in the medieval country to keep people away.

One of the locals had taken something once upon a time. The Witch held her smartphone and tracked the distance to the missing object. A foolish local was swiping the bleeping metal square with a strap. It had familiar numbers, though the local could not read letters. A line of words pinged onto the front of the metal square and a picture of a black cat, meant the thief had shockingly dropped the Witches possession. A Witches cat is not to be messed with. The local ran out of their draughty hiding place. The Witch retrieved the special object later, and the local wouldn’t go near the Witches cottage ever again.

The Witch had special knowledge that helped her in her predicament. Somehow her van had wandered into the past. She had been on her way to fix some electronic parts of the future. Though the Witch never made it to her future destination. The road had gotten bumpy. Muddy. No tarmac. The van had bounced along the suddenly old world lanes with terrified people in costume. It’s not Halloween the soon to be Witch thought. The headlights stretched out onto a stone remnant of a building. A large agricultural building was still vaguely intact and luckily uninhabited. Later the local farmer would come to learn to tolerate his new tenant in the once broken down farm buildings, long abandoned.

The Witch had walked the muddy lane, many times, looking for some sign of modern civilisation. All she’d found was an old can of cola she remembered she had thrown out of her van window when the road had become muddled. Oh how the Witch longed for a can of cola, even the cheap pretend colas. In fact the Witch dreamed of lovely E numbers; packaged nutrient lacking delights occupied the Witches longing dreams. Sometimes she’d sniff the hidden empty found can for remembrance of past artificial wonders. DEEP FRIED POTATO.

The End

By Peter Stringer

The Town

A Witch was needed. The best Witch was summoned. The Witch rode on horse back, her van concealed so not to scare anyone again. A great black steed was the Witches transportation. She thundered through the peaty green past world of her new home. Inspiring the local women who decided their lifestyle was unfairly balanced. An occasional girl thundered through the heathers of the past landscape. No one dare stop them. A medieval Amazonian culture was forming. Tribes of women would one day decide the fate of the colder green countries. Warm blooded invaders position in history contested.

But this particular town had a royal visitor in need. A royal visitor who had heard of a provincial woman; who could help her. Immortality the royal woman had wanted: an aged royal woman who had once been as strong as any man. She had kept this country secure in one of the most treacherous deceitful parts of history. She now wanted to go on into history the queen forever. The Witch gave her one piece of advice... “don’t trust the medieval medicine. You will live longer. Eat little meat a few times a week. Make vegetation your main food source, be kind to the people and they will remember you always. Try not to murder too many objectors.”

The End

By Peter Stringer

A Boy and his Witch

The boy mashed some greenery. Easier for his witch to eat. She hadn’t been able to get out of the bed recently. “It needs herbs" the witch orded, the boy took the greenery back downstairs. The witch was old, so was the boy.

The boy turned on the whale sounds; the witch made herself comfortable: she imagined they were arguing, she had no idea what whale arguments would be about and her imagination was not graphic. The witch drifted off into a contented sleep.

Her old wife recipes. The boy skipped through the mostly memorised book and found rock cakes. “not bad” the witch said, but “i had hoped for Toad in the Hole".

A parrot said something rude; the boy told it to fuck off. “that’s not how you talk to animals" the bed squawked.

“Leave the cobwebs" the witch orded as the boy lunged a broom at the corners of the ceiling. “the little darlings are welcome here. They need a home in the winter and it doesn’t hurt us to provide it.”

The boy searched the internet for a companion. A love poem he'd found in the back of the recipes. He wrote out to the letter in his dating profile.

The witch slept a lot. The boy spent more time searching for a companion. No one had answered his poem. He started deleting the profile, the poem slowly disappeared. The poem was working in his subconscious. Unbeknownst to him, he was rewriting it. Making the the strange little paragraphs to him enchanting.

Just drifting off on the couch the boy had an idea, he grabbed for the e ink paper tablet. A new adapted poem sprang from the electronic stylus. Hidden in amongst the ideas for some time... he found it, one evening, while skimming by candle light. His new herbal air plug-in squirted some exotic concoction into the room. He started reciting the poem. The candles flickered when he reached the end of the scrawled writing. A ping from his smartphone. One app he had not deleted.

The End

By Peter Stringer

The Twenty First Century Woman

The Twenty First Century Woman was lost in space. Fifty thousand years she had been sleeping in her drifting space shuttle. A great galactic light ship stumbled across her, a once in a universe chance.

The Woman was a smoker. Though no longer. No tobacco in this future. In fact Earth was no longer. And tobacco had not been saved.

The Woman struggled with the new culture. The Woman had grown up as a warrior, living in a time of great skirmish. The Woman only knew how to be violently helpful. The future was now peaceful. Great lightships searched the universe for knowledge. And the Woman’s knowledge was no longer needed. The Woman kept her armour and secretly wore it. This future people expected her to adapt to the minimalism they lived by. Her hair no longer ragged. The war grime long gone from her fingers. The Woman fought old battles in her imagination; The Woman invented new ones.

The news of this future was always peaceful. Preoccupied with science. No conflict to excite the Woman. The sports were un-robust. What had happened.

No aliens to fight with. This universe had only humans, for now.

The twentieth century Woman wished for a time machine so she could have purpose. How had humanity changed so vastly. The Woman searched the human history. There was no mention of the old skirmish, no documentation of the warrior people. The epic battles were missing. No one had any answers for her. They knew nothing of this history.

The Woman went down to her old space shuttle. Its ancient weapons still charred from discharge. She took out her shuttle, an asteroid field made for target practice. Some people on the light ship were observing the crude blasters. “old worldly exciting" The Woman flew into the asteroids, the hazardous navigation with the older technology was thrilling. Death around any next rock face. Blasting pretend rock enemies. The observers became bored of the oldy worldy distraction quickly, it’s novelty they felt held little scientific interest. So a lonely Woman was left to her war games.

To be continued.

By Peter Stringer

#witches #art #scifi #creative writing #fiction #books #timetravel #technology #medieval #history #story

1 note · View note

t-lostinworlds · 5 years ago

Text

In My Blood (Shawn Mendes) [2]

A/N: Here’s the second part you guys! Hope you enjoy! x

Summary: The worse thing you expected to see when you arrived at Shawn’s condo was him and Madison together, but you were met by far worst than that. Though things did lighten up as the two of you told each other what you truly feel, finally.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of suicide, and the usual typos

Word Count: 5.2k+

Masterlist in Bio

-:-:-:-:-

You placed your phone back in your pocket with a sigh as soon as Shawn hung up, a feeling of disappoint filling you up just like every time he goes out to see Madison. Were you jealous of her being Shawn's girlfriend? Yes. Yes aren't denying that because it is the full truth, given the fact that you've been in love with your best friend for as long as you can remember. But that isn't the main reason why you feel disappointed, it's the fact that it's Madison.

You love Shawn to bits and you care about him a lot but you can't deny the fact that he can be extremely stupid and utterly clueless when it comes to girls and Madison is one of those poor picks. She has done nothing good for, and to him except make his life miserable, make him anxious and the worst of it all, make him doubt if he was a good enough person. But no matter how much you tried talking him out it, he just wouldn't listen.

Even if you willed yourself to understand, you can never comprehend why he's so caught up with that girl, knowing for a fact that she doesn't make him happy, not even in the slightest. Just judging by the number of nights he's called late at night, practically balling his eyes out as his anxiety closes in. And it fucking pisses you off because hearing him sob on the other line, or cry endless tear right in front of you is too painful to witness, seeing him cry breaks your heart just as hard because you care about him so much and you love him to death.

Shawn's your best friend and he knows you better than anyone else ever could, you knowing him just as much, if not more. And gosh he makes you so happy, he makes you feel all warm and fuzzy whenever his near, and if you could, you'd take care of him, love him more than that Madison girl could even come close to doing.

You know she doesn't love him but he's just too blinded to see that. She's gotten him so wrapped around her wicked fingers and you hate that you can't do so much about it because by the end of the day, you're only the best friend.

Yes, you know you can try and tell Shawn how you really feel, and believe when you say that you can tell him the truth anytime but as cliché as it sounds, it's easier said than done. And you'd be lying if you're going to say you're not scared.

Fear has always been a hindrance at everything and it always will. Fear that you'll lose him completely and that you'll ruin everything once you do say the truth, because he doesn't feel the same way, as far as you think at least. Maybe he just sees you as a sister, nothing more, and though that hurts like hell, better that than be nothing to him at all.

You continued to stroll around the city until you smelled that all too familiar and delicious smell, a nostalgic feeling over coming you.

"Muffins." You mumbled to yourself, as smile slowly creeping up your lips. Shawn's favorite. And sure enough, the moment you turned the corner, you were face to face with the bakery that held so much memories, both happy and sad alike.

A small giggle escaped your lips, the memory of Shawn practically dragging you inside this very bakery so crystal clear like it was just yesterday. You two were just wandering around but once he smelled the freshly baked chocolate muffins from outside, he literally pulled you inside with a wicked grin on his face, a childlike behavior but it was cute nonetheless.

This was where you spend your time whenever you can until it became your place. When you just wanted to catch up after not seeing him for months this was where you go, or sometimes when he needed the time to just relax and not worry about his career for a moment this was his escape. You can't even begin to count how many sugar you've managed to consume in this place alone throughout the years.

But since he and Madison got together, he doesn't come here that often anymore, even managed to ghost you this one time, leaving you waiting inside alone, your hot chocolate slowly turning cold. You went home only to find out that he was with Madison the whole time, completely forgetting your plans but you brushed it off, didn't even bother to remind him.

You don't even know if he still remembers that this place still exists, and that doesn't sit well in your heart. That's when the memories slowly started to turn sour but you shook your head, not wanting to taint the perfect picture when everything was all rainbows and sunshine.

You went inside, the bell ringing as you opened the door. The owner of the bakery looked at you and gave you a huge smile, your heart warming at the sight of her. "Well hello there (Y/N), I'll get you your freshly baked chocolate muffins, on the go still sweetheart?" Mrs. Potts asked sweetly, making the corners of your mouth lift up. "Yes please."

She already knows you pretty well since you practically come here almost every day. When you miss Shawn, you always find yourself going back to this place, sort of like a spot for you to relax and ground yourself whenever things get overwhelming at times. This is where you drink your coffee in the morning, buy the cake needed for someone's birthday, and basically just buy a chocolate muffin whenever there was no special occasion.

You let out a sigh of relief as you looked around the place, memories flooding in one by one. Nothing has changed that much, and the wall of memories was still there, very much the same but with more pictures than last time since Mrs. Potts likes to take pictures of her regular customers and put it on a wall. Walking over to it, you felt your heart flutter as your eyes landed on a specific photo.

He had one arm around your waist as his cheek rested right on top of your head, him easily doing so being the long-legged giant that he is. His other hand was holding a muffin up, while your arms were wrapped around his torso, both pair of eyes crinkling as you smiled widely at the camera like your life problems doesn't exist, looking so glad to be beside one another, pure and genuine happiness radiating off the picture.

"Here you go dear." You were brought back to reality as Mrs. Potts placed the muffins on the counter, eyes trailing to what you were looking at that's made you have this wide grin on your face.

"Look at you two, so happy to be with each other. I still remember how the two of you were laughing so loud at the back. I knew I just had to take a photo of you and I had a feeling that something very special was going on between you two. I was right." She gushed, clasping her hands together to justify her adoration at the photo.

You turned to her with a soft giggle, and her smile only widened as she met your gaze. "Thank you." You said, for both the muffins and the photo. "Of course dear." She answered with a playful smile, a small glint in her eyes as she added, "Don't worry, he'll come around. You're an amazing woman and he'd be very stupid not to see that." You let out a hearty laugh at her comment, remembering that one time you accidentally told her about how you feel about Shawn.

I hope he does, one day.

"I'll see you next time." You nodded, her pulling you in for a quick hug–as much as you can do with a counter between you–before you made your way towards the door. With a glance at the time, you decided that maybe Shawn has already gotten home, so you called in a cab and proceeded to your next destination.

***

You caught sight of Shawn's Jeep once you arrived at his building, indicating that he's in fact home. You just hope Madison is nowhere near the place and that you don't walk in on them getting it on or something, because that image would scar your for life.

Reaching his condo, you went to knock on his door but unnervingly, it slowly opened itself with a light squeak. "What the hell." You murmured, eyebrows now furrowed in confusion.

You tried to push the door fully open but failing miserably as it won't even budge, like something on the other side was stopping you from doing so. You poked your head inside the small opening, then slowly squeezed the rest of your body in, a little challenging as it was a bit snugged, but felt glad that you managed to pull through.

Just as you were about to shout in glee for overcoming the tiny obstacle, your mood was quick to change once you saw that a broken plant vase was the reason for the door not opening. The soil was scattered everywhere with the plant along it, and when you finally looked up, your jaw dropped on the floor along with your heart.

You slowly closed the door behind you, the click bouncing off the walls so deafening as your mind started to think the worst case scenario.

"Shawn?" You called out shakily. Everything was just a mess, books were all over the place, flower pots broken along with shards of glasses shattered across the floor, a stool or two broken in half in the middle of the room, and his music sheets were everywhere like it served as a confetti, thrown out to the sky to land scattered on the floor, but what made you stop dead in your tracks was the obvious blood marks on the wall.

You almost lost the feeling of your knees, your breath hitching as tears slowly brimmed in your eyes, pure fear and shock written on your face. Your heart started pound hard and loud that it might just burst out of your chest, mind going haywire as you thought about what had happened here.

"Shawn!" You yelled, making your way down the hall as quick as you could, avoiding the numerous hazards on the floor from the picture frames that once adorned the wall, making sure not to step on anything that would make you hurt yourself.

"Shawn! Where are you?!" You tried again, fear consuming you once you were met with silence just like the last time. The questions were starting to flood your mind each time you opened the door of each room only to find no sign of him.

What if something bad happened to him? What if his address got leaked and someone decided to do something about it? Because this sure does look like a murder scene...

You shook your head, mentally scolding yourself as you tried to get rid of all the negative thoughts, the hours of watching crime movies not helping your predicament.

You rushed to his room, yanking the door open and your heart sunk when he was not there either, you only being met by a total mess. Your legs absentmindedly took you inside, a tear slipping out of your eye as the worry in your heart started to grow unbearable.

His mattress was at an angle, pillows and sheets covering different parts of the floor alongside his bedside lamp that was broken into pieces. All his drawers were pulled out, clothes upon clothes littered everywhere and you just hoped, wished the Shawn was okay. That he was nowhere near the state of being hurt.

A sound of a glass bottle hitting the floor made your head snap, teary eyes not locked with the bathroom door, a circular dent on the wall right beside it along with more blood that made your head spin. You wasted no time in rushing in that direction, pushing the door open full force, relief washing over you once you saw him sat on the floor, but that relief only lasted for a quick second as you took in his state.

He was staring blankly at the wall, hand the color of crimson along with the marks and bruises on his face, beer bottles surrounding him, a mixture of whole and broken shards.

"Shawn..." You croaked, slowly making your way towards him, trying your hardest to hold back the tears but not succeeding at all. You knelt in front of him with a deep frown written on your features, shaky hands reaching out to hold his beaten face, your soft and gentle touch making him shut his eyes tight as a tear rolled down his cheek and this made you cry even harder.

"What happened?" You asked, voice barely above a whisper as your bottom lip quivered, thumb carefully wiping away his tears as a few rolled down your own skin.

He slowly drew his eyes open to finally look at you and it hurt you even more to see those hazel eyes that always shone so much happiness, stare at you with nothing but sadness swimming in them. "Shawn, you're hurt." You choked back a sob, examining the cuts and bruises on his face and his hand, a mixture of red and purple covering his skin. You hate seeing him like this, the carefree Shawn that you knew, the cute and joyful dork you've grown to love all beaten and broken. You hate seeing him badly hurt, both inside and out.

With a deep breath you closed your eyes for a moment, piecing yourself back together because Shawn needs you to be strong for him, to take care of him. He needs you now more than ever.

"Let's get you cleaned up rockstar." You whispered, helping him up as much as you can, his tall form slowly getting up and off the floor as you slowly made him sit on the closed toilet seat, him still not saying a single word, his eyes only watching you with a frown on his lips.

You walked over to the medicine cabinet right above his sink, the mirror all broken in shards too as it was already peered open, but before you could even grab his first aid kit, your movements stopped along with the beating of your heart once you saw an open container of pills sitting on the marble. Fresh tears started to brim in your eyes but you quickly blinked away, ignoring the dark thought that passed your mind as you went back to Shawn, first aid kit now in your hand.

His head was hanging low with his whole body all slumped, a sigh leaving your lips as you rested your fingers under his chin to make him look up, flashing him a sad smile before holding up the washcloth as cleaned up his wounds.

You cleaned his cuts as gently as you could, standing right between his opened legs. Silence still rang between you two, Shawn's eyes observing your every movement, his arms lying limp on his side as he flinches whenever you press the wet cloth too hard by accident. You were too focused on what you were doing that you didn't notice the way Shawn's eyes showed how the gears in his brain started to turn, a certain feeling filling him up as watches you take great care of him.

You have always been there for him through and through, and you had never failed to show him just how much you care about him. And as he watches your beautiful face all knitted in pure concentration as you cleaned up the cut on his cheek, Shawn realizes that if there was any other person who could make him happy, the one who'd never hurt him intentionally, and the one who he'd willingly give his heart to, that person was you.

"Wait here." Your voice snapped Shawn back to reality, your figure disappearing from his sight as you went back to his room, returning just as quick but now a clean white shirt was in your grasp. You helped him change his shirt, Shawn wincing as he held his hands up, bruises also covering his torso and this made you even sadder than before.

After pulling his shirt down, you continued to treat his wounds, soft sniffles coming out you as you placed a bandage on the cut across his eyebrow and the one on his cheek. Shawn heaved a shaky breath, looking up at you with guilt filled eyes, lifting his hands up to rest tenderly on your waist, the small action making your heart flutter.

"I'm sorry (Y/N)." He mumbled ever so softly, making you look at him slightly confused. "For what?" You asked, grabbing his right hand from your waist and carefully wrapping it with gauze. "For all of this, for scaring you, making you worry." Shawn breathed out, the guilt inside him growing as he looked at your bloodshot eyes, free hand reaching up to caress your tear stained cheek with his thumb.

You leaned into his touch with a sigh, eyes shutting momentarily before meeting his gaze with a small smile on your lips. "It's okay Shawn. I will always worry about you no matter what and you know that. I care about you too much." You answered truthfully, a glimmer showing in Shawn's eyes that you couldn't quite comprehend and didn't get to catch again as he nodded, staying quiet until you finally finished patching him up.

"Meet me downstairs okay? I'll make hot chocolate, and I also bought you muffins." You said, giving him a small smile. He stared at you for a moment, and you can see it in his eyes that he was thinking about something, though you can't pinpoint as to what was on his mind. "Okay. Thank you." He said after a few seconds, giving you a soft smile in which you returned before turning on your heel and making your way out the room.

You went straight towards the kitchen, rummaging around the cabinets then placing the kettle on the stove to start off the hot chocolate. You opened one cupboard at a time to try and find the mugs, which you did find, only they were out of your reach.

You sighed in dismay as you tried to stretch yourself as much as you can, already on your tippy toes but still, it did no difference. Suddenly you felt two strong arms wrap securely around your waist making you squeak in sheer surprise. You looked behind you to see Shawn lifting you up slowly, like a little kid who can't reach the top shelf, which was close to what was happening.

You grabbed the mugs quickly before Shawn placed your feet back on the ground, turning around to face him with a small pout. "You didn't have to do that, I had it." You grumbled, walking over to the stove to turn it off, continuing the task at hand.

"Just wanted to help you, and clearly, you didn't have it." A soft chuckle left his lips, though the sadness in his eyes was still there, leaving you to wonder even more what had actually happened, but you only nodded, not wanting to push him.

Shawn sat down on one of the stools by the kitchen island, head turned as his eyes glanced back at the mess he created earlier, and you didn't have to see his face to know the guilt written across it.

"Hey, I bought your favorite muffins. The one from that bakery we used to go to most times." You called out, making his head turn back to you, placing the muffins on a plate and sliding it towards him to try and distract him from his thoughts.

"Thank you." Shawn said with a smile that didn't reach his ears, his thoughts still bothering him no matter how much he tries to pay it no attention.

You gave him his mug of hot chocolate once it was done, standing across from him, as he slowly ate in silence, well nibbled as he still kept looking back at the living room, his appetite clearly not there.

As much as you wanted to know what had happened you stayed quiet, taking small sips of your hot coco with your eyes trained on him, concern very evident in them. If he wants to tell you, then he will tell you whenever he is ready, though you weren't sure if you were.

"She cheated on me." Shawn blurted out, catching you completely off guard as his eyes avoiding yours as he stared the marble countertop down.

"What?" You rasped, unsure of how to react as a mixture of too many emotions coursed through you.

"I caught her, Madison. She was with another guy. They were fucking each other on the couch and I walked in on them." Shawn grimaced, head shaking in pure disbelief as he image still sat so clear in his mind.

"Shawn I–" You stopped yourself, not really knowing the right words to say as of the moment.

"You know what's worse? When I told her I was breaking up with her, that I was done she said 'I've never loved you anyway! You were useful for my reputation while it lasted' was her exact words and that hurt like hell." Shawn's voice broke no matter how much he tired to control it, fresh tears now rolling down his cheek.

You approached him quickly but carefully, scared that you might break him even more when you touch him as he looked so broken and fragile.

You stood in front of him as you grabbed his face gently with your hands, his tear filled eyes looking up at you as his hands fisted your shirt on your waist, holding onto you for dear life. "Am I really not enough?" He sobbed, and the hurt in his voice was enough to break you into pieces.

You pushed his hair back and away from his forehead as you nodded, gaze holding his strongly. "Shawn, you are more than enough. Everything you do is enough. You don't have to doubt yourself just because some stupid bitch doesn't appreciate you." You stated firmly, meaning every words. You felt so hurt for Shawn but also so fucking angry at Madison. Maybe even after this you'll storm her in her apartment and smack some sense into her big time.

"She doesn't deserve you Shawn. Hell she doesn't even come to your level. She's just a low class bitch who thinks highly of herself. She doesn't see how amazing you are the way I do." Shawn's attention perked up at that, his forehead slightly creasing as he looked at you attentively and curiously. You were aware of the words that you just said, that you are practically admitting everything to him, but it just felt so right to tell him now.

"You are the most amazing guy a girl could ever ask for Shawn. You are the only guy I could ever want and need. You make me smile with just the way you are even though you don't notice it at times. You make me laugh the loudest by being the stupid and clumsy dork that you are. You make me feel so taken care of even if it's just you calling to check up on me. You make my heart flutter whenever you FaceTime me with that wide grin of yours, telling me the news about how the new single is doing amazing. You are more than enough to me Shawn. You are the kindest, sweetest, and gentlest person I have ever met. Madison just doesn't appreciate these amazing and great things about you because she's blind as fuck." You paused, taking in a deep breath, trying to gauge Shawn's reaction who only looked at you with an unreadable expression.

The nerves were eating you up, mind going in different directions as you weighed all the things that would happen after this. "Don't let her words get to you Shawn. You can do so much better than her. And I think it's time that you see what's been standing in front of you this whole time." You finished with a whisper, looking at him straight in the eyes.

Shawn let's out a shaky breath, gaze never breaking with yours, placing his hands on your waist and spreading his legs apart to pull you closer. He rested his forehead against yours, your breath getting caught in your throat as you felt your knees go weak, the butterflies in your stomach going crazy, your hands sliding down to rest palms flat on his chest.

"I almost gave up (Y/N), I almost kil– I almost did it." He whispered, his voice distant and embarrassed and you looked at him in pure shock, shaking your head in disapproval as the water works started again but he only gave your waist a gentle squeeze.

"I know, it was so stupid, thinking about it now. But I didn't, you know why?" You shook your head no, a small smile grazing his lips as he cupped your face with one hand, the other saying on your waist.

"I told myself, no Shawn, you're not giving up. It's not in your blood to give up easily. Then I thought about mum, dad and Aaliyah, how heartbroken and disappointed they would be and I don't want that. And then I thought about you. How much I want to stay with you, to be with you." He whispered, the top of his nose nudging yours, a sweet smile adoring his face.

You pulled back a little, just a little so that you can see his whole face, your heart bursting into colors as you looked at him a with confused eyes, pushing him to elaborate and his made him laugh nervously.

"I love you (Y/N), not just as a friend. I am so in love with you. I've been feeling this way for a while now, but I just had the courage to finally admit it and accept it with myself that I do love you and it's not something I can forget and brush off. I have been so blinded to not see that you're the one who was always been there for me, telling myself that you could never feel the same way but here we are." You giggled, starting to get a bit teary again but with a different reason this time.

Shawn drew his bottom lip between his teeth, tucking a hair behind your ear before continuing. "You make me happiest in ways I couldn't even begin to explain to you. I was so scared of ruining our friendship that I tried to ignore what I truly felt. I kept lying to myself, telling myself that you only see you as your best friend and nothing more, but I'm not scared anymore. I'm not scared to tell you that I love you (Y/N). I really, really love you."

"I love you too you dork." You giggled, resting your forehead against his, making Shawn let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"God, you have no idea how much I needed to get that out of my chest."

"I think I know Shawn."

He chuckled at your remark, nodding slowly. "I was so scared every single time that I always chicken out when I plan on telling you, but now, I just don't care anymore. All you care about is you, and how you make me feel so happy."

"Me too, I've been wanting to tell you how I feel but you keep getting caught up by other girls." You pointed out the obvious with an accusing look, and this made Shawn throw his head back with a laugh, a genuine and hearty one.

"I was so stupid wasn't I?" He hummed, wrapping his arms around you fully as he pulled you closer to him, your arms snaking around his shoulders, fingers getting lost in his hair. "Well, you won't be if you kiss me right now."

Shawn chuckled but didn't need to be asked twice, closing the gap between you as he captured your lips with his, finally after so many years. The kiss was slow and gentle, taking all you precious time because both of you have so much right now, right here in each other's arms.

You pulled away first with a sigh, eyes closed and Shawn grew slightly worried at your change in demeanor.

"I'm giving you time to heal bub. Your anxiety is getting worse. I won't force you to be in a relationship this early, I don't think it's healthy. But just know that I'll always be here okay?" You explained thoroughly, placing a soft kiss on his forehead, making him relax under your hold. "Yeah, you're right, you always are." He chuckled, remembering all the times you warned him about Madison, and thinking that how from now on, he'll listen to you always, without a doubt.

"But I'm not letting you out of my sight just so you know."

"Neither will I." You murmured with a bright smile, Shawn not seeming to get enough of you as he pulled you in for another kiss, lifting you up for you to sit on his lap, your legs wrapping securely around his waist. Shawn's lips fits with yours perfectly like it belonged, mouth moving in sync as Shawn let out a groan of pure satisfaction of finally having you all to himself.

He nibbled on your bottom lip in an attempt to deepen the kiss, a small giggle coming out of you as granted him access, his tongue slipping inside your mouth, a deep growl rumbling deep in his chest but you pulled away before things get too heated, Shawn looking up at you with a small pout as to why you stopped, his cheeks all flushed making him look even more irresistible than he already is.

"You're not getting lucky today Mendes." You tilted your head at him, a playful smirk playing on your lips.

A deep chuckle escaped Shawn's lips, his hands slowly going to down to rest just on top of the swell of your bum. "Oh really? Have I told you how persuasive I am?"

You bit your bottom lip with a shrugged, seemingly unfazed but your body was heating up slowly but surely, your position on his lap not helping by a bit. "Let's see if you can persuade me then rockstar."

Shawn quirked a brow, smirk widening as he never was the one to back down from a challenge. "Oh I'm not giving up until I do so sweetheart."

"Not in your blood to give up huh?" You teased with an eyebrow raised. Shawn nodded eagerly with a boyish grin.

"Not in my blood."

-:-:-:-:-

Like & reblog if you enjoyed and let me know what you think! It would mean the absolute world <3

Taglist: @invisiblelove97

Permanent Taglist: @dylshoney @keithseabrook27 @outlandishnerd @particularsof @chrizzy95 @drunklili@killmekatie @aspiring-fangirls-world @lettingtherosegrow @shawnshoodies @nedthegay @luvluvxx @adonishawn @justanotherfangurl272 @h-oneyholland @baefrombombay @whotfiskate @loveydoveyshawn

Lemme know if you want to be added/removed on the permanent taglist loves! x

363 notes · View notes