#It's hard to catch him some days especially before rainstorms to try and make sure he has food and shelter ugh

[sotc]

It's Friday and some things to note:

1) I sent out a comm update early to enjoy an early start to my weekend yayy!!!

2) received an HOA violation email with a pic of my front door of my empty cat bowls!!!!! EMPTY CAT BOWLS. NOTHING ELSE IN MY YARD. I am taking care of a stray cat you fucking petty heartless bastards. I'm killing you with my mind. You are stepping on Legos for the rest of your life. I wish they knocked on my door instead of being cowards I'd give them a piece of my minddddd mannnnn

to calm down I'm just. Gonna draw some Lucinda and Heinrix being cute. I am so ughhhh

[get-shiggy-with-it]

collab masterlist

✧ pairing: villain!hawks x afab!reader

✧ word count: 5k

✧ warnings: this is like all smut, angst, ambiguous but happy ending, unhealthy relationships, mentions of transactional sex, reader has a healing quirk but it's really just for poetic purposes, reader has a vagina, no other gendered parts, oral sex (reader receiving), vague metaphorical drug reference, mentions of blood, mentions of wounds, mating press, soft sex (?), sorta, slight potential could be read as dubcon but they're both into it

✧ summary: for years you've stitched hawks back together when the world has torn him to shreds—and he always pays you back, though you can't help but start want more than he can give you.

✧ a/n: hey y'all this months theme was villain/hero swap with a shared opener! please go check out all the other wonderful works in this collab, there are so many talented writers/artists involved!! credit to @/lady-bakuhoe for the amazing intro. also bonus points if you catch the old aesthetic tumblr post references.

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before.

Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city?

Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary.

One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

***

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

That fact is made even more horrifically apparent as he stumbles through your open window—and how long has it been since you’ve slept with it closed?—dripping with blood and panting from his flight.

The T.V. blares in the background, filling your tiny apartment with incessant ramblings that only grow louder by the day, and you already know what they’re going to say before they say it. Because you see him, before the reporters stumble upon heroes in the wreckage—you see what they do to him before they’re warning the public of dangerous villains loose in the streets.

They spout off about failing heroes but you think they’ve done a pretty damn good butchers job. Red feathers matted together, sticky and brown, fall in tufts from his back. You burn with shameful jealousy at the thought of those who would call themselves heroes having laid hands on what is yours.

He isn’t really yours and you know that, though you often wish you could be a bit more delusional. It might not hurt so much then.

They call him a villain. They call him a threat to society.

But even faced with the truth spilling from him and onto your creaking floors, it is easy to forget what a ruthless predator the man before you becomes when he leaves these four walls.

Especially as he falls forward on heavy feet straight into your arms, outstretched and waiting. There are stains on your shirt but you’ve known the secret for getting blood out of clothing for years now. Cold water for the fabric, warm to wash away the grime on his lovely skin.

“Gonna need you to fix me up again, sweetheart,” Hawks mumbles into your shoulder where his forehead rests.

His breathing is even more ragged now, not just from the flight.

“I know,” you reply and your hands shake when they find the gaping wound at his side—wide and deeper than the ones before. “I know. Can you walk?”

He doesn’t respond but that mop of golden hair shifts a bit as he slings an arm over your shoulder and rests his weight. You don’t need to direct him to your bedroom. This is an old game you’re playing and he knows the steps.

So do you.

Though, you’re never sure if it's dread that fills you and makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. Or if it’s that awful, momentary rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to run your fingers over him, bare and giving you free reign.

As long as he’s bleeding out on your floor.

Then you can feel him.

When he’s dying and needs you.

Needs you to fix him.

But won’t ever let you close enough to finish the job the way you want to.

You comfort yourself in with the knowledge that at least he lets you this close. At least those thin, silver-skin scars are the unmistakable mark of your healing hands. At least you’ll always haunt him like the red feather down that sticks to your pillows or between your floorboards.

So you strip him carefully and try not to let his sculpted chest distract you from the work. Hawks is silent, such a model patient as always. Only grunting when your fingers move to knit together the ragged edges of his flesh.

This will leave a nasty mark, you know it already. But you can’t find it in yourself to mourn the loss of that lovely skin.

It will only make it harder for him to forget you.

You’re knelt beside him, laid out on a towel you keep at the edge of the bed. Blood will soak through to the sheets regardless, but you try your best. He takes a sharp breath, white teeth catching the back of his hand between them to stifle groans.

You wish there was more pleasure to it. That he was biting back moans for you instead of trying not to scream as his flesh pulsed and grew hot while it was rebuilt under your fingertips. So you indulge, pretend your hands are elsewhere, roaming his perfect waistline and pulling whimpers from him.

Your dangerous, villainous, predator Hawks sprawled on his back, wings spread and cumming onto his chest under you.

The sounds above you change, and you know it hurts—must be excruciating as bone is set back into place—but you chose to believe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself from screaming your name as he reaches his release.

Hawks, you’d croon to him—Hawks because you don’t know his real name. Don’t know who he was before he started this underground life of crime on the fringes of a society that called him a monster and then turned him into one.

He isn’t a monster in your bed, though he may cry like one.

Cry as you mold his flesh and try not to look him in the face. Try to pretend they are an overflow of some better emotion. And when those summer wheat field eyes roll back in his head and those horrible pretty noises stop, you push past the growing ache in your limbs until the skin under your palms is smooth and no longer leaking thick, red blood.

And you do your best to resist the itch to feel more of him while he can’t stop you. Even with your fingers numb from overexertion, you can’t help but fall back on your heels and long for the feeling of his cheek in your hand, or his chest on your face.

But your part of the transaction is done.

And your permission doesn’t extend past these limits.

And it pains you to wish harm on him.

But it hurts even more when he does not need you.

So you sit and hate yourself and hope that those heroes with their disgusting philosophies get their shit together just a bit more. So you won’t lose your purpose. So he’ll keep coming through your window, permanently open through rainstorms and snow and spring heat.

Hawks’ breath evens slowly, and you stay still as a watched painting—no shifting eyes or moving limbs.

You crave these times like water or warm food—constant and instinctively.

And this is the only time you’ll ever have them, hands so filled with pinpricks of fried nerves that you can barely feel the soft, relaxed muscle beneath them.

What a tragedy.

What an injustice—

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

***

“Hmm,” he groans, sitting up and wincing as the new flesh protests under his movements.

“You should rest for a bit longer.”

Hawks looks at you, stretched next to him on the mattress—a purposeful few inches of space left between your bodies. It’s both selfish and practical advice.

But he isn’t here for that kind of help.

“You know I can’t just be sittin’ on my ass,” he quips, flashing you that eyes closed, wide smirk that sets your heart hammering in your chest. “Can’t have anyone tracing me back here.”

“Normally I’d agree,” you don’t find it in yourself to give the words any bite, “but you were just actively bleeding out a few minutes ago.”

“Sure, but that was a few minutes ago,” he winks and you can already feel the bed shifting as he moves to settle himself over your hips, one toned thigh on either side to bracket you against the bed. “Now, let me pay you back for all that hard work, yeah sweetheart?”

You wish the way he peered up through those long lashes, gold eyes honed in on you like a piece of meat on a hook, didn’t make your face burn this much.

It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Because this arrangement really is transactional—so you have to get something out of it too. At least, that’s what he tells himself, you think. He doesn’t know that those scant few moments you hold his life between your fingers is more than enough payment.

It’s been this way since the very first time you stumbled across him, half dead in an alley. But then you think it might have just been a ‘heat of the moment’ sort of thing that had just stuck.

You heal him and he makes you writhe on the sheets with his tongue and his hands, until you're fucked into unconscious bliss and he can slip away without your prying eyes watching him go.

But you still aren’t allowed to touch Hawks, even when he reaches into those deep parts of you and molds them to fit only him.

“You don’t—” you start to protest, partly because you want to believe you don’t want it and partly because you want to hear him insist that he does.

“Shh,” Hawks presses a calloused finger to your mouth and it takes every ounce of strength not to suck it past your lips. “I don’t like leaving my debts unpaid.”

That’s the end of your determination for the night. So you try to relax into his touch as slides your bottoms off and tosses them to the floor. Try not to clench up under those fingers that spread your legs. He doesn’t like it when you squirm away, when you flinch from his hands.

You want to think it’s because he hopes you aren’t afraid of him—of what he is—like the rest are, and not because he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

You want to.

But he’s so hard to read, and your mind is not often a kind place.

“Mm, god I’m always so hungry after you patch me up baby,” Hawks licks his lips as he stares down at you. “You won’t mind if I eat you right?”

You cringe at how fast your head shakes.

“Mm, course you wouldn’t.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and he’s right though you resent it a bit that he’s got you pegged so easily.

But you’re weak, you’re no villain, you’re no hero.

And so you’ll never be able to resist him. But, damn, did you wish you had a name to cry out. Then at the very least, you could keep a part of him with you too. Then you’d have some to moan on the nights he goes uninjured and you have to bring yourself to lonely release, only thinking of him.

Of those wings spread above you like a burning, red sunset, obscuring the rest of the world from view with his blinding light.

“Hawks…” you hiss instead as he shifts your legs over his shoulders and lays his tender chest on the sheets. “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s it gonna be tonight then?” he asks, breath ghosting over the damp folds between your thighs.

“Thought you said you were gonna use your tongue,” you whine, impatient now for any scrap of attention he’s willing to give.

“If that’s what you want,” he presses a kiss into the crease of your leg and hip, nipping the delicate skin so you whine again. “It’s whatever you want, you know that.”

It isn’t though.

It’s not whatever you want.

You can pick the position, you can ask for his mouth or his fingers, but even then, they won’t go past your neck. Your hands must stay firmly knotted in the comforter and away from him while he works. Cause he is working. This is part of the job to him, it's only in your fantasies that he’s doing it simply for the hell of it.

Hawks nudges your embarrassingly soaked slit with his nose and hums at you, “So is that what you want? Want me to eat your pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes—ngh,” you don’t get much in past the confirmation.

He’s a busy man.

He doesn’t have time for your stupid, romantic day dreams.

So he dives right in, and it’s enthusiastic enough that you can convince yourself he simply wants you that badly.

Hawks tongue licks a long strip from your hole to your clit and sucks the little bud past his plush lips. They’re a lovely, soft pink against your skin and they make a mess of you in seconds. He starts up an even rhythm, drawing circles into the nerves that sing and have heat building up in you only seconds after he’s started.

You hate that you love how well he knows your body.

You hate that you only know his when it’s shutting down.

“You taste so good, you know that?” he mumbles, lapping at you and kneading your thighs. “Could live down here just drinking you every fucking day.”

He doesn’t always talk like that but you’re happy he is now. It distracts you from the deep, ingrained urge to yank him by the hair and taste yourself on his lips.

“Makes me wish I’d let those damn heroes get hits in more often,” he’s back to panting and you keen at the sound. “Want my fingers too?”

“Fuck yes,” you don’t even bother hiding the desperation anymore.

He deserves the boost to his ego. You’d shower him with praise if he’d let you, bathe him in warm words and press them into his skin with your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you.

Hawks’ hand on your thigh trails slowly against the sensitive skin until he’s pulling back to run his fingers through your folds to ease the stretch a bit as he pushes two inside. He knows you can take what he gives to you, knows you love the way he fills you up.

Your tingling hands ache to grab his head and force his lips back as he sits for a moment, eyes glued on the space where his fingers disappear into your body. He groans low at the wet sounds your bodies make at their joining. Your legs shake where they rest on him, the one other point of contact he’s allowed. Those deadly soft feathers brush your calves as he curls his fingers up and waits expectantly for the strangled cry he pulls from you.

“There it is,” his voice is so much lower when he speaks now. “Can’t exactly show you the real ones, but how ‘bout you let me make you see some stars, huh?”

He asks so much of you. So much. So often.

In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever actively asked him for a thing he hadn’t already offered in the few years you’d known him. Hawks does it all—the taking and the giving and the demanding.

And you’re simply along for the ride, holding on for dear life lest he drop you, let you plummet like rock to the barren ground.

Still, you are mortal and you crave and you will take what you can get.

“Mhm,” you whimper when his deft fingers increase their pace, not thrusting but grinding mercilessly into that delicious spot inside.

“You wanna cum now, sweet thing?”

Then, true to his villainous nature, Hawks latches his lips back onto your clit, wracking your body with waves of truly sinful pleasure. His tongue draws quick, perfect circles across the bud just how you like. You’ll never know why it feels so much better when it’s him touching you.

How he knows exactly what you want.

Most of it.

Then his other hand is reaching around your hip, thumb taking over to press down where his tongue had been. Panting for the third time, his gorgeous head rests on your thigh and he stares dead on into your eyes. That predator yellow gaze pins you to the pillows better than any hand could and he licks across his lips while you watch, moaning as he tastes you there.

You groan deep and unabashedly at the sight.

“What is it?” he’s teasing you, unable to keep that part of his cruelty hidden even now. “What do you want?”

You shake your head and wish you could turn away, flop against the mattress and writhe but you can’t. You just can’t give up this moment that’s etching itself into your retinas—like you’re staring head on at an eclipse, celestial and short-lived.

“Tell me,” Hawks whispers, nipping at your thigh and working his fingers harder on you. “Whatever you want, you’ll get it.”

And maybe it’s the sudden heat of the room, or the little breeze from his wings spreading defensively to block you from view of his nonexistent audience—the outside world maybe? To keep you, this secret indulgence, hidden from their prying hands. Or quite possibly it’s just your own weakness at the feet of years and years of loving—because you do, you love him, it’s clear by now that’s what this is—this man whose name you don’t know and whose eyes never seem to leave you even when he’s gone.

Maybe you simply crack under the pressure of keeping this awful, looming silence for too long.

You feel your lips split at the seams and it all comes rushing out in a polluted flood—a stagnant river of secrets.

“Let me touch you,” you gasp and close your eyes then just so you won’t have to see that grin slip from his beautiful face. “Please Hawks, let me touch you. I can’t do it anymore, just—I need to kiss you, I need more.”

All this time he hadn’t let up on pulling pleasure from your skin, but he stops now, bringing your release to a screaming halt.

The quiet that follows—devoid of fast breaths and wet slapping—is suffocating.

You wish you regretted the outburst, the waste of years worth of work to keep him coming back.

But you don’t.

Of course you will in a minute, when he slips away and doesn’t return.

But now it just feels as though that boulder of secrecy has been lifted off your chest and you can finally take in lungfuls of sweet, unhindered night air.

It’s only after that dreadful minute has passed and there are still hands on you—buried in you—that you dare to open your eyes again.

Hawks is staring blankly, an expression you’ve never seen before, so stark from the usual quirk of his lips and tilt of his chin. Blank, but calculating. You can see the gears clanking as his thoughts rush a mile a minute, faster than he’d ever dream of soaring over the city skyline.

He blinks once, twice, then again and you can see the redness blooming at the corners as his eyes grow glassy between each flutter of lashes. And then, as though moving through honey, he draws back from you, only to crawl up your body until your noses touch.

You hold your breath, lip caught between your teeth, but his slicked thumb comes up to pull it out of your gnawing reach. He strokes across the puffy skin, never meeting your gaze, until he slowly, slowly leans down.

It’s not really a kiss, more of an accidental brush, so little of your lips touch you could easily have imagined it. When he speaks again, you can feel him forming the words against you.

“I—” he starts and licks his lips and yours and you don’t think it’s an accident, “I can’t.”

It isn’t what you want him to say, but it’s better than a silent loss .

You know truth when you hear it.

“I know.”

And you do, you do know, you’ve always known. He’s darker when he’s not with you. You’ve seen the carnage he leaves behind broadcasted on screens, but it’s never stopped the ache before.

He can’t keep you the way you want, can’t have things that get in the way.

You can only touch him when he’s dying. You can heal him, reform his flesh and bone—pull him back from the brink—but you’ll never feel his chest against yours or his hair slipping through your fingers or have all of him buried inside you. He’ll never love you like you want him to.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing.

And apparently, it doesn’t stop Hawks from kissing you anyway.

“I can’t,” he repeats and it sounds so broken you almost think that wound has reopened and he’s going to start slipping away again.

But the only thing that slips is his tongue past your lips and tangling with your own.

And then the levee breaks.

It’s a sudden torrent of hands and legs knotting together like the torn edges of too many injuries. Hawks covers every available part of you like an addict seeking his fix. It’s breathless and uncoordinated but you’ve never felt more alive, alight, aflame.

He presses his lips to yours again, pulling away and then diving back in. Frantic hands pull you off the mattress until your back is against the headboard and he’s straddling your lap. You take the opportunity to sink your fingers into that goldenrod hair and it’s just as silky as you’d imagined it to be.

Hawks moans into your mouth, kissing you wildly, like the beast he is with teeth clacking and your tongue sucked between his lips.

“I can’t,” he keeps mumbling, between groans and hips grinding and hands grabbing, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— “

You wonder then which one of you he’s trying to convince.

But you don’t ask, just let your hands wander to the delicious curve of his ass on your thighs and squeeze, rolling his bulge against you. His fingers push and proud, ghosting across your chest and stopping to pinch your nipple. He drinks down the whimpers you let out, letting his lips wander your jaw and throat, sucking bruises—leaving his own scars on you—as he goes. He pushes you back down to the pillows so his lips can continue their work, latching onto the quickly hardening bud and suckling lightly. His groan sends little shockwaves through you and he looks up with brows furrowed like he’s in pain with how good it all feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s so soft you barely hear it between licks at your chest.

“No,” you finally find it in you to respond, shaking your head and pulling him back to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says again while you nip at his earlobe and down his jaw, tight pants yielding under your hands as they’re tugged away so he’s just as bare as you.

“No,” you shake your head and any response dies on his tongue as you dig your fingers into the feathers at the base of his wings and pull him forward.

Hawks lets out a choked gasp as his length, bare, hard, and leaking glides across your cunt. Any other time, you’d have liked to savor this moment. Get on your knees and worship his pretty cock—and you know it's pretty, just from your short glimpse. He’s long and perfectly thick, just how you dreamed he would be. The cute tuft of blond curls at his base is course in the best way as you trail your fingers through it to take him in your palm.

“Ahh,” he keens, arching above you with his head thrown back as you stroke him for the first time.

It’s been so long, you're not sure how you ever resisted this before. Not with how heavy and warm he is in your fist.

“Hawks,” you moan, sucking at the dip in his collarbone and moving to bite at his nipple. “Hawks, please.”

“I—” you think he might protest but you flick your thumb over the tip and it pours precum to help the slide of your fingers.

He’s already got those powerful arms hooked under your knees, all he has to do is lean forward and sink into that tight, awaiting heat, and he knows it. You can see the resolve cracking.

“Hawks,” you beg again. Because you are begging, that’s what this is.

And he looks at you, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and brows all bunched up with his head shaking.

“Hawks.”

His hands grip the underside of your thighs and knock your hand from his dick.

“Hawks.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, eyes squeezed shut and red at the edges. You feel the sting at the corners as if they were your own.

“Hawks.”

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

Is he dying now?

Are you killing him?

“Hawks.”

His breath hitches, whatever he might have said is long gone when the head of his cock catches against your entrance.

“Hawks—”

He sinks in to the hilt all at once and the last utterance of his name is a yelp. Your walls clamp down hard around the intrusion, so much bigger than his fingers, so hot and long and thick as he pulses inside you.

There are no words after that.

No names, no refusals, just his face pressed up on yours as he pushes your thighs to your chest and rolls his hips, fucking you evenly into the mattress.

Not soft or slow or overly rough.

Though it is all of those things at once as well.

Hawks has always been full of contradictions. It makes sense that this is too.

Both your eyes stay open, lips brushing and sharing breath as he slips a hand back down to your clit and starts those perfect circles up again.

He doesn’t ask you questions now. Just stares in your eyes and sinks his cock into your over and over until you feel fuller, more complete than you ever have in the whole of your life.

There’s no warning leading up to the end. You feel the crest approaching, the coil waiting to snap low in your belly and you don’t dare take your eyes off his face. You need to commit the entirety of this moment to memory. Just in case.

Just in case it never happens again.

Or worse, it happens over and over until it doesn’t.

Until you run out of chances to touch him.

Until he comes to you too far gone.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and that’s all the warning you get.

All the warning you have the strength to listen to as you tumble over the edge, waves of rolling pleasure burning under your skin. You clench hard around his cock as his hips stutter in their pace, thrusting unevenly as you gush and he spills rope after rope of hot release deep into you.

And you’d been wrong before, because this was full. This was whole, your stilling bodies pressed together at every point with his cock still hard and twitching as your walls milked him of cum that warmed you from the inside out.

This is what you would die for.

***

Later when you stumble into unwilling wakefulness, there are hands tucking a thin sheet over your bare skin.

Hawks has pulled himself from you after resting like you’d told him he should. He’s dressing, though not hurriedly, and you can’t find it in your jelly bones to move or stop him.

You’re both silent, even when he looks down to find your eyes alert and raking over him—costume donned and wings prepared for flight.

His face is drawn in a way that might have been resentment. Maybe towards you for breaking his resolve, maybe at himself for indulging in what he cannot have.

I can’t.

You hear the words as clear as though he’d just said them.

I can’t.

Can’t have you. Can’t forget his purpose. Can’t have gentle things.

Hawks is a villain, first and foremost, above all else and that includes you.

So you don’t move to stop him as he walks softly through your door. You just watch as he makes his way to the open window and perches on the ledge. He does look back, only briefly, to see you draped across the sheets, head resting on your arm and staring at him as he leaves you.

The ghost of that cheeky grin crawls its way onto his face before he tips backwards off the landing and into the night sky. He winks once before the indigo of the night swallows him like the maw of a leviathan. The city has teeth and it will chew him up and spit him back out into your arms soon enough.

So you’re content to wait.

You know this isn’t the last time. That he’ll come back to you as he’s always done. And offer you more and more of himself each time.

Because you can only touch him when he’s dying.

And this world is nothing if not determined to kill him.

So you can keep your purpose.

And by extension, you can keep him.

[superhero--imagines]

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! / Part 3 Here!

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A/N: This is the last part to The miscommunication series, I hope you guys enjoy it ;) Also peep the last link to ‘Zine’ and stay tuned

This is weird.

You look up from your textbook at the scrawny boy across from you. The circles under his eyes look especially dark as the blue light from his tablet shines on his face.

Yeah, this situation is super weird.

You’re ashamed to admit it, but you’ve been avoiding Dick a little bit lately.

You’re still pleasant to him in class, and you see him at the study group sessions, but you don’t try to make the effort to see him in situations where it’s just the two of you.

You’re just not ready to see him with all these feelings brewing inside you.

So the last thing you wanted was to run into his little brother, especially when you purposefully went to another coffee shop across town just so you wouldn’t run into Dick.

Still, you’re surprised Tim chose to sit with you after ordering 4 shots of espresso over ice.

“The ice makes it cold so you can’t taste how bitter it is” he had told you when you looked at his drink with a skeptical expression.

Well, it’s not a problem, you think taking a sip of your chai tea. Tim seems like a quiet person, he’s only said a handful of words to you so far, he probably won’t even bring up -

“So are you and Dick fighting?” Tim asks without looking up and you choke on your tea.

“So you are fighting” he hums as his gaze trails from his tablet to you. He figured Dick was being paranoid, honestly, even Tim thought following you to the coffee shop and pretending that he just ran into you was overkill.

Man, he figured you were just in the middle of some misunderstanding. He’s usually right about these things. Tim’s not going to lie, it stings to know Dick was on the nose about this one.

“It’s not that we’re fighting,” because you both really aren’t, there’s only going to be a fight if he finds out how you feel and how uncomfortable your new feelings make him considering he already has someone he loves.

“I just don’t want to get between him-“

“And Nightwing?” Tim supplies for you and your eyes widen.

“You know?” Tim nods in response.

You think Tim is saying he knows his brother and Nightwing are dating.

Tim thinks that you found out Dick got reprimanded a few weeks ago because he was spotted chatting with you on your balcony. He was able to play it off as just a normal chat but he would be risking exposing you to every villain in Gotham if they ever found out your were someone important to him.

“Maybe you are-“ Tim hums. You feel like a lightning bolt has struck your spine. So Dick does know about your feelings - or at least suspects something.

“But that’s not exactly a bad thing” Tim finishes, and you raise an eyebrow. You wait for an explanation but Tim’s already turned back to his tablet, typing away.

You look at the city, buildings springing up like trees from the concrete, their jagged edges like the crooks of a mountain. Nothing’s really changed. Not the buildings, or the skyline, not the stars in the inky black void of outer space. Not the city that never seems to sleep, the idle chatter of cars and civilians always whirring in the distance.

The only thing that has seemed to change, is you.

“That smells good, is it green tea?”

Well, one other thing has changed. You find a smile twitching onto your mouth as you hand Nightwing the mug in your hands. He’s perched on the ledge of your balcony, legs swing against the bars.

You get anxious just watching him.

“I had a feeling you’d stop by, it’s cherry blossom green tea, I think you’ll like it.” It’s a naturally sweet tea, so he should find it suits his taste considering he seems to share the same disposition for sweet things as his boyfriend.

You know that encounter with Tim this morning was weird, but the fact that you’ve kind of become late-night tea and chat buddies with your love rival is even weirder.

Looks like you can’t even make friends in a normal way.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he grins taking a sip of the hot beverage with a satisfied smile. The hum he lets out afterward sends shivers down your spine. Geez, no wonders Dick has it so bad for him.

You wonder what kind of noises he makes when they’re together-

Nope. Nope. No. Nope. No.

That was too far, your imagination really needs to get a grip.

“So how are things with you and that guy you love?” You flinch at the mention, choosing to take an unusually long sip of tea right then.

“That good huh?” Nightwing snorts, and you sigh. You’re not going to tell him about the cryptic conversation you had with Tim, especially considering the fact that he doesn’t seem to support their relationship.

Dick feels a little frustrated, as he watches you avoid his eyes. The whole thing seems off like there’s something missing. So you don’t want to be seen with Dick Grayson, but you don’t mind midnight tea talk with Nightwing- and you tell Tim how you don’t want to get in between him and his superhero persona- and then you wave him over when you see he’s a rooftop over-

It just doesn’t make any sense.

And worst of all-you look so pretty standing there, even with that sad look on your face.

“Well you know what they say-“ you let out a dry laugh, “to get over someone, you have to get under someone else”

It’s just a joke - a bad joke, you’re helping it’ll ease the tension. You figure Nightwing will make a dumb joke or pun back, and this whole thing can be behind you when he says-

“Get under me then” you’re so taken aback but what he’s said you’re sure he must have heard wrong. But when you look away from the green tea in your mug to his face, that chiseled face is only a few inches away from your own.

Before you can open your mouth to ask what he’s doing so close to you, his lips are pressed over your own. His gloved fingers ghosting over your cheek, holding it so tenderly that the action sends shivers down your spine.

Dick pulls away, fingers retreating to his domino mask, he doesn’t want to confess to you as Nightwing he wants to do it as Dick-

When you slap him.

This has seriously been the worst day. Dick sighs as he turns the water faucet to his shower off, grabbing his towel from the rack.

First, he forgets his cell phone at home on a Monday afternoon, so he’s got nothing to do to pass the time while he patrols.

Then the girl he likes slaps him before running back into her apartment without another word, probably to go cry-

And finally, to make the perfect end to the perfect day Dick got caught in a spontaneous rainstorm, getting soaked to the bone on his way back home. He figured Gotham could wait for a few hours and decided to come home a little early.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if I catch a cold” he mumbles tying his robe around his waist, his hands moving the towel to dry his hair, stopping mid-motion when he hears several very urgent knocks.

Well, who could it be at this hour? He’s considering ignoring it, probably just one of his brothers wanting to use his shower, when he hears several more knocks.

“Geez Jason, the neighbors are going to complain” he hisses, as he clings open the door, fully expecting to see his younger brother drenched to the bone and creating a puddle in the middle of his apartment building's hallway.

And someone is standing in the middle of his apartment building's communal hallway, drenched to the bone and creating a puddle in the hallway. But it’s not Jason, it’s you.

He only pulls you inside his apartment, the door clicking behind you when you break down into tears.

“I-I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean to, I should have known better but- I didn’t think it would happen” The words are jilted by your tears and your chattering teeth. Did you run all the way here? Dick wonders as he starts using his slightly damp towel to dry your hair.

“I really didn’t want it, Dick, I promise I didn’t-“ you clasp his arm now jilting his movements. In the pandemonium, he completely forgot that you were the one that slapped him just a few hours ago, and now you’re the one apologizing for something?

“What are you talking about?” he sees your gulp hard, your eyes averted like a dog that realizes he’s accidentally snapped at his owner. And then, with clenched eyes and your hands balled into fists you shout:

“Nightwing kissed me!” Yeah, he knows, he was there. Kinda weird that you’re referring to him with his superhero persona. You look at him earnestly now- clasping both of his hands in yours.

“I promise I didn’t mean to make a pass at your boyfriend or steal him away from you.”

.

..

...

Huh?

You’re babbling about how ‘You could do so much better than a guy like that Dick’ and ‘if it was me- I would never do something like that’ when the flashbulb finally goes off over his head.

Oh.

Ohhhhhhhh. You think he’s dating Nightwing. This actually explains a lot.

“Here come with me” he grabs onto your numb wrist before you can answer, tugging you towards his bedroom. Your eyes staring into his robe-covered back.

Oh no, you can’t believe you didn’t realize it before.

Nightwing’s here isn’t he? That would answer why he hasn’t answered any of the texts you’ve sent him. Who would when they were busy having a romantic liaison with their lover. And obviously, he spun some different story for Dick, probably that you kissed him. And now you’re going to have to confront them both and pray that Dick believes you-

Only to your surprise, the bedroom is empty, and Dick’s fiddling around with something in his rather large wardrobe. Before you can ask what he’s doing he pulls out a suit-

It almost looks like a wet suit, with accents of blue amongst the sleek black- so he surfs? Is he showing off right now?

But then your eyes land on the bright blue symbol smack dab in the middle of the chest.

So Nightwing was here, and he did spin another story! You’re mentally preparing your best argument when you look into Dick’s baby blue eyes stare into your own, softening as they gaze warmly at you.

“(Y/N), I’m Nightwing”

.

..

...

(Y/N).exe is broken

Dick watches you gulp hard. Then he watches you slide past him, each step pronounced with a squeak, and step into his wardrobe before closing it from the inside.

“(Y/N)!”

“(Y/N)’s dead, so she can’t come to the phone anymore” Dick can practically feel the embarrassment radiate through the wardrobe door, and in spite of the situation, Dick laughs. He laughs so hard you actually swing open the door, crouched at the bottom of his wardrobe.

“It’s not funny Dick! Do you know how worried I was about you! I thought Bruce Wayne was homophobic and that you were leading some double life!” Dick only laughs harder at that. To be fair, he is leading a double life, just not the one you imagined he was.

“Well you’re not totally wrong,” he says between chuckles, sitting on the ground outside your wardrobe next to you. “I like guys and girls, but Bruce had it figured out before I even did,” he says with a shrug, mouth quirked up into a grin. His cheeks hold a rosy tinge, but somehow his red cheek is even brighter-

Ah, that’s the cheek you slapped.

Without thinking you reach out to him, your thumb caressing the swollen flesh. Dick doesn’t flinch away, relaxing into your touch.

“Sorry about that, I thought your boyfriend was cheating on you,” you say with a sheepish smile. Dick grins even wider.

“Would the response have been the same if you knew it was me?” There’s a hopeful glint in his eyes and you feel your heartbeat stutter.

Is he stupid?

If you knew it was Dick if you knew it was the boy you loved sitting on your balcony railing drinking tea with you all those times-

“Of course I wouldn’t have”

And Dick doesn’t wait another moment, leaning forward to catch your lips in his own.

This time you don’t slap him. Instead, you place both hands on his face and pull him in closer.

BONUS:

“So you’re Nightwing-“ you say, sitting cross-legged across from Dick in a marching bathrobe in his bed. He insisted you shower, he didn’t want you getting sick. You thought he was going to combust with how red he turned when you jokingly asked if he wanted to join you.

“And your Dad, Bruce, he’s Batman”

“That’s right” Dick nods.

“And you’re brothers, they’re the Red Hood, Robin, and Red Robin... respectively,”

Dick nods again.

“And Stephanie and Cass, they’re a part of this too, They’re both Batgirl” Dick nods, he tries to get some eye contact, but you’re firmly starting down at your hands.

“And your ex, Barbara Gordon, Commissioner Gordon’s daughter- she’s the original Batgirl.”

This must be pretty overwhelming, he had never realized what a robust mantle their extended family collectively carried. He’s about to offer you some comfort when your head snaps up-

“Do you think if I got all of them to autograph my textbook I could sell it and buy a new one”

Dick starts laughing.

“Seriously, there’s no one like you in the world”

[ruzek-halstead]

the way you move is like a full-on rainstorm (and i’m a house of cards)

outer banks • jiara • post-season two • fluff with a sprinkle of angst

In the beginning, the idea of a deserted island to themselves sounds like a paradise.

No parents, no rules, no murders — just each other and a fierce determination to get back what's theirs.

In theory, that was great, but it doesn't take long before a sinking feeling settles in the pit of Kiara's stomach. She thinks about the similar feeling of despair her parents must be feeling at her disappearance and it's paralyzing. She isn't sure if the others notice her change in behaviour —  Kiara thinks they're just happy to be alive, after so many close calls.

Kiara doesn't understand how the gravity of what they've faced doesn't hit them now that they're alone and stranded.

Don't get her wrong, Kiara is always down for anything, especially if it's for her friends. Her loyalty knows no bounds, and she doesn't regret a single moment, but now that she has the time to reflect, she isn't sure how to process it.

They almost died.

JJ almost died.

She understands they're just happy to have made it out alive, but Kiara can't forget the fact that they almost didn't.

Sometimes when she sleeps at night, it isn't the chilly breeze or the uncomfortable sand that keeps her awake. It's the fact that every time she closes her eyes, she feels like she's underwater again, being dragged under by the dead weight of her best friend. She can't un-see it, she can't forget about it, and it's making it incredibly difficult for her to move on.

Kiara quickly realizes the water doesn't just affect her when she closes her eyes. Every time she moves to enjoy the benefits of an ocean six feet away, her legs stop moving as soon as her toes merely dip into the water. She hasn't been able to have a proper swim and it doesn't take her long to figure it out; so, she just stays away from the ocean, unless it is to cleanse her skin. Even then, she can't go too far.

The fact that JJ acts like he didn't nearly have a brush with death doesn't help her anxiety.

He acts like his normal carefree and reckless self, and don't get Kiara wrong, it's one of the things she adores about him. But she can't look at him the same anymore. His head wound was serious and they had no medical supplies to treat it. Sometimes Kiara watches him carefully, watches his movements because sometimes, she catches the way he wavers when he stands and needs to blink multiple times to even take a step forward. But then he's running with the boys, eagerly tackling each other and Kiara cringes every time his head connects with various hard surfaces.

It's painful to watch, and the fear that something serious is wrong but they have no way of knowing is sometimes too much for Kiara. That, piled with her nightmares and her conflicted feelings about her parents, is enough to dissipative any joy she might feel about a deserted island with her best friends.

It's only been a few days since they've arrived onto the island, and Kiara isn't sure her friends have caught onto her standoffish behaviour. It should hurt a bit, but Kiara can't bring herself to care.

When they decide to hop into the ocean for a late-afternoon swim, Kiara mumbles an excuse and hangs back, watching them from afar. She's sat against a tree, her knees pulled up to her chest as she watches. The jealousy hits her square in the chest and she's slightly angry her body doesn't allow her to join in on the fun. She doesn't know how to get over her new fear of water; the images of JJ's bloodied blonde hair against her skin, trying to stay afloat, haven't disappeared from her mind, and she's beginning to fear they never will.

Kiara is so deeply stuck in her thoughts that she doesn't even notice JJ stepping out of the ocean and approaching her.

When he sits down next to her, he's soaking wet, but the hot sun is quickly drying out the droplets scattered along his bare chest. He reaches for a split coconut and offers it to Kiara; she shakes her head so he takes a small sip.

"So," JJ starts, clearing his throat. "Are you going to tell me what's up?"

Kiara doesn't take JJ for the most perceptive out of their group, but he always seems to surprise her. Perhaps just how she's been keeping an eye on him since they arrived on this island, he was doing the same with her.

"Silence isn't a good look on you, Kie," he says, and Kiara realizes she failed to reply to his question. He's not wrong either. Kiara isn't exactly known for being quiet — rather, she's known for her passionate rants about the environment, turtles and the abhorrence of single use plastic. She hasn't been feeling any of that lately; she hasn't been feeling herself at all lately. "I'm not blind, you know. I can see something's up."

Kiara shrugs, because she truly doesn't feel like talking, and she can feel JJ's eyes burning a hole into the side of her face. How does she explain to her best friend that every time she looks at him, she pictures his unconscious, bruised and bleeding body?

"Kie," JJ sighs, quieter this time. "I'm starting to get worried."

The softness and sincerity in his voice causes her to look over, and she almost wishes she hadn't. His eyes are the brightest blue with the sun shining down on them, his hair messy and pulled back and a slight frown etched on his pink lips, that he bites anxiously.

"I'm just starting to miss home," Kiara replies, and it isn't a lie, per say, but it isn't the entire truth either.

JJ seems a little relieved he's managed to get something out of her, but his eyes stare at her as if he's expecting her to say more. "Okay, and what else?" Kiara's head swivels around to look at him questioningly. "Kie," he starts exasperatedly, "You've barely stepped into the ocean since we've gotten here and you've been so closed off. Seriously, what's going on with you?"

Her jaw locks and her eyes harden for a reason she can't determine. This is what she wanted, for someone to notice, to care about what the hell was going on with her. But her throat is burning, and she's selfish because all she wants to do is scream at him — scream at him because she's like this because of him.

Deep down she knows she doesn't regret jumping overboard to save him for even a second. She doesn't. But she resents him for putting her in that position in the first place, for jumping to her defence and getting hurt, for being the bravest friend she'd ever had. It's starting to make her brain hurt; she plans to avoid this conversation at all costs.

"I already told you," Kiara mumbles, standing up and dusting the sand off the back of her shorts. She ignores the pleading look in JJ's eyes. "I miss home, that's all."

Kiara turns to walk further into the trees, farther from where her best friends are screaming in utter happiness with each other. She nearly expects JJ to give up and go back into the ocean, allowing her some time for herself. But when she turns to look at him approaching with heavy footsteps, his expression is tight, angry even, and his jaw is clenched as he stares at her.

"Kiara, I'm not playing this game with you," JJ rumbles, and Kiara knows he means it by the use of her full name. "And I'm not leaving here until you tell me what the hell is wrong with you."

Kiara's fists clench at her sides and JJ's eyes drop to them. "You want to know what's wrong with me, JJ?" She spits, feeling the fire spread through her veins and into her brown eyes. She steps to him and continues, "Why don't we talk about you instead, huh?"

"What?" JJ responds, clearly confused. "Kie—"

"No, JJ! Let's talk about you!" Kiara snaps, continuing to step into his space. JJ doesn't step back, and his expression only darkens. "Let's talk about how you're pretending you're fine, but you're clearly fucking not! I see you, JJ! I see you when you stand up too fast and it takes you a full minute to get your shit together. You're obviously hurt but you act like it's nothing! What if you hit your head again? What then? We don't have a doctor — we can't save you again, JJ!"

JJ's expression is calculating, trying to gauge what this actually has to do with Kiara's new behaviour. He spots her trembling bottom lip when she says they can't save him again. He knows she means herself, because she's the one who saved him, no one else.

"Kie, I'm fine. Sure, it's a little sore, but I'm not going to stop living my life because of a little injury. I've had worse, Kie, and you know it."

Kiara nearly growls in response.

"Seriously, Kie, what the hell is the matter with you?"

Kiara can only take so much. She snaps.

"I can't fucking sleep!" Kiara shouts, voice cracking, but she powers through. "I can't sleep because every time I close my eyes, I'm back in the ocean, holding both of our bodies above water so we don't fucking drown! I can't go in the ocean because we nearly died and then you almost died in my arms and how am I supposed to just get over that, JJ?"

JJ's eyes are wide as she explodes.

"Kie—"

"I'm terrified you're only one hit away from just never waking up again and I can't have that, JJ — I can't."

Kiara is standing right in front of him at this point, eyes wide and filled with unshed tears. It feels good to just yell, to get her frustrations out, even if she's yelling at JJ. His expression is blank, save for the pity in his blue eyes.

She blinks and a tear escapes. His face betrays him and his lips curl in a frown before he's wrapping his arms tight around Kiara's waist and pressing her to his chest. Her arms get crushed in his embrace but the comfort is all she needs to let it all out. She cries, loudly and embarrassingly but she can't bring herself to care. The past few days have been building and building up inside of her and it was only a matter of time before she cracked. She isn't sure how she's going to get rid of the nightmares, or get over her newfound fear of the ocean, but standing there in JJ's arms, she doesn't care.

"Kie," JJ murmurs against the curls near the crown of her head. "You were a fucking rockstar out there and you saved my life. I can never thank you. But don't you ever think you can't come to me for shit like this. I might not be the best person for it, but Kie, I promise I'll do my fucking best to help you through it."

Kiara pulls away from his chest, but JJ doesn't remove his arms. "J, I don't know what to do," she whimpers, "I can't fucking sleep."

"Fuck, I really wish we had weed here."

Kiara laughs, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. JJ's smile is pained; he always hated seeing Kiara in pain. And if tears are involved? Even less.

"Listen, if you can't sleep, I'll stay up with you. We'll talk until you're tired — or maybe having me right there beside you, alive and shit, you can tell your nightmares to fuck off because JJ Maybank is alive and kicking, baby."

Kiara laughs again, enjoying the hopeful glint in his blue eyes as he rambles. She responds with wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing the side of her face to his chest. She can hear and feel his heart beating and it brings her a sense of calmness.

"Kie, I'm so sorry," he mumbles quietly, "This is all my fault."

"I don't regret a single second," Kiara replies fiercely. She pulls back to drill it into him with her eyes, because she knows JJ and his self-blaming tendencies all too well. "I love you JJ and I would do it all over again. If I have to deal with nightmares just to have you here with me, then bring on the fucking nightmares."

Now it's JJ's turn to cough out a laugh, though it doesn't reach his eyes. It kills him to know that Kiara is suffering through all this pain and hurt — pain and hurt she's only dealing with because she saved his life.

"I love you too, Kie. And I promise I'm going to help you through this, okay? You're not alone."

Kiara's eyes search his face, ultimately landing on the side of his head that's still a tad bit sore from the hit he'd received less than a week ago. Her fingers reach up to caress it carefully and he schools his facial features to not let her know how sensitive that area of his skull is. He knows what she's thinking before she even says anything, and he sighs. "Just be careful, JJ," she says, surprising him with her words. "I don't want to lose you. I can't."

"You won't," he promises, and even though they both know it's a promise he can't keep, the conviction with which he says it nearly convinces her.

For a moment, it's just the two of them. JJ and Kiara. Best friends with endless possibilities.

Kiara thinks about it for only a second. She can kiss him right now, and he would probably welcome it. But she doesn't want to treat him like that; he means too much. Her hand slides down his bare arm instead, clutching his hand.

"No more shutting me out, okay?" JJ orders, though it lacks any authority. It's more of a pleading ask, than anything else. "Because JJ Maybank hates to be ignored and I tolerated it once, but I won't do it again, Kie."

Kiara's lips crack into a smile and it's like JJ can finally breathe easy once again. "Why do you keep talking about yourself in the third person? It's weird."

"Because it's effective."

"It's lame is what it is."

And suddenly they're back to their normal, bickering selves and JJ is wrapping a comforting arm around Kiara's shoulders as she nudges in close. He quietly promises to help her through her sleeping issues and her newfound water phobia as best he knows how. Both issues have to do with him nearly dying, and he hopes the fact that he is very much alive will help in overcoming them.

They start off slowly, JJ easing Kiara into the ocean as she clutches his hand for dear life. He makes joke after joke to make it easier. Sometimes it works and she forgets, sometimes it doesn't and she has to rush back to land. It's a process, but JJ has endless patience when it comes to Kiara and he's willing to do whatever it takes.

At night, they curl into each other, JJ's arms tucked around Kiara, while she tangles her legs with his. They talk until JJ accidentally dozes off, but it's alright, because Kiara lays her head against his chest and focuses on his heartbeat. That's how she falls asleep. She doesn't expect her nightmares about him to disappear just like that, and they don't, but with JJ's steady heartbeat underneath her, she's able to push past and get some actual sleep. In the morning, JJ apologizes profusely, but all Kiara can do is smile, as she's gotten some decent sleep for the first time since they arrived.

JJ becomes like her lifeline. It's the only way she'll survive the island.

Her parents are gone, and the pain is still fresh. She still worries about them and what they're feeling, but all she can do is think forward, on how she'll eventually make this up to them.

Her worries about JJ and his head wound don't subside either, but to her surprise, he's unbelievably more cautious as he horses around. He attempts to avoid situations where he might hit his head, and periodically asks Pope to check it out and make sure it's looking alright. Pope's knowledge is limited, especially since his fascination is with cadavers, but it's the reassurance it brings that counts. JJ also knows Kiara appreciates his cautiousness, and he'll do anything to see her smile softly at him, pride in her beautiful brown eyes.

Kiara isn't exactly surprised when she realizes she has feelings for JJ, but she is frustrated as hell. What she pulled with Pope earlier in the year wasn't cool and she'll never forgive herself for it. The realization makes her shove her feelings down, far away. She can't mess up another one of the most important relationships in her life.

Even when she gets the vibes that maybe JJ feels the same way, she still shoves her feelings down.

She notices it in the little things, such as staying back with her when their friends dive into the ocean, sitting beside her at the camp fire and throwing a comforting arm around her shoulders, pressing his face into his neck in his sleep, consistently reminding her how important she is to him.

It's starting to eat her up inside, and she hardly notices when she begins to pull away from JJ for both their sakes.

JJ notices, and he isn't fucking happy about it.

"Kie, I thought we talked about this," he says in a stressed voice, his fingers pinching the skin between his eyebrows. He had spotted her trek out into the woods for more firewood, and the urge to follow was just too strong. He's a weak man when it comes to Kiara.

Kiara startles, not having heard anyone follow her. She throws him a dirty look. "What are you talking about now, JJ?"

"You're doing it again!" JJ sputters, hands flailing as if that would drive his point home. "Pushing me away. I thought we agreed you wouldn't do that anymore."

"I'm not," Kiara replies automatically and JJ raises an eyebrow. "I'm not!"

JJ rolls his eyes, huffing out a scoff. "Oh, cut the bullshit, Kie. I told you I wasn't going to do this again with you, and I meant it."

Kiara visibly hesitates.

Does she want to spill her guts and tell JJ she's potentially falling for him? Absolutely not. But is he giving her much of a choice?

"Listen JJ, this isn't about you at all. I'm just — I don't want to hurt you or mess anything up, okay? Just  — please, don't ask questions."

Kiara absolutely butchers her explanation and she can tell by the unbelievably confused expression JJ wears.

"Kie, what the fuck are you talking about?"

She sighs, deciding maybe the best option is just to completely disappear from this conversation. JJ disagrees and he blocks her exit. "JJ, I'm begging you. Please."

"What the hell?" JJ asks, holding his arm out in front of her waist so she doesn't walk away from him. "Kiara, I swear to God—"

"What do you want me to tell you?" Kiara snaps, wild eyes darting to his confused blue ones. "That I'm staying away from you because I think I might love you and it took you nearly dying in my arms for me to figure it out? Or that I'm avoiding you because I seem to fuck up every important relationship in my life and I don't want to ruin you? Or ruin us—"

JJ interrupts, face completely blank as he says, "Shut the fuck up, Kie."

Kiara startles, shocked at his words, even though he doesn't say them angrily. She's bearing her soul to him and this is what she receives in return? She has half a mind to punch him in the throat, but then he continues.

"I've literally been in love with you since the fifth grade." That is definitely not what Kiara expects him to say. "Do you think I give a fuck if you think you're going to ruin me? Because I can assure you right now that you won't. You're one of the best fucking things to come out of my shitty life, and I don't want you to ever think you can ruin us, because you can't."

Kiara's gone speechless. For once in her goddamn life, she's absolutely speechless, and it's at the cost of her reckless, gorgeous, best friend who is currently staring at her as if she just offered him the fucking moon.

"Fifth grade?" Kiara croaks, her lips splitting into a bright smile.

JJ matches her smile, a slight blush creeping up his neck as he momentarily dodges her eyes. "Give or take. You were real annoying in fifth grade, Kie. Take this as a massive compliment."

"Oh, I do," Kiara laughs as her arms wind around his neck. She grabs onto his chin, dragging his gaze to focus back on her. His blue eyes are wide as they drop down to her lips.

Before either of them can make a move, Kiara says quietly, "Eighth grade."

"What?" JJ sputters in confusion.

"Eighth grade is when I momentarily saw you more than just JJ, my dumbass friend," Kiara explains, rolling her eyes at the smirk that graces his lips. "Momentarily!"

JJ chuckles, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Kiara's eyes track the movement. "I'll take it."

After another moment with no movement, Kiara huffs, tugging him closer. "Am I going to have to ignore you again for you to fucking kiss me or what are we doing here?"

"Pushy," JJ quips, nearly laughing at Kiara's murderous expression. "I always knew you wanted me."

"You know what? I've gone seventeen years without it, I can go seventeen more."

JJ's grin drops immediately when Kiara starts to pull away, so he tugs her closer and feverishly presses his lips to hers. He immediately slows down, wanting to savour this long awaited moment, but Kiara isn't interested in slow. Her hands slide into his fluffy hair as she deepens the kiss with a level of desperation she isn't even aware she possesses. Kiara absentmindedly tugs on his blonde locks and JJ lets out a low groan; she takes full advantage and sneaks her tongue into his mouth. JJ only groans louder.

"Holy fuck, Kie," JJ breathes against her lips when they inevitably pull away from each other to catch a breath. "I just always assumed you were an amazing kisser but Jesus Christ, I think I need to sit down."

Kiara wants to roll her eyes, but she finds herself laughing instead. "You're an idiot."

"Your idiot, though," JJ replies, then pauses. "Right?"

The moment of insecurity in his voice is telling, especially for a man who hates to show it. He wants to be sure they're on the same page, because it'll hurt too much if they aren't.

"My idiot," Kiara confirms, latching onto his hand.

JJ pulls on their intertwined hands, before adding in a condescending tone, "See what communication can do, Kiara?"

Regardless of what Kiara wants to fire back, he's absolutely right. But she can never leave him with the satisfaction.

So, she shoots him a glare and says, "You want to see what my foot in your ass can do?"

"That's kinda kinky, babe," JJ smirks, "Don't worry, I'm all for it, though."

Kiara doesn't argue in response, or follow through on her threats of bodily harm. She stands on her tip-toes and presses a gentle kiss to JJ's unsuspecting lips. When JJ looks at her with questioning blue eyes (though he's definitely not complaining), Kiara shrugs and says, "Just because I can."

She can and she does, very willingly.

JJ doesn't mind one single bit.

[daydream-believin]

The Never-Ending Roadtrip (waffles)

summary: (part 1) or (part 5) <- reader joins douxie on his quest to protect nari. he’ll need company wont he. (part 6) do you like waffles? also appalachia and nj trollmarket fun. next-> (part 7)

warnings: swearing, fem! reader, maybe an alcohol mention, proof reading is for squares yo

word count: 3875

a/n: i’m sorry to anyone from PA but wtf. i also have no idea why this turned out the way it did. bon apetit.

no gif im trying to test something

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Y/n looked over at Douxie. The blue of his hair was starting to fade into a duller hue. While not as bright and bold as his personality, it was still very nice to look at. This muted blue was softer, almost comforting in a way. Y/n found herself running her fingers through it. It wasn’t just the color that was soft. Like feathers in her hand, she gently caressed the strands. The duller color made him look tired, older, and the permanent bags under his eyes didn’t help. She placed her hand on his face and ran her thumb over a said eye bag. He gave her a very subdued smile in return. His sunken eyes were so beautiful. Her favorite color. Or colors, one should say. They were like an earth toned opal. Y/n’s hand drifted down his face. She used her thumb to explore his cheekbones, tracing constellations in his freckles, and finally settled on his mouth, tracing his cupid’s bow. Douxie couldn’t help but break the stoic face he was trying to hold.

“As much as I hate to ask this, and I really do, but will you please cease what you’re doing, My Love. I’m trying to drive here.”

“Yes, I would also like to ask you to stop, miss L/n. Not wrecking the ship is worth you canning your pda for a while.” Archie added.

Y/n pulled her hand back and exaggeratedly pouted. She teasingly stuck her tongue out at Archie for good measure, but couldn’t help but dissolve into a snicker right after so it wasn’t very effective. But really, it wasn’t her fault that Douxie’s beautifully sculpted face was right there and demanding to be touched. She tried to distract herself by focusing on the scenery around them. North Pennsylvania was delightful, so it’d be a shame if she spent the whole time that they flew through it looking at nothing but Douxie. There was plenty of time for her to do that the rest of her life. It’s not like she didn’t have every freckle memorized already. Every single adorable little dot. Right, Pennsylvania. Appalachia. Y/n was a little disappointed they didn’t manage to go through West Virginia, being as north as they were. She really wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Country roads.

The mountains were hard to transverse through, so Douxie took the boat up high in the clouds. A little too high. The oxygen was thin. While this didn’t affect Archie the dragon or Nari the plant goddess, Douxie and Y/n were getting a bit woozy. Neither would get altitude sickness to the point of dying, thanks to that good ol’ curse of immortality, but their minds weren’t exactly operating at high speeds here. They passed through a low hanging cloud in a puff of fog.

Though they were over it, just being in the range of Appalachia felt odd. There was a presence that clung to the mountains. Even flying high up in the air, one felt as though they were being watched. Like the thousand eyes of the forest were upon them. Looking down below, hanging over the edge like Douxie hated her to do, Y/n saw a herd of deer that might as well be ants. Watching over the herd was a bigger, or maybe closer, stag on a peak of some sort. His antlers were covered in crimson. Y/n hoped he was just shedding.

There were pathways cutting through the trees below, some roads, some manmade trails, some rivers, some troll trails, and some deer trails. Some that wound around in endless curves, some that seemed to start from nowhere and stop at nothing, some that went round and round in a circle, and some that crossed over each other, effectively creating a maze of sorts. Y/n didn’t know why, but she was glad she was above the trees and not in them. Something within her gut told her that as beautiful as the scenery was, she did not wish to experience it first-hand. The deer below were beautiful, but there was something not quite right about them. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to turn down a game of ninepins either, and she could really go for a drink.

Douxie’s brain may have been foggy, but he could certainly see Y/n hanging over the edge again, tantalizing him. He couldn’t help but imagine 174 ways for it to end badly. He’d been pretty passive about this before but now that they were so high up, he had no choice but to be up front now.

“Y/n, My Love,” Y/n turned her attention to him, which also pulled her weight more towards the boat than the sky. Good. “do you mind being back near the center of the ship? I really don’t like you draping yourself over the railing like that.”

Y/n was getting sick and tired of people always trying to keep her away from edges, advising her not to climb the mountain, telling her to stay inside when there was only a light rainstorm. She could handle it. She wasn’t a fucking porcelain doll. She was not wearing a fancy gown that suffocated her, she could speak, her lips were not perfectly painted on. And she wouldn’t shatter. “Relax, Dewdrop. I’m fine. I’m not just gonna go skydiving for kicks. If anyone has had a penchant for falling through the sky recently, it’s been you, Hisirdoux. I can catch myself with anti-gravity spells, like you taught me. Besides, we walk across tall, crumbly, ancient non-osha compliant walkways all the time. You never had a problem then.”

“Well,” He huffed, “it would be one thing if I was there next to you, but I’m not, so could you please just try to stay safe when I can’t reach you?” Y/n was taken about at how quick his tone went from annoyed to desperate. She furrowed her brows. Doux sighed, “Look, it frightens me, okay. I know that nothing will happen, but what if it does? I can’t- I can’t lose you.” His tone got even feebler in his pleading. “And there’s so many ways to lose you. Especially with the Order on our tails. Please, just give me this peace of mind for at least one thing.”

Y/n stepped away from the railing, crossing over to Douxie. He opened his arm and she nestled into his side. Pressing her head against his chest, she mumbled, “Absolutely. I’ll just—I’ll just stay here then. Next to you. I’m sorry I worried you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you, My Darling.”

~ ~ ~

The dipped down south to go through the top of Maryland and completely through Delaware to get to the south of New Jersey, in place of just going through Philadelphia. The city of brotherly love was not on the itinerary.  Philly, and the top of New Jersey, were just too densely populated to take a magic boat through. The airspace was filled with airplanes and skyscrapers. It was easier to go the roundabout way.

As they passed between Philly and Lancaster, they went by fantastically named towns such as Paradise the city, where the girls are pretty, Bird In Hand, Blue Ball, and Intercourse. Stellar. Y/n was starting to really like Pennsylvania. It was cursed ground. She made sure to get photographic evidence of every road sign. Douxie was happy to pose with them.

They took a pit stop in a town called Peach Bottom before leaving Pennsylvania. Y/n wanted to go through New Texas, since she was curious how somewhere in the original colonies could be a new Texas, but Nari could sense a river nearby, and wanted to seek it out. Peach Bottom. It was a cozy little town with a power plant that was dumping it’s waste into the riverside it was built on. Toxic river. Fun. Y/n made Douxie explain to Nari why she couldn’t get near the river or touch any of the water. Y/n wouldn’t have been able to stay as calm as Douxie could. There was nothing happening in the rural Pennsylvanian town. Nothing special about it unless you counted their countless nuclear admissions. The locals didn’t care for strangers, and that was alright with them cause they didn’t want to be here for any more than necessary for a restroom break. Dinner could wait.

The top of Maryland was great. Lots of rivers to make it up to Nari. There was just, an incredibly large walmart near the line. Just absolutely humongous whopper walmart. A leach whose name doesn’t even deserve to be capitalized, thank you very much autocorrect.

It took less than half an hour to fly right through the top of Delaware. Hi Delaware, bye Delaware.

Soon they were on the coast of south New Jersey, headed for a sleepy town called Monty. Monty was a town along the Cohansey, split across it with quite an impressive bridge between the two sides. As soon as the bridge became visible on the skyline, Y/n grabbed Douxie’s sleeve and tugged excitedly. She looked up at him with a big smile. Rest. At last, they were going to get to rest. Y/n made herself busy calling Jim to let him know that they were there so he could call someone else to let them know that they were there and to wait by the entrance for them. Neither Douxie nor Y/n had a horngazzle on them at the moment. Y/n had had one in her possession back in Arcadia, being book club buddies with Blinky, but alas that was destroyed along with their bookstore.

They hid that damn magic boat in the forest. While they did plan on staying with the trolls for a few weeks, Douxie didn’t put it back in its glass bottle quite yet, cause they were in fact taking it into New York not tomorrow but the next day. He covered the ground around it with a few more wards than necessary. Y/n threw up an illusion spell around it, as she had been all the other times they’d just left it in the woods, and thought the wards were overkill but didn’t say anything. They started on the trek to the base of the bridge.

The troll at the entrance greeted them cordially. He was a dark green color, with two massive horns resembling those of a longhorn cow, chiseled stone tattoos, and no clothes other than a tiny loincloth which made everyone but Nari uncomfortable. He let them in with flourish, as if he’d always wanted to do this and practiced it.

“Welcome to NEW JERSEY TROLLMARKET.”

Y/n was surprised at how well the town had come along within the two months the trolls had occupied the cavern. It wasn’t the Trollmarket she had known, there was no Blinky and no library, but still marvelous. The new hearthstone glowed warmly, very much alive and not making zombies. While looking pretty similar to the old Trollmarket, with a multitude of shops and homes carved into the mineral covered walls and formations, there was a sort of human touch to it now. Claire definitely had a hand in the planning and maybe the decorative features too. Or perhaps Jim. Y/n wouldn’t put it past the boy to be the one who designed the very elaborate crystal art flower bed she was looking at. Or that weirdly steampunk bridge. Funny thing, a bridge under a bridge.

Dictatious met them soon after they came in to show them around and to where they would be staying. The tour he gave them basically just included him walking them through the main street, waving his arms to various places and vaguely saying that they were shops but not what they sold, pointing out the pub, and then took them straight to their accommodations. Since the home that had been occupied by Blinky, Jim, and Claire was now empty, they’d be staying there, with the place practically to themselves. Dictatious also lived in said home, but rarely stuck around it for long now that his brother was gone.

“Alright, here’s your nest.”

Since Dictatious still slept in the nest that he shared with Blinky, he had given them Jim and Claire’s. The nests were just rocky bowls carved into the floor of the room, with a few comfort items. Thankfully, Jim and Claire had left theirs full of pillows and a couple thick cushions they must have taken from a couch. Unconventional, but better than sleeping on literal solid rock. Speaking of couches, there were way too many couches spread across the apartment. This entire place only had two rooms, a large living area and a nestroom, and yet there were five couches. Not to mention the extra-large easy chair Dic was currently lounging in. Okay, so one of said couches was technically a love seat, but still. There was no kitchen, which was surprising due to this being Jim Lake Jr’s home, and no table besides the one that three of the sofas were gathered around and a paper-covered work desk against a corner. There were glowing crystal lamps all throughout, lighting the house. All in all, interesting interior design decisions. The kids had definitely been trying to make it a more homey human dwelling but had limited options.

Nari nestled into the nest, happy that there were no blankets to smother her. Not even a minute passed and she was out like a light. Douxie and Y/n sat on one of the couches in the nestroom, watching the veggie lady snooze. Archie made himself comfy in Douxie’s lap, who absent mindedly stroked his familiar’s fur. They were underground now. Surrounded by inorganic matter. Some of that inorganic matter could fight, would be willing to fight, would probably be disappointed if there wasn’t a fight. The little devil on Douxie’s shoulder wasn’t really having to work hard. His stomach growled. They had opted to just not stop for dinner in favor of plowing right through their trip route. It was late, and dark, and Douxie really just wanted them to have a roof over their head before midnight. And now they did.

He looked over at Y/n. They had been a couple for an entire day now and he had yet to take her on a proper date. What a bad boyfriend he was. It’s not like Archie would want to come with them or anything either, since he filled himself with birds that didn’t know what hit them while they traveled. The dragon had even caught a hawk at one point, which wasn’t as impressive as it sounds, since Archie was a much faster flyer. He would be happy to watch Nari for them, surely. And Dic had given them a horngazzle so they could come and go as they pleased. It was settled then.

“Arch, watch Nari for us, please, we’ll be back in a pinch,” He grabbed Y/n’s hand to pull her off the couch, “C’mon, My Love, we’re going on a date.”

~ ~ ~

Turns out the only thing open past midnight in small town New Jersey was a waffle house. The perfect date. Y/n had thought it funny to watch Douxie try and deactivate all the fresh wards he had put around the boat. He had to be careful where he put his feet, and it was like he was doing a silly little dance. Ward trap ballet of his own barely thought-out design. At one point he stepped backwards to admire his work, triggering the ward behind him, and Y/n had to free him from the net. Lucky it was just a net one.

Entering the waffle house, they slid into the nearest booth, the one near the jukebox. They ordered what else but waffles. The food of kings and hungover college kids. Not just plain waffles, though. Douxie got chocolate chip and Y/ got strawberry, and they were going to combine them to make chocolate covered strawberry waffles. Everyone knows chocolate covered strawberries were the most romantic food, why else would they push them so hard around Valentine’s.

Douxie leaned in with his head in his hand. “So, tell me about yourself.”

Y/n laughed, decided to play into this bit. “Oh, I’m just a California lass, on her way to New York. Things have been crazy lately. Went to a very convincing renaissance faire, I’m harboring a fugitive, my roommate keeps hitting on me. Very stressful.  Sure am lucky I came across you, Mr. Handsome.”

“Lucky indeed.” Doux snickered.

Y/n pointed to the jukebox behind Doux, which he twisted around to see. “Have you ever heard ‘Last Night I Saw Elvis At Waffle House’?”

“No?”

“Oh, it’s a banger.” She got out of the booth and put a coin in the juke, making her selection. She slid back in with a Cheshire cat grin and Doux was kind of scared now, actually. As the current song ended and the song that they were waiting for began. Well, it was a song. About seeing Elvis in a waffle house. With a country tune he supposed someone thought was catchy in order for them to have recorded this. Douxie didn’t know what he had expected.

“Uh, wow.”

“Yeah, Ain’t it something. I loved this song when I was knee high to a grasshopper. All the waffle house jams really.”

“Your aunt let someone bring you to a waffle house? That’s not very proper.” Douxie chuckled.

“Oh, no, actually. Um, this was before my dad passed and my mother, ah, slipped.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Douxie rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“No, no. I’m fine Dewdrop. I can talk about it, really. And, like you said the other day, I’ve been focusing on the Now Love.” The silly waffle house themed song was still playing despite the air of seriousness that had fallen over the duo. It helped keep Y/n from getting too sad and dwelling on the memories she had just brought up. It was comical, really. A waffle house song keeping her grounded. She rubbed the palm of Douxie’s hand. “I still mourn my family, but it’s been so long that the pain’s but a dull ache now. As long as I don’t think too hard about it. If anyone knows about mourning it’d be you, Doux. I can’t imagine meeting hundreds of friends over my lifetime just to watch them all grow old and die while you just have to go on living.” She paused, eyes drifting downwards, “But I suppose that’ll be my fate anyways.”

Douxie reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s actually not that bad, once you get used to it. You just have to enjoy every bit of time you get. That’s what makes other magic friends so valuable, there are some permanent players on your team.” He let his hand linger under her jaw, pulling her face closer to his, “You have me. We have each other. We’re family. We always have been.”

“So I hate to interrupt, but, waffles.” The server put the plates she had been holding down onto the table. Douxie and Y/n pulled away from each other quick as lightning, sitting up straight in their seats. “Again, sorry guys.”

“Thank you.” The two chorused to their fleeting form in embarrassment. Their faces were fire engine red. Archie was right, they did get a little carried away with the pda. It may have been 12:28am in a waffle house but they were still in public. Grabby hands needed to be kept to themselves.

After dinner, neither Doux nor Y/n could bring themselves to go home quite yet, despite the nagging feeling to return to Nari. They loitered around woods, unsure of what to do. Leaning against the parked boat, Douxie got an idea. He put on the music on his phone, turning the volume all the way up and positioning it so it’d put out a better sound the best he could. The playlist he selected was actually the one he had of songs that reminded him of his beloved. Copying what Y/n had done last night, he held out his hand.

“Come on, dance with me, My Darling.”

Douxie twirled Y/n around in the night breeze that blew through the trees. This song was much faster than the one they danced to last time, and there was more energy between them. Y/n’s laugh echoed through the forest. This was a lot of fun, she could do it all night. Honestly, she could do anything all night if it was with Douxie. He lifted her up, like she weighed nothing. Seriously, how strong was this noodle armed wizard. She threw her arms around his neck, looking down to meet his eyes, a rare thing. Y/n kissed his nose, eliciting a happy giggle from his mouth.

He should have put her back down by now. Instead, he still held her up, transfixed by her face ringed in moonlight, like a halo. She noticed the awestruck look on his face, kissing him properly, yet it did nothing to pull him out of his stupor. He had one thought running over and over in his mind. Marry me. But, he couldn’t say that. A proposal had to be special, not after a waffle house date. Their first date, mind you. He couldn’t possibly jus-

“Marry me, Dewdrop?”

Well apparently he couldn’t but she absolutely could.

It took him a moment to take in her words, shocked out of his overthinking. The biggest grin spread across his face as he giddily spun her around in his arms. He finally put her feet back on the ground, crashing his lips into hers. Y/n brought a hand up to drag through his hair and left the other to slide down his back. No battle for dominance, Douxie’s tongue was definitely the one leading here. He just couldn’t believe it. It was if she had read his mind. It was still hard for him to believe she wanted him in the first place, but this much? If this was the afterlife he must surely be in heaven. One makeout session later, Y/n rasped “So I’m guessing that’s a yes?”

“Let’s sign the papers tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~

Despite the uneasy feeling they had both had about leaving Nari alone for so long, she was perfectly fine. In fact she hadn’t even moved an inch form the spot they left her in. Like they never left at all. Archie was asleep on that couch, as peaceful as ever. They’d tell him the news in the morning.

Y/n climbed into the nest and dragged Douxie down with her. After getting comfy on the array of cushions, he opened his arms and she nestled into his chest. She could feel his hands rest on her back. Perfect. It was calming, listening to his heartbeat, being lulled to sleep with the rhythm that gave proof that her beloved was alive. A steady beat that reassured her he was there, he was there. He wouldn’t leave her again.

*** check notes for chapter illustrations lmao

[brandyllyn]

In our own image... (01)

Chapter 1

(Poe Dameron x OFC)

Other chapters...  My Masterlist

Word count: 2200. Read it on AO3.

Rating: Teen & Up (PG) language.

Poe Dameron, Commander in the Resistance Army, hands down the best pilot in the fleet, hero of D’Qar, and one sexy guy - although admittedly that one might be just in his own head - was having a shit day.

It started when he fell out of his hammock that morning. He fell out every morning, but this morning was especially bad because he had somehow missed putting his foot down correctly to catch his fall and whacked his head on his table on the way down. Despite having strung up his hammock in a private little stand of trees, canvas tarps providing a roof from the rain and some additional privacy, he still cursed loudly enough to wake up several people nearby. Which on its own wouldn’t have been that bad either except one of them was Snap which meant Poe was never going to hear the end of it.

It had been downhill from there. Breakfast was leftover rations from the night before. There were no flight maneuvers on his schedule today, just endless strategy meetings. No mission in sight to get him out of this jungle either.

And they were running low on caf - so low the pots were being brewed less than half strength, weak and watery. Barely worth drinking even though he savored what little jump he could get from the murky beverage.

By the time lunch came around Poe was ready to throw in the towel. The day was not going to get better and to top it off, BB-8 was mad at him. They’d been arguing for nearly ten minutes while Poe was trying to eat lunch. A few other people had come and tried to make conversation but Poe’s bickering with BB-8 had made most of them quickly move on to other tables.

"Come on buddy," Poe pleaded with his droid. "I’m sorry, I know you don’t like it. But I can’t fix it right now either." BB-8 beeped at him with exasperation, ending on a trilling note that Poe would have called insubordinate if it hadn’t been paired with a sad whistle. "I know, I know. The moment I can get somewhere that sells the tools I need we’ll fix it I promise."

"What’s up with Beebs?" Jessika Pava asked, sitting down at the table next to Poe and clutching a mug of tea. Poe eyed the beverage dubiously. Last he heard they were on their third or fourth use of tea leaves and her drink didn’t look much better than his caf had that morning. But if the Black Squadron pilot wanted to pretend she was holding more than the dregs of what used to be tea he wasn’t going to say anything about it.

"Someone pushed him down a cliff and now he’s got sand in his circuits," Poe replied, eyes carefully avoiding the man sitting across from him.

Finn heard him anyway. Obviously. He was sitting less than two feet away, he couldn’t help but hear Poe. "I’m not the one who got us crashed on the sand dunes."

"I’m not the one who-" Poe started but was cut off by a mournful whistle from BB-8. He sighed, "I know buddy, we’re both really sorry."

"Real sorry Beebs," Finn echoed, rocking the droid affectionately with his foot.

Pava snorted, hiding a smile behind her mug when Poe glared at her. "Why don’t you take him over to the droidsmith," Pava offered.

Poe turned to her in confusion, seeing BB-8 do the same at his feet. "The who?"

Pava tilted her head at him and then blinked, "Oh yeah, you’ve been gone a while. We’ve got a droidsmith. Set up over on the south side next to the Mu."

"When did a Mu shuttle arrive?" he asked.

Pava rolled her eyes, "With the droidsmith."

"Yeah Poe," Finn mocked, "with the droidsmith."

Poe glared at him. "What do you know about the droidsmith?"

"I know he’s over by the Mu shuttle," Finn retorted.

"She," Pava muttered under her breath and Finn gave her a glare before correcting himself.

"She’s over by the Mu shuttle, everyone knows that."

"Mmhmm," Poe grunted, looking down at BB-8 who was blinking up at him hopefully. "Right after lunch, I promise."

Without the constant interruption from BB-8 Poe managed to finish his meal in peace, Pava falling into step beside him after he pushed back from the table. She led him past the Command center and a string of X-Wings, then pointed out where the shuttle was settled next to a large canvas tarp strung between three trees. From where he was standing, it looked like it was covering nothing but crates.

He took a step forward and then frowned when he realized Pava wasn’t with him. "You’re not coming with me?" He asked

Pava shook her head, "It’s probably best if I don’t. She doesn’t like me much."

Poe glanced at the shuttle, then back at the pilot. "Why not?"

"Me? The Great Destroyer? Why do you think a droidsmith might not like me?" She asked sarcastically.

Oh yeah, Poe thought, that. It wasn’t that Pava tried to get her droids shot, exploded, imploded, or short-circuited. It just always seemed to happen to droids that were near her for more than a few minutes. BB-8 flatly refused to fly with her, even when Poe had directly ordered him to once.

BB-8 was ahead of them both, rolling across the ground and investigating the new ship. Poe looked back at Pava, "Do you at least know her name?"

Pava shrugged. "I’m told she doesn’t speak Basic. She’s got a little translator droid you can talk to though. Name’s K-0."

"Great," Poe muttered as he watched her walk away. When he turned back, it was just in time to see BB-8 disappear around a stack of crates. "Just great."

Judging from the size of the roof tarp, the droidsmith’s shop covered several hundred square feet. She had stacked crates around several sides to create the illusion of walls and there was covering on the ground to keep everything out of the inevitable mud after the rainstorms. Poe ducked under the tarp, his boots making a hollow thunking noise on the ground cover.

He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust to the shadows and then raised an eyebrow. In front of him was a table, set fairly low to the ground, with a ramp leading up to it and an R4 unit in two pieces on top of it. The droid whistled at him as he went by and he gave it a nod. From that table there was another ramp to a higher table, this one scattered with a variety of parts. It took a moment before Poe realized the benefits of the arrangement. Different droids would need to be at different heights for repairs. And the ramps made it easy for them to roll where they needed to be.

He walked past the second table and around a corner made of boxes and entered a larger, enclosed area. The ceiling was tall, at least fifteen feet, and he could see various parts hanging from the poles that held the tarp up. Light filtered through the opaque fabric but the interior was mostly lit by a variety of battery operated lanterns and lights strewn around. He idly noted a hammock in the corner, and a stack of crates leading up to it. Falling out of that one could cause serious injury. On a table near to it, at a normal height, Poe got his first look at the droidsmith.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. He’d met a few droidsmith’s over the years. One had been a burly Snivvian, another an elderly human woman. Enough to know that there was no one kind of person who was drawn to the profession. It required smarts, quick fingers, and mechanical know-how - but once you had those the possibilities were endless.

This droidsmith was… there was no other way to describe her than stunning. Skin a dark golden color, a few shades darker than his. She had large irregular shaped spots framing her face, extending along her hairline behind her ears and down the sides of her neck, underneath the wide leather choker she wore. They continued on, disappearing into her clothes and he wondered briefly how much further they went. She was Chasinian, Pava hadn’t mentioned that. One side of her dark hair was cut shorter than the rest - the rest falling over her shoulder.

Poe felt an instant jolt of attraction. It wasn’t just that she had striking looks, but the entire picture she presented seemed to be tailor-made for him. She was sitting on the table, knees spread wide and feet touching, BB-8 nestled in the gap of her legs like a small child. As he watched, she pulled off the sturdy work gloves she was wearing to reveal long fingers. She immediately began running her hands over the droid, pressing on sensors and caressing the edge of his panels with soft, graceful touches. For just a moment, Poe was irrationally jealous of his friend. He shook the thought off quickly. He heard BB trilling happily, popping open ports to show her the array of gadgets and mechanisms Poe had installed over the years.

As she stroked the droid, Poe could see her muscles moving. The white tank she wore left her arms bare, and she had a streak of grease along the outside of her forearm. She looked like someone who could not only kick his ass in hand to hand combat - but like she’d steal his X-Wing while he was still trying to catch his breath.

Poe had a type. He’d admit it. And that type was "could kick his ass and steal his ship." It had gotten him into trouble too many times to count in the past, and yet here he was. Suddenly lusting over a perfect stranger based on the way she was touching his droid and the mental fantasy he had drawn up based on no more than a twitch of muscle and streak of grease.

Then again, there was also the fact that she didn’t report to him. Or he to her. That was… on a military base that was maybe the sexiest thing of all.

He shifted his feet, his boots making the flooring creak and she looked up at him. Her eyes were deep brown, almost black, and she cocked an eyebrow and then tilted a head down at the droid. He flushed at her perusal and quickly coughed, trying to cover his face with his hand.

"Yeah, he’s a little beat up, someone rolled him down a cliff." Her expression didn’t change and he quickly added, "Not me." He gave BB-8 a hard look, silently begging the droid to not rat him out to this woman. "Is, uh, is K-0 here? To talk to?"

The droidsmith gave him a confused look and made a clicking noise with her tongue.

Poe heard a rustle and a small single-wheeled droid, barely bigger than his two fists, rolled out from under a table. "I am K-0," it intoned, tilting a sensor array back to look up at him. "What need?"

Poe looked between the droid and the droidsmith before nodding. "Okay, well K-0. That’s BB-8," he pointed to the orange droid as though there might be some confusion and then grimaced, abruptly halting the motion and running his hand through his hair instead. "He’s uh, he’s had a rough time and he’s got sand in all his gears. I also think he’s got a sensor loose. I could fix it but I…" he glanced around the workshop. "I don’t have the tools. I was thinking I could borrow-"

As he was talking the little droid beeped and whistled in binary, aiming it at the woman holding BB-8. When Poe got to his last sentence he saw her shake her head vehemently, giving him an annoyed look. Or maybe a skeptical one. Or possibly some mix between the two. Whatever it was it wasn’t a look he had hoped for. Certainly not from her.

"Okay," he continued, listening to the little droid translate, "no tool borrowing. Would you be able to…? I mean, I was told you’re a droidsmith so I was hoping maybe…"

She was nodding, smiling at BB-8 and ignoring him entirely as she pried one of the panels off with her fingernails and set it gently on the table next to her. He heard her make a soft tsking noise and BB hummed contentedly back.

K-0 tilted to look at him. "Will fix. Do good."

"Thanks?" Poe looked between the three of them again. "I’ll be back in-"

"Two day," K-0 intoned solemnly.

Poe nodded and backed out of the workshop, feeling suddenly like he was intruding in a moment he wasn’t meant to see. She looked up at him as he went, those dark eyes meeting his before she leaned back over BB-8 in apparent fascination.

Poe stumbled back out into the light, putting one hand out to catch himself on a crate and turning his head toward the sun.

"Sithspit," he muttered.

He wasn’t an expert, but he was pretty sure that hadn’t gone particularly well.

=

Chpt 2

[myelocin]

REQ #3, #4, & #5 | STORIES IN PASSING

synopsis:

REQ #3 |@/anon | Sharing an empty cafe with a stranger as you silently bond over strawberry shortcake, rainy weather, and the train schedules may have its perks after all.

REQ #4 | @thatnikkixx​ | There was something about mornings that you loved, but can’t quite recall a reason why. 

REQ #5 |@/anon 🍄 | Bus rides, strangers, the setting sun and conversations must mean something? Right?

Characters: Kuroo Tetsurou, Iwaizumi Hajime, Miya Atsumu, You

Genre/Warnings: Fluff

Kuroo Tetsurou | req #3 | 3:06 AM, 2 blocks away from the station

Waiting out a rainstorm at a café to catch the first train in the morning wasn’t exactly your ideal schedule, but you suppose it couldn’t have been too bad.

Empty café, good food, your ideal music, chill atmosphere, and a good book all counted as good points by your standards.

About two hours before the first train runs, the rain outside is still pouring when a man rushes in and heaves a sigh of relief when he realizes the café’s still open. It was a little awkward, for the first few moments at least. His eyes scanned the vicinity of the café, nodding to himself because he must have thought it was empty before letting himself stretch and yawn—only to awkwardly pause when his eyes meet yours.

You offer a laugh as a response to his rigid form and shoot him a wave. He mumbles something about catching up on “late night work”, before returning your acknowledgement with a wave of his own and a sheepish smile.

The rest of the two hours fly by in a series of stolen glances, airy laughs and simultaneously blanking out as you both stare at the clear doors and watch the rain hit and slide back down to the pavement.

Also within those two hours, you notice he orders the same slice of strawberry shortcake as you do paired with two cups of coffee you can’t quite remember the name of. Though, based on the color of the liquid and the smell that permeated the air, you would guess it’s quite a strong one.

Then again, it looks like he needed it though, especially as he flipped through the various sheets of paper he sprawled out on the table he was occupying while periodically typing something in his laptop as well.

It felt nice; the atmosphere felt nice. The words on the pages of your book eventually blended together until it became a scene vivid in her head as the distant clacking of the stranger’s keyboard remains as constant as the pen scratches on his notes.

Then, when the rain hushed into a silence and the first streaks of light glided on glass the alarm on your phone rang simultaneous to the one in his. You look at each other.

“First train?” he asks and you laugh out a yes as you shut your book and arrange your things.

“I’ll walk you there,” he says again, then gathers his belongings sprawled out on the table.

“Here,” you offer as you make your way to his table and begin stacking the papers closest to you, “I’ll help.”

He bows his head slightly in thanks before zipping his bag close and following you to the door.

“I noticed the book you were reading,” he says.

You face him, then reply, “Is that so?” and turn the corner with him as the train station comes into view.

“I also noticed you’re more of a sweet tooth, too,” he laughs, “not that it’s a bad thing, though.”

The two of you swipe your IC cards on the entrance of the station. “You’re awfully observant,” you pause and look at him. He grins and faces you, holding out his hand. “Kuroo Tetsurou”

“(Y/n),” you reply, shaking his hand before signaling to the left, “Platform 2?”

“Going the other way,” he replies, then shoves his hands in his pockets.

“See you around?” you offer as you turn and he shoots a smile your way.

“Maybe when we get caught in the rain again,” he laughs out waving as he watches you turn.

You make your way down the platform smiling—you hope there’s forecast for rain. On Platform 1,

Tetsurou steps on the train and smiles when he sees a promotional ad for strawberry shortcake on his phone screen—then smiles even wider when he sees the rainy forecast predicted for the rest of the week.

-

Iwaizumi Hajime| req # 4 | For Nikki | 7am, outside your neighborhood

There’s always something in the mornings that has you feeling everything good that you can’t quite place your finger on. By now, your morning routine has mostly been ingrained to your body in a way that it feels as natural as taking a breath. It takes nothing more than a quick stretch, trip to the bathroom and you’re out the door with your playlist shuffling to some good music in your ear.

Maybe it’s the way the air feels like, you think to yourself as you jog and cover the first few blocks of your route. Morning air feels a lot more crisp in the mornings—almost like the feel of fresh linen from your laundry.  The quiet in the air makes the collision of your feet against the pavement a bit more audible against the low volume of music in your headphones.

You see him when you round the corner and spot the park you always take the time to cool off at. He looks cute, you conclude as you slow your jog to a walk.

Spiked short hair, dry fit tee, athletic shorts and a wild smile etched on a sun kissed face as he ran circles around the track with his dog in tow.

He spots you as you make your way closer to the both of them, the path he’s taking coincidentally the one you happen to be going to.

“Morning,” he says and slows his pace to match with yours. You offer him a smile and move to take off your earbuds and hook them around your ear instead.

“Morning,” you reply and laugh as his dog walks in the space between the two of you and nudges at your leg.

You lean down and pat the head when the stranger next to you opens his mouth to chastise. “Sorry about that,” he says, “we’re new around the neighborhood and she gets pretty excited around new people.”

“All good,” you reassure.

“(Y/n),” you begin and hold out your hand smiling as he takes yours in his to shake before introducing himself as Hajime.

“Pretty empty around here in the mornings so you probably won’t see that many people out this early.”

“Other than you?” he says and you laugh out your agreement.

“The morning hits different, though, so I can’t blame you,” he says as the two of you finally match your pace with a slow walk. You turn to face him as he closes his eyes briefly and inhales.

“Good air, too,” he adds and you nod, grinning when he looks at you.

His eyes are green, like the leaves the morning dewdrops rest on before the sun carries them away. The way he’s smiling has you feeling tingly too: like the same feeling you get when you first crack your eyes open and roll around sheets still warm with lingering sleep.

“Well, I’m turning this way,” he says when the sidewalk eventually forks and you realize you’re going the opposite way.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you around,” you say and wave as he does the same.

You’re halfway down your side of the street when you turn the volume of your music back up and quicken your pace until you’re jogging again. Mornings are great, you decide.

There wasn’t really much of a reason that stood out to you with why you loved it so much, but when you think about meeting Hajime again, you think that maybe he can be one of those reasons.

 -

Miya Atsumu | req # 5 | For 🍄 anon | Bus ride home, 17:38

“This seat taken?” was a weird thing for him to ask when he boards the bus at 17:38  and looks around the clearly empty seats (save yours) in the bus.

Despite that, he walks forward, hands gripping the edges of each seat as the vehicle rolls to gain momentum and takes a seat right in front of you.

You continue to pay attention to him, or at least continue to do so through a peripheral angle before turning to face him as he turns his body to the side facing the window so he could face you.

“Hi,” he says and you blink in response as the music from your headphones continue to fill the silence.

“Hi?” you respond in question, as you take out one earbud and look behind you to make sure his greeting wasn’t misdirected. A quick glance around the vehicle confirmed that you were the only two passengers, so you turn back to face him with a quirk of the brow.

“I was talking to ya,” he says again and you nod slowly, not exactly comprehending what he’s trying to get at.

“Come here often?” he says and you shake your head, trying to distract your thoughts so you wouldn’t laugh at his question.

“This is a bus,” you reply and turn your head back to face the window in hopes he’d drop the conversation.

Though of course, he doesn’t because he’s takes your cue and faces the window again all the while laughing at your response.

“What are ya listenin’ to?” he says again and just like that conversation starts. Neither of you are even facing each other as you continue to talk about the people and signs you observe out the window as the bus moves and stops every once in a while. Ten minutes into the conversation you learn that his name is Miya Atsumu and that he’s headed to meet up with his twin brother at an Onigiri shop the latter owns.

Most of the time you’re nodding your head and only giving a few hums as a reply, but you suppose it wasn’t so bad; you enjoy how his accent always finds a way into his speech no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. The city and the lighting when golden hour dips and the skies slowly turns blue adds to the ambiance that has you feeling like you’re in a movie.

Atsumu’s fleeting comments replace the music in your ear and you think it fits. Buildings and scenery fly by as he stumbles on his sentences and laughs at the error of his words. When he asks you questions about your day, he listens as intently as he looks at you.

And for a stranger you just met, you suppose it’s kind of nice.

The bus rolls to a stop and he stands up just as you do, shrugging his shoulders and tucking his hands in his pockets as he follows you out into the street.

“This your stop too?” you laugh when you’re finally standing face to face on the sidewalk.

“Actually no,” he confesses and laughs out loud when your expression morphs into confusion. Eventually, his eyes crinkle with his smile when he waves off your attempt to respond.

“You were talkin’ and I hate to cut ya off since it took me that much work for you to join in the conversation.”

“Unbelievable,” you say and turn to walk the opposite direction. This was becoming a little too cliché for you to believe.

You can hear him laugh behind you and call out your name, then saying, “If I meet ya’ on the bus again by chance you have to tell me stories this time!”

Atsumu’s laughing again when you throw a peace sign as a response and keep walking further away from him as you bite back a laugh.

You don’t turn around; you’re more than certain you’ll be seeing him around, anyway.

[vampire-named-gampire]

Carry On Countdown - Day 8

Hello! Here’s my fic for the @carryon-countdown. It’s longer than what I’d usually post on tumblr, but I haven’t really decided if I want to continue it or not and I don’t really have the time to decide since uni is kicking my butt this week.  It’s un-beta’d so sorry for any grammar mistakes or just general messiness of it

Prompt: Rain Word count: 1669 Rating: Teens and up Summary: 

Baz drags Simon out to play football, despite the stormy clouds looming above them. 

SIMON

Baz insists that I play football with him. He says it’s so that he doesn’t get out of practice, but I know it’s because he’s trying to assure I get enough exercise. Apparently, it’s good for depression.

I do usually feel a bit better after our games, so I haven’t said no yet. (Even though he beats me every time.) Plus, sometimes it’s easier to compete with him than it is to be soft and do all that romance stuff, so I think it actually helps us. A bit.

I mean, it’s still hard sometimes. Being touched. Being kissed. But football is almost like fighting and we all know fighting makes things easier for me. Besides, Baz looks beautiful on the pitch. And he’s brilliant at football. And when he gets sweaty, he wipes his face in his shirt and I’m usually left staring at the faint trace of muscles in his stomach. (This must be a vampire thing – I’ve never seen him do crunches.) (Maybe he does them in secret.)

I think he’s noticed me staring and he does more of that on purpose now. I’m not complaining. I’ve stopped complaining about our football matches too.

Well, except today. The sky is grey and heavy with clouds and this is England, so it’s definitely going to rain. Baz knows this, yet he’s still dragged me out to the football field. Honestly, when I see him in shorts and a tight, Under Amour turtleneck under his t-shirt, I nearly stop complaining.

Nearly.

“We’re going to get soaked,” I announce as we get out of the car. Somehow, the sky has gotten even darker on our way from my flat to the football field.

“You’re not made of sugar, are you?” Baz says, grabbing his football ball.

“I’m going to leave puddles in your car. You wouldn’t like that.”

“I’ll spell you dry. Or I’ll make you sit on a towel.”

Damn, it was worth a try.

“Look, we have the whole field for ourselves,” Baz says as we pass the squeaky metal door onto the football field. It really is completely empty – usually, there are multiple groups playing at once on one field and it drives Baz up the wall. He says half of the blokes who come here don’t even have a basic grasp of ball control.

“Yeah, because everyone else is reasonable and can see that it’s going to start pouring any minute now,” I huff.

“Listen, if it starts raining, we can always go back. Now come on, warm-up.”

He makes me do warm-ups too. Five laps around the pitch and then some quick stretches. The first time we went, I was near death by the third lap, which is ridiculous, considering I used to fight monsters. (I guess a year of lying on the sofa will do that to you.)

The first time we went, I nearly doubled over at the sight of Baz stretching his calves. That hasn’t changed. My ability to run has. I can now almost keep up with Baz’s human speed, although he does sometimes tap into his vampire powers just taunt me. (As if his long legs weren’t enough.)

Getting better at running makes me feel slightly better about myself. Like my life is moving forward – like I’m actually improving at something. (I’m not. I used to be faster, stronger – I’m merely getting some of myself back.) And it usually helps me sleep.

 Once Baz deems us sufficiently warmed up, he passes me the ball.

“What do you say, Snow, do we play across the whole field?” he asks. Sometimes he’ll teach me some technique after warm-up, but today, we’re apparently going straight to the game.

“Okay, but you can’t use your vampire strength.”

“When have I ever used my vampire strength?” Baz feigns being offended. I roll my eyes.

“I could think of a few instances.”

“I can beat you even without the vampire strength, love,” he smiles. “Come on. You can start.”

 Playing across the whole field is exhausting. I finally manage to steal the ball from Baz, but it feels like it takes me forever to sprint across the pitch and towards my goal. Baz tries to steal the ball back, but the tip of my tail is pressed against his chest, holding him at distance. Huh. This has never happened before. Usually, I tie my tail around my waist when we play, but that’s uncomfortable so I just untied it when I saw nobody was on the pitch.

Still, it’s helping me. If it wasn’t for my tail, Baz would’ve stolen the ball from me already.

“If I can’t use my vampire strength, you can’t use your dragon parts either,” he calls just as I send the ball flying towards the goal. The net shakes. Score!

“I’m going to let you have that one, just because I know I’ll still beat you,” Baz says, jogging to get the ball.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, darling!” I call after him, even though I am pretty sure he’s going to beat me. He always has.

The first raindrops fall just as we get back into the game.

“Do you want to keep going?” Baz asks as he dribbles the ball, effortlessly avoiding all my attempts of stealing it from him.

“Yes,” I say, trying once again to snatch the ball from him. It’s hard work, especially when I’m also trying to keep my tail in check.

Not even a minute later, it’s full on pouring. My shirt is clinging to me, cooling me down, and Baz’s hair is falling around his face in wet strands. He must be cold, but he keeps playing, confidently leading the ball towards his goal.

I chase behind him, trying to block him, or whatever it is that I should be doing, but the grass is wet and I don’t have posh wanker football shoes like he does, so I end up slipping, knocking both of us over in the process.

He ends up on his back, with me half on top of him.

“Ouch, Snow! This isn’t American football, you’re not supposed to tackle people, you know?” Baz immediately starts complaining.

“It was an accident!” I say, rolling off of him, so that I’m also on my back.

“Troll’s arse, it was. This deserves a penalty kick at least. Maybe two because you got my shirt all muddy,” he laments. I roll my eyes at his theatrics.

“Nobody’s stopping you from getting up and spelling your shirt clean,” I say.

“I am severely injured. I might die any second.”

“Oh, come off it, you’re a bloody vampire,” I laugh.

“So this is how it ends; a Chosen One straight to the chest.”

I’m beginning to get worried, but he lets his head fall in my direction and I see a teasing smile stretched across his face. The tosser is just messing with me. Of course he is.

“You’re a git, you know that?” I growl, grabbing him by his waist and pulling him closer to me. He barely has the time to react before I kiss him.

I’ve kissed Baz before, many times, but snogging on a football field in the middle of a downpour is new. He’s cold – too cold – and I pull him on top of me. Baz makes a sound of surprise against my lips at that and I think he might pull away, so I tangle my hands in his hair, holding him closer. I’ve never touched his hair when it’s wet before. It slips through my fingers with ease and clings to his face.

I think Baz has worked through his surprise now, because he catches my lower lip between his teeth and tugs at it, his hand travelling down my side and settling on my hip. My shirt is so wet there’s almost no friction to his movement and it feels amazing.

I try running my own hands up and down his back and it makes his breath hitch. Moments later, his lips are by my ear, kissing and nipping at my earlobe.

“Is this okay?” Baz whispers, his breath so close to my ear that I can hear him despite the rain. Usually, this is the point where I’d start feeling panicky and uncomfortable, but today is different, for some reason. Maybe it’s the thrill of it all – I mean, kissing in a rainstorm is proper hot. I nod feverishly and I can hear him smirk against my ear before he starts kissing down my neck.

I take the opportunity to slip my hands under his shirt because if I’m feeling confident today, I might as well use it. Baz loves it when I run my hands up and down his stomach, so I do just that. (I don’t do it often enough. Usually, I’m scared.)

His reaction makes me forget why I was ever scared to do so in the first place. He practically melts against me, a small gasp escaping his throat before he comes back up and starts kissing me with even more vigour. It’s so good, it’s so good, it’s so good.

Thunder rumbles in the background and Baz pulls away. I look at him with a puzzled expression.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says, scrambling to his feet.

“What?” I sit up, still trying to comprehend his sudden change of pace, anxiety rising up in my chest. Did I do something wrong?

“Thunder, Snow. We’re in an open field. It’s not safe.”

“Oh.”

He offers me his hand and I let him pull me up. Then he kisses me again, like he can’t resist himself. (He probably can’t.)

“Can we…” I fumble, trying to find my words. I expect Baz to jab at me, but he just waits while I compose my thoughts. (I should snog him more often if it makes him stop being a prick.) “Can we, uh… continue this at home?”

His lips curl into a smirk and he takes my hand.

“You know we can.”  

[peanutbutterjelly-pie]

Back Home

Summary:  After having been gone for a few days Castiel receives some slightly worrying text messages from both Dean and Sam.

Word Count: 2,185

When will you be back home, man?

Dean’s text reaches Castiel shortly after 6 PM, just when he stopped his car at a red light and took the chance to glance at the vibrating phone in his coat pocket.

Soon , he writes back immediately, hoping that answer is sufficient enough. Even though it’s been years since he found himself sans wings and constricted to automobiles instead he still has a hard times more often than not to estimate distances and how long it actually takes to get from point A to B.

It could be minutes, hours, even days - everything might be possible.

How long is soon???

The excessive use of question marks makes Castiel instantly wheel his car onto an open parking space right next to him and ask the internet for advice.

According to google five hours and fourteen minutes.

Good.

And that’s it.

No new messages, no inquiries, not even a flirty little pun Dean usually loves to send him on a regular basis.

Castiel blinks at the device in his hands and waits for a while, wondering whether a further response just might take a moment. But after ten minutes of silence the angel decides to start the car again and carry on with his journey, so he would actually meet google’s prediction.

About half an hour later, as he looks at his phone once more while he has to wait for a man to maneuver his car around some poorly parked motorbikes, Castiel discovers that yet another text message arrived somewhere along the way.

This one is from Sam, though.

Dean said you’re back soon? Hope that’s true, buddy. We REALLY need you here.

Castiel frowns at that. This sounds rather urgent.

What is it? he writes back right away. Is it a case?

Sam doesn’t wait around to answer, No, we just REALLY need you here.  

Castiel feels a huge wave of worry wash over him all of a sudden. Are you hurt? Did something happen??

Ah fuck, no. Sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out like that. No one is hurt or dying or whatever … yet, at least.

Castiel grinds his teeth. This is not reassuring, Sam!

Please don’t worry, there is nothing supernatural going on. Just brothers being VERY annoying. Dean is driving me NUTS.

Castiel slowly releases the breath he’s been holding in. This sounds harmless enough, at least. He left the bunker about five days ago to wrap up some angel business one state over and the brothers had been in Lebanon ever since. No case in sight and cooped up underground more or less the whole time because of severe rainstorms all over Kansas. It appears it finally caught up on Dean and Sam.

Just … come back home, Sam writes back. Dean’s getting insufferable without you around.

Castiel can’t help a small smile at that before putting the phone aside again and continuing his journey.

In the end he beats google’s forecast by twenty-seven minutes and feels fairly pleased with himself, even if he’s not really sure whether this is a cause for celebration or not.

Sam is to first to greet him as soon as he leaves the garage and steps into the living area.

“Damn, Cas!” he exclaims as he wraps his long arms around the angel’s torso and squeezes him so tightly Castiel sure as hell would’ve choked if he actually would’ve been dependant on oxygen for survival. “It’s so good to see you!”

Castiel pats Sam’s back awkwardly and patiently waits for the hunter to let him go eventually.

It happens just a few seconds later, fairly abruptly actually, when Sam loosens his grip and shoots the angel a bright smile before grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him deeper into the bunker.

“I can finally have some peace now!” Sam says happily.

Castiel creases his forehead as he lets himself manhandled through the bunker’s hallway. “I don’t understand,” he states, confused. “What is going on?”

Sam groans. “Call it pining or moping or Dean just being an ass …” He shuts his eyes for a second. “I’m just glad you’re back, man. Dean is so fucking sleep-deprived I’ve considered knocking him out with my fist constantly for the last couple of days!”

Castiel arches his brow, not sure what to even think about that, but before he has a chance to ask for some enlightenment they’re suddenly standing in front of the door leading into Dean’s room.

And Sam instantly kicks it in without any preamble whatsoever.

The hinges protest vocally against this sort of violent treatment and Dean inside the room, who has been sitting on his bed and reading a book, certainly seems to agree as his death glare focuses on his brother.

“Sammy, what the fuck ?” he growls, seemingly ready for murder. “What are you even -?”

He comes to a screeching halt, however, as soon as he spots Castiel.

His whole demeanor changes instantly. His face lights up, his snarl turns into a smile and his features soften so visibly for a moment it seems like he’s transforming into an entirely new person right here in front of them.

It’s truly a remarkable transition.

“Look at that, I found your angel!” Sam announces, meanwhile, before shoving Castiel kind of roughly into the room. “Now do me a favor and don’t leave these four fucking walls for the next twenty-four hours !”

Castiel looks back and forth between the brothers, unsure whether it’d be wise to say something or whether he should stay silent in order to keep his head on his shoulders.

“Sammy …” Dean says in the meantime.

“Don’t Sammy me!” Sam cuts in harshly. “Just. Go. The. Fuck. To. Sleep.”

With these words he slams the door closed again and storms off to where he came from, muttering underneath his breath something about “dumbass brothers” and “kindergarten” the whole way.

“What was that about?” Castiel wonders.

Instead of an answer, however, Castiel finds himself with an armful of Dean all of a sudden. The hunter’s arms cling to him so strongly, like he’s afraid the angel might escape any second now, as he aligns their bodies until there’s not an inch of air left between them.

“Cas,” he whispers, his voice laced with so much relief. “You’re back early.”

Despite his continued confusion Castiel can’t help reciprocating the embrace wholeheartedly. “Well, I beat the internet.”

Dean chuckles softly. “You sure did.”

And then he dives in for a kiss. It’s gentle, almost chaste, but there’s also some kind of urgency behind it that makes Castiel a little worried instantly.

He draws back somewhat and studies Dean’s features intently. His eyes, usually so lively and now a bit dull, the heavy bags underneath them, his skin slightly ashen …

“Dean,” he breathes as he cards his fingers through the other man’s hair. “What is going on? You look terrible.”

Dean scoffs before burying his face in Castiel’s neck, as though he’s trying to hide from the angel’s view. “Thanks for that, Cas.”

“I didn’t mean …” Castiel sighs. “Are you unwell? Sick?”

He’s already prepared to use his heavenly powers and cure Dean from any kind of disease that had the audacity to even look in his direction.

Dean, though, shakes his head. “I’m just … it’s stupid …”

Castiel frowns. “What is?”

“I missed you …”

Castiel still doesn’t grasp the problem at hand. “There is nothing stupid about missing me. I did so too. Miss you , I mean.”

Dean starts to squirm in Castiel’s arm, obviously uncomfortable by the whole thing. “I just … it seems I’ve got …”

He trails off, apparently not sure how to explain himself.

Castiel, meanwhile, keeps running his fingers through Dean’s hair, hoping the gesture might be soothing. And indeed Dean’s tense muscles begin to relax after a minute and he all but melts against the angel.

“I just missed you,” he whispers, his face still hidden against Castiel’s skin. “Especially … well, at night. In my bed.”

Castiel glances at the now so familiar memory foam. “You missed sex?”

“No!” is Dean quick to protest. He pulls back a little to look right into Castiel’s face, his cheeks beautifully flushed. “I mean, of course, you and me … it’s always … well, really awesome …” He blushes even more and Castiel can’t help enjoying the sight of Dean Winchester himself getting flustered about sex. “But I was rather talking about … well, you in my bed. With me. The whole night.”

Castiel tilts his head as he slowly starts to catch up. “Are you referring to sleep ?”

Since they “got their head out of their asses” a few months ago, as Sam had put it so romantically, Castiel started to share Dean’s bed with him. He doesn’t really require any kind of sleep, but since his time as a human he found a taste for letting go for a little while and simply succumbing to some blissful peace for a few hours. It turned out to be especially wonderful with Dean lying in his arms.

Just the two of them, underneath the covers, while time itself seemed to have frozen around them.

Castiel began to cherish these beautiful moments more than anything.

“It’s so stupid,” Dean repeats once again, pressing his face against Castiel’s temple. “I slept most of my life alone and I was totally fine. And now you’re coming along and I can’t even manage a few simple days. How pathetic is that?”

Castiel creases his forehead as realization hits him. “Are you implying you haven’t slept the last five days since I’ve been gone?”

Dean is silent for a moment, like he’d rather do anything else than answer, but eventually he admits, sheepishly, “Yeah, I guess.”

Castiel leans back enough to meet Dean’s gaze again. “Not at all?”

Dean grimaces. “Well, a little,” he tries to defend himself. “A quick nap or two.”

“But that’s it?”

Dean ducks his head. “Yeah, I know - pathetic ,” he says, snorting. “I got quite cranky after a while and Sam … well, you’ve seen him. I’m actually surprised I’m still alive. I really thought he would kill me at some point and dump my body somewhere deep in the woods.”

Castiel raises a brow. “Cranky?”

Dean fidgets awkwardly. “Yeah, I mean … lots of yelling and stuff. At one point I think I threw a book at him.”

“A book?”

Dean winces. “Or maybe it was a mug?” He shakes his head. “God, I’m such an ass when I’m sleep-deprived. It’s actually a wonder Sam didn’t commit fratricide.”

Well, Sam surely seemed highly agitated by his brother’s behavior. And if Dean indeed barely slept since Castiel left and eventually lashed out, that’s not very astonishing. There’s a fairly good reason why humans need their daily dose of sleep, otherwise mankind would’ve murdered each other a long time ago.

“Dean …” Castiel whispers, cupping Dean’s cheek tenderly.

“It’s just so stupid, right?” The hunter shakes his head as he averts the angel’s intense gaze. “I shouldn’t be so used to it by now. It’s not like we’re doing this thing that long anyway -”

He doesn’t really know what to think anymore, so Castiel simply presses his lips against Dean’s, as softly as possible. The hunter relaxes once more right away and deepens the kiss after a short while.

“It’s not stupid,” Castiel whispers against his skin, “every single night since I’ve been gone, I missed you so much . I looked up into the dark sky and longed to be with you.”

Dean’s entire demeanor gentles at Castiel’s words.

“And I didn’t catch any sleep either,” Castiel adds. “I didn’t even try, I just knew it would be a futile endeavor.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need any sleep,” Dean points out.

“But I missed you so much I annoyed the other angels severely with my ‘crankiness’ either way,” Castiel tells him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “At the end they looked at me with the same murderous eyes Sam shot at you.”

Dean laughs softly at that. “We’re two seriously pathetic dumbasses, huh?”

“If that means I can be with you, I’m fine with that.”

Soon enough they find themselves shedding their clothes and stealing gentle kisses, unable to stop touching for very long, but also eager to get into bed and catch up on what they’ve missed.

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief as they finally hit the mattress and spread the covers above them, a sensation of warmth and home filling him up. A feeling that only gets exceptionally stronger when Dean pulls him into his arms, as close as possible.

“Love you,” Dean mumbles into his skin, seemingly already on the verge of sleep.

Castiel’s heart squeezes automatically. It’s not the first time he’s heard those words from Dean, not by a longshot, but everytime it feels absolutely exhilarating.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, his fingers brushing over Dean’s back. “So much.”

And so they sleep.

-----

Meanwhile, Sam throws himself a big party in his room and swears to every deity that might listen that he will never leave the angel out of his sight ever again.

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

The Bucket List or “Oh my Dear Lord”

Matt Murdock x Female Reader 

Request: AH I SAW U WERE TAKING REQUESTS FOR MY BOI MATT AND I HAD TO DO ONE! so what about “Well, looks like I can scratch that from my bucket list” - “Who the hell puts getting arrested on a bucket list?!” and like he’s the (female)reader’s defense attorney but they already know each other? idk lol but tysm in advance, i hope this helps your writers block

A/N: Thank you SO MUCH for your request, sweetheart! Here’s some Matt Murdock for you, involving some blood and sexual tension 😈  I’m so very sorry it took me forever. I got a bit carried away there, but I hope this piece lives up to your expectations! Also, look at me, using two prompts from the list, bam bam!  The reader’s family name / surname is given in this story ;)

(May contain mistakes, author’s not a native speaker)

Foggy!… Foggy!… Foggy!… Foggy!…

The pain was unbearable, striking hard and deep, and everywhere at once. Bitter blasts cut through his bones as he tried to focus on finding the wound. Not with his hands - those would not obey, completely numb and useless. 

It must have been his shoulder, he realised, closing his eyes. He couldn’t keep them shut for long, though - his head was spinning, so much worse than after a dozen shots of that eel booze of Josie’s. 

He opened his eyes and managed to slightly turn his head to the left. The pungent smell of blood left him wincing and swearing under his breath.

It was his goddamn shoulder alright, a jugged piece of glass sticking from right below his collarbone. The ragged tissue around the wound burned, and as seconds passed, the pain amplified, jarring and brutal. Blood oozed down his chest almost lazily, his Daredevil costume soaking it up.

Foggy!… Foggy!…

Matt spit out a curse, feeling the taste of blood on his lips. Excruciating pain shoot through his chest as he tore his phone out of a thigh pocket, hitting the green answer button with his thumb.  

“Now is really not a good time, Foggy,” he huffed, trying to prop himself higher against the cold metal door, leading back inside the building. The sky and the ground changed places as he tried to inhale deeper… He only hoped his lung wasn’t punctured.

“Matt, you need to get to the station. Like right now.”

The panic in Foggy’s voice made Matt’s insides turn clockwise. A lump rose in his throat, urging him to get rid of whatever he ate for dinner earlier. 

“What…?” he forced himself to speak, but only ended up coughing hoarsely, blood rolling over the edge of his lips and dripping down his chin. 

“They’ve got their hands on Woods,” Foggy whispered, dread choking him. “She’s under arrest”. 

Greeting his teeth, Matt growled as he stood up, using his free hand for balance. Unsteady on his feet, still leaning on the door, he gripped that piece of glass and tore it from his body. It fell on the ground with a muffled cry, shattering in pieces. Matt bit down on his lips, keeping the involuntary scream in, hissing in pain. He pressed his free hand to the wound, blood pumping out through his fingers, painting them stark red.

“I’ll get there as fast as I can”, he rasped. “Don’t let her speak with anybody until then. Not a goddamn soul”. 

“Understood,” Foggy swallowed frantically, as if he were drowning. “Please, hurry!…”

Dropping the call, Matt kicked the door with all the force that was left in him, pain and rage sending his heart and brain in the overdrive. The sound of his boot hitting the metal resonated in his head like a bell’s tolling in an empty church. 

…Goddammit, Y/N! He told you to run!

†††

The smell of barbecue chips and cigarette smoke intensified as soon as he stepped into the precinct. Gripping his cane so hard his fingers hurt, Matt made his way down to the reception desk, his stroll a little too quick and confident for a blind guy. He turned a couple of heads on his way, but it came to show that a hard expression of silent, barely contained fury was the best deterrent to stupid questions. 

As soon as he spotted Murdock, Brett sighed and pushed his way towards him through the crowded corridor. 

“Why, dear Lord, why when something happens, you three are always involved?” Brett grumbled, planting himself in Matt’s way. 

Should this have been another time and setting, Matt would probably choke out a muffled laugh; but all he could think of right now was getting to the interrogation room, and seeing with his own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.

“Where is she?” he cut to the chase unceremoniously, cocking his head to a side. 

Brett raised his eyebrows at his tone, but refrained from commenting it. 

“Don’t bullshit me,” he muttered, his hands diving in the pockets of his uniform. “You and Nelson are here so much, you probably know the entire place like the back of your hand by now”, he stepped aside, clearing the way down the corridor. “I told Hoffman he won’t get a word out of Y/N Woodsley’s mouth as long as her usual pair of lawyers is involved”. 

Matt gritted his teeth, but said nothing, hurrying down the dim corridor instead.   

“…Are you insane?!” He had heard the indistinct screaming from outside the station, but only now, up close, it seemed to really speak to the thunderstorm raging inside of his chest. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!…”

“Well I couldn’t just stand there, Foggy, could I? That psycho with a badge has almost put a hole through his head!…”

Anger rang through Y/N’s voice like bullets falling on the ground. Matt could hear her heart beating double time, sensed the faint aroma of her sweat, mixed with blood and the remnants of her neroli perfume. She wasn’t afraid. She was pissed, mad out of her mind, as she slapped her hand against the entrance door, before pressing her forehead against it. 

“Whoever that guy is, he saved Karen’s life!…” she murmured. “I don’t regret shit, and I’d do it all over again”. 

As soon as Matt heard her move sufficiently far from the entrance, he inhaled deeply, the inside of his chest burning up like a fuming volcano. All he wanted to do was scream, but he was pretty sure he’d end up vomiting all over the place because of the escalating pain, hitting his body in waves. 

As soon as he opened the door, the room fell scary silent. Foggy’s rugged, infuriated breathing and a small drop of sweat rolling in between Y/N’s breasts was all he was able to catch, before her quiet voice filled his ears. 

“I swear, Matt, I can explain.”

His lips stretched out into a thin line, he made his way to the chair next to Foggy’s.

“…if I had a dime every time I heard that”, he whispered, disappointment lacing every word. He sank down into the uncomfortable chair, painfully slow and careful. He could hear - more like sense, really - Y/N bit on her bottom lip nervously, and Matt knew her eyes were glowing with guilt. 

While all he could think of was she could have been dead right now, and it would have been all my fault. 

“I was out with Karen and my good friend Jessica - we were at Josie’s to down a couple of beers.. Argh!…” submerged by the need to hide her face, Y/N rubbed her hands on her forehead, leaning down on the table with her elbows. Her nail must have scratched a cut that went from her temple to her eyebrow, a sharp breath escaping her lips. “I was tired and a little pissed at my editor for blacklisting my article on the Russians, and I wasn’t having fun. Felt like peeing on everyone’s parade, so when the clock struck midnight I decided to call it a night”.

She paused, trying to search her best friends’ faces, staring sternly at her. Rolling her eyes at their judging you expressions, she combed her fingers through her hair, pushing those messy strands to a side.

“I took the corner of 51th and 11th, when I heard some commotion at the docks. I marched straight towards Hudson… The alcohol making me fearless, I don’t know… I spotted three police cars outside that whitewashed building at the Piers 92/94, the old industrial glass warehouse, you know?… Everything seemed calm, and I felt stupid just standing there in the middle of the road, so I turned around and stumbled towards the park… But then I heard a window shattering. It was…” 

She paused, swallowing, trying to keep the undertones of awe and excitement in her voice at bay.  The notes that Matt hated with every fiber of his beaten and bruised body. 

“It was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Matt. He just jumped through the window on the second floor, landed on his goddamn feet like a cheetah, bullets wheezing all around him, like some kind of a deadly rainstorm… I just…” she stuttered. “I just couldn’t look away.”

“Gooddamn it, Woods…” Foggy groaned, burying his face in his hands in a fit of despair. “Sorry, Matt”, he peaked at Murdock through his fingers.

“Can you imagine the kind of story that could be?” Y/N brushed his exclamation away impatiently. “I was close enough to take photos, I could have caught the Devil in action, it could be all over the news the next day, especially if I pulled all the information I collected on that shady warehouse in these past few weeks!” As Y/N’s confidence grew, Matt’s heart was shrinking into a tiny nubbin. “This could be my chance to prove that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was on our side all along!…”

“What happened next?” Murdock interrupted drily, clutching his fists under the table.

Y/N sighed, her puffed-out chest falling down. She shot a glance at the camera in the right corner of the room.

“It’s okay, Woods, it’s off”, Murdock spoke a little impatiently, sensing her discomfort. “Please, go on”.

Y/N just stared at him in disbelief for a moment, probably thinking something along the lines of well damn, Murdock, for a blind guy you sure are insightful. 

He almost chuckled. If only you knew, princess. 

“Not what, who,” she growled quietly, suppressing her anger, seeping through the pores of her soft skin. “Detective Hoffman happened. He dashed out of the building like the goddamn place was on fire… He stopped by the cars, his gun loaded and ready. He didn’t shoot to stop or injure, he shot to kill, I know what I saw. It was a miracle the Devil actually managed to dodge his goddamn bullets!”

“No kidding,” Foggy snapped, and Matt instantly felt his gaze, burning holes in his head. “And then what? You just thought, hey, I better join the party before they run out of ammunition! Wouldn’t want to miss all the fun!”

“No,” Y/N challenged, the waves of anger she emanated hitting Matt like an avalanche. “I watched for as long as I could, until eight more dirty cops emerged from the building, attacking the Devil like a bunch of hell hounds! I had to do something before they made sure the man could never walk the Earth again! He put up quite a fight there, but when I saw Hoffman thrust a goddamn shard of glass the size of my arm through his chest…”

“Say what?!” Foggy boomed, nothing short of a nuclear bomb. He stared at Matt open-mouthed. “Jesus Christ! But how the fudge…?”

“What Foggy is trying to say here,” Matt cut in, kicking his best friend under the table to shut him up - Nelson gasped at the impact. “Is how the fudge did you think you could help him?… You could have ended up in a body bag, Woods, not in this interrogation room!…”

All-consuming silence settled over the three of them - Foggy was still nursing his leg, while Matt found himself involuntary soaking up the desperation with which Y/N was defending him, the Daredevil, without knowing who he was. He would rather die of glass and bullets than put her in danger, and he hated himself for having had involved her in this. 

And at the same time, sensing her warmth, her resolute desire to make Foggy and him understand that she cared for the Devil, and that they ought to, too, all he wanted to do was to just let go. To stop hating himself because of what he wanted. To absorb her determination, to accept her care, to savour it!… 

Nothing so wrong had ever felt so right, and his thoughts… They were tearing him apart.

“I fired a warning shot at Hoffman,” Y/N murmured, her lips barely moving. “The bullet must have scratched his thigh… Distracted him for long enough, so that the Devil could take the upper hand…”

Matt heard Y/N heartbeat, loud and clear. Nice and slow, it showed that she wasn’t afraid. His own heart, however… Murdock felt it bash against the walls of his ribcage so loud, he was sure both Foggy and Y/N could hear.

“He screamed at me to run, when he saw me… He was furious - not that someone decided to interrupt his little kick-ass session, but because it was me.”

“That’s bull, Woods!” Foggy exclaimed, sounding like a man desperately catching at straws. “Just listen to yourself! How would the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen know who you are?…”

Unblinking, Y/N stared at him for a solid minute, crossing her hands on her chest. Blood thumped in Murdock’s ears, his forehead dotted with crystal beads of sweat - the pain in the shoulder never ceased, and just when he thought he could handle no more, Y/N’s lips slowly parted, releasing, it seemed, his greatest fear. 

“He called me by my name, Foggy.”

As soon as the words filled the air around the three of them, like bonfire smoke, the time seemed to dissolve into itself, shapeless and inconsequential. Matt lost his breath, the realisation brought to light suffocating him.

“He must have recognised you from the Bulletin or something,” Foggy muttered in response to Y/N’s confession, throwing Murdock a lifeline. Matt nodded at him gratefully, his throat tight. “Now, if you ran just like he told you to, why the hell are we here? How did you end up in police custody?…”

Y/N let out a deep sigh, dropping her head in between her hands on the table. 

“They caught up with me on the corner of 12th and 46th”, she said. “And no, before you ask, I didn’t have that gun on me,” watching the question forming itself on Matt’s and Foggy’s faces, she beat them to it. “I… discarded it”. 

Chewing on his bottom lip, Matt considered the situation for a moment. Hoffman, or one of his lapdogs must have seen her run; it did not help that he willingly gave them her name, in his outburst of anger and panic. But unless they had tangible proof that she was the one firing that warning shot, they didn’t have jack on her. Even a testimony of an eyewitness would not be enough to prove she was involved in that mess he so carelessly created. 

It was all his goddamn fault!…

“Okay…” Foggy drawled out, thinking out loud. “That means the only thing they have on you…”

“…are words,” Matt finished for him, his head turned in Y/N’s direction. “Possibly an eyewitness, but with that alone they won’t be able to prove anything - the night is dark, and I hear the street lamps at the docks are rotten”. 

Y/N worried her bottom lip with her teeth, listening to him intently. 

“Then why and on what grounds are they detaining me?” she finally asked, sounding like she already knew the answer. 

Foggy and Matt exchanged heavy glances. 

“They can keep you in custody at least for the next 24 hours, and trust me, they are going to try and push the bail option off the table”, Foggy reasoned, his eyes switching between Y/N and Matt. “They think you know who the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is”, he added, his voice barely perceptible.

“Do you?…” Matt urged under his breath without missing a beat, leaning closer to Y/N. A waft of his spicy perfume washed over her, mixed with a salty, metallic odour that she couldn’t quite place. She lost her train of thought for a moment, watching her reflection in his glasses, his eyes hidden behind their usual red armour. When she really thought about it, she could count the times she had basked in their hazel glow on one hand. 

With a sharp bob of his Adam’s apple, Matt swallowed, his face unreadable. 

“Um… hello, Matt, have you met me?” Y/N gave Murdock a sceptical look, her voice dropping a couple of octaves. She threw her hair back, instinctively moving towards him. “I’m a journalist, I don’t keep secrets. My job is to uncover them. Especially ones of this caliber”.

Bittersweet relief rolled over Matthew in a cool wave, spreading from his feet to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t help but chuckle at Y/N’s uncannily fitting choice of words. She was right, of course; revealed, this secret would shoot to kill, far more dangerous than a loaded gun. 

“Here’s what happens next,” Matt interlaced his fingers, joining his hands together on the table. “We’re going to have a word with Hoffman, and then we’re posting bail. Unless they have other ways to track down Daredevil so they can bring him to court, chances are you won’t even have to face the jury.”

“Peachy,” Y/N muttered under her breath, absentmindedly feeling for the cut on her forehead with her fingertips. Both Matt and Foggy were already getting on their feet. “At least I can scratch that from my bucket list…”

“Who the hell puts getting arrested on a bucket list?!” Foggy mused, staring at Y/N in disbelief. 

She rolled her eyes, rubbing her cheeks lightly with her fingertips. 

“Not getting arrested, Foggy, this isn’t my first rodeo,” she released an impatient breath. “Getting in trouble for helping Daredevil. Now that’s something I’d write down in my journal if I’d had one,” Matt heard her smile, her voice englobing him like a cashmere blanket. “Thank you for taking care of me, you both. You really don’t have to post bail, though…”

Matt’s body grew stiff. He leaned on the table separating them, with his hands biting into the wood. 

“We know for sure that Hoffman’s on Fisk’s payroll, Woods. And he won’t stop at anything - and I mean anything - to make you talk. I could never…” he stuttered, biting on his bottom lip hard, the eyes behind his glasses drilling a hole a couple of inches above Y/N’s head. “We’re posting bail”, he declared assertively. “Fight me.” 

Tense silence surrounded Matt and Y/N, as they just gazed at each other, the air around them buzzing with emotion and intent. Something was happening between the two, something mysterious and possibly life-changing, their bodies speaking in a language only they could understand. Y/N brushed her fingers against her lips - Matt rolled his tongue against the inside of his right cheek - and Foggy suddenly felt wrong trying to decipher whatever they were conjuring up, without as much as a touch. 

Clearing his throat, Foggy motioned towards the door. 

“I’m going to speak to Hoffman and start the paperwork. We should be all out of here in couple of hours, tops”. 

“And then we’re walking you home”, Matt pushed away from the table. Y/N sighed, half-opening her lips, and his entire body seemed to react to the nearly imperceptible sound: his skin shivered and his heart picked up some.

“Okay,” she said, her voice even, still looking at him. “I suppose I owe you this much”. 

†††

The rain was falling thickly as the three of them made their way out of the stuffy police station; the sky was still dark, with an occasional flash of lightening splitting it in two, three, four uneven cobalt blue parts. Crackles of thunder rolled across rooftops to the pattering of hefty raindrops, resonating in Matt’s feverish mind. 

Pain still gnawing at the corners of his mind, he realised he had never done such hard thinking as he did now, falling a bit behind Foggy and Y/N. Something was off, he could sense it. Ever since that tense moment they shared in the interrogation room, Woods had been unusually quiet, compliant and overall so unlike herself, agreeing to do just as Foggy and him told her, without even trying to put up a fight. At first, he thought that maybe she was tired - she, too, had a hell of a night, he had to remind himself. But then he sensed her stare from across the room as he talked to Hoffman - a stare that left his skin burning, his body vibrating under those restless interrogative eyes. 

Both Foggy and Y/N stopped just outside the heavy doors, waiting for him to catch up. Just as Matt stepped outside, he allowed himself a deep breath, despite the pain in his chest. The air seemed charged with electricity, and the humidity pressed down, suffocating him… Y/N’s eyes settled on his face, and he felt her hand wrap around his wrist. Still watching him closely, she interlaced their fingers. Her fingertips danced over his maimed knuckles… His breath hitched. Swallowing hard, Matt slid his hand out of her grip, adjusting the collar of his shirt. 

Good God! Had she figured it out?…

He was a goddamn mess, wasn’t he?

“As much fun as this had been,” Foggy spoke, pretending not to have noticed his best friends’ antics. “I’ve got to go. If I leave now, there might still be a chance for me to enjoy my night of mind-blowing sex and cuddling with Marci”. 

Y/N chuckled at his words. Matt barely raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, don’t let us stop you,” he said, notes of accusation tingling in every sound. 

He heard Foggy let out an exasperated breath, his heart beating faster than normal, and realised he was in this alone. 

Not that Matt could blame him. He was the only one responsible for this mess and it was up to him to deal with the consequences. 

“See you tomorrow, Fog,” Matt added, patting his best friend on a shoulder. Clearing his throat, Foggy gave Y/N and him one last look before darting to the nearest waiting taxi. 

“Stay safe, and vigilant, both of you.”

And just like that, Matt found himself alone with Y/N, in the very situation he dreaded from the minute he dropped Foggy’s call earlier that night. 

“You don’t have to walk me home”, Y/N spoke calmly, stepping out into the rain like this was the last thing that bothered her. “I’m sure you have better things to do”. 

The words felt like a slap, but Matt refused to acknowledge whatever meaning she’d put into them. He followed her into the rain, not batting an eyelid.

“I’m walking you home, Woods,” he sounded serene as he spoke; maybe a little too serene, but it was too late to do anything about it. “Don’t make me break my promise”. 

“Fine,” she shrugged, stretching her hand out to him. Water rolled down her face, soaking her trench, the smell of her neroli perfume intensifying as Matt stepped closer to her. She took him gently by the elbow, leading him down the glowing, wet street. 

The night was silent, save for a siren roaring a couple of blocks ahead. His body stiffened as he first heard its wailing sound; it took a soft squeeze of Y/N’s hand to get his head back in the game. He needed to win. So that his secret identity remained secret, and Woods remained oblivious to his late night shenanigans. 

“How are you holding up?” Matt ventured, mindlessly falling in line with Y/N’s steady pace. He felt her shrug as her hand slid higher up his bicep, creating friction. Matt bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore her soft breaths, interrupted by the whispering sound of rain crushing against her damp skin, small drops rolling down the curve of her breasts…

“I’m fine,” she answered, her voice smooth and soft, like velvet. “I am more worried about Daredevil, he got hit pretty deep with that shard of glass…”

With his breath hitching, Matt noticed a change in her heart’s rhythm - it slowed down, but it thumped louder now, wilder. 

“I’m… Well, the night is a blur now, you know?… But there’s one detail that bothers me, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it…”

“What is it?” Matt turned cold with irrational fear, suddenly realising they weren’t walking anymore. 

Wherever they were, this wasn’t Y/N’s block - it just didn’t smell like it. 

Concentrating, Matt caught a whiff of Indian spices through the tantalising veil of the neroli perfume… That neroli perfume, dear Lord, it was driving him insane, pushing his thoughts in all the wrong directions… Smelled like gas, too, there must have been a gas station within a 30-metres radius… And camomile detergent…

And then it hit him - it’s her who walked him home. They stood just beside his building, but why did she…?

Y/N’s hands landed on his shoulders, cutting his flow of thoughts short - she stood facing him now. So achingly close, it felt like there were not much of that buzzing hot air between her soul and his. Before he could remember how to breathe, Y/N’s fingertips caressed his his cheeks, moving smoothly up until she reached the wet cold metal of his glasses, pulling them away from his face. Matt looked steadily at her lips, his eyelashes begging for her touch. 

“The moment I fired that gun,” she whispered, water rolling down her lips and chin. “I swear I saw Daredevil flinch, he dipped his head a little to a side… His deep red mouth moved, and I could swear I saw those lips before…”

Her fingers moved across the skin on her chest, breaking water patterns… Just like she was breaking his will, pushing him to surrender.

Matt groaned barely audibly, his brain electrified. Helpless and intoxicated, with her scent sending him in a heady trance, he let his hands find their home on her waist, his touch gentle, worshipful.

His cane fell on the ground, and neither of them noticed.

“…He turned his head my way and it was like he saw me. And the next thing I know…” 

Matt’s body was hard, pushing against her soft breasts. He didn’t want to leave marks, but he couldn’t let go of her. Rain hit her cheekbones, and the water splashed against his nose and lips. He was losing it. Losing control.

“And the next thing I know, he screams - Run,” she dipped her head, her breath burning the skin on his neck. Matt crushed a groan in his throat, grabbing her arms, holding her in place.

“Run, Woods, run!”

The wind held its breath. A stillness fell over the street. The silence got torn apart by a low rumble of thunder. 

It felt like the ground underneath Matt’s feet was crumbling, and the walls he had spent so much time building around himself tumbling to the ground. Like he just stood there, breathless, holding up the roof, so that the weight of the truth didn’t crush his life-outside-Daredevil-duties, the life he fought so hard to hold on to. The life in which Y/N loved and trusted him.

He really blew it, didn’t he? A single second, a fleeting-moment kind of realisation, a mind-numbing moment of fear… All it took for his life to go down in flames of hell. 

Everything stopped. His heart came to a screeching halt. 

“Y/N, please,” he muttered, licking the water from his bottom lip. “Please, just let me…”

Her lips obliterated his every thought, swallowing the words off his mouth. Matt’s brain was instantly on fire - but her lips were cold, and the cool relief spread in waves all over his body, soothing all the parts of him that’d been on fire for too long.

From then on, everything accelerated, happening in a flash. Y/N pushed her fingers through his mane of damp hair, Matt groaned, his head falling back. Their bodies were aligned, her nipples cold against his chest…  

Y/N lips were Matt’s salvation and his torment. Exhaling frantically into his mouth, Y/N bit on his bottom lip, letting him feel her teeth, her need, her gratitude… She let him name it. 

“Oh my… dear Lord,” Matt growled, the feeling of diving headfirst into an erupting volcano with her, finally kicking his common sense into submission. With a jerk of his bruised body, he hoisted Y/N up, guiding her legs to wrap around his waist. Kissing her mad, kissing her senseless, he made his way up the porch and into the building, the door slamming shut behind them. 

The explosions of thunder continued to drown Hell’s Kitchen in the most deafening racket; but even its uproars could not hide the sounds made by two lovers, moving against each other, feeling each other… Loving each other like they’d never loved before.   

See the list of the prompts here & request the hell outta them 😈

[beautiful-bau-beau]

Sparks Fly

Spencer Reid x Reader

Contains: FLUFF

Word Count: 3,044

Based off this beautiful short film: Extinguished

In a world where sparks fly, those sparks may turn into flames, and some may extinguish.

-

The city streets of Quantico, Virginia remained quiet. The pavement seemed to shine as the lights from various shops and traffic stops reflected on the thin layer of water that remained from the rainstorm that had hit earlier in the evening. The time was 9:45, not that the young man leaning out from his apartment window would have noticed.

Quantico was quite chilly as winter approached, as the young man thought when the crisp autumn air ran through his unruly hair, but he didn’t care. His chin rested in his hand, elbow leaning on his windowpane, eyes staring out blankly into the street below.

The sound from a laughing couple seemed to catch his attention, a scowl immediately crossing his features. His disdain seemed to deepen as his eyes followed how the couple smiled, held hands, and laughed. It was no surprise that the couples’ chests seemed to shine a warm yellow, the sight practically taunted the young man.

He looked down to his own chest, completely unlit, essentially empty. He didn’t seem to have the same glow, but he remembered when he did, just a mere months prior.

Spencer had been seeing a young woman by the name of Maeve Donovan. They had met at the library they seemed to both frequent at, reaching for the same book. It was a perfect little ‘meet-cute’ and they started a small friendship, which led to a relationship. A few months after that romantic scene, Spencer had woken up with his chest ablaze, a silly smile coming over his face.

Chests only seemed to ignite when there were sparks, or when you fell in love. It was Spencer’s first flame, and he couldn’t wait to tell Maeve that he loved her. He was a practical man more than he was a romantic, but his imagination concocted a million scenarios. Each fantasy began with him declaring his love for her. After that, perhaps she would kiss him, hug him, immediately return his affections or maybe even invite him inside; however, reality ruined his dreams.

He had worn his favorite suit, nothing too fancy, just a brown tweed jacket with leather elbow patches on top of a plain blue button-up, black slacks and brown leather brogues. In his hand he held a bouquet of sunflowers, vermillion lilies, and yellow striped crocuses. She always loved bright colors.

“Spencer? What are you doing here?” She asked, a small blush forming on her cheeks. “You didn’t call, I wasn’t expecting you.” The arrangement blocked the soft glow from his heart.

Spencer’s grin grew upon his face and he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Maeve I love you.” Or… something like that. He was so nervous, he barely remembered the exact words he expressed, but he remembered what she said next.

“Uh, oh. Well I- um. This is… I… I don’t think I love you.” He could feel his flame grow softer and her crushing words.

“Are you…Do you…?’ He felt at a loss for words. This was the last thing he was expecting. “Do you think you ever…will?” his grip around the stems tightened.

“Well…I…I don’t know. I met someone recently.” She noticed his shift of behavior. “I haven’t done anything with him!”

“Yet?” Spencer answered for her, a mixture of emotions bubbling as he caught her deeper blush.

“I…George is…” She gave up, swallowing thickly. “I really wish you had called…”

Spencer shook his head, trying not to think about that painful memory that occurred a few months ago. Sometimes he could still feel the pain he had felt when the flame extinguished. He lifted his eyes from his hollow chest back to the streets, rich orbs catching sight of a taxi pulling up outside of his apartment building, a female running in with a suitcase.

A few moments went by before he was startled by a knock on his door. No one ever seemed to visit him, especially if he didn’t invite them over. The only person he thought it could be was his landlord, but he couldn’t think of anything he had done, recently, or ever, that would warrant a landlord visit.

To his surprise, a woman whom he had never seen before stood on the other side, suitcase at her side. The woman from earlier, he thought briefly. Her (e/c) eyes met his for a second, flicking between the number on the door and the number written on her paper. She opened her mouth, getting ready to speak when the neighboring door opened.

Spencer’s neighbor, who he thoroughly enjoyed, was a quiet old woman who never caused any ruckus, and was happy to engage in small chat when she could tell Spencer was comfortable. She had become accustomed to his quirks, and from time to time, left him some baked goods. She even took care of his fish when he was busy on a case or visiting his mother.

“Y/n!” She cried, engulfing the young woman that stood before him in a hug. The woman, presumably y/n, seemed to relax at the familiar face, returning the affection. “Why are you over here?” His neighbor asked.

“Grams, I think you wrote down the wrong apartment number.” You handed the paper over to you grandmother, who furrowed her brows.

“I’m allowed a few mistakes, I think I’ve earned it.” She turned her attention to Spencer who stood shyly against his doorframe, unaware of how to proceed. “Y/n, this is my neighbor Spencer Reid, Spencer, this is my granddaughter Y/n Y/l/n. She’s here to visit me for a few weeks, maybe, if we’re lucky, she’ll consider to move here.” The over woman gave Spencer a wink, who had a polite smile on his face.

You followed her grandmother to the correct apartment building, suitcase rolling behind yourself. Before you crossed the threshold, you turned back to Spencer, smiling softly. “I hope to see you around.” You said cheerfully, granting him a small wave before disappearing.

Spencer returned the wave, watching as you disappeared. His heart seemed to twist for a moment, before he caught sight of a small flame, no larger than a match. His eyes widened in disbelief, covering his chest before retreating back into his apartment and slamming the door.

He rested his head against the hard wood, sliding down to the soft carpet that rested below his feet. His eyes darted around his apartment, hands grabbing at the mug of cold coffee left on the decorative table before his brain could identify what it was, dumping it down the front of his shirt.

He didn’t know if he was ready yet. Ready to love again.

Perhaps it was just a fluke? He thought hastily, even if he knew that there was no theoretical reasoning behind that statement. He looked back down to where his heart lie, which remained dull.

Yes, he reasoned, it was just a fluke.

(Your POV)

The day after you arrived, you had already made a mess of your grandmother’s living room. At first, she was adamant that you would take the bed, but you insisted you would stay on the couch, knowing that the couch would aggravate any joints of hers.

It was around mid-afternoon when you and your grandmother decided to venture out of the apartment, to grab her mail and then a quick lunch. She wanted to introduce you to her new boyfriend, the source of her flame, and you were beyond happy that your grandmother had found the time to move on from your grandfather’s death a few years ago.

“Any romance in your life (n/n)?” Your grandmother asked as you headed down the building stairs down to the mailboxes. You laughed and waved your hand in a dismissing manner.

“No. Most guys nowadays don’t really want the whole romance thing. At least from my perspective.” You felt a soft pain in your chest but shifted gears. You didn’t like thinking about it too much.

As you two turned the corner, you saw the man from yesterday, Spencer, if you recalled correctly. You gave him a brief nod and smile as your grandma worked on unlocking her mailbox, leaning against the wall. The next thing you knew, Spencer had run off, footsteps growing softer as he ran back up the stairs.

“Sweet boy.” Your grandmother chuckled to herself, catching sight of your worried expression. “He’s probably just busy. He works for the FBI you know.”

“Oh!” You absorbed the information. “Perhaps he got a call, or something. Ran off pretty quickly though.”

“Well he has the legs to do so.” Your grandma smirked, laughing when your head snapped towards her. “I’m only kidding! He is a handsome fellow.” She stared at you for a moment. “He would treat you nicely.” She hinted.

“If he lives next to you then I’m sure he knows I come from a crazy family.” You teased back, both of you heading out the door.

The next time you saw Spencer was when you were doing your first load of laundry. You could have done your usual routine of shoving all your dirty laundry in your suitcase and then waiting another few weeks before washing it, but you wanted to act responsible around your grandmother.

You set your basket upon the washer, grabbing some fabric softener and detergent out, trying to make sense of where exactly you were supposed to put what in where. You heard someone coming down the steps and let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, hey.” You called out, looking up to find Spencer. “If you wouldn’t mind helping me for a moment?” You asked, beckoning him over. “The information sticker is a bit worn out, where’s the pocket for the softener and where’s the pocket for detergent?”

“Oh, um.., that’s for detergent, this one is for softener.” He explained, a cold air about him. You gave no particular thought to it, thanking him.

“Not to sound too nosy, but it looks like you have a pair of athletic shorts on top. Fabric softener with those garments will prevent the wicking technology that absorbs sweat from working.” He informed.

“Oh…that’s useful to know.” You started throwing your clothes into the washer as you spoke. “I only use these as pajama bottoms really, so I don’t much care for what happens to them, but I will definitely keep that information on file.” You smiled, continuing to place laundry in the machine. When your gaze returned back up, Spencer was gone.

Spencer’s aloof behavior started to make you wonder if you had actually bothered him.

There was the incident with the elevator, where you hopped on just as it was about to close and saw Spencer, a grocery bag in his arms. He seemed to avoid eye-contact with you. By some chain of events, he ended up running out of the elevator, leaving a fully popped bag of popcorn behind. Strange.

Then there was the time your grandmother had sent you over to his door to ask for some missing ingredients she needed to complete dinner. You were just about to go take a shower when she asked, but decided to just ask Spencer for the items in your purple bathrobe. As soon as he opened the door, he slammed it feverishly, only re-opening it to hand you the ingredients hastily

The man seemed nice enough, especially if everything your grandmother said about him was true, but maybe you had just rubbed him the wrong way. It didn’t seem to matter anymore though, you were leaving in just a short while.

(Spencer’s POV)

Spencer was back again, staring outside of his window. His chest lit up the dark air, and he couldn’t help but think that it was all because of you.

When you had come with your grandmother to collect mail, he had convinced himself that he was fine. When you nodded and sent that beautiful smile that way, he was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice his flame was burning the corners of his mail. He felt panic as he ran off, patting down his chest and hoping you didn’t notice.

Then there was the situation with the laundry. It was fine enough, your request was simple and he almost enjoyed a conversation with you until he noticed one black bra hanging over the side of your laundry basket. His chest sparked once more, prompting him again to leave with a deep blush.

The same thing happened in the elevator, when the warmth from his chest had popped his microwavable bag of popcorn.

Lastly, and the most embarrassing event of all, when you had knocked in his door wearing nothing but a robe. He knew that he had acted a bit too promptly, perhaps even rude, but his flame grew with each inch of skin that was exposed, to the point where he felt like a bomb might go off in his chest.

A car pulling up outside of his building briefly caught his attention, until he did a double-take and noticed you were placing your suitcase in the back, hugging your grandmother. It didn’t take more than a millisecond before Spencer realized you were leaving.

Spencer first felt relieved. Relived that you weren’t going to be around to distract him any longer. That relief turned into depression as he thought of what could have happened if he had worked up the courage to ask you out. Lastly, he felt panic. Why couldn’t he tell you now?

It would be impossible, even if he were to run down the stairs, there was a slim chance that he would be able to catch you before you got into the taxi, but he had to try! You were not Maeve, you were someone else entirely. You were sweet, caring about your grandmother, and quite beautiful.

He cut his thoughts short as he grabbed a flower from his countertop and raced out of his apartment, barely even shutting the door. Just as he thought, the car started to move as soon as his feet hit the street, but that didn’t stop him from running after it. Even with his field testing, there was no way he could run as fast as a car.

Morose thoughts crept into his mind, wondering if you would even accept his proposal, or thought he was a mad man. Maybe he wasn’t meant to love, especially in his field of work. His pace seemed to falter for a moment.

Suddenly he thought of you, the color of your eyes and the confused glance you had when you knocked on his door. Your smile, your hair, your legs. Your physical appearance wasn’t the only beautiful thing about you. He thought of the way your voice sounded when you spoke, the laughter he could faintly hear through the walls, absolutely everything about you. And there was still more to discover.

With each thought his flame seemed to grow bigger, as if his chest was a blowtorch and you were hairspray. He could feel his adrenaline pumping and running as fast as he possibly could. As if God had heard his (very loud) prayers, the taxi came to a stop at a traffic light.

“I hope it’s there, I hope it’s there.” He mumbled, finding his badge in his pocket and slamming it upon the window of the car, startling the patrons inside before throwing open the door and falling in the backseat.

Your eyes were wide with shock, and a slight hint of amusement. “Am I under arrest?” You asked, only half joking. A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he panted, holding up a finger as he caught his breath. He held up the flower, almost forgetting about it.

“Uh- I swear… it wasn’t like that…before I left.” He puffed, face red with beads of sweat sticking to his forehead.

“And um… why did you leave?” You asked quietly, eyeing the flower, limp and slightly burnt.

“Some crazy part of me just couldn’t let you go until I managed to tell you how much of a pathetic coward I am for not trying to ask you out earlier.” He admitted, eyes pleading as he met yours.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you were at a loss for words. You eyed the flower one more time, before you saw the glow illuminating from his chest. You don’t know how you could have missed it. It was practically like a Christmas fireplace. You don’t remember seeing the glow when you knocked on the door that first day you arrived, but after that moment, you had barely seen him. Was it possible that he felt a spark… for you? Plain, old, you?

Not to mention the young man was attractive. With unruly hair and dark eyes, a strong jawline, and pink lips, you could feel your heart start to flutter. Furthermore, he dedicated his life to helping and saving others. How sweet.

Spencer couldn’t help but smile when you took the flower, your own chest sparking up and filling the other side of the taxi with a warm glow. You both smiled at each other, interrupted only when your taxi driver cleared his throat.

“Uh, as sweet as this all is officer, are we okay to proceed?” The driver had flipped his panic lights on, stuck on the right lane of traffic, cars honking as they moved around the vehicle.

“You’re leaving…” the news dawned on Spencer for the second time.

“Only for a few weeks. I originally came here to apply for a job position and I’ve been accepted! I’m moving here.” You shared, giggling as he grew another smile. “Would you like to accompany me to the airport then? That way you can pay for running up my meter.” You teased.

“Yes.” Spencer answered, with no hesitation. You nudged him gently before he seemed to understand. “Oh! Yes, please, let’s- uh, let’s go.”

“My grandmother is going to be thrilled.” You mumbled. “She said you were a sweet boy who would treat me nicely.”

“I’ll treat you better than just nicely.” He whispered, allowing you scoot to closer. It took you a moment to work up enough courage to lean into him and rest your head up on his shoulder, letting the flames grow.

[zerotexas1975]

water ripples (part 5);

cr

↳ pairing: namjoon x female reader

↳ genre: mermaid au | fluff | slight angst

↳ word count: 2,692

↳ warnings: swearing

↳ summary: “I will let you go, not because I don’t want you to stay

But because I don’t want you to stay without wanting.” — unknown

or where namjoon finds a mermaid and needs to find a way to help her go back to the ocean - even if it’s something none of them wants to.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 (final) | masterlist

NamJoon turned off the radio after hearing all day about the rainstorm that would cause a little bit of a trouble throughout the night - so he was determined to go out with you and buy food before it was too late.

It was too late, anyway. You can say that.

You closed the door behind you with a loud sound and locked it, dropping the paper bags before being helped by NamJoon to take off your wet coat and shoes, hair dripping wet and sticking uncomfortably to your neck.

Taking a quick breath, you feel as your nose starts to itch and you scrunch it up cutely, making NamJoon hold himself back to not pinch your cheeks and then he asks, “are you alright?”

And you sneezes, a sigh of relief following right after.

He chuckles and turns around to the bathroom, “bless you.”

“Excuse me.”

“That’s not the word, darling.”

From where he was crouched down grabbing a towel, he looked at you when you stayed silent; he was met by a thoughtful expression.

“I’m sorry?” you tried, lowering your head when he walked towards you with towel in hand to dry your purple hair.

“Another one.”

“Thank you?”

“That’s right.”

You beamed at him and he smiled back at you, deep dimples for show making you feel warm.

“Thank you, Joonie.”

“You are wel-“ suddenly, he is interrupted by your sweet soft lips on his.

It was just a peck, too fast for NamJoon even have it registered as a kiss - but for his horror he moaned a complaint when you pushed yourself away.

It was for you an innocent gesture, but one that you completely misunderstood.

Or that NamJoon failed to explain, as the conversation the two of you had a few hours earlier at the convenience store comes to taunt him.

-

“That’s a kiss,” NamJoon said with his voice low, close to your ear, before you had the chance to ask. You know that. And you know more, but you wanted to see how he would get out with that.

You two were in line when something caught your attention and NamJoon had followed your gaze to the line next to yours and found a couple - probably visitors, sharing kisses.

He didn’t think much about it before bending over so he could tell you something new, as he learned he liked to do it a lot; watching as your pretty lilac eyes shined in amazement or whatever feeling the word you have learned gave you. So he continued, “they are boyfriend and girlfriend.”

You stared blankly at him - the way you did whenever he explained something to you with another word you just never heard of. That you didn’t know.

He chuckled playfully, brushing his shoulder with yours, “‘s not very different from friends, darling.”

“We are friends!”, you pointed out proudly and he ignored the stinging pain in his heart before smiling again.

“You are right, the difference is that they are more intimate with each other, I guess,” he tilted his head to the side and his dimples appeared when he pulled his chin up a little and pouted. “They kiss and-“

“And what?” Curiosity slipped from your tongue while NamJoon was distracted cursing himself inside. “They kiss and what?” you insisted.

“They do things.” He tried, fooling himself to thinking that it would be enough for you. It was not, because it never is.

“Like what?”

He used to be smarter, but he learned that think straight with you by his side is not really the easiest thing to do, that’s why he says what he says, “like sleeping together.”

First, you opened your mouth but didn’t say anything. He sighed in relief.

But then lines started to form between your eyebrows as you shook your head softly, showing him how lost you were but making an effort to catch what he was trying to say.

Frustrated when you couldn’t find an answer, you squeezed his hand between yours, telling him you sleep together too, making the couple crack what they thought was discreet laughs.

“It’s just different, okay?” He said exasperated, blushing red and avoiding eye contact.

You hummed in accordance.

-

She is not understanding, he remembers he mused that.

Now, watching as you move around the room with a sly smile, NamJoon is sure of two things; that he needs to be more dedicated when explaining you things and that he is fucked as well as he fucked up. Simple, right?

He decided to just put the DVD on the correct device, going to the sofa and waiting for you to press play.

You approach him and take a look at your limited possibilities of seats, before deciding that his lap will do.

It doesn’t bother you as much as it is uncomfortable for him; though he should be used by now.

You are someone who craves skinship almost all the time, you are always searching for some part of his body to touch while you are asleep, always holding his hand close when you are walking around and playing with his fingers even if you are too distracted to notice.

But he does.

All the time too - and it’s not like he minds, he thought about it before and the fact that you feel this comfortable around him is something else, really. Yet, with some thoughts crossing his minds now and then, especially in the last few weeks you’ve been together, he can’t stop himself from stiffening when you pressed your back against his chest, nor the groan that left his lips the second you tried to get more comfortable and ended sitting on his growing bulge.

And the fact that he can still taste your lips on his doesn’t help.

Well, shit, “darling, can you please sit on my side?”

“Why? You don’t like to have me?” you pouted, turning your body to look at him and moving to straddle his thigh before you slowly slide to the side, your body now pressed against his and one leg on his lap.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration with one hand, he uses the other to force your leg to stay still almost hooked to his lap, away from what he’s going to call a problem.

This sounded wrong; it was worded wrong. But God, he felt good hearing you say that.

All he wanted to say was, yes, I do like to have you and would like even more to have you right now, but NamJoon knew more than that. He knew you just had a problem with forming sentences, your innocent and concerned gaze on him confirming that - or so he thought that was it. So he just looked at you, swallowed hard and pressed a kiss on your forehead before nodding, letting you crawl back to lay on top of him.

This time he parted his legs and placed a pillow there, murmuring that you’d feel more comfortable, in which you just shrugged a shoulder and smiled weakly at him.

You spent the rest of the movie stealing glances and worrying your bottom lip - his expression twisted in one of concentration but you knew he wasn’t paying attention, he wasn’t even blinking, yet you couldn’t blame him.

You stopped paying attention a long time ago too, his face much more fascinating than anything else.

You know exactly what you were doing.

You tried to seduce him - poorly, you assume that, after days of anguish making your heart mad. You watched a ridiculous amount of TV shows and came up with an even more ridiculous idea to make his eagerness of wanting to leave you just go, but you failed.

Failed to the point where you couldn’t even make him itch down there the way he makes you.

The anguish feeling creeping all the way up to your chest again as you forced yourself to stop thinking about it, to stop thinking about his conversation with his friends and mom on the phone about going back soon as they grew suspicious and impatient with each passing day.

He told you you were a fast learner, so of course you were right; of course you would just link all the points and realize that the past few days you spent hearing questions about the ocean only means that, that he was ready to leave you.

Avoid with a passion all these questions didn’t work, but touch him more did.

You realized after a while when he started to hold you longer when you hugged him, or how his hand always found its way to yours - way before you were thinking about holding his. So you thought that more would be enough. It wasn’t.

And you probably just made it worse now. Great.

You turned your attention back to the TV with a huff, eyes squinting shut when they started to burn.

How, you wonder, could someone make you feel like this?

It is going to hurt so bad when you leave me, you wanted to say, though you don’t find strength to mutter a word.

You started to calm down when he snapped out of his mind and passed his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp in a way that made a shiver run down your spine.

This is way better than the ocean.

But what is the point anyway if he just wants to leave you?

Guess it is time for you to simply tell him everything and let him decide for himself - or just verbalize what you already know. That he’s pitying you. That he feels like it is his obligation to take care of you and now he’s just so sorry to leave you behind after you got so attached to him, and maybe it was nice, fun, and new in the beginning, but now all you are doing is getting on his way.

There is a need to see him happy that torn you apart because if happiness is not you then there’s nothing you can do other than oblige, so you tug the fabric of his hoodie and when he looks down at you, you say it.

“You should take me back.”

“What?” NamJoon looked surprised and you wet your lips with your tongue before sighing and moving to sit facing him.

He grabs the remote, turning off the TV and then watch you expectantly.

“Y-you asked me what you should do, remember?” you sounded much more convincing inside of your head, but there was no time to cringe at the way your voice stuttered. “Take me back.”

“Alright,” he nodded slowly, “where is this coming from? Do you need to go back?”

“I think I do,” you say with uncertainty now, regret washing your face but you have to do that for him.

“Yeah?” his voice is soft and he is trying to understand why you said that out of nowhere, searching for any signs of you feeling sick or something that would hint that you do need to go back, trying to remember if he did anything to you in the last hours that made you come up with this - and then when he doesn’t find a thing, he understands. He understands that you want to leave, that you probably miss the ocean, your home, not him. He doesn’t know who he was trying to fool, of course you’d miss it. And though he doesn’t want to hear the answer - he stopped wanting for a while now, he asks. “And why is that?”

“I think she wants me back, she is a little,” you straighten your body and tilt your head to the side, trying to find the right word. “What is that word, Joonie? The one from yesterday when we were outside,” you urged but he doesn’t know. “You said I can’t be a fish?”

“Selfish?”

“Right, this one,” you beamed. “She is selshish.”

He doesn’t bother correcting you, “who is she?”

“The ocean, Joonie.” You look at him as it is obvious.

“Okay, so you need to go back,” he commented to himself and asks questions that once possessed all of his mind. “What about your people? Family? You don’t have one?”

“We used to be more, now we are just a little,” shrugging, you take a hold of his hand to play with his fingers. The little thing he still has the time to find endearing about you, that you seek comfort with his touch.

“And where are they? Were they close to the Arena too?” that name makes you feel nauseous and you scrunch your nose up cutely one more time, but don’t reply. He searches for you eyes but find them focused on his hand, so he squeezes yours to have your attention.

When you look at him, it is odd. He usually knows how you are feeling by the look in your eyes, but now he just can’t recognize this one. Yet, you let escape a clue when you reply, “no, we don’t stay together.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” you say shaking your head. “Only when she calls us, when there is problem and she needs help.”

“So you take care of the ocean?” The smile he gives you is so genuine and pure that even with that heavy feeling forcing your shoulders down, you see yourself mimicking it. It is because of that smile that you are saying all of this. “That is amazing, darling,” he goes on. “How do you do that?”

“I ask the water and the water helps me,” you say easy.

The young man looks at you in awe, his mouth agape, “you control the water?”

“No,” you roll your eyes and he is still too surprised to let himself feel stupid despite the way you look at him. “I have to ask first.”

“Right, I get it,” he replies quietly. “So I’ll take you back tomorrow, alright?”

“Alrea-I mean, alright.” You need to ignore the way your heart hurt because he wants to leave you so fast, but you should be waiting for that.

“Maybe it’s been too long, right?” He mused, carefully watching you, waiting for you to say no, in that shy way you did when you first met.

“It is lonely there. In the water, I stay alone,” you confess at the same time something inside NamJoon stops working as it is suddenly too painful to breath, as he finally understands the look in your eyes - the same one he didn’t notice, until now, that you had when you got here. “I don’t like being alone.”

He shuffles closer to you, heart constricting at the sight of his mermaid’s quivering lips that let go a shaky breath. You try to reassure him with a thin smile, but it is just not right.

It doesn’t even make sense.

It doesn’t make sense to have such a beautiful creature looking this sad, feeling this lonely.

The look in your eyes he should have recognized a long time ago, because reflected his own - at least before he met you.

An emptiness he didn’t know that could be erased since his friends and family - the people he loved most, didn’t fill. It wasn’t enough; now, looking at you, he is sad too, but that is because he is the one that is not enough for you.

For now, he does the only thing he can think of.

He holds you. He kisses your forehead and your cheeks. Then he kisses your chin, your nose and you didn’t notice you were holding your breath until you needed to let it go; your figure shaking under his arms.

“I’m so sorry, darling.”

And you know he is, you are sorry too; but instead of saying anything, you press your hand against his chest and force him to lay down.

He obeys, he always does, his hand finding its way to your head, fingers passing through your hair in the most soothing manner.

He doesn’t stop.

Not after hearing you sighing softly or smiling because of a dream; he refused to, to even stop looking at you.

NamJoon didn’t get any sleep that night.

A/N: now just one more to go! Please let me know what you think about this part!

you asked me to tag you so i’m hoping it works <3 @pwinny00

[aliferous-ly]

Ooo, gosh, E5 and B1?

i like how u think anon ohhm y goodness

E5 -- analogical. B1 -- fantasy. 

Rainstorms and Fairies 

Logan touched the pink wilting petals. He frowned. “You were doing so well,” he murmured, crouching next to the plant. “What happened? Am I watering you too much? Too little? Not enough sun? Is the soil too acidic?” he touched the dirt as if contact would tell him all of its secrets. It felt normal enough, not too dry but not yet mud, either.

A bell sounded through the shop and Logan gave the flower one last look before standing. “I’ll be back to find out what’s going on. Keep puttering on, I believe in you.”

The front of the shop revealed a sopping wet traveler donned in a large, dark violet cloak.

Logan blinked. “Oh, you’re soaking wet!” he said, hands clasping in front of him. “I have just the thing,” he said, reaching underneath the counter.

The traveler flinched violently and extended his hands, punctuating his actions with a heated, “don’t!”

Logan paused, fingers curled around a towel. “Don’t what?”

“I can’t have any more spells layered on me,” they said, voice gravelly and low. “It’s too dangerous.”

Logan’s expression didn’t change as he raised his hand, revealing a towel the color of robin’s eggs. The traveler dropped their hand to the back of their neck, seemingly embarrassed.

“I can’t do magic,” Logan explained. He handed the towel to them, which they accepted with a quiet murmured thanks. They pulled the hood off – oh, wow, okay – and then shed the cloak altogether. It floated over to a waiting coat hanger.

“None at all?” the – the man, Logan guessed, based on the pink crystal dangling from one ear. An old wives tale, which claimed the crystal would improve masculine energies, the blue for an in between, the white for feminine.

Logan, of course, knew this was all a farse, as did most of the population. They were pretty, though.

“No,” Logan said. “Well, other than the smallest bits – sometimes I don’t get sunburn, or I’ll find seven ruby red ladybugs in one day, or it’ll rain when I was hoping for it. Few and far between. Seems more like coincidence than magic, truthfully...”

“Oh,” the traveler said. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, ruffling the towel through his hair. Logan tried hard not to track the movement. “That’s unusual, especially this close to the city.”

“Yes, well.” Logan snapped his eyes away from the traveler’s arms, accented underneath the black – leather? Maybe? “I make do.”

“I suppose you would have to,” he said. His gaze trailed over the shop, taking in the bundles of dried and living herbs alike.

“What’s your name?” Logan asked, then, just to make conversation, because it was becoming a tad... awkward. His hands twisted together underneath the counter.

“My name?” the traveler asked, surprise coloring his tone. As if he’d expected Logan to already know it. Which they didn’t live in a small town, after all, so Logan had no idea why he would already know this stranger’s name. “It’s – it’s Virgil.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeated, because repeating names was said to bring good luck and also, it helped him remember it. “I’m Logan.”

“Good to meet you, Logan,” Virgil said. He ran a hand through his hair, a concerned expression pinching his face. “Do you... um, do you have a mirror?”

Logan’s mind went absolutely, completely blank for a solid three seconds (honestly, the combination of ruffling his hair, showing off his arms, and that absolutely devastating hopeful look – Logan wasn’t sure how he was still standing).

Then he burst out of whatever funk had just happened (good Lord) and said, “Yes, yes, of course, I have one,” and pulled one out from under the counter. Which. He knew there was one under there, but had no idea it was so conveniently close to his hand.

A little magic, maybe? Or just another coincidence. One couldn’t be too sure.

“Thanks,” Virgil said, somewhat bashfully, before taking the mirror and checking to make sure his hair wasn’t absolutely ruined in the rain, which Logan could have told him looked gorgeous no matter what happened to it. He didn’t know how well that would have been received, of course.

“So what brings you here?” Logan said, leaning an elbow against the counter, hand propping his chin.

“The rain, mostly,” Virgil said bluntly.

“No, I mean,” Logan sputtered, laughter spilling from his lips. “I mean this corner of the city. Are you from around here?”

“Uh, well.” Virgil swallowed. Logan tried not to track the movement (he really did). “Not really. I’m from Niak, lived there most of my life. I’m here on a job from the palace.”

“The palace!” Logan said, eyes widening. How interesting was this Virgil, really? “That’s quite the job!”

“Y-yeah, I guess,” Virgil said. He cleared his throat. “Never made it, though. The storm’s wicked out there.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, lips flickering into a frown. “That’s the river sprites pact with the wind sprites. City got a little too flippant with how they treated them, and now, well.” Logan spread his hands out, as if gesturing to the entire storm. “Angry weather.”

“Your little corner seemed kinder,” Virgil said, side-eyeing him as if he was hiding some greater secret, some greater magic.

Oh, if only. If only.

“There’s a river out back,” Logan explained, expression twisting in amusement. “The sprites really like lemon drops and thyme, so they’re cutting my poor garden some slack.”

Something beautiful bloomed in Virgil’s face and he smiled crookedly, a bubble of a laugh jumping from his lips. “Lemon drops? Thyme?”

“Sometimes all you need to do is listen,” Logan said with a grin of his own, shrugging.

“I suppose,” Virgil said, teeth peeking just barely between his lips. “After all, magic isn’t everything.”

“Of course not!” Logan said vehemently. He cleared his throat at Virgil’s startled look. “I mean, so many individuals consider magic the catch-all, but that’s certainly not the case. Most gardeners or shopkeeps utilize magic to grow their wares, but my store is proof that you don’t need to. Simply learning the trade is good enough.”

“Okay, but even I have heard of your shop, which has managed to stay afloat among so many magic users, a phenomenon yet unheard of,” Virgil said, voice dropping into something deeper, something intimate. “What’s your secret?”

Logan’s eyebrow quirked at the transformation and the information. “Yes, well, talking pleasantly to them never hurt anyone.”

Virgil’s expression jumped, eyebrows raising and lips curving. “Talking to the plants?”

“Encouraging them, complimenting them,” Logan said. He trailed a cursive L on the counter top with his fingertip absentmindedly. “People lean so much on magic they forget the other skills we have.”

“Plants don’t have ears, though.”

“Maybe not,” Logan conceded. “But it works, doesn’t it?”

Virgil glanced around the shop, forced to concede by the blatant life blooming all around him. “Yes, it certainly does.”

Logan paused, then, noting fading tapping against the shop. “I believe it’s stopped raining.”

“Oh,” Virgil said. The tips of his fingers glowed yellow and so did his eyes for a few moments, then he said, “yeah, it’s petering out.”

Logan lowered his gaze. Time to go.

“I guess I should meet up with my contacts,” Virgil said, sounding like he wanted to do anything but. “Um, I’ll... I’ll see you around, okay?”

Logan glanced at him, forcing his expression to remain blank. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Okay,” Virgil said. He paused just before leaving, giving Logan a long stare, but left without another word.

Logan exhaled heavily, leaning against the counter.

Virgil.

—

Logan was searching for the field of daylilies when it happened.

“Oh, dear,” he said, half of his foot within the ring and the rest of his body out. Already, he felt the compelling come with us, play with us, dance with us flickering around his mind.

“Hello!” a tinny voice peeped, and Logan glanced down to see a small yellow fairy. “Good good grand! You can dance with us too!”

Within moments dozens of other fairies popped up, shaking their dandelion fluff hair, each a different color. They cheered various similar greetings and Logan sighed, trying to fight against the chant. He had things to do, after all.

“I apologize, I cannot stay,” Logan said. He touched his glasses in thought. “Some other time.”

“But we want to dance now!”

“I cannot.”

A chorus of “no!”’s drifted through his ears and Logan resigned himself to a night of negotiations and most likely bruises, too, because fairies were vicious little buggers.

“Logan?”

Logan started, turning away from the fairy tug on his clothes to spy a certain traveler in a violet cloak. “Oh! Virgil!”

“Logan, did you get caught in a fairy circle?” Virgil asked, more amused than fearful.

“Yes, well, elementary mistake,” Logan confessed, the fairies continually pulling on his arms, his shirt, to get him dancing. “I am saddened to say I will not be able to keep your company this evening.”

Virgil frowned. “I’m not going to let a few fairies disturb our plans.”

Logan furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, there’s not much you can do, the fairies are implicitly connected to the fae so you don’t really want to cause trouble–”

Virgil stepped forward. “Begone,” he breathed, the word tumbling from his mouth and towards the fairies. They spun head over heel in the wind and then vanished, the fairy circle with them.

Logan gaped at him. “Did you just... did you...” he licked his lips, unsure what to do with his hands. Where are hands supposed to go? “Did you just banish a fairy circle?”

“Yeah.” Virgil shrugged.

“Do you... do you know the implications of that?” Logan all but demanded. “The fae are going to be pissed at you! You don’t want the fae pissed at you. I could’ve dealt with it, you know, you didn’t have to go and... cause more trouble just for the night.”

“The fae don’t scare me,” Virgil said. “I’ve dealt with them before.”

Logan blinked a few times, the words settling in his brain. The fae don’t – the fae “don’t scare you?”.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “They can be understanding in certain situations.”

“I’m...” Logan trailed off. “I’m not sure what to make of that. I’ve never heard of them being understanding. Maybe my perceptions were off...”

That made Virgil look up, gaze sharp. “No. I’m an exception to the rule. Don’t go muddling about in fae affairs.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Logan muttered, perturbed. Virgil sighed, though in relief or exasperation, Logan couldn’t tell.

“Well,” Logan said, brushing off his clothes. “Thank you, regardless.”

“You’re welcome,” Virgil said, giving him a toothy grin. “You promised me soup. I couldn’t pass that up.”

“That I did,” Logan said. He couldn’t find it in him to be frustrated with Virgil and let the irritation slide off, a steady smile taking its place. “First, though, I’m going to find a daylily field.”

Virgil’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I know just the field you’re talking about!”

“You do?” Logan’s lips flicked into a smile.

“Yes, yeah, it’s just over here,” Virgil said, his excitement a strange contrast to his dark clothes.

Logan smiled and began to follow him.

[missblissy]

Arthur X Female!Reader domestic/cute/Angst headcanons AU!! >:) Feel the pain.

((Please let me know if you guys would like to see this in fic form!! Or a Part 2 to this AU!!))

You and Arthur did it. You got away. You got as far as you could from the gang and went someplace no one would ever find you. The Adirondacks of New York. You guys lived alone in a cabin in the mountains. You were far away from civilization, which is all that mattered.

The summers were cool and beautiful and your little cabin had a garden to feed you. Arthur wasn’t much of a gardener, but you were.

Arthur tended to the animals, you had a few chickens and two goats. He went hunting every morning before dawn to get something to cook up for dinner.

A slow but skinny river wrapped itself around your property, wiggling its way down the shallow mountainside. Every now and then you’d see someone rowing their little boat down the river.

You spent a lot of your time on your porch swing during the summer time. It did get hot, even in the mountains. You’d sit there in with your little smile and drink away at some cooled tea, watching your husband chop wood for the winter supply you needed to keep warm. 

Watching Arthur do hard labor was a very important pastime for you. He wanted to do all the heavy lifting, just like he did back in camp, and you didn’t argue with him because it kept him busy.

You’d much rather Arthur be kept busy than to sit alone with his thoughts.

You both really did miss the gang. It was the only family you knew. Your heart ached, wondering where Dutch was now. If he was still alive. You wondered where John and his family went. You still shed tears over the deaths of all those people who passed along the way.

One day, about three years after you and Arthur had made your home in the mountains, Arthur started to get sick. It started with something stuck in his throat. Then it became a simple cough. No worries.

Days went by and he started to get better. But you noticed how much he began to wheeze. He was having trouble getting on his horse. He couldn’t breathe.

A cough came back and this time it was much worse. You owned three horses (Thank god) One was yours, on was Arthurs, and the other was a stubborn workhorse. You had to get the wagon together and help Arthur into the passenger seat. 

It took about a week of pestering him to go to town. It was about an hours ride away. You didn’t waste any time trying to get there. The town was bustling and busy. It was called Saranac Lake.

The Doctor took you in instantly. You were good friends with him, as you helped him by doing the bookkeeping of his tuberculosis hospital he ran out of his bigger than life house.

For some reason, you didn’t put the dots together. The Doctor looked over Arthur a grave face. He couldn’t breathe, he was getting sick, weak, there was blood. But You guessed you were a little lucky, “He’s got TB, Mrs. Morgan. And he’s had it longer than anyone I know. He’s just been hiding it really well,”

At first you thought you somehow gave it to him. But you got yourself checked out and the doctor said you were as clean as a whistle. But there was something the Doctor told you as he pulled you aside and out of earshot from Arthur.

“Mrs. Morgan... I don’t know if you know this, but I do -And quite frankly I’m not sure how you don’t already know. But you are pregnant.”

First of all, Arthur heard everything unknown to you and the Doctor. And you had some suspicions, a little feeling that it might be true... but you wanted to not believe it. Your husband was dying. You couldn’t possibly be pregnant on top of that, right?

Wrong. 

The ride home was a sad one. Arthur asked you what the doctor had said to you in private. You lied at first, said he just wanted to talk about Arthur and how sick he was. You didn’t last long. You started to cry and you stopped the wagon. You curled forward and cried into your hands explaining how this must be your fault, that you got him sick. That the doctor said you were pregnant and he was going to die soon. That the world hated you both. You felt like everything was your fault.

“No... It’s not you,” Arthur said on the ride home, “This is me. I know what I did. I’ll stick around as long as I can, my love, for as long as possible.” Arthur never told you more than that. But deep inside he was trying to repent. He remembered the sick old man he beat half to death for Strauss all those years ago. He didn’t even remember that poor man’s name.

Arthur saw this as karma, as “God” finally catching up to him and making him pay for all the bad and wrong he’s done in the past. It made him reflect heavily on his life. The doctor said he could live another year, or be down in a month. They had no idea how quickly he’d die. He said stress and work had something to do about it too. Said he’d live longer if all he did was rest. But Arthur Morgan was not a man of rest. Especially with you carrying his unborn child. Now more than ever he needed to step up and care for his tiny family.

Rest granted him depression which he so often tried to avoid. Staying in bed all the time caused him to get trapped deep in his own mind. You had to leave him alone for hours on end while you went to town and made whatever honest money you could.

After about two weeks, Arthur couldn’t stand it anymore. He wasn’t going to let this sickness stop him. He went back to living his life like he always had. Rough, tough, beaten up and working to the bone. He did this until he couldn’t do it anymore.

A month had passed, and he was still alive. Finally, he had grown too ill to go outside, or barely make it out of his bed. Money was getting tight because you needed to stay home to take care of Arthur. He finally understood what it felt like to be on the other side of the loansharks bills.

He didn’t know it, but you were forced to go out and steal, rob. You did it in the night when most of the world was asleep, especially your husband. A lot of the money you had gotten came from robbing people in their homes. You did this for as long as you could, at least until you started showing how pregnant you really were. 

Arthur could feel as every day went by, he got closer and closer to his final destination. He wrote so often in his journal. He wrote in 3 leather-bound journals in the course of a month. It was like he was writing a book for someone.

One day, about three months after that awful day at the Doctor’s... Arthur’s health had finally taken a turn for the worse. You were well into your pregnancy, at least five months in according to the doctor. You no longer could work for him, but he lent you money when you needed it and gave medician for free. He was a good man and friend. 

Arthur couldn’t get out of bed anymore. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t even hold himself up to sit up straight. On the night of a horrible autumn rainstorm, you laid in bed with him. 

He talked softly, each word barely a whisper. He just went on and on about all those times back in the gang. His heart was stuck there. He’d smile and remind you of when you two were kids. Joke softly about how young you use to be. Then he started talking about how much he loved you and how scared he was. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave you. 

You told him not to be scared. You held his hand and let him put his head on your chest. The sound of your heartbeat eased him to close his eyes. 

“What if it’s a girl?” He asked after a bit, “Or a boy? What will you name them?” The two of you went back and forth, now focused on your child that would be born soon. Thunder echoed outside, the world was in chaos. But somehow your little cabin was heaven on earth if only for a few hours.

Arthur finally died in his sleep. You were awake the whole time, watching his breathing. His chest would get filled then lower slowly. Bit by bit his breathing got more and more shallow until it finally stopped.

You didn’t feel anything at first. You just sighed like the weight of the world had finally left your shoulders. You laid your head on Arthur’s chest, heard the emptiness of his body, and cried.

[xambedox]

the boy with the bread; a drabble

     it was a dreary day, the kind where the cold chilled you to your bones, the kind where even the steady hot & golden glow of the ovens couldn’t keep the chill out, not truly. peeta’s warmed by the fiery oven but just to look out & past the window, he’s left with a melancholy unbefitting of a child. the rain itself looked steady, like it was ice cold & unforgiving to those caught in it.

     but peeta did his best not to dwell on it, instead focusing his attention on the tasks at hand & on the surprisingly good mood of his family as they all worked around him. even his mother, who was more often that not, just as cold as the rainstorm outside. she liked to see people miserable, struggling. he often wonders how she can be so cruel, especially to the family she raised & whom she claims to love.

     then there’s the far off clatter & rustle as he hears the garbage can at the curb & it seems he wasn’t the only one. the look in his mother’s eye changes, & he worries. already his mind is going through all the things he must remember not to do for fear of evoking her wrath & turning it towards him. but peeta’s curious, & though timid, he follows his mother out, thinking how large of a contrast between the pleasant tone of the bell at their door & the loud, ugly words he soon hears leave his mother’s lips. he can’t see her face the way he cowers behind her, but there’s no struggle for him to picture the expression he’s seen time & time again.

     so he stares out past his mother’s skirt, eyes finding the face of a girl he’d known well enough. katniss everdeen  —  the girl with a voice as soothing & lovely as he looked in that red dress from his memories. but the girl he sees now seems a shell of the girl he knew. they were in the same year at school & saw her only in passing, but now he’s able to see her clearly & the sight pains him. it looked like katniss had been starving for days. deep set dark circles, hollowed cheeks & tired eyes, glazed over with a somber acceptance of the insults being spit in her direction. she was soaked as could be, her shins & boots muddied from her uncareful steps & peeta was at a loss. she looked as though she was on deaths door & had no rebuttal for his mother’s more than displeased words. he wanted to help, to do something. but he’s still only a child — a child with no say & a deeply ingrained fear of his mother’s hand.

     katniss replaced the lid where it belonged, backing away. while still unhappy & her mood ruined, peeta’s mother turns on her heel, moving swiftly back into the bakery, grumbling about how awful it was to have hideous beggars coming to them for scraps, & how unpleasant the goosebumps now raised on her arms were from the chill, so uncaring of the girl who felt it tenfold over. with his mother back inside & the bell chime fading, he watches katniss moved onward & around the side of the bakery, though not far. she found herself leaning against the old apple tree & peeta knew there was no mistaking the bitter look of defeat in her face. he felt selfish for it, but he turned away from her, guilt squeezing his heart uncomfortably tight. he’s left wondering how he could help her, if he could help her.

    starvation was no stranger to district 12. though the seam was far worse than the merchant area, there were still those of the town kids that had to take out tesserae. peeta’s family included. their bakery was popular, full of good hearty food that was always in demand, but they went through food supplies dangerously fast, taking out tesserae made their lives that much easier. still, they struggled at times, a fact well hidden among merchants for fear it might affect their business. the culmination of which being that he’d seen first hand the effect starvation had on the people of the district, there was no avoiding it even within the safeties of the merchant section.

     now back in the bakery, the room feels warm, too warm. & he wants to focus on the tasks he’d been given but he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl outside, a girl he’d loved from afar for so long & yet he’s unable to help her when she needs it most. his mother snaps at him, spitting cruel words to him now that her anger had been redirected & he nods, his shoulders hunched as he cowers next to the oven, worried about the risk of her ire escalating further, but as he reaches to pull the bread from the oven, an idea strikes him, & he forces himself to comply before he has the chance to change his mind. he’s caught, being yanked away from the oven by the back of his shirt as his older brother pulls the burning bread from where it fell in the fire. now retrieved, the charred bread sits on the counter top in front of his mother & the entire bakery is quiet as they wait on his mothers response. she takes a few moments for her to collect herself, taking that pent up after from a few minutes ago & molding it together with the scolding peeta knew was coming. but he stood his ground, silently awaiting his punishment & fighting the tears in his eyes. he was stronger than this, only the weak cried, & he couldn’t be weak, not in front of his mother.

     then the punishment came & for a split second he saw white. she’d swung the rolling pin at him, a weapon she was well practiced with, but this particular blow was harder than most. as much as he wanted to stand strong & take it like a man, he was still just an 11 year old boy. so he lets out a small cry, equal parts pain & surprise as he finds himself falling to the ground. his father rushes forward to his mother, trying to calm her down while peeta’s eldest brother helps him up, trying to assess the damage but already peeta’s wincing at the touch.

     he’s sure it will bruise, & he hears his brother mutter quietly under his breath.  ❝ what’s wrong with you? you’ve just made it harder on the rest of us. ❞ the words harsh as were most in their family, but there was still some concern in his tone.  ❝ you’re normally better than this. ❞ peeta swallows the tears threatening to spill over, insisting to himself over & over again that this was nothing, he’d received far worse.

     but his mother’s screaming continues & peeta’s shoved towards the side door, bread still almost painfully hot in his hands.  ❝ feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! ❞ his mother roars, chasing him out the door.  ❝ why not? no one decent will buy burned bread! ❞ peeta finds it hard still to hold back the tears. so he sniffles, feet half dragging through the mud on his way to the pig pen. he can see katniss out the corner of his eye, but he’s still afraid, terribly so, & feels her eyes trained on him as he halfheartedly tears bits off the bread. he can see bits of raisins & nuts poking through the more he tears. then he hears their front door bell chime once more, & his mother rushes back inside to meet the customer, & he can picture all too well the change in her voice to a cheery tone as if nothing had gone wrong at all.

     his cheek stung & ached & he’s sure the heat of the oven will only hurt it more, but he had to deal with the pain without complaint, god knows what more would happen if he were to whine even in the slightest. but soon peeta finds himself glancing back over his shoulder at the bakery, hoping desperately no one would appear to make sure he finished the job. & it seemed clear, so peeta wastes no time tossing the partially torn loaf of bread to katniss’ feet, followed by the second almost immediately & he made his way back inside as quickly as he could, careful to close the door tightly behind him.

     he was right. the heat of the room only strengthened the ache of his cheek & eye & he hopes he made the right decision. he hopes she takes the bread, & he feels guilty he felt like he had to toss it at her, condescendingly, instead of walking over to her & handing it over directly. but already he was scared, so scared he’d burned the bread, & further scared still his motives would be found out.

     later that night, he’d been forced to sit at the dinner table, his plate empty while those of his family members were full. ❝ you shouldn’t have burned the bread, peeta. ❞ his mother’s tone was sickeningly sweet, smug tone as if she couldn’t be more proud of her punishments for the day.  ❝ if you’re going to ruin perfectly good food then i see no reason why you should be allowed to eat some. ❞ peeta’s only response is to nod silently in his seat, staring down at his empty plate. but somewhere in the back of his mind, he tells himself he learned a lesson. giving something up so someone else can have it ( no matter the pain of the scolding he might receive ) was worth it. he went to bed, stomach painfully empty, but his heart full knowing he might have made a world of difference to a girl he cared about.

     when peeta awoke the next morning, it was to the face of his younger brother leaning over him, a grimace contorting the other boy’s face. ❝ you’ve got a black eye, ❞ he states plainly as if peeta couldn’t feel the familiar pain of it. ❝ she wanted to let you go to school without breakfast again today, ❞ he adds. ❝ dad convinced her otherwise but you’ve gotta be careful the next few days. ❞ peeta sighs. oh how he tires of this life of carefully treading around his family, the constant fear he won’t measure up to his brothers, or that he was always just one small thing away from another blow & his eye stings further at the mere thought.

     the next time he sees katniss, it’s at the end of the school day. her face is still tired, on the verge of looking malnourished but she at least seems refreshed, her expression happier than before. then peeta catches her eyes, only for a moment before he finds himself too embarrassed to look any longer. if only he could have gone to her, placed the bread in her hand & treated her like a human being rather than a dog begging for scraps.

     & it’s like that that peeta falls back into his habit of finding himself staring after her during school, but now she catches his eye before he has the chance to flit away & go unnoticed. he hopes she’s doing well, better than before. & he resolves himself, making a promise to his ears alone that if she’s ever wanting for food again, as desperate as she was that day while searching through garbage for scarps, he tells himself he’ll give her bread again & he’ll look her in the eye when he does it.

[sagexbrush]

wolf like me

1. god of the sea

He knows she’s a demigod the moment she sat down next him in the lecture hall, blonde curls swaying and those judgmental gray eyes glaring holes into his skin. Turns out, she probably had figured out he wasn’t exactly mortal either. He thinks that mortals wear their humanness like a coat - gods forced to be mortals are probably much the same. 

Especially if you were apparently the daughter of an all knowing wisdom god. 

Oh, how he hated children of Athena. 

“Why are you here?” she hisses. “If this is some stupid quest your godly self wants me to go on, I am not interested.” 

Percy raises an eyebrow. “Do many gods approach you for quests?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asks. 

“What?”

“My friends and I single handily have saved the world at least five times,” she says. “While selfish gods like yourself just sit back and relax.”

“It’s called fighting Oceanus and oh yeah, Typhon. If that’s relaxation, things must have changed in the thousand years since I’ve been mortal.”

But he’s remembering now the group of mortals that had defended New York from the tirade of monsters and other unpleasant Titans trying to get onto Olympus. There was a daughter of her’s that Athena would not stop going about - 

“Oh gods,” he said, “don’t tell me you’re Annabeth.”

Judging by the sudden flare in her eyes, he assumes he’s right. “Why does it matter?” She snaps.

“I’m not here to send you on some quest,” Percy says. “Although if you don’t want to be sent on a quest, might I suggest not actively walking up to a God and accusing him of trying to set you up? There are some gods who would literally…” he can’t come up with the word and instead snaps his fingers, “poof.” 

His father likes to enjoy a sweet glass of nectar afterwards, like a reward for himself.

“If you’re not here to send me on a quest, then why are you here?” 

He gestures toward the front of the room. “To learn, duh.”

“You’re here to…take a college class?” Annabeth looks dumbfounded. “About Greek mythology?” 

“It’s always good to revisit your own history,” Percy says, which he thinks is a wise enough statement. “Besides, you’re a daughter of Athena. /why the hell are you here?” 

“Some of us actually depend on this information to survive,” she snaps. “If you’re not going to poof me then who are you?” 

“Percy,” he says. If he went by Perseus, everyone assumed he was the son of Zeus that defeated Medusa. They didn’t think oh yeah, the new god of violent ocean storms. Nobody remembered him anyways, because the old god of violent ocean storms had to make such an uproar when he sided with the Titans, not once, but twice. 

“Perseus? As in the god of violent ocean storms?” she says automatically, and Percy’s eyes widen.

“You know who I am?”

Annabeth’s face turns stony. “You trapped us in a goddamn rainstorm for three days when we were trying to get through the Sea of Monsters.”

“Oh,” Percy says. “Sorry about that.” He couldn’t even remember why he’d done it. 

“I didn’t think gods attended college,” Annabeth says. 

Percy plays with his pen, “I was bored.”

“Bored? Of your illustrious ocean palace?” 

Percy shoots her a sideways smile. “You know it. I mean c’mon, everyone gets sick of kelp after a while. Plus, my father wanted me to spend some time on land to think about my ‘actions’.” He encapsulated the last word with air quotations.

It’s true that they’re in a college that’s completely landlocked, and sometimes it makes Percy feel nauseous, being so far away from his source of power. But this daughter of Athena doesn’t need to know that.

Annabeth seems semi satisfied with this answer. “Well,” she says, “just leave me alone.”

The next class she sits all the way across the hall from him but he catches her watching him sometimes like she’s planning something.

2. the minotaur

The truth is, Percy is rather enjoying his punishment. He was pretty sure he was just he was supposed to sit in his reclusive mountain cabin and think on the meaning of his existence but he was rather happy with his decision to attend college. It wasn’t like he needed to pay attention in any of his marine biology classes and surrounding himself with mortals all day was kind of funny sometimes. 

If he ever saw Annabeth Chase, she’d glare at him and then turn determinedly on her heel - distancing herself from him completely. Which was fine by him. 

He’s studying half heartedly for his ‘natural disasters’ class (even though none of this so called ‘science’ is to blame it’s him and another parade of disaster gods) in the early hours of the morning when Annabeth Chase comes rushing into the library. Her hair is a mess, there’s a nasty looking cut on one cheek, and she’s got her bronze dagger out. 

Later he thinks that she looks like an actor in a play. 

She looks at him. “Percy,” she pants. “Minotaur. Here.” 

The other students are so buried in their work with earbuds in their ears that they barely glance up and Percy isn’t even sure what they see (or hear) through the mist.

He jumps up immediately, abandoning his books. “Where?”

As if to answer his question, there’s a massive crashing sound that emits from the hallway. He immediately runs toward it, reaching into his pocket for his sword as he does so. He holds out his other hand, feeling the water pulsing in the sprinklers on the ceiling and yanking. The sprinklers burst, spilling water down onto their heads. He freezes the water so it turns into hard little bullets of ice and has them hover around he and Annabeth. 

The Minotaur stands at the end of the hallway, a huge hulking mass with gigantic horns. 

“Leave this place,” Percy says, his voice growing deeper. “Before you pay the price.”

The Minotaur had never been smart though and it takes one more whiff of the air and then paws the ground.

“I’m going to distract it,” Percy tells Annabeth, “the ice won’t hit you. Take the opening and kill it.”

Annabeth doesn’t look afraid. Instead she looks like the sort of warrior he’d expect would’ve won the war. Percy flings out his arms and the ice shards pummel the minotaur. Annabeth charges forward and stabs upward with a bronze dagger, rendering him into dust that coats her hair and arms. Percy causes the sprinklers to burst again and get rid of any traces. 

“I thought you’d just vaporize him,” Annabeth says, turning back to him. 

Instead of answering her, Percy sways on his feet. Shit, he thought, used too much. 

The last thing he sees before he passes out is Annabeth Chase starting toward him as he begins to tip toward the ground. 

3. life debt

He wakes up half submerged in a bathtub, the other half of him being held up by Annabeth Chase. 

He starts at first, the water rolling around him at his agitation.

“You’re okay,” Annabeth says. Her arms disappear from around him before he can appreciate their presence. He realizes all at once that he’s only in his boxers and she’s in a tank top and a pair of shorts. 

“What happened?”

“You passed out,” Annabeth says. “I figured letting school officials take you to a hospital wouldn’t be smart, so I dragged you to my house.”

“All by yourself?” 

Annabeth folds her arms across her chest. “You were half awake for part of it. Do you really remember none of that?”

“No…?”

“You half woke up, started calling me Sophie, and then kept saying help water, so I got you to my apartment and put you in the bathtub. Now that I’ve answered your question, I have a few of my own.”

Percy relaxes back in the tub, letting the water recharge him. “I don’t think I can stop you from asking.”

“You’re not a fully fledged god anymore, are you?” She sits on the edge of the bathtub and stares accusingly down at him.

“Wow, what gave that away?” He asks sarcastically. “Was it me passing out, or the fact that I didn’t just snap my fingers and kill the Minotaur?”

“Could you have killed him like that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, frustrated. “No, I’m not a fully fledged god anymore. They put a damper on my power. There’s only so much I can use right now, and I drained it completely when we were fighting the Minotaur.” He submerges first, soaking his hair and eyelids and soul. Right then he misses the ocean like a missing limb.

When he surfaces Annabeth is frowning down at him. “Why would they punish you unless you were fighting with the Titans?” 

“Do you really think if I had sided with the Titans my only punishment would be a dampening on my powers?” Percy snorts. “Didn’t you see what they did to Atlas? And Calypso? No. I didn’t side with the Titans, because I’m not that stupid.” 

“Well you’re apparently stupid enough to do something to warrant this Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth sighs.

“Seaweed Brain? Seriously?”

“It’s not like you can poof me into mist or send a rainstorm after me,” Annabeth says pleasantly. “You’re down at my level now, oh mighty god.” 

“Why do I get the sick feeling you’re enjoying this?” Percy asks warily. 

Annabeth smiles. “Maybe because I am,” she says. “So what did you do, if you didn’t side with the Titans?”

Percy snorts. “Nice try wise girl. I may not have all of my powers but I’m not about to tell you my entire life story.” He stood up, water running down his body. For a moment he feels close to human. He feels the ocean or more the ghost of the ocean, miles and miles away now. 

“Well then,” Annabeth says. “Then I suppose we can discuss the terms of the life debt if you’re not open to more questioning.”

“Life debt?” Percy squawks. 

“Well,” Annabeth says. “I did save your life by bringing you back here. And I saved your life when I held you up in the bathtub instead of just letting you drown. Because let me guess, you’re susceptible to dying now. And since you’re not a major god, I’m not sure they’ll care enough to revive you.” She smiles sweetly.

“And if I don’t fulfill this life debt?” Percy grumbles.

“I’ll find a way to get you back,” Annabeth says, her eyes glittering like small hard stones in her face. He suddenly realizes that she hates the Olympians almost as much as he did. And she’d find a way, because she was a daughter of Athena. 

“Alright,” Percy says. “What do you want me to do for you?”

“I want you to live in my apartment, and protect my roommate and I from monster attacks.”

“You seemed to do alright protecting yourself,” Percy says. “And who’s this roommate of yours?”

“I’m sure you’ll meet her later,” Annabeth says. “Piper and I can fight off a lot, but having someone with water powers and the knowledge of a god helps. Besides - if we put out that we’re being protected by a God, they’ll be more likely to leave us alone.”

“By a minor god,” Percy corrects her. “And one thats lost the majority of his powers.”

“Most people don’t know that,” she says. He realizes suddenly what a mastermind this girl is, and how sick of monsters she must be to come for his help. “I want you to swear on the River Styx.”

Here is a distraction standing next to him in a pretty little blonde package. Annabeth will live what, eighty years? It’s a blink in the eternity that is his life. It’s something to do while he’s exiled. 

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I swear on the River Styx that I’ll guard you and your roommate Piper to the best of my ability.”

Annabeth seems reassured somehow. She stands up. “I’ve got to get to class, but feel free to move in. We have an extra room for when Piper’s boyfriend visits. You can use that one.”

Before she can leave, he flicks out his hand and some of the water snakes out of the bath and soaks Annabeth’s hair. She turns onto him with murder in her eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. “Thought I saw a monster fly in your hair.” 

4. piper

Annabeth’s roommate turns out to be a daughter of Aphrodite and she is horrified and curious all at once to find a sea god living with them.

“Does this mean if it’s really hot you can summon a rainstorm?” She asks almost immediately. “I love the rain.”

“No,” Percy says. “We’re one, not close to the ocean and two, I don’t have enough power for that.”

She only looks slightly disappointed. “But you’re here to make sure that Annabeth and I are safe?” 

“To the best of my ability,” he says. “I can’t be everywhere at once in this form.”

Piper shrugs. “Cool.” 

She’s taking this remarkably well. 

Annabeth is watching the two of them interact like she’s watching a tennis match, her eyes bouncing back and forth. Probably strategizing how to make Piper most comfortable with the situation.  Percy leans back on their couch. His couch, he supposes, since he lives here too. 

“What did you bring with you?”

“Some clothes,” Percy says. “School stuff.” He doesn’t say his mother’s ancient locket, Sophie’s last letter to him and a seashell from his room at the ocean palace. They don’t need to know that out of all the mortal things he’s kept with him - it’s sentimentaly.

“Do you need to sleep?” Piper asks. “Now that you’re mortal and stuff.”

“I like to sleep,” Percy says. “I don’t know if I need to, but I like sleeping. Does that answer your question?”

“And eat?”

“I have to eat human food,” Percy admits. He hates it, it tastes like dust in his mouth. But too much ambrosia or nectar and he’ll probably burn up. Annabeth raises an eyebrow. 

“Does that mean you’ll be contributing toward the grocery fund?” she asks. 

“The grocery fund?”

“We each put fifty dollars toward buying food,” Piper says. “You’ve got to too.” 

“I don’t have money,” Percy says. 

“How were you eating before?”

“I had a magical stove in my cabin - you’re telling you don’t have one of those?”

Annabeth rolls her eyes and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. She’s prettier at home, in her element and more relaxed. There is a tension missing from her shoulders that he hadn’t noticed before. “Guess that means you’re getting a job Seaweed Brain,” she says. 

“I have been in charge of manning hurricanes to places where my father is displeased with for nearly a thousand years,” Percy says. “I am not getting a job.” 

5. coffee shops

He blames Annabeth. 

He blames Annabeth for a lot of things, actually. 

Including this stupid job with the stupid workers and stupid salary. Coffee shops hadn’t been around when he was a teenager and he doesn’t understand people’s odd obsession with them.

Annabeth’s chosen to visit him today and he can see her sniggering all the way from the back of the line. It’s week two of living in her apartment, and he’s starting to know odd things about her he hadn’t known about anyone else. Like the way she burnt toast every morning and liked to sketch in her notebook while listening to obscure podcasts. She’s dressed in a sweater and jeans today, her hair pulled in a messy bun because she’s probably running slightly late. 

He hates how much he’s already started to like her.

“I like the apron,” she says cheerily, taking out her phone and taking a picture of him in it. Percy tries not to feel self conscious in his green apron and black T-shirt, but fails miserably. He’s used to wearing ceremonial robes and having people bow before him - not demand to know why their coffee is wrong or is too expensive. 

“What can I get for you?” he asks.

“A white mocha,” she says, and pulls out her wallet.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t insult me.” 

He makes her drink and even adds a healthy dosing of whipped cream. When he’s handing it to her, she drops a five dollar tip into the jar and leaves, putting her headphones into her ears. “See you at home!”

Is her apartment his home? His coworker whistles behind him.

“Is that your girlfriend man? Lucky.” 

Percy feels his cheeks heat up. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says firmly. His coworker raises his eyebrows. 

“Do you think I stand a chance?”

Considering even Percy thinks the dude is an idiot, he thinks not. Still, who is he to judge Annabeth’s taste? Besides, maybe this will be a nice way to get revenge. He smiles at the boy.

“Yeah,” he says. “You seem like just her type.” 

6. knock knock

Living with someone but not being their friend leads to a weird collection of knowledge about their habits. For example, he knew nothing about Annabeth’s past but knew that she liked mango drinks the best and always drank exactly two cups of coffee in the morning. He knew the name of Piper’s boyfriend and everything about his life - but not her father’s name. 

Sometimes they’d cut off their conversation when he entered the room, like he hadn’t won that part of their trust yet. He’d even already helped them defeat a hydra. Granted, he’d needed Annabeth’s help getting to the nearest bathtub afterwards but still.

He didn’t mind living with them. They let him fill up the bathtub almost to the brim every-night and soak in it until his hands and feet pruned up. It was a small comprise for the entire ocean, but he didn’t think he could face a swimming pool just yet. That would seem too close like the real thing if he could fully submerge himself, and in this town of mountains and earth he’s not sure if he can face that. 

It’s just he and Annabeth in the apartment, her feet propped against the armrest on the sofa and her head dangerously close to where he’s sprawled on the other end. He hates to admit how much he likes it, this easy friendship he has with her and Piper. 

“Annabeth,” he says. “Knock knock.”

Annabeth raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Knock knock.”

“A greek god is telling me knock knock jokes,” she says, apparently to no one because next she says - “Who’s there?” 

“Mustache.”

“Mustache who?”

“I mustache you a question, but I’ll shave it for later.”

“Oh my gods,” Annabeth snorts and then she’s laughing, a deep laugh that makes the entire couch shake and her eyes squeeze shut. Sophie wouldn’t have laughed, but Percy’s kind of glad Annabeth did. There’s no room for her ghost here. “That’s so bad it’s almost good.”

“I like jokes,” he decides and Annabeth laughs again. 

“It’s just - you’re acting like jokes are a new invention. They’ve been around forever Seaweed Brain.”

“I used to love jokes,” Percy admits. “When I was still mortal.”

“Tell me a thousand year old joke,” Annabeth flips onto her stomach, and he’s awarded with a very nice view of her collarbone and a hint of something beneath her sweater. 

“I don’t remember any,” Percy says. “Plus I did more improv.”

Annabeth laughs again. “Improv? Then why did you just tell me a knock knock joke?”

“Some girl in biology told it to me,” he says, “I just wanted to share. I haven’t been able to get it off my mind.”

  “What about it couldn’t you get off your mind?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Was it the girl or the joke?” She asks, eyes suddenly serious. 

If he’s being honest, Percy hasn’t given much thought to girls past Annabeth or Piper. He’d looked at that small brunette girl in biology and just seen another Sophie dying on the sand. No, he told himself firmly, don’t think about that.

He laughs. “Just the joke. I don’t… she wasn’t my type.”

“So you’re telling me you were thinking all day about a knock knock joke.”

He had actually been thinking all day about telling Annabeth, about if it would make her laugh. Sophie hadn’t had much of a sense of humor but it seemed like Annabeth did. Percy likes knock knock jokes he decides, like people like Mac and cheese. 

Piper comes in then and Percy decides to forget about whether or not he wanted to tell Annabeth the joke. 

“Piper!” he exclaims. “Knock knock!” 

7. Chase

Annabeth sits next to him for the first time since the beginning of the semester in Classical Mythology and she acts like she’s never not sat next to him. Instead she steals one of his pens and then leans back in her chair. 

“So,” she says.

“So,” Percy says, sighing and grabbing another pen from his bag. 

“Your coworker asked me out.”

“Which one?”

“He’s like an inch shorter than you. Brown hair and blue eyes,” she says. “I just ran into him outside.”

“Ah,” Percy says. “What was his name again?”

Annabeth glares at him, “Chase.”

Percy probably shouldn’t laugh, but he does anyways. He laughs so hard that he’s attracting looks from the other students arriving to class. It brings tears to his eyes. “You’re kidding me? Chase? He could take your last name and be Chase Chase.”

Annabeth crosses her arms, the pen tapping against her arm. “I don’t know what the humor was like in Ancient Greece, but I’m pretty sure nobody thought you were funny.” She’s lying, he decides. There’s a sneaky little smile playing at the corner of her mouth that says otherwise. 

Percy wipes an actual tear of mirth from his eye. “Well what did you say?”

“I said yes,” she says and suddenly it’s not as funny anymore. He doesn’t know what this feeling in his stomach is, but it fills his chest uncomfortably. He blames this weird half mortal body and Annabeth’s gray sweater that brings out the color of her eyes. Instead of thinking of Annabeth, he decides to think of Athena. Angry, rational Athena who would torment him for the rest of existence if he ever did anything with her daughter. He just thought Annabeth was…appealing.

“Cool,” Percy says. He scratches the back of his head. Considering he’s a thousand year old god, he thinks he should know what to say right then and there. Then again, Annabeth’s never been easy to talk to. “You know that my oath of protection extends to him right?”

“What do you mean?” Annabeth asks.

“If you feel like he’s… if you’re not comfortable. Shoot me a text and I’ll be there. Same goes for any boy.” He’s pretty sure his face is red now, and Annabeth is probably laughing at him. 

“Thanks Percy,” she says instead. Before he can say anything else class begins. He’s left wishing he still had his violent sea storm powers to sweep a real knocker overland and into Chase’s house. Then again, he has himself to blame for this. Wow Percy, he thinks to himself, for a thousand years old you are really a complete idiot. 

8. Poseidon

Percy’s leaving his English class (not his best subject, English is technically his second language after all) when he catches a strong smell of the ocean and turns to see his father leaning against a nearby building. 

“I thought you weren’t going to visit me,” Percy says. “You know, let the punishment sink in and all that.”

“Perseus,” his father says. Percy adopted the nickname Percy three centuries ago but his father refused to call him that. Percy thought it was to show that he had a cool son named Perseus as well. Not that many people remembered that, after all.

“Yes?” Percy asks. 

“I just heard that you’ve sworn an oath to a daughter of Athena,” his father storms. “Did you learn nothing after Sophie?”

Sophie is a cruel reminder, a blood stain spreading across the stain. How can I forget, Percy wants to ask, when you’re the one who killed her? But he doesn’t say that. He just holds his tongue like the good little son that he is and doesn’t look his father in the eyes. 

“The fact is, you’ve sworn an oath you can’t get out of,” his father says. “I doubt she even knows the extent of it - you’re sworn to her for the rest of her mortal life. What did I teach you about swearing on the Styx?” 

Percy shrugs. “I was bored.”

“Speaking of you being bored,” his father says. “Why are you enrolled in college?”

“To learn about the people who’s lives we’re constantly ruining,” Percy says, “seems like a courtesy really.”

His father’s eyes spark but Percy has killed enough people for Poseidon that it doesn’t affect him anymore. Instead he merely leans against the brick wall and waits it out. Finally his father sighs.

“She’ll be dead in eighty years anyways,” he says. “Just don’t let it be a repeat of Sophie, you hear me?”

“Okay,” Percy says - dark blue eyes, a kiss in the dark, a promise - “But send an ocean storm to the west coast. They’re like literally on fire.”

“If you hadn’t messed up you could have done it yourself,” Poseidon says, and disappears in a mist of sea vapor. Percy thinks this little visit has gone unnoticed for about two seconds before Piper is bounding up to him.

“I could hear the Ancient Greek arguing from all the way in the physics hall,” she says brightly. “Family argument?” 

“You know how it is,” Percy says. “Technically we’re all apart of the same huge, fucked up family.”

“Amen to that brother,” Piper says. Before he can think too much about his father or Sophie, Piper winds her arm through his and yanks him off into campus. “Let’s go get coffee.”

“Not at Starbucks,” Percy grumbles. “I think Chase is working today.” “Ah-ha!” Piper sings. “I knew you didn’t like Chase. I knew it.”

Annabeth had come home late the night before smelling like sweat and beer. She hadn’t noticed Percy on the couch waiting for her and had instead went into the kitchen, guzzled an entire container of orange juice, and then gone to sleep like nothing had happened. 

“Chase is a tool.”

Piper sighs. “I know. But he’s a pretty tool and Annabeth sometimes needs a pretty tool. Like you.” She cackles at the look on Percy’s face and assures him she was joking but he doesn’t know if he believes it. If Annabeth truly liked pretty tools, she probably should have fallen for him the minute he awkwardly stumbled into her life. 

“Whatever. I feel like she’s going to chew Chase up and spit him out.”

“Is that what you want her to do to you?” Piper asks, eyeing Percy. “Oh my god - you do.” She pressed her face against his shoulder. 

“I admitted nothing.”

“My cute little godly boy,” she says, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye. “Growing up at last.’’

Percy likes Piper, in the way that he’s never liked all the other younger siblings Poseidon seems to churn out at regular intervals. 

“I don’t know if I like her,” Percy says honestly. “She’s just - Annabeth.”

They find a small coffee shop called True Creek and sit down in one of the booths along the wall. Piper goes up to order their drinks, and Percy leans back against the seat. When he was a god, it had been easy to pretend that he wasn’t tired. He hadn’t needed to sleep. But now that he was mortal and had been mortal for some time - he found a bone deep tired in his bones. He found that he didn’t really want to going back to being a god.

“Here,” Piper says, “double shot god boy, because you need it.”

“Did you ever tell any of your other friends about me?” Percy asks, taking a long sip. Piper bites her lip and fusses with the ends of her sleeves. 

“No,” she finally admits. “This entire thing was Annabeth’s idea really. She hasn’t really told anyone and I followed her lead because I don’t think she wants to admit to everyone that she’s not capable. She’s still trying to prove to everyone that she can live a normal life.”

It’s a testament to Annabeth’s character, Percy thinks, that she’s not easily broken.

“Did you fight in the last war?”

“No,” Piper says, “I didn’t even know I was a demigod.” 

“It was chaos,” Percy says. “The gods were fighting Typhon and Annabeth and the other members of Camp Half Blood were fighting to keep Olympus on their own,” he looks down at his hands. “And most of these gods barely thought about their children. But here all of them were, fighting and dying - “ 

“Did you ever have any kids with mortal women?” Piper asks. “Or men?”

“I had one daughter in the sixteenth century,” Percy admits. “She died before her fifteenth birthday.”

“Oh,” Piper says, a hand over her mouth. “Percy - “

“It’s fine,” he says. “Really. It’s been like five hundred years. But that’s my point. I barely remember what she looked like anymore. I don’t think Annabeth’s afraid she’s not capable, I think she’s just tired.”

Like he was. 

“Do you want to go back to being a god?” Piper asks. “I mean, it’s just - most of the gods love being godly and then you kind of are just okay with it - “

Percy shrugs. “I like being mortal sometimes. You notice more.”

“Like what?”

“Like colors,” he says. “They flare brighter. Scents are more intoxicating. People are nicer and less afraid of you.”

“Is there anything you miss?” she asks.

He almost says Sophie but catches himself. “The ocean,” he says instead. “The way it’s so quiet and dark when you sink to the bottom that there’s nothing else around you.”

Piper smiles around her coffee cup. “You’ll have to take me sometime.”

Percy thinks for the first time in a long time that he’s made a friend. And maybe he likes it. 

9. Jason

The way he meets Piper’s boyfriend and best friend isn’t exactly the way he’s expecting. 

He was just trying to learn how to cook. As an experiment. And the fact was, he kept burning it so he took off everything but his boxers because he kept having to soak himself and the kitchen in water and it was getting annoying to keep changing clothes. He’d also disabled the fire alarm before he’d begun because he felt like he was the best fire extinguisher there was. 

When someone opens the door he immediately calls out, “I promise I’ll clean it all up - “ and doesn’t even consider the possibility that it’s someone else. That is, until there’s a two boys entering the kitchen looking like they’re entering a war zone. 

Percy, who had been currently trying to get the water on the floor back into the sink freezes when he realizes it’s neither Piper nor Annabeth and the water splashes back onto the floor. 

“Uh - “ the shorter boy says, “Who are you?”

Percy’s hands shoot upwards and the water rises with it, swirling around him in a thin tendril. “I think I should be asking you that question.”

“What are you a water bender or something?” the shorter boy snorts. 

“Percy!” Piper arrives two seconds too late, panting in the doorway. “My boy - ah. I see you’ve all already met each other.” Then she frowns. 

“I was going to clean it up!” Percy says defensively. 

“Are you cooking in your boxers?” Piper snorts. “Are you trying - oh my god. Please tell me you didn’t scorch our best pan.”

“I’ll buy a new one,” Percy says hurriedly. He feels rather exposed, standing there in his boxers. The blonde boy is staring at him in shock, like he’s never seen such a thing.

“Ah Pipes,” the talkative one says, “are you going to explain why there’s a hot naked man standing in your kitchen setting it on fire?”

Piper grimaces. “He’s just your… er - friendly neighborhood water god?”

The apartment door bangs open again and Annabeth’s voice calls out. “Piper you here? I haven’t gotten a chance to tell Jason and Leo about Percy, what is - “ she too stops in the doorway of the kitchen, her face a mask of horror.

“Look,” Piper says, gesturing towards the five of them. “They’ve met.”

“Why are you just wearing boxers?” Annabeth asks, and Percy goes bright red.

“I was trying to cook - “ he says at the same time the one he assumes is Leo goes - 

“Is that Annabeth’s new boyfriend? She’s dating a water god?”

“NO!” Annabeth and Percy say in unison. 

“And right now I’m not - I’m mortal. I’m just here to help out,” Percy says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. “And I’m going to put on some clothes.” He announces.

“Good idea,” Annabeth says. “Also - why does it smell like smoke? Is this supposed to be a grilled cheese?”

Percy changes into jeans and a blue T-shirt but hesitates in joining the rest of them. Instead he pauses and presses his ear against his bedroom door.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Piper is saying, “but I knew you’d both freak out and Annabeth and I are entirely capable.”

“The god of violent sea storms?” Who he assumes is Jason asks. “What are you thinking Pipes? He might not be well known but do you know how many people his father has commanded him to kill?”

“He’s nice,” Piper insists.

“And he’s sworn to protect us,” Annabeth says. “It’s not like you can break an oath on the River Styx.”

“Which was your plan I’m guessing?” Leo asks. “Gods, saving a dude’s life so he can enter lifelong servitude to you seems pretty cruel.” 

“I need to have my eye on him,” Annabeth says defensively. “I couldn’t just let a god of violent sea storms walk around. But he’s relatively harmless right now, he’s being punished for something he did in the Titan wars. He can only use a fraction of his power.”

Percy decides now is as good of a time to make his entrance as any. He steps into the hallway. “Not something I did,” he corrects, “something I didn’t do.”

  He doesn’t look at Annabeth. He doesn’t really want her to see that he thought she… what? That he thought she and Piper were his friends? 

“Percy - “

“It’s fine,” he says. There’s a knock at the door. 

“That’ll be Chase,” Annabeth says softly. He can feel her gray eyes on him, cold and calculated. Whatever warmth he had imagined between them was gone. Knock knock.

“I’m going out,” he says, crossing to the door and pulling a jacket off the hook. “Think you can handle yourself for one night? Or do you need your servant’s help?”

Annabeth doesn’t back down. She only stares him down like she’s probably stared down every opponent in her life. Unflinching. “I think we’ll be fine, thanks,” she says coldly.

He makes sure to bump into Chase on his way out. 

10. the return

He is back on the couch when they get home all flushed and laughing and happy. Refreshingly human.

He feels a dark sort of anger broiling inside of him to see Chase holding Annabeth’s hand. He feels the shadow of their almost friendship and thinks it’s kind of funny that for once he wasn’t the one calling the storm but it was Annabeth. 

“Annabeth,” he says, standing up. “We need to talk.”

“One second,” she whispers to Chase and waves off the others as she follows him into the hallway and then down the steps and outside. 

“I want to make things clear with our relationship,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” She crosses her arms like she’s chilled but really he thinks it’s just to make her look more powerful.

“I swore to protect you and Piper,” he says. 

“I was there.”

“So, if you remember, I didn’t swear to protect them,” he gestures to the apartment. “You didn’t say protect me and all my friends. You said you and Piper.” 

“Are you threatening me Percy?” She asks. There is a dangerous note to her voice, a narrowing of her eyes. He is playing with fire here, but then again - she’d decided to play with a hurricane. 

“I am not some foolish river god you’ve swayed to your side,” he says. “I may be in exile soon but it’s a relatively short punishment. What I’m saying is maybe you shouldn’t trust all the deals you make.”

“If you hurt them - “

“You’ll what?” He snarls. “You and I both know what gods do when they’re angry. We know better than anyone. Do you think I didn’t hear about Luke?”

He leaves Annabeth standing with her arms crossed and looking like she was a million miles away in her head.