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serzhantkris · 3 years ago

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Haunted- 21

Summary: He knew, from the moment he found her there, bathed in the glow of fire, that she would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Damon Salvatore x Reader

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Word Count: 2755

1889

He wrote to her every week. He was always moving, never staying in the same place for too long. He kept count of the days by the letters: sent one as soon as he took up residence in the home of a compelled farmer or baker, regent or banker, so she would have an address to respond to. When he received her letter at the end of a long, torturous week of waiting, he moved on.

She responded with urgency. It was never more than ten days, sometimes less. He tried to stay close, at first, moving in a circular motion around Chicago until he was beckoned by something that drew him further away from her. Ten days was too long, but he kept his patience by keeping himself busy with other socialites and their liquor. After ten long, restless days, he’d received the letter he had been waiting for and purchased a ticket to France— the furthest he’d been since the letters began.

You were correct when you claimed I had no desire to be a housewife, for I find myself entirely bored in the world outside of your letters.

I have woven a tale in my mind from your stories, and imagine the sights and sounds of your world when I find myself rather lowly. It is your letters that fuel my eager heart, and flood my mind with whimsy. Please write the moment you are able, for I fear I may grow restless without your pen.

Sincerely yours,

Y/n

Waves lapped gently against the side of the boat, caressing its face like a lover. Damon’s fingers gripped the edges of the letter, tight enough that it would not slip away and be lost to the sea, but gently enough to keep the page from wrinkling. The ink was dark blue and scrawled slowly, and he could imagine her sitting at a writing desk, carefully choosing her words. It always seemed that way, that she was cautious. Whatever she said had to last him until his next letter.

The breeze of the sea swept through his curls, filling his nostrils with salt and a sweetness only the ocean could provide. It reminded him of her: the perfume dotted on her wrists, the alkaline taste of sweat from her brow.

She was an ocean away, but memories of her flooded him, threatening to drown out the sway of the boat as it carried him further and further from the states. Every time he would put the thoughts away, something about the ocean, about the way the sun warmed his face like her smile, always brought her back to the forefront of his mind.

It would be two weeks before his letter would make it across the sea and to her door. He knew this, though his letter to return to her had been sitting in his pocket since that morning. He had half a mind to find a bottle and toss it, thinking perhaps it would find her sooner, and the sooner she read it, the sooner she could write him back. But the sea, much like Y/n, was always changing, unpredictable, and he carefully folded his latest letter from her and tucked it carefully into his breast pocket, close to his heart. Leaning forward, his elbows rest on the rail of the boat, and he closed his eyes, letting the sway of the boat carry him further and further away from her.

***

Damon was in France. That was the latest you’d heard, nearly some two weeks ago. He had been there for quite some time, was fancy of it, judging by how long he had been there- and how long his letters had gotten. It was as though he were falling in love with the city, with the way his pen moved across the page with such vigor. It delighted and astounded you, how he had gotten so quickly accustomed to the country of love.

It had not occurred to you that the lengthy letters were a result of his longing to be where you were, or the fact that he was able to write to you so seldomly. If the letters were only to come every fortnight, he was damned if they wouldn’t be worth it.

You responded in kind, though you took your time, sitting at the drawing desk while Christopher was away. You had spent more and more time in his office, watching the breeze shake the elm trees outside your window. Summer was upon Chicago, the trees in full bloom as the wind carried stray leaves across the streets. You could see the pavement from here, could watch as lovers and mothers held hands as they strolled up and down the block past your house.

You had been hoping for quite some time that perhaps someday you would look out the window and see Damon, looking up at you with his hand over his eyes to shield the June sun, the lopsided grin painted on his lips. It was a perfect picture in your mind, an array of golden light spilling on a canvas, with Damon standing dark against the flurry of summer color. You’d lift your skirts, hurrying down the swooping stairs and into his arms. He could take you away, perhaps show you all the amazing and wonderful things he wrote to you about from Paris.

-It is a strange country, with customs I had never encountered before. I cannot say much for the food, but the people I encountered reminded me too much of the Sisters of your church. Though they are a haughty and proud people, they engaged in social customs not unlike those of lovers. Did you know that the French routinely kiss one another on the cheek as a greeting? Perhaps when I see you next I will show you. Seeing you blush would be greatly worth my short venture to the country.

Yours,

Damon

The notion of Damon’s words was not lost on you. There was something tender about the curls of his letters, the softness in his words that suggested more than a customary kiss on the cheek. Reading it was enough to warm your cheeks, just to imagine the gentle press of his lips against your skin. Perhaps you were reading something that wasn’t there, or maybe you had convinced yourself his suggestion was merely a jest because the idea of it being more was enough to raise the ever steady beat of your heart.

There had been a gift with this letter. It was heavy for its size, approximately the length of your palm and flat, circular on one side and straight on the other. He’d written about it in the letter, but even as you delicately unfolded the satin fabric it was encased in, it brought a flutter to your heart.

It was, as he’d written, carved of ivory. Just a hair away from white, the hair comb was beautifully made, clearly done with a steady, patient hand. The teeth were sharp and thin, like a mouth of fangs, and your fingers slid along the bottom of it to feel each individual one. The top was smooth, with flowers intricately carved into the sides. It was thin but not brittle, and you let the satin fabric fall to the table as you stood, crossing the room toward the mirror. Carefully, you tucked it into your hair, unable to hold back the eager grin as you turned your head back and forth to observe it in the mirror.

Damon had always given you gifts. The stuffed rabbit was tucked away in your closet, gathering dust, as was a well-worn copy of Brahm Stoker’s Dracula; a gorgeous, bronze locket laid at the bottom of your jewelry box. You had kept them all, refused to let go of any of the mementos from the life you lived before you met Christopher Taylor.

Christopher…

Your heart ached as you crossed back to the table, sliding quietly into the chair. The pen was heavy in your hand, seeming to weigh your whole body down as you etched Damon’s name at the top of the page. You may well have written the letter in blood, for how much it hurt. The smile on your lips waded until there was very little left on your cheeks, and your hand stopped moving altogether, the pen dropping heavily on the desk as you grabbed up the letter, crushing it into a ball and tossing it into the bin. Sighing, you stood up, pacing toward the window, letting yourself daydream of Damon, standing beneath the elm tree.

***

Damon hadn’t slept in days.

He had reread her latest letter probably a hundred times, his eyes scanning her every word in an attempt to make some sort of sense of the words. He knew what they meant, had committed each word to heart, but it didn’t seem to matter how many times he tossed them around in his head.

Gentle Damon,

Your gift brought tears to my eyes, and I cannot thank you enough for it. I kept it carefully by my bedside, and when my dear Christopher discovered it, I told him it was a family heirloom. Either a mistake or brilliant on my part, he suggested I wear it during the ceremony tomorrow. I laughed at the notion, but agreed with fondness I cannot explain.

He tried to imagine her, sitting at the vanity in a vast bedroom, the comb in her hair as she looked at her reflection. It would be beautiful, of course, because she was beautiful. He could see her clearly, the elegant curve of her jawline, the apple of her cheeks, and the sparkle in her eye as she adjusted the comb with delicate fingers.

The ceremony tomorrow.

Her letter was dated nine days ago. Nine days had gone by since she had written the letter, longer than that since he had sent the comb. How long had she pondered her words to him? How many times had the comb sat in her hair, or at her bedside?

She was married, now. No doubt she had been gorgeous- Christopher Taylor was a fairly wealthy man, and would have made sure she had the best dress, and the best attendants to her wedding money could afford. She would have worn satin, or silk, something expensive and flowery. He wondered if her sleeves were long and lace, if she had worn heels in which she could not walk- he smiled to himself, imagining her frowning down at her feet as she stumbled down the aisle.

He grit his teeth, pushing the hair back from his face with a shaky breath. He had made it to Versailles- a beautiful city, no doubt, but the brilliant architecture was lost on him now. Without her there, it was just another city.

Yes, she would have been beautiful. Christopher was undeserving of her beauty, and knowing what he knew about Y/n, he was far too lucky for such a bride.

I have many trepidations for the morning. The dress Christopher had chosen does not feel like my dress, as though the bride to be wearing it is a woman I have yet to meet. She is a timid woman, a dutiful woman, and her life does not seem to be mine. Still I prepare myself as we speak, brushing my hair at the vanity in my room. My reflection is unfamiliar, my cheeks plasticine and my smile painted upon my face.

Was the woman now married to Christopher the same woman he knew? Her letters were so full of her personality, so clearly filled with her life, that he had not considered before what she was like beyond the page. She had been happy, in the years they had lived together in a cabin, her smile wide and unwavering, and it put an ache in his heart to think that perhaps she did not smile like that anymore.

As he walked down the French streets, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, he saw pieces of the girl he knew in every direction. The flowers smelled of her, the laughter echoing from a group of schoolgirls sounded like her, but she was sweeter and her voice was more akin to music- and it was this that caused him to pause at the end of the street, his eyes trained on a passing carriage.

I think to the moment I saw you last, and your jest that I should marry you instead, and cannot fathom a moment which I regret more.

Damon cursed under his breath, his hands tightening into fists in his pocket. The realization hit him all at once, like the sun spilling on his face, like the cool breeze kissing his face not unlike her touch in the cemetery. He could almost hear her voice, whispering the words of her letter in his ear. A secret, a confession meant only for him.

I will think of you and your letters as I slumber, and dream of France and Transylvania, and a silly, imagined life in which I joined you on your train to another land.

It was unmistakable. He had always loved her- like Mina, she was a light in Damon’s otherwise foggy, dark world. He had traveled it alone, setting foot in countries most only ever dreamed of. He had never met anyone like her before and never had since leaving her behind. He longed to be with her, with her open mind and uncaged humor. He had been lonely when he met her, but coming home to her in the early morning hours of her youth had always warmed his heart. Her letters were all he had now, the only connection he had to the living world that he so desperately craved to be a part of. She was pure and good, a sign that perhaps there was, indeed, a Heaven, even if he only felt it in her presence.

Yes, he loved her, and what was more than that, a sentiment he had never foreseen, was that he was in love with her.

His feet stomped through a puddle, disrupting the stillness of it as he marched back towards his housing. Words tumbled through his mind like a storm at sea, the admission of his love weighing heavy at his breast.

***

The days had passed like a burning candle. Hours melted away, slowly dripping as the sun rose and fell, and as the summer trees began to bare themselves to winter, your dreams of Damon beneath the elm tree began to die with them. You eagerly awaited his letter, always intercepting the post before Christopher returned home in the evenings. But it didn’t come, even as the grass turned brown and the skies gray, and the longer you waited, the heavier your heart became.

Christopher had not noticed your silent suffering. He had spent long hours at his office, leaving you wandering the halls of your home alone. When he returned, he was prone to find himself in the study with a glass of bourbon, ignoring the need in your eyes as he passed you by. It was as though he were a ghost, a cold whisper of the man who had wooed you in the spring. There was nothing left of his humor or wiles, and with each passing day, resentment settled into your bones.

In the few moments where words were exchanged, Christopher’s colors were a muted gray. He frowned at your half-hearted jokes, and chastised you in the moments where you felt empowered to share your fancies with him. Reading was not a woman’s place, for it filled your head with fantasies of what Christopher attributed to the Devil’s work.

It had begun to snow, as well, which put an even stauncher limitation on your freedoms. You could not go for walks, and sending for books had become costly. And so you were left with an ivory comb and a frosted window, sitting at the vanity with a pen and blank parchment.

Damon had not returned your letter. The passing months had gotten colder, and he had no doubt gotten further away, but if you did not at least try to reach out in the only way you knew how, it would be a sure sign that you had simply given up on happiness. So you pressed the pen against the page, tracing the shape of a familiar name.

Dearest Damon,

The world is dark here…

@allinhishands @navs-bhat @lordofthunderthr @suspiciousmuffin @hereforsumbucky @simonsbluee @cheeseman @definitys @hopefulexpertpatrolclod

#some tags arent working :(#damon salavatore #imagine #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore x you #haunted

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crowdedimagines · 4 years ago

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Familiar Love - Harry Styles

harry and y/n have a hard time staying out of each other’s arms, not that there’s a place they’d rather be Famous!Y/n

“Well well well.” Harry grins, opening his door wider to his home for me.

“Why are you acting all surprised? You invited me here.” I get on my toes to steal a fast peck from him as I walk by. I walk into the living room I have grown very familiar with over the years. Harry’s London home never changes, his one taste of consistency.

“Of course I did, we’re both in London at the same time.”

“I know.” I roll my eyes, backing up the stairs to his room. He matches my steps evenly, pacing us like predator and prey. I slide my jacket off my shoulder, ditching it for the floor. His eyes never leave mine. If I didn’t know this house so well, I would be on my ass by now.

“It’s been a while since this has worked out.” He presses a stolen kiss to my cheek, then another and another, “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed me or a muse?” I bite down lightly on his earlobe, he backs me into his bedroom finally.

“Always miss you.”

“That’s right, you are pretty obsessed with me.” I smirk.

“M’not obsessed with you.” He defends, finally pulling his face away from my neck.

“Well your discography would beg to differ.”

“Shh.” He works on the spot he knows would normally occupy my mind enough that I couldn’t banter. The spot just below my ear where my neck and jaw meet.

“Temporary Fix, Perfect, Change Your Ticket-”

“Alright alright” Harry rolls his eyes, dimples showing up on his cheeks while he fights a smile.

“-and that’s not even counting your solo career” I tease, letting him back me onto his bed. “Only Angel, She-”

“You’re such an ass sometimes.” He shakes his head, as if in disbelief, but his smile only grows wider.

“What?” I scoff feigning shock, “You love my ass.” He presses a kiss to my collarbone.

“Yes, I do. Now shut up so I can love on you for the first time in eight months.”

- - -

Harry and I were the worst and best things to ever happen to each other. We met when we were too young. My career had just started, I had a singular album to my name and was lucky to open for any band that was on a tour. Harry was a couple years into One Direction by the time we met.

It was on a red carpet, thankfully not my first, but my first time being on the carpet for an award show that I actually had a nomination for. This was huge for me. My album had done well, but never expected a recognition like this.

I met Niall before I met Harry. I had bumped into him walking in and he complimented my music, even claiming one of his mates ‘couldn’t get enough of it’. When he said that I wasn’t expecting him to walk me over to meet the rest of the band. Harry had been the ‘mate’ Niall had been referring to.

I lost that night, to Ariana Grande, who in my own opinion deserved it more than me. That night didn’t feel like a loss though, because I got Harry out of it. We quickly became friends, texting, calling, facetiming any time we got the opportunity. One Direction was touring on a constant cycle, and I had just finished mine. I was in the process of writing my sophomore album, Harry flew me out and I ended up staying for the rest of the tour.

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone that we started dating, the calls and giddy smiles were enough already to clue in everyone around us. I was able to get a glimpse at the world he lived in with his stardom, and soak in every second he wasn’t on stage. It didn’t take long for fans and the public to catch on. A few too many paparazzi pictures at each concert venue to avoid.

Both of our managements allowed us to openly date, officially coming out to everyone with PDA and everything. It was amazing. I flew back home to Los Angeles to record my second album and before I could blink I was touring it.

Things got hard for Harry and I at that point, we could never manage to be in the same city, or get time off to visit the other. My name was quickly becoming a household one, and One Direction had yet to ever even stall in popularity.

It broke us both completely that after three happy years together, we had to call it quits. Neither of us were ready to give up our lives and it was no longer working to never see each other. We both needed to feel loved, and on opposite ends of the planet it wasn’t enough anymore. It was only a few months after our split that One Direction went on hiatus.

Harry and I remained close. Some would say too close. It started with just being friendly whenever we saw each other at events or things with mutual events. It took one slip up that sent us back into each other’s arms. It was a New Year's party, we agreed to be with each other, because we didn’t have anyone else to kiss at midnight.

Once you get a taste for someone you never stopped loving, it gets pretty hard to stop. So that’s how it all began. Harry and I decided to see each other, date, love, fuck, anytime we both happened to be in the same city. It didn’t happen as often as you would think. We both still had home across the world, and varying tour schedules. We both had on and off again partners, that then the deal would be off, but neither of our partners were ever in the picture for very long. For years it went on like this. It was heartbreak all over again though, once we knew that someone had to leave.

- - -

“Well, that was fun! It’s been a while, Styles.” I let out a sigh to try and gain back my breath. We practically just ran a marathon. Maybe two. He does the same, a grin plastered to his face.

“Too long.” He tilts his head to press a kiss to my bare shoulder.

“Well I do believe a plane works two ways.” I turn on my side to face him, my head resting in my palm.

“Mmm, I’ve been stuck in the studio. I’ve been working on new stuff.”

“Ooh, a new album perhaps?”

“Yeah, it’s been a whole process trying to get all my thoughts out and sorted.” He clears his throat.

“So why not go to Jamaica like you did for your first? A new environment that you can just throw yourself into it.” I question.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t feel like that for me. I did that because it was the first time I was doing music without One Direction. This time it’s a little more on me and how I feel.”

We catch up for nearly an hour before we both feel gross from our previous activity and decide to take a shower. Together obviously.

“Mum and Gem are coming over for brunch tomorrow.” He states.

“Hmm?” I turn away from the shower head to face him again.

“I think they’re going to be here close to 10:00.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” He places a hand on my hip, trapping me between him and the cool tile on the walls. “Never.”

“So what do you want?” I ask, tilting my head up to fully look at him. To read every expression that crosses his face as the water pours over both of us.

“I want you to stay. Have brunch with us.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, pressing a kiss to his peck.

“Yeah, if you can.”

“My fitting isn’t until 2:00 so that should give me plenty of time.” I smile, “Are you sure they aren’t going to think it’s weird that I’m there?”

“They won’t think it’s weird. They’ll both be thrilled to see you. I swear everytime I pick up the phone they’re asking me how you’re doing.”

“That’s funny considering how often that Gemma texts me.” I smile.

“So you’ll stay for brunch?”

“Mhm.” I pull him down to my height for a kiss.

- - -

“Well if it isn’t the one that got away.” Anne teases as she pulls me in for a tight hug.

“Fuck-” Harry sighs, letting out air as if he took an actual physical hit.

“Hi, Anne.” I laugh.

“You just get more and more beautiful every-time I see you.” She holds my face in her hands and she studies me closely. Over the years Anne and I have only grown to be more close, even though I am no longer dating her son she still treats me as family which I can’t help but love her for.

“Let me give her a hug!” Gemma pushes her way in and pulls me in tight against her chest.

“Gem!” I grin.

Harry and Anne walk into the kitchen together with Gemma and I following, arm in arm. I remember this from years ago. The Styles family would like to make brunches together every couple of weeks when they could.

Obviously if Harry was touring or over in the States they couldn’t, but when they could they make the most of it. Everything is made from scratch, together. Nothing is decided until everyone gets there that morning.

“How do we feel about waffles?” Gemma asks.

“And eggs.” Harry adds.

“And bacon.” Anne adds.

Everyone turns to me waiting for my request.

“And fresh fruit.” I smile.

We all get to work and quickly become a well oiled machine. Them it’s not too surprising due to them doing this over the years, but I have to say I am able to jump in with ease.

I cut up various fruits arranging them as beautifully as I can. A vibrant display of colors on the platter.

“Excuse me, love.” He presses a kiss to my temple, a steadying hand at my waist as he reaches for a knife from the island.

I prepare everyone’s drinks around the table as well considering my task went the quickest. Shortly, everyone joins me and we dig in. Everything tastes immaculate.

We dive into conversation, the table never getting quiet for a second. Something I love so much about this family. There’s always something to be said.

“Well, I actually should be going it’s one o clock now, and I still need to drive to the other side of town.” I pick up my plate from the table. We’ve all been done eating for a while now, but the conversation kept us at the table.

“Where are you off to?” Anne asks.

“She’s got a fitting with Gucci.” Harry grins.

“Wipe that smug little grin off your face.” I smack his shoulder lightly.

“Gucci?” Gemma grins even wider than Harry did.

“I am going to be the new face to the brand.” I smile, feeling pink raise up on my cheeks.

“For the whole company?” Gemma cheers.

I simply nod as I grab a few other plates off of the table as I go.

“Can I come with you?” Gemma asks, the two Styles siblings following my into the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you act like this when I modeled for Gucci?” Harry asks, his jealous side coming out.

“Harry, you got a cologne, but she’s getting the whole company!” She huffs, “Do you know what cool clothes she’s going to be trying one?”

“I’m not getting the company!” I roll my eyes, putting the dishes in the wash.

“You didn’t answer the question.” Gemma smirks.

“Yes, Gem.” I laugh, “As long as you can be out the door in five minutes.”

Gemma leaves the kitchen and goes back to tell Anne, leaving Harry and I alone.

“You’re coming back here after, right?” He asks, trapping me against the counter.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll actually be in London for almost the entire campaign. You’re going to be sick of me soon.” I smirk.

“Never.”

- - -

“I am OBSESSED with that yellow jacket you had on!” Gemma sighs dreamily as we enter Harry’s flat several hours later. “It’s to die for!”

“Well, I can see if I can get it for you after the shoot.”

We make our way to the living room where Harry is settled in on the couch with a book.

“An angel.” She turns to her brother, “Did you know this one is an angel?”

“You give me too much credit.” I laugh.

“Thanks for the reminder, Gem.” Harry chuckles.

“Okay, now I will get out of your hair. I’ve already stolen all afternoon with you. Hopefully see you soon!” She pulls me in for a hug, “Love you.” I let Harry walk her to the door to say their goodbyes.

Harry comes back after a few minutes and pulls me down in a hug on the couch. He lets out a deep sigh into my neck, pulling my head in even closer.

“You okay, babe?” I ask, taking note of his obvious mood.

“Mmm, I was just thinking while you were out.”

“And what were you thinking?” I pull back so I can get a good look at his face. It’s always been an easy way to see how he’s feeling.

“I was just thinking that we’re both in such a better place than we were all those years ago. I don’t tour every year anymore, and I’m signed with good management that actually lets me make my own decisions.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck and studying his face closely.

“I’m saying that you only tour ever other year, at max. I do the same now. Why can’t we make this work for real again? We’re both more established now and have the right to chose when and where we do things. I know, we make time for each other when we’re in the same city, but there’s nothing saying we can’t be in the same city. I could live in Los Angeles full time. I could live with you. Or we could both go to New York. I don’t care, as long as we can be together.”

“Harry, you’re sure about this? We haven’t truly been together in a long time. I love spending my time with you, truly, but I don’t want you to uproot your life just for me.” I clarify. He’s saying what I’ve wanted to hear for years, but I just want to make sure we’ve thought things through before I give either of us false hope.

“It wouldn’t just be for you, it would be for us. I love you so much, I feel like I’m wasting time. It seems like a waste to know exactly who your soulmate is, and not do everything in your power to make it work.”

“I love you, too.” I press a fast and passionate kiss to his lips, “Although, I do have one thing that I think we should change.”

“Anything.” He answers, his eyes all gooey and lovey making me break out in a grin. I couldn’t keep a straight face over how I’m feeling if it tried.

“Let me move here.”

“What?” He asks shocked.

“You love London and being close to your family more than anything, I could never ask you to change that.”

“But-”

“And I love being close to them too. If today proves anything, you are my family.”

“Let me make the move” I grin.

“Happily.” Harry’s dimples are on full display.

“Hey, isn’t that another song you wrote about me?” I tease.

“Oh, shut up.” He rolls his eyes, pushing me back against the couch.

plz give me some feedback! i thought this was so cute

#harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #Harry Styles

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rinkrats · 4 years ago

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🥺 that mike lange story. But also those tags #sid loooves christmas #he loves giving presents #looks good in red #piles on the pounds fast #post hockey career as santa 😂😂👌🏽👌🏽

he loves his mementos and presents and is COMMITTED to them. scrapbooking. matching jackets. little pills with hidden motivational messages~*~ his love language is gifts and neck smooches and stalking geno. relevant right now are some anecdotes i sent a friend earlier this year for dorky sid gifts fic fodder:

1. Crosby's constant thoughtfulness would be impressive from anyone, much less someone of his stature.

"Sid always texts me happy birthday, he's always asking me like, how's Russia?" Evgeni Malkin said. "We talk and message all summer. He asks me how my skates are. He knows, like, everything. He follows my Instagram, I think (laughs)."

In addition to having a handle on those little details, Crosby is constantly providing those around him with memories and mementos. If the team is on the road and goes, say, sightseeing or to a sporting event and takes a group photo, Crosby will later send a framed copy to everyone.

When Ron Hextall and Brian Burke watched their first Penguins game in person, Crosby is the one who approached head equipment manager Dana Heinze and asked for two used game pucks to give to the new GM and president of hockey ops.

After the Penguins won in 2009, Crosby had jackets made for the three players on the team who had scored a Cup-clinching goal in Game 7: Talbot (Pittsburgh), Ruslan Fedotenko (Tampa Bay) and Mike Rupp (New Jersey).

"They were blue jackets with gold buttons, and each one had a patch on it that said 'GWG Game 7,'" Talbot said. "At one of our first team meals the next season, he presented us with the jackets and did a big ceremony with the music and stuff. We had a private room in the restaurant. I still have the jacket."

-The Consummate Teammate, Captain and Ambassador, Feb 2021

2. Merz: My first interaction with Sid was when we were on the bench, guys were talking about a teammate, and the first thing this 15-year-old says is, “Hey, guys. Let’s keep everything positive. Don’t talk about your teammates that way.”

Salcido: When we were getting ready for nationals, he found these little pills that you could put a hidden message inside. They unscrewed, and inside was a tiny scroll. He gave one to every teammate. … He had everyone fill one out. He didn’t tell anyone what to write, but he made it known that we all knew what the goal was: winning nationals. So we wrote on our scrolls, rolled them up and put them in the pill thing. We kept them with us everywhere we went.

-‘Is this real?’: Stories of Sidney Crosby’s year at a Minnesota prep school, May 2020

3. On “Butterfly Boy” Jonathan Pitre:

Though the Senators are his team, Sidney Crosby has always been Jonny’s favourite player. After the TSN documentary airs, Tina gets a call from the Penguins. Sid needs Jonny’s measurements. He wants to have a suit made for him by his personal tailor, Domenico Vacca.

“It’s the kindest, sweetest gesture,” Tina says. “Sid heard that Jonny went to a lot of games, so he wants him to look like he’s one of the guys.”

“I want him to feel like a pro,” Crosby says. “Here’s a guy who is going through something so painful, and his first thought is always, ‘How can I help others?’ When I was young, I’d watch on TV the players coming to the rink in their suits. That was a cool part of being an NHL player. I want him to feel that, to make it as real as possible for him.”

Tina tries to discreetly measure Jonny while she’s changing his dressings. But he’s way too smart for that.

“Um, Mom, why are you measuring me? Am I going for surgery again?” he asks.

“No, no!” Tina replies, trying to reassure him and come up with a good lie, all in the same breath. “The doctor needs them just to make sure they have proper dressings next time you are in.”

A few weeks later, the sharp navy blue suit shows up at their front door, along with a couple of ties, an autographed stick and a handwritten letter from Sid.

“His eyes just light up,” Tina says. “Jonny always liked to be well-dressed, and he just loves having his own suit. It fits perfectly. He looks so good in it.”

-Beauties by James Duthie (2020)

4. Pascal Dupuis inspired his Pittsburgh Penguins teammates on their run to the Stanley Cup, and Sidney Crosby found a special way of driving that message home.

Dupuis retired in December with lingering health concerns because of blood clots. Despite his NHL playing days coming to an end, the veteran forward remained an integral part of the Penguins and was in uniform to hoist the Cup after Pittsburgh's six-game win against the San Jose Sharks in the Stanley Cup Final.

On Sunday, Dupuis brought the Cup home one last time as a player to share a special day with his family, friends and hometown fans.

"Yes, it does feel bittersweet a little bit," Dupuis said. "You get the Cup, you want to celebrate. But at the same time I got a gift by the mail [Saturday]. Basically, it's a book of all the pictures of all the good stuff we went through. It came from Nova Scotia, so you guys can figure out who it came from (Crosby), but he couldn't give it to me during the season, he saw me skating a little bit.

"And he sent it [Saturday], before my day with the Cup, so he knew what he was doing to get me right here," Dupuis said, putting his fist over his heart.

-Pascal Dupuis shares Stanley Cup with family, friends, Aug 2016

5. In 2011, Crosby was out of the lineup with a concussion, and the Penguins made their annual visit to Children’s Hospital.

Crosby got along so well with one boy there and was so touched that he later asked Bullano to go back... just the two of them, no cameras, no attention.

When Bullano and Crosby met for the follow-up visit, Crosby appeared clutching a pair of Toys “R” Us bags, filled with a Transformer toy the two had discussed.

“He literally bought every type of this toy they make,” Bullano said. “[Crosby] had never seen it before and thought it was so cool.

“There are no pictures of this. There’s no video. He was laying in the bed with the kid. They were just playing. We were there for over two hours. I got to know the mom really well because we were just sitting there.

“The kid had no idea. Didn’t expect it. They had no idea he was coming. We got there and he said, ‘Hey buddy. hope you don’t mind that I came back.’ The kid couldn’t believe it.

“[Crosby’s] crazy cool about stuff like that.”

What’s crazy is trying to recount the many times stuff like this has happened with Crosby:

• The Little Penguins Learn to Play program has been around for nine seasons, outfitting now 1,200 kids with free head-to-toe hockey equipment. Not only does Crosby serve as the face of the program — which the NHL has now adopted — but he helps fund it, too.

“There’s an awareness of what a person in his position can bring,” Penguins vice president of communications Tom McMillan said. “I think he activates that as much as anybody I’ve seen during his playing career.”

• After a recent practice, Crosby noticed a local family in the Penguins dressing room, approached them, introduced himself, learned their story and wound up giving them a signed stick.

Nobody asked Crosby to do that, and he wanted zero credit when discussing it a couple days later.

“For people who have the opportunity to come in here, people dealing with certain things, if you can brighten their day a bit or spend some time with them, it’s something that’s special for all of us,” Crosby said.

• A few years ago, through a team charity event, Crosby befriended a 4-year-old Amish boy with cancer. Crosby remarked to Bullano how much he loved talking to the boy because of how engaging the boy was and how he wasn’t consumed with technology. Crosby even tried to visit the boy but learned he had passed away.

• He learns the first and last names of the kids who attend his hockey school in Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia.

“Two kids came from Japan its first year,” Bullano recalled. “He was so blown away by that. He couldn’t wait to meet them.”

• Earlier this season, the Penguins welcomed Grant Chupinka, 24-year-old cancer patient, into the dressing room. Crosby chatted up Grant and his parents, Steve and Kim.

He spent his usual time — about two or three times the requirement. Gave the tour. Then found out the Chupinkas didn’t have tickets for that night’s game and decided he would pay for them to go.

“I’m sure he could just give them an autographed puck or something, but he takes his time to go out and see them and talk to them and get to know them,” Brian Dumoulin said. “It speaks volumes for him and who he is as a person.”

Spend any length of time with Crosby during his visits with those less fortunate, and a few things become obvious.

One, Crosby is really good at these. Smooth but not in a slimy way. Sweet. You know how when you’re around someone talking and they go out of their way to make eye contact with everyone around? That’s Crosby.

He’s also humble, always introducing himself like those he’s meeting don’t already know. Holding a hand is no issue. And Crosby is the rare 20-something pro athlete without kids who acts every bit like he does.

“It is not an easy situation to talk to someone with terminal cancer,” McMillan said. “A lot of people couldn’t do that. He has an amazing ability to do that and make that person feel good.”

Crosby has welcomed several Make-a-Wish kids and tries, if at all possible, to schedule such events for practice days — to maximize the time he’s able to spend.

He’s developed a special friendship with Patrick McIlvain, a soldier who nearly died when he took a bullet to the head in Afghanistan. McIlvain actually does physical therapy with one of Crosby’s sticks.

A former club hockey player at Cal U, McIlvain comes by every year, and the Penguins don’t even bother to tell Crosby. Either he already knows or immediately stops what he’s doing to come say hello.

“He’s not doing it to leave a legacy,” said Terry Kalna, Penguins vice president of sales and broadcasting. “His numbers leave the legacy. He’s just a down-to-Earth, good guy.”

Before a visit, Crosby has Bullano email him what is essentially a scouting report on who he’s going to meet. He likes to learn about them, their situation and what they’ve been through. As much information as he can ingest. Crosby never just swoops in, shake a hand and leave.

“As much as anyone has ever seen, he accepts the responsibilities of being not just a professional athlete but a star professional athlete,” McMillan said. “He views it as part of the job. Like coming to the morning skate. That’s just what you do.”

Put another way, “he owns those moments,” says Kalna.

Said Bullano, “He’s just a good human being.”

-When it comes to giving, Sidney Crosby does as much as he can, Feb 2017

6. When Crosby received a generous signing bonus on his Reebok deal, he wanted to share it with everyone.

“He gave everyone on the bus gifts,” says Oceanic radio commentator Michel Germain. “Him sharing his bonus with all the people he’d been travelling with for two years, that impresses me greatly. I think the most important thing about Sidney Crosby is his personality and the kind of human being he is. What he exuded. The inner richness he’d already developed.”

-Superstitious and generous, Dec 2006

7. also this simply because it makes me ;w;

Even in defeat — no, especially in defeat — Sidney Crosby proved why he wears the "C" for the Penguins.

After the game, with his heart sinking and his season over, the Penguins’ captain bent over, sank to the ice to pick up the puck, took it to linesman Tony Sericolo and then skated to his team’s handshake line.

I immediately thought of a View from Ice Level I’d written on Crosby making sure a retiring official was sent away from PPG Paints Arena properly. I knew picking up the puck wasn’t for the same reason that was, but I also knew, in some way, it was connected to Crosby’s awareness and respect of the game.

“It was for the Islanders,” Crosby told me after the game, his eyes swollen from a first round exit – by way of a sweep to make it worse. He told me how the winning team always wanted the puck, and it was his way of providing it for the Islanders.

Crosby looked me right in the eye as he told me this, just as he did with every other member of the media to come to him after the loss.

I could tell from those swollen eyes and the way he sat at his stall, by himself with his hands folded as he stared blankly, that Sidney Crosby is much more used to being on the receiving end of a puck when a series ends than he is at retrieving it for the winning team.

That scene. His swollen eyes. Staying in the locker room until most had left – talking to anyone who needed him. Most of all, though, picking up the puck that prompted my question in the first place and making sure the right people got their piece of their own history.

It all adds up to one thing: In victory and in defeat, Crosby respects the game above all else – just as he’s always done.

-Even in defeat, Crosby shines, April 2019

#anyway this was a nice walk down memory lane after the disastrous game rip #sidney crosby #pittsburgh penguins #hockey #text

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shootingstarwritings · 4 years ago

Text

Keepin’ it in the Family

Manfred—Freddy for short—was a young man that spent his life in the shadow of his uncle’s side of the family. Meek, shy, unassuming, and more of an indoors type. “I’m more of a type B kind of fellow,” he would answer whenever someone asked him what kind of person he was. Meanwhile, Daniel Crawford and his son, Alex, were the exact opposite. Tall, strong, and always willing to get down and sweaty in an activity. They often dominated every family gathering and gleefully hogged the spotlight shined on them.

“Did you know Alex got a football scholarship… Daniel bought a second house… oh my gawd, li’l Danny got so buff last year, can’t believe he used to be my younger bro…!” On and on Freddy would hear until he got sick of it.

“Why dontcha join a team or somethin’, squirt?” his cousin Alex teased him while roughly messing up his hair. Although Freddy couldn’t deny his cousin was annoying and far too energetic, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. There was always an authenticity behind his invites to play football with his friends. He was brutish but kind. That was all.

Freddy’s uncle Daniel was a different story.

On a certain day during a family gathering, Daniel concerned Freddy in a hallway. “Perhaps if you applied yourself more," he once told Freddy, the disdain clear in his voice, "you'd get as far as my boy does in life." The rest of the family was just a few rooms away, but their cheerful voices were worlds away. “But until you do that, I want you to stop spending any time with Alex. Honestly don’t know why he wastes his precious youth on someone like you.”

Freddy didn't respond but nodded while glaring defiantly at the floor. He jumped back as his uncle grabbed him by the throat and forcefully tilted his head upwards. Freddy let out a sharp hiss of pain but prevented himself from screaming.

With a low voice, his uncle Daniel said, “Look at me while I’m speaking, you little shit. Don’t want your mediocrity holding my golden son back. Stay away from him or else.” He punctuated his last words by shoving Freddy to the wall. “Can’t believe you and your father are related to us. Well, guess we know who got the better genes in the family.”

Freddy glared at him as he walked away. It was painful, but he could endure. As long as he lived, he would not let this abuse break him. The day would come when he would prove him wrong.

However, it all came to a head about a week ago, when Freddy announced his plans for a graduation party. Most of the replies in the texts he sent out for his family were some variation of, “Oh, I’m sorry Freddy, but your uncle Danny is planning to celebrate his promotion at work that day. Perhaps you can reschedule.” As always, Freddy remained overshadowed.

“Bastards,” Freddy’s father, a rotund and balding man by the name of Benny, exclaimed as he saw the texts. “Can’t even spare a day for you. It’s always those two pricks.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Freddy muttered, glaring down at the texts on his phone. How often had his family ignored him in favor of those two? How often did his uncle mistreat him to guarantee that his ‘golden child’ Alex would remain as successful as he was? The questions kept echoing in his mind until, finally, he decided to cut this cycle.

“If you want,” his father tried again, “we can spend that weekend just the two of us, son. We can travel and celebrate our way."

“It’s all right, dad. I know exactly what I’m gonna do,” said Freddy as he marched off to his room. He would have to draw up the runes and memorize the incantations before long. By being efficient, he would have the spell all set by dawn’s early light.

However, his father stopped him by placing a firm hand on his shoulder—a rarity. “Hold on son," Benny said in a tender voice. "I understand what you're going through, believe me, I know. I was never the golden child of the family either. Danny made sure of that." There was disdain in Benny's voice that Freddy had never heard from before, but he had little time to dwell on it as his father continued. "But, to me, you'll always be the golden child, Freddy. I just want you to know that." Then, Benny pulled his son in for a hug.

Freddy eagerly returned in, shoving his thoughts of revenge to the back of his mind for the moment. Now, he just wanted to spend time with his father. Dusk came and went, and the two bid each other good night as they settled into their rooms on different floors. With nothing to interrupt Freddy, he set off to work.

It began when he found a book of occult rituals and spells in his father's study. Never had Benny spoken about this to Freddy, and Freddy lacked the courage to confront his father about it. Instead, he took photos of the various pages of spells and tried them out for himself—another reason why he did not want his father to know that he knew. By doing this magic in secret, Freddy could indulge in his fantasies that were now just a spell away. Coaches, classmates, and neighbors all fell to his charms and rituals; fulfilling deviant actions according to his whims.

My father can never know, Freddy thought bitterly to himself as he drew the sigils on his rug with chalk, he’ll never know so he’ll always be proud of me, his pure and hard-working son.

Tonight would be the first time Freddy would attempt the possession spell as well as the first time he broke a rule he had set for himself when he first began to use magic: never involve a family member. Now, he read through the procedure on his phone and prepared to sink into an even deeper level of deviancy. A bit of the text at the bottom of the page was faded, but the instructions were all written out. It’s most likely flavor text, Freddy thought.

This spell would allow the invoker to project his soul towards an unassuming target. From then on, a battle of wills would begin, and the dominant soul would take over the body. The invoker is not guaranteed to be successful. Caution must be exercised, and a strong will is heavily recommended.

It was a frightening thought, but Freddy did not allow that to slow him down. His hands trembled with excitement and his heart raced with pure adrenaline as he pictured his uncle’s sexy yet punchable face.

In the heat of the moment, Freddy cast the spell alongside the rising sun. Once those accursed words left his lips, a sharp and painful sensation spread throughout his body. It was as if his soul was being stretched and twisted, like a rubber band. However, he just gritted his teeth and endured it as he always did. The suffering of a spell or his uncle’s harassment was all the same—nothing he couldn’t handle. However, when the pain continued to grow in magnitude, Freddy was afraid this spell was going to rip his soul in half.

Then came the release—the catharsis. The spell catapulted Freddy’s soul at a speed rivaling that of a bullet train’s. Freddy screamed both in terror and sheer jubilation as his soul traveled through the dawn-dyed sky. Everything, even the sun, was a blurry mess until he arrived at his uncle’s expensive house, where he finally stopped. He was back in control.

Slowly, Freddy glided through the halls of a home that alienated him for most of his life. While searching for his uncle’s room, he stumbled upon his cousin Alex sleeping on top of the covers, clad in just a pair of boxer briefs. Though Freddy intended to keep moving, he remained still and watched his cousin’s chest slowly rise and fall as he slept peacefully.

“You deserve a better father,” Freddy whispered, caressing his cousin’s cheek with his ghostly hand. His voice and touch were nothing more than a chilly breeze on Alex’s bare skin. When Freddy noticed the goosebumps that spread down his cousin’s arms, he drew back and excused himself from the room. His target still needed to be punished.

A few hallways later, Freddy found himself floating above his uncle. Daniel, just like his son, slept above his covers and nearly in the nude to deal with the brutal summer heat. Even so, beads of sweat still glistened in his half-naked, furry body. His breathing was just as peaceful and gentle as Alex's as it passed through his heart-shaped lips. "If only you were as kind as you look while sleeping," Freddy said as he glared down at Daniel. Hatred and lust pushed him forward, and he gleefully enacted his plan.

Having spent quite a long time manipulating the wills of men, Freddy knew that the best way to overwhelm them was to do so post-coitus. “You’ll be my ticket to happiness,” he whispered to his uncle, “you piece of shit asshole.” He began by running his tongue down his uncle’s bare chest, giving the nipple a lick.

The effect was immediate. Daniel’s eyes shot open as he shivered at the paranormal touch. He looked around, perplexed. “What the fuck?” he said.

Freddy snickered at his uncle’s confusion. He pushed his uncle back onto the bed, one hand twirling and playing with his nipples while another teased the bulge hidden by the briefs. “W-Woah, oh shit!” said Daniel, trying to kick his invisible assaulter away to no avail. When the sensation didn’t stop, Daniel attempted to rise only for Freddy to roughly shove him back onto the bed again.

“I’m not done with you!” Freddy roared to his uncle’s terror. The rush of power was intoxicating, and Freddy greedily drank in every pathetic whimper and moan from his uncle. He pulled his underwear off, revealing his uncle’s large hard-on, and threw it to the side. “God, you’re thick,” Freddy moaned as he took his uncle’s cock in his hand. “C’mon, cum for me, old man,” he said as his lips played with the pecs. He continued to mercilessly play with his uncle, humping his body to elicit more of his moans.

“N-No—aahh, mmm! Pl-Please stoooAAAAHH—stop!” said Daniel as he felt his core tighten. Freddy noticed it too and quickly released his uncle from his sexual grasp. “AH! Oh fuck, I’m—ngh!” said Daniel as his abused dick begged for release.

“Not yet, that's gonna be my climax, uncle," Freddy said. To reward his uncle was far more than what the bastard deserved. Instead, Freddy would steal his climax, his body, and his dignity. “You’re mine!” he said, caution be damned as he dove into his uncle’s body.

“F-Fred—OOF!” The sheer force of Freddy’s dive caused his uncle to bounce on the mattress. “Oh FUCK!” Daniel cried out as he felt impossibly full. Two souls occupied the same space, and much like the shifting plates of the ever-changing earth, stress was born of this conflict. Daniel gritted his teeth, even more sweat coating his convulsing body as he attempted to hold onto his consciousness. However, Freddy’s essence continued to spread.

The possession spell operated on a similar concept as ink falling upon a cup of pure water. Slowly, the water would darken as it took on the shade of the ink until it was almost completely indistinguishable from the original ink that tinted—or tainted—it.

Just as the ink colored the water, so too did Freddy’s soul spill and tint his uncle’s very essence—mind, body, and spirit. Daniel, of course, continued to push his nephew’s soul out of him. He kicked at his bed and gripped his sheets so tightly his veins were visible in his arms. Until the very last second, he tried to will his body back under his control. However, he eventually collapsed onto his bed, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and blacked out. His body convulsed for a few more minutes as it took on the last remains of Freddy's essence, before finally quieting down.

Freddy opened his new eyes and immediately put his attention back on his uncle's dick. "Oh god, uncle, you're so sensitive!" he said as he continued stroking himself. “I-I’m CUMMING!” he bellowed as he shot load after load in his new form, seeing white as he fell back onto the sweat-covered sheets. “Oh my god, Danny-boy, I can’t wait to wreck you today.” Freddy would seize the day, and by nightfall, he would make his uncle a shame upon his family.

A few hallways away, Alex had his own visitor.

“S-Stop, uncle!” Alex screamed as the much larger soul of Benny finished entering his younger body. “Y-You can’t—AH! AAAHHH!” He whimpered and moaned just as his father did before collapsing into a mess of convulsing limbs.

Alex blacked out, and his uncle Benny awoke. “God, that felt good,” he said, stretching his new, muscular body. It was pleasurably sore after the workout he gave his unwilling nephew. “Ya got a good lookin’ bod, kid,” he said, grinning as he rubbed his hands down his new form. “But it’s my turn to be the golden child, if only for a day,” he finished, excited to have his hole filled in a day filled with debauchery.

Unbeknownst to father and son, there was more to the spell lost as the ink faded from the page. It read as follows:

Just as the water becomes nearly inseparable from the ink, the souls also become unable to be torn apart. There is no hope for the water to become pure and no hope for the ink to be whole. They are bound together for eternity, as are the souls tainted by the invoker. The invoker’s body will perish upon the spell’s completion, and the invoker will remain in their new body until the possession spell is used again, thus killing the old target.

#male possession #dilf possession #jock possession #possession #male body possession

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imagineabrighterworld · 4 years ago

Text

A Heart Meant for Two

A/N: A poly relationship between Hawks, Dabi, and the reader! Based on the song The Way You Say Hello by tiffi and City Girl ^^

“He said he loved her more than words, so instead of words he gave her flowers to observe”

Hawks was your first boyfriend to ever have a current boyfriend. It was an odd adjustment to get used to sharing your boyfriend with someone else, especially when you first met Dabi. But with some help, you got used to it quickly.

“Flowers?” You eye the bouquet of roses in Keigo’s hands. He had given you flowers before, but these felt like a bribe. You peer at him with suspicious eyes, snapping your book shut. “What did you do?”

“Can’t I buy my best girl some flowers?” The Winged Hero replaces your book with the flowers, flipping through the pages before tossing it to the side. As he sits down next to you, his wing instinctively wraps around you to pull you in.

You press yourself into his side and bury your nose in the flowers, breathing in their sweet scent. A small smile forms on your face. “Hmm.. You're either planning something stupid, or it's Dabi that is doing something stupid.”

“Kid-”

“It's Dabi isn't it.”

From the flash of blue light coming from outside and the nearing of police sirens, you know the answer.

“They were also on sale.” Keigo murmurs under his breath, turning his head to hide his blush of shame as you laugh.

It had been a full four months since you started dating the two of them and Keigo still thought you were woefully ignorant. But you were much more observant than he thought. You knew your other boyfriend was a villain, one that still had a long way to go if he was to be pardoned of his crimes- that is, if he wanted to be pardoned. It was that bit of information that you did stay ignorant on, you didn't want to lose sleep on something like that.

You sigh happily and give your boyfriend a kiss on the cheek, “Thank you.”

Later on, Dabi would return home with another bouquet of flowers. A bit crumpled from him jumping over fences, but still intact.

Your boyfriends were weird, but you loved them.

“She drew him pictures in a card, he said it was tacky and almost broke her heart”

Dabi was not a spoonful of sugar and sometimes he could be a bit blunt. Painfully blunt. How you got used to his silver tipped tongue? You didn't know. Maybe it was a skill you should add onto your resume.

Removing your heels at the front door, you slip on a pair of slippers and sneak your way into the house. Dabi was the only one at home, the main indicator being the lack of Keigo’s jacket on the wall hook while Dabi’s boots were tucked away in the corner.

You duck low as you hear a quiet snoring from the couch in the living room. With soft steps, you creep in on a sleeping Dabi and lean over the cushions to reach him.

His arm was slung over his eyes, his mouth parted slightly as he sighs. Sleeping Dabi was the softest you've seen him. He was always smirks and sharp lines, but when he was asleep he was so.. Soft.

“What do you want?” A low grumble rises from Dabi’s throat. He moves his arm to uncover an eye. The piercing blue cuts through you and leaves you halting in your movements. That's to say, you stopped your hand from removing a card from your purse.

“I wanted to give you something.” You pull out the card and offer it to him.

He shuts his eye and- goes back to sleep?

“Dabi?” You whisper.

He opens his eye again and swipes the paper from your hand with a huff. Dabi sits up before paying your card any mind. Flipping it open, he runs his eyes over the drawings inside.

“Is that supposed to be a cat?”

“It's a human.”

“ It's a human, she says.” Dabi chuckles, laying back down and covering his face with the card, resting his arms on his chest in a mummy like fashion.

"Do you like it?"

"It's garbage, babe."

It stung until you found it tucked away in his chest pocket while doing laundry a week later.

“I know he hates the way she does her hair”

You constantly changed your hairstyle. One day it was braided and the next it was in a high ponytail, or cropped to your chin. Every style looked good on you, but the day you started dying your hair was the day Dabi grew truly frustrated. Though.. Not for long.

“Dabi!” You yell from inside the bathroom, your white towel now shades of purple. “I think I messed up!”

“You think or you know , babe?” He hisses as he nears the bathroom. The lights were far too bright after he had been napping for two hours. It was nighttime, nearly one in the morning according to the clock on the wall. And you were doing your hair? When you had work the very next morning?

As soon as he witnesses your hair, he knows that you know just how badly it went. He holds onto the doorframe and laughs heartily, bending over slightly as his lungs begin to burn.

“Come on it's not that funny!”

“Your towel has more hair dye than your hair does!”

It was true. Your hair was supposed to be a deep indigo, but all that was left after rinsing off the excess dye was a few lavender streaks in your now stained platinum hair. You had went to get it bleached a few days ago and today was the day you were going to color it. How did it go so wrong? The hair dye was rated so highly!

Your face burns with embarrassment. You move to shut the door on him. “If you wont help me I’ll just-”

He moves his hand in time to stop you from closing the door and pushes it open further to let himself through. “I never said that, did I babe?” He breathes in slowly to ease his now stinging lungs. “Sit down, I'll do it for you. I have more practice.”

“I know she hates the way that he pretends to care”

Keigo wasn't without his own flaws. Dabi was the villain, but Keigo came with his own problems. They weren't too big, luckily, but it wasn't always easy being on the receiving end of his disinterest when he was tired.

You lay in defeat on the floor, your arms spread out with empty clothes hangers on your arms. Tonight was your high school reunion, a day you had been planning for since the email was first sent. The only thing you didn't have planned was your outfit. Which was why you wanted some input from your significant others, but unfortunately only Keigo was home.

Why was it unfortunate? He was tired. And when he was tired he never had much to say, or any energy to do anything other than breathe.

You look up at him from the floor and poke at his wing. “Keigoooo!”

Keigo was laying on his stomach, his right wing drooping downward as he attempted to sleep. “Mmnn..?”

“What do you think about this one?”

“It's beautiful.”

“You're not even looking.”

“Mm..”

“Birdbrain.”

“I know she'll slightly disagree on what he wears”

You loved Dabi’s odd sense of fashion and went shopping with him for matching outfits (something he said he hated, but would never stop you on doing), but Keigo.. had a special sense of fashion that always managed to confuse you. Maybe it was best you stopped going to him for his input.

"You'd think that being in magazine shoots would help you gain a fashion sense." You say from behind a fist, your hand curled to hide your grimace.

"They dress him. What do you think he'll learn?" Dabi chimes in from behind you. He laid on the bed with pillows propping him up in order to watch the show that was Keigo dressing for date night. It was a little game Dabi always liked to observe.

It wasn't that the clothes Keigo had were terrible. If they were in the right color they would look great. But.. they weren't in the right color.

They were every goddamn color in the rainbow.

Keigo looks at the vibrant pink and yellow jacket he was sporting and at the baby blue tank top he had on underneath. Vivid orange and purple peaked out from the windbreaker he wore underneath the jacket and you didn't want to know what other layer of clothing he had on under that .

"I think I look great."

"For a bird, babe." Dabi chuckles. "For a bird, you're a hot ticket."

"But not for a human Kei." You walk behind him and tug at the jacket. “Let’s just go with the other outfit.”

As it turned out, Keigo did have more in common with birds than just his wings. Bright colors were just as alluring to him as a bowl of seeds was for a sparrow. You kept this in mind for the next time you went shopping.

“I know he chokes when she sprays too much perfume in the air”

Your boyfriends knew they were difficult and could be major pains in the ass, but for once they would appreciate it if you didn't try killing them with your perfume. They knew it wasn't intentional, but how could you not notice the whole house smelled like you?

“Question.” Dabi rests his chin on top of your head while looking at you in the mirror. “You know what my quirk is, right?”

“I do.”

“And you know what fire does when in contact with alcohol, right?”

Now you look up at him, squinting your eyes at him as you lower your brush onto the sink counter. “Yes.. it's basic safety measures. Alcohol is extremely flammable.”

“Do you know what perfume has?” Your boyfriend smirks. He curls a lock of your hair around his finger and gives it a small tug.

You slap his hand away and turn around to look at him directly. You cross your arms and lean against the counter. He was being coy, but it was too early in the morning for this. He never stalled you from getting ready to go to work. “It has alcohol. What about it?”

He cages you in his arms, leaning in and letting a flicker of blue flame light the side of his face. But unlike usual, blue flames burst in the air for a split second, the sudden flash of heat startling you enough to bump into him as you jump away from the counter. Dabi turns off his flames and pecks you on the cheek.

“Unless you want the house to burn down, I'd stop spraying so much perfume, babe.”

After work you end up buying an alcohol-free perfume.

“But she likes the way it feels when he's right there”

After the third attempt at sleeping in the same queen sized bed at the same time, Keigo and Dabi decided to buy a new bed without you knowing. It went well until you came home early to them attempting to assemble the frame without instructions. But once it was put together and finished, you had to admit you liked the result.

“No more facefuls of feathers!” You squeal with joy as you leap onto the bed and spread your arms out, enjoying the spaciousness of it all.

Dabi sits down on your left while Keigo takes your right. He flicks your forehead to catch your attention and motions for you to tuck in your arm so he could lay down next to you. “Now you get why he doesn’t get to sleep in the middle?” He pulls you into a hug while flipping Keigo off from over your shoulder.

Keigo flops onto the bed, his wings spread out and covering the two of you like a tarp. “You're just jealous baby.”

You wriggle around and lay with your back against Dabi’s chest. Pushing his wing away, you stick your tongue out at Keigo. “Jealous of being attracted to stop signs?”

“It's a sexy red.”

“What about mirrors?”

“I’m a sexy man.”

“Birdbrain.” Keigo huffs and moves closer to the both of you, wrapping his wing to engulf the both of you. “The bed was my idea you know.”

“I know.” You admit. “Dabi doesn't care if he smooshes us to death.”

“Ouch.” Dabi murmurs from your hair.

It's not long after that you fall asleep in their arms, completely content to spend the rest of your night between the two of them. But when the winter came, you and Keigo agreed to keep Dabi in the middle to act as a heater.

“She loves him so much it's absurd”

It was winter when your boys began to grow more busy. Sometimes you would go to sleep alone, but you didn't let it get to you. You knew they visited the house when they could. What else would explain the endless supply of your favorite flowers in vases by the window or boxes of your favorite chocolates on the table when they weren't there when you left? The nights you did get to see them, you enjoyed their presence to the fullest.

Keigo squeezes his eyes shut in annoyance as he hears his phone ringing once more. It was the third time in a row, and he knew he couldn't go on ignoring it anymore. Being a hero meant sacrificing down time. It meant sacrificing time with you.

“Kei.”

“Yeah?”

“It's okay.” You keep your eyes shut as you trace swirls along his back in the area between his wings. “I understand you need to leave.” You knew you couldn’t keep him forever. It wasn't right. People needed him. He saved people. It was like keeping a firefighter from putting out a fire right in front of him. If they were calling Keigo so adamantly then it must be important.

Keigo presses a kiss to your temple and releases his hold on you, letting you lay on your back as he tugs on his jacket and prepares to exit the room.

“I love you.” You say from under the still warm blankets.

“I love you too.” He smiles from over his shoulder, eyes pained.

What did he do to deserve you?

“He thinks it's cute that her singing is the worst he's ever heard”

After a whole month away from the two of you, Dabi had to admit that he missed Keigo’s stupid face and your singing. Was it good singing? No. But did he miss seeing you enjoy yourself? Yeah. Yeah he did.

Dabi sat outside the house, listening to your singing from his spot under the tree. He had yet to enter the house and opted instead to stay under the shade. He would have to leave again soon, so he saw no point in raising your hopes only to let you down.

A feather jabs at him from behind.

“You should go in and see her. She misses you.” Keigo lands beside him, lifting his goggles from his face. He crouches in front of him, running his gloved fingers through Dabi’s hair. “We both miss you.”

Dabi leans into his touch. How many times did he find himself missing it? Keigo was his first love after such a long time, but now there was you too. You both made him weak.

“I’ll be home soon.”

“And the way she’ll close her eyes, when she's nervous and just about to cry”

Keigo and Dabi didn't always agree on everything. That was a given when one was a hero dating a villain. But what they constantly agreed on was making sure you were kept out of the fray.

The shopping district was utterly decimated and all you felt was heat. A sweltering heat that couldn't be put out. Blue flames surrounded you on all sides, flames you knew instinctively were Dabi's.

"What's going on?!" You yell as debris falls around you, Dabi was just there- you could've sworn you saw him! It had to be him! Where else did the flames come from?

A hand wraps around your bicep and pulls you upward, the familiar sight of red wings takes up your vision as you look at Keigo. He was covered in ash and his goggles were cracked in half atop his head. He squinted through the smoke that was building in the air.

"The League is here. I'm getting you home."

"What about Dabi?! He's here, we need to bring him home too!" You look behind you at the structure that began to cave in on itself, all you could see was blue. "He's in there!"

"And so is Shigaraki! You can't be here kid!"

"We cant leave him! Please Keigo!" Tears blur your vision as all you can think about was how burnt Dabi's skin already was. What would being in the center of that fire do to him then? What kind of state would he return to you in?

"I'm sorry kid.. He's the one who warned me you were there.."

“He likes the way she plays songs on repeat”

Keigo watched as you grew more and more despondent, shutting down as more time passed that Dabi was gone. Japan was in an uproar, and it kept calling him back to patch it up each time villains showed. Japan was like an open wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. However, this changes one day as he comes home to hearing the sound of music blasting on your speakers.

Lights were strung up from the front door to the living room to the bedrooms, fairy lights dotted every inch of the house. Keigo tucked his wings in taunt to his body to keep them from getting tangled in the haphazardly placed lights. While he loved bright colors, it was almost too much for his eyes. Where were you?

"Kid?" He calls out, ducking underneath bluebell lights. "Please tell me you're still alive in here?"

The song on the speaker repeated on itself, which was odd with how clunky it sounded, but he learned to like it once he found you.

If choppy music was what it took to bring a smile back on your face, it was worth it.

He found you taping up lights in the bathroom while singing under your breath, mascara smudged but a smile still on your face. You look at him with your hundred gigawatt smile. It threw him for a loop, the sudden hope in your eyes when only yesterday you were crying yourself to sleep.

"Its for when he comes back. Want to help me?"

Keigo takes the loop of lights from your hands and nods.

"Make some room kid."

“He likes the way they flow together like electricity”

Covering the house in Christmas lights was actually a fun distraction for the both of you while Dabi was gone. Keigo was in charge of the higher lights that covered the rooftop, but you had plenty of fun stringing them around the plants surrounding the house. After finishing your impromptu decorating, you both decide to spend the rest of the night in the living room.

"Just follow my steps, baby."

"If I followed you I'd end up on my face." You laugh while holding onto his shoulders as you both hovered in the air, his wings flared open to keep you both afloat. What steps was he even talking about? For the past ten minutes he just held you both up and spun in a lazy circle. His wings were doing all the work while his feet did nothing.

"I’ll make you soar kid." He winks at you. "One day you'll see. I’ll take you to dance sessions and everything."

"I'll hold you to it."

“He likes her ringtone and the way she'll say hello”

When it came to being part of the League, Dabi had to be careful on what information he let loose. They couldn't know about his relationships. If Shigaraki knew then he would most definitely use it to his advantage. Dabi had two weak points and that was you and Keigo. But when he was out with the LoV, he had his ways of being with you.

“Hello! This is my voicemail, which means I'm probably busy right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you ASAP! Have a good day!”

Dabi holds his phone limply in his hand, looking up at the cracking ceiling of the League's current hideout. He had to make face for now, which meant staying away from you and Keigo for a while. Still, he had his phone, one thing he was glad Giran gave him after he burnt his old one accidentally. He knew you were busy, and he had no intention of talking to you while on the job, but to hear your voice was enough for him.

Weeks later, he welcomes the sound of your voice as you greet him, receiving him back into the house with open arms.

"Whats with all lights?" He laughs in response to your face nuzzling into his chest and feathers lifting the both of you to Keigo who stood in the doorway.

"Its to a bright future."

“He likes the way her hands feel even if they're cold”

Dabi couldn't blame you for having cold hands, but he found it cute how you were so insecure about being cold all the time. He loved how you latched onto him rather than Keigo when the temperature began to drop. Maybe it was the fact that he was gone for so long that he didn't mind being clung to. But somehow he found himself in situations he wasn't sure how to handle.

“How long am I going to be in the middle for?” He mumbles under his breath as the two of you cling to him from underneath piles of blankets.

“Until winter is gone.” You state simply.

“It isn't winter yet.”

“Did she stutter?” Keigo grumbles from under the sheets.

Eventually he would grow tired of it, but for now he let the two of you do what you wanted. He was home after all.

“And when she’s away from him, she’s away from home”

After two years of dating you knew you could never return to being without your boys. They were yours.

You reach upward, feeling the familiar rough texture of Dabi's scars along his neck and under his eyes. You drag your your thumb softly under his eye, breathing in his scent. From behind you, you could feel Keigo's breath fanning across your neck.

It was a lazy day today. No one needed them, no one needed you, it was just you and them. How long would the peace last? How long until one of your boys were called away? How long until one of them lost a battle?

No, you wouldn't think of that. For now, it was just you and them.

And that was alright with you.

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 3 years ago

Note

gimmie baby!dean oh plzzzzzzzzz🥺

@deanwithscissors So, this got away from me a little. LOL! It was supposed to just be a couple hundred words - but 800+ words later, here we are! 😂

It was just a lot of fun to imagine. Thanks so much for the gorgeous gif of baby!dean. Enjoy! I'm gonna work on the other hot af gif you sent me, and I'll try to post it later tonight. 😘

WARNINGS: None, just some minor objectification of beautiful Dean and some dirty thoughts. 😉

It was my first day on the job. After nearly five months at the academy, I was officially no longer a cadet. I was Officer Lang out of the Southwest Patrol Division, Dallas Police Department.

He was my first ever stop. He had a broken taillight on the back of his beautiful 67 Chevy Impala. So, I turned on my siren and prepared to give my first ticket.

He pulled into the parking lot of the motel we were passing, parking the car and getting out. I was surprised, expecting him to just pull over to the side of the road and stay in the car. Why did my first traffic stop have to be weird?

I put my squad car in park and exited as he closed the Impala's door with a loud squeak and a bang. I had my hand at my side, relaxed but ready to reach for my gun should he pose a threat.

Then he faced me and smiled.

Oh holy, mother of God. He could have shot me dead in that moment because my mind ran blank except for the rushing of blood in my ears as I tried to process the absolute god standing in front of me.

He was tall. Over a foot taller than me. My short stature and small frame had been remarked on several times during my academy training, usually by guys who accompanied their remarks with snide snickers and eyerolls. But I didn't care, because inevitably, I ended up putting those douchebags flat on their ass when we sparred. They usually shut up after that.

But this man...phew! He could throw me around the room anytime he wanted. His shoulders were broad and thick, encased in an old brown leather coat. His legs were powerful looking, thick thigh muscles making me imagine incredibly indecent things I wanted to do while straddling them.

My gaze returned to that smile, bright white and dazzling. His lips were full and looked so soft I wanted to brush my fingers across them. His mouth was just sinful.

I should arrest him just for that illegally kissable mouth, I thought.

"Hi, Officer. What seems to be the problem?" He asked and, of course, his voice was smooth and velvety with just a hint of a Midwestern drawl.

I tried my hardest to reign in my thoughts and act like the professional I had just sworn to be, two weeks ago at my graduation.

"You have a broken taillight." I squeaked, my voice three octaves higher than normal. So much for reigning it in.

I cleared my throat and tried again. "You should have just pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and remained in your vehicle, sir. This is very unorthodox for a traffic stop." I cringed at the slightly shrill note to my voice, I sounded like a harpy librarian.

The man rubbed his chin, absent-mindedly running his tongue across his bottom lip. I felt my stomach flip and knew I was becoming very wet.

Jesus Christ, get a grip, Lang! The guy was literally just standing there.

"Sorry, Officer. I'm staying at this motel, so I just thought this might be easier. Safer for you too, you know. Standing at the side of the road can be dangerous with all the shitty drivers out there. Wouldn't want to see you get hurt."

He smiled again, but slower this time, sexier. He raked his glance up and down my uniformed body. "What a shame to damage something so beautiful.''

It was such a line. Not even a very good one. I should have been incensed by his arrogance and insolence toward an officer of the law.

But I just wasn't. I couldn't be offended when his words sent a flash of heat across my skin. I knew I was blushing, probably not ideal for projecting an air of authority.

His smile turned cheeky and I knew he could see his affect on me. "I'll be sure to have that taillight fixed as soon as possible, I promise, Officer...?" He trailed off, waiting for me to supply my name.

"Lang." I squeaked out. I sounded like a fucking teenage boy.

"Officer Lang. Hi. I'm Dean Hagar." He paused a moment. "Any chance you're off duty soon? Or have a break coming up? I'd really love to thank you for bringing the taillight to my attention. The coffee pot in my room actually makes great coffee."

He shrugged and gestured to one of the orange doors behind him.

That was the worst pretext a guy had ever come up with to get me into his bed. It worked.

"Actually, I was going on my lunch after I finished with you." I said, heat rising and panties dripping.

"Well then, come finish me off, sweetheart." He said, grinning again, this time it was lascivious and full of dirty promises.

I followed him with no qualms. He was the pied piper and I would have happily followed his long-limbed stride anywhere.

Maybe I'd get to use my handcuffs for the first time too. A girl could always hope.

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @foxyjwls007, @b3autyfuldisast3r, @myloversgone, @kazsrm67, @fangirlxwrites67, @kickingitwithkirk, @charred-angelwings, @akshi8278

I made this the other day as an ask, and then realized I forgot to tag my people's in it. So, if you've read it already sorry for the superfluous tag!

#dean winchester #dean x ofc #ask answered #deanwithscissors

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

Text

Misread Details, Part Two

CW: Described death of whumper, BBU, implications of pet whump, references to noncon, dehumanization, sadistic whumper

Part One: Nanda | Part Two: Brute | Part Three: Robert

The Unsolved Murder of Henry “Brute” Hanlon and the Box Boy Killer

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee

2 weeks ago

I’m back, r/LetsTalkTrueCrime! I really appreciated the questions and discussion under my last write-up, and a few of you really encouraged me to keep working to provide a part two to my Serial Killer Box Boy series, so here it is!

In Part One, we looked at the mysterious death of Nathaniel “Nanda” Benson, who died of cardiac arrest due to an undiagnosed heart defect (and likely head trauma played a part) and was found at the bottom of the stairs inside his California home. The only valuable possession missing from his property was his legally-purchased Box Boy, who fled the city wearing Nathaniel Benson’s shoes and using his money to buy a bus and then train ticket.

The last confirmed sighting of the runaway Box Boy (and Benson’s possible killer?) was in Red Hills, California, a large-ish city a couple hours south of Benson’s house by train.

Questions remain around Benson’s death: did he suffer cardiac arrest and fall down the stairs? Did the Box Boy push him, with the shock of the trauma and injury leading to the heart attack that killed him?

Is the Box Boy merely a witness to a tragic but natural death, or the prime murder suspect?

And most importantly: If he wasn’t guilty, why did he run?

Less than a full calendar year after Benson’s death, the question of where the Boxie went after Benson died was answered… but even that answer only opened up more questions, and the sudden death of a second man places even more uncertainty into the story of a Boxie who might simply be an innocent victim - or who could be a serial killer whose makes a victim out of those who give him shelter.

Which leads us to the story of Henry James Hanlon, known to nearly everyone - including his wife - as “Brute”.

Henry Hanlon was born in a small town in Texas, but moved to Red Hills, California after finishing a stint in the Air Force.

His parents, James Hanlon and Estella Hanlon, maiden name Brickers, had had their first child, Henry’s older brother William “Bill”, right out of high school, born six months after their wedding day. Henry came three years later, and his sister Roberta “Bobbie” one year after that.

Henry was a perfectly normal, cheerful little boy, always toddling after his older brother and trying to join in the games of the older kids in town. His parents recalled him as the quintessential “middle child”, always resolving disputes and quietly getting things done. He received his nickname of “Brute” in fifth grade, when a classroom bully was harassing a female friend of Henry’s and Henry decided to take action. The only information I could really hunt down on this was some old school records that I found on a message board, and I can’t really verify if they’re real, but they suggest that the bully was sent home injured and Henry received a three-day suspension.

After that, it seems, anyone and everyone - even teachers - called Henry Hanlon “Brute”, and he never seemed to mind.

He received perfectly average grades, enlisted in the Air Force, served without distinction but without any significant incidents, and afterwards he moved out to California, where he settled into Red Hills (then a city with a thriving industrial district that was slowly beginning its slide into something rougher) and took a job with a manufacturing company, working in their warehouse.

“Brute” dated around a bit, but it wasn’t until three years after his move that he met the woman he would marry, Ellen Patricia Barry. She was a few years younger than him, and they met at a local bar that both were known to frequent. One of Brute’s former coworkers told police that Brute was big into pool and poker, both of which he would engage in when he went to the bar, and that he met Ellen during one of the poker nights, and that Brute stated that how easily she beat him was one of the reasons he was interested in her romantically.

Ellen claims they first spoke while playing pool, not poker, and also claims she’s never played poker in her life. Why Brute would have told his coworkers a different story is unclear.

They dated for about a year before they wed at Grace Baptist Church on a sunny summer day in 20XX. Ellen’s father gave her away while Brute’s little sister was the maid of honor. A year later, Brute’s daughter Elizabeth was born, and a couple years after that, their son Daniel.

The Hanlons lived a charmed life - they owned a cute three-bedroom cottage home (bought and given to them by Ellen’s parents as a wedding gift) in a good part of town with a little white fence around the property and a yard big enough for the children and dog to play in. Ellen was part of the local PTA and active in her church, and Brute himself had the appearance of a man totally content with everything he had.

But Brute Hanlon had a secret.

Ellen continued to believe he was employed by the manufacturing company, but he actually left his employment there years before his death. Instead, he seems to have transitioned into making his money “under the table”. Ellen wouldn’t discover any of this until after his body was located… in a secret house he’d never told her about, in one of the roughest parts of Red Hills.

Without her knowledge, Brute purchased a two-bedroom home with cash directly from its previous owner that was badly in need of repair in the Pauls Mill neighborhood. Once a “company town” from the 1930’s - 1950’s that was absorbed into Red Hills as it grew in the 60’s, Pauls Mill today is the kind of neighborhood where everyone knows if you belong there, or don’t, and it’s best if you belong.

Brute performed a few very cursory repairs to keep it livable, laid down some new carpet, and then used it as a kind of secret base for the unsavory activities he didn’t want Ellen or the children to know about.

While his family believed he was at work at the factory, Hanlon was in fact hosting poker games, selling illicit narcotics and unlicensed firearms, and generally making quite a bit more money than he had with legal employment entirely under-the-table. He would spend his day making connections (and money) through these activities, then go home right at 5 pm sharp to his loving family, eat dinner at 6 pm, help his kids with their homework and hear about their day, and settle in for an evening playing the loving husband and doting dad.

Somewhere during this time period, Brute told Ellen he was setting up a “poker night” with his friends again, now that the kids were school-aged.

What he did instead was drive down to the corner of Holt and McCormick streets, known to all locals as the Red Hills “red light district”, and pick up prostitutes, usually simply meeting with them in his car, but occasionally taking them to a nearby motel.

After his body was found, police showed his picture around to a variety of the individuals who make their living at Holt and McCormick, and more than a dozen locals immediately recognized him.

Some described him as a regular customer who wasn’t particularly special or notable beyond the simple fact that he never tried to renege on payment and could be relied on to always be looking for someone on a particular night of the week… but others, almost entirely male, said he could be violent. A few described being injured enough that they had to seek medical treatment after meeting him. The same individuals stated that he insisted on using dehumanizing and insulting language to speak to them during these encounters, and that he was often unable to perform unless he did so.

One individual, who gave his name as “Mix”, mentioned that the last few times Brute had engaged his services, he had brought along a collar and insisted Mix pretend to be a Box Boy.

During this time period, Brute continued to be an active, involved, and loving parent.

He was home right on time every night except “poker night”, attended his chlidrens’ recitals and baseball games on the weekends. He often took them to the Red Hills Zoo, local parks, and even did a weekend trip to Berras to see the Berras Aquarium, stay overnight in a hotel as a family, and then visit a redwoods park before returning home.

Six months before his death, Brute’s visits to the red light district abruptly stopped. Instead, he apparently met with a local prostitute, engaged his services, and took him home… for good.

The best record we have is that one woman, Needie Brandt, remembered seeing Brute leading a shorter, angular young man to his car one night, and described the young man as “one of those runaway Boxies, collar and all. Poor thing was half-starved”.

Runaways, especially Romantics, are picked up by police from time to time in Red Hills. Most Romantics don’t really know any other way to survive, so prostitution is a common way to make ends meet. Needie said the young man had been seen around the area for a couple of weeks, right alongside the rest of the working people in the red light district, and that after this one night she saw Brute Hanlon lead him into the car, she didn’t see him again.

Asked if she remembered a name, Needie only shrugged and said that even if she did, it wouldn’t be a real one. Which is probably a good point.

Somewhere in here, Brute began to date outside of his marriage while his family believed he was out with friends playing poker. He took dancing lessons with one Susan Krieger, had a serious relationship with a Lucy Graham, and was apparently occasionally taking a Natalie Dorn out for dinner.

Ellen was never informed about these out-of-wedlock interests.

Brute’s family knew nothing. When his eldest son went to state with marching band his freshman year of high school, Brute Hanlon was right there cheering him on.

Then, just two days later, he presumably went right back to brutalizing the Box Boy he was keeping in his secret second home.

We don’t have a record of what exactly transpired within the house after Brute took the runaway Box Boy in. What we do know is what the police found later on.

On October 18th, 20XX, around midnight, Ellen Hanlon called police to report her husband missing after he did not return from his regular poker night. His car was located in the parking lot of an abandoned FoodMart, but a friend of Brute’s came forward to say he often parked there and carpooled with friends when going out.

None of Brute’s possessions were inside, and it didn’t appear the car had been touched by anyone but Brute himself when it was dusted for fingerprints or signs of DNA. Brute’s friends who knew about his secret activities weren’t telling, and Ellen and the children didn’t know anything about their seemingly loving husband and father’s double-life.

At first, the trail seemed like it would go cold, and investigators were frustrated that they had so little to go on.

Then, on October 29th, 20XX, Brute’s neighbor (who apparently asked that his name not be given) called the police department complaining about how the small two-bedroom house next door had begun to smell “like something died in there”, and that he hadn’t seen his neighbor leave or return in days, which was very unusual.

When police arrived, the front door was unlocked. Officer William Keys, the first one inside, later described the smell as “unmistakable. I knew exactly what we’d find the second we walked in that door.”

He was right.

What they found was the bloodied and decomposing body of Henry “Brute” Hanlon, lying on his back in the middle of a small unremarkable living room, on a dirty and stained carpet. He had been viciously stabbed more than fifty times. One even went so far into Brute that there was an exit wound through his back. Medical examiners would later state that at least seven of his wounds would have been directly fatal, but that he had died within the first few and most of the wounds were technically post-mortem.

The murder had been committed by someone who had a very personal reason for the killing. Investigators believe this individual was “absolutely enraged”.

Next to his body was the murder weapon, along with a set of buckles and strips of leather that mystified the officers. These were eventually identified as modified leg braces, but rather than straightening bent or injured legs, they forced the wearer to keep their legs at nearly right angles, which would ensure they had to crawl rather than walk. They appeared to be homemade.

Bloodied smears and footprints led the officers down a hallway and to the bathroom, where there was evidence someone had showered, changed clothes, and then left.

The same neighbor who informed police about the smell also remembered seeing, on October 16th or 17th (later determined that it was likely the 17th, the day that Brute did not return home from “work”), a young man wearing an oversized coat, sweatpants, and a too-large t-shirt walk out of Hanlon’s house and down the street. The young man was on the short side, the neighbor said, had an angular face, and a visible scar at the corner of his mouth and another along the side of his face. He had the collar of the coat flipped up, and the neighbor doesn’t recall if he wore a collar or not.

He had dark eyes, and short but shaggy dark hair that seemed to have been cut hurriedly and unevenly, and he waved at Hanlon’s neighbor without pausing or speaking as he walked past.

Tests on fingerprints and DNA located within Brute Hanlon’s secret second home would reveal that the Box Boy who once ran from Nathaniel Benson after his death was the exact same one who ran from Brute Hanlon after murdering him. The Boxie’s fingerprints were all over the murder weapon… and everywhere else, too.

Within Brute’s home, more knives were found, along with what looked like a badly-crafted homemade whip and some other supplies. A few of the things investigators found appeared to be essentially identical to what was found in Nathaniel Benson’s home. Other things were different (“animalization” was mentioned in some of the reports, but what I’ve been able to find is seriously vague for some reason).

Possibly related, a series of dog leashes purchased from a local pet-supply store were found throughout the home, but there was no evidence of an actual dog. In the home’s main bedroom was a perfectly normal queen-sized bed that was clearly Brute’s, with a small side table, a large dresser, and an attached bathroom.

There was absolutely nothing outwardly out of the ordinary, besides the room being very plain and impersonal. Makes sense, since Brute almost never slept there.

In the second bedroom, however, there was army-style cot with a thin blanket and sheet, three folded shirts on the floor, two sets of bloody metal handcuffs hanging off the cot’s frame at the top and bottom, and a bucket next to the bed. Two metal bowls, clearly of a style meant to be a dog’s food and water bowls, were next to the door. One still had water in it. The window was painted and nailed shut, and bars had been installed over the windows.

Investigators determined the bars were on the house when Brute Hanlon purchased it and had been installed by the previous owner. No reason for that installation was ever given.

Investigation revealed trace amounts of evidence of blood, but nothing much. However, the living room and dining area both showed poorly-cleaned bloodstains that were much older than Hanlon’s murder, including discolored patches on the walls.

A contract for a 24/7 “master/slave” style relationship was found in the top drawer of the dresser, signed ‘Pet’ at the bottom, and with Brute’s name alongside it. However, both signatures match Hanlon’s handwriting, and the Boxie is not believed to have actively signed it, as he would be illiterate at best. Plus, Box Boys are not legally allowed to enter into any contract, anyway, since they can’t understand obligations at that level, so even if he had signed it, it wouldn’t have been considered remotely valid.

I mean, not that those contracts are legal, but... you get my point.

Also located in that drawer were more than one hundred photographs showing the Boxie in a variety of compromising situations and positions. Several of these photos had Brute himself clearly visible in them, and a few had other individuals who have since been identified as Brute’s associates in his more illicit activities.

Interrogations of those associates led to more than seven further arrests for illegal gambling, the production and sale of illicit drugs, and illegal weapons sales. Those interrogations are also how we know about what Brute Hanlon was up to in-between Little League games and Girl Scout meetings.

Those associates claim that Brute kept a “secondhand Box Boy”, muzzled him so he couldn’t speak whenever guests were over, and that often ‘poker night’ simply turned into a game where the assorted guests and Brute himself repeatedly assaulted the Boxie. The associates claimed they thought the entire thing was consensual, but frankly… given the overwhelming evidence that the Boxie had to be kept restrained and was often seriously injured by these assaults... that’s doubtful.

Ellen and her children, who had previously been very visible and spoke often to local news stations about Henry’s disappearance, withdrew after his body was found and his second, secret life revealed - and have never given a single public statement or made a public appearance since.

Ellen moved her children out of Red Hills, moving back in with her own parents, briefly, in northern California. Where they went after that is unknown, but they appear to have left the state and Ellen may have changed her surname. Investigators are firm in their belief that Ellen knew nothing about her husband’s secret life.

I would give my right arm to know what his son and daughter think about it, and if they ever suspected what their devoted dad was up to when he wasn’t at home.

So, what happened to the Boxie after he left the house and disappeared down the block from the witness who saw him?

In short… no one knows for sure.

After murdering Brute Hanlon and cleaning off the evidence that must have been all over him, the Boxie simply fades away. He could have been anywhere, doing anything at all. There is a brief sighting of him on CCTV footage at the local bus station, where he is in line to buy a ticket… and then abruptly looks up, apparently noticing the camera and looking directly into it, then turns and walks quickly away.

The footage is grainy, but the Boxie does appear to be wearing his collar.

He isn’t seen in Red Hills again.

Instead, he reappears one more time before his final murder and disappearance… more than a year later, in a little town right along the border with Nevada.

Part 3 will go into how the investigation into the death of a quiet little oddball named Robert Weber reveals a basement full of skeletal bodies. But our Boxie isn’t the cause.

Instead, Robert Weber’s murder solves a series of related murders police had been stymied by for more than a decade, and a Box Boy who may have been meant to be Weber’s next victim instead turned accidental vigilante with a final killing of his own.

Or maybe I should say, his final killing so far.

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary

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perriewinklenerdie · 4 years ago

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Follow my steps (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 3,8 k

Summary: OH3 Chapter 12/13 added content. Claire gets fed up with the way Ethan’s been treating her lately. She gives him one last chance to make things right, at Boston Opera House - for old time’s sake.

Warnings: It’s angst time.

A/N: I don’t even know what’s going on lately. I wanted angst and here it is. My girl C really is running thin on her patience for her man’s bullshit (and so am I).

Are you okay? was the first message he received from her that day. He left shortly after he revealed his departure from the team, so her concern really should be no surprise. Still, he sighed deeply, silenced his phone and turned it screen side down, then went back to cooking, unsure what his answer would be.

Minutes dragged by, yet somehow turned into hours and before he knew it, the sun was racing towards the horizon. Almost completely consumed by it. He reached for his phone, planning on heading to his living room and rest his mind after he spent what felt like ages of grueling research into his options. His face twisted into a frown at the sight of his screen. Immediately after, blood drained from his face.

Ethan, please let me know you’re in one piece.

A simple ‘I’m fine’ would be enough. Seriously, I’m getting worried.

He battled with his brain, still uncertain what to tell her. She had enough on her plate with the team and the Boards, she didn’t need his problems to be added onto the already enormous pile. He replied with the only thing he could think of in that moment, resenting himself for letting her worry about him for so long.

I’m okay.

By the time he sat down on the couch and some ridiculous show was playing in the background – Claire was the one that introduced him to it, and he would never admit it, but he enjoyed their debates about it – a new message was waiting for him.

Oh, thank god.

Followed shortly after by a longer one, contents of which made him feel a pit opening in his stomach.

So, want to share with class why you went radio silent for the whole day, instead of, I don’t know, letting your girlfriend know that you’re not dead so she could worry a bit less?

He had no answer to that. How was he supposed to tell her that he was terrified of what was to come and that it could possibly be fatal for him? How was he supposed to say that he didn’t want her to be even associated with the case, because he cared about her too much to risk her getting affected by it too?

In the end, he didn’t reply. And she didn’t say anything else. An impasse, of his own doing, that he had no idea how to end. He knew he had to do something – she was a very patient woman, much more patient than him, but even she had her limits. And this? This wasn’t the first time he’s pushed her away in a similar manner.

Although he was aware of that, he still refused to call her. It was getting late, she was probably studying or getting ready for bed. She needed her rest, the next week was incredibly important for her future as a doctor.

That’s what he told himself for the next two days. Every time he felt a tingle in his hand to contact her, he reminded himself of her commitments and pushed the thought down. Despite that, every single time his phone made even the smallest sound, he threw himself towards it, hoping that it was her.

It wasn’t. Two days of no contact between them.

Realizing how long it’s been made him think of their conversation a few months back. They were sitting in the exact same place he currently occupied, close to each other. His hand holding hers with certainty.

They promised each other no more secrets. No more pushing each other away. And honest conversation. All of which were his ideas. He whispered all of them with deep sense of urgency, in a fever-like state that surprised her. She nodded her head eagerly, muttering words of affirmation, then let him pull her onto him, their lips meeting again and again in a soft reassurance.

He’s broken the rules he wanted them so much to have. And not even once. No wonder she didn’t try to get in touch with him – he’s given her every indication that he didn’t want to talk about it, and she pushed only until a certain point was reached.

“I can take a hint, you know.” She once joked, poking his ribs when they walked out of the patient’s room, their initial consult being far from ideal. He smiled sadly at the memory, his chest aching from her absence.

As though he called her with his thoughts, his phone announced an incoming message. He planned what he would say, what he would do once he saw her – and what he would not do in the future. He hated when they didn’t talk to each other, and he hated the thought of losing her even more.

Instead of her words, like he expected, the screen greeted him with a single picture she sent him. Two tickets, for an evening show at Boston Opera House. A clear invitation, an olive branch that she should not have been pushed to extend – she didn’t do anything wrong. He looked closer at the photo, zooming in on the time the show was supposed to start.

Two hours. He had two hours to get himself together. Two hours until he’d see her again.

Heart pounding, he jumped up from his seat and began preparations, dialing another phone number and giving clear instructions to the person on the receiving end of the call.

He doesn’t think there’s ever been a time he was this nervous when stepping into the Opera building. And it was a different kind of nervous, a kind he never wanted to experience again. He was used to the anticipation that came with every date they ever had, the good kind of nervousness that stemmed from his inability to wait until he saw her. This, however, was torture in its purest form, and he admitted to himself with a pang of guilt that he subjected himself to it on his own.

His hands were full. Full of flowers that the florist somehow managed to put together when he called frantically two hours ago – he left a hefty tip with a grateful nod. His fingers traced the stems of the white roses, shaking nervously. From time to time, he tugged on the collar of his shirt, restlessly, the uncertainty of what was to come making his breathing labored.

“Nice tux.” She called out, waiting patiently for him to face her. It didn’t take long – her voice made him turn around haphazardly, his eyes drinking in her face and then widening when he noticed the dress she was wearing. Suddenly, he couldn’t see anything else but the way the fabric hugged her in the classiest way.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he breathed out, his brain short circuiting. Her lips curled in a subtle smile. She touched the pearl necklace he once gave her in wonder.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Ethan took a step towards her, extending the bouquet slightly with an uneasy look. Her eyes fell towards the flowers and, for a moment, he thought he could see her gaze softening. She took the roses from him, the scent reaching her in waves.

“Thank you.” she muttered without looking up at him. Despite her being just mere centimeters away from him, he could still feel the chasm between them – and he felt like the space was suffocating him.

“It’s not nearly enough.” He tried again. Claire hummed, not disagreeing with his words. She reached into her purse, taking two tickets out and handing him one of them. He accepted it gratefully, combing his mind for something that would start a conversation between them. The silence was killing him.

He looked closer at the ticket and noticed something was off. “You didn’t book our booth?”

The corners of her lips shot up slightly at ‘our’. “No, I got us seats in the booth on the other side. I needed…” she hesitated, avoiding his searching gaze. “A change of perspective.”

His mouth opened and closed. She rarely said anything without thinking it through, so the choice of words she used made him feel unease all over again. Claire finally looked up at him, giving him a teasing smirk.

“Before you say anything, I didn’t go bankrupt because of those.” She nodded towards the tickets in their hands. “I have more than enough money to spend on things I want.”

“That resident salary is treating you that well, huh?” he tried joking and it worked. She gave him a laugh, shaking her head.

“A resident that’s also on the Diagnostic Team. And you’re clearly forgetting what my family does for a living.”

“Did you just flex your family muscle on me?” Ethan grinned, taking another step towards her. She nodded, challenging him with her stare. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“That’s your job tonight, babe.” Claire shot back, walking around him swiftly. He froze in place, turning towards her like a sunflower towards the sun – always following where she went. Her hips swayed from side to side alluringly as she walked, and he couldn’t look away. Suddenly, she stopped to look over her shoulder, smirking at the look he was giving her. “Are you coming or not?”

The lights from the stage illuminated her face just enough for him to see her features. Since they sat down and the show has started, he’s spent a total of maybe five minutes watching what was happening on stage. Remaining time was occupied by her, on the forefront of his mind and right before his eyes. Her cheeks were reddened slightly – something he noticed when a particularly bright light shone on her face.

They’ve done it countless of times before. Dates. He never got used to nerves that accompanied them, and he hoped he never would. It was a part of the allure that made it all the more exciting. Claire’s always made him feel nervous, since the first day he’s met her. Three years later, he still felt the same spark that ran through him when he first touched her hand.

He turned to her again, unable to ignore the pang that hit him every time he saw her stopping herself from reaching for him. She may have been the one that organized their evening, giving him a chance to make things right between them, but it didn’t mean she was going to ignore what was obviously there.

She’d never make him talk if he wasn’t ready to do so. Their relationship was built on mutual respect. They recognized when the other needed to talk and when they needed some time to gather their thoughts. Through the time they’ve known each other, they learned to find those cues and signs.

That’s how Claire knew that Ethan wasn’t really ready to tell her what exactly happened, hence why she stuck to texts instead of calls or visits. His lack of any contact, however, hurt her – more so when his previous behaviors similar to this were taken into consideration.

In light of this, her hesitation to initiate any sort of contact between them made perfect sense. All he had to do was let her know that he was okay, however relative it was to say in his current situation, and none of this would be happening. All he had to do was let her in, even if only a little – she’s never asked for anything more. And yet, he couldn’t even give her that, not immediately at least.

It became clear to him that he needed to let her know how much he trusts her. When she said she knew him. When she said she understood him – better than anyone, he added with a grin. When she said she’s falling for him. He trusted all of those words, but his actions didn’t support it. He could see it in her eyes when their gazes crossed earlier that evening. She thought he still sheltered himself from her, and him disappearing, again, was the proof that spoke the loudest.

Slowly, he reached for her hand. A soft brush of his finger against hers, testing the waters to see if she would flinch, if she would push him away or avoid him. When she did none of those things, he carefully covered her hand with his, only to, after a moment, lace their fingers together. Ethan gave her a squeeze, unable to bring himself to look away from the way their hands fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle. She squeezed his hand lightly, still refusing to look him in the eye.

Music swelled around them, tugging on their emotions until it was difficult to breathe. He noticed how her face twisted gently, revealing more of her feelings to him than he’s seen the entire evening. The characters on the stage have separated, each singing their hearts out about the feeling of loss – Claire couldn’t have known that, but the pain in their voices was enough to bring her to the edge of tears by the time the break in the show began.

Before Ethan could say anything, she excused herself breathlessly and walked out of the booth, leaving him alone to his thoughts. And he’s been alone with them for quite some time now.

He began reflecting on the first time he took her to see an opera. The similarity of the situation was striking – he suddenly knew why she suggested this out of every place they could go to. Her thoughtfulness really shouldn’t surprise him, yet he was always amazed with how well she knew what needed to be done. Oftentimes, she neglected her own needs to accommodate others, which left not much space for her in it all. That’s what became one of Ethan’s priorities early on in their relationship – make sure she remembered about herself.

She was taking care of him too, sometimes even unknowingly. Making him take breaks in the middle of the day. Bringing him coffee when he was stuck in meetings and couldn’t walk out of the room for even a second – the whole Board by now knew about their relationship from their first-hand observations, sending him meaningful looks when she left the room.

One thing that spoke more of her feelings for him than anything else was how she persistently stayed by his side through it all. His world was quite literally falling apart, and she was the one holding it in place. She told him that she knew how it felt to risk losing something you’ve worked for, how it felt to come so close to having everything slip away and that she was going to help him in any way she could.

Claire told him all of that when he broke the protocol – yet here they were again. If there was one person between the two of them that had a pattern of behavior, it was him – running away when things got too complicated. Or, as it stood right now, when he didn’t want her to get impacted by his problems. She’s told him that she wants to be impacted, that she wants to help him, because she cares about him. She’s by his side because she cares about him. And he told her he knew and understood her concern, but clearly, he didn’t register it enough, if he was in the exact same position right now. It’s as though he hasn’t learned a thing.

Perhaps she was getting tired of it. If he continued to act the way he’s been acting up until this point, she’d surely be pushed enough to leave him – and he couldn’t imagine a fate worse than that for himself.

It was the last time I let myself run, he thought to himself, cursing for even allowing it to get to this point. Where was his brain when he even considered it a viable option? In what universe would that behavior be okay? Her resolve and persistence became even more striking to him – he knew that he most likely didn’t deserve her.

She was still here, though, so he must have done something right. But one good deed wasn’t enough to make up for letting her down, time and time again. Ethan didn’t need her to tell him that what he was doing was unacceptable – he’s realized it on his own.

It’s never happening again.

Claire walked back into the booth, leaning against the wall to watch him. He was perfectly aware of what she could see in his posture. His nervousness in the way he played with the edge of his jacket. She’s been gone a moment too long and he was a second away from standing up from his seat to go after her.

Ethan turned around at the sound of her steps, refraining from saying anything until she was seated. His hand itched to reach for her, to feel her skin again. He got the permission to do just that, when their gazes finally crossed and she nodded gently. Letting out a shaky sigh of relief, he laced their fingers together, feeling the soft fabric of her dress under his skin.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, raising their joined hands to kiss her wrist. Claire guided the movement, pressing her palm to his cheek. The gesture ensured their eyes didn’t stray from one another and allowed them a moment of clarity.

“Aren’t you tired of running?” her words were laced with emotions so much, it felt like a mental blow to both of them. It was a simple question that he already knew the answer to. Nothing was more obvious to him.

“I am.”

She held his gaze, silent for a moment, then placed her second hand on his shoulder. “Don’t do it again.” she whispered, a hint of a tear shining in her eyes. “We’ve talked about it before, Ethan. I’m tired of going in circles with you.”

“I know.” He brushed the tear away, bringing her closer to rest his forehead against hers. “You don’t deserve this.”

“No, I don’t.” Claire agreed, nodding her head. She leaned away, lowering their hands and resting them in her lap. “You can tell me anything, in your own time. I’m the last person to judge, because I know that some things need that time. But I would never cut you out the way you just did, especially if I knew that you were worried.”

Ethan lowered his head in shame, finding no words to defend his dense behavior. He knew she was right – his behavior left a lot to be desired. Claire continued.

“It tells me that you don’t view me as your equal. You don’t trust me enough to confide in me. Every time something happens, it’s always the same story.” She sighed, falling deeper into her seat. Her hand was still in his, allowing him that form of contact. “I need transparency here, Ethan. We have rules, that you came up with, that you break every time things get tough.”

He winced at the vulnerable edge in her voice. More than ever before, he felt as though the ground was about to be pulled from beneath him.

“You can’t be in a relationship only a little. Or only on weekends. You’re either in it for good, and you take everything that comes with it, the easy and the difficult, or there’s nothing left to say.”

And there it was.

Ethan’s eyes widened. A hand wrapped around his heart and squeezed, making him feel lightheaded. If he ever had gotten a wake-up call before, this one was the loudest one. And the most devastating.

“Claire, wait.” He said, his voice strained when she tried to pull her hand out of his hold. She glanced at their hands, then up at him, her eyes glassy. Ethan breathed out heavily, pleading with his whole being for her to stay where she was. “You’re right. I haven’t been fair towards you.”

“That’s saying it mildly.”

“I know I don’t say it enough, but you’re my person. I trust you more than anyone else, even if I’m utterly useless at expressing it.” He gave her fingers a tender squeeze, his eyes finding hers urgently. “I’m an asshole for making you worry, and an even bigger one for keeping you in the dark. You deserve better, and lately, I’ve been messing up.”

“Can’t say I disagree.” She mused, tilting her head slightly. “Is there a reason for that?”

“I don’t know.” Ethan’s thumb traced her ring finger “It’s as though there is this outside force that’s making me do all those idiotic things, and before I realize what’s going on, everything’s already going to hell.”

“Sounds like you need to work on your impulse control.” Claire said, a tiny grin appearing on her face.

“You’re my impulse control.”

He cupped her cheek with his free hand, stroking the line of her cheekbone softly. She leaned in, just a fraction of a centimeter. Her gaze was a mix of feelings Ethan couldn’t describe – it made him feel a bit more at ease and at the edge of his seat, all at the same time.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” He muttered, voice low and thick, overcame with emotions. Claire nodded her head, a sigh filling the space between them. Her eyes, even though they were growing softer just a moment ago, were now hardened and serious.

“Don’t ever do that to me, ever again.”

“Of course. I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She cleared her throat, straightening her posture. “If you don’t start treating me like your equal here, I will leave you. There’s only so much I can take, Ethan, and I draw the line at this.” Ethan’s entire body froze at a very real perspective of her walking away. The feeling of ground disappearing from beneath him came back, twice as strong. He shook his head, words rushing through his head. “And that would suck, because I don’t want to leave you.”

“I can’t lose you, Claire.”

“Then don’t lose me. Don’t push me away.” She breathed out, at last, squeezing his hand tightly. The atmosphere between them was heavy and it became difficult to breathe. Ethan knew they were not out of the woods, but he felt a bit less nervous when she cracked a smile. “Do I need to tie you down so you’d stop running?”

“You already did.” he mused, waiting for her permission, then leaning in to kissing her cheek softly.

They missed the second part of the show. He leaned close to rest his chin on her shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist to keep her by his side – she wrapped her hand around his forearm in return. Voice low and quiet, he finally began telling her everything, sparing nothing. Once the show ends, he’ll follow her lead – after all, he’s never gotten lost with her by his side.

Notes

Am I above dissing PB in a fic, of all places? Hell no, I’m not.

Opera because C is clever like that - and we love throwbacks to better times.

PB is making Ethan act like an angsty teen. And don’t get me started on the ‘prying’ bit. Ma’am, it’s not prying, it’s called caring about your husband boyfriend because something is clearly going on and it seems as though he’s covering someone else’s ass and taking a fall for it. It’s called *concern*.

Thank you for reading! <3

Tagging separately

#ethan ramsey #open heart #playchoices #ethan x mc

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nincompoopydoo · 4 years ago

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PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— US AGAINST THE WORLD ; PART 4 / ?

( credits to @animusrox for this gif )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2247 hot diggy dog

SUMMARY: You have a heart-to-heart conversation with one of your students before the play and you're hit with the realization that your love for Bruce may be more than meets the eye. hence, you’re starting to wonder if it was a mistake you can never fix.

A/N: This one’s long and kinda depressing. I’m in an angsty mood now whoops. Nevertheless, thank you for reading this series, the bagels will make its appearance and enjoy this one folks.

WARNINGS: Anxiety, depressing thoughts.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

The night of the show arrived quicker than you anticipated. The flurry of theatre kids rushing about backstage is quite the sight, feeling the incredible sense of pride of a mother for her children. Yet in prayer, you ask Mrs. Wilson for the gift of strength and ability to manage a bunch of highly-strung teenagers. It’s only Shakespeare after all but you knew that wasn’t the genuine nature behind their stage jitters. With all tickets sold out within a week, it has easily become the biggest event of the year aside from homecoming. It may be a little pretentious for a high school production of an over-performed Shakspeare play to emerge as the highlight of the year, but you know it will help with some of the students’ portfolios for acting school.

The clock ticks—thirty minutes before showtime and panic starts to creep.

Your fingertips dance along the selvage of the extensive drapery of the stage as lighting queues are being run through for the last time. The urge of curiosity lets you crack open the curtain as you peeked at the rest of the theatre. The bustling crowd made up of mostly teenagers with seats rapidly being filled, it’s certainly a sight for sore eyes. Amongst the settling audience, you spot Bruce, seated between Mr. Walken, the principal, and Mr. Huckleberry, the vice-principal, likely being shamelessly asked for donations. He looks engaged, but his posture and the gaze of his eyes tell a very different story—Bruce is barely listening to a word they’re saying.

He then turns in the direction of your hiding spot and despite the distance, he catches your eye, immediately recognizing it’s you spying from behind the curtains. You watch the curve of his lips turn up into more of a smirk, swiftly sending a wink your way. You instantly disappear behind the curtains, cheeks burning.

You sometimes find it hard to believe you’re sleeping with the man with no strings attached because you’re incredibly attracted to him.

Someday, you’ll burst out into an exaggerated love confession, and you know it’s going to be ugly. It’s a reality check and right now, it’s the last thing you want. Running away from your problems is more of a habit than a choice as you would rather live in the world your mind has created, where miracles are made and defects cease to exist. Anyone would trade the cruelties of reality for a perfect one yet getting too caught up in a daydream will eventually evolve into toxicity. Bruce orbits the very core of your problems and daydreams. You want to run away from him and allow yourself to be engulfed by his presence at the same time.

You just need...to breathe. Hence, the second dressing room has a weird stench to it. It’s a mess but it’s empty. Yet, it seems you aren’t the only one in need of space, away from everyone else. Shaniqua is seated at the far corner of the room on a crooked metal chair, dressed in a somewhat modernized version of an Elizabethan era dress. Very elaborate and theatrical. Despite her introverted character, she was constantly bright-eyed and keen during your classes. She had a drive like no other. Hell, she miraculously memorized all her lines in two days.

You’ve never seen a furrow of the girl’s brows, until now, and it worries you. Even her glitter-covered eyes could not conceal the dismay they portray with prominence. Gingerly, you made your way to her as she stared at her fidgeting hands. It was only when you settled on the opposite dusty old chair when she finally noticed your presence.

“Stage fright, huh?” you casually asked, resting your arm on the dressing table. She mirrors your posture, heaving a deep sigh, and shakes her head. “No, it’s just,” A pause, her gaze finds yours. You nod, flashing her a smile. It’s a simple gesture that you’re here to listen. “It’s about Oscar...” You catch a hint of a smile as she trailed off and in an instant, your brow raises with curiosity. Oh? Another beat of silence, her eyes dart around the room. You sit quietly with patience because you knew she had more to say.

“It’s just that doing this play has got me thinking a lot about my feelings. I mean, if Romeo and Juliet could be lovers, despite their feuding families, then it must be easy enough for me to admit that I like Oscar.”

“You have a point.” You chuckle, eyes crinkling with amusement. Sometimes she thinks too much for her own good. She reminds you of Bruce. Shaniqua flashes you a faint smile, lips pressed with doubt. “But why am I finding it so hard to just tell him that?”

You stayed silent for a moment or two, mind deep in thought. The chair creaks as you shift in your seat. “Well, could it be that you aren’t sure if he likes you back?”

A hum in response, shrugging coyly as she mumbled a ‘maybe’. Although it was clear as day to you that Oscar liked her back, you wondered if her doubts emerged due to their differences in character. The familiarity of the situation is beginning to feel a lot like deja vu.

“How do you know that someone is the one?” Her sudden question catches you off guard because, in all honesty, you aren’t confident if you knew the answer. A straightforward question, commonly seen in the pages of teenage magazines, written for innocent eyes. You knew its true nature and it terrifies you. The image of Bruce charges through your thoughts like rushing water, memories of times when the two of you were younger clouding your mind. You forcefully push back your university days, buried back deep into your conscience.

“I don’t exactly know the answer to that but in my opinion, it’s—it’s the feeling of completeness when you love them and know they love you. They may be different from you, but it doesn’t make you love them any less. There’s no conflict or strife; it’s just the two of you against the world.”

Those words were raw and genuine, carefully crafted directly from the heart. You weren’t surprised by your words because you’ve thought about it a lot, especially on nights you slept on Bruce’s bed. Maybe, you do love him, and that's a huge ass problem. It’s amazing how unexpected situations tend to encourage apprehension on large issues you never knew existed in the first place. Perhaps it was your astonishing lack of discernment when it came to matters that could potentially alter your life.

Tonight, a sixteen-year-old girl did just that.

Amid your growing anxiety, you manage to catch sight of the wall clock, hung on the other side of the room. It’s now eight minutes until showtime. Your eyes are now wide as you sprung up from your seat in the sudden realization that everyone should be at their respective positions two minutes ago. “Oh God, we’re running late. Shaniqua, word of advice—don’t end up regretting something you didn’t do,” You shoot her a pointed look, index finger stretching towards her. “Now, you really need to go, or we’ll have to delay and you know Mr. Walken hates waiting.”

It’s a quarter to nine, and the theatre is empty. Outside, the foyer and the hallways are buzzing with the remaining audience, lingering and sharing inane conversations as others wait for a car to take them home. You had only just finished rearranging the costumes in the wardrobe of the dressing room. You tried to sweep the scatter of glitter all over the floor but it deemed a task as impossible; you’ll deal with it next week.

You’re sitting in the seat at the front row, nearest to the aisle with a large box filled with props on your lap. Alone in transcendental silence, feeling as empty as the theatre itself. It was partly the conversation you had with Shaniqua that hit you with the reminder of all the mistakes you made that have led you to this unchanging world of a blur that takes the blame for the wretched feeling in your chest. Yet, as the show progressed, hearing the words of affection from two lovers had sent your mind reeling. You were desperate to head home, crawl into bed and potentially cry yourself to sleep but the growing anxiety forbids it, you don’t even think you could drive home.

So, you stillness of the theatre reminds you of Edward Hopper’s painting, Solitary Figure in a Theater. With eyes shut, you pretend you are the figure in the painting, sheathed in black, sitting alone in the cavernous dark.

You hear the door of the theatre squeak, swinging open followed by the shuffling of feet. You don’t look at first, too tired anyway. You’d assume someone had either forgotten something or it was the janitor that you’re sure is going to be upset over the glitter massacre in the dressing room. It looked like a crime scene, except it was the murder of a literal unicorn. You made a mental note to send an apology sandwich of some sorts next week.

It was the familiarity in the whiff of cologne that made you snap your eyes wide open, looking over your shoulder to meet with the sight of Bruce, ambling down the aisle towards you. He smiles, and you mirror him, shifting in your seat and nearly toppling the box to the ground. “What are you still doing here?” He smiles, and you mirror him, shifting in your seat and nearly toppling the box to the ground. “I could ask you the same question.” He settles in the seat next to you, elbow brushing against yours. Your head tilts, gesturing to the box. Bruce merely hums and nods thoughtfully.

“So, how was the play? Does it get a Wayne seal of approval?” There’s a hint of teasing in the curve of your lips as his eyes drift to the stage. “I liked it. The kids have talent.” Your eyes glint with amusement, your smile growing wider. “I never knew you were a fan of romance.” His laugh comes out more like a huff of air, crinkled eyes meeting yours, and nudges you lightly. “Well, now you know.”

He recognizes the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes and the way you’re fussing with the edges of the box on your lap. Something is bothering you and he knows it. He nudges you once more. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You blink once. Then twice, face wincing instinctively. You keep forgetting how well Bruce can read people, especially you. You exhale slowly as he watches you struggle to pick the right words.

“It’s really nothing. It’s just-” you say after a long minute, cutting yourself short. Then, you turn to Bruce. “I’m growing older, and I’ve spent my entire life in a fog with so much fear for reality, I’m afraid it’s too late to fix all my mistakes and regrets.” Your voice dwindles with every word that escaped your lips. You were young, naïve with the notion that time was extensive to make decisions without thinking it through. To know that you could never take back the things you did. Saturn’s rising, it’s a wake-up call now that you’re older and the fear that you would never change creeps onto you with every passing birthday.

Bruce defines the epitome of the sinking feeling in your chest whenever you lay in bed at night and let your mind reel about your existence. Yet, it isn’t as simple as you want it to be. The boy you met at university has grown into a far more complex and entangled mess of the grief of his parents, the responsibility he held over this city and the drive to just...keep moving on. For the longest time, it was him against the world, and a part of you wants to believe that it doesn’t have to be that way. That maybe, you could be enough for him.

He glanced away from you, trying to hide the despondency in his eyes. He holds back a sigh as he speaks, “Do you regret us doing this?” As vague as his question is, you know what he exactly means. He remembers the time the two of you used to exchange senseless conversations and laughter so vividly that it scares him. Juvenile friends, lacking the knowledge to know what love really was. Hence, the agreement—it was just two friends, messing around. Nothing could go wrong. Now, the hole has been dug in too deep, with no way of getting out.

“I don’t,” you reply and with just two simple words, his chest feels like fire. It was the way you had said it, with so much confidence and assurance, despite the intricacy of this relationship. For the first time in a long time, you were extremely sure about an answer. You could never regret Bruce. Never.

It’s almost hesitant in the way his hand finds yours, but it represents his care for you, even if you may not know it. The warmth of his hand feels like fire. Hell, your chest feels like it’s on fire, heart burning for the man beside you. “I’ll drive you home,” he whispers with a squeeze of your hand. You flash him a grateful smile as the two of you drift into a comfortable silence. Silence so eloquent that you don’t feel so empty anymore. No longer a solitary figure trapped in a painting but now two, hand in hand, against the world.

TAGLIST

@raineeace

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #batman #batman x reader #justice league #batman imagine #bruce wayne imagine #pining bagels repeat

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omg-imagine · 4 years ago

Text

Forget Me Not (Part 12/15)

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: Angst, language

A/N: Kinda nervous posting again since it’s been a while, but we’re winding down to the end of this story with only three more parts to go (2 chapters + an epilogue). As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoy!

Part 11

Home.

You are home. It’s supposed to be home.

But it wasn’t. To you, it couldn’t be.

This place feels too far from home, too foreign. You had no memories of it, no recollection of the safety and security it offers. Not even the faintest remembrance of the laughter, smiles, and tears; the fondness and the sadness these four walls have witnessed over the years.

You can’t call it home. You don’t know where home is, and you’re not sure you have one anymore.

Not after leaving him behind.

It’s cold and dark when you first wake, sleep weighing heavily in your eyes. A pair of curtains block out the sun from filtering into the room, leaving you to wonder if you had slept through half the day. With a yawn, you stretch, the bed underneath creaking as your body fully rouses from yet another night of fitful slumber. Almost a month back in New York, and it doesn’t make sense to keep blaming your lack of energy on the time difference.

The ache is still ever-present. The pain caused by the void in your heart remains, sharply throbbing in your chest with its refusal to go away. Two heartbreaks, two betrayals, occurring five years apart, but it feels as though not much time has passed in-between.

It hurts to ponder about it, that evening when your seemingly perfect little world came crashing down. Hiding behind rose-tinted glasses, you were unknowingly tricked, fully caught up in a well-crafted illusion. His illusion. Love has blinded you to the sad reality, and in the end, it left you a shattered mess, a hollow shell of your former self.

You doubt you’ll ever be whole again.

Forcing yourself out from under the covers, you reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time before scrolling through your notifications. Nothing was of interest to you, fortunately; you didn’t have the energy to respond to those you suddenly abandoned. Friends who cared about you but realized you were never close to them. Not in the way it used to be.

As you skimmed over the new texts and emails, you then came across his now unsaved number. The moment you stepped on the plane, you deleted his contact from your phone and blocked him. Yet the last messages he sent to you were still there and haven’t been read since, though you already knew what they could entail—

I’m sorry.

It was never my intention to hurt you.

Please give me another chance.

Let me fix this.

Just come back, Y/N. Come back home.

Home. There was that damn word again. You were beginning to loathe it, even more so knowing that whenever you think of home, you wind up thinking of him.

The last time you saw him was the morning after the storm. Booking a one-way ticket back to the east coast, you then spent the early hours packing as many clothes that would fit in a single suitcase. Tears had long since dried up, having none left as you headed down the stairs, ignoring the look he gave you from afar.

He was dressed in the outfit he had on the night prior; his hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and it was quite obvious he endured no sleep. Your resolve nearly crumbles as your gazes connect, bodies close enough that he could reach out the slightest bit, and he’d be holding your hand in the palm of his.

Fighting the urge, you didn’t cave in. You couldn’t allow yourself to fall for it—for him.

No, never again.

As expected, he followed you out of the house, remaining quiet as he watched the cab driver load your luggage in the trunk. You paid him no attention when he approached the vehicle once you climbed in, wanting nothing more than to escape this nightmare. With nowhere else to go and no one to turn to, you decided it was best to leave California, not that you belonged there anyway.

It played out like a scene from a movie—the taxi pulling out of the driveway slowly as the raindrops started to fall. Hearing him call out your name, his voice cracking with each syllable, made you hesitate for a beat. Perhaps you could forgive him, you had thought in that split-second. Forgive and forget; let what happened in the past stay in the past.

But even if you did, the pain’s still there, and it was overpowering. This pain resulting from his deception had been too consuming, too unbearable to move on.

You told the driver to hurry as you couldn’t afford to miss your flight.

The atmosphere in the car was fraught with grim silence. As the house sequestered in the hills vanishes in the rearview mirror, you knew you were running away from it all. You couldn’t stand being here in LA, where every turn, every corner, and every street reminds you of a life that wasn’t truly yours.

As idyllic it once was, you wanted no part of it anymore. Instead, you sought for familiarity, the life you used to have, the one you could only remember.

What you thought was your real home.

Unable to hold it in any longer, you had broken down in the backseat, never feeling more alone than you did at that moment.

You wish you could forget, but it’s not that easy. It’s never easy. Memories of him linger in your mind, still tragically fresh as they haunt you day in and day out. Closing your eyes, you could see him wearing this smile that used to make your stomach flutter. You came to love his smile the same way you had loved him wholly.

Now? Seeing it was a stab to the heart—a reminder of how he took advantage of your condition, your vulnerability. Of every lie you were fed. That smile, the one you previously hoped to wake up to for the rest of your life, had been an act, a facade.

Everything had been a facade.

A sudden knock on the door startles you, and you clicked off the phone screen before announcing to whoever that they could come in. Your mother Nancy enters soon after, her face displaying concern when she realizes you had just woken up. She’s silent as she walks towards the window and then pushes the curtains aside, the sunlight outside immediately washing over the room.

Briefly, you squint to adjust to the brightness, a confirmation that it was past noon already—another wasted day.

“Hey, darling,” she speaks softly as she moves to sit on the mattress beside you. “How are you doing?”

There’s no point in lying, but as much as you greatly appreciated her caringness, you didn’t want to burden her with your problems. They were yours to deal with and yours alone.

“Better.” And that, you were. Just a week ago, you finally stopped crying yourself to sleep. “I might even go out tomorrow and look for a job. Can’t keep freeloading under your roof, right?”

You release a half-chuckle, a small attempt to lighten up the mood. It was comforting when your mother cracks a smile in response.

“Oh, hush. You’re always welcome to stay as long as you need to,” she assures, a loving warmth radiating from her tone.

Lips pressing together, you sense that she has another thing to address. “What’s wrong?”

Nancy pauses to take a breath, shoulders rising and falling. For some reason, you’re on edge, finding yourself bracing for what was to come.

“Have you spoken to Keanu lately?”

Upon hearing his name, you swallowed away the lump in your throat. After telling your parents what had transpired, it stirred up various emotions—mainly anger from your father, sorrow from your mom. Their hearts sank as you recounted the story, tears blurring your eyes that you couldn’t see their faces. It was a good thing, however; you probably wouldn’t have reached the end.

Since then, they’ve refrained from speaking of him and to him. He’s called the house on a few occasions but could never get past the automated answering machine. Pictures of the two of you hanging on the walls were taken down shortly after the revelation, and you were unsure of who had done it.

Your parents still couldn’t believe he was capable of such a thing. He had played them the same way you were, twisting the truth and omitting facts. Painting himself in a way that made them think allowing you to stay with him was the best decision when just months before he treated you as if you didn’t matter.

As if he didn’t love you.

“No.” Curt, you had nothing else to say.

“He’s a persistent one, I’ll tell you that. Left another message last night,” Nancy comments, feeling her stare as you fiddled with the hands in your lap. The next time she speaks, it’s slow and controlled. She’s careful with her words, wary of how you would react to what she has to say. “Hon, the last time you were here, you told me something. Something that I probably should have mentioned the day you woke up in the hospital.”

You tense, eyes flickering up to hers. “What is it?”

She sighs deeply, her smile fleeting and replaced by a taut frown. “I knew you and Keanu were having… problems. Not the full story, but enough that told me you’ve been unhappy for a while.”

“W-Why didn’t you bring this up then?”

“Because the second I saw him in your hospital room, I could see how much he loves you. How scared he was at the thought of nearly losing you—”

“Pfft, sure he was,” you scoff at the statement in disbelief. “What he did—you don’t do that to someone you love. You don’t lie to them, betray them. Hell, if you had given me a heads up earlier, then it would have saved me all this trouble.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t you get it? He’s an actor. Of course, he’s good at playing pretend. Got us all believing that things were all sunshine and rainbows. He fucked up and fucked up even more by lying. I’ve always had a bad track record in relationships, so I shouldn’t have been too surprised.”

Tension hangs thickly in the air, an apology murmured at the end of a passing second. You didn’t mean to snap at your mother, to let the anger and betrayal consume you that you began taking it out on others although unwillingly.

But you were just too goddamn hurt. Every day, the memories are suffocating you despite constantly wishing and pleading for them to disappear. That life, the one you had with Keanu, no longer exists, and yet you were still holding onto the frayed remains of it, not ready to move on—to let go.

You grieve. You grieve and mourn for the recent past, the happiness and love you experienced in the time you were left unaware. Never have you felt so complete, so content, and much at ease. You had turned a blind eye to the signs, to the small inklings of doubt brewing inside because you thought that there was no way you could get something else as close to this.

Perhaps you were both to blame after all.

“I thought he was different,” you whisper, sorrow flowing from your words. “I thought he was the one. The man I’d settle down with, marry, and then maybe someday, be the father of my kids. We’d build an entire life together, a family, a future. The kind of life where I could look back on it fifty years from now when we’re old and gray and not regret a single thing.”

Feeling your mother’s hand come on top of yours with a light squeeze, you fought off the tears forcing their way from your eyes. You swore you would never shed a tear for Keanu ever again, but you are crumbling from within. The weak walls you put up are now tumbling down, leaving you even more vulnerable than before.

“I want to hate him. I want him to feel my pain and suffer through it, knowing that he’s the reason why. But I can’t. Somehow, I just can’t.”

“It’s because you still love him. No matter how much it hurts, you’re still in love with him,” Nancy adds solemnly, and you nod shakily. “You’re healing, dear. So far, all you’ve done is put on a bandaid, but it doesn’t mean the wound closes up immediately. It’ll burn, it’ll bleed, and it’ll ache, and right now, that’s what you’re feeling; the pain of a fresh open wound.”

“Make the pain stop,” you mumbled incoherently as you lean against your mom’s side, wet cheeks pressed to her shoulder. “It has to stop.”

“And it will,” she promises, listening to your soft and tired cries. “It’ll take time for the wound to heal, but eventually, it will. Until then, life continues, and you would have to as well. You don’t have to go all-in right away, but don’t let this heartbreak hinder you from living, sweetie. You’re strong, and I believe you will feel that same happiness again, in one form or another. But you won’t find it unless you go out and look for it.”

For the first time in what seemed like a while, you felt something other than loss and despair. It creeps into you slowly, half-expecting a cold, crushing weight to fall heavily on your chest rather than the warmth and light it is. But as quickly as it came, the sensation subsides, a wave of loneliness, emptiness filling the vacant space surrounding your heart.

A shuddering breath released, you then reflect upon what your mother said about time and how time heals all wounds. You wonder how much time is needed until you can finally break free from the remnants of the past and breathe again. Could be days, weeks, or even months more, but it’s right there, waiting for you on the horizon.

You may not have a place to call home, but what you do have is time.

---

Seconds turn into minutes; minutes turn into hours. The sun sets, the moon rises; bright, blues skies bleed into a fiery red before dimming to an inky darkness. The world spins on its axis as people wake, move, then sleep, and the cycle begins all over again.

Two weeks have come and gone, and life pushes onward. You could tell by the scenery outside where the season of fall has taken charge of the Northeast. Days are shorter, with nights stretching out longer as the year fades into winter. Time was flying by at a brisk pace. Very soon, a blanket of snow will cover the ground you walk on, reminding you to take a step back and admire the natural beauty of mid-November.

The crispness of the late afternoon air is refreshing as it fills your lungs, a welcome change from the hazy summer heat. Leaves that were once lively shades of green are now painted in deep hues of amber and burgundy, and they crunch beneath your boots with each leisure step down the earthy path. The nearby lake is as pristine as ever, sparkling freely underneath the rays of the ochre sun as it waits for the impending frost.

Wandering about outdoors for hours now, you were lost in your stream of thoughts. You honestly felt better, not entirely mended, but just enough that you can step out of the house and explore the quaint little town. A picturesque place, it was a perfect settlement for your retired parents where everyone knew everybody; their faces, names, the street they lived on. Boilding down to more personal details such as knowing the pets they owned, which book club they’re a part of, and any recent travels.

When the townsfolk saw you, you sensed the feeling of familiarity. Those you passed by in the streets waved at you, and though you couldn’t exactly recall your relationship with them, it made you smile. Recently, old friends and family in the area had begun reaching out after hearing you were back. You never gave them the full explanation, only revealing that things in California did not work out, and you figured it was best to leave.

Was it a permanent decision? Most likely. Life here is simpler, quieter. You enjoyed the peacefulness, favoring the calm atmosphere of this town much over the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. It gave you space to think, to focus, to breathe. To reacquaint with yourself, rebuild who you are as a person by taking this journey of self-discovery.

It’s the brand new start you desperately wanted, needed. An opportunity to find your place in this world without the past holding you back. Without the shadow of the woman you once were looming over you. And if your memories don’t ever return, which deep down, you hope they never would, you would be fine with it.

You were tired of being stuck searching pieces of the past. You had to live.

Trekking up the gravel road leading to your parents’ home, a black car sits on top of the hill, one that you did not recognize. Perplexed, you approached the house with hesitant steps, dragging your feet through the pile of dead and dry leaves. There was a moment of panic when you noticed a man sitting on the front porch steps, hands clasped on his knees as he hung his head low, a curtain of dark hair masking his identity.

But you don’t need to think twice, for you already know who it is.

“Keanu?”

His name slipping out of your mouth feels different now. Gone is the affectionate tone that it was usually spoken in. It held no meaning, void of any warmth or tenderness. Keanu, the name is bitter on your tongue, a poison that could cause you to spiral down yet again, and saying it out loud brought upon a rage that swirls through your veins.

How dare he show up here unannounced?

As you take your breaths, one… two… three... and out, Keanu straightens his posture and meets your stern glare. Slowly, he gets up, the expression on his face hard to read. But aside from that, he looked worse for wear. The bags underneath his eyes were dark and prominent, the beard on his chin was unruly and untamed. He appears gaunt and exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept a wink ever since you walked out of the door and out of his life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You’re the first to break the thick silence, a testament of your bravery and strength of some sort. Brows furrowing and teeth gritting in anger, it contrasts with Keanu’s lax demeanor as he steps closer. “No, stay back. You have no right to be here right now.”

“Y/N, please...” He speaks calmly, each and every one of his movements measured. “I’m not here to fight—”

“I have nothing to say to you,” you seethed, shaking your head as you stormed past him and towards the door. Tears brew in your cloudy eyes, a sign of how much he still affected you. Seeing him again after all this time only proved that the wound he had inflicted bleeds to this day.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Keanu quickly trails from behind, his voice dripping with utter desperation. “Please, just… give me a chance to talk. All you have to do is listen, and I promise you won’t ever have to see me again.”

The seriousness in his timbre causes you to halt in your tracks. Swallowing dryly, you turn around, sad, tired eyes reaching his guilt-filled ones. Keanu stands before you with a face written in despair, making him barely recognizable. The way he’s staring at you as if he’s hopeless and in pure anguish is unsettling, and you almost pitied him for it.

“Y/N…” He pleads softly, defeatedly. “Hear me out, please.”

You wrestled between your options, half apathetic, half curious of what Keanu had to say. Unspoken words on the tip of his tongue, he mutely begs for you to relent, and if this is all it takes for him to leave you alone, leave you for good, then so be it.

“Ten minutes,” you muttered, low enough that he barely catches it at first. Crossing your arms against your chest, the gentle autumn wind rustling through the trees pierces the silent air as you observe Keanu staggering forward, a hand rubbing at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, gazing at you with his searching brown eyes. “I-I know saying it a thousand times won’t make a difference, but I really am sorry. What I did before and after the accident was inexcusable and selfish. I hurt you, and I will never forgive myself that. Don’t expect you to do so, either. You probably hate my guts right now, and flying out here might be a mistake, but I needed to talk to you in person. To say goodbye one last time.”

Brushing his hair back, Keanu then pads over to the trunk of the car, and all you can do is wait for him to come back. It doesn’t take long, but he makes two trips to unload two boxes, setting each of them down in the space separating you two. He instantly notices the confusion etched across your features, burying his hands in his coat pocket with an exhale.

“Are those—”

“All the things you left behind,” Keanu finishes feebly. “Thought you would want them back.”

Stunned, a mirthless chuckle escapes your throat. “You didn’t have to do this. Those aren’t my things anyway.”

“But they are—”

“They’re not mine,” you cut him off with a weary gaze. “Keanu, I’ve said this before; I’m not the woman you fell in love with. Not anymore. Look, throughout those months we spent together, I tried to fit into this life everyone told me I had. A life that’s far from what I was used to. God, it feels like a dream being her. So confident, happy, and successful. Waking up from the coma, of course, I would want that. I had just gotten out of a terrible relationship which left me broken and unworthy of anything and anyone. Then you showed me the love I thought I didn’t deserve, and it kept me from realizing that it was all too good to be true.”

Eyes faltering to the ground, your fingers fumbled with the hem of your sweater, ultimately distracting yourself from the tears threatening to fall. “The truth is, I didn’t know you. You were, are, a stranger to me. You had done things behind my back, hid details that would have been a deal-breaker, but you didn’t care. I’ve thought about it a lot lately; would I have stayed if you told me from the very beginning. I wasn’t sure if I was madder at you kissing someone else, knowing how much it would hurt me, or the fact that you lied to fix this—us.”

There is a moment of silence that weighs over everything. The wind stops blowing; the leaves are motionless. Time seems to slow around you and Keanu as he waits for your next words. Words that you are still searching for since you hadn’t prepared to voice those thoughts out loud. They all came rushing, flooding like a broken dam, too overwhelming to keep at bay.

“Which one is it?” Keanu probes delicately, equally afraid of which answer you’re going to give.

“Neither,” you revealed, surprisingly. “I’m angrier at myself for falling too fast; for being the naive little girl who let herself be fooled, who refused to listen to her instincts even though she knew they were usually right.”

You see Keanu open his mouth to speak, but you weren’t done. “I always believed this accident was a curse. It erased years worth of memories that, at this point, I’ll never get back. But now, I see the good that came out of it. Our fights, our arguments, they were all signs that our relationship was falling apart, but I couldn’t let go of it—of you. I held onto us thinking the bad will just phase out eventually when in reality, I couldn’t bear giving up on you and this life we shared.”

Another pause. “Huh, funny. Looking at it, the same thing happened all over again.”

With that said, you felt relieved, somewhat lighter. Despite previous inclinations, you didn’t shout or yell at Keanu. Nor did you discuss to the fullest extent of the suffering you’ve endured. Strangely, it was nearly therapeutic admitting all of that to him, to yourself. For months, you had been unable to let go and accept the truth, allowing fear and doubt to control your actions.

But that was then, and this is now.

And now, it was time for you to be free.

“Guess this is it,” Keanu sighs dejectedly. He didn’t come here to win you back, knowing there’s nothing that he could do or say to repair the damage. Like you, he’s letting go, letting this be the closure he needs, and you need as well. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, “Guess this is goodbye.”

Before you could leave his sight to spare Keanu the awkwardness, he holds up a finger, signaling you to wait a second. Swiftly, he goes to retrieve something that’s lying on the front seat, something that you’ve spent countless hours flipping through. He then reluctantly passes it over to you, and you’re unsure what to do with it.

“Your pictures,” he points out, though you were already aware. “I’m not trying to be an asshole or anything by giving this, but this book is yours. Keep it, burn it, do whatever seems right to you. But I want you to know, to remember, that I did love you. I still do, and these photos are proof of it, even if you can’t bring yourself to believe that I’m telling the truth. You deserve love and to be loved, Y/N. More than anything in the universe. I fucked up my chance to be the one to tell you that every day, but it doesn’t mean the next person you fall for will.”

“Ke…” your voice suddenly breaks with emotion, uncertain of what to add after his statement. It’s because you still love him. No matter how much it hurts, you’re still in love with him, your mother’s earlier words echo in your mind, ringing true in your heart. Even after everything, a piece of you still loved Keanu, and saying goodbye to him more painful than you anticipated.

As you stand frozen, Keanu inches nearer until he’s by your feet, the palm of his hand coming to rest on your cheek. He strokes your face with a tender caress before tilting your chin upwards to meet his gaze, brushing his thumb along your lower lip gently. You allow him to have this moment, to hold you and study you for a final time, commit you to memory as this would be the last.

Eyes fluttering shut, you feel him press a soft kiss on your forehead, the warmth of it immediately spreading throughout your body before he slowly pulls away.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N,” Keanu says, opening the driver’s side door of his rental. You look at each other once more and see the subtle, hopeful smile he shoots your way. “And don’t be afraid to love again.”

You watch as he starts driving away, opting to wait until the car is finally out of view before releasing the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

In your hands is a keepsake of your memories. A collection of captured moments that you had cherished so dearly. But things are different now; mistakes were made, words were said, people have grown apart. You found no reason to linger in the past when there’s nothing left to salvage.

Nothing left to do but heal.

The warmth of Keanu’s kiss eventually disappears, the world around you unpausing, continuing as it was before. You stay standing in place, glancing back and forth between the book you clutched on tightly and the boxes laying on the ground.

Yet in the quietude, the wind still blows. The leaves still fall, and the earth still spins.

Time resumes, bit by bit; passing for life to move forward—

For you to move on.

Part 13

Tags: @penwieldingdreamer @fanficsrusz @toomanystoriessolittletime @awessomness @meetmeinthematinee @ringa-starr @ficsnroses @iworshipkeanureeves @keandrews @greenmanalishi @feminine-machinegun @thehumanistsdiary @lilyette @rdjloverxxx @flaminasteroid @danceoftwowolves @ravenpuff02 @wheretheriversrunintothesea @breakthenight @allie1804-fan @partypoison00

#keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves

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tuffduff · 4 years ago

Text

But...I Like You (Dave Mustaine x Reader)

Pairing: fluff Dave Mustaine x female reader

Words: 2,384

Summary: Dave’s never been one for the holidays or romance, not until one fateful day at the laundromat changes everything. Suddenly, he finds himself seeing The Nutcracker and wonders just what lengths he’d go for this girl.

Taglist: @ubernoxa @the--blackdahlia @reigns420 @stradlin-cold-heartbreaker @rumoured-whispers

Dave couldn’t recognize himself in the mirror. His frame was wrapped in a new and unusually lavish coat, the first coat he owned that actually fit him—hell, the first coat he had bought ever. There was a scarf around his neck made of something called cashmere, something he never thought he would have adorning his body. Most notable, however, was the look of glassy fear in his eyes.

He had let go of general fear a long time ago. Fear held him back, and he wasn’t about to let anything hold him back. And who the fuck cares, really? But there it was again, that little uncertain glimmer making his eyes frown. He couldn’t decide what he didn’t like more—his outfit or the look on his face.

When he walked out to the living room of his apartment, he nearly tried to sneak back into his room, but Junior and Jeff had already caught sight of him.

“Woah there, is that you, Dave? Are you under there?” Jeff teased and Dave was already glaring.

“Man, where are you going, huh? I didn’t realize you even owned this outfit.” Junior added, to which Dave felt less anger, so he focused on him, rather than Jeff—who he still wanted to punch.

“To see a show.” He said curtly, trying to close the conversation forcefully, of course, to no avail.

“You’re not going to the movies dressed like that. Where are you actually going?” Jeff joked, glancing at Junior to be backed up.

“I never said movie.” Dave retorted, glaring at the guitarist before he gathered his wallet and looked for his keys.

“So, where are you really going?”

“I’m going to see a production, it’s at the Opera House, it’s a little more upscale—”

“Opera House? You’re going to see an opera?” Jeff exploded

“No.” Dave snapped, growing more annoyed.

“What does this mean for Megadeth?” Jeff just kept pestering until Dave finally yelled.

“It’s the fucking Nutcracker!” Jeff and Junior were silent before they began to laugh. “Look, it wasn’t my idea—clearly. The San Francisco Ballet Company is doing their annual show, apparently they were the first in the US to produce a full-length production, and Y/N really wanted to go…”

“Oh,” Junior realized, leaning his head back with a knowing look on his face that made Dave glare again. “Y/N.”

“Yeah, shut up about it.” Dave snapped. Jeff looked between them.

“Y/N? Who’s Y/N?”

“This girl Dave met a while back at the laundromat.” Jeff raised an eyebrow.

“Think you met ‘the one’ at the laundromat, huh?” Jeff said incredulously. Dave sent another glare at Junior before he finally saw his keys laying on the kitchen counter and snatched them up.

“You’ll never be capable of knowing what I think, Jeff. You lack the brain cells.” He snapped, leaving the apartment. Outside, he let out a breath that he could see in the air.

Was he being too harsh on his band mates? No, never that. Was he being defensive? Maybe. Was he being stupid? Yes.

Stupid for letting you actually make him have these little daydreams littering his head for the past few weeks.

It started at the laundromat, yes, but Dave wasn’t the type of man that idealized romantic prospects. The light didn’t hit you in a certain way and the angels didn’t sing like the way it always did in those cliche romance movies. Rather, you dropped your entire load of laundry on the floor in front of him.

“Shoot,” you had sighed, merely looking at the garments of clothing with disdained tiredness. As he watched it all unfold, he had imagined what he would do in that moment—probably react in some type of anger—and watched as a smile came across your face before you looked directly at him. It was just a brief moment, but Dave felt like he was confined to that chair for an hour. Like he’d never been seen before in his life until that moment, in the dimly lit dingy laundromat.

“It must be Monday.” You said, before calmly getting on your knees and beginning to put the clothes back in the basket. For some reason, he found himself next to you.

“It’s Sunday.” He corrected you, to which you laughed.

“Even worse.”

His hand landed on a Led Zeppelin shirt to which he glanced over at you. “You a fan?”

“Yeah! Love them. How can you go wrong with them?” You eyed him again longer than he expected and he nearly winced when you narrowed them speculatively. “You look familiar.”

“I’m in a band.” He admitted, before too quickly adding, “Megadeth.” He hoped to see realization light your eyes, but you shook your head.

“No. Maybe I’ve seen your face on MTV?”

“There’s a chance.”

“I was joking.” You laughed. “But clearly, you’re not, huh. You know, there’s a record store across the street. Prove it.” You smiled at him.

The both of you left your laundry to be washed and headed over to the local record shop decorated with string Christmas lights on the roof and frosted windows. He bought their latest for you So Far, So Good…So What? and briefly gave you quick insight about where he got the name of the band from, song titles, why he enjoyed music...

Okay, he spilled his guts. He couldn’t stop talking. But that wasn’t his fault—you were hanging onto his every word. You listened, really listened; you seemed to listen more than anyone he had ever spoken to. More than that, you seemed to understand. And so, he went back to the laundromat next week at the same exact time, walking as quick as he could and hating that fact that he was doing so, until he felt relief when he saw you inside again.

You remembered him too—you smiled when you saw him. “It must be Sunday, huh?”

“Got it right this time.” He replied with a smirk.

Dave was aware he could talk someone’s ear off. He had a lot to say about the world and its affairs and usually didn’t care a whole lot about other people’s thoughts—they were usually stupid. But you, he made an active attempt to listen to. He listened rather than spoke, and when he did speak, he would ask questions, trying to get to know you on an even deeper level. And just as he assumed, you kept his attention better than anyone else.

You had a way of looking at the world from a completely different perspective than him. Like it was something to be solved. Like a bad thing didn’t mean it was the end of the road. That nothing really stays dead, that every little thing has a purpose, a meaning.

“Surely that’s not true.” Dave finally said. “Not every single thing has a meaning. Some things are just the way they are and that’s the way it is.” You just smiled at him.

“If it weren’t for the fact that my washer broke, I wouldn’t have come here. And if it weren’t for the fact that I thought it was Monday—my usual laundry day—instead of Sunday, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Dave didn’t understand the way his heart pounded a little harder. He wondered if he imagined the way your eyes stared a little too long at his and felt absolutely stupid for even having such a thought. And yet, he couldn’t stop staring. He couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering down your body. He couldn’t stop himself from telling David about you.

Oh, he knew exactly what was happening. He was strapped in on a rollercoaster ride and he was nearing the drop, unable to do nothing but watch as he felt things he’d never felt before. The whole reason he pursued guitar playing was to pick up girls; he had had lots of girls. And you, you weren’t like them. You seemed to admire him for being in a band, but you were more interested in why he hated breakfast and never ate it. Or why he didn’t like Christmas.

“This doesn’t just make you automatically happy?” You questioned him, gesturing to the atmosphere that surrounded the two of you. Your meetings had upgraded to a coffee shop. Dave didn’t drink coffee, but he watched you order a hot chocolate and realized maybe that was okay and ordered the same.

“What? The crowds, the god-awful music, the annoying lights everywhere, everyone’s ugly sweaters?” You grinned and laughed, and he wished the sound could be pumped out of the shop’s speakers rather than “Jingle Bells.”

“It’s just the time of year when everything is supposed to go right.” You ignored him, smiling a little. “When I was a kid, I used to go and see The Nutcracker with my family every year. The San Francisco Ballet Company started it—they had the first full length production back in 1944. Or at least, that’s what my mom said.”

“I’m guessing they’ve got shows going on with it being so close to Christmas.” Dave wasn’t sure why he was saying that. You nodded.

“Yeah, their last show is Sunday.”

“Why don’t we go?” You were just as surprised as he was.

“What? You’re kidding. A ballet doesn’t seem very up your alley, Mr. Megadeth.”

“Try me, think I’m just some metal knucklehead that couldn’t appreciate it?”

“I don’t think you would like it.”

“Maybe I will, you don’t know me.” You chuckled, but still appeared unsure, which only made him more determined. “Look, you said you haven’t been in forever. I’m in a good place this year after the album, those tickets will be nothing. It’s on me. So, if I were you, I would just agree before I change my mind.”

“Well...alright.”

And here he was outside this damn theater, pulling on his coat, knowing his hair was out of place despite that fact that he had tied it back. He was still getting strange looks by the crowd of couples walking arm in arm into the theater, telling him without words that he didn’t belong.

“Dave?” He heard from behind him and turned. He was already thinking of some kind of dry teasing reply, but all words left his head at the sight of you, dressed nicer than he’d seen you yet, every hair in place. “Look at you! You own a scarf?” He scoffed, feeling a smirk grow on his face.

“Stole it from a guy on my way here.” He joked to make you laugh. To his surprise, you also leaned in and kissed his cheek. As if that’s just what you did. All of it was so foreign; you, this theater, this ballet show. And he was a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit.

“Shall we?” You asked. He was still trying to find the words to compliment you, but instead, he nodded.

In your seats with the lights down, Dave alternated his time from watching the stage and the dancers to the other audience members, young and old alike. All of them seemed to fit each other’s company, each other’s social circle; he was the anomaly.

And then there was you, which he elected to watch for the rest of his time. The way your eyes quickly flitted back and forth as you took in the sight, your eyebrows raising, how you’d hold your breath for a second at the really dramatic parts.

All of a sudden, there was you, sweeter than a sugar plum, somehow embodying all the niceness everyone said Christmas was supposed to be about. Thanks to you, he was out of his element, and he felt like he was meant to be there. After all, where did he really belong anyway?

Did it matter if he could be anywhere with you?

“So?” You asked him eagerly after the show when the lights came back on. The two of you sat in your seats as everyone around you stood, in no hurry.

“You’re going to be surprised to hear this, but there are a lot of similarities between classical music and metal. Really, Tchaikovsky’s stuff isn’t so different than—”

“I meant the show! The story! Oh, did you see the costumes?” You laughed, and he smiled, shaking his head at you.

“To be honest, I was watching you most of the time.” You seemed startled by his words, and he took your speechlessness as the chance to keep going. “I couldn’t find the words to tell you earlier how beautiful you look. Really, this whole night I just kept thinking that maybe it was a mistake. That I’m not the type of guy that comes here, I’m the guy playing in the sleazy, dark club on the bad side of town. But I was wrong. And I’m glad I came; I should have done it right though. I should’ve brought you flowers, picked you up, I should’ve complimented you as soon as I saw you, I should have kissed you when you kissed my cheek—”

“Dave.” You interrupted him calmly, taking his hand in yours and giving him an ever-growing smile. “You have no idea how much this means to me. Christmas is my favorite time of the year, but this year it’s been so hectic, and I haven’t been able to really enjoy it...until now. That was all I actually wanted. I don’t care about the flowers.” He stared at you for a second before he smiled.

“That’s all?” He asked before he leaned in closer, grazing the side of your cheek with his lips as he whispered. “You don’t want one more thing?” He felt your hand rest on his cheek and turned his head to press his lips to yours, savoring the moment and realizing he had never really been kissed before, not like this.

“Well, I guess that too.” You mumbled with that sweet smile on your face before you looked up at him with big eyes. “Okay but really, was it up to your standards, or was I right all along?”

“I hate Christmas. And I don’t really enjoy the things that come with it.” He admitted with a keen smirk as he pulled back, and you giggled. He let himself enjoy the feeling of your face cradled between his hands, so used to always cradling a guitar, this new sensation—skin-on-skin—was intoxicating. As were your lips, that he leaned in again to steal another kiss from. “But...I like you.”

#gonna get this one out of my system first #Dave mustaine #dave mustaine x reader #dave mustaine imagine #megadeth imagine

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refinedbuffoonery · 4 years ago

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Only Human

Post 5x05. Angst. Riley POV. It’s sad.

*****

Only human. That’s what Jack was.

As a kid, Riley thought he was invincible. Nothing bad could ever happen to him. And if it did, he could always find a way out. Like when Riley busted him for picking flowers from her yard to give to her mom on their first date, or when he charmed his way out of yet another speeding ticket.

As an adult, Riley thought he was invincible. He and Mac pulled off crazy stunts Riley could barely wrap her head around, and they always came out alright. Whatever gods or forces of the universe were looking down on Jack Dalton clearly liked him and wanted him to stick around.

It took the sight of a flag-covered casket for Riley to realize Jack Dalton was only human.

The one man she thought would never truly leave her was gone. For good this time.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Until there was. Until Mac received that postcard—that last piece of Jack—and suddenly they were flying to Croatia to crack his final clue. Until they were the ones hunting a not-actually-dead Kovac. Until they were the ones stuck in a trap laid by the same woman who murdered Jack.

Riley would’ve snapped that blonde bitch’s neck if Mac hadn’t stopped her.

Rotting in a cell for the rest of eternity was too good a fate for the person who cut Jack’s life short.

Normally, Riley would’ve felt smart for catching a whole taped confession like that, but this time she just felt cold. Empty. No amount of justice would even begin to heal the Jack-shaped wound in her heart.

The flight home seemed like it would never end. Riley didn’t even feel the burn of the whiskey Russ handed her as she knocked it back like a shot. If she had the energy to get up, she would’ve drank the rest of the bottle.

Even Mac sitting beside her didn’t bring Riley any comfort. She wanted to scream at the universe until her voice was hoarse, cursing it for ripping the closest thing she ever had to a dad from her grasp. It seemed like just yesterday they made amends and he was her dad again.

But it wasn’t.

That was more than five years ago, and the few years Riley had with him were the best of her life. Even though half the time they spent together usually involved trying not to get killed.

Riley couldn’t help but think that if she had been there, had been part of that task force, hunting Kovac with Jack, she would’ve connected the dots Jack missed and realized the rescue op was a trap. She could’ve kept him alive.

Because as a team—Jack, Mac, and herself—they were invincible. But alone, they were only human.

Since that first drive with Mac, Riley drove the GTO every day. She drove it to work, to the grocery store, to the gym. She even drove it just for the sake of driving it, wasting gas with no destination in mind. On those days, she usually found herself ordering a brisket sandwich at Jack’s favorite Texas barbeque restaurant. Most of the time, she was so numb her body revolted at the idea of food, but Riley forced herself to eat the damn sandwich anyway, since she had to enjoy it for both of them now.

Driving Jack’s car was the closest thing to feeling like he was with her again.

She even stole one of Jack’s Metallica t-shirts from Mac to sleep in, but the GTO was where Riley felt his presence best.

Presence. Like all that was left of her invincible dad was a ghost, following her around quoting Bruce Willis movies and harassing her about leaving fingerprints on his car.

Soldiers died all the time. So did agents. That was part of the job. But Riley never thought her agents would die. Not really. Not when they avoided death so well. And if they were to die, they’d all go at the same time, doing something incredibly stupid. If you go kaboom, I go kaboom. That was Jack’s promise. The whole team’s promise.

“We were supposed to go kaboom together,” Riley whispered to herself, parking the GTO in Mac’s driveway. She blinked back the tears threatening to escape.

Her eyes caught the old basketball hoop. Mac and Jack used to spend hours playing HORSE right in this very spot. Jack usually won.

Mac had invited her over for dinner, but Riley couldn’t yet bring herself to go inside. A week had passed since Jack’s funeral, but since then, that first step into Mac’s house made Riley feel like she was permanently stuck at the wake, pressed against the wall and choking on tears as fate carved a gaping hole in her chest. Mac’s house��one of her favorite places in the whole world—was heavy with sorrow and guilt.

No matter how many times Mac repeated that they shouldn’t feel guilty, the what-ifs still stuck around like shackles around Riley’s wrists and ankles. She knew Mac felt the same way, even though he hid it for her sake.

Riley barely mustered the courage to go inside.

She made it two steps in when her gaze locked on Mac, standing in the kitchen, a folded American flag in his hands.

Riley thought of Jack's promise again. If you go kaboom, I go kaboom. And suddenly she was furious. Furious at Jack for walking into a trap alone. Furious at him for dying. Furious at the government—the same government she served—that sent a flag home in place of a man. Her hands shook.

Every minute she wasn't crying, Riley was angry. She tried to direct it, use it to make sure that woman never saw the light of day again. Riley refused to even call the woman by her name. She murdered Jack. She shot Bozer. She used her power as an Interpol agent to run a terrorist organization. That bitch deserved every ounce of hatred Riley spewed at her.

But sometimes Riley was just angry at everything, and she sat somewhere quiet and stewed so she didn't take it out on someone who didn't deserve it. Riley still owed Desi an apology after nearly ripping her friend’s head off when she tried to check up on Riley a few days ago.

Mac finally looked up, his expression raw and broken. It pushed Riley over the edge. Her keys fell out of her hand, and Riley’s breathing stuttered. The all too familiar lump in her throat returned, rendering her unable to speak, and the tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over, twin hot streams running down her cheeks.

Mac left the flag on the kitchen counter and strode to her, not stopping until his arms wrapped tightly around her. “I didn’t know what to do when I saw it either,” he murmured, clutching her to his chest like their lives depended on it.

Riley sobbed. She’d cried so much in the last week she didn’t think her body could produce any more tears, but they just kept coming. She weakly returned Mac's hug.

"The hole in my heart just keeps bleeding," Riley gasped. "And I don't know how to make it stop."

"I don't know either," Mac said in a rare moment of honesty. He'd been keeping up a strong front for her sake, she knew. Because if they both let go, there wouldn't be anything stopping them from drinking themselves into oblivion and hurling spite at the world.

A world that didn't deserve Jack Dalton.

Riley didn't let herself think about the fact that Jack died for nothing. Well, not completely nothing, since his death led them to the clues he'd left behind just in case. Jack's death led to Kovac being put away for good. But that would never change the fact that Jack died alone, in a trap.

Mac grunted softly. The sound pulled Riley out of her head enough to realize she'd dug her nails into Mac's back, hard enough to leave marks.

"Sorry," she whispered, barely loud enough to hear.

Mac whispered back. "It's alright, Riles."

Riles. That was Jack's nickname for her, long before it was anyone else's. Mac had picked it up after a year or so, and even Desi sometimes called her that, but above all, it belonged to Jack.

Her knees started to tremble, and Riley let Mac hold her up. Besides her mom, Mac was the only one she felt safe breaking down around. She didn't know why. She was just as close to Bozer as she was to Mac. Maybe it was because talking to Bozer still felt like sympathy and not just someone to be sad with.

"How's your mom?" Mac asked softly.

A new wave of tears, silent ones this time, rolled down Riley's cheeks. She’d spent the previous night with her mom. Riley finally told her about Jack, after receiving clearance to tell her mom everything.

It was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

"We cried a lot." Riley sniffed. "I didn't know telling her would be so hard."

She knew it would suck, but finding the courage to squeak out "Jack's dead" was almost more than she could manage.

"I could've gone with you," Mac offered.

Riley appreciated the gesture. "Thanks, but I needed to do it on my own." She wasn’t even sure which way was up anymore, but she was sure of this.

They stood there for a little while longer before Mac asked, “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Riley’s stomach turned inside out at the thought of food.

Mac’s hands got brave, roaming her body and feeling how thin she was after a week of barely eating. She could hardly manage one meal a day, much less three. Riley tensed at the intimacy of the gesture. His tone was firm. “We’re having tacos. You have to eat at least one.”

“Okay.” She knew it was pointless to argue. Mac would force-feed her if he had to.

Without thinking, she asked, "Can I sleep here tonight?" Realizing what she said, Riley quickly backtracked. "Or if you and Desi want your space I understand, and—"

Mac cut her off. "No. You can always stay here, for as long as you want." After a moment, he added, voice strained, "I want you to stay."

“Thank you,” she said weakly. Riley felt Mac’s strong façade starting to crack. She knew he couldn’t keep it up much longer, that he couldn’t hold her up forever.

Maybe then they could just lean on each other.

Jack may have left Riley and Mac behind, but at least he didn’t leave them alone. They had each other, and while they would never be able to fill the Jack-shaped hole in their lives, maybe each other would be enough to keep going.

Because as it turns out, none of them were invincible, and Riley had to figure out how to staunch the wound before she bled out on the floor.

#beth writes #macgyver #riley davis #macriley #drabble #I'M SORRY #macgyver fanfiction

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outofsstyles · 5 years ago

Text

WHEN IN ROME - part 1

a/n: Ciao ragazzi!! So this is the part 1 of my friends to lovers featuring italy!Harry. Also a special thanks to my dear friend Giorgia for helping me with this, love her very much!! Hope everyone enjoys it!! Pease feel more than welcome to leave feedback (or just chat if you’d like) :)

Word count: 7k Rated: M,mature

You visit your best friend in Rome and some old feeling may start to resurface.

You struggle with your luggage after one of the wheels got caught on a loose tile, making it jerk across the airport floor.

The other passengers from your flight stroll along the illuminated hallway, towards the arrival gate exit. Looking around, you notice their tired faces; half-open eyelids and pouted lips, often opening in small yawns. You probably didn’t look much different, considering flying always tends to make you sleepy, which is why you preferred the night ones.

This one, in particular, was supposed to have landed around sunset, giving you enough time to enjoy your Harry’s company before settling in the hotel room. What no one was expecting, however, was to hear a muffled voice announce through the speakers that your flight was expected to be delayed for about 3 hours. The news was annoying, sure, but you knew there was not much to be done about it. So you simply snuggled further on the uncomfortable metal seat as you rolled your eyes at some angry man who was trying to argue with the poor attendant.

The warm Italian weather was a refreshing change of settings when you finally got to step out of the aircraft, making you take off your cardigan and tie it firmly around your waist. It sent a sparkle of energy down your spine, knowing you arrived after what felt like such a dragged-out flight. But despite your tired state, you feel a warm feeling settling itself in your tummy. One that makes you fight back a smile and jump on your heels in excitement as you walk maybe a bit faster than you should.

Going through the exit doors, it almost feels as if your heart wants to escape from your ribcage. The nervous anticipation filling every inch of your mind.

You walk past the group of people gathered around the gate, politely declining the ones who approached you offering taxi rides in a strong accent. Peering around the busy area, it doesn’t take long until you spot the curly mop you were looking for, as he calls out your name.

You don’t hold back the smile that breaks into your face as you watch him approach you with open arms, his dimples marking his cheeks. Not giving a second thought, you let go of the handle of your suitcase, rushing to his direction. You find your place between his arms as he pulled you into a tight hug, arching his back a bit to make your feet leave the ground just barely.

The scent of his cologne makes your eyes water just slightly, not realizing how much you had missed his presence until that moment. You nuzzle your face deeper into his neck, his arms tightening around you once more.

“Missed you so much, love,” he blurts, his voice muffled as his face squishes into your shoulder blades.

Placing a quick kiss to the side of your face he pulls away, allowing you to take in his appearance up close for the first time in months. His hair was still short, but longer than it was the last time you’d seen him in person, some locks falling charmingly along with his face.

You place your hands on his smooth face, rubbing it lightly, “you shaved!” You exclaim, referencing the last picture he had sent you, which showed a scruff growing along his upper lip and jawline. At the time, you were quick to text him to playfully let him know you were not the biggest fan of it.

He rolls his eyes at you, shaking his head slightly as he pushes your hands away from his face. “‘m very happy to see you too, knobhead,” he mumbles, moving to retrieve your forgotten bag lying on the floor behind you.

“I’m just teasing, silly,” you pinch his chin jokingly as he comes back by your side, guiding you through the airport, “You know I support all your decisions, even the bad ones.”

“Okay, I get it, it’s a no for the beard,” he chuckles, “mum hated it too.”

“I’ve always trusted Anne’s good taste,” you provoke, making him poke you playfully before reaching to put his arm over your shoulder, pulling you into a side hug as you two walk.

“‘S too bad your flight got delayed,” he says, “was planning on grabbing a bite and show you around fo’ a bit.”

Your heart grows a bit at his words, you reach your arm around his waist as to hug him back. “Yeah, it’s too bad,” you gaze up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment before he looked up again, “sorry for making you wait so long.”

“Stop that, don’t have to apologize,” he assures, “‘s not your fault.” He squeezes you against him gently, “‘sides we have the entire week to make it up fo’ it.”

When Harry broke in the news that he would be moving to Rome to pursue a photography degree you obviously felt heartbroken. You two were inseparable at the time and knowing you wouldn’t be able to see him every day anymore made your heartache. It couldn’t have come at a worse time either, you had just broken up with your boyfriend, and suddenly it felt like you were losing everyone you loved the most at the same time.

But still you swallowed back your selfish feelings to show him your support, promising to visit as soon as possible.

In your ideal world, you would drop everything and pack your bags with him to start a fresh life somewhere else. But realistically speaking, you had too much tying you up to your home, and not nearly enough money to pay for tickets to Italy every weekend so you could visit your best friend as regularly as you wish.

So you hugged him goodbye with tearful eyes and shaky hands, watching him walk towards the departure gate as he waved back one last time.

That had been eight months ago.

You never expected to take this long to finally be able to see him again, but life sometimes just doesn’t line up the way you want it to. Harry never let you lose contact, though, and for that, you were eternally grateful. He always made sure to call you at least once a week to catch up on each other’s lives.

It was the highlight of your weeks if you were honest. Getting the comfort of seeing his face even if it was just to talk about trivial things like his recipe of vegan brownies or a new boutique shop that opened on the corner of your street.

But now you don’t have a screen separating the two of you anymore. You can see his smile without it being a pixelated image. You can hear his voice clear next to you. You can hug him back and feel his arms squeezing your waist. You can smell the faint lavender scent on his shirt, mixing with his cologne.

You definitely missed him much more than you’d realized.

The sound of your alarm clock rang softly through the compact hotel room. You sigh contentedly, reaching to turn it off before rolling on your back and blinking your eyes open with little internal fight.

It wasn’t often you could feel this well-rested, especially after sleeping on a strange bed. But thinking about how tired you were the previous night, it didn’t take long for you to fall into a deep slumber as soon as you finally got to lie down.

The sunlight invaded your small room through the cracks of the nearly closed curtains, making you realize you might’ve been too sleepy to bother on closing them all the way the previous night. Usually, in regular days, you’d lay back in bed and steal a few more minutes of sleep, which would eventually lead to maybe another hour or two of snoozing your alarm clock. But this wasn’t just a regular day, you were in Italy, and Harry would probably be waiting for you down in the lobby in just a few minutes.

He had revealed none of the plans he made for the day, wanting to keep most of the trip a surprise for you. This habit of his of trying to keep a mysterious front usually makes you tease him with a roll of your eyes, but on this occasion you accepted it. You didn’t really care about what activities you’d do on your stay, as long as you can do it with him.

You check your bag to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything as you wait for the elevator to go down. Running your hands over your summer dress as the doors opened.

Walking into the lobby, you expected Harry to be late, considering he would always be the last one to arrive on any kind of social gathering you’d go before he moved. But to your surprise, you find him leaning against the reception counter, speaking excitedly to the sweet old lady that had welcomed you when you checked in.

As you get closer to them, you can identify that they’re speaking Italian, making you smile softly at how easily the words flew through Harry’s lips as he speaks.

The lady notices you first, smiling at you as you approach the counter, making Harry check over his shoulder to find you standing behind him. His smile grows, his eyes traveling down your body so subtly it almost felt like your mind was making it up. He greets you with a small hug, looking back at the woman behind the counter one last time and saying something you don’t understand.

“She looks beautiful!” she speaks, her word flowing with a strong accent, “bellissima!”

You feel a blush creeping to your cheeks as you thank her, wishing her a nice day before Harry and you make your way to leave through the front door. The hotel you’re staying in isn’t the fanciest, but it makes up with the cozy feel and charm you could only find in a small, old building. You chose it specifically for being located just a block away from Harry’s apartment, allowing you two to be closer to him.

“She seems nice,” you say once you turn into the street.

“She’s lovely,” he agrees, shooting you a quick look with a smirk on his face, “was telling me about her husband.”

“Oh,” you say, “What did she tell you?”

“Told me about how they met and all that, they’ve been married fo’ forty years!”

“You love those stories, don’t you?” You chuckle.

He rolls his eyes, “they’re sweet, okay?” he argues. “Not my fault you have a cold heart.”

You gasp, poking him playfully. “I don’t!” you exclaim, earning a knowingly look from him.

You walk a few more blocks along on the small sidewalk; the closeness making your hands brush slightly every so often. The day was nice, ideal for staying outside and enjoying the clear sky. A morning breeze messes up your hair a bit and the sounds of birds singing take over the empty street, along with Harry’s low hums to a tune you’re not familiar with.

He guides you to a small bakery, barely noticeable amongst the surrounding buildings. As you approach the entrance he explains how it’s one of his favorite places to go for what he says is “the best Italian breakfast in Rome!”

Walking inside you are met with the delicious smell of fresh-baked bread. The place is filled with quiet chatter as a few people sit on a long couch located by the back. An older man wearing an apron with various spots of flour on it greets Harry happily as you come in, pulling him into a small conversation you, once again, can’t really pick much of.

Soon, you two are sitting at a small table by one of the large windows that overlook the street you came from. You bite into the sandwich as a pair of green irises watches you carefully, trying to catch a glimpse of your reaction.

“So, what are we doing today?” You ask as you pick a few crumbles of bread left on your plate.

“You’re very impatient, haven’t changed a bit,” Harry replies, taking one last sip of his coffee.

You roll your eyes at him, “you say that as if we haven’t talked in eight months.”

He chuckles lightly as he leans back on his chair, his arms reaching over his head in a stretch. You try not to notice how his shirt rides up just barely, but enough for your eyes to wander a bit lower than you should’ve. When you meet his gaze again, he has a smirk adorning his face, knowing he just caught you not-so-subtly checking him out.

You clear your throat, praying the warmth you feel creeping on your cheeks isn’t noticeable as you try to think of how to cover up.

“Nice fit, by the way,” you motion towards his blue shirt with an imprint of Mickey Mouse on it, to which he matched with floral shorts.

This was the kind of clothing combination that would most definitely look silly on anyone else, but Harry was the kind of person who could pull off wearing a potato sack. He just looked good in anything, it was almost aggravating if it wasn’t also endearing in a way. But you’d never say that out loud.

“D’you like it?” He asks as he moved his hands to pull at the hem, looking down at it before meeting your eyes with a smug look on his face. “‘S my tourist outfit.”

“Is it now?” You chuckled, “does that mean we’re being tourists today?”

“I mean, you are a tourist, but yes,” he said, “we’re sightseeing, baby.”

Walking around the historical neighborhood in Rome was an overwhelming feeling in every sense of the word. You knew choosing to visit the city at the peak of summer would come with tourist-filled streets so it didn’t surprise you to be met with congested crowds as you got closer to the historical sites.

But as much as you were not the biggest fan of crowds, you couldn’t even feel bothered in the slightest by the masses of people surrounding you. The feeling of the city itself was ethereal, something that seemed right out of a movie screen. Timeless buildings stood tall above you, with the perfect combination of old-fashioned and modern.

Harry is having fun with his camera, teasing you at the amazed expressions you made at every corner you turned. But you couldn’t help but feel like that.

The day only helped to enhance the enchanting feeling of the place. With the sun shining proudly in the clear blue sky, but still catching a light breeze that relieved the heat that formed a light coat of sweat on your body, making you take big gulps out of your water bottle every so often.

Even the air around you feels different. Something you couldn’t really explain, it was lighter. Harry said it was Italy’s perfect mixture of great food and great people - to which you can’t deny - but you know having him with you is also a big factor.

“Harry, please, I’m scared I’ll bump into someone,” you say, moving your hands blindly in front of you.

“You won’t,” he replied, keeping his hand firmly above your eyes as he guides you.

“What if I run over a child?”

“I find your lack of trust incredibly hurtful,” he says from behind, pulling you closer to him. “We’re almost there.”

“Do we really have to do this?” You chuckle.

“Yes, now shush.”

You walk a bit more before he stops. His chest meets your back as he leans in, the ends of his hair tickling your ear slightly. You mindlessly hold your breath, grabbing his wrists anxiously as you wait for him to remove his hands.

“Ready?” He asks. His low voice causing goosebumps to form on the back of your neck.

You nod quickly into his hands, bouncing on your feet slightly as you wait for him to pull out his hands from your eyes.

It takes a second until your vision can get used to the sunlight after being in the dark, but as soon as you focus on the sight in front of you, it’s like all the air escapes from your lungs. The colosseum stands in all its glory, centered in the open area. A place you have only seen in pages of history books or through a screen. You bring your hand to cover your mouth mindlessly as you gasp at the gigantic monument.

“How does it feel?” Harry bites his lip, grinning as he gazes quickly at the construction before looking back at you. “Seeing it fo’ the first time?”

“It’s incredible,” you gasp, your eyes still wandering around the sight in front of you.

“It’s two thousand years old, you know,” he explains. “‘S why it kinda looks like a swiss cheese f’you look at it closely.”

“Oh my god,” you giggle, shaking your head at him. “Did you just compare one of humanity’s most historical monuments to cheese?”

Harry rolls his eyes playfully, “‘s a metaphor, darling, you wouldn’t get it.”

“Of course, I’m sorry for being so illiterate.” You joke, bumping your hip against his.

“‘S fine I’m used to it,” he provokes back. “So, are you just gonna stand there with your mouth open or are we going in?”

Your eyes widen at his question. “Wait.” you grab his arm as he looks at you with the most amused expression.”So we actually get to go inside?”

“Course we get to go inside, love.” He throws an arm above your shoulder, squeezing it gently. “What kind of tour guide d’you think I am?”

It warms your heart how much thought he clearly put into planning this trip for you. Not just planning it, but also making sure you’re enjoying all the aspects that Italy has to offer in your limited time here. Truthfully, the biggest reason that brought you here was him. Getting to visit one of the grandest cities in the world is just a bonus. A wonderful bonus. And you are glad to do it with him.

Okay, maybe you finally realize what people meant when they described Rome as “enchanting, yet congested” on the many traveling websites you had researched before packing your bags.

Harry warned you about it before you entered the small square - that isn’t even that small but the packed crowd makes it seem much enclosed. He keeps his hand holding securely onto your waist, pulling you close as you walk towards the fountain.

The fountain, yes, the whole reason you are here. Fontana di Trevi. One of Rome’s most prized monuments, and just taking one look at it you could see why. It’s gorgeous, not like any other fountain you’ve ever seen in your life.

That seems to be a repeating theme in this place, finding the beauty in the most minimal details, like the flowers blooming on a building’s wall, but also on the obvious ones, like the carefully crafted statues posing forever on top of the marble stones.

As you get closer, your eyes never leave the artwork standing in front of you. You’re thankful for Harry’s grip on your waist, otherwise, you’d probably trip down the steps as you make your way through the crowd.

You find a spot by the edge of the fountain surprisingly easily. Harry lets go of your waist to reach into his back pocket, retrieving a few coins and offering to you.

“Here.”

“Do I make a wish?” you asked, picking a couple from his palm.

“No, there’s this whole thing,” he began, “f’you throw one means you’ll return to Rome,” he held up a coin as he explained, “two, means you’ll get married, and three, s’to get a divorce.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, “that’s a nice way to break the news, I guess.”

You looked down at your palm, quickly picking up a cent and throwing it at the fountain, watching it descend slowly into the clear water.

“There.”

“Just one, love?” Harry asked, making you look up at him to meet his gaze.

“Don’t really have anyone to get married to, do I?” you joked, “What about you?”

“Already made my wish when I first got here,” he replied, “not gonna risk throwing more.”

“How many did you throw?”

He simply grins down at you, letting your question linger in the air for a moment. You can feel his hand making its way on your waist again, pulling you closer to him.

You’re received at the bar table with excited cheers from the small group already gathered there.

There’s an already annoying knot settling at the pit of your stomach. It’s something that has been bothering you throughout the day from the moment Harry mentioned you’d be meeting his friends for dinner. Even with his assurance that you’d be fine, telling you how excited they are to meet you, it still makes you a bit anxious. Of course you want to make a good impression, they are his friends after all. His new friends.

What helps with your nerves a bit, is the fact that it’s not a massive amount of people, in fact, you are a bit surprised to see there’s only four of them.

They all seem like they’ve just walked right out of a Vogue issue photoshoot, which makes you fidget with the fabric of your dress nervously. Harry keeps his hand placed on your lower back soothingly as he introduces you to everyone.

The two girls don’t even bat an eye in his direction, getting up to make their way directly to you. The first one pulls you into a tight hug immediately, the unexpected gesture causes you to take a second before hugging her back. She’s shorter than you, but she gives you a big smile as she introduces herself as Giorgia with an excited voice. Her look is very classy which stands out from the more laid-back outfits of the rest of the group.

You barely have time to separate from her before you’re being pulled into another hug.

“I’m Francesca!” She says before pulling back, her blonde hair a bit messy on top of her head. “It’s very nice to finally meet you!”

You laugh softly at the warm welcome, “It’s lovely to meet you too.”

“We were all so excited to meet you,” Giorgia says, as you sit on the chair across from her. “Harry talks about you all the time.”

You glance at Harry who’s pulling the chair next to yours, arching your eyebrows at him. “Oh, does he now?”

“Alright, alright.” He scratches the tip of his nose, letting out a light chuckle. “Knew she’d do that as soon as you got here.”

“It’s my personal job to tease you at any given opportunity, H.” She reaches for the wine bottle, pouring it into a glass and handing it to you.

You give her a slight smile. “Think we’ll get along then.” You chuckle, moving the wine glass to your lips.

“Wait!” Giorgia stops you, “there’s a saying here in Italy that if you drink without toasting, you have seven years of bad sex, so.”

“Oh,” you move the glass away from your mouth, raising it. “We don’t want that.”

“No, we don’t.” You hear Harry say from his spot next to you, moving his own glass to meet yours in a light click.

The night progresses bringing a warm feeling in all the pleasant ways.

A light chatter fills the table, mixing with the sound of the other loud conversations from other young groups surrounding you. You risk learning a bit of Italian from the girls, as they tell excitedly stories about Harry’s first months not knowing the language. It makes you feel silly for ever thinking they wouldn’t welcome you, seeing how they are treating you as if you are friends for years.

But what makes your heart swell is seeing Harry so comfortable and laid-back amongst them.

It may be the effect of the alcohol settling itself on your bloodstream, but as time passes, you find it harder to keep your eyes off of him.

The crinkle in his eyes as he throws his head back with laughter brings an inevitable smile to your face. His hand squeezing your knee reassuringly, every so often, makes your breath catch in your throat. His eyes never leaving yours as you ramble about something you don’t even pay much attention to.

He’s listening closely to the words coming out of your mouth, his own lips forming a soft grin. You can feel your words start to get confusing as you become much aware of the distance between the two of you. It was close enough so you can notice the cloudy look in his eyes, but till not as close as you wish.

Your mind seems to erase everything around you as you can see his eyes moving down, so quickly it almost seems like it’s part of your imagination.

“You two look so cute together.” You hear Francesca’s sudden voice from the other side of the table, reminding that you’re not alone. “You’d make such a cute couple”

It catches you off guard, making you glance over to Harry before shaking your head. “Oh, I mean, I- Well- We’re not- We’ve never-”

“Francie!” Giorgia - thankfully - interrupts your nervous stutter, poking her friend gently in the arm. “You don’t just say stuff like that.”

“What? But it’s true!” Francesca says defensively, “they must get this all the time.” She turns back to you.”Right?”

You quickly bring your glass to your lips, taking a long sip as you decide to let Harry deal with the situation. You feel grateful for the dim lighting of the place, knowing it will cover the undeniable blush that you can tell is already covering your cheeks.

“I mean, yeah, we used to,” he begins, wrapping an arm over your shoulder. “But that’s just cause we slept together.”

You choke on your wine at his words, making him laugh at your clear affected state. “Harry!” You exclaim, hitting his chest lightly before gazing at the amused expressions watching the two of you. “We just slept together, literally. As in just sleep. And that was years ago!”

“I feel like I should take offense at your horror,” he teases.

“Wait- No! I- I didn’t mean it like that-” you try to explain.

“I enjoyed sleeping with you. Thought it was special.” He throws his head back dramatically.

You shake your head at him. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

He looks back at you with a smug look on his face, “maybe I’m just flattered.”

You look away from him, taking a sip of your wine as you hear laughter taking over the table.

“Told you, you are cute!” Francesca says once again.

The walk back to the hotel was filled with giggles and rushed whispers as to not disturb anyone, considering Harry’s warning about the loud acoustic of the narrow streets. Your minds were hazy and your chests warm as you stumbled along the way.

“Madame, you’re home.” He says, motioning dramatically towards the entrance door.

“Well, sir thank you for your company on this dark night,” you giggle, bowing slightly. “Seems like you’re a proper gentleman now, aren’t you?”

“Now?” he questions, an offended look taking over his face, making you giggle again. “Was I not before?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Of course you were!” you bring a hand over your mouth as an attempt to quiet your laughter.

“Well on that note, I’ll leave.” He turns on his heels.

You reach for his arms pulling him back to you. “No! Stop! I’m sorry, come back.”

He glances over his shoulder, allowing you to drag him towards you. His grin was visible on his face, dimples deep on his cheeks, as he wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you in. Your laugh stops on your throat when you gaze up to meet his eyes, realizing how close you were.

Even in the poor lighting, you can still see the green of his irises as he brings his hand up to cup your cheek. The alcohol dancing in your mind making it seem like you were watching it from the outside, as you hold your breath, too afraid to make any kind of movement.

Your heart was loud on your chest. You wish you could read his mind, know his next move. His eyes looked at you almost as if they wanted to tell you something, but your head was too blurry to understand it.

You swallow dryly, “thank you for today, H.” You break the silence. “Was really nice.”

“‘F course, love.” He whispers, caressing his thumb gently over your cheekbone. “Should get some rest,” he says, “got another early day tomorrow.”

“Sure,” you breathe. “Good night, Harry.”

He leans in, your breath catching on your throat as he places a soft kiss on your forehead before pulling away completely.

“Buonanotte.”

“Gelatto!” You hold up the two ice cream cups before handing one to Harry and moving down to sit next to him on the steps, carefully avoiding the handlebar of your bike laying on the ground.

“Look at you!” He giggles, “by the end of the week you’ll be a proper Italian.”

You chuckle, “I mean, it’s not like this word is not written all over the store or anything.” you lick the ice cream off your spoon. “But I do have the best tour guide in Rome, so that helps a lot.”

“Is that so?”

You hum with your spoon between your lips, nodding at him.

“Should get his number then, heard he’s a pretty cool bloke.” He smirks, “heard he’s quite handsome as well.”

You roll your eyes at him, “he’s got a big head too.”

He scoffs, nuzzling you as you giggle. “You’re a pest.”

“I am?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Yes, you are.” He shakes his head, playing with the spoon on his ice cream before scooping a bit.

You fall into a comfortable silence enjoying each other’s company with the soft sound of nature surrounding you.

The day was thankfully cooler than the ones before, allowing you to sit underneath the sun without feeling like your skin was boiling. The light breeze helped to chill your hot skin, caused by all the cycling you did to get to the island.

“Y’know,” Harry’s voice breaks into the silence. “I’m very happy that you’re here.”

You gaze up at him, smiling softly. “I’m very happy that I’m here too.”

“No, like really I-” he begins, meeting your eyes. “Thank you fo’ coming.”

“Of course I’d come, silly.” You say, “promised I would.”

“Yeah, I know but-” he looks down at his shoes, a frown forming between his eyebrows. “‘S just,” he sighs, almost in frustration, as if he doesn’t know how to say it. “Missed you.”

“I missed you too, H.” Your eyebrows knit together - you can tell there’s something on his mind. “Where’s this coming from?”

“‘S nothing,” he brushes off, still not meeting your eyes.

“Almost fooled me there,” you say, bumping your shoulder on his softly. “You can talk to me, you know?”

“I know.” He looks at you, “was just thinking back to right before I moved. When I told you about it.” He shakes his head, gazing up to the river in front of you. “Felt like the worst friend in the world.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, “‘s just-” he begins, his eyebrow still in a frown - as if he’s searching for the right word to say. “You just were in a bad place back then, felt so bad fo’ just leaving you like that.” He admits, glancing at you. “I’m sorry.”

You can feel your heart sink as the words come out of his mouth, knowing what he’s referencing to. Your breakup.

It’s something you don’t really enjoy thinking about but still seems to come back to your mind occasionally, as if to haunt you.

The entire relationship was a mess, to begin with, and it’s something you can only look back now and realize. From the start, you only accepted going out with him as a form of distraction from your genuine feelings - to which you assume now it’s incredibly unfair not only to him but to yourself. Truth to be told, you never loved him the way you were supposed to.

But as the months went by you learned to get used to it, telling yourself that maybe with time you would forget about who your heart yearned for. So you swallowed back that ache.

When it finally happened, it didn’t come as a surprise to you. You felt like it was inevitable that you wouldn’t last. What did surprise you were how harder the aftermath would be when you learned your biggest support was leaving.

So you look at Harry apologizing for it, not knowing how to express in words that the primary reason you were a mess back then, wasn’t because of the breakup at all.

“I’m sorry, shouldn’t have brought it up.” He apologizes after your lack of response.

“No, it’s fine.” You reassure, “just haven’t thought about it for a while.”

You can feel him watching you from the side of your vision.

“It killed me to see you with him.”

The sentence makes you freeze a bit. You’ve always known Harry wasn’t a big fan of ex. It wasn’t something explicit, considering he never spoke about his dislike of him. But you know Harry. You could tell from his dry words and uninterested eyes every time your boyfriend came up, that he disapproved. So hearing him admit it straightforwardly shocked you a bit, to say the least.

“I-” You begin, but stop, not knowing how to end the sentence.

“‘m sorry, shouldn't’ve said that.”

“No. Harry-” you pause for a moment, his eyes never leaving you as you think how to say it. “He was a dick.”

“Yeah.” He agrees. “He really was, love.” His gaze moves forward, breaking the eye contact. “You deserve much better than that.”

Like who? You want to ask. Even if you already know the answer. Well, you think you know the answer.

The words get caught in your throat, screaming so loud inside your mind you physically shake your head, trying to stop thinking them. It’s that unsaid confession. The one you’ve been meaning to say long before you even dated your ex..

There’s an awkward pause in the air. One you created without even realizing, because of your lack of response. Harry clears his throat, getting up before offering one hand to help you do the same which you take it.

“We should go,” he says, his eyes still not meeting yours. “Still got to return the bikes.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

You let out a content hum as the orangy taste hits your tongue, scrunching your nose slightly at the bitter aftertaste, due to the alcohol in it.

“You don’t like it? Harry chuckles at your expression, pulling his glass back to his side of the table.

“It’s good,” you say, “Just looks like orange soda.”

Harry wraps his lips around the straw, taking a sip. “Suppose it does.”

The sound of a small boat passing by the river next you call your attention, making you gaze at it as it moved lazily across the water. You take a moment to appreciate the view from your table, feeling grateful for finding one right by the edge of the sidewalk, allowing you to look at it without lots of people serving as obstacles.

A pinkish and golden tone paints the sky, as the sun goes down to give space for the nighttime. The sound of someone playing the piano took over as background noise. The lights are already turned on though, reflecting beautifully by the water. You can see the masses of people strolling on the other edge where the expo was set up.

You were there earlier in the day, going through the small businesses and gazing at the artworks exposed on the tents.

There was a particular rose necklace that caught your eye, making you run your finger through the delicate piece for a moment before deciding it was best to leave it be. To your surprise, a few minutes later, as you stopped to watch someone plays a ukulele version of Riptide, you feel a cold chain being wrapped around your neck.

You looked back to find Harry smiling at you, muttering a shy “Surprise,” as you reach to your neck, only to find the same necklace you had been eyeing before.

The recent thought brings a smile to your face, causing you to play with the pendant.

“D’you remember,” Harry’s voice breaks you from your thoughts. “When we went to that friend of yours birthday party.”

“Alice?”

“I think so,” he says. “That party was shit.”

You laugh, “God, it really was.” You shake your head slightly at the memory. “We left after, like, ten minutes.”

“We did, yeah,” he says fondly. “Went to that petrol station at midnight to get those awful chips you like and ate them at that empty parking lot.”

“The one with the broken sign.”

“The one with the broken sign,” he smiles. “‘S one of my favorite memories.”

“Really?” You incline.

“Really.” He says, “can still picture you laughing at my terrible attempt at making jokes.” He looks down, poking his finger at the tablecloth. “Almost kissed you that day.”

You blink at him. Feeling your heart skip a beat at his confession. His eyes moving up to meet yours with a gleam to them.

Maybe it was the ethereal feeling that had settled into your mind from the first moment you got here. The one that made it seem like you were in one of those cheesy romcoms Harry loves so much. One where you found yourself in a breathtaking place along with your best friend, where you two slowly would come to the realization that maybe you felt like being more than just friends.

You tried your best to keep those thoughts away. Locking them down in the back of your mind and trying to forget they even exist. But like an annoying ich you can’t quite seem to reach, they would come back to you, almost in a provoking way, to remind you you couldn’t get rid of old feelings. No matter how hard you tried.

It was in the small moments when those thoughts came back to life. When he holds onto your waist in a crowded space so you wouldn’t get lost. Or how he always found a way to compliment you.

Or even when he’s not even doing anything, but the string of lights above you just hit his face perfectly as he looks at you with the most affectionate eyes. His thumb finding your hand over the table, caressing it so gently that brought the most beautiful butterflies on your stomach.

Maybe the wine has gotten to your head but those unspoken words weigh so heavily on your tongue you can almost taste them.

But it was a little voice inside your head that makes you swallow them back. One that screams that this has become something too important to be thrown away in a failed attempt at a relationship. Whatever window that was of becoming more than friends had already been closed years ago.

And with one look at his glistening eyes, you take a sip of your wine, deciding that those past feelings should stay in the past.

~*~

{PART 2}

#harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #my writing

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beauvibaby · 4 years ago

Text

this is what it takes - m.barzal

requested [x] yes [] no

request - I remember seeing you post about shawn's doc and it got me thinking like the song if this is what it takes.. maybe something inspired by it with barzy or something 🤷🏽‍♀️

warnings: depression, insecurities

When you met Mat, six months ago, you were in a bad place, really, and he understood that, he has been nothing but patient and caring with you. Although, personally, he couldn’t relate to how your mind would work, he did everything he could to learn the ins and outs of it, anything he could do to help. And it worked—for a while, then, then he told you he loved you, after three months, and you panicked, of course you loved him too. You loved him long before he said the words, but hearing him vocalize it, sent you into a spiral of insecurity.

Being in love, that was something new to you, true love at least, there have been guys in the past that you thought you loved, but Mat was different. He didn’t care that you had a hard time being super outgoing, he knew it was difficult for you, and he wouldn’t push you to do anything that made your mind race. But, you also knew that your relationship would become public information eventually, it was hard to keep something like that under wraps, especially with the season about to start again. You loved to watch him play, you didn’t care if it meant you had to be sandwiched into the overfilled arena, it was like you were in your own bubble watching him, he loved having you in the crowd, not only did it make him even more motivated to play his best, but he enjoyed being able to look out into your seat and check on you.

Now, you were asleep on his chest, when he had came home from practice, you didn’t have to speak for him to see that you had quite the morning. He stayed silent when he took in your wide bloodshot eyes, the way they were brimmed in red, a clear tell that you’d been crying. Mat took the few short steps over to you, maneuvering around you on the couch, laying flat on his back, pulling you into him. Your legs tangling with his, your hair falling over his chest. “Wanna talk about what’s going on in that pretty little head?” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, knowing that you always got headaches there when you cried. You stayed silent, your nerves getting to the best of you, he nodded against you. “I love you.” He added, lacing your with his, to keep you from picking at your nails any longer. “I love you.” You whispered, voice rough, his heart clenched, even if he didn’t know what was running in your mind, he felt the ache in his chest just from the way you were so clearly struggling.

He knew it wasn’t always like this, you’d been good for so long, so he wasn’t surprised that this was such a hard downward spiral you were dealing with.

His mind wandered as he looked down at your peaceful figure, your breathing deep and slow as you drifted into a sleep that he could tell you needed. He played with your hair, grounding himself, keeping his mind from getting out of hand. You smiled softly in your sleep, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was him you were thinking of… he really hoped it was.

***

The cat was out of the bag, clear as day, Tito had been hanging out with the two of you, and posted something on his Instagram story, you and Mat curled up together in the background. Instantly, both yours and Mat’s phone were going off, friends questioning your reveal. Of course, that’s not what either of you had planned. The next morning while he was getting ready for the game later that day, he asked if he could post a picture of the two of you, wanting the information to be from him, and not the way people were speculating. You hesitated, but agreed, under the agreement that you got to pick the photo, he nodded, grateful that you agreed. He wanted to keep you from as much negativity as possible, at least until the two of you were completely solid, not that you weren’t already, but he knew you were still catching up with him, mentally.

He posted the photo you picked, one from over the summer, when he flew you to his hometown to spend a week with him, you met his family, and that’s when you knew he was the only one you ever wanted to be with.

“Love of my life”

The caption was simple, and he didn’t tag you, not wanting people to have direct access to your profile, despite it being private, he knew you’d be spammed with requests. You smiled at his post, going over to him and pulling him down by his chain for a kiss. “I love you, thank you, for everything.” You whispered, you learned quickly to not feel shameful with him, about how you struggled, which that in itself made you feel a hundred times better, you were completely and totally yourself with Mat. “I love you, baby.” He sighed, kissing you once more before having to continue getting his things together.

***

You sat at the game, glass side ticket, of course, Mat had insisted, with it being the first game of his season. “Is that her?” You heard behind you, and you knew, this was going to be the longest game of your life. You adjusted the Barzal jersey on your frame, crossing your jean covered legs, resisting the urge to bounce your knee. “Could be.” The two voices continued bickering, your eyes widened as they spoke of things that they shouldn’t even know.

“I heard they already live together, gold digger anyone?” The nasally voice giggled and you felt bold, taking a glance back at them. They looked like they were living off of their parents, young and caked in makeup, it made your stomach turn. They caught your gaze and their faces went blank, you turned back towards the ice, watching the guys skate out. Your mind began to race, first with how they even knew about your living situation, secondly with how you suddenly felt out of place to be living with him so soon. It just worked out that way, it wasn’t weird to the two of you, you had been together for nearly five months when your lease was up, and he knew you hated your apartment, it was far from your job, far from him, and just utterly worn down. He offered, even telling you he’d sleep in the spare room if it was to soon for you, not that you hadn’t spent the night with him before, but he didn’t want to make you feel pressured to do anything. You’d laughed at him, pulling him in for a kiss, “I’m not going to move in with my boyfriend and make him sleep in the spare room.” He released the tension from his shoulders, kissing you back, happy that you agreed.

The figure in front of the glass caught your attention, Mat smiling brightly at you, you mirror his look, he was breaking down your walls, slowly, and it felt good. You had to admit, you hadn’t felt so confident in yourself in a long time, you were confident in your relationship with him, with your job, with the life the two of you were quickly building together.

You gave him a lot of credit for how much better you had started becoming, you didn’t have those bad days as often, he was bearing the pain with you.

Your mother had chastised you when you moved in, saying you were co dependent, but you explained to her—it wasn’t like that, he supported you and you supported him, that made the both of you better. Even if somewhere down the line, things no longer worked between the two of you, you knew he would have always changed your life for the better.

As they began to prepare for puck drop, you pulled your phone out, going to your own Instagram, changing your profile to public, you wanted to brag about him, selfishly, you wanted to be able to post him and have the world see how happy you two are. You pulled up a recent picture, from the two of you going to the Statue of Liberty, you were on the ferry ride over to it when you pulled out your phone, turning to take a photo with it in the background when Mat stuck his head in the frame, grinning widely, you laughed as you took the picture. A genuine moment between the two of you.

“A whirlwind of six months with him, but I wouldn’t change a thing with my love”

You posted the picture, tagging him in it before locking your phone and putting all your focus into the game, cheering louder than usual every time they scored. It felt good to release the worries.

***

Mat stared at his phone, shock evident on his features as he looked at your post, he liked it and left a comment of a kissy face, chuckling at the gesture. He rushed out of the locker room, pre game suit back on, he spotted you leaning against the wall, a smile covering your face when you saw him.

“I’m so proud of you.” He spoke the second he reached you, arms engulfing you, “proud?” You giggled wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. “Yes, you’ve come so far. I-I just love you so much.” He stuttered out, cheeks burning bright red, your heart skipped a beat. “I love you so much.” You told him, smiling cheekily, he laughed under his breath. He was happy that you hit this turning point, he was even more happy to be here to watch you blossom into your full potential.

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