#and not realizing I’ve been standing under the shower head for forty minutes just staring into space

[peapod20001]

Ngl man..this made me snort laughing

[luminescencefics]

stubborn love

Ask and you shall receive! Here’s a little blurb about this post, filled with an angsty y/n and an adorably dimwitted Harry. Oh yeah, also smut. Enjoy!

2.6k word count

My masterlist // read below:

***

If there was one thing about you that Harry hated, it was how stubborn you were. And if there was one thing about Harry that drove you absolutely mad, it was when he left arguments incomplete—choosing the easy way out instead of finishing the conversation you ultimately started.

It was with good cause, though. After being together for three years, the little things started to surface every now and then. And with the aid of liquor coursing through both of your veins, it was only a matter of time until a fight started.

They never lasted long. And it was usually cured by sex, but sometimes, Harry did things that drove you absolutely bonkers, leaving you wanting to punish him a bit. Like tonight, for example, when you had to remind him three times that he had to be ready by eight o’clock in order to make it to your best friend’s birthday dinner on the other side of town. You watch by the vanity as you finish applying your nude lipstick, observing how he scrolled through his phone aimlessly on the bed with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His outfit was laid out beside him, his hair still wet from the shower he had recently gotten out of, and the time on the clock read 7:42.

“Harry, please get dressed. We’re supposed to be out the door in five minutes,” you remind him, sitting on the bed beside him while you buckle the strap of your heel around your exposed ankle. He nods absentmindedly while texting Jeff about scheduling radio interviews for the upcoming album, seemingly ignoring what you were telling him.

“Harry.”

Your tone is laced with annoyance now, and immediately his eyes snap over towards yours, taking in your completed look for the first time since slipping on the black dress you decided to wear this evening. His eyes rake your body instantly, and because of the years you’ve been with him, you know exactly what he’s thinking already. But you don’t have time for this, and when you stand up abruptly and saunter towards the door, you try to ignore the pout he shoots in your direction.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he says slowly, sitting up straight and facing the door you were currently standing in. 

“Harry, please just get dressed! I promised Catherine we’d be there early,” you say tightly, giving him a pointed look until he surrenders and gets off the bed, reaching for his briefs in the dresser on the other side of the bedroom.

“Jesus, what is with you always needing to be early? You know Catherine’s always late, anyways,” Harry says in a clipped tone, shoving his long legs through the navy trousers laid out on the bed. 

“Don’t start. This is important to me, and I don’t need your lack of time management ruining Catherine’s birthday dinner that I’ve been planning for weeks.” You knew that you were being a bit over dramatic, but the stress of making your high-maintenance best friend happy was weighing down on you. Coupled with the fact that Harry was leaving again for a few months, you were under a lot of stress to make everybody happy.

“What do you mean ‘lack of time management?!’ We’re talking about Catherine for Christ’s sakes! The girl who showed up late to almost every event you’ve hosted in the past two years! I think she’ll manage us being a couple of minutes late.” Harry speaks while finishing putting on his outfit, and for once, you really don’t have it in you to argue. Because arguing costs time. And time is something you are lacking at the current moment.

Your silence is what causes his head to snap in your direction, giving you a confused look. “Oh are you giving me the silent treatment now?”

You know that he doesn’t mean it, but his words are causing you to seethe in your heels. Before you can make a comment that will cause another argument, you start heading towards the stairs, grabbing your keys by the table near the front hallway and throwing them into your clutch.

“Oh, come on! Catherine probably won’t even be there for another hour anyways!” His voice is right behind you, and before you can even think about it, you’ve pivoted on your heel, your hair whipping against your neck with the sheer force of your movements. 

“Enough! I’d like to get there before my perpetually late friend, and I don’t need you breathing down my fucking neck about it! Can you do that for me? Please?” You really didn’t mean to snap at him, but he’s been egging you on ever since you’ve asked him to get ready hours ago. 

You know that your boyfriend means well, and that he’s got enough on his plate as it is, and going to your forgetful best friend’s birthday dinner is probably the last thing of importance on his list—but you’ve done so much for him. You’ve flown out to shows, you’ve gone months without seeing him due to his demanding schedule, you’ve practically uprooted your life to accommodate his throughout your relationship. And, of course, it was all worth it—because he’s worth everything. But sometimes, especially times like this, you wish he would realize that and just do as you say.

And with one clipped nod, the nod he gives you when he’s surrendering to the argument, he reaches behind you for the front door and holds it open, allowing you to walk in front of him and head towards the car at the end of the driveway, trying your hardest to let the anger seep out of your skin.

***

You hate to say it, but Harry was right. Catherine was forty-five minutes late to her birthday dinner, and before it was over, she was already drunk enough to completely forget to thank you for putting the entire thing together. 

But you were far too proud to show your boyfriend that he was right, so instead of acknowledging the smug look he was shooting your way, you decide to order another drink and continue swallowing them down until you were drunk enough to forget how annoyed you were at the entire evening. When Catherine announces moving the party to the new club that opened downtown, you decided you were done, choosing instead to end the night early.

While you were waiting for the valet, you notice that Harry wasn’t as drunk as you were, but he was definitely drunk enough to let his hands rest low on your hips while his body enveloped yours, seemingly protecting you from the cold. His lips would brush your neck every now and then, and while you appreciated how touchy he got when liquor was in his veins, you were still annoyed at the unfinished argument the two of you had hours earlier.

“You look so beautiful tonight, baby. Can’t wait to take you home,” he whispers in your ear. You blame the shiver that racks your body on the wind, even though your insides were burning at the feeling of your boyfriend’s lips against the shell of your ear.You’re silent the entire car ride home, resting your head against the window as Harry’s hands splay against your exposed upper thigh uncovered by your short hemline. With every stop light, he would look over towards you, and you could feel the heat of his gaze every time he ogled your body in the short garment.

Ignoring Harry when you were mad at him was an entire feat in itself.

When he pulls into the driveway, you’re the first to spring out of the car, determined to put enough distance between the two of you so you aren’t tempted to let him win the argument. Harry knows this, because he knows how stubborn you can be. He loves this little game of yours that you play, and while he knows he’ll ultimately apologize to you in the end, watching the way you battle yourself with touching him and keeping your distance makes him only want to rip your clothes off more.

He sits on the loveseat in your bedroom while you rip your heels off and place them on the shoe rack in your closet. You're aware of his gaze, watching every step you take as you remove your earrings, plug your phone into the charger, run to the restroom to wash your face. His silence is irritating, but you’d be damned if you were the first to break it.

It’s once you’ve finally stripped out of your dress when Harry breaks.

“Christ, can you come here, please? You’re killing me, baby.” His voice is rough and you can hear the frustration laced in his words, and it’s enough to make you stare at him head on, hands gripping the undergarments gracing your hips, looking down at him with a stern look.

Harry does his hardest to hide the growing bulge in his pants at the sight of you.

“I’m still upset with you,” you utter, walking towards the loveseat slowly. You purposely matched your bra with your underwear, and it’s enough to cause Harry’s eyes to wander the expanse of your skin, holding back a groan at the sight of you.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounds miles away, and you can tell that your body is distracting him. He’s not even looking into your eyes, and once his big hands reach out to grab your hips and pull you down on top of him, you immediately back away, removing his hands from your body.

“No touching. Not until you’ve apologized properly.” You know it’s wrong to tease him, but sometimes your boyfriend needs a little reminder of how to treat you when he’s been a bit unfair towards you. 

He frowns instantly, crossing his arms against his chest like a petulant child. It’s enough to cause you to snort, before crossing the room and laying on the bed, your back towards him and your front facing the window.

You can hear him shuffling around, most likely removing his clothes in favor of wearing his briefs to bed. And once the overhead light is off, just the light of the moon filtering through the room, you can feel his body hovering over yours in the bed, his hands gripping your waist tightly.

“Hate when you’re a tease,” he whispers against your neck, rolling your body so that you're completely under his, staring up into his dark eyes. 

You lock your arms around his neck. “Hate when you’re a prick,” you reply back, trying your hardest to suppress the moan urging itself out of your throat when his hands trace the swells of your breasts, before settling at the tops of your underwear.

“How many times do I have to apologize?” He says, his eyes locked on your body instead of your eyes. You know that he’s been wanting to see you naked all night, and while it makes your skin prickle with goosebumps, it’s not enough.

“Until you mean it.” You watch as he swears under his breath, before moving his hands behind your back to the clasp of your bra. He’s cautious, testing to see how you’ll react, wondering if this is still a game for you. And when you’re quiet, he takes that as affirmation, ridding you of your top layer before pressing his mouth against your newly exposed skin.

You bite your lip so hard until you can taste the metallic flavor of blood, trying your hardest to ignore Harry’s bulge growing against your upper thigh. His mouth is moving lower and lower, his hands kneading your exposed flesh, and it’s driving you absolutely mad to stay silent. But you’re still angry. And stubborn as a bull.

“You know I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt your feelings,” his lips are ghosting over your clothed center, and when your body twitches under his, he takes that as a sign to pull the lace from your skin, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well you did, Harry.” Your voice comes out much more high-pitched than normal, and you know that it’s due to your boyfriend’s proximity to your heat. It’s coursing now, and Harry’s eyes flicker from your eyes to your exposed center.

“Didn’t mean it,” he’s distracted again, and before you can yell at him, you watch as his ringed fingers trickle from your navel down to your clit, before swiping against your folds. He’s testing you, wondering how long you’ll be upset with him. You’re still silent, because he doesn’t deserve you at your full-capacity, not when he’s still so cavalier about the way he treated you earlier.

When he removes his briefs and teases you with the tip, your hands immediately grip his shoulder blades forcefully, and the sting is enough to make him look at you for longer than a few seconds.

“You can’t stay mad at me forever…” he’s teasing you, knowing that you’ll eventually break. But your boyfriend is completely underestimating your stubbornness, and when he tries to turn you over so that your front is pressed into the pillows and your backside is in the air, the position that he craves the most, you clench your abdominal muscles and anchor yourself to the mattress.

You won’t be giving him that luxury today.

He says your name breathlessly, but you ignore it. Instead, you bring your mouth closer to his, before speaking instead of kissing him. “Need you to mean it, baby.”

Harry groans against your lips, his tip slipping in when you moved closer to his chest. His mind is moving a hundred miles a minute, trying to remember the exchange of words you both had hours earlier, wondering what he did to make you so upset.

You can tell that he’s thinking, and you decide to reward him by wrapping your legs around his waist, allowing him to slip further inside of you. You’re not that much of a monster.

“I do mean it! I’m sorry I made you late,” he’s stuttering and his eyes are completely blown out, and normally you’d kiss him at this moment when his length is almost completely enveloped by your heat. But he still isn’t understanding it. And you’re still mad.

“Not why I’m angry with you,” you say against the corner of his mouth, your breath hitching once he’s completely bottomed out inside of you. His brain is clouded over with lust, and trying to apologize at this moment is damn near impossible.

His hips start to rut against yours, and when he pulls back out and pushes inside of you once more, gathering a gentle rhythm, you dig your fingernails deeper into his skin to remind him that you are, in fact, still waiting for a decent apology.

Harry’s breathing your name in between moans, his lips inching towards yours desperately. He normally kisses you during sex, tangles his tongue with yours, pulls his teeth against your bottom lip, anything he can do to get closer to you. But you’re denying him of this luxury, and he’s growing more and more frustrated with each pump into you.

“Harry!” You’re not sure if it’s from pleasure or from the fact that he still can’t come up with the reason why you’re so upset with him. But once you’ve stilled under him, his eyes snap to yours, and he’s realizing then that he truly has been a bit of a dickhead tonight.

“Didn’t mean to make you late. Didn’t mean to egg you on. I know—fuck, I know Catherine is always late but that doesn’t mean you are. I know this was important to you. ‘M sorry I was such an asshole. You’re important to me. I love you, fuck baby, I love you too much. Can’t stand you being mad at me. Please.” He’s desperate, his words falling over your cheek in hot pants. His eyes dart between both your pupils, and you can tell that he needs you to understand his words. That he truly means them. That he needs you to fucking accept his apology because he’s about to burst inside of you, and his heart can’t take you not kissing him and looking at him the way you normally do.

You smile then, removing your hands from his shoulders and tangling them into his hair, bringing your lips to his. He sighs in your mouth, relief coursing through his veins. He starts pumping into you again, and you’re finally reciprocating, kissing his cheeks and his neck, whispering his name into his skin, telling him that you love him with each press further into the mattress.

And when he finally comes, you reward him with an open-mouthed kiss, your tongue tangling with his, whispering “I love you” until it settles into the back of his throat.

Because even though you’re stubborn, and even though Harry can be dim when it comes to apologies, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You love him far too much to let him go that easily, and when you’re cuddled into his chest and he’s running his fingers down your matted hair, you fall asleep knowing that you’re safe in his arms.

[i-am-bitterly-jittery]

My Best Friend’s Brother (Virgil/Remus/Janus/Patton fic part 2/2)

Part 1

Word count: 2193

Rating: teen

Pairings: Virgil/Remus/Janus/Patton (intrumoxeit?), logince

Warnings: minor swearing, suggestive language (mostly from Remus), minor contortion

~~~START~~~

“WAKE UP, THOT!” Roman startles awake as his door hits the wall with a loud bang. Remus stands in the doorway grinning at him.

“Remus, what the fuck?” Roman groans. He wants to pull the covers over his head and just ignore his brother, but if he does that, he won’t have the slight advantage of being able to see whatever Remus is about to do. So he settles for just glaring. 

“We’re going out to breakfast with all of our boyfriends!” Remus declares. “You’re going to be nice to my boyfriends, and I won’t make unsolicited comments about your boyfriend’s ass, dick, or mouth!”

“I hate you,” Roman groans. 

“Love you too, Roro!” Remus clutches a hand over his heart before turning to leave. “Get dressed or I’ll drag you there in your pjs!” He calls behind him. 

Roman throws his pillow through the open door, but Remus is already gone. Instead of chasing his brother down, Roman gets dressed because Remus will drag him out in his pajamas otherwise. 

There’s two texts on his phone when he pulls it off the charger.

From Crofters Slut @ 6:15am: Virgil Knight is a student in our year. He won that art competition last year that Remus was in. I’m surprised you don’t know who he is. 

Even with the hint, Roman has no idea who Virgil is. He vaguely remembers the art competition, but mostly, he remembers being salty that his piece hadn’t even qualified for it, and then being salty again when Remus didn’t win. There is absolutely nothing in his memory about who won, what they looked like, or what piece they’d entered. 

The second text is:

From Padre Puffball @ 7:54am: Hi Roman! I hope you slept well. I was hoping that you’d be willing to get breakfast today? You, me, Logan, Remus, Janus, and Virgil? Please? I know you don’t like Janus and Virgil, and you’re not happy that I’m dating your brother, but I really like them, and I think you would too if you’d just give them a chance (maybe not as much as I like them, but enough to be friends?) I’ll text the others too, but I do hope you come! Love Patton 💖🐶

And honestly, even if Remus wasn’t going to forcefully drag him to this breakfast, there’s no way Roman could ever say ‘no’ to Patton. So when Remus comes back, Roman is fully dressed, and in the process of applying his eyeliner. 

“C’mon, princess, let’s go!” Remus insists, but he does resist the urge to pull on Roman’s arm and ruin his makeup and possibly cause Roman to stab the pencil into his eye. 

“I have to finish this first! Logan’s going to be there and a prince has got to slay!” Roman replies. 

Remus rolls his eyes. “You just got back from spending two months sharing a room with him! He’s definitely seen you without makeup before.”

“Noooo, I woke up earlier than him specifically so he’d never see me without my makeup!” 

“Roro, you are the most pathetic thot I’ve ever met. And I’m including myself. How early did you have to wake up to be up before him?”

“...four-thirty am,” Roman admits slowly, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes in the mirror. 

“Excuse me while I go barf!” Remus giggles. “You woke up, at ass o’clock in the morning, so that Nerdy Wolverine wouldn’t see you without your makeup?”

“Yeah, well I’ll bet you showered daily while I was gone!” Roman shoots back. “In fact, you’re smelling pretty fresh over there. Did you perhaps shower already this morning?”

“I’ll admit to nothing!” Remus screeches. “Hurry up, we have to pick up Jan.”

“I have to be in a car with that freak!?” 

“If you ever call any of my boyfriends ‘freaks’ again, I’ll rip off your nipples and shove them so far up your nose they’ll lodge inside your brain!” Remus yells, angrier than Roman’s ever seen him. “Assuming you even have a brain.”

“Why you-!”

They pull up to Janus’ house forty-five minutes late. 

“I don’t know why I trusted you to pick me up on time,” Janus comments as he slides into the backseat. “You’re always so punctual.”

“Hi JJ!” Remus greets chipperly, completely ignoring Janus’ annoyance. “I told Roman to sit in the back but he refused.”

“I was here first!” Roman insists stubbornly. 

“He also called you freak,” Remus tattles. 

“I didn’t mean-!” Roman turns to Janus quickly while he tries to explain himself, but Janus just smirks. 

“Well I suppose being able to do this makes me a little bit of a freak.”

Remus doesn’t even have to look to know that Jan dislocated his shoulder and twisted his arm around his head unnaturally, Roman scream tells him everything he needs to know. Remus has to pull off to the side of the road because he’s laughing so hard. 

It takes them almost fifteen minutes to get to the cafe, which is longer than it should take to get there from Janus’ house, but Remus had needed time to calm down from his laughing fit. Roman hadn’t spoken the entire drive over, and Jan was looking pretty satisfied with himself. 

So, coming into the cafe over an hour late, it’s not that hard to find his boyfriends and the Dork (hehe, whale penis). They’re in one of the semi-circle booths with Patton sitting between Virgil and Logan. It looks like Virgil and Logan are in the middle of a conversation, which is good, until, ya know, Roman has to go and ruin it. 

“EMO NIGHTMARE!?” Roman screeches at the top of his lungs. It causes the whole cafe to come to a screeching halt as everyone stops to stare at them. Virgil stiffens, shoulders coming up to his ears and he quickly throws his hood over his head. Logan sends Roman an unimpressed look. 

“Wonderful. Excellent. Thank you, Roman,” Janus mutters, already making his way over to the others. 

“Indoor voices, Roro.” Remus nudges his brother as he passes. 

“You’re dating Emo Nightmare!?” Roman hisses, quietly enough that Remus is the only one who can hear him. “Actually, back up. You know Emo Nightmare? Emo Nightmare has friends?”

“His name is Virgil, Roman,” Remus says, not bothering to dignify Roman’s questions with an answer. “And you promised to be nice.”

“I was startled,” Roman answers petulantly. 

Remus doesn’t dignify that with an answer either, instead he ignores Roman and goes to join his boyfriends at the table. Janus has already reached the table, and has his arm wrapped protectively around Virgil’s shoulders. Remus slides into the booth next to Janus, leaving the space next to Logan open for Roman. 

“You’re late,” Logan informs them once Roman’s taken his seat. 

“Only by like an hour,” Remus replies cheerfully, grabbing a menu and perusing the breakfast options. 

“We already ordered,” Patton informs him gently. “You’re getting the breakfast sausage platter, Janus is getting a veggie omelet, and Roman’s getting pancakes with a side of eggs.”

“The sausages look like dicks!” Remus said, quietly enough that only the table next to them send him weird glances. 

Virgil snorts from under his hood, so Remus counts it as a win. 

“Charming,” Logan says, years of being friends with Roman have rendered Remus’s antics to little more than background noise. 

“So, Nerdy Wolverine, why Roman?” Remus asks, after all, that’s what this breakfast is for, right? Grilling Logan on why he has such bad taste in men? “He’s sooooooo… ugly.”

“WE HAVE THE SAME FACE!”

“BUT I WEAR IT SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOU!”

“Stop yelling!” Virgil hisses, finally leaving the safety of his hood. “We’re in public!”

“Besides,” Patton chimes in. “That’s mean! You’re both very handsome!”

“At least I don’t have a fuzzy caterpillar on my face,” Roman mutters petulantly, but any further argument is thankfully cut off by the waiter bringing out their food. 

“Thank you!” Patton calls as the waiter leaves

“Well,” Logan sighs. “After that little display I have no idea why I like Roman.”

“What!? No! Logan!” Roman whines. Logan just rolls his eyes and kisses Roman on the cheek, effectively placating him. 

“I am more surprised by you, Patton,” Logan continues, raising an eyebrow at his friend. “When we left, you were still afraid to be within thirty yards of Janus. I’m surprised you got over your fear so completely in such a short amount of time.”

“Logan!” Patton yelps, hiding his blush in Virgil’s shoulders. It doesn’t work out too well since Virgil’s shoulders are shaking from laughter. 

“Patton, I’m so insulted that you’d be afraid of me,” Janus drawls. “I was trying so hard to seem nice and approachable.”

“I’m so sorry Janus!” Patton apologizes from his place hiding in Virgil’s shoulder. 

“Don't apologize, Pat,” Virgil assures him, patting the side of his head awkwardly. “He wants people to be afraid of him. He was so happy when he realized he got a scar from flgmmn!”

Janus clamps a gloved-hand over Virgil’s mouth quickly, pulling his head against his chest to stop his struggling. 

“Nothing!” Janus hisses quickly. “Absolutely nothing. Nothing to see here!”

Virgil bats his hands at Janus’ head, but the angle makes it hard to land any solid hit. 

Remus laughs, and Patton just grabs one of Virgil’s hands and kisses it apologetically, neither of them try to help him. 

“Janus won’t let Virgil tell anyone how he got his scar,” Remus explains between giggles. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Janus says dismissively as Virgil goes limp. “Are you trying to bite my hand?”

“Kinky!”

The rest of breakfast continues… somewhat normally, of course Janus has Virgil pinned the entire time, and as a result, neither of them end up finishing their food. Roman’s determination to pout lasts all of twenty minutes, but then Janus started quoting Shakespeare and well… maybe Janus isn’t so bad after all. 

“Romeo and Juliet isn't a love story,” Janus argues, he’s still covering Virgil’s mouth even though it’s been half an hour, and Virgil has long since stopped struggling. “It’s about two stupid kids that make dumb decisions and get the people around them killed.”

“You take that back!” Roman gasps, clutching his chest as though he’s been stabbed. “Romeo and Juliet is a story about star-crossed lovers and overcoming life’s obstacles!”

“What obstacles did they overcome Roman? They both died in the end.”

“Sorry to interrupt, kiddos,” Patton butts in before their argument can get any more heated. “But Jan, do you think you can let Virgil go now? He hasn’t eaten yet.”

Janus glances down at Virgil consideringly and the emo just gives him his most innocent expression. “Fine.”

Janus releases Virgil but continues to watch him suspiciously. In turn, Virgil just starts shoveling omelet into his mouth. After a moment, Janus seems satisfied and returns to his argument. 

“And their own deaths could have been avoided if Romeo had just-”

“JANUS FELL OFF HIS BIKE!” Virgil blurts out suddenly. 

“TRAITOR!”

This starts a scuffle between the two that has Remus cackling like a madman. 

They get kicked out of the restaurant.

Well… Janus, Virgil, and Remus get kicked out of the restaurant, Patton, Roman, and Logan get told that they can stay if they don’t cause anymore scenes. 

In the end they only stay long enough for Roman to pay for everyone’s food (because he’s a gentleman… and because he’s rich, but mostly because he’s a gentleman), and Patton to get the rest of Virgil and Janus’ omelets in a to-go box. 

Remus and Janus are clearly having some sort of argument when Roman and the others make it outside, but the only part Roman manages to catch is Remus saying ��calm down Peewee Herman!”

“Patton is officially my favorite boyfriend,” Janus pouts, maneuvering himself so that Patton is in between him and their other two boyfriends. Patton doesn't seem to mind, planting a kiss on Janus cheek that majorly undermines his edgy facade. “You two are dead to me.”

“Only on the inside,” Virgil responds sagely. 

“You love us Janny!” Remus crows, outmaneuvering Janus’ human wall by pulling both Patton and Janus into a bone-crushing hug. 

A funny feeling develops in Roman’s stomach as he watches the four of them interact. They all clearly like each other, and Patton seems so genuinely happy trapped between Remus and Janus. Maybe Roman overreacted last night. 

“Well?” Logan asks quietly, slipping his hand easily into Roman’s. 

“I was wrong,” Roman answers, finally dragging his gaze away from his brother, his best friend, and their boyfriends to look Logan in the eye. Logan is giving him that soft smile that makes Roman’s heart thud. “They’re cute together.”

“Patton seems happy,” Logan agrees. “Though I do believe that, objectively, we’re the cuter couple.”

“Yeah,” Roman agrees as Janus lets out an indignant squawk. 

Turning around, Roman finds the Virgil had obviously tried to join the group hug and ended up toppling them over, leaving Janus on the ground with Virgil sprawled over his back, Remus and Patton lying in a heap next to them, all of them laughing.

“Objectively.”

~~~END~~~

Whoo! Finally finished the second part, I’ll probs post this on AO3 tomorrow

There will be more in this universe (currently working on a Virgil!centric one that deals a little bit more with them getting together

Taglist:

@royalty-of-all-things-snuggly @pixelated-pineapple @the-sunshine-dims @taylorxoxo22 @oatmealoatmealoatmealoatmealoatm @captain-otis-dante @007ardra @fandomfan315 @sophiexteresa @smolemopotato @contemplativespectrum @theyluna-womoon @queer-chair @your-gay-enby-highness @sanderssides-angst @idont-freaking-know @marshymoop @imlovethomassanders @sourshadowling @frogsandcookies @aricana8 @cute-and-angsty-princess

[heartbreakgrill]

Serious; Luke Hemmings (Pt. 1)

a/n: I cannot tell you where this came from, but it IS ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD OMG. please enjoy, there WILL be more parts probably tomorrow. (Also omg I’m dying my hair, should I post a selfie? I’ve never done a face reveal lol)

description: he came with the falling of the leaves, and left with the cold breeze of winter. maybe this time, he’d stay.

The gentle cracking of a leaf breaking under your weight snapped your eyes to the sidewalk below. Your boot-clad feet ran into another leaf, a smile pile, and a dozen subway-like cracks caused by years of distress. You looked back up, afraid to run into anybody who wasn’t walking on the opposite side of the sidewalk. Luckily, you did just in time, because you dodged a group of girls jogging at a steady pace.

Your brows drew together; They weren’t in workout clothes. You looked for fear on their faces, but they passed quickly, without a hint of what you weren’t hoping for. Your head followed them, pace slowing, as you scanned their outfits. Some of them were dressed cute, in fall outfits similar to yours, but two or three were merchandise from a band- 5 Seconds of Summer.

You stopped completely. Your feet drew you to the wall behind you, as if they knew you were going to get ran over if you didn’t move. Your mouth fell agape slightly, and your heart raced. Fingers reached for your cellphone, hesitantly opening the contacts and scrolling past ABCDEFGHIJK...

L.

A sweaty thumb hovered over the sideways call button, tongue circling dry mouth for some kind of coping mechanism. Suddenly, it was ringing, but not from your actions.

Luke Hemmings.

You quickly answered, the hand that was still in the pocket of your jean jacket curling. “Hey,” a breathless tone, a feeling of desperation.

“I’m in town. I wanna see you,” he mumbled into the line, unable to speak much louder due to who all must be around him.

It’d been a year, a year since 19 year old Luke came crashing into your world like a hurricane. The leaves had been falling then, too, harsh winds whipping through until a calm autumn Sunday recruited your attention, the eye of the hurricane. It was a one night stand, fleeting kisses and dodging eyes when a phone number was hastily left on your bedside table.

You’d called. He’d answered. And after a month of relentless calls and texts, the winter winds took his blazing blue eyes and washed them out with read receipts and unopened Snapchats.

Of course you’d fallen for him so quickly. You were vulnerable, empty at that point in your life. Now, you were more stable, but you couldn’t resist seeing him.

You needed him, craved, as if some Pavlovian affect took hold as soon as the temperature dropped below 40 and midterms wheeled themselves into your schedule. It was Thanksgiving break, now, two weeks off from stressful deadlines, so you had time.

And, God, you were so willing to give it all to him.

“How long are you in town?” You muttered back, afraid someone on the other side would hear you.

“Week and a half. Five shows, 7 days off. Free today.”

Your eyes flickered between the people passing you, the crosswalk ten steps ahead. “I have plans for lunch, with a friend, but come over at 4. K?”

“Okay. See you soon.”

You hung up, taking control of the situation in the slightest. You wanted to grip onto the wall, your body flailing through space in his head and your own heart. There was no gripping the sand between your fingertips.

You went ahead to lunch, fingers tapping relentlessly on the tabletop, your inner thigh when you noticed Sheila glaring at the rhythm. Eventually, after you’d gulped through two ice waters and a sand which, she cleared her throat. You looked up from the floor, suddenly realizing how dry you’d been the last forty minutes.

She spoke, “okay, what is up with you?”

You and Sheila had been roommates last year, still were this year, too. Only, she was leaving today to visit family for the holiday. She’d been out running errands for before she left, and wanted to see you before she wouldn’t for half a month.

Your mouth was dry already, but you swallowed again to try to salivate it. Provide clarity to your words. You shrugged, knowing how embarrassing this would be, “Luke’s back.”

Sheilas eyebrows rose high, her arms crossing over her chest. She leaned back in her chair, tongue clicking in bashful anger. “Oh, really? For what? To apologize?”

You dryly chortled, though you didn’t smile. “No. He has some shows to do. I completely forgot. I haven’t even seen him post on Instagram in forever.”

“Y/N,” Sheila reached across the table and tightly gripped your wrist. She loosened the hold when you met her eyes. “You’re going to get hurt again.”

“I know,” you shrugged. “I just can’t say no, ya know? It sounds stupid, but maybe this will provide me closure. Or maybe this time he’ll stay.”

“You know he won’t.”

Her words didn’t hit you that hard: She was right.

The last time he’d been around, he was still with Arzaylea. You were a getaway for him, his escape from the flashing lights, the public state of his relationship with her, and the screaming fans. You promised him to never, ever tell anyone about the incident. the public would hate him, his fans would be angry, and he’d lose listeners.

“I don’t.”You denied her, though it was true, in the edge of an argument.

Sheila opened her mouth to speak, and you could tell by the breath she took, that she was going to reprimand you. You suddenly reached to the ground, hand snapping from her fingers, and tugged your back over your shoulder.

“I gotta go. He’s coming over in two hours. See you when you get back.”

Sheila sat in stunned silence, eyes barely following you as you bounced out the door. Your glare stared hard at the concrete beneath your feet, more and more leaves crunching below.

Soon to be an analogy to your heart.

-

You showered when you got home, brushed your teeth, washed your skin with glittering lotions and rose-scented body washes. He didn’t deserve all of this, no, but the way he’d make you feel for the next few days did. You should just move on, but your mind had been on him for the last year, and, yes, you would make sure this would be closure.

Or a new beginning.

A knock on the apartment door came firm and sharp at exactly 4:01. You were sitting on the edge of your couch, ignoring the text messages from Sheila, and the group chat with your other friends. Your knee was bouncing and you hoped to God he wouldn’t smell your anxious sweat.

You wiped your brow before standing and moving in shaky legs to the door. You shut an eye, peering through the peephole. There he stood, in all his rockstar glory, a leather jacket and black skinny jeans holding clenched fists, pouty pink lips framing the frantic look on his blue eyes. God, had they always been that pretty?

You opened the door wide, allowing him to move in beside you. You shut it, turning to face him.

And it all came back naturally.

Luke reached out to your waist, pulling you flush against him in a warm hug. You held his neck between your arms, fingers tucking themselves into his curls, which were much longer now.

“How are you?” His accent had faded much more, but it was still there to haunt the goosebumps on your skin.

You tugged away, fingers splaying across his leather jacket. “Okay. Uh, nervous,” you shared a laugh before he moved his hand to cup your cheek.

Your eyes melded into his own, his blue pupils flushed wide open with intoxicated lust. “Don’t be. Just me.”

You pressed your lips to his own, feeling the same balloon pop in your chest. And, some time later, you were flush against the bed, Luke’s body collapsed on top of yours. Your heaving chest puffed up with each deep breath to meet his own before he rolled over beside you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, opening them as he moved his arms around you. You turned to face him, eyelashes now fluttering against his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” he smiled softly at you.

“Your hairs gotten longer,” you replied. You reached up and curled the strands around your pointer finger.

“Yeah, decided to grow it out after I broke up with...” he trailed off, “well, you know her.”

This was the first you were hearing of the breakup. Your eyes lit up, but you surpressed your grin. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

Luke shrugged, “S’okay, though. I’ve been better without her. Hell, even Petunia is happier. I got my own place in LA, living with Ash and Cal now.”

“How are they?” You asked him, letting your head falling into the cavity between his breasts.

He drew across your skin, “Good. Yeah, Ash has a girl. Kay, is her name. Cal’s still single, but he’s good. Michael’s still with Crystal. They’re living together now.”

You hummed. “And you?

His eyes met yours and he smiled sadly. “Still getting over it. But, I think this could help...”

He kissed you again. You held on, unwilling to let go until his phone started to ring. He answered it, other arm still holding you close to him.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour.”

Your bottom lip poured, moving with Luke was he sat up. He stood and began to put on his boxers, but left the rest of himself naked. You admired his chest, more defined now that he was somewhat taller and healthier.

Maybe you didn’t regret being the other girl if she had really taken that big of a toll on him...

Luke hung up the phone with a goodbye and sat on the edge of the bed. You wrapped your arms around him from behind. Your lips grazed the skin beneath his ear and his head fall back against your shoulder.

“Everything okay?” You kissed.

He nodded, “Gotta get back for some celebration shit.”

You sighed as he turned to face you. He hugged you better, forehead pressing against yours. “Hey, pretty girl, I’m not going anywhere for another hour.”

“Another week, right?” You smiled. His head rocked forward. “Good.”

“We talked about me some, let’s hear about you.”

Luke got more comfortable after handing you his T-shirt. He leaned up against the headboard, allowing you to lay your head in his lap. His hand fell in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach.

Your fingers played with his. “Not much has changed, Lu. I’m better, I feel better. But it’s still just college, work, internships here and there. Can’t wait to graduate and just travel.”

“You look better,” the hand in your hair traced your jawline. “You look healthier and happier. I could see it in your walk.”

“I got a therapist,” you giggled.

He applauded you jokingly before his hands found their spot again. “I’m proud of you. I remember you telling me how nervous you were for that. But look at you now. Beautiful as always, but happy with yourself. That makes you the most beautiful.”

Your cheeks flushed and you looked away. “Yeah, well, thanks.”

“Where do you think you’ll go first?” He continued to inquire.

You shrugged, “I wanna go to France. Or LA.”

An awkward beat passed. Would he think you were asking to come visit? Was he going to pull away then, did he still wants no strings attached?

You cleared your throat and Luke’s tongue clicked in response. “LA’s beautiful. Not as good as home, though.”

Was that an invitation?

“Australia?” He hummed at the question. “Id like to go. See an ostrich or a kangaroo.”

He laughed, “Out of everything there is to see.”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Oh, gosh, I can’t wait to go to Australia and meet Liz Hemmings! She is the real star here.’”

You laughed loudly at the joke and Luke joined you until silence took over again. You felt him shrug. “I think she’d like you.”

“Who?” Your brows furrowed.

He traced them, feeling down to around your chin and brushing the hair away from your neck. “Mum. She’d like you. You’re kind, bubbly. Like her.”

You blushed again. “I’d like to meet her.”

“I...” Luke trailed and never picked up from it.

It was nearly 9 pm now, and your eyes were beginning to fall close. You hadn’t realized how stuck on a schedule you were from college until your body relaxed completely into Luke’s lap. Your hand held tightly to his, though, fingers threaded with them.

He glanced at the clock on your bedside table, methodically rubbing circles into your hairline. His lips puckered and he leaned to place a firm kiss onto your cheek, nose, forehead.

He gently set you onto the bed, pulling the sheets out you. He tugged in the muscle tank top he’d work under his shirt, his leather jacket, jeans, and boots before tucking away his phone. He would bear the cold for you to sleep in his shirt.

Luke kissed your forehead again, causing you to stir. You groggily opened your eyes, meeting the electric blue right above you.

“Gotta go, pretty girl. I’ll see you tomorrow? Maybe you could come to a show,” Luke squeezed your wrist.

You pursed your lips and he pressed a kiss to them. “Okay. see you.”

He was gone with the click of the lock in the door and you rolled over, wide awake.

TAG LIST: @mantlereid , @boxofteenageideas @dinosaursandsocks , @ashhdaniellee95 @stephaniemelville-blog @zhangyixingxing1 @verlaneswiftie13

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Kismet {3}

Henry Cavill x Famous OFC Aliya Taylor

Warning: Plot Heavy, Slow Burn, Mild Cursing, Flirtation, LOTS OF WORDS

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Aliya is a singer turned model turned actress. Since she was fifteen, she’s been creating her empire in the entertainment world. As the daughter of a famous fashion model/designer and Hollywood director, you’d think life is easy for her, but her past has been anything but easy. Due to past trauma, she’s forever changed and no longer trusts any man that is not in her family and a select few in her team. She’s sworn off love and serious relationships and has planned never to fall again, but love isn’t something that can be planned. It just happens when it’s meant to. Can Aliya outrun a love that seems hellbent on holding tight to her, a love that is Kismet?

Note: I did something a little different this chapter with POVs. You’ll see it toward the end. Let me know if it was confusing or if you guys liked it. Also there are Google Translations in text. If they are wrong, I apologize. I hope you enjoy this. ❤️❤️

If you enjoyed this please LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!! 😘  As always, thank you so much for reading. ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

***Henry Images NOT my own**

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 

-Aliya-

A few days later, you found yourself on a flight back to LA. Usually, you’d be relieved to get home so you could shower in your own bathroom and fall asleep in your bed. Today you weren’t relieved. You were filled with a different emotion—anxiousness. Looking down, you stared at the picture of Henry in his bed with little to nothing on. You’d tried to drill into your head that you needed to end the flirtation as quickly as possible, but instead of doing anything of the sort, you continued thinking about him. It didn’t help that you found yourself looking through his pictures daily. That was what probably kept this lingering attraction to him. It had to be his looks your deduced.

Your text messages and conversations flitted through your head on a daily basis. You found yourself smiling at something he’d said or texted, and you always realized it at the most inopportune times. You doubted anyone noticed, but it bothered you that you noticed. When the plane landed, you made your way through airport security. As you did, you noticed the paps from the corner of your eye snapping away, capturing every move you made. After signing a few autographs, you climbed into your waiting truck.

The drive to your house gave you time to think about your next move. Instead of work being the most important thing on your mind, it was Henry. His suggestion was fresh on your mind. You wondered if he'd bring it up again. When your driver dropped you off and brought your bags to your bedroom, you took the time to enjoy the quiet and comfort of your own surroundings. Traveling was part of your job, and in your life, you’d seen the inside of plenty of hotels, but you always preferred being home. You felt more like yourself here.

The next hour was spent unpacking and decompressing while fighting off the jet lag. The music that you had blasting was working with keeping you distracted, and you were grateful for it. After unpacking, you began working fearing idle hands. Halfway into trying a different angle with the magazine, you heard the chime of Henry’s phone. Pausing where you sat, you waited to see if it would chime again. It didn’t, so you went back to work. 

Every minute you sat there instead of looking at the phone, you were filled with such an overwhelming desire you rush across the room to look at it. It was a desire that was new to you. It had been years and years since you’d had any impulse close to this. You thought you’d had one hundred percent success when you cauterize every ventricle that could produce impulses and emotions like this to your heart.

 As your legs carried you across the room, you realized you must not have been entirely successful.

 MSG Your Phone: How is Firefly in Studio City?

 Of course, he was still persistent. You didn’t expect anything less. Part of you had expected him to bring it up again. You stared at the text for several minutes, unsure of what to reply. The war within you waged again. You knew that if you agreed, there would be a chance you wouldn’t leave immediately. He was that charming. Deciding not to respond, you called your trainer instead, hoping that a workout would help to either distract you or help you decide.

 The next hour and a half was spent sparring with your trainer. He didn’t take it easy on you, something you were grateful for. After twenty minutes, you were dripping in sweat and fully enthralled in the workout. After a sparring match, he pushed you through a HITT routine that kicked your ass. You were certain he decided to give you the athlete routine because you’d never been this out of breath. No matter how tired you were, you pushed through it. By the time you’d finished, you were flat on your back on the mat completely out of breath, but you’d also come to terms with a decision.

 MSG Henry’s Phone: See you then.

 After cleaning up a bit, you decided to take your chances on Rodeo for some shopping. Before you got out of your car, you pulled on a hat and some sunglasses and said a silent prayer. You’d learned long ago that if you blended in, you usually would be left alone. As you shopped, you did notice a few eyes, but they always looked away. They must have decided that you weren’t anyone special because of how you were dressed. Maybe it was a good idea to shop in your workout clothes that still had splotches of sweat all over them.

 When you got home, you realized you had two hours left. That meant you couldn’t take forever in the shower, which would be impossible since you had to do your wash routine because of how sweaty you’d gotten during your workout. Deciding on a co-wash rather than a full wash routine, you saved yourself an added hour in the shower. As you stepped into your room, you saw Alicia sitting there.

 “My God, I’ve been calling and texting for weeks,” she half whined and shouted.

 “I have an explanation. My phone wasn’t with me,” you rushed out.

 Alicia looked confused when she looked at the bed and saw the phone that eerily resembled yours. You proceeded to tell her everything as she followed you around your closet. You didn’t leave one thing out. It was only with Amaya and Alicia could you be this honest. They’d been with you through everything, well Alicia had. Amaya began as your assistant and was for five years before you decided to get another so she could achieve all her goals. Now she was doing very well as the owner of her own boutique and on track to opening another location.

 “Holy Shit, lemme see.”

 You showed her Henry’s phone and took the time to scroll through his pictures yet again. You were verging on a stalker now. Every picture she went to that showed less and less clothing had her gasping louder and louder.

 “Oh my god. You have to jump on that.”

 “Leece!”

 She snickered as you shook your head. You didn’t know why you were surprised. She’d always been the more outspoken one between you. she said everything that came to mind. She also wasn’t plagued with the same tragedies as you.

 “Only you would find yourself in a situation like this,” Alicia scoffed.

 “Tell me about it.”

 “So you’re going to get your phone back.”

 “Yes,” you confirmed.

 “And dinner,” Alicia added.

 “What? I hadn’t planned on dinner.” You were sitting at your vanity, applying a lite layer of makeup.

 “It’s night. It would be a shame just to go to get your phone back. Sit a while,” Alicia slid in with a grin on her face.

 “Leece, there have been two women texting and calling him this entire time. I don’t do messy, and that screams messy.”

 “You don’t know that,” she protested.

 You walked out of your closet and to the bag that had the dress you’d just bought. “It’s not a good idea.”

 “Which is why you’re putting in major effort.”

 You slipped on the dress while shaking your head objecting.

 “I am not. I like to look good.”

 Alicia scoffed again. “Chic, please. You’re wearing makeup. I see the flat iron over there, which means you’re going to straighten your hair and probably curl it to since the curling iron is next to it. You only do that when you plan on doing those curls that make you look like an Egyptian goddess. Plus, the clothes everywhere in the closet says you were indecisively trying to find an outfit,” Alicia pieced together.

 Groaning, you dropped your head back. “God, this is crazy. I don’t know this man at all.”

 “But?”

 “I don’t know. When we bumped into each other that time, I felt this—electric charge between us. Looking at him—I felt like—like I was under some spell. It’s weird,” you explained before you sat in front of the mirror, ready to use the flat iron. “Then this week, I swear I felt like I needed a release every damn day,” you confessed.

 Alicia walked behind you and took up the flat iron and began the process for you. “Every day I looked at his pictures, and then he’d text almost every day and his voice,” you added before you groaned loudly again. “What is wrong with me, Leece?”

 “You’re horny.”

 Glaring at her you rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

 “It’s either that or you’ve met the one,” Alicia added.

 You nearly leaped to your feet from shock. The only thing that stopped you was the fact that Alicia had a hot as hell flat iron in your head.

 “The one? Shut all the way up!”

 That was when Alicia laughed, which made you grunt again before crossing your arms like a child. As she continued doing your hair, you caught up with what you’d missed in each other’s lives over the last weeks.  For the next almost forty minutes, your conversation took your mind off of what the rest of the night held for you. Before you knew it, she’d finished, and you were standing in front of the mirror, fully put together. It was a beautiful dress, one that wasn’t overtly sexy, but it also wasn’t plain.  When you got into your car, Alicia left you with a parting message. “Que sera sera.”

  -Henry-

He said seven, but he was there at six-forty-five. He hated being late. It was probably the Brit in him. As he sat at the table, he’d requested he sipped water rather than a beer. His nerves would have him going through two or three before you got there. He found himself worrying that you wouldn’t show. After going around it for ten or so minutes, he finally decided that you would show up, but then it sent him in another mind maze on if you’d stay. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been like this over a woman.  It was almost laughable—almost.

 Thankfully the table he’d chosen afforded him some privacy, which meant he could fall apart in peace. He’d never been more nervous in his life, and that included the times he’d auditioned for Superman and Witcher. He remembered his mother’s words; “Nerves aren’t a bad thing; they symbolize that something or someone matters.”

 He didn’t know how you mattered in such a short amount of time, especially since you hadn’t talked often, and you’d never spent more than one minute in front of each other. He flicked his wrist to check his Garrick watch for the tenth time. Seven o’clock. Instinctively, he looked around, trying to see if you’d arrived. There was no sign of you. There was no sign of you for the next five minutes. He tried not to be alarmed or discouraged, noting that not everyone was as punctual as he was. It was then he wished he’d ordered something a lot stronger than water.

  <With Aliya>

When you arrived, you were appreciative that there were no paps. They always increased your anxiety, and right now, you didn’t need any more anxious energy. After the valet took your car, you walked up to the hostess with young features, including kind eyes and a sweet smile. When her eyes met yours, you knew she’d recognized you.

 “Hi. Welcome to Firefly. Do you have a reservation?” You were impressed she got through that calmly without missing a beat.

 “Um—I’m not sure. There’s supposed to be a guy here. He’s pretty tall, black hair, um—built he looks like he works out, oh, and the most amazing blue eyes that you’ve ever seen,” you listed off. You didn’t want to just drop his name if he’d managed to get in without being recognized.

 “Of course, you’re the Aliya he meant,” she said with an excited smile.

 “Huh?”

 “He said he was expecting an Aliya to join him. I should have known it was you,” she explained.

 You looked around, making sure you weren’t drawing attention.

 “Follow me. I’ll take you back,” the hostess instructed.

 You didn’t move. Your anxieties controlled your limbs now.  The hostess stopped and looked at you with a concerned expression on her face. You toyed with the handle of your clutch, trying your best to calm yourself enough to move. As you followed her through the restaurant, you were pleased the route didn’t have you parading through the restaurant.

 When she stopped at a drawn closed red curtain, you took a deep breath and prepped yourself. She pulled it open, revealing the man of the night.

 “Mr. C, excuse me. Your party is here.”

 She stepped to the side and gave you the first view of him. He looked as incredible as ever. With the lights behind him, it put him in the most romantic glow. You squeezed your clutch, feeling the butterflies flit in your belly. This was not good, you thought.

 Long moments passed with the two of you just staring at each other. Every second that passed, your attraction toward him only grew, and the more your attraction grew, the more you felt as if there was a strong gravitational pull between you. It didn’t make any sense to you.

 “Well, I’ll leave you now. Your waiter will be over in a few minutes,” the hostess informed before she walked off.

 You still stood there, gawking at him. When he stood, you followed his height. He was tall, and that took your breath away even more.

 “Hi.”

 He sounded surprised and out of breath.

 “Hi,” you echoed pretty much identically to him.

 It felt like a surreal moment, one you didn’t have a lot of experience with in this fashion. You’d been in surreal moments before, but they were less than ideal. When he moved behind you to the other side of the table he pulled out the chair there.

 “Please,” Henry said ushering to the chair.

 He looked tempting and welcoming all at once. You’d only planned on getting this far. Anything past this would have you venturing into unchartered territory, somewhere you didn’t like going. Sitting in the seat, Henry pushed it in for you before he walked back around to his.

 “Thank you.”

 The silence returned, and when your eyes met again, anything you thought to say faded away. How could anyone think straight when looking into eyes like those?

“Hi, I’m Tamara. I’ll be your server tonight,” a new voice began snapping you both out of your daze. “Holy mother, you’re—you’re Henry Cavill. I’m such a huge fan,” she rushed out.

 Henry smiled appreciatively as he slightly bowed his head. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

 “Wow. No problem,” Tamara said as she shook her head as if trying to snap herself out of it. She looked successful, but when she looked at you, her eyes widened even more.

 “Oh my god! You’re—you’re—a twofer. I’m a huge fan of yours too.”

 Smiling you flicked your hair over your shoulder. “Thank you.”

 “Wow, okay. Do you guys know what you’d like to drink or an appetizer?”

 “Afraid not, we just sat down.”

 “Okay. I’ll give you a few more minutes,” Tamara said.

 “Actually, I’m not staying,” you informed.

 Both pairs of eyes landed on you. Henry didn't look surprised, but Tamara looked as if you were insane and she wanted to tell you.

 “Oh.” That “oh” was filled with so much judgment. You almost laughed.

 “Can you give us a few minutes, Tamara?” His smile must have been his secret weapon. Tamara instantly fell under its spell, smiling back at him like an awestruck teenager as she nodded her reply.

 “Sure thing,” she managed out before she walked away. That was when you took up your clutch to get the thing that brought you here.

 “I only came here to give you back your phone and get mine,” you informed as you took his phone out to hold out to him. Henry didn’t take it. Instead, he looked at it then to you.

 “Is that the only reason you came tonight?”

 You were speechless now, and you didn’t know why. Yeah, he was gorgeous, and his eyes felt like they were actual x-ray beams that were boring into you. Yes, his aura was something that was wreaking havoc on you, and his scent was just bombarding you, overloading all of your senses. None of that should have mattered. He was not the first beautiful face you’d encountered.

 “Honestly, you could have mailed it to me a week ago, making tonight unnecessary. You didn’t. You held on to it and decided to come tonight,” Henry theorized.

 “To give this back to you,” you reiterated.

 “If that was your only reason, you should have chosen a different outfit.”

 Your smile began small but gradually spread wider and wider until you were full-on blushing. He was too damn charming. It was the accent; it had to be.

 “It’s Friday night. I’m starving and have nothing to do. We’re both here at one of the best restaurants in LA that also offers privacy. Let’s stay. If after drinks and appetizers, you can’t stand me, I will have no objections to going our separate ways. No hard feeling and no strings,” Henry suggested.

 You studied him for several long moments. Slowly, you licked your lips. The action brought Henry’s eyes to them.

 “And if we get through drinks and appetizers and somehow make it to actual dinner and dessert, what then?”

 With his smile, you realized you were in danger. No man should be this gorgeous. No man should have a perfect face, including eyes and smile that would stop any war. The shiver that rushed through you had him smiling even more extensively. Looking from him, you dipped your head to gather your senses.

 “Don’t you want it back?”

 Henry leaned back into his chair and shrugged. “Eh, I’ve been without it for twelve days. What’s another few hours? Hang on to it,” he replied as he lifted the menu to his face.

 With his face blocked from yours, you were finally able to breathe. He had to know his effect. There was no way a man went through his life, not knowing his effect on the opposite sex. Pressing your palm to your belly, you tried to will the butterflies to calm. You placed his phone on top of the table to the left and your clutch to the right. He still held his menu up. It gave you a little more time to think about what you should do. The exhaustion you felt before your belly growled were the only two deciding factors. You took up your menu and scanned it.

 Neither of you spoke for a few moments. You wondered if he was also taking notice of the things you were.

 “Have you ever been here?”

 “Um—no. First time,” you answered.

 “I've been here once or twice. My friends love the food.”

 You nodded with your head in the menu. You busied yourself with figuring out what you’d eat instead of thinking about his scent.

 “You know, for you to figure out if you can’t stand me, you have to talk to me,” Henry teased.

 Peeking out from the menu, you glanced at him. “What if in talking I realize I can’t stand you?”

 He smiled again, which had you wanting to return it. “Funny.”

 You shrugged. “ I have my moments.”

 “I do have to say this before another moment passes,” Henry began. You put the menu down, giving him your full attention. He looked serious.

 “You look incredibly beautiful tonight.”

 That was not what you were expecting. Your heart was racing with just those simple words. In a second, everything and everyone around you disappeared, leaving just the two of you in the dim glow of candlelight. Wow, you thought.

 “Sorry to interrupt the moment,” Tamara softly breeched. “Any idea what you’d like?” You quickly looked away from him. Flustered, you glanced back to the menu.

 “Yes, um, a coconut mojito, please,” you requested.

 “Great choice. They are to die for here. And you?”                  

 Henry pursed his lips to the side as he looked over the menu for a few quick moments, then looked back to Tamara. You couldn’t help but stare at his lips.

 “A Guinness, please.”

 “Sure thing. Any appetizers?”

 Henry glanced at you to take the lead.

 “Uh—I’ll have the blackened shrimp with crispy chilled cucumbers,” you informed.

 “I’ll have the chicken samosas, please.”

 “All right. Coming right up. When I bring them back, I’ll take your main course,” Tamara said before she walked off.

 Once the two of you were alone, you found your hand in your hair twirling it lost in your thoughts while skimming the menu. It took a few moments to realize it, but when you looked at him, his eyes were planted on you, and that was when you realized what you were doing.

 “I’m sorry. It’s a habit I have.” Putting your hand on the table, you tried to get over the impulse to put it right back in your hair.

 “No need to apologize,” Henry voiced while looking in your eyes.

 You’d noticed it from the moment you saw him at the table. Whenever he spoke, he looked into the eyes of whoever he was speaking to. It was a refreshing discovery, one you liked—a lot.

 Clearing your throat, you focused on the current goal of the night. “So I hear really good things about Witcher season two and the Superman movie that is being planned.”

 “Oh yeah?”

 “Yeah. All the comic people are excited about you reprising your role as Kal-El, and the gamers are loving Witcher,” you expressed.

 “Does that include you?”

 “Actually, I am interested. Superman happens to be my most favorite superhero.”

 “Really, not Batman?”

 You snorted and shook your head. “Batman sucks, Superman, though—more substance.”

 His smirk was wide. You could tell he liked that answer.

 “Is he your only favorite?”

 “No. There’s WonderWoman, Aquaman, Storm, Mystique, although she lost her way for a tiny bit and  Black Panther,” you listed.

 “Aquaman, huh. I didn’t suspect that.”

 “I like to deliver the unexpected,” you quickly followed up with a smile that Henry returned. You couldn’t help but bit your bottom lip.

 “So a Guinness man, huh?”

 “Yes, of course, I’m British. I was born on the Bailiwick of Jersey on the Channel Islands.”

 “Really?” You couldn’t believe you didn’t know that. He nodded with a smile.

 “Interesting. Isn’t that right between England and France?”

 “You’ve been?” The surprise and excitement in his eyes was bright.

 “No. I just know.”

 “Not many people do. I’m impressed,” Henry complimented.

 “Is that how you know French?”

 “Yes, also my mother spoke French to me, and I learned it. How do you know French?”

 He seemed genuinely interested in the words that came out of your mouth. Usually, when you interacted with men in the industry, it was different. You could always tell they seemed to be pretending on some level. With Henry, you didn’t get any air of fakeness. He seemed like a genuine person. That was rare in the entertainment industry.

 “I went through finishing school, where they taught a bunch of stuff. A lot of it was useless like etiquette, how to sit, talk, and act as a true proper lady. How to speak, and the art of conversation. The proper way to set the table with the right place settings and what each fork is for and each spoon because that is incredibly important in life. Let’s see--,” you tapped your jaw, trying to remember all the useful useless things you learned in your childhood.

 “Oh, How to host events, the useful skill of ballroom dancing mixed with aristocratic dances. I also learned more useful life skills like languages such as French, German, Chinese, Spanish, Gaelic, and Russian. I learned how to cook, manage a budget, even how to take care of a household and one of the best things. Ready for it?”

 Henry nodded. “How to be marriage ready, so when a suitable gentleman caller comes calling, I'm ready and willing to receive him and show what an asset I am for him to marry,” you finished in your perfect southern voice.

 Henry looked shocked, scared, and confused, but he also looked very amused. His expression was enough to have you laughing loudly. As you laughed, he joined in.

 “Finishing school. Wow.”

 “Yep. From six to thirteen,” you added.

 “Wow. I would have never guessed. So you know the difference between a soup spoon, dessert spoon, and appetizer spoon?”

 You cringed remembering the torturous lessons that went on for weeks about that topic.

 “Unfortunately,” you blandly confirmed before Henry was laughing. In seconds you were laughing with him.

 You were so busy laughing, neither of you realized when your waitress came back with your drinks. As she placed your drinks down, you troubled her for a side plate of sliced pineapples, lemon, and lime wedges. While she hurried for your items, you stirred the mojito with the spoon that was on the table. When she returned you thanked her.

 “Mojito, huh,” Henry began with a smirk. Rolling your eyes, you scoffed.

 “I’ll bite. Tell me what my drink choice says about me.”

 Henry raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t say a word.”

 “I know you have a few to say. By all means,” you laid out signaling he had the floor.

 “Okay, since you you insist.” You smiled and rested your chin on your hand, giving him your undivided attention.

 “Mojito screams fun, party. It also says you’re relaxed, confidant, and adventurous. Mojito also says you have a lot of intrigue and spice. You have attitude and a bold personality. You’re not afraid to tell someone off and not afraid to do your own thing. You don’t kiss anyone’s ass.”

 It was easy to get mesmerized by what he said. There was something to the way he spoke, everything he said sounded almost poetic. You didn’t know if it was the accent or the tone of his voice, but you loved to listen to him talk. Smirking, you nodded.

 “Sounds accurate.”

 Henry chuckled, “Really?”

 “Maybe,” you coyly replied. Popping a slice of pineapple into your mouth, you smirked at him.

 “Go on. What do you have to say about my drink choice?”

 You pinched your lips because your instinct said just be blunt, be you, but because this was technically a not date/date, you felt you should sugarcoat a little.

 “Hmmmmm,” you exaggerated while pretending to think hard about his assessment. Henry snorted.

 “Guinness, my dad drinks Guinness, he’s British, and my grandfather on my mom’s side drinks it too, he’s Irish. What do they both have in common? They’re both from stuffy upbringings where boring is smiled upon.”

His laugh was loud, so loud; you knew people were looking around, trying to find it. Thankfully the curtains were drawn, giving you both continued privacy. When he quieted down, you continued.

 “You are not afraid of complex. Guinness, to me, is very complex. The taste is very harsh, which must mean you are not afraid of less than ideal situations or people. You have a political character, which includes having a lot of charm and poise. You know how to present yourself, and people appreciate that. You’re authentic and know who you are and what you want and don’t take shit getting it.”

 As you spoke, Henry looked more and more serious.

 “You also are a partier, you have to be Guinness is heavy and has a high alcohol content, and with it getting drunk is easy. That also must mean you hold your liquor well,” you finished.

 He looked impressed. You knew you were right or damn close to it.

 “Or you could just be a really great poser,” you added.

 The sound that you were beginning to love every time you heard it started up again—his laughter. Unable to help it, your hand found its way back into your hair to continue twirling.

 “Nice.”

 “Thank you. Accurate?”

 He glanced up with just his eyes to peer into yours, stopping your breath in the process. “Maybe. You forgot one thing.”

 You audibly gulped before you spoke. “What’s that?” It was a whisper.

 “I always get what I want because I don’t stop until it’s mine.” He never looked from your eyes, and that was what shook you. Man, you’d never been thirstier, you thought.

 “Good to know.” It was another whisper.

 You watched him take up his drink and hold it out. “A toast.” You followed his action and waited for him to continue. “To lost phones and main courses,” he finished. You smiled and tapped his glass before taking a hefty sip of your drink before popping the lime into your mouth right after. The increased burn tingled your tastebuds in an exhilarating way.

 “Adventurous indeed,” Henry muttered in a way that had your belly flipping.

 Keep it together, Aliya, you hammered in your head.

 Through drinks and appetizers, you talked. There never seemed to be one moment of uncomfortable silence between you. Henry spoke about how he got into acting and why he continued. You shared with him how you got into singing, then modeling and finally acting. When you spoke, he gave you his undivided attention and never looked bored. When he told a story about his family during his childhood or growing up with four brothers, you hung on every one of his words. Things were going swimmingly well, so well, time seemed to stand still but speed forward all at once.

 The more he talked, the more tid bits you found you liked about him. He definitely didn’t come off as the pretty boy he was made to be in the press. He was more than a pretty face, and you were attracted a lot more to his mind than his face. His looks didn’t hurt, though. You found yourself just gawking at each of his features. You watched his hands as they moved when he told his stories, he was such an animated talker.

 Every time he smiled, you stared at his mouth, and you took your time there. His lips looked soft. He looked like he was a good kisser. You didn’t even bother chastising yourself for the thought. What was the point? From his mouth and perfectly imperfect teeth, you drooled over his perfect jawline. If Da Vinci was still alive, you were sure Mona Lisa would be a blip on his radar. You moved to his clean and kempt hands and exposed forearms, intentionally staying away from his sizable arms and shoulders. You knew if you fixated on them, you would probably drool.

 When the waitress returned to inquire about your dinner orders, Henry didn’t speak. He sat there calmly and patiently, giving you the time needed to answer. While his body language spoke of confidence, the look in his eyes silently screamed uncertainty. Even the waitress looked to be silently telling you to stay and give him a chance. You gave your order and watched as he did the same.

 The rest of the night went by in a whirl. You talked, laughed, flirted, and teased each other. He revealed he was a mama’s boy but assured there would never be a scenario where his mother would have priority over his relationships because there would be no need. When you told him that both of your parents’ opinions mattered to you, he didn’t seem phased one bit.

 You loved that nothing seemed forced between you. After a little while, thanks to his down to earth aura, you forgot he was an actor and saw him as a normal man. The more you saw him as a regular guy, the connection you felt between you continued to increase. With its increase, his effect did as well. It was exhausting pretending to be un-phased by him, especially since that was not the case. You’d never reacted to any man like this before, your body was on high alert, and that scared you.

  -Henry-

Things were going incredible, better than what he’d hoped. You were a dream, and it went way past your looks. You were smart, funny, snarky, and honest. With each word you spoke, he found himself hanging off every single one. How could he not? He was sure you’d noticed even though he tried to keep himself restrained. The more he tried to do that; the more your personality compelled him to break free. It was a delicate balance he had to figure out. Never had he been this comfortable with another woman or felt such a clear connection to. Before, in passing, it intrigued him. Now with you sitting across from him, it mesmerized him.

 Everything you did mesmerized him. Your voice was like a sultry melody he had to hear all the time. Your laugh the one thing that had his heart racing. The way you licked your lips as if you wanted to savor the taste on them. The way you toyed with the curls in your hair dazed and distracted him. He wanted to sink his fingers into it as he gently brought your lips to his. It was an overwhelming urge that took every ounce of his energy to cage.

 He’d hoped that if you came tonight that he would have answers to so many questions he had since you’d met, but after everything he found out, he just had more questions. He thought he’d find things out that would dispel this attraction he felt for you, but he had no luck in that department. By the time the bill came, he was even more attracted to you. When he handed his card to the waitress, you protested, offering to split it instead. It was refreshing. Every woman he took out expected him to pay and never lifted a finger or raised a voice of splitting the bill after they’d ordered everything that was expensive on the menu. It was laughable. With you, it was unexpected, and even that had him wanting you even more.

 As the two of you walked out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, he breathed a relieved sigh that there were no flashing cameras. Somehow, on other dates, the paps always found out where they were even with him taking every precaution. He suspected it was always his date but never voiced it. That wasn’t the case with you now.  The valet handed you your car keys after you insisted you could walk to it rather than have him bring it around.

 “I’ll walk you,” he offered.

 “You don’t have to.”

 “I do. I was raised proper, and my mother would have my ass if I did anything else.”

 You snorted, nodded, then led him on the path. As he watched you walk before him, your curves made it impossible not to watch. You walked for an audience and deduced you were so used to walking a runway that you didn’t even realize when you were doing it. When you dropped at a car and opened it, he held the door.

 “The food was delicious. I can see why your friends like it,” you expressed.

 “Yeah, you know you’re getting when you come here. Would you come again?”

 You shuffled your head from side to side with a smile. “Maybe.”  That was when your hand found its way back into your hair, and there went his focus for the next fifteen seconds, at least.

 “Eh-em, is it past your bedtime?”

 “What time is it?”

 Quickly glancing at his watch, he spoke, “Eleven-Forty-five.”

 “Well, a girl does need her beauty sleep.” He could hear the tease in your voice.

 “You have more than your fair share.”

 You bit your bottom lip as you stared at him for a few seconds. When you looked away, he saw the soft smile tickle your lips.

 “Is it yours?”

 “I’m a night person,” he replied. You nodded.

 “What were you thinking?

 “I know a great bar. The drinks are good, and the atmosphere is even better.”

 You didn’t speak right away; you watched him instead. He wanted to know what you were thinking so badly.

 “Either you’re looking for an excuse to drink more Guinness, or you actually like my company.”

 He chuckled, “I have Guinness at home, so it’s not that,” he clarified.

 Neither of you spoke for a few moments, and each passing second he felt the draw to you intensify. He wondered if you too felt it, you looked like you did. When you cleared your throat, it brought him back to reality.

 “Okay. We can do that. Where is it?”

 “On Cantina about fifteen minutes away.”

 You nodded and turned to your car. He held the door as you climbed into the driver’s seat.

 “See you there,” you said before he shut your door.

  ~~~~~~~~

He was there first. It was no surprise he was sure he blew two red lights on the way. When you walked in, it didn’t take any time at all for you to pick up right where you left off. Things were that easy. You ordered Tequila with pineapple juice, which just furthered his notion that you were this adventurous spitfire that he was sure would keep him on his toes.

 “So you split time between London and LA,” you guessed.

 “Pretty much, most of my time is in London, though. I have a flat there. I come here for meetings mainly; then, I’m back home.

 “Which do you prefer, here or there?”

 “Eck, tricky question. I’m here for work. It’s easier here for work, but London is closer to Jersey and my family. The weather is better here, but privacy is better in London for the most part. I feel more me in London.”

 “So you’re big on privacy.”

 He took a sip of his Gin and Tonic and nodded. “I haven’t had it any other way. I’m still lucky to retain most of my privacy. I've been spoiled,” he joked as he looked at you. “I take it that’s different for you.”

 You shrugged and finished your tequila then raised your hand for another. “Somewhat. I’m hounded by the paps wherever I go except Australia. I manage it well, it’s not too bad, but then again, I’ve had some time to adjust. It could very well be a hard pill to swallow for someone not accustomed to it,” you voiced.

 With every tequila shot, you had the more of your personality came out. You knocked them down back to back, further confirming everything he’d guessed earlier. After four shots, that was when your silliness came out and the curse words. While this side of you wasn’t too drastically different than the one at dinner, he did note that you had been holding back then.

 The two of you went back and forth, speaking different languages in full conversation, and it was the perfect way he’d want to spend any date. When he turned the conversation onto you knowing Gaelic, he admitted he hadn’t been one hundred percent successful with learning it and was at an abysmal forty-five percent you outright laughed at him. He suckered you into saying something, but when you spoke, he didn’t expect to be even more attracted to you because of it.

 He also didn’t expect to let his inner geek out when he confessed his love of ancient history, Egyptology, Greek, and Ancient Rome. And technology. He expected you to look at him like he was some alien when he told you that he enjoyed building computers and putting together small technical crafts, but you didn’t. Instead, you looked genuinely interested.

 After a few hours, you’d moved to a dark corner of the back, and both of you were visibly loser and were no longer holding your tongues.

 “So if curiosity kills the cat, I guess I’m dying tonight,” he began, leaning closer to you so you could hear him over the music. You smiled widely. “Did you look through my phone?”

 You snorted and laughed before you slapped your hands to your face covering it. That was all he needed. You brought your hands through your hair and tousled it.

 “How else was I to know whose phone it was?”

 He nodded and took another sip from his beer. “How much did you see?”

 “Well—not much,” you timidly began. That was when he eyed you. Your adorable “yikes” face had him snickering. “A few pictures, names on texts, a few contacts,” you confessed.

 He nodded and turned his body to yours. “Pictures?”

 “Don’t worry, I didn’t see any nudes,” you rushed out

 “I don’t have nudes.”

 “No, just suggestive nudes,” you countered.

 He smiled widely and nodded. The look on your face said you were embarrassed.

 “Bingo,” he shouted.

 “Yeah. I promise I saw nothing after that picture,” you assured.

 After he took a few gulps from his bottle, he shrugged. “Interesting, I didn’t think it was possible for me to feel more exposed than in my Superman leotard.”

 You laughed loudly bringing the eyes of the bar patrons to which you dropped your forehead on his arm, hiding your face. That had the two of you burst into a fit of laughter for the next few minutes.

 “How embarrassing,” he finished.

 “I really shouldn’t say this, but you have nothing to be embarrassed about. No big deal, right? You’re an actor, you’ve been in situations worse than this.”

 He nodded because it was true, but that paled in comparison to this.

 “Did you look through my phone?”

 With a smile, he nodded. “I did. I fought not to, but who was I kidding I couldn’t not look. One to find out whose phone it was, then curiosity got the better of me,” he fully divulged.

 As soon as he said it, you began laughing at him. He deserved it.

 “How much did you see?” He snapped his head forward and tried to keep a straight face.

 “That much, huh,” you guessed. “I don’t have nudes, so I’m safe there.”

 “Are you sure?”

 You looked to think for a few moments. He saw the terror in your eyes, and the moment you began to second guess what you had on your phone.

 “Some pictures, contacts, texts not the messages though just names,” he said, deciding to put you out of your misery.

 “I completely get that feeling now. While I have nothing to hide, I’m not shy in any way, shape, or form, but it feels strange to have someone see me naked without me wanting them to.”

 “I understand.”

 Your eyes met, and that was where they stayed for a long while, and still, it didn’t feel awkward.

 “Look at it this way. The mystery is off the table now and the uncertainty about seeing the other naked. Been there, done that,” he joked.

 Again, you laughed loudly, which had him laughing with you.

 “Interesting view.” When his straight face returned, your eyes met.

 The draw to you almost had him leaning in to you.

 “It’s late,” you quietly said.

 “It is,” he said before he finished his beer. “Can I walk you to your car?”

 You nodded, then the two of you made a move to leave with you settling the tab before he even reached for his card. When the bartender took your card, you winked at him. You were a keeper, he thought. Once you stepped outside, he saw your shiver.

 “Oooh, it got colder.” He took off his sweater and draped it around your shoulders, which brought your eyes to his.

 “Thank you.”

 “My pleasure.”

 You slowly walked to your car, so slowly you barely moved. It gave him all the time to think of something witty to say, something that wouldn’t come off weird. You made him nervous, and it was a task and a half to pretend as if you didn’t. When you stopped at the car and turned to him, your smile was soft.

 “Thank you for staying for a main course and a nightcap.” Your smile got wider.

 “I could still stand you,” you offered with a smile and a shrug.

 “Thank god, I had a lot riding on that.”

 You guffawed, “I bet.” Together you laughed, making him not want the night to end.

 You didn’t make a move to get into your car, and he wondered if you were waiting for him to make a move. He didn’t want to make a move, and you be offended. He watched you bite your bottom lip, and it was then he fully decided you were what I he wanted and that he would make you his. You dug in your clutch and held out his phone.

 “Before I forget and we do this whole thing again.”

 He took the device and scaled its weight in his hand. It felt foreign somehow.

 “Thank you,” he echoed as he held yours out to you. You didn’t hesitate taking it, but you didn’t unlock it and look through it. Instead, your eyes were right back on his.

 “Thank you.”

 “You’re welcome,” he added before you cleared your throat again and looked away.

 “You should hurry and text Francesca and Abby back, they seem to be getting anxious or desperate, you decide. An anxious or desperate woman is not a good thing for a man,” you advised as you opened your car door.

 “Get home safe.”

 “Will do,” you answered back once inside. “You do the same.”

 The draw was still there. He doubted it would go away any time soon.

 “Goodbye, Henry.”

 This one felt different than all the others. The others felt teasing. This one felt final. He didn’t like how it made him feel.

 “See you later, Aliya.

 He was not accepting this was the end. As he watched you pull out, he asserted, this was just the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[amyscascadingtabs]

just know that i’m already home

Amy and Jake bring their son home for the first time.

read on ao3 ✨

It doesn't feel real to Amy until they're home.

   At that point, she’s nearing forty-eight hours of having a baby. Nearly two days now, she’s been a mom to someone who now exists outside of her body, but it still doesn't feel real until she walks over the doorstep of their apartment.

    The days at the hospital were a beautiful, exhausted blur, made up of trying to recover from an intense and painful event and learn her son’s signals while also seeing visitors and remembering to do other, suddenly deprioritized, things like eating and showering. Amy's certain she’ll never forget the nervosity and magic of those hours and hours spent curled up in her hospital bed just staring at their son, but at the same time, they seemed like something happening inside of a dream. Although she knows for a fact that Mac is very much theirs, that he lived inside and came out of her - she's reminded of that every time she stands up - she can’t shake the feeling that they're just borrowing him, and the hospital will make them give him back any second. When the doctor confirms that yes, everything looks perfectly on track for them to go home with their son today, Amy doesn't understand how they can just let them walk out of there.

  Still, they do. No one even stops them on the way to their car to say they don't know what they're doing, and together, Jake and Amy make it through the most nerve-wracking car ride of their lives. Not that it’s especially dramatic, or because traffic is any crazier than usual, but because in the backseat next to Amy, sleeping in the safest baby car seat all of New York had to offer, is their son. He's dressed in his fuzzy white jumpsuit with ears and he keeps pulling up his fists to cover his face even as Amy tries to adjust them, and he’s the most precious cargo either of them has ever been in charge of transporting.

They're silent for most of the car ride, stunned with shock and disbelief that this is at all happening, but at every red light, Jake glances back to exchange a smile with her, and each time, it brings the happy tears a little closer.

  They take the car seat first, anxious to get their baby home and not force him to be stuck in there any longer than he has to. Mac starts squirming in discomfort the second the vehicle stops moving, and by the time they've reached their door, he's close to crying. It physically pains Amy to hear - she gets that it’s related to the overflowing hormones, but she still wonders how the tiniest of cries can feel like a knife being twisted in her heart - and it's with some sort of supernatural speed that she kneels down the moment they're inside, unbuckling her baby from the seat and holding him close, close.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, rocking slowly back and forth when the whimpers don't immediately cease. “You’re home, baby. We’re home.”

   That's when it finally, truly, hits her.

   They are home. The three of them, a family, and from this day on, they are going to live here together. They will sleep in the same room tonight, Mac hopefully in his crib at arm’s length away from her, and tomorrow, they will wake up together. They will have breakfast, probably take-away from the nearest bakery to celebrate, and maybe eat it in bed if they're tired. Jake will go buy it while Amy feeds their son, maybe listening to NPR in the background like she loves to do on lazy mornings. They will spend their day together, packing up their things and eating ready meals from the freezer, forgetting every priority except sitting on the couch and being mesmerised by their son’s every move. Maybe Jake will put on Die Hard and insist his son needs to get familiar with his namesake from a young age, maybe they won't be able to fend off another visit from Charles and they’ll spend an hour listening to more arguments for why his nickname should be Uncle Chi-Chi, and maybe they'll fall asleep on the couch all together in the afternoon when Mac naps. In the evening, they're going to go to sleep in their bedroom all together, and the day after that, they'll get to do it all over again.

   This is their home. This is where they will start their life together.

They’re a family, and now they’re home.

   Mac still doesn't seem too happy, though. Amy unzips her jacket, trying to hold him as close to her skin as she can and rock him to calm him down, but it's clear from the flailing fists and repeated cries that something is still bothering him.

“Do you think maybe he just wants to eat?” Jake asks her, and when she looks at him a little surprised, he shrugs and says, “All the books I read said to try that first when they’re upset.”

“He fed for forever before we left, though,” Amy mumbles, feeling the tears burn behind her eyelids just from listening to Mac’s clear unhappiness. “It just seems too soon. But I guess we could try.”

   She makes herself comfortable in the living room armchair, and Jake gets her the nursing pillow from the bedroom as she tries to manoeuvre the situation, still not totally used to the motions of handling a crying baby and unclasping the hook of her nursing bra at the same time. She's still skeptical, thinking that it feels way too short from when he last ate, but it only takes a minute of slight confusion for Mac before he latches on decisively and the fussy crying is replaced by the sweet sound of a slow, content, suckling.

   “You were right,” Amy whispers to Jake as he hands her a glass of water. “He was just hungry.”

“Of course I was,” he blushes. “Or, I mean. I took a chance. I guess it was mostly a lucky guess. But, I was right, so, y’know - bragging rights.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, do you?”

“Nope, I don’t remember what sleep feels like. How are you still sitting up?”

“Hormones,” she mumbles. “God, I’m so tired. I must look like a mess.”

“You look badass,” Jake insists so quickly Amy wonders if it’s instinctive. She’s currently wearing maternity sweatpants and a stolen hoodie from her husband, she has one boob out trying to feed a baby and she knows from looking into the mirror this morning at the hospital that her nights of minimal sleep are showing. She’s certainly felt less badass, and yet Jake is looking at her with the same amount of love in his eyes as he had the night she agreed to name their son McClane. “You are badass.”

“I am?”

“I don’t know anyone else in this room who could give birth to a baby, without any drugs or medication, in a police precinct during a city-wide blackout. So, yeah. But it didn’t surprise me,” he grins. “You’re just that awesome.”

“The craziest birth story.” Amy smiles, putting down the glass of water so she can use her free hand to stroke the back of Mac’s head. “I guess it makes sense. I mean, if you think about our history as a couple. We had our first kiss undercover, we broke all the rules and slept together on our first date, and we gave a man a fatal heart attack from making out at work only in our first day as a couple. You proposed to me during a Halloween Heist. There was a bomb threat at our wedding and we ended up getting married outside the precinct. Mac just wanted to catch up.”

“For sure.” Jake laughs, reaching over to wiggle his son’s feet the way he’s done about a hundred times in the last few days. “I get it, buddy. You wanted to have a crazy-ass story, too. You know, we would still have taken you in even if you were born at a hospital under normal circumstances, but I get it.”

Amy giggles. “He just wanted to start in time. It’s okay. It makes for a fun story,” she yawns. “But the next time better be a hospital birth.”

She doesn’t realize what she’s said until she notices Jake freezing, staring at her in disbelief. “You’re thinking about the next one?”

“No! Maybe?” She grimaces. “Yes? A little. I’m just saying - some time in the future -”

“You’re insane, you know that?”

“I’m too tired to know what I’m saying!”

“We’ll see how we do with the first one,” Jake says, shaking his head. “And then we’ll decide. Either way, we are not talking about it tonight, that's for sure.”

“That’s fair,” Amy says, booping Mac’s nose. “Let’s start with focusing on our first perfect baby.”

“That I could do forever. Have you noticed how cute his cheeks are?”

“Every time I’ve looked at him in the past two days, and then again every time you or someone else have mentioned them, and then again every time I’ve taken a picture of him, and another time when I’ve looked at the picture.”

“They’re so good. I keep thinking I’ve settled on the cutest thing about him, but I keep changing my mind, because every single thing about him is just so perfect.”

“Yeah.” Amy strokes her index finger over Mac’s soft cheeks as he starts to pull away from her breast, stretching his hands out the way she’s noticed he will do whenever he’s full. “I think he’s done. How do you feel about being burped in the face by a two-day-old human?”

“Oh, it would be the greatest honor of my life, thank you.”

  Amy passes their son over to Jake, clasping the hooks of her bra back together and folding down her shirt while Jake holds their son in an already well-practiced grip, patting his back to help him get rid of the air he’s swallowed. She finishes the last sips of her water as she watches Jake snuggle his nose into Mac’s neck, breathing in the oh-so-addictive baby scent. Then it seems like he can't get enough, because he holds Mac so they're face-to-face while he presses kisses all over his son's face. Mac opens his mouth in what looks to be a yawn, and then, true to the words that were intended to be just a joke, he burps his dad in the face.

“Charming,” Jake mutters while Amy keeps laughing at his shocked expression.

“Well, I did warn you, babe.”

   Mac still doesn't seem content afterwards, though. He’s fussy, cranky, and not even being bounced in his father's arms seems to relax him as he makes tiny, jerking moments before letting out yet another upset cry. They try to see if he's still hungry, if he didn't actually eat until fullness, but that just makes him pull away his head and get even angrier. His little mouth twists in discontentment, making the saddest little upside-down U, and he manages to shatter Amy's heart with just one devastated look.

   Then she gets an idea, or maybe it’s instinct, but it feels more like a lucky guess. She adjusts Mac so that he’s laying upright on her chest, his nose against her neck and his heart beating against hers, and after one final shaking cry, it looks like Mac draws a breath of relief. Amy's hand strokes gently over his back, unbuttoning the top buttons of his little jumpsuit with green dots to maximize the skin-to-skin contact, and feels her son relax against her. The tension in their seems to melt away at the same time, and Amy feels like she could cry again from how natural, how fragile yet unbreakable, and how special it feels.

   Her son just wants to be close to her. Her heartbeat, her simple presence, is calming to him. This child knows he is safe with her, and his sudden calm in contrast to the earlier panic is the most beautiful love-letter Amy has ever received. She feels his exhales against the skin of her neck, warm and smelling like sweet milk, and for the one-thousandth time in the last two days, she falls in love.

She is Mac’s safe place, and when he lays on her chest, he is home.

“Is it nice to be home?” Jake asks her as she carefully moves to the couch with Mac, letting her husband throw her favorite soft blanket over the three of them before he rests his head on her free shoulder.

“Are you asking me or Mac?”

“Can it be both of you?”

“Yeah,” she smiles. “I think we're both enjoying it.”

Mac grunts like he’s trying to get involved in the conversation, and they both laugh.

“He definitely is,” says Jake, kissing the top of Mac’s head. “Welcome home, Mac. And you too, Ames.”

“Welcome home, Jake,” she whispers, watching him light up in an exhausted, but nevertheless incomparably bright, smile. “It's really, really good to be home.”

   Five minutes later, Jake falls asleep on her shoulder, holding his son's fist in one of his hands and drooling slightly with his mouth open. Amy sighs to herself, instantly realizing that she’ll have to wake him soon unless she wants to be stuck in this impractical position forever, but then she looks at the sight of her husband and son and feels her annoyance melt away.

   Her two favorite people in the world, sleeping on her because she's their ultimate safe place and home, and they're hers. She's home with them, and they're home with her, and they're all home in the apartment where they will begin their life together. Tomorrow, and the day after that, and then for many more days to come.

   Together, they're finally home.

[castielscarma]

Motel

Week 5, here is my piece:  @helianthus21 @pray4jensen @bend-me-shape-me Dean tries not to grimace as he walks through the door to the motel. The dark hasn't settled yet, and he looks over his shoulder, casting one last eye on Baby. He parked her near some trees and some bushes on the other side flank her, so she should be good.

He looks around the room. There's a bed to their left, large enough to fit two people and an off-brand flat screen hangs on the opposite wall. The wallpapers are not dirty and he can't see any tears. The carpet is thin but whole. A table with three chairs is cramped into a corner and he spots the standard mini fridge, probably empty.

Two doors at the far end lead to the other bedroom and a bathroom. He sighs, but he's not sure if it's from resignation or exhaustion. Probably both.

Done with the quick survey of the room, Dean nods to himself. “We didn't have to stop. Just a few more hours and we could've been home instead.” Dean drops the duffel bag on the floor and toes off his shoes.

“You couldn't drive straight and I'm tired. We all are. Tired and dirty.” Sam says behind him.

He turns and winks at Cas. “Check on dirty.”

“I don't think he means that kind of dirty, Dean.” Cas lets Jack inside before closing the door.

“I – Yeah, I know, Cas. I'm the bad kind of dirty, practically drowning in vamp confetti.” He's tried to clean himself as much as he could after they cleared the unusually large vamp nest but his flannel shirt and pants are caked with blood. Maybe Sam has a point. What they expected to be a milk-run had turned into a hunt that lasted hours with vamps swarming the place like flies drawn to rotten meat.

Jack chimes in.“I could have driven you home while you slept – “

“Nah, we're good Jack. Sam's right. And I don't know about you, but I'm starving.” He fishes out his cellphone. It's almost 10 pm. “Jack, find us some food. Something hot.”

Sam interjects. “If you're really hungry I saw a vending machine just outside...”

Dean is already out the door. “Be right back. Dibs on the shower!”

He comes back after a few minutes, already munching on some Doritos. “Fuck, these are the best tasting Doritos I've ever had.” Dean turns the bag around as if expecting to find something magical to explain the taste of synthetic cheese on his tongue.

Cas has already claimed the bed in the main room.

“It's the good bed? You checked, Cas?”

Cas stops unpacking his duffel bag. “I don't think it's necessary to engage in your kind of – “ He frowns as Dean grins and takes a few hurried steps, before jumping down on the bed.

The bed sings a creaking song until Dean stills. “Not the thinnest I've seen and no springs poking our asses. I say the bed is a keeper.” He wipes his hands on his pants and shouts. “Sammy, your bed is good?”

Sam sticks his head out of the other bedroom. “It's a bed, we're good. Me and Jack can sleep in it. I'm fine, Dean. Besides, I'll gladly hand over the bigger bed to you two as long as you are hands-off. The walls are thin.” Sam makes a face.

“Hey! We'd never do – “

Sam narrows his eyes and purses his lips in that familiar frown he does when he's grumpy – a frown that Dean thinks is secretly adorable.

“You do that look for Eileen too? Does it work? Maybe I'll try it on the waitresses, earn me an extra slice of pie.” Dean chuckles but stops short, wincing as the pain in his side reminds him of a particularly nasty kick he received from a vampire.

“Dean?” Jack's concerned voice reaches him but he waves it away.

“I'm fine, it's nothing. Just a vamp deciding they were Jet Leestat.” He chuckles softly but stops when Jack doesn't move a muscle. “Ah, come on. Jet Li... Lestat? Get it? Anyway, I don't need any healing. ”

Jack ignores him, his hands are already raised and he grabs Dean's arm. His eyes glow and Dean feels the sharp pain subside to a dull ache until it vanishes completely. “You didn't need to; you're already drained from healing Sam during the hunt. It was nothing, Jack.” He touches his side which is as good as it will get on a hunter approaching forty. “But thanks.”

Dean looks expectantly at Sam and Cas. They just stand there, and Sam even has the audacity to raise an eyebrow in question.

“Jet Leestat! Cause he kicked me, true karate-style –“ Dean swings around with his arms in a circular motion – “and Lestat, the bloodsucker in those books.” He hisses for emphasis. “You get it now?”

Nothing but crickets. Dean shakes his head in disgust and grabs another handful of Doritos. “You uncultured lot. Won't recognize fine literature.”

Finally, Sam speaks up. “I don't think Interview with the Vampire is considered fine literature.”

“I can't listen to this anymore. Shower time. Jack, you found a place?”

Jack's eye's narrow as he lists the nearest restaurants. “There's a Susie's Place just a few minutes away, but it seems to be closed. The nearest after that is Thai Jungle – “

“That's the winner. They open?”

“Yes.”

Dean is already unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “Pad Thai for me, drown it in lime juice. And I want a Mount Everest of peanuts.” He grabs his bag and heads for the bathroom.

He can hear Sam order vegetable satay as he shuts the door. The shower is not the worst he's seen. No shower curtain, thank the gods. As long as the pressure is more than a drizzle, he can live with it. Dean removes his shirt and pants, cursing a few times as he feels caked blood crack along with other bloodsucker things – he has no desire whatsoever to further put his mind on what it can be – and tosses it on the floor.

The water flows fairly well and as Dean steps under the water, the spray is hot. Almost scalding, so he turns it down just a fraction. He welcomes the heat that relaxes his muscles and the comforting feeling that follows, one of heaviness cloaking around him and with a promise of sleep.

He grabs the lavender soap and ignores the foul scent as he rinses off the dust, blood, and grime that has found its way under all the layers of clothes.

A faint draft sneaks his way and Dean turns to find Cas there.

Cas removes his clothes and steps inside.

It's cramped but Dean couldn't care less. “Soap?” He doesn't wait for an answer, instead, he grabs the soap and works it all over Cas' body. The warmth of Cas, the way his muscles play under skin that Dean's made sure to know fully during countless hours of midnight exploration, all of it speaks of home.

“Now it's my turn.” Cas leaves the soap, grabs some shampoo instead. Soon they're slotted against each other, Cas fingers digging into Dean scalp.

His ministrations send shivers down Dean's spine and what he thought was relaxation earlier now hits him with full force. He sways and leans into Cas. “That's the spot, right there.”

Cas laughs, grabs some more soap and washes himself.

“What's the hurry, Cas?”

Cas is already rinsing himself off. “I assume that Sam desires a shower too.”

Dean grabs Cas' still soapy ass and squeezes. “He can wait.”

“We don't know how much hot water is left.” Cas leaves wet kisses on the side of his neck.

“Fine, I guess you're right.” Dean grabs a towel and dries himself off hurriedly before digging into his bag. He pulls out a pair of pants, a huge smile on his face. “Eileen, bless her soul. She actually went ahead and bought a pair.”

Cas looks questioningly at him, so Dean explains. “We were just talking shit one night and I mentioned why no one had ever thought to pack for post-hunt? Everyone – and hey, I'm everyone too – are so wrapped up in the before, that we don't stop to think about the after. When the last vamp is dead, and you grab your cold beer and slip into your best sweatpants, you know everything is good.”

He pulls up another pair of black sweatpants. “Sweet Cas, we're pants twins.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Oh, joy.”

Five minutes later, Sam is in the shower. Dean can hear Sam complain about something in there, but the spray of the water and the wooden door mutes his objections. “We did save you some hot water! Not my fault it cools on the way down your freakishly tall body.”

Jack occupies one chair, watching something on the TV. “Just ten minutes tops and food should be here.”

Dean's stomach growls. “Where's the bag?”

“The nacho bag? The Doritos... you ate them all,” Jack answers before paying attention to his show again.

Walking over to the mini-fridge, Dean opens it, only to stare at empty space. “Ah, really? I know this was a fairly cheap motel but not that cheap. Not even a tiny bag of nuts, a stale cracker. A bag of forgotten Skittles?”

Cas sits down on the bed. “Why would someone store Skittles in the fridge?”

Dean shuts the door with his foot. “A smart guy. One that knows cold Skittles taste like heaven.”

Just as Sam walks back into the main room, Dean answers the knock on the door. Tipping the driver handsomely, he unpacks the food on the table. “Sweet, two wedges of lime! You want some, Cas?”

Cas shakes his head, smiling. “Wouldn't want to steal your food. I'm alright, Dean, thank you.”

Dean hands Sam his vegetables before digging in. His eyes almost roll back as the taste of the slightly spicy noodles, cilantro, and chicken hit his mouth. “Man, this is so good.” He squeezes some more lime on the noodles and shovels in another mouthful. The taste of food has rekindled his appetite and his stomach growls in appreciation.

“Dude, you spilled sauce all over the table.”

“I didn't force you to order veggies, Sammy. I'm just trying to save you, encourage you to eat some delicious Pad Thai.” Dean squirts the small package of soy all over his food. ”Mm.”

Sam stabs a piece of carrot and dips it in the peanut sauce. “I'm fine.”

The TV provides muted a background as they eat mostly in silence. Dean realizes as the worst of his appetite is sated that he could pass out right on the chair. “You sure you don't want some, Jack? They gave me a mountain of food.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, I'm good. I think I'll go to my room and sleep.”

“Nuh-uh, your and Sam's room. You sharing, kid.”

“He snores.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “I don't snore.”

Dean interjects. “Oh, trust me, Sammy, you snore.” He turns to Cas. “I can't count the times, I had to kick him while we were hunkering down in some C-grade motel, desperate for some shut-eye and he started belting out a hellish symphony worthy of discarded foghorns. Try tissues.”

Jack looks from Dean to Sam, a questioning look on his face. “Tissues?”

“Yeah, tissues. Stuff your ears and pray you'll pass out fast enough.”

Jack raises his hand in greeting. “Right... Good night, guys. Cya tomorrow.”

Sam ignores them as he dips broccoli in sauce.

Dean drums his fingers on the table and feels Sam push on his shoulder. “What?”

“Can you stop that? I'm trying to eat.”

Dean doesn't even try to stifle the yawn creeping up on him. “Eat fucking faster. “I'm beat and need to sleep. And you have a bigger mouth than I do... shouldn't you be done by now?”

“I don't inhale my food, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “Pff, I don't inhale my food. Right, Cas?”

Cas looks Sam straight in the eye. “He sucks it down faster than a Roomba.”

Sam starts coughing and quickly grabs a bottle of water. “Right. Time for me to leave, guys.” He heads for the bathroom and Dean can hear how he furiously brushes his teeth in there. As Sam leaves, he shuts the door to his room with a bang.

“Great, just you and me now Cas.”

“I hear you!” Sam shouts. “Don't forget me and Jack are in here.”

Dean rolls his eyes and mutters to himself. “Oh, trust me, Sammy, we won't forget.”

They undress silently by the muted light of the bedside lamp. Dean just drops his clothes over a chair but Cas insists on folding his clothes.

Dean sighs as he gets under the covers. “I don't know if I'm getting old, but sleep, Cas. Sleep. It's all a hunter needs to kick ass. Besides coffee... and a cold beer now and then. Angel blade is good to have, and a trusty gun. Snacks too, and badass skills. A good right-hand punch can never be underestimated.”

Cas slides in next to Dean. “Seems a hunter needs a lot of things to kick ass.”

“Nah, I just need an angel by my side, and I'm good.” Dean adjusts the covers, making sure his feet are nicely tucked in.

Cas clears his throat. “You don't need all of that though, Dean. You're perfectly fine as you are. It was not your skills or your weapons that made you the skilled hunter I know you are, but you. What's inside of you. Your heart and soul, Dean. Your determination, your will to never give up, and your determination to fight for what's right.”

Dean leans in close to Cas, enjoys the heat of him, and how close they are. His skin is like a furnace, or maybe it's that Dean always burns brighter in Cas' proximity. Cas does that to people. Brings out a light they didn't know they had, just by shining his own brilliant soul. “Cas, we're already together, no need to butter me up.”

“I'm not.” It's two simple words, but Dean feels the heaviness of them, a ring of truth that settles around them as he utters them into existence.

Dean turns the light off. “Cas...” Dean chews on his lip before speaking. “I want you by my side, you know that right. It's not like...before.”

Cas grabs his hand under the covers, a comforting thumb circling before he squeezes once. “I know that, Dean. You're not going anywhere, and neither am I.”

Dean finds comfort in the gesture and squeezes back, before nestling in closer to Cas. He exhales heavily. This right here is all he ever wanted. He holds Cas' hand in his until he feels tiny pinpricks accost his shoulder. His hand is suddenly leaden. “Alright, Cas, love ya, but I'm letting go now before my hand spontaneously falls off.”

He senses Cas' chest rumble in silent laughter as Cas eases off his grip. “That would be a shame. I put you back together once, wouldn't wanna do it again.”

Dean turns on his side and smiles as he feels Cas' heavy arm drape over his body, pulling him in close. Cas kisses him softly on the neck. “Good night, Dean.”

Sighing, Dean allows the final semblance of alertness to leave him and welcomes the heaviness of sleep. Tomorrow will bring with it a new day, new opportunities, new uncertainties. But one thing Dean will never doubt is his feelings for Cas, and Cas' love for him in turn. “Night, Cas.” Soon he sleeps, Cas by his side always.

[notyetneedcoffee]

No Secrets, Part 6

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader (???)

Warnings: None in this section

You studied Steve’s smiling face on the screen. Even though the faint dimple on his left cheek showed, his eyes held... something... that held back his normal vibrant joy. Perhaps fatigue, you thought, noticing the rare hint of darkened skin and redness. Hair damp and wearing a tight gray tee, Steve looked to be freshly showered. You wanted to see him in person, not over a video feed.

"So,” You smiled. “How’d things go?”

“Fine. No issues.” He sighed, eyes going soft. “I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.” You chewed on your lower lip. “I suppose you heard about my spectacularly bad decision.”

He nodded, growing serious. “Lot of paperwork.”

“I'm sure.”

“Lot of worry, too.” He scolded.

“I know. I’m sorry.” You looked down to the tea in your hands. Sighing, you asked. “Any chance you may come visit me?”

A teasing grin pulled at his full lips. “Feeling lonely, Honey?”  

“Lonely. Stir crazy. Bored.” You rolled your eyes before smiling. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

“Good things, I hope.”

You wondered how much you could tease him. “Oh, good. Very good. So good some of it’s bad.”

He sighed your name, blushing slightly. “Don’t tease.”

“Who’s teasing?” You giggled.  

Steve grinned, but that ghost of something returned and the smile faded. “You said that because you could tell what I was thinking, that you would be completely honest. Regardless of how long this effect lasts, you and I will be honest with each other. No matter what. Even when it’s hard.”

“Yeah, Steve, I meant it.” You sighed, wishing you could reach through the screen and touch him. “What’s wrong?”

He stared off camera for a long while, out his window, like he was weighing his words. When he spoke, he did not look back at the screen. “If you never realized what I was thinking when I was around you, if this thing never happened, would you have become Buck’s gal if he’d asked?”

And there it is... you thought. They’d talked.

“Hypothetically?” You sighed. Steve still wasn’t looking at the computer. “If Bucky approached me... if he asked me out... if I felt like our friendship could grow into a romantic relationship... and if you were stupid enough not to say anything before any of that happened... then, yeah, probably.”

Steve frowned. “Would you have preferred...”

“Steve. Stop it.” You ordered. “Don’t circle around the hypothetical questions. I DO know how you feel. I’m happy I know, no matter how it came about. So, if you have a real question, please ask. Otherwise, let go of all the ‘could have’ and ‘would have’ and ‘what if’ worries. Please.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. A frown creased his brow. “Sorry.” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “I’m tired, not thinking straight.”

“I wish I was there.” You wanted to crawl onto his lap and hold him. He nodded again. “Are you home for a while?” Steve shook his head, suddenly looking tired. Disappointment flooded over you. “What?”

“I was going to call you when we first got in, but I ended up in, ah, conversation. Then I got pulled into a briefing. Sam, Bucky, and I are wheels up in just another hour.”  

“So, no visit?” You didn’t mean to whine, but did.

“Sorry, no visit, Honey.” Steve didn’t look happy about it either. “I’d much rather be there with you.” A sly smile spread. “Now that I’ve held you, kissed you... it’s all I can think about.”

“It’s a pretty good thought.” You smiled, kind of happy the conversation had gone full circle.  

“That it is.” He laughed, and it lit his eyes.

“When do you come home? I want to see you.”

“Hopefully within a week.” Steve leaned a little forward. “I’ve got to get ready to go. Be safe, and please don’t go wondering into town.”

A harsh buzz pulled you from a dead sleep. Sitting straight up, you grabbed your phone on instinct. Natasha was calling you at 3:16 am. She hadn’t called since you left the compound. You croaked. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up.”

“The boys got hit hard. Took Thor and code green to get them out. Quinjet is forty minutes out.” Her voice was quiet, calm and clipped.  

“Their status?” You swallowed.

“Wilson is going to need surgery. Barnes and Cap both took multiple shots. We got the blood loss under control, so they’ll heal up.”

Closing your eyes, you pulled your knees up to your chest. “I appreciate the situation report.”

“Not calling to give you a sit-rep.” He voice quieted. “You should get your ass to the med lab.”

“Thought you and Tony didn’t want me in your head.”  

“Not planning on being there,” She huffed a little. “And Tony can do whatever the hell he wants. Everyone else on the team was part of the rescue. You should at least have the chance to be there when we bring them in.”

“Thanks, Nat.” You jumped off the bed. “Forty minutes?”

“Thirty-seven.” She cut the connection.  

The early hour meant the drive back to the compound went by uneventfully. The minimal staff at the compound made moving through the halls easier, too.  The doctor and three nurses met you at the med wing entrance.

‘Better not disrupt my med bay.’ The doctor extended a hand. “We were told you’d be here. Take up a place over there. The trauma team is bringing them up now. Stay out of the way until one of us say you can come up.”

The trauma team came through the doors in a rush with Sam on the gurney. A blood-soaked dressing was tied just above his hip and two IVs hung from poles on the gurney.  They went by in a blur and straight into the operating suite.  

Two more medics pushed in a gurney with Steve on it. Dirt and blood covered his body. His suit appeared shredded, bloody wounds showing beneath. His head lolled to the side, eyes barely open. He saw you and his mouth opened as if to speak. They pushed him through a set of double doors before he could.  

‘Oh, Honey, thank God you’re here. You’re here. Love you.’

They pushed Bucky pass you. His unconscious form a shock. Someone had torn his body armor off and cut away the cloth from his right thigh. One of the medics held a large dressing against it. ‘Got get his volume up. He’s lost too much blood. Had to have hit the femoral.’  

‘No. No, drugs!’ Steve’s thoughts came through clear as a shout. ‘Got to get up! Where’s Buck! Where’s Sam!’

You pushed into Steve’s room. One nurse was stitching up a wound under his collar bone, the other stood aside with a syringe. “If he doesn’t want the pain killer, then don’t give it to him.” You snapped. “Unless you’re going to help patch him up, then why don’t you go get a status on the others. That will calm him down faster than anything.”

‘Whatever.’ She left the room.  

You rushed forward and kissed his chapped lips. He sighed. ‘Love.’

“Where are you hurt?" You whispered, resting your forehead against his temple. 

“Through and though of the upper chest, left bicep, a graze on the left shoulder.” The nurse listed off, without rushing. “Broken tib-fib, but they set it on the jet so it’ll mend without intervention.” She sighed. “Cap, you need food and lots of water. Let me set you up with a bag of IV ringers at least. No reason to feel like garbage while you’re heeling up.”

He nodded. She pulled out the kit. “When I’m done, I’ll check on Sam. They were taking him to surgery.”

“Thanks.” He muttered. Squeezing your fingers, he watched her slip the needle in. ‘Ugh. Hate that.’

You smiled to yourself. He could take a 9mm bullet but grumbled at needles. The nurse moved with quick efficient certainty and left. You kissed him again. He hummed. ‘Love you. Love you so much.’

“I love you, too.” You whispered against his lips.

‘Yes, thank God.’ Steve gave you a weary smile that faded as soon as the door opened and the first nurse entered.

“Sergeant Barnes is unconscious, although they’ve stopped all the bleeding and have scanned for any internal issues.”

Steve groaned, trying to sit up. You put your hand on his shoulder. “Steve, stay put.”

“No.” Steve growled out. ‘Not letting him wake up without knowing someone there.’

“You can’t walk on that leg. Not yet.” The nurse bit out.

“Then bring a chair.” You helped him swing his legs over. “Now!”  

The other nurse who seemed to know Steve came in with the chair. Either she heard or just understood his stubbornness. “Wilson will be in surgery for at least another couple hours, but he’ll be fine. Doc just wants to make sure he has a full recovery.”

“Thanks, Kim.” Steve pivoted on one foot and dropped into the chair. ‘Thank god. Now get the hell out of the way.’

You wheeled Steve into the adjacent room. Bucky lay on the bed, stripped down. Still covered in dirt and blood, but great swipes of antiseptic circled the multiple wounds. The jagged wound across his thigh looked ugly and vicious. “What caused that?”

“Flying piece of metal. It was an old mill. I think it was from an industrial saw.” Steve said through clenched teeth. ‘Should have known better. Dammit. We should not have gone in.’

“Don’t, Steve.” You squeezed his hand. “He’ll be okay.”

One of the male nurses came in to check the readings and change Bucky’s IV bag. He and Steve exchanged pleasantries. Something startled Bucky awake. His hand came up striking the nurse across the room. He jumped up, only to have his leg collapse under him. Equipment crashed to the ground as you rushed toward him.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted, standing but not moving.

Buck’s eyes were huge, unfocused. You knelt before him, eye to eye. “Bucky! Buck, you’re safe. Sweetie. You’re safe.”

‘No! Get out! No! Fuck! Doll? Thank god.’ Bucky’s hands grabbed you roughly, pulling you forward, pulling onto his lap despite his wounds. His arms wrapped around you, face burying in your throat. ‘Breathe. Breathe.’

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” You ran your hands through his tangled hair. “You’re home. You’re okay.”

Bucky rocked you, forcing himself to breathe, otherwise calm.

‘Never seen anyone else do that. Never seen anyone else pull him from the edge so fast.’

You looked over your shoulder at Steve, tears in your eyes from the release of terror flowing off Bucky. Fingers rubbed along his scalp as you made quiet shushing noises. Bucky took a deep breath and coughed. He still breathed you in like you were the source of all oxygen. “Doll, dammit. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  

“No,” You sniffed. “But you may owe Jimmy an apology.”  

“Stevie?”

“Right here.” Steve spoke, voice think. “Sam’s in surgery.”

Bucky’s head came up. The two men stared at each other over your shoulder.  

‘Know you love her, pal. Please, please, don’t make me give this up. She feels safe.’

‘You love her so much. I see it. It’s okay. It’s not the same. I get it.’

You pressed you tear wet cheek against Bucky’s hair. “Let’s get you up, Buck. I’m not doing your wounds any good leaning on them like this. You need fluids, baby, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

He nodded. It was awkward and you strained to help him onto the bed again, but he didn’t argue. The nurse from Steve’s room, Kim, was back. You stayed by his side until she started the IV. She covered him with a blanket. “Lie here until you get two of those bags in you, then I’ll make sure you get moved back to your quarters to recoup. Okay, Bucky?”

“Yeah, I’ll be a good boy.” Buck tried to smile weakly.  

“Same goes for you, Cap.” She turned to where he sat.  

He gave her a smile. “Sound good.” Then Steve’s eyes locked on yours. ‘Want to go home with you.’  

You gave him a small nod even though your hand still ran through Bucky’s hair.  

A/N: Just one part left!

TAGS:

@asiaaisa77 / @babygurl8840 / @badassbaker / @bangtan-serendipity / @beautifullungs / @buchanansebba / @buckybarneshairpullingkink / @dsakita / @geeksareunique / @imma-new-soul / @jennmurawski13 / @jesseswartzwelder / @kiki5283 / @lbouvet / @michelehansel / @sebbuckylove / @morganhoran1671 / @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines / @notyourtypicalrose / @nova3312 / @patzammit​ / @rainbowkisses31 / @readermia / @rynabarnesrogers / @sammghgecko / @scarlettsoldier / @sebbysstangirl / @sexyvixen7 / @sllooney / @thegetawaywriter / @theneuropsychwriter / @the-omni-princess / @the-reading-octopus / @thorfanficwriter / @unadulteratedwizardlove / @vanillabunn21 / @vxidnik / @what-is-your-plan-today / @wildmoonflower / @wwe-fanfiction-queen / @sassy89sworld / @bitchwhytho / @carinacassiopeiae / @jessyballet / @killcomet / @steve-rogers-is-a-saint / @phoenixwench  

[lynne-monstr]

fic (leverage, eliot/quinn)

title: (don’t think i can take anymore) wasted days and sleepless nights

summary: Sleeping together is easy. Quinn trusts Eliot with his body while he's awake and aware. He draws the line at actually falling asleep with Eliot.

contains: mentions of violence/torture, mild sex, banter

ao3 link

In the past thirty-six hours, Quinn had been shot at, stabbed, drugged, locked in the trunk of his own car, and nearly run over twice while making his escape. Every muscle in his body blazed like an inferno as he ran.

Running on empty, the coolly rational part of his brain chimed in. Quinn ignored it. He couldn’t stop; if he stopped, he was dead, and if he was going to die he’d do it on his feet. So he kept going, the soles of his uncomfortable dress shoes pounding along the pavement in the dead of night, every sense straining for the slightest rustle of an approaching attack.

When no one jumped him sliding down a fire escape to street level, he risked taking a quick breather. On silent feet, he ducked behind a dumpster in the narrow alley. His singed leg ached, and he made a note to add ‘near escape from a burning office’ as part of the litany of reasons he was never working for Hungarian arms dealers again. Unfortunately, that same burning building also meant the police were too busy investigating the arson downtown to notice the small war being waged in the otherwise silent streets. There’d be no interruptions or distractions that he could use to slip away.

He was quickly running out of options. And worse, ammunition.

When his lungs felt a little less like they were about to burn their way out of his chest, he took a last sweep of the darkened alley and got ready to move out. Unfolding from his crouch, he sprinted for the exit, keeping close to the wall as he rounded the corner.

And ran full speed into the man waiting for him on the other side.

There was no time to curse his bad luck as they hit the ground. Instead, he bit his lip to muffle the scream as his injured shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Not daring to stop and assess the damage, he rolled, coming up on top of his assailant, pinning him to the ground with his body weight as he brought his sidearm to bear one-handed. And froze.

Staring down the sights of his gun was the last person he expected. Long hair. Casual clothes. Keen eyes narrowed in an expression of imminent violence that would send a lesser man running for cover. Despite the job gone belly up, Quinn couldn’t help the pleasure unfurling in his gut. If he played his cards right, maybe he wasn’t completely fucked after all.

Quinn slowly withdrew his gun, careful to telegraph non-aggression as he put it back into the holster at his shoulder.

Eliot Spencer eyed him for a long moment. Until finally, with a twitch of lips, he pulled back the knife poised to strike Quinn in a very private and painful place. Quinn’s eyes widened when he saw the blade was his own, pulled from his ankle sheath without him feeling a damn thing. And here he thought Eliot Spencer was the type to fight fair. The man was just full of surprises. The warmth in Quinn’s gut flared and spread at the thought.

The hint of a smile curled around Eliot’s lips, and just like that the moment snapped, disappearing as quickly as it came. Quinn stood and offered a hand.

Eliot took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “Quinn,” he greeted.

“Eliot.”

“Bad day?”

“Getting better.”

The merriment faded as Eliot gave him a more thorough onceover. He twirled the knife once, offering it hilt first. “Looks like you need this more than me.”

Quinn tucked the weapon away, happy to have the familiar weight back where it belonged. His eyes scanned the tops of the nearby buildings for movement before refocusing on Eliot. He was running out of time. “I didn’t realize you were coming to my party.”

“My invitation must’ve got lost in the mail.” Eliot eyed the angry red slash at the shoulder of Quinn’s suit jacket. A misstep he was still paying for. “Your friends don’t seem very nice, though.”

Quinn’s response was cut off by the sound of heavy footfalls.

Between the both of them, it didn’t take long to clean house. Soon they were the only ones standing amidst a sea of unconscious hitmen. Quinn would have preferred them dead—dead men couldn’t get back up and come after you again, or report to their boss about your unexpected new ally—but Eliot had knocked his hand askew when he’d lined up the first headshot, growling something about no killing. Quinn fell into line. If that was the price to pay for Eliot Spencer’s assistance, so be it. What the two of them had done in forty-five minutes would’ve taken him all night to do alone, and he might not have finished before getting himself killed.

Besides, Quinn could always kill the hired guns later if they made the mistake of coming after him again.

It had been good, working with another professional. At times like this, Quinn could maybe see why Eliot settled down with a team. Not that he had any intention of doing so himself. It had been pretty clear on the Dubenich job that Eliot trusted his people unconditionally; Quinn didn’t have anyone like that in his life. It was better that way.

For now, he was happy to hole up in a dingy motel under one of his more obscure aliases. Whoever set him up was still out there, no doubt hiring more people at this very moment, and until Quinn’s contacts came back with more information, he was happy to wait it out in relative safety. His next move was going to depend on whether this was an independent hit or if his employer had double-crossed him. He suspected the latter.

After double checking the room’s only door and window, he shrugged out of his jacket, hissing through his teeth as the motion reopened the wound in his shoulder. He fumbled at his tie one-handed. His shirt followed shortly after, landing in a heap on the bed beside the rest. The slight chill in the room prickled at his skin, one more item on the list of discomforts he was ignoring.

“Still here, huh?” he asked the silent figure by the window.

Once all the hired guns were too busy napping to run amok in the city streets, he half-expected Eliot to bail. Instead, he’d stuck close, watching Quinn’s back as he picked up shell casings, rifled through his assailants’ pockets, and finally holed up for the night. He couldn’t quite decipher if the other hitter was being friendly, weirdly protective of Quinn’s injured state, or if he figured out that Quinn had half a mind to break into the local police station and make sure all the hired thugs they’d taken down reached a more permanent end.

Whatever the reason, Eliot was still here, peering steadily through a crack in the window curtains. Quinn wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or annoyed. Instead he asked, “You staying all night?”

Eliot spared Quinn a glance before going back to his vigil of the street. “Got nowhere else to be.”

Quinn rubbed at his bare arms and settled for mildly grateful but cautious. “Thought your team would be waiting for you or something.”

“We ain’t all joined at the hip, you know,” Eliot answered, a thread of affection buried under the gruffness. “I like to head on out every once in a while. Wasn’t expecting to run into a street war on my time off.”

“Looks like I owe you the favor, then.” Normally, Quinn resisted the idea of being in debt, but he couldn’t deny the flush of warmth at the thought of Eliot Spencer calling on him sometime down the line. Quinn had always been a little bit of an idiot for a pretty face.

He was halfway through a shrug before thinking better of it. His shoulder was a raw mass of pain now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Every breath felt like a red-hot lance through the wound.

“Want me to take a look at that?” Eliot asked, correctly reading the pinched lines of his face.

Quinn paused, already halfway to the tiny bathroom. It was barely more than a toilet and a shower, both of which had seen better days, but it had running water and that was enough. “I’ve got it.”

“Gonna be a bitch to stitch that up one handed.”

“Yet somehow I always manage.”

Eliot shrugged, not turning away from his post. “Suit yourself, man. Give a holler if you change your mind.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. Twenty minutes later, sitting hunched on the dirty toilet seat and trying to tie off a knot with one hand and his teeth, he was maybe beginning to regret not taking Eliot up on his offer. Pausing to catch his breath, he cursed the wound, this job, his (probably) turncoat of an employer, and everything in between. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heart, which almost stopped as a silhouette suddenly filled the tiny bathroom doorframe. His hand was at his hip for a gun he wasn’t carrying before he recognized it as Eliot.

Quinn frowned. “Who’s watching the street?”

“If they haven’t showed by now they aren't coming.”

“Or they’re waiting for us to get complacent.”

“Then stop screwing around and get out here. You can watch the street while I fix this mess you call stitches.”

“They’re functional,” Quinn protested. “Doesn’t have to win any knitting awards.”

“Functional, huh? If that’s what you’re calling that mess, I’m gonna have to seriously reevaluate what I think of your skillset.” Eliot huffed and shook his head, then swiped an errant strand of hair from his eyes. “I won’t even count how that’s so far from pretty, it makes ugly look good. Come on, Huckleberry, let me patch you up.”

Using the dumb nickname Quinn had thrown out in a moment of adrenaline-fueled weakness wasn’t playing fair. But he was too tired to keep arguing, and so he let Eliot lead him back to the pair of armchairs by the room’s only window, perfectly angled as to be out of sight from any outside observers.

He kept his eyes trained on the crack in the window while Eliot hovered over him and fixed up his stitches in the dim light filtering in from the street lamps. The scratchy fabric of the chair itched against his bare back, and he focused on that rather than the unpleasant pinch and pull of his shoulder being mended. Eliot’s hands were hot on his skin and despite the pain, Quinn found himself relaxing.

When it was done, Eliot cleaned the blood from Quinn’s shoulder with a scratchy hotel towel and went to wash his hands while Quinn redressed in his soiled shirt and jacket. “Get some sleep. I’ll take first watch,” he offered when he was done, settling back into the hideously ugly chair by the edge of the window.

Quinn laughed. “Real cute.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Eliot to guard them both. Hell, he had no problem with Eliot keeping guard while he’d been cleaning up in the bathroom. But there was a world of difference between letting someone have your back while you were all there, and trusting someone to watch over you while you were slow and heavy with sleep.

The only person Quinn trusted like that was himself. He didn’t need to say it out loud, though. The look in Eliot’s eyes said he understood just fine.

What was left of the night passed in mutual silence, both of them on guard against the world.

Their patience paid off. Right before sunup, they both jerked to attention, noticing the same movement in the orange rays of early morning light. If whoever was creeping towards their room was expecting them to be caught off guard, they were in for a nasty surprise.

Quinn grinned like a shark and reached for his gun.

When none of their assailants were left standing (shot in the knee, courtesy of Quinn, and handed over to the federal authorities, courtesy of Eliot over Quinn’s fervent objections) all that adrenaline building since the previous night only had one place to go.

Looking back, he wasn’t sure who made the first move, him or Eliot. But it ended up with them back at Eliot’s place, their hands in each other’s hair and their mouths crushed together as they fell into bed. Casual touches and play-fighting quickly turned into something more heated and deliberate. Soon enough, Quinn found himself without his clothes and his weapons, Eliot’s teeth grazing his throat and his rough hands pinching along his inner thighs. Blunt nails raked down his stomach and Quinn arched up into it for more. And how delightful to discover firsthand that Eliot’s gravel-rough voice got ever rougher when Quinn held him down and kept him writhing on the edge.

When it was all over, they were tangled together across the dark blue sheets of Eliot’s safe house, struggling to catch their breath. Quinn felt his eyes grow heavy as the past couple days finally caught up with him. And that’s where he drew the line. Sleeping with Eliot was one thing; actual sleeping was a line he wasn’t willing to cross.

Not with Eliot, not with anyone. He’d learned that one the hard way.

“You leaving?”

Quinn paused with one leg in his suit pants and bit down the sarcastic reply about Eliot’s keen observation skills. He was almost surprised to find that his smile was genuine. “Thanks for the good time.”

Eliot nodded and Quinn finished redressing. He headed for the door, but Eliot’s voice stopped him as he was about to walk out.

“I’m too wired to sleep. Thought I’d make some coffee. Maybe check on the tomatoes in the garden. You’re welcome to stay for a cup.” Not bothering to wait for answer, he rolled out of bed and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the large wooden dresser in the corner. He didn’t bother with a shirt and Quinn allowed himself a moment to appreciate the view.

He could picture the scene as clear as day. Lounging on the couch in borrowed sweatpants that weren’t quite long enough to reach his ankles. Sipping coffee and watching Eliot work shirtless on the back patio, the late afternoon sun washing warm across the naked skin of his back and highlighting his hair with gold. Pulling Eliot down on top of him afterwards until they were both sweaty and sated all over again. Falling asleep in his bed.

He should go. That much was obvious. Working with Eliot on business, indulging in sex with Eliot—that was all standard fare. Practically a perk of the job. But this? An invitation to stay in each other’s company like they were anything other than sort-of colleagues and occasional allies.

Now that was dangerous.

For all the dark rumors of his past, Eliot was a bonafide good guy now. How long until he remembered that Quinn was still taking the kinds of jobs he’d long since washed his hands of. As much as he liked the guy and could rely on him to have his back on a job or against a mutual enemy, Quinn could never fully trust him. He would be an idiot to forget that.

So, he shook his head and locked away the sliver of regret that slipped past his defenses. “Maybe next time,” he lied, straightening his tie so he wouldn’t have to look Eliot in the eye.

(The next several times they fell into bed—a combination of planned meets and one uncomfortable instance when they’d both been trailing the same mark—Eliot never repeated his offer to stay afterwards.

Quinn was grateful for it.)

Quinn liked working the occasional job for Eliot and his strange team. There were several reasons, but it all boiled down to three main things.

The first being that it was a nice change not to worry about being double-crossed when it came time to collect his fee. Not that he couldn’t handle that kind of trouble when it happened (“The perils of being a freelancer,” he’d told the last person to try that on him, right before putting a bullet in his head), or that he didn’t still plan for it, but it was like a little vacation to be able to wrap up a job without any dramatics. Quinn liked clean and tiny.

Second was that Eliot never asked for more than Quinn was physically capable of delivering. He was good at what he did, but even he’d go down if someone threw enough armed men his way. It worried him sometimes just how well Eliot knew his strength and his limits, but he consoled himself with the fact that his knowledge of Eliot ran just as deep.

Last and most fun was what Quinn considered his personal bonus of a job well done. Namely, that Eliot was great in bed.

They were at the safe house Quinn had procured for the week, celebrating the successful completion of doing bad things for a good cause. Quinn, his bank account newly full and wearing nothing but a smile, dangled the cuffs Eliot had pretended to slap onto him earlier as part of the con they’d run. “Looks like it’s finally my turn to put these to good use.”

“Nice try,” Eliot said, grabbing the cuffs and casually dropping them over the side of the bed. “Not gonna happen.”

Quinn pouted. He didn’t think Eliot was going to go for it but it was worth a try. With a dirty smile, he shifted his hips where he straddled Eliot’s lap on the bed. The friction made them both groan, so Quinn did it again, watching the tension slide from Eliot’s face as pleasure took its place.

“I let you put them on me,” Quinn countered, hands sliding along the sweat-slick skin of Eliot’s chest.

Eliot caught his hands. “And I didn’t lock them tight enough to keep you from slipping free.” His fingers clamped down on Quinn’s wrists. Like the cuffs from earlier, they weren’t nearly tight enough to keep him contained if he chose otherwise.

He didn’t choose otherwise. He did, however, concede the point.

Eliot slid his hands up Quinn’s arms, lacing his fingers together behind Quinn’s neck to pull him down. It was easy to let himself be reeled in, to let Eliot flip their positions in a move that was telegraphed slowly enough that Quinn could have countered it any time he wanted.

(Again, he didn’t.)

There was a fine line between fantasy and accidentally triggering the defensive actions Quinn had spent the better part of his life honing. Eliot rode that line with the same skill he did everything else, pinning Quinn with enough force to be real but not enough to make him feel trapped. It was nice, the weight of Eliot pressing heavy on his limbs. There weren’t very many people capable of keeping him down if he didn’t want to be down but Eliot had more than a passing shot of making it happen. He’d done it before, back when they weren’t anything more than two hitters on opposite ends of a job.

A rush of heat raced down Quinn’s spine and he grabbed a fistful of Eliot’s loose hair, arching his hips up until they were pressed together from head to toe. Eliot slipped a leg between Quinn’s, fanning the spark of heat into a raging fire until it was all he could think about.

Six hours later, in a business class seat somewhere over the Pacific, Quinn set aside the last lingering thoughts of Eliot Spencer and got his head back in the game.

There was someone in his hotel room.

Quinn had a fair idea who it was (he practically sent an engraved invitation, after all) but that was no reason to be stupid. All hitters came to end in an some kind of ugly fashion and Quinn had made his peace with that, but when it happened to him it wasn’t going to be because he was stupid.

Silently, he pulled his backup gun from the small of his back. Taking a last look down the hall to ensure he was alone, he opened the door with the electronic keycard, ducked, and burst into the room gun first.

The precaution was unnecessary.

“No word from you in months and this is the greeting I get? I’m beginning to think you don’t like me anymore.” Eliot detached himself from where he was pressed up against the far corner, partially hidden by the faux cherry wood armoire holding the room’s entertainment center. He gestured towards Quinn and the gun, the muzzle now pointing at the floor.

“Worried I don’t like you anymore? Do I need to check a box for yes or no and pass the note back?”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Were you always this juvenile or is it a recent development?”

“You bring out the best in me.”

Setting aside the handgun on the nearest bedside table, Quinn carefully shrugged out of his worn leather jacket. It felt a little strange to not be wearing the suit around Eliot, but he wasn’t here for a job so there was no need to dress the part. He winced as the movement pulled at his back, quickly hiding it behind a lazy grin.

Narrowed eyes appraised him from head to toe and Quinn stilled. It was instinctive. Never let anyone know where the weak spots were. Any known injury could be used against you in a fight. It was a dumb thing to stick to in front of a guy he planned on getting naked with pretty soon, but Quinn never claimed not to be a creature of habit.

Eliot straightened, gaze turning leering and playful as he shook his hair out of his face. “I like the new outfit. Not a bad look on you.”

It was a safe topic, and as a close to an outright declaration that Eliot wasn’t going to press for details.

The knot between Quinn’s shoulder blades eased and he let his arms relax at his sides. Pushing the dark thoughts from his mind, he started unbuttoning his shirt. “I didn’t come here for fashion tips.”

“Well then,” Eliot drawled, stepping into his space and brushing Quinn’s hands aside to finish the job himself. “That’s good ‘cause I didn’t come here to give them.”

He never could figure out how much of Eliot’s midwestern charm was affectation verses actual upbringing. But as those rough hands swept over his chest with each opened button, he decided that he didn’t much care either way. Taking full advantage of his hands being unoccupied, he quickly fumbled Eliot’s belt open, popping every damn button on his inconvenient button fly jeans on his way downward.

They moved to the bed by unspoken agreement, hands scrabbling to cast aside the last of their clothes, mouths hot on each other’s skin. Fuck, he’d missed this. Well, he’d missed a lot of things these past several months, but he’d really missed this.

He’d missed Eliot’s broad hands pressing into the dip of his hips to hold him down, and the taste of his skin when Quinn traced lines into the muscles of Eliot’s stomach with his tongue. He’d almost forgot how It felt to press Eliot’s legs apart and take him into his mouth, watching beneath his lashes as Eliot fisted one hand into the sheets and the other into Quinn’s ponytail. He missed coming apart under someone’s hands in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with heat and desire.

Eliot didn’t say anything about the new marks on Quinn’s skin save for how he meticulously avoided digging his fingers into those particular spots. There was nothing to say; they both knew the risks of their occupation. Not every fight was a win.

Losing a fight was the last thing on Quinn’s mind as he finally pressed inside the heat of Eliot’s body. Beneath him, Eliot’s breath hitched and his legs wrapped tighter around Quinn’s waist, drawing him in further.

“Come on,” Eliot growled, pushing himself forward to bite at Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn licked his lips and obliged, happy to lose himself in this for the time being.

Once they’d cleaned up and got comfortable under the duvet, Quinn trailed a lazy hand down Eliot’s arm. “How’d you know I’d be passing through here?” Not that he needed to ask, but he wanted to hear the answer anyway.

Eliot laughed, a low amused rumble. “You practically left me a calling card, man. How could I turn down an invitation like that?”

Quinn smiled, something warm uncurling in his belly. There was no job, no enemy, no reason for Eliot to be here. Except that Quinn asked him to come.

Eliot’s gravely voice broke him out of his thoughts. “So, should I be worried about identity theft, here? First you grow your hair long after I kick your ass. Then you—”

“Hell of an ego you got there, pal,” Quinn cut in. “My hair has nothing to do with you.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Eliot shot back with a smile. “Anyway, you entered the freaking country under my favorite alias. Did you expect me not to notice?”

He’d counted on it.

Quinn rolled to his side and slung an arm across Eliot’s chest. “Thought all that hair might’ve finally rotted your brain,” he mumbled. “And anyway, it wasn’t your name.”

“Just ‘cause you rearranged the letters don’t mean it ain’t still mine.”

“It’s a real alias. And it got your attention didn’t it.”

Instead of answering, Eliot reached over to grab Quinn’s leg and hitch it over his hip to tangle with his own. “Damn, you’re heavy,” he teased as they resettled.

“I work out,” Quinn agreed with a lazy smile, letting himself be maneuvered.

It was pleasant to be sprawled across Eliot like this, to feel the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. He’d debated for weeks about using that particular alias after the job in Jakarta. It felt too much like running to safety for his liking, and so when the thought had first crossed his mind, he hightailed it to the most dirty, corrupt corner of the world he could find instead. Took every job that came his way until they all blurred together.

When the dust settled and he’d still wanted to see Eliot, he let himself use the identity that would no doubt raise every red flag in the Leverage team’s playbook. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that leaving a trail for Eliot to follow was the right move, but the sex was great and the company wasn’t awful so he was calling it a win.

One of Eliot’s fingers stroked a steady back and forth along the patch of skin just under Quinn’s shoulder blade, skirting the edge of what had been one of the deeper wounds on his back. Serrated knife, he remembered. He’d screamed—he remembered that, too—screamed until his voice had gone hoarse.

He felt the intake of breath a split second before Eliot’s voice broke the silence.

“They dead?” The words were growled in a way Quinn had only ever heard in an empty airport hangar, when he was the one standing between Eliot and his team.

Raising his head from its place on Eliot’s chest, Quinn looked him in the eye. “Yes.” He paused, remembering how Eliot almost knocked the gun from his hand the last time he tried to kill someone. “If you have a problem with that, you can see yourself out.”

But Eliot didn’t leave. Or ask who they were or how long they had him or what they’d wanted. Hell, Eliot had gotten his hands dirty enough back before he’d turned white-hat that could fill in the details on his own.

After a moment, Eliot gave him a tight smile and nodded.

Quinn didn’t know what to do with that, so he just laid his head back on Eliot’s chest and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time he wanted to throw out all his old rules and let himself drift off to sleep. Against all odds and good sense, Eliot had somehow wormed his way under his skin.

This is why he shouldn’t have used the alias.

Nothing between them had changed; Quinn was still a bad guy and Eliot wasn’t. There was no silencing the voice in the back of his head shouting how it was only a matter of time before Eliot remembered what kind of person Quinn really was. Maybe he’d decide Quinn was better off in jail, or thrown to rot in some deep dark government hole, rather than be allowed to roam free and do what he did. Lulled into complacency by sleep and trust, Quinn would be a pathetically easy target.

In the end, caution won out.

It didn’t escape his notice that although Eliot’s eyes were closed, he hadn’t let himself fall into sleep either.

Taking a job in Portland had the potential to go all kinds of wrong, but wasn't that half the fun? But the money was good, and he wasn’t one to turn down a sizable fee. Predictably, it got him tangled up in one of Eliot’s cons. Not so predictably, the whole thing went off relatively smoothly. Before he knew it, he was invited to a post-victory dinner with Eliot’s team and not long after that found the two of them tangled up in Eliot’s bedsheets.

Once they caught their breath, Eliot propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at him. “Would you tell me if you were gonna take a hit on me or my team?”

“If this is your idea of sweet nothings, it’s no wonder all those women you’re rumored to sleep with only do it once.”

“Hey, I never had any complaints.” Eliot flicked at Quinn’s nose, but his wrist was caught before it could connect. His other hand shot out and Quinn caught that too. Eliot didn’t resist as Quinn rolled them until he was looking at Eliot spread out beneath him.

The playful spark faded from Eliot’s pretty blue eyes. “I’m serious, Quinn. Would you tell me?”

Most people couldn’t pull off an intimidating scowl while naked and pinned by the wrists to their own bed. Then again, Eliot wasn’t most people.

Quinn considered. It was a fair question. The truth was, he wouldn’t accept a hit on Eliot, at any price. And anyone who came to him with one wouldn’t stay breathing much longer. He couldn’t say the same for Eliot’s team, however. He liked them, they were smart, deadly competent, and occasionally funny, but they weren’t Eliot. But they were important to Eliot and, when he stopped to think about it, that was apparently enough for Quinn.

“I’m not taking any hits on you or your people. Not now and not ever.”

All it earned him was a nod.

Quinn put the pieces together. “You already knew. So, why’d you ask?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it.” In one smooth motion, Eliot extricated his arms and rolled out from under Quinn. “That’s a long timeframe for that kind of promise."

“If I change my mind, I’ll be sure to give you fair warning.” In an echo of their first meeting as allies rather than adversaries, Quinn held out his hand. “Deal?”

Eliot grinned, clearly remembering the same dirty warehouse in Kiev. “Deal,” he said, and they shook.

Quinn braced for the inevitable sneak attack in retaliation for his earlier move, but Eliot seemed satisfied to let it lie. Resting back against the pillows, he resembled a large jungle cat, content and sated with the world. His hair was loose around his face, disheveled from their slight tussle.

Taking his cue, Quinn settled back against his pillows too, feeling like he’d accomplished something but not sure exactly what. He spun the thought around in his mind, poking at it over and over before giving it up as a lost cause. It would come eventually, it always did. Didn’t mean he liked waiting for it though.

It wasn’t until he heard the breathing beside him even out that he realized Eliot was asleep.

For a moment, he just froze in surprise. If Eliot was awake, he’d probably make some dumbass comment about catching flies. Or maybe a dirty joke about what else Quinn could do with his mouth. He did neither.

In his sleep, he was as restless and grouchy as he was while awake, forehead scrunching and nose twitching every once in a while. One hand was balled in a fist where it rested on top of the covers against Quinn’s leg. There was something comfortable in that, in knowing that Eliot didn’t turn into something drastically different just because he was asleep. Which brought Quinn to his current problem. If there was one thing he hated, it was a puzzle whose pieces didn’t fit. Aside from his fists and his guns, information was the other stock in trade that kept him alive and ahead of his enemies.

Was that all it took for Eliot to trust him? A promise that he wouldn’t go after Eliot or his team. Quinn had specified nothing about not going after him for any non-job-related reasons. Eliot was smart enough to know the distinction. The more he thought about it the more it didn’t make sense. Eliot knew exactly what kind of man Quinn was. Right now he could do anything, anything, to a sleeping Eliot and without that split second of reaction time consciousness gave him, he could inflict serious damage.

Before he knew what he was doing, he shook Eliot by the shoulder.

Eliot snapped awake in an instant, eyes scanning the room. That bright gaze fixed on Quinn when no threat popped out of the shadows, and the tension bled out of him. “The hell? What is it, Quinn?”

“I didn’t stop doing my job when I started sleeping with you.” It wasn’t what he meant to say but fuck if he knew what that was. He’d reacted and now he was running on instinct. And the jarring feeling of something poking at the inside of his chest, desperately clawing its way out into the open air.

Eliot blinked and squinted at Quinn. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Do you? Do you really? And you expect me to believe it’s not a problem for you?”

“Won’t say I like it. But until you do something that crosses my path, then I can live with it. Besides, I got it on good authority that most of the people you go after are scumbags in their own right.”

Most, but not all.

Quinn looked him in the eye. “And when they aren’t?” Because he needed to say it, to see Eliot’s reaction.

“What you said earlier. About fair warning.” Eliot put a hand on his leg. “It goes both ways, you know. If we have a problem, we’ll deal with it. I’m not coming after you in the middle of the night.”

Quinn tilted his head, studying Eliot. He had on his serious face, mouth set in a tight line and a little crease right between his eyebrows. He stared at Quinn like he half expected him to bolt and half expected him to fight.

Truth was, Quinn didn’t want to do either of those things. Eliot’s bed was comfortable and Quinn was tired. This was usually the part of the night where he put his clothes on and slipped back into his life. The pull of that was strong, but there was a part deep inside him that felt hollow at the thought of giving up whatever this thing with Eliot was.

In the end, he could either trust Eliot or he couldn’t.

It sent a cold chill racing down his spine. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to give that kind of trust anymore, against all the instincts that kept him alive. But he wanted. Wanted so badly he could taste it in the back of his throat. He glanced up at the ceiling as if the answers were somewhere in the expanse of dim white. As expected, they weren’t. Just a few streaks of plaster covering what must have been the remnants of old cracks. Quinn let his eyes trace over them, mind following not far behind, circling an answer he knew was inevitable but wasn’t sure he was ready to admit.

He sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist.

“You asked me a question, now it’s my turn.” Quinn didn’t bother to wait for Eliot’s nod. “Why’d you let me go?” He wasn’t exactly sure why he was asking, other than the fact that it had been burning a hole in his mind for years.

The corners of Eliot’s mouth pulled down. He propped himself up on his elbows, head cocked. “What’re you talking about?”

“When we met that first time. The hangar. You had me down. Why’d you let me go?”

Eliot snorted, like Quinn was asking an easy question, like he should have been able to work it out himself. He always was a bit of an asshole, which was part of why Quinn liked him. “Sterling wouldn’t have told you anything about his plans for us. He’s a pain in the ass but he’s a smart pain in the ass.” Eliot paused, his expression pinched. “Don’t you ever tell him I said that.”

Quinn nodded solemnly despite the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “On my word.”

Eliot smiled back before turning serious again. “Even if you had the information I needed, I was on a tight schedule. You’re too much of a pro to break easy and I didn’t have that kind of time to burn.”

Quinn nodded at the assessment but couldn’t help pressing. “I wasn’t just referring to information, you know.”

“You mean, why didn’t I torture you for getting the jump on me. For that payback you were so sure I was looking for in Kiev?”

Quinn trailed a finger along Eliot’s chest in an idle, invisible pattern. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Eliot looked up at him. “You know, your pillow talk really sucks, man.”

“Never had any complaints before. Then again, usually I just get up and leave.” He ran a hand down Eliot’s side to take the sting out of the words.

“Don’t I know it.”

For a moment Eliot just looked at him. Quinn stared back. They were both comfortable in silence, and Quinn wondered if they might spend the rest of the evening like this. There were worse ways to spend the night, he figured.

Finally, Eliot sighed, running a hand across his face. “I had more important things on my mind.”

“Ah yes, saving the team. They were family even back then, weren’t they?”

Eliot nodded once before settling on his back. After a moment, Quinn did the same, their shoulders brushing. They stared at the ceiling for a moment before Eliot spoke again. “It ain’t just them, you know. If some punk upstart hitter was between me and you, I’d drop him in a heartbeat..”

Quinn rolled, straddling Eliot’s hips in one swift motion. Leaning in, he placed his hands on the bed so they bracketed Eliot’s head. “A punk upstart hitter?”

He could feel Eliot’s chest vibrate with laughter, rich and low. “Quinn, man, your hair was gelled. And I’m pretty sure you had frosted tips like some boy band wannabe.”

“Since when are you the expert in boy bands? And what the hell are frosted tips? I don’t even know what that means.”

“I dated a hairdresser once.” Eliot gave a playful tug to the loose strands around Quinn’s face, down from their usual ponytail. “And it means I like it better long.”

With that, Eliot swept Quinn’s arms from under him. Quinn let him, not bothering to catch himself as he fell against Eliot’s bare chest.

To his surprise, settling back down at Eliot's side wasn’t nearly as difficult as expected this time around.

Eliot followed him, clicking the bedside lamp off and shifting to throw an arm over Quinn’s chest. “Now, we done here, or do you wanna keep talking all night? Maybe braid each other’s hair while we’re at it.” The words were barely audible, muttered into Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn rested his free hand against the dip of Eliot’s back and let his eyes fall closed.

[reyesstrand]

96 and 100 for Tarlos!! 😘

thank you for your prompt!! 💗 this one turned out to be very fluffy so like...yeah! 

feel free to send me a number from this list if you’d like. also available on ao3! 

TK realizes that being in love — like, make-your-heart-sing  love — makes his long shifts sometimes unbearable. He loves what he does, and for the most part he can keep focused on the tasks at hand without letting his mind drift to what he could be doing instead of finishing reports or scrubbing down the rig. But when these twenty-four hour blocks start to bleed together, feeling like one long stretch of time on the job, he finds that he’s often counting down the minutes until the next team takes over. Tonight’s one of those nights, and he’s exhausted enough to realize that having the next forty-eight hours off is just what he’ll need to recharge. It definitely helps that even though Carlos works tomorrow, he’ll at least get to spend the night with him. 

He sees the tiredness hanging over the rest of the team, too — there have been some crazy calls over the last few hours, and all their muscles are aching and they’re desperate to sleep off all that they’ve witnessed. After he grabs his bag from his locker, TK takes the stairs two at a time to check in on his dad. 

Rapping his knuckles on the doorframe, TK pokes his head into his dad’s office, where Owen's focused on the laptop screen in front of him. “Hey, I’m heading out.” 

He pauses for a second, remembering the coughing fit his dad went into at the scene of the last kitchen fire they responded to. 

Quietly, he adds: “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Owen says, stretching his arms out over his head. It makes TK feel guilty — hell,  he’s always got that small pit of guilt that sits heavy in his stomach whenever he opts to spend time with Carlos instead of going home right after a shift — and he considers just texting his boyfriend that they’ll catch up over the next couple of days, and that he’s going to wait until his dad’s wrapped up and grab a ride home with him. His dad is able to read him like a book, though, always has, and he points a finger at him. “Go and have a good night, son.” 

“Are you sure?” TK’s positive that his hesitation is written all over his face, and Owen sighs at him. 

“I’m fine, kid, I won’t be too far behind you anyway,” Owen says, leaning back in his chair. 

TK mulls it over in his head before he adds: “I, uh, I probably won’t make it home tonight. I’ll text you.” 

Owen doesn’t press; he just gives him a look. “Nothing stupid?” 

TK huffs out a laugh. “No, I swear. It’s just Carlos.” 

“Ah,” Owen says, smiling now, and TK rolls his eyes before lifting a hand in a wave before his dad can try and get more information out of him. It’s been five of the best months of TK’s life, and his dad seems to sense it on him because he has nothing but nice things to say about Carlos. He heads back downstairs, smiling down at the be there in five message on his phone as he steps out into the pleasantly cool evening. An all-too familiar car slows down in front of him after a few minutes of waiting, and TK’s already feeling more awake as he opens the passenger door and slips in. 

“Hey,” Carlos’ voice is honey-sweet, and TK accepts the quick kiss as he deals with the seatbelt. 

“Hey,” TK says, a little breathless, settling into the comfort of Carlos’ presence while the other man drives off. He’s out of uniform, dark-grey shirt hugging his arms, and TK doesn’t even try to hide his obvious staring. 

“So, did you want to go grab some food or something?” 

TK fiddles with his phone, tapping it against the heel of his palm. “I was just thinking we could head to your place?” 

Carlos nods. “Oh, yeah. Sure.” 

“I’m just tired,” TK quietly admits, not ready to add that he seems to get the best sleep whenever he’s curled up with his boyfriend. Instead of admitting that, he clears his throat. “It’s been a long shift.” 

“I get it,” Carlos says, sparing a glance at him, moving one hand off the wheel to grab TK’s fidgeting hand to thread their fingers together. 

They get to Carlos’ place, and he practically beelines for the bedroom, Carlos turning off lights behind them as they go. It’s almost midnight, and TK can feel his eyelids growing heavier with every passing minute. As he pulls off his shirt and pants and kicks off his shoes, he watches as Carlos does the same, and he ungracefully plops onto the bed. Carlos pulls the covers over him, and drops a kiss just above his eyebrow, and TK has never felt so deeply and effortlessly loved. 

“I’m sorry,” TK whispers, eyes moving all over Carlos’ face. “I feel like you wanted to do something more fun than just...sleeping.” 

“I can’t think of anything better than this, Ty, seriously,” Carlos says, already opening his arms. “Come here.”

TK goes, immediately feeling more calm wash over him as Carlos curls his arms around him, his chest pressed to TK’s back, feeling comforted by the feeling of the steady rhythm of Carlos’ heartbeat between his shoulder blades. He settles into the embrace, ducking his chin forward to press a kiss to Carlos’ hand. 

“Besides,” Carlos starts talking, picking up the dropped conversation, his words mostly whispered into TK’s ear. “This is how I get the best sleep. Just being able to hold you makes me feel right. And you’re the only one I wanna wake up to, preferably for as long as you’ll let me. Never apologize for wanting this, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” TK mutters, running his fingers absently up and down Carlos’ forearm, already feeling sleep pull at him as he slurs, “I feel the same, by the way. I feel like I don’t tell you enough how much I care about you.” 

Carlos takes a few long seconds to respond, to let the words hang in the air between them. The last thing TK hears before he’s gone to the world is, "don't worry, TK, I know."

* * *

TK doesn’t know how long he’s out for, but the early morning sunlight’s streaming into the room when he eventually blinks open his eyes. He stretches out his limbs and he feels Carlos press a kiss just under his jaw. 

He remembers all too quickly that Carlos is stuck with a day shift, and if he hasn’t left yet it probably means that he’s going to have to go sooner than he’d prefer; he wishes he could stay in bed and cherish these moments as long as possible but Carlos eventually heaves a sigh and starts moving to get out of bed. 

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” TK asks, even though he knows there’s no chance of Carlos risking being late; TK's the same, always hating it but leaving his boyfriend nonetheless when he has to get to work. 

Carlos hums against his shoulder, squeezing him tight once more. “I wish I could, but McCoy’s out this week so I’ve got a rookie with me. Can’t be setting a bad example.” 

TK lets out a garbled, muttered noise in agreement, though he still sits up when Carlos moves off the bed, beginning his morning routine. TK watches him for a few moments, but he still feels exhausted, and Carlos seems to pick up on it because he crosses the room to stand on his side of the bed — which seems like a big thing, for TK to have a determined side of Carlos’ bed — and runs a hand through TK’s hair, eventually bringing his palm down to drag his thumb along TK’s jaw.

TK sighs, and leans into the touch, this act of allowing himself to feel vulnerable still a new thing. He only opens his eyes when Carlos starts talking to him. 

“Get some more sleep, Ty,” Carlos says, and TK starts to protest, saying something about going back to his own place so he’s not imposing, only for Carlos to interject. “You can stay here without me, you know. But if you do leave, let me know what you’re up to later and maybe we can do something when I’m off shift.” 

“Sounds like a plan, baby,” TK replies weakly, his mind a little too muddled with sleep, but he definitely picks up on the warmth spreading through his chest at Carlos’ insistence that he belongs here; that his home is open to his presence. 

With a quick kiss pressed to his temple, Carlos pulls away to go shower, not without murmuring, “I’ll see you later, cariño,” into his hair first. TK slumps back down, face turned into Carlos’ pillow, as he contentedly lets sleep take over once more.

[cooliogirl101]

For the prompt thing, 6, 13, and/or 22 (I think they all work well together), for the AU where Sayuri ends up in the Naruto-verse and is taken in by Hatake Sakumo. Romantic for those two please?

Yay, a prompt for my favorite TLM AU! Thanks and I hope it doesn’t disappoint!

6. Hiraeth- a homesickness for a home to which you can never return, the nostalgia, yearning, and grief for the lost places of your past

13. Cafune- the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

22. Basorexia- the overwhelming desire to kiss

In the end, it isn’t Sakumo who gets through to her. It’s Kakashi. 

It’s been nearly a month since Sakumo has invited Aizen Sayuri into their house and in that time, the only piece of information Sakumo has managed to get out of her is her name. And while she’s more responsive than she was when Sakumo first found her, there are still days where she goes long stretches of time without speaking, without eating, without doing anything but staring blankly at the wall.

With Kakashi though, she’s...better. Even on her worst days, if Kakashi asks her a question, she’ll answer. If Kakashi asks her to eat, she’ll take a few bites. If he asks for her attention, she’ll make an effort to focus on him.

Perhaps more surprising than her attachment to his son is how easily Kakashi seems to reciprocate it. Despite how well Kakashi does with people (hardly a day goes by without some civilian woman stopping them on the street to coo over how adorable he is), the reverse isn’t quite true. At best, his son tends to find people (outside of a select few) uninteresting, irritating, and stupid. At worst...well, Sakumo once found him hiding in a trash can to escape a particularly persistent civilian woman determined to pinch his cheeks. 

“She’s cool. I like her,” Kakashi says, shrugging, when Sakumo asks him what he thinks about their guest.

“You don’t like the people at the Academy,” Sakumo points out.

“The people at the Academy...they’re like the wooden dolls and paper cutouts I used to play with. The look real, but they aren’t,” Kakashi says matter-of-factly, and not for the first time, Sakumo wonders if he should be worried. “Sayuri though, she’s real. Just like you and me and Uncle Jiraiya and Minato-sensei.”

“But Kakashi, the people at the Academy are real,” Sakumo says, a little helplessly. Kakashi gives him a look like he thinks Sakumo is being deliberately obtuse. 

“If you say so,” he says dubiously. “Anyway, Dad, I got homework to do now.” 

“I thought you already finished your homework,” Sakumo says, a little confused. 

“Sayuri’s homework,” Kakashi says, rolling his eyes. “Finished my Academy homework in school, took me under five minutes. I don’t know why dummy Obito keeps complaining about how hard it is, it was so easy I almost fell asleep doing it.” 

“Kakashi, I’ve told you before, not everyone learns at the same pace you do,” Sakumo says, tired. 

“Then teach them to learn faster. I could do that stuff when I was three,” Kakashi says sullenly. “Why can’t Sayuri be my teacher instead? At least her assignments are interesting.” 

~~

“Giving my son homework assignments now?” Sakumo asks Sayuri later. She glances up from her book before humming in affirmation. 

“He came to me complaining about how he got in trouble for not paying attention in class,” she says. Sakumo hides a wince, hearing Kakashi’s high-pitched voice in his mind all too clearly-- it’s not my fault she keeps going over stuff I already know, tell her to teach something new and I might pay attention, can’t I skip a class or two, maybe I’ll actually learn something, dad? Dad, are you listening? Dad? 

“I thought it was for the best if I gave him something to keep him occupied,” she continues, a bit dryly. 

“Oh? What’d you assign him?” Sakumo asks, interested. “I haven’t seen Kakashi so engaged in an assignment in...well, let’s just say I’ve never seen him interested in homework.”

“It’s a...reconnaissance mission, of sorts,” Sayuri replies, eyes brightening slightly. It’s is one of her better days, then, Sakumo thinks to himself, and can’t help but lean in slightly. “He is to take notes on each of his classmates, learn their habits, their likes and dislikes, and by the end of next month, come up with an item that is perfectly suited to each and every one of them. All without asking his targets any questions or making his assignment known to everyone. He is to then secretly deposit each of his targets’ items somewhere they will easily find them, all the while keeping his identity secret. Of course, it will be suspicious if he is the only one in his class not to receive an object, so he will need to get something for himself too.” 

“So let me get this straight. His assignment is...to come up with exceedingly thoughtful gifts for each of his classmates...while also treating himself to something nice,” Sakumo says slowly. 

Sayuri turns back to her book, but not before Sakumo catches the barest twitch at the corner of her mouth. 

“If that’s how you want to put it,” she says blandly. “The important thing is, it will keep him entertained and even if he is caught, there will be no consequences. Quite the opposite, actually. I imagine it’ll improve his standing amongst his classmates quite a bit.” 

Sakumo watches her closely.

“You’re good with him,” he says finally. “Not many people are.” 

Sayuri doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When she speaks up, her eyes are distant, unfocused.

“Understanding Kakashi is easy. He is a boy living in a world far too slow for him,” she says quietly. “It’s everything else that’s difficult.” 

“What would your advice be? For dealing with someone like that?” Sakumo asks, a bit too urgently. Sayuri glances at him. 

“Don’t give up on him. That’s all you can do, really,” she says, before standing up and tossing the book at him. “I found a few mistakes in here, so I corrected them. I hope you don’t mind, Hatake-san.” 

“Sakumo,” he calls after her as she walks away. “I’ve told you to call me Sakumo!”

She doesn’t reply and Sakumo shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. 

Well, at least he got more than a few short sentences out of her this time. Improvement. 

~~

The first time Sakumo leaves Kakashi alone in the house with Sayuri is an accident. He makes it all of half a block before realizing and dashing back, only to find Kakashi taking a nap on Sayuri’s lap while she hums to him, running her fingers through his hair. She glances up at him, taking in his panicked, unkempt appearance and smiles wryly, a knowing look in her eyes. 

She doesn’t say anything though as Sakumo, resolutely refusing to be embarrassed, takes Kakashi into his arms.

The second time, he makes a point of leaving the house before doubling back to hide in some bushes to observe her. That lasts all of two seconds, ending when she steps outside, looks directly towards Sakumo’s hiding spot, and informs him, “This feels like a good time to mention that I’m a sensor.” 

The third through fifth times, he leaves Kakashi with her for four and a half minutes precisely. The sixth time, seven minutes and thirteen seconds. The seventh, eighteen minutes and forty-two seconds. 

The fifty-sixth time Sakumo leaves his son alone with the woman who has started to feel more like family (like pack) than a guest, is for five days, seven hours, and forty-eight minutes. He returns from his mission desperate for a shower, with three new scars and a still-bleeding cut on his shoulder, and walks through his front door with only a hint of that once-suffocating anxiety remaining. 

It disappears completely at the sight of Kakashi running towards him, and with a laugh, Sakumo scoops Kakashi up in his arms, wrapping him in a tight hug. 

“Ugh Dad, you stink. When’s the last time you washed?” Kakashi asks, wrinkling his nose. 

“Last time you saw me, kiddo,” Sakumo grins, smile widening as Kakashi yelps in disgust, pushing him away. 

“Eww, Dad, go take a shower already! Come find me again when you’re clean,” he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. Sakumo chuckles, reaching out to ruffle Kakashi’s hair.

“Brat. Is that any way to talk to your father?” He asks fondly, before giving Kakashi a little shove. “Go do your homework, yeah? I know you haven’t finished.”

“That’s because Sayuri’s homework is hard,” Kakashi complains, although he doesn’t actually sound upset about it. “Fine, fine. When I come back, you better not stink anymore though.” 

Sakumo shakes his head as Kakashi leaves, running his hand through his hair.

“Can you believe that kid? No manners, that one,” he says mournfully, glancing towards where Sayuri is standing in the hallway. 

“Kakashi excels in many things but politeness is not one of them,” Sayuri agrees. “He’s not wrong though, you should take a bath.”

“Want to join me?” The words slip out before Sakumo can stop them and he promptly snaps his mouth shut in horror. “I mean--”

“You should also get that wound looked at. I know a few basic first aid techniques, but I’m no healer,” she says, apparently choosing to ignore his words. He inclines his head, unsure whether he feels disappointed or relieved.

“Will do,” he promises. She nods, something in her expression softening at that. 

“It’s good to have you back, Hatake-san,” Sayuri says, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “The house is...far quieter with you gone.” 

“Ah.” Sakumo clears his throat in surprise, even as his mouth goes a little dry. “It’s--it’s good to be back.” He swallows. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Interesting?” She pauses in thought. “Well, Kakashi scored top of his class again, as was expected. He also learned a new jutsu; I imagine you’ll be hearing a lot about that at dinner. Also, there are two dead assassins in your backyard. I buried them so the smell wouldn’t irritate Kakashi’s nose.”

Sakumo nods before realization hits, causing him to choke on his spit. “Wait, what?!”

~~

Two hours and copious amounts of digging later, Sakumo finds himself staring at two very dead shinobi. No headband, but that didn’t even really matter at the moment. The important thing was that two enemy shinobi had somehow managed to get through Konoha’s walls and all the way to his goddamned house, where his son was, and he hadn’t been there.

Sakumo swallows, trying desperately to clamp down his rising killing intent, and finds his gaze drifting again to the single cut across each of the corpses’ necks. 

Quick. Clean. Fatal.

Professional, Sakumo can’t help but think. The precise amount of force needed to end a life and no more. He wouldn’t expect that level of skill in anyone below jounin rank. 

He finds Sayuri at the sink washing dishes, as if someone hadn’t just tried to kill her, as if there aren’t two dead bodies in their backyard right now. She doesn’t turn around, even as he strides up to her, grasping her by the shoulders.

“Kakashi?” He murmurs into her ear. 

“Doesn’t know,” she replies levelly. “They arrived about half an hour before he was due to come home from school. I buried them in the yard before he came back.” 

“And you?” His grip tightens. “Are you injured?”

“Worried about me, Hatake-san?” Sayuri asks, tilting her head to the side. 

His jaw clenches. “Answer the question.” 

“No, I’m not injured,” she says, setting a cup on the drying rack. “You can relax.”

Sakumo exhales heavily, feeling his shoulders slump in relief. 

“I--good. That’s...that’s good,” he says, releasing his grip. For a moment, Sakumo doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes to better focus on Kakashi and Sayuri’s chakra signatures. 

It was going to be okay. They were alive, they were safe, they were here and with him. Everything was going to be okay. 

“Hatake-san? Are you alright?” Was he imagining the hint of concern in her voice?

“I’m never leaving again,” Sakumo informs her, voice tight. “If the Hokage needs an S-ranked ninja, he can send Jiraiya. Or Orochimaru. I’m not picky.” 

At that, Sayuri turns off the water before finally, finally turning around to face him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, exasperated. “I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that I’m not your...average civilian. I can handle myself. And--” She takes in a deep breath. “And I wouldn’t let anything happen to Kakashi. You know that.” 

“I believe you.” In fact, it worries him a little how much he believes her. “But I’m still not leaving. What happened today was...it was too much of a close call.” 

“I wouldn’t call it close. I understand your concern, but I mean.” Her brow furrows slightly. “It’s not like they were good assassins. Or average, really. Even mediocre is being generous.” 

Sakumo huffs out a laugh. 

“And I’m the ridiculous one?” He mumbles to himself. 

“Yes,” Sayuri replies without hesitation. “I’m the only one being logical here.”

Sakumo shakes his head in disbelief. 

“You do realize that for most people, for normal people, assassins-- yes, even incompetent assassins-- are something to be worried about?”

“Not where I come from,” she argues, and it’s the first time he’s heard her bring up anything from her past. “Where I come from, there are worse things to be worried about.” 

“Is that so?” Sakumo asks, and he can’t quite resist reaching out with one hand to cup the side of her face. 

“Someday,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I am going to get your entire life story out of you. I don’t care if it takes the rest of my life to do so. I bet it’ll be fascinating.” 

“Sounds almost like a threat,” she answers, for the first time sounding just the tiniest bit unsteady. “Then again, being interrogated by you sounds like it could be...enjoyable.” 

Her gaze flickers briefly to his lips and in that moment, all Sakumo can think about is how this woman protected his son today, killed for his son today, and how he so very desperately wants to press his mouth to hers. 

With a shaky breath, he pulls back. 

“Sakumo?” Sayuri asks in a small voice, sounding more uncertain than he’s ever heard her. 

“When you’re ready,” he whispers hoarsely. “When you’re ready and no sooner.” 

“Could be a while,” Sayuri murmurs, eyes darkened and cheeks still flushed a faint red.

“Take however long you need,” he says, and means every word. “I’ll be waiting.” 

~~

(I headcanon that reiatsu and chakra are a bit different, so all of Sayuri’s emotion-sensing abilities are thrown just slightly off. And as someone who has spent the past however many centuries growing increasingly reliant on her sensing abilities, having to make that adjustment is extremely annoying for her. 

It also puts her on more equal ground with Sakumo, who has just been having THE most difficult time trying to read this woman. 

Also Sakumo, for the past few months: wow way to be exceedingly obvious about how much you want her, get it together Hatake, can’t you see she’s gone through some shit, if you keep this up she’s going to think you’re pressuring her and then you’ll just push her away

Sayuri: okay, so like. I THINK he’s into me? Like, pretty sure. But I can’t be 100% certain with the spiritual energy here being so weird. Also it’s been months and he hasn’t made a move? In my experience, when men want sex they tend to make a move in the first...well, twenty minutes if they’re the patient type.)

Ugh this ended up super long but @kamkong you asked for romantic and I felt like it wouldn’t make sense without some lead-up into how he fell for her. And so basically Sayuri comes back to herself through Kakashi and Sakumo falls for her through Kakashi-- idk, it felt right. 

[gingrrfrog]

these nights (5)

word count: 5.4k ... also long 

warnings: angst, car accident injuries, 

summary: standing in front of machines that kept him alive, yejin never imagined that jeno had this many secrets and so many people that were willing to keep them. 

a/n: another long one 😔 also day 12 of the quarantine :] 

masterlist

“Now, Jaemin!”

Yejin pulled her head away from the phone, staring at her phone with her eyebrows furrowed together.

“Yejin, baby? I’ve got to go, okay? I’ll call you later.”

“Jaemin? Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

“I uh,” she listened to him clear his throat before he paused momentarily, “I don’t know yet, Angel. I’m sorry, I’ll call you.”

“O-okay…be safe. I love you.”

“I love you, sweetheart. So much.”

Jaemin kissed the phone and before Yejin could ask anything else, the call ended and the same unease was found in her stomach. She took a shaky deep breath before placing her cell phone in front of her, watching as her hands trembled and as she wept. She watched as the beginnings of her hands began numbing as it slowly crept up her arms and began nipping at her nose. She continued taking deep breaths as she walked towards the freezer, taking a clump of ice in her hands and pressing it against her neck, counting her breathing before walking to the bathroom, walking past a sleeping Jihyun as she tried to her best to calm herself down.

The ice was beginning to melt and drip down her shirt, once they were tiny pebbles, she dropped them down the drain and took great care in her skin routine. With equally cold water, she washed her face, watching her red nose soothe at the sensation as she continued to scrub at her face somewhat forcefully, reprimanding herself mentally as she knew this wasn’t conducive to adequate skincare. On the other hand, she couldn’t find herself caring too much about it either. Wiping her face with her towel, she moved to the shower, turning the water on to a warm setting before peeling her clothes off layer by layer, stepping inside and feeling somewhat relieved at the warm water despite the cold she felt earlier.

After her shower, she continued the rest of her skincare routine with her towel wrapped around her body, padding barefoot back to her room and looking for a pair of sleeping clothes in the dark, being careful not to wake up Jihyun—although, she gathered it would be difficult to do so judging by the snores coming from the bed. Her routine took an hour and forty-five minutes, almost twice as long as her regular time when Jaemin and Jeno were home.

Finally sinking into her sheets, she stared at the clock and constantly tossed and turned until the clock showed 11:33, where she heard Jihyun groan out in frustration. She lifted herself up from the bed almost like a zombie, somehow half-stomping and half dragging her feet as she walked awkwardly towards the bathroom, using it quickly before noticing Yejin awake with her phone in hands.

“Why are you awake?” She asked sleepily, curling back in the bedsheets with her eyes closed.

“I can’t sleep,” Yejin replied nonchalantly. “I usually sleep pretty late anyway.”

Judging by her walk and the way Jihyun barely spoke above a whisper, Yejin wasn’t entirely sure if Jihyun was awake at all. It wasn’t until she took her hand that she noticed that Jihyun was fully awake, placing her hand on top of her belly and feeling something squirm within her.

“She keeps me up all night, sometimes she pushes at my bladder and wakes me up,” Jihyun grumbled, her eyes still closed. “Sleep, Yejin. If not for you, then for us, who can’t so easily.”

Yejin laughed quietly, “I guess you’re right.”

“‘M always right,” she hummed, curling Jeno’s pillow close to her chest. “Never wrong.”

Yejin smiled before closing her eyes. She wondered if Yejin had some kind of superpower to make her feel tired because the second she closed her eyes, it’s almost as if sleep took the cue. Exhaustion weighed down on her shoulders as she fell fast asleep, dreaming of Jeno and Jaemin and having them close to her again.

When she woke up again, it was nearly ten am, and it was to Jihyun’s snores that were progressively getting louder. It was later than Yejin would usually wake up, but not by much considering the sun was high in the sky, beaming into her bedroom almost as if there hadn’t been a snowstorm for the past two days. She checked her phone and frowned slightly to herself when she saw no new messages nor missed calls—she told herself that Jaemin might still be asleep, considering he had a worse sleeping schedule than she.

Yejin then noticed Jihyun’s arm curled around her waist, cuddling her close as she took advantage of the baby being asleep as well. Carefully, Yejin removed her arm and placed it on top of a pillow, watching as Jihyun instantly brought it to her chest and continued to snore. She laughed quietly to herself before stretching her arms, stepping out of the bed to continue stretching before continuing her morning routine.

After brushing her teeth, she walked over towards the kitchen, searching the refrigerator for breakfast items, noticing a few eggs and a few potatoes in the fridge. She took them out and chopped potatoes, tomatoes, and green onion to herself quietly, relishing in the sounds of crunchy vegetables being chopped in a silent room before dropping them in a sizzling pan. In a bowl, she cracked those few eggs and whisked them intently before pouring them in another sizzling pan, smiling at the sound as she shook it back and forth.

The potatoes were starting to brown nicely, so Yejin decided to pull them off the stove and onto a plate, covering them generously with cheese before layering another bowl on top to ensure the steam would melt the cheese equally. Just as Yejin was plating the eggs, Jihyun emerged from the bedroom, her hand over her belly as she blinked blearily at the sun. Yejin almost wanted to scoff, there’s no way someone like Jihyun should be real, much less eating cheesy potatoes in her kitchen.

She sort of understood why Jaehyun put her nudes under lock and key, now.

“Goodmorning,” Jihyun smiled weakly, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. “You didn’t have to make breakfast, Yejin, I could’ve—“

“I’m sure you could’ve called another master chef celebrity, but have you ever thought that I wanted to showcase my skills for you?”

Jihyun laughed, thanking Yejin for the meal before digging in. “Eggs and cheesy potatoes, I see. Very American.”

“Something I’m very good at,” Yejin grinned, watching as Jihyun groaned at the flavor.

“Oh fuck, that’s good,” she cried. “If I eat cheesy potatoes for the rest of my pregnancy and gain ten pounds I’m coming for you.”

“Do you like them? I think I might’ve over seasoned them—“

“They’re amazing,“ Jihyun shushed her quickly. “Hurry and eat, I can’t be the only one eating like this.”

They ate in partial silence, occasionally perking up to say something, which would receive a small response before they ate again. It was comfortable, Yejin thought to herself. She appreciated that Jihyun wasn’t the type to always demand conversation despite knowing Jihyun herself loved to talk. In lieu of speaking, Jihyun looked over her phone. She had mentioned the day before that the most important phone after the boss’ was not the consigliere, but the boss’ wife’s phone, and she could see the appeal. Jihyun’s phone was full of notifications from emails, missed calls and text messages, but judging by the look of surprise on her face, Yejin gathered that even this was too many to be considered normal. She picked her phone up from the table and read something from her phone, her eyebrows knitting together in what looked like worry and concern.

“Is everything alright?” Yejin prodded gently, watching as Jihyun’s face immediately fixed itself into a smile.

“Yep! I’ve got to make some calls, you keep eating, it’s Taeyong and supply questions.”

Yejin nodded and returned her smile, but it didn’t take a genius to realize that she was lying. Instead of saying anything about it, she watched as she left for the bathroom, closing the door behind her and locking the door.

Yejin didn’t feel too hungry after that, luckily she had made it through most of her meal before standing up and taking Jihyun’s empty plate, walking towards the sink and calmly washing the dishes, taking extra care to count how many times she swirled the sponge around each dish before placing it in the drying rack.

Jihyun appeared at her last dish, making eye contact with Yejin and giving her another smile, a smaller one this time as she sat back in her seat.

“Everything under control?” Yejin asked, her eyes not leaving the sink as she continued to wash the now clean plate.

“Yes,” Jihyun cleared her throat. “Jaehyunie called me after, he’s coming to pick us up later.”

“For?” Yejin gripped the sponge, scrubbing at the porcelain plate as she was sure she was going to chip the paint.

“I’m not sure,” Jihyun mumbled. “He’ll be here soon.”

Yejin nodded. She released the poor plate out of its misery as she put it on the drying rack with the others, “okay. I’m going to go get changed.”

“Sure, of course.”

Yejin watched as Jihyun began to pack up her things, slowly shoving them in her duffel bag before Yejin closed the door to get out of her pajamas. She heard the front door open and Jihyun welcomed her fiancé, tiptoeing just slightly out of the room to hear what they were talking about.

“Are you okay?” Jihyun asked after a kiss

“I’m fine, baby. What about you? Are you two okay?”

“We’re fine, we just stayed inside the whole time,” Jihyun replied. Yejin watched from the reflection of the mirror across the couch, noticing Jihyun snuggling into Jaehyun’s arms, relief on her face before she checked Jaehyun. “Is Jeno okay?”

“He’s safe. I’ll tell you more at the hospital.” Jaehyun said firmly, “Did you tell her?”

“No, I told her I didn’t know anything,” Jihyun frowned. “It’s not a lie, but I don’t like doing that.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I won’t ask you to do that again, I just want to make sure that I want to avoid panic.”

“No offense, but your texts didn’t do a good job of doing that.”

“I realized that now…sorry.”

Yejin appeared from around the corner, causing Jihyun to pull away from Jaehyun’s embrace as the latter offered her a somber look as a greeting.

“Ready?” Jihyun smiled.

Yejin nodded without a word, following Jihyun with her hand tightly clasped with hers, walking out of their apartment as Jihyun led the way down the stairs and towards Jaehyun’s BMW that was waiting outside. Jihyun sat in the back with Yejin as Jaehyun shoved her luggage in the back of the car, watching as the taller man walked back around to the driver’s seat and started the car anew.

Yejin noticed five minutes into the drive that they were taking the cursed road to the hospital, her stomach churning as Jaehyun parked close to the entrance. It was some kind of sick solace that they didn’t park in emergency at least, as Jihyun continued to hold her hand towards the main entrance of the hospital and immediately towards the elevator. Jaehyun pressed the Up button as the elevator almost instantly opened, stepping aside and allowing Jihyun and Yejin to step inside first before he did, watching as he pressed the number seven and as the elevator closed its doors.

Yejin’s stomach rose and fell with the elevator, the elevator dinging wide open.

“Seventh Floor: Intensive Care Unit,” The robotic female voice said. Yejin’s eyes widened as her head snapped back towards Jaehyun, watching his face scrunch up into a wince.

So much for trying to avoid panic.

Jihyun squeezed her hand as Jaehyun got out first, leading the two behind him down hallways and hallways of rooms. The labyrinth seemed to end after two turns as Yejin could see a tall figure in the distance standing outside a room with his chin in hand, pacing back and forth. Once Yejin recognized it to be Jaemin, she let all her guards fall, crying instantly as she ran into his arms and crashing against his chest violently, weeping although she had no idea what was behind the door

“It’s okay, Yejin. It’s okay, he’s okay.” Jaemin said softly in her ear, but it was incredibly difficult to believe when his own voice was also wavering with emotion.

“Are you okay, are you hurt?” Yejin asked immediately after, pulling away and frantically searching in his coat and shirt before tilting his head back and forth to look for any wounds. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine, baby,” Jaemin took a deep breath before placing his hands on her face. “Jeno is inside…they flipped the car over last night. We still don’t have much to go on this theory with but we think the location last night was a set up.”

Yejin’s eyes searched the area of his face for some kind of lie, but Jaemin’s face was as solemn as they came. “Who flipped it, Jaemin? Set up for what, I don’t understand—“

“I don’t know either, Angel,” Jaemin frowned, his thumbs caressing under her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

Yejin let a few more tears escape as Jaemin wiped them carefully, “Is he okay?”

“A few broken bones, a bruised lung,” he grimaced. “That’s not what the doctor was too worried about, though. Jeno hit his head really hard on something. We’re not sure what, but his brain swelled up pretty bad. Doctor put him under until the swelling goes down, just so it doesn’t hurt.”

Yejin winced, her head falling back on his chest as she continued to cry.

“He’ll make a full recovery, Angel…he just has to sleep for a while. That’s all.”

“God, I fucking knew something was going to go wrong, I felt in my stomach I couldn’t sleep last night,” she wept. “I should’ve said something, I—“

“Nothing you could’ve done would’ve stopped this, Yejin. This isn’t your fault.” Jaemin reassured, rubbing her back before leading her towards the door. “Let’s go inside.”

Yejin almost refused to look at him. She walked inside the door with her head shoved into Jaemin’s chest as he stood in front of what she could only imagine was the bed Jeno was resting on. She could hear the machinery in the background, signaling a steady heartbeat that allowed Yejin to gather the strength to peer out of Jaemin’s coat.

It did nothing to soothe her as she watched Jeno breathe with the help of a few tubes, her hands trembling as she continued to sob. Had it not been for the mole under his right eye she would’ve never recognized him, falling to her knees as she took his cold hand, hands that were always warmer in comparison to hers.

“Oh Jeno,” she wept softly. “My baby, what did they do to you, my love?”

Jaemin was close behind, his hand on her neck before she turned around to cry in his legs again.

“Get up from the floor, baby,” Jaemin said softly. “It’s dirty.”

“I want to stay here,” she sniffled. “What if he gets lonely?”

“Jaemin is right, Angel.” Jihyun suddenly said behind her, rubbing her back as she eased her on her feet. “The floor is dirty, we’ll get you a chair.”

Jaehyun scooted an arm chair next to Jeno’s bed with help from Jaemin. Jihyun curled into Jaehyun’s hold as she watched Yejin take a seat on the chair, her head resting next to Jeno’s hand as she held it tightly, her fingers running over his knuckles as she continued to sniffle next to him. Jihyun’s heart broke at the sight, turning her head into his chest as she tried to fight tears of her own.

“Do you want to go home?” Jaehyun asked softly. Jihyun nodded.

Jaehyun and Jihyun said their goodbyes. Jaemin accepted only a hand on his shoulder from his brother as a silent goodbye and a kiss on the cheek from Jihyun with a weak smile. Jihyun kissed the top of Yejin’s head before telling her goodbye, a squeeze from Jaehyun’s hand and they were left alone.

Yejin was nowhere near ready to let go of Jeno’s hand until an hour and half after Jaehyun and Jihyun took their leave, noticing that Jaemin hadn’t sat down since. She looked up from her post and noticed that Jaemin was asleep standing up. She pulled away from Jeno’s hand and watched as his eyes flashed open, stumbling a bit backwards before catching himself with the help from Yejin’s hands.

“Jaemin, did you sleep last night?”

Said man shook his head, rubbing at his eyes before yawning deeply, “I couldn’t.”

Yejin got up from her spot on the chair and took Jaemin’s hand to pull him towards the couch, laying down and pulling Jaemin next to her, “sleep.”

“But—“

“If anything happens, we’ll both be here,” she reassured, running her fingers through his hair as he snuggled closer to her. “Sleep, Jaemin.”

It took less than five minutes for Jaemin to fall asleep, the twenty-two hours he had been awake were beginning to drive him insane. Yejin had woken up late either way, so she didn’t feel too tired as she continued to run her fingers through his hair and Jaemin breathed softly next to her. She noticed at that point that Jeno and Jaemin were breathing at the same rate, and despite the situation, she couldn’t help but to smile. She really did feel like she was intruding on their own romance sometimes.

Jaemin was awake for two hours when Yejin heard running outside before their door swung open, a very frantic Jisung lugging take out food in his hands appearing in front before he dropped it on the nearby table.

The youngest Jung brother had yet to take notice in Yejin and Jaemin’s appearance before Jisung ran towards Jeno sleeping figure, his hands running through his own hair before he looked over the body twice, “Jeno hyung! Oh my god, Jeno hyung—“

Jaemin groaned in his sleep, causing the youngest to snap his head to see Yejin sitting against the couch with Jaemin in her arms, still fast asleep.

“Oh, Yejin noona, I’m sorry,” Jisung suddenly whispered. He walked over towards the two before he took a seat in front of them, using the plastic chair seeing that the other two were occupied.

“What brings you here?” Yejin whispered.

“Jaehyun hyung asked me if I could do a favor after school, so I brought some food,” Jisung frowned deeply before looking back at Jeno. “I didn’t think this was why, though.”

“He’s going to be okay,” Yejin reassured, somehow finding it hilarious considering she had been the one crying for three hours.

“Are you sure…he doesn’t…look okay,” Jisung added carefully. Despite being dense at times, Jisung was fully capable of reading the room, most definitely noticing Yejin’s tired-from-crying eyes the second he saw her.

“I’ve been told, at least.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“A car accident from work, apparently.”

“How?”

Yejin gave a soft smile, shaking her head, “you know I’m not allowed to tell you Jisung.”

Jisung huffed in disbelief, “those rules only apply to Jaemin hyung and Jeno hyung, they don’t apply to you, noona!”

“I’m not allowed to tell you, Jisung. What if Jaehyun oppa finds out I’ve told you? Then who gets in trouble?”

“Me, I’ll tell him that I’m taking the suneung next week, and I’ll be an adult in a few months.”

Yejin continued to shake her head, “not a chance, Jisung.”

Jisung was the youngest of the three Jung brothers, a high schooler who was always too curious for his own good. Jaemin used to tell stories of Jisung hiding in their father’s office to hear about work, being yanked out by his shirt collar by Jaehyun or his father depending on who caught him first.

Nearing the end of their father’s life, Jaehyun became his primary at guardian at 25, taking care of his then 15 year old brother until he was accepted into an academy nearby, dorming with students his age and far from the life of delinquency both Jaehyun and Jaemin kept him from. However, this still didn’t ease her curiosity, often asking for updates and information despite Jaehyun scolding and reprimanding him time and time again. To help ease curiosity, Jaehyun presented an ultimatum: either Jisung end with curiosity and stick with school or work for his brother full time, dropping out of his dream school. Very obviously, Jisung chose the first option, but it still didn’t stop him from sneaking some information every so often from whatever Jihyun could tell him, but even then, it was low grade gossip and nowhere near the level his brothers talked at.

Jisung called bluff, but he never expected everyone to be so serious about it.

“Fine,” Jisung pouted. “I didn’t want to know anyway.“

“Good, that makes this easier for the both of us.”

Jisung scooted closer, “but can’t you tell me—“

“Enough, Jisung,” Jaemin’s deep voice came from Yejin’s chest. Jisung closed his mouth at the sound of his very irritated older brother, his pout deepening as his shoulders sagged.

“I’ll leave it alone,” Jisung sighed, scratching the back of his head aggressively before looking back at Jeno and to his wrist. “I guess I’ll get going. I got permission to leave for lunch because Jaehyun hyung called, but class will start sometime soon again.”

“Study hard, Jisung,” Yejin smiled. “We’re all rooting for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jisung smiled bashfully, waving as he made his way towards the door, “I’ll see you around. Campus isn’t that far from the hospital so I’ll be around more often.”

“Can’t wait,” Jaemin grumbled from Yejin’s hold.

Jisung narrowed his eyes, “what did he say?”

“He said don’t be late!” Yejin waved, watching as Jisung closed the door behind him. Yejin looked down at Jaemin. His eyes were still closed but there was no doubt he was awake at this rate.

“Jisung brought food, are you hungry?”

Jaemin squeezed his eyes before opening them slowly, squinting at the fluorescent lighting before rubbing at his eyes harshly, “kinda. What did he bring?”

“Chicken, I think.”

“Oh, thank god. I thought he cooked.” Jaemin smiled, lifting himself up from her hold and sitting on the couch, continuing to rub his eyes as Yejin brought the food towards them.

“I don’t think your brother would’ve sent Jisung if he had cooked,” Yejin smiled, opening the fried chicken box as they munched chicken quietly. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I feel better, for the most part,” Jaemin yawned, rubbing his neck before taking a chicken wing. “I don’t think a two hour nap has the ability to go against almost an entire day of no sleep though.”

“Are you going to stay the night here? If not, we can go home and sleep.”

Jaemin shook his head, “Johnny hyung said he was staying the night. I think they’ll be back later, my brother and Johnny hyung.  I think they want to talk about the next move, or whatever.”

Yejin nodded, silently eating her food and noticing Jaemin barely picking at the bits of his food. She didn’t find it strange at all, she wasn’t hungry all that much herself, but she can’t imagine that Jaemin had any kind of meal before this. Regardless, they kept eating, slowly no doubt, but steadily until Jaemin finally pushed the box away from him. Yejin took care to throw away the trash outside of the room, sliding back inside and noticing Jaemin sitting upright next to the armchair, looking through his phone while his free hand held Jeno’s.

She took it upon herself to sit on his lap, Jaemin immediately letting go of his phone before wrapping it around her waist. Yejin tilted his head back with her fingertips, watching as Jaemin gave her a weak smile before puckering his lips. Yejin chuckled to herself before leaning in to kiss him gently before cradling his head to her chest.

“Are you okay?”

“I can be.”

“What’s stopping you?” She mumbled, glancing over Jeno, “besides the obvious?”

“To be honest with you, I have no idea what I’m feeling. Whatever it is,” Jaemin moved his hand from her waist to her thigh, “it’s not good.”

Jaemin let go of Jeno’s hand to pull her closer, cradling her completely and locking his hands around her legs. Yejin got comfortable, resting her cheek against the crown of her head before she continued, “are you mad?”

“Towards?”

“Your brother?”

“Why would I be mad at Jisung?”

“You know that’s not who I meant, Jaem.”

Jaemin sighed, rubbing his girlfriend’s thigh as he took a moment to think, “I don’t think I’m directly mad at him, but I’m not entirely too happy with his methodology right now.”

“I understand.”

The couple continued to sit in silence before a thought slowly fanned into her brain. She bit her lip, wondering how to bring it up before Jaemin shuffled closer to her chest, specifically her heart.

“Your heart is racing?” Jaemin mentioned, looking up in confusion, “are you feeling okay?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Angel. Anything.”

“Why…” No, not like that. “How come you…” no. I don’t want him to think I’m blaming him either.

“Yes?”

“Is there a reason why you never told me Jeno had a sister?”

Jaemin froze under her. He was quiet for a moment, his hold on her loosening as she could almost hear the cogs in his brain turning.

“Who told you?” Out of the ways Yejin thought he would react, she never would’ve thought it would be cold.

“Does it matter?”

“Partially.”

“So, it partially doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, Yejin.”

Yejin pulled herself away from his head to look at him, her eyebrows knitted together and her eyes slightly narrowed, “so then why are you telling me it partially matters when it definitely matters who told me?”

“Because whoever told you didn’t have the authority nor the right,” Jaemin snipped

“Jaehyun oppa told me.” Indirectly, she thought to herself. Via Jihyun.

Jaemin snorted, “of course he did.”

“I just want to know why he didn’t tell me, Jaemin. I don’t want to know the entire conspiracy behind it—“

“No one wants to talk about their murdered sister, Yejin.”

“But no one really wants to find out their boyfriend—“ Yejin paused, “or rather boyfriends were lying to her.”

“We didn’t lie-“

“You didn’t tell the truth either, Jaemin. Do you see how upsetting this is?”

Jaemin rolled his eyes. Yejin huffed in disbelief at the dismissive action as her blood boiled beneath her skin. “Hello?”

“What?”

“Are you going to tell me?”

Jaemin glanced at Jeno before nodding his head, “Jeno’s right there. Ask him yourself.”

“Unbelievable.” Yejin got up from his lap and grabbed her coat from behind the chair, “you never miss the opportunity to be a fucking asshole.“

“Jung brother specialty, baby.”

“Fuck you,” she spat. “I don’t know why I fucking put up with you, you’re such a fucking spoiled, egotistical brat!”

“Then leave! If I’m such a fucking asshole then get out! Nobody is fucking keeping you here! Jeno isn’t even awake to make you stay!” Jaemin yelled back, pointing to the door.

Yejin stared at the back of the chair before crying for what seemed like the hundredth time today. She opened the door and slammed it behind her, accidentally bumping into Johnny, apologizing quickly before she continued to run out of the hallway.

Johnny looked at Jaehyun and Jihyun, offering a grimace, “I told you I heard yelling.”

Jihyun looked at Jaehyun with concern, watching him sigh as he gave her the car keys, “go.”

“I’ll see you at home,” she said quickly, kissing his cheek before walking quickly in the direction Yejin ran off to. Jihyun couldn’t run as well as she could perhaps six months ago, but she thankfully managed to reach the elevators as she saw that Yejin was waiting impatiently for the doors to open. When they did, she shoved herself inside, disregarding the family that was trying to get out.

“Pregnant lady, move.” Jihyun announced, watching Yejin look up from her spot in the corner with teary eyes.

“Come here,” Jihyun gently pulled on Yejin’s arm, shushing her quietly as she sobbed in her chest. “It’s okay—“

“He’s such a fucking idiot!” Yejin cried, sniveling on Jihyun’s expensive sweater. “I get it, they all have their stupid fucking secrets, but Jaemin’s such an asshole about it it’s like he doesn’t even care--“

Yejin’s sentence is interrupted by another loud sob, causing the other people in the elevator to awkwardly look at the floor. Jihyun did her best to soothe, to calm her down before they reached the garage. Jihyun pulled her outside and sat her down on a bench, rubbing her back as her sobs were reduced to small sniffles.

“Better?” Jihyun smiled softly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“I guess,” Yejin took a shaky deep breath. “Not really.”

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Yejin shook her head, tears starting up again as she admitted what she had been thinking the whole day, “I want Jeno home.”

Yejin cried harder, causing Jihyun to hold her close and conceal her from the eyes of curious bystanders.

“I know, Angel, I know—let’s go to my place then, hm?” She prompted, “I don’t think you’ve been to my new house yet? I can show you the nursery I’m building.”

The last thing Yejin wanted to see was a happy home, but it was better than going home to an empty apartment, where Jaemin would be later on. So instead of rejecting, Yejin nodded, sniffling once more before Jihyun took her hand and led her to her car.

//

Jaehyun and Johnny stood outside the door. Jihyun had just ran off to find Yejin as both men tried to figure out if they wanted to step inside or not. They argued quietly as to who should come in first.

“You’re older, hyung. You’re wiser because of your years in the world,” Jaehyun whispered harshly.

“Excuse me? You’re the boss, not only that you’re his brother, Jaehyun, you go—“ Johnny began to push Jaehyun towards the door.

“His brother that he currently hates.” Jaehyun hissed.

Eventually, Johnny managed to push him inside, glaring at him as he saw Jaemin sulking in the arm chair.

“Trouble in paradise?” Johnny prompted.

“Fuck off,” Jaemin grumbled, glaring at the machines.  

“Do you want to talk—“

“No.”

Jaehyun nodded, “right. I thought so.”

Johnny took a seat at Jeno’s bed as Jaehyun stood next to him, his arms crossed. “Jaemin—“

“No offense, Johnny hyung, I kind of don’t want to talk about work right now.”

“That’s too bad, kiddo, because,” Johnny smiled, “the worst part of work is that you have to do it anyway. Why? Because it’s your job, and this is not something I’m negotiating.”

Jaemin looked up at Jaehyun with questioning eyes, causing his older brother to laugh, “what? Are you talking to me now? Don’t look at me, Johnny hyung is talking to you now.”

“Did you tell Yejin about Jieun noona?”

What the fuck? Jaehyun furrowed his eyebrows together, “No? I speak to your girlfriend maybe twice a year.”

“I thought so,” Jaemin mumbled.

“Why bring up Jieun now, Jaemin?” Johnny asked.

“Yejin asked about her. Someone told her and I thought Jeno and I asked you not to say anything.”

“You’re getting real bold, these days, Jaeminie, don’t you think?” Johnny pressed, patting his head and gripping his shoulder almost to warn him for speaking informally.

Jaehyun sighed heavily, his head dropping into his hands, “I didn’t say anything Jaemin. But I think I know who did.”

“It’s fine, hyung. I did tell Jeno and Jaemin that I wouldn’t say anything,” Jaehyun reassured, looking for his phone and for a particular contact. “I think I forgot to relay the message to someone else, though.”

To: Jihyunie

We have to talk later.

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[ardenskyedarcy221b]

autumn leaves and apple cider

Peter yawns. His fists rub his eyes hard enough to see black stars. Eventually he blinks hard enough that he can see the time projected on his ceiling: 7:33. He grunts. Mental math tells him he’s slept a little over two hours since last time he checked the time. He shoves off his comforter, whines at the blast of cold, and rolls out of bed. 

He pads into the hallway in search of his father. 

Kitchen is empty. Couch in the family room is unoccupied. His brow furrows as Peter shuffles toward the back porch. Now, if his dad can’t be found inside the house, Peter can always find him somewhere outside. It has been a weird transition not automatically finding Tony Stark inside a laboratory, but time is on Peter’s side now. 

Only the back porch is vacant and worry settles heavily in Peter’s stomach. 

“Front porch?” he asks himself under his breath as he cuts through the cabin. If anxiety wasn’t pressing right at his edges, Peter could have stretched out his hearing and listened for his father’s heartbeat; however, as he is preoccupied, Peter walks out onto the front porch to the sight of thick fog cloaking the earth and no sign of his father. 

He isn’t sure what compels him onward: Peter tromps down the steps and his socks immediately soak up grass’s moisture as he ambles toward the dock. A violent shiver traverses his spinal column so Peter tucks his fingers underneath his armpits. 

Fog density is high, causing Peter to rely on muscle memory. Gentle waves lapping guides him along as well. He squints as if his advanced eyesight could cut through fall’s veil: it can’t. Leaves crunch beneath his feet. His toes keep finding holes or rocks to trip over. Perhaps in the end his advanced eyesight does assist him because up ahead his sees a figure at the end of the dock, barely even a silhouette, though it’s enough to tip Peter off that he found his father. 

“Dad?” 

Figure turns and a familiar baritone croaks out, “Pete?” 

Relieved to have found his father, Peter closes the distance between him and the figure at the end of the dock as quickly as he dares. A hand grasps at Peter’s forearm and curls into his hoodie material. 

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, not bothering to hide his confusion. 

“No reason,” is the first reply then his father sighs a laugh and finishes, “dunno, really, other than I just wanted to be by the water.” 

Peter shrugs off the answer. 

Father and son stand side by side, listening to the lake lap and birds tweet good morning hellos, until another chill steels over Peter. Then he burrows into his father’s side, maneuvering his arms around him until Peter is satisfied. He hums. 

“Cold?” 

He makes a noise at the back of his throat, too lazy to verbalize. 

“What, my hoodie not cutting it for you anymore?” his dad keeps pressing, a hint of his amusement breaking into his tone. “I speak from experience when I say I know that hoodie is warm.” 

“S’not yours, s’mine,” he muffles his words into his father’s side. “And my toes are cold.” 

“Your toes are—” Tony cuts off and then exclaims, “Why the hell are you outside without your shoes? Get back inside!” he gives Peter a little push. 

Peter giggles, stumbling but not moving away. He may have stuck himself to his father’s side using his spidery stickiness. 

Then his dad’s fingers wiggle like he’s going to tickle Peter and he shrieks, unsticks himself and bolts for the cabin. His father’s deep chuckles follow behind him at a sedated pace. He has no time to feel embarrassment for the ploy because Peter loathes being tickled, especially thanks to his enhanced sensitivity after the spider bite. Any time his dad or sister do not get their way, they have the tendency to exploit Peter’s weakness. 

Not fair, he pouts as he opens the glass screen door. His smile won’t disappear, though. 

Peter trots back into his bedroom to shower. It is only a matter of time before the calm of the morning is broken by Morgan waking up. Last night Dad and Pepper promised the whole family would go pumpkin picking and Peter’s little sister lost her mind. When he first came back, snapped or blipped or whatever terminology is popular at the moment, Morgan’s exuberance was a bit much for Peter’s frayed nervous system. She weaseled her way into his heart, though. Eventually. 

He shakes the thoughts away and finishes getting ready. 

Dad and Pepper are making breakfast when Peter wanders back into the kitchen. 

“Pete!” his sister chirps, sporting a chocolate milk mustache.  “Come eat; we have places to be!”

Peter snorts as he finishes shuffling to his seat next to the young girl. “I didn’t realize we were leaving so early?” 

“We’re not,” his father snorts. 

Peter looks up to see his stepmother rolling her eyes and Peter smirks at her, both of them sharing a knowing expression. 

Morgan decides pestering is the way to go after finding out that they aren’t leaving until after lunch. All it does is keep her chattering and everyone else wishing away the morning. And she convinces Pepper they should have a picnic in the car so they can get to the pumpkin patch earlier. 

Halfway to their destination, Morgan turns to Peter and says, 

“Will you braid my hair?”

“Now?” 

“Mmhmm!”

Before Peter can positively or negatively reply, Morgan is already climbing out of her booster seat and crawling into his lap. Peter fumbles to assist her but she knocks away his hands until she settles herself. Her smile is pleased and she is definitely preening. 

“Mo—” he starts. 

“Morgan Hope, what are you doing out of your seat?” comes their father’s terse question as the man twists from the passenger seat to stare back at them. “Peter isn’t your lounge chair. Get back over there, little miss.” 

Morgan’s head tips back onto Peter’s chest. “But Daaaaad,” she whines, “Pete needs to braid my hair.” 

“I don’t care. He can do it when we get there.” 

“He’ll do it fast, I promise, ‘cuz I don’t wanna wait.”

“Oh, is that so?” 

Morgan turns away from their father and pokes Peter in the cheek. “Please, Petey, will you braid my hair?”

Peter’s gaze flits to Tony. His father acts unimpressed but his eyes twinkle in amusement. So he answers, “Sure. Do you have a band?”

Morgan slips two different colored purple cloth bands off her wrists and shoves them in his face. (He thinks that’s what they’re called; Morgan calls them ponytail holders, sometimes, and Pepper goes back and forth between ponytail holders and bands. He’s settled on bands to be done with it.)

He makes a face at her and turns her to sit forward. “The things I do for you,” he pretends to grumble. 

“The things I do for the both of you,” his father echoes from up front, correcting his posture. 

“I know.” his sister sing-songs. “It’s ‘cuz you love me!”

Because Morgan is queen-in-training when it comes to avoidance strategies, Peter is suckered into giving her twin braids. Then she wraps her arms around his neck and makes him strap her back into her booster seat. She kisses his cheek in thanks, though, so there are small consolation prizes. 

Forty minutes after leaving their lake house, they arrive at their destination. Morgan cheers and their parents share a smile upfront. On top of handling random hair crises in the middle of road trips, Peter’s job also entails making sure Morgan keeps her socks on and putting on a jacket. Both are rather monumental tasks considering Peter has enhanced strength and Morgan is barely pushing three-three in height; his sister is wily. However, seeing as how his sister hasn’t pestered with her yellow rain boots this entire time that leaves, 

“Jacket, Mo,” he hands over the pink lightweight jacket. 

“Don’t need it,” she scrunches up her nose and eyes the item with growing distain. “I’ve got my Iron Man sweater on; don’t need a jacket.” to prove her point, her hands disappear in the golden material of her sleeves and she shakes them in his direction with all the fanfare of an ornery five year old, “Seeeeeeee?”

“I’m not the boss.” 

“You’re ‘posed to be one of my bosses, so technically you are the boss.” 

“Too bad I’m always the boss and trump your brother then, hmm, little miss?” Tony interjects as he turns around in his seat, free of the safety belt’s restriction, snagging the jacket from Peter’s outstretched clutches and shaking it in his daughter’s direction. “No jacket means no hayride.” 

Despite herself, Morgan can’t think up a quick enough rebuttal. She rolls her shoulders back and lets out a dramatic huff of, “Fine.” Then yanks the material and carelessly shrugs into it. 

Pepper gets out of her seat and opens up Morgan’s door, opening up her arms in silent initiation to be held. 

Tony and Peter follow them out of the car. 

As they make their way into the bustling crowd, Morgan wiggles down from Pepper’s hip and spider-monkeys her way onto Peter’s back. She mostly attempts to hitch her free ride while Peter continues walking, screeching whenever he tries stopping to assist. Eventually, they somewhat compromise by Peter stopping and Morgan throwing herself onto his back, arms curled so tight around his neck Peter can almost accuse her of choking him.  She nestles in close then whispers, 

“Can we get some apple cider?” 

“Um,” he glances around in search of the requested beverage, curious to see where she spotted it before him. Right as he finds it, one of her fingers points and he says, “Sure, if Dad and Mom don’t care.” 

“Don’t care about what?” comes twin responses. 

“Morgan wants apple cider.” 

Pepper makes a face while Tony shrugs. 

“You already had chocolate milk today, lovebug.” 

Morgan scoffs into Peter’s neck. 

“One cup won’t hurt her,” Tony offers up. Then he semi-lowers his voice, “Bet you she won’t even like it.” 

Pepper rolls her eyes, though allows, “One cup.” 

So they wind up waiting in line to all grab hot apple cider. Several minutes pass of Morgan clinging to Peter and Pepper fussing and  Peter slowly edging closer to his father so Tony can keep making a grab for Morgan with his prosthetic arm only for the little girl to shriek. After they pay for their drinks, Pepper says they have to sit down to drink them. 

“But Moooom,” the little girl whines, eyes riveted on a tractor pulling a group of people sat in hay up the way, “I wanna go now.” 

“Guess we’ll have to wait for the next one.” 

Peter senses an impending meltdown. He blurts out, “Hey, Mo, watch this.” without giving much thought to his harebrained idea because his sister’s attention immediately redirects to him. 

And so Peter takes a huge gulp of hot apple cider, holds his cup out at arm’s length, and spits the drink out in an arc straight back into the cup. Mostly. Only, 

“Ow ow ow, crap! That is hot!” 

Pepper looks like she wants to reprimand him, but Morgan and Tony are too busy belly laughing at Peter’s folly, so his stepmother winds up grinning along. 

A different kind of warmth fills up his belly than the one lingering in his mouth. 

Sure enough, when the next hayride pulls around, the Starks get on it. Morgan remains glued to Peter’s side and demands to sit in his lap during the ride. Peter nods his agreement and picks a corner seat in the back, nestled in by hay. Dad presses in on Peter’s free side while Pepper takes the last seat. 

Excitement fills his bloodstream. As they take off for pumpkin pastures, Peter’s knees jostle Morgan around as his sister oohs and ahhs over the farm’s decorations. He doesn’t remember going on hayrides as a kid, though celebrating Christmas on a Malibu beach definitely makes up for it, in Peter’s humble opinion, he is embracing the experience. Like listening to Morgan sprouting out ideas of what they are going to carve their pumpkins when they get home, after spotting the first small lines of the orange spheres.

“I think I want Lord Voldemort’s face.” 

His dad snorts while Peter turns Morgan around to face him. 

“Why?”

“Why not?” she gives back. 

“Why not a cat?” 

“Because I don’t wanna paint it black; I wanna carve it!” 

Pepper tacks on, “You’re not handling anything sharp, I’m afraid.” though she doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

Morgan knocks her forehead into Peter’s clavicle at the devastating news. Peter thinks he hears her say this is why under her breath but he can’t be certain. 

Dad leans over to press a kiss against Peter’s temple and attempts to do the same to Morgan, but she’s having none of it. After a few more attempts, Peter hands her over all the same so Dad can drop kisses all over her rosy cheeks. Her giggles pitch over top the roar of the tractor. 

Pepper winds up pretending to save Morgan right as the tractor pulls to a stop. She stands up and shuffles off with Morgan, who continuously peeks over Mom’s shoulder to cross her eyes and stick her tongue out at Dad. Peter lists into his father’s side and Tony slings in arm over his shoulders, pulling him in close. 

Leaves crunch under their feet as they step off. 

“Daddy has to have the biggest one,” Peter hears his sister say somewhere up ahead. “Just ‘cuz. But I don’t get the smallest one, okay, Mommy?” 

“Mmm. Sounds reasonable. I suppose I’ll take the smallest one, how’s that sound?” is Pepper’s reply and Peter can imagine her smile pulling out her dimples. 

“C’mon, Daddy! C’mon, Pete!” hollers Morgan. “Let’s go pick our pumpkins!”

“You heard Miss Bossypants; chop chop, daylight’s wasting away,” nudges his father. 

Peter breathes in deeply and beams up at his father, his vision squinting as joy settles around them.

Autumn tastes like crisp air and hot apple cider; autumn is the warmth of his little sister wanting to show him everything that captures her attention; it’s watching his dad’s recovery in a positive light, seeing him walking around unassisted and smiling freely. 

Autumn is being with his family. 

AO3

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part thirty

I don’t normally post a chapter when I don’t have the next written in advance, but I’m struggling to write it. I know what will happen because I do have it plotted out, but any and all feedback on this chapter is greatly appreciated. Comments from you guys really help me in the writing process, so feel free to ramble! I enjoy it :)

I don’t mean to sound too demanding, but even if you just want to tell me why you love this story/why you started reading it in the first place or how you found it, that would help a lot. I love you guys, as always xx.

The doctor pulls you off of the medication keeping you in the coma around two in the afternoon on the day after Christmas day. He tells John that you should wake up within the hour.

           But once the hour passes and you’re still sleeping, John is ready to raise hell.

           Sherlock stays put in the chair by your bed, his hands steepled at his chin as he watches you, waiting impatiently for you to wake. He doesn’t necessarily want to know if you heard him last night, but he wouldn’t mind if you did.

           He just wants you to wake up. To be okay.

           While Mary tries to calm John down outside the door, Sherlock scoots closer to your bedside. His hand shakes as he rests it on top of yours, curling to wrap around it. It’s been far too long since he’s held your hand.

           “The east wind,” he murmurs, hoping it’ll spark some memory, something. “Remember. Don’t let the east wind take you, too.”

           Sherlock’s eyes widen when he feels your fingers twitching in his own, eventually squeezing his hand – weakly, but still something.

           He waits for you to open your eyes, to crack a smile at him and joke about, “Is the great Sherlock Holmes feeling sentiment?” But nothing of the sort occurs.

           This isn’t a movie. This isn’t a fairytale where you wake up when you feel your love’s touch. Or when you hear your love’s voice. You don’t hear him at all. You felt his hand at least, but your consciousness is gone as quick as it came in that one moment.

           Sherlock stares at your face for a few minutes, his eyebrows furrowing as he watches you, waiting still for some sort of expression – anything – to cross your face, but nothing ever does. He stands abruptly after realizing it’s a lost cause, his hand slipping from yours.

           He glances at your vitals. Everything still appears to be normal.

           But you haven’t woken up.

~~~

Forty-eight hours later

Sherlock sits in the chair beside your bed for the fourth day in a row. He hasn’t said a word in the last twenty-four hours. He’s even begun to worry the hospital staff.

           Mary tries and fails to get Sherlock to leave the room. John still can’t bring himself to walk inside and see you lying there, motionless on the bed. He only has once, two days ago when the doctor said you should’ve been waking up. But since then, John hasn’t been back inside your room. He’s restricted himself to the waiting room just across the hall, where he spends the day with his head in his hands.

           Mycroft has yet to make an appearance. Sherlock isn’t sure if it’s the guilt stopping his older brother, or the threat Sherlock made a few days ago. Whatever the reason may be, Sherlock is glad his brother has yet to stop by. And he hopes he never does.

           But Sherlock knows better than to start hoping because as soon as he does, there is a knock on the door.

           His head turns to see who it is, hoping it’s a nurse or even Mary, but instead it is the exact person Sherlock Holmes was hoping would never show their face

           “What do you want, Mycroft?”

           Leave it to Sherlock’s older brother to get the first word – first sentence out of Sherlock in twenty-four hours. If Mary had known Mycroft could do that, she would’ve phoned him herself.

           “Ah, I see the hostility is still there, brother mine.”

           Sherlock glares. “Leave or I will show you out myself.”

           Mycroft stays by the door, not able to see you lying in bed asleep. And maybe that’s why he is so arrogant. “Well, I’d like you to show me out all the same. I need to have a word with you.” He pauses. “Outside.”

           Sherlock clenches his jaw. He hasn’t left this chair, not even to eat or shower. He’s been too afraid to leave your side, and now his brother is demanding he do just that? Ridiculous.

           “It’s about the case.”

           “What case?”

           “Her case,” Mycroft finally steps into the room, casting a brief glance at you before he steels himself. “It’s about Gidon.”

           “What is it?”

           “I’d prefer not to say here,” Mycroft says slowly, raising his eyebrows. “She might be listening.”

           “She’s in a bloody coma—”

           “Sherlock. Outside.”

           Snatching his coat off the back of the chair, Sherlock practically storms out the door. Your room is thankfully on the second floor, giving Sherlock enough steps to stomp some of his anger out on as he shoves his way outside.

           Mycroft follows behind, loosely. He knows his brother and he knows that he is wound up tight at the moment.

           Sherlock pulls his collar up around his neck, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

           Entirely without anticipation, a cigarette comes into Sherlock’s peripheral view, held up by none other than his older brother.

           “Just the one.”

           “Why?”

           “Happy New Year.”

           Sherlock thinks it over for a moment before he shakes his head, stepping away from the cigarette. “No.”

           Mycroft, pleased but surprised, asks, “Can I ask why?”

           “I promised her.”

           And then, it all clicks into place. The incredibly clean streak Sherlock Holmes has been on for the past few months is all because of a promise he made to you.

           Sentiment. It runs deep.

           “Well. I wish she was awake so I could thank her,” Mycroft comments, tucking the cigarette away.

           Sherlock spins around, glaring at his older brother. “You wish she was awake? You’re the one who got her into this position in the first place.”

           “If I remember correctly, she was already in this position when I began corresponding with her some time ago.”

           “Are you seriously arguing semantics with me right now? Of all times?”

           “I’m trying to get you to listen to me.”

           “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past two minutes?”

           “You’ve been prancing around like a child, Sherlock, and I need you, just this once, to act like an adult.”

           “And I need you to tell me what it is you have to say before I check you into hospital.”

Mycroft hears the underlying threat, but he chuckles darkly. “Is that sentiment talking?”

           “No. It’s me,” Sherlock replies seriously.

           “Hard to tell the difference with you these days.”

           Sherlock gives his older brother a look, one that says he has one last chance to say what he needs to say before this is going to end badly.

           “Gidon is dead, Sherlock.”

           Sherlock pauses. “What did you just say?”

           “Gidon was found dead in his cell this morning. Don’t worry, we know it wasn’t you. Security cameras have footage of him taking a cyanide pill at some hour last night. The guard found him this morning.”

           “Why are you just telling me this now?”

           “Because I wasn’t informed until an hour ago,” Mycroft pauses, digging in his coat. “I’ve been in meetings all day, but this was brought to my attention.”

           Sherlock takes the folded piece of paper from his brother, giving him a strange look. “What is this?”

           “A note that Gidon left behind underneath his pillow.”

           Sherlock unfolds the paper, his expression leveling when he sees the three letters written in black ink. Small, tiny letters. Small enough that anyone doing an initial search would miss them. But they are loud and clear to Sherlock’s eyes. He hasn’t seen them in years.

           I O U

           “Moriarty is dead.”

           “I would hope so,” Mycroft breathes. “But it appears he might not be.”

           “So, what? Was Gidon an-an accomplice?”

           “That’s what we have been trying to figure out.”

           Sherlock waves the paper frantically, scoffing at his idiot brother. “You’ve had an hour, what on earth have you been doing?”

           Mycroft stares at his brother. “Sherlock, I’m only bringing this to your attention because I know you��d be angry with me if I didn’t.”

           “I’m still angry with you, so what does it matter?”

           “Sherlock, listen to me.”

           “Why?”

           Mycroft ignores the question. “I have put maximum surveillance on this entire building with extra security on its way.” He pauses. “If you want her so closely under your protection—”

           “She is under my protection. She always has been.”

           “Well, you can’t do it alone,” Mycroft says. “If she is under your protection then she is under mine as well. But listen to me when I say you do not know everything about her.”

           “I don’t need to know everything about her.”

           “Sherlock, you’re not listening to me.”

           “What am I supposed to do?”

           “You need to not blame yourself for this.”

           “I blame you for this. All of this.”

           “No,” Mycroft sighs. “You’re blaming yourself.” He knows his brother well and he knows that’s exactly what he’s been doing every hour that he’s been sitting by your bed. “You do not know the ins and outs of her past, and I will not tell because it is not my place to. But she will need your protection more than she’ll want it. And she might take a while longer to wake.”

           “Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Sherlock cries. “You end it there? She might take a while longer? I’m not blind, Mycroft, she hasn’t moved in four days.”

           “And she may take a while longer to come around. After all that she has been through.”

           “What are you going on about now?”

           “Someone with as much psychological damage as herself may take longer to join the conscious world because her mind needs to heal,” Mycroft replies simply. “After all that she’s been through, I can’t say that I blame her myself for wanting to stay asleep for a while longer.”

           “You’re making it incredibly hard for me to not punch you, brother dear.”

           “Then I see nothing has changed,” Mycroft smiles, already used to his brother’s usual threats. “I’ll be off.”

           “Took you long enough,” Sherlock mutters, not giving his older brother a single second glance as he goes back inside the hospital.

           Within minutes Sherlock is back by your bed, the chair now facing the window and overlooking the London sky.

[louhooo]

Hello My Old Heart | Chap. 3

Summary: Reminiscing and Showers

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader [AU]

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, angst (sorry)

A/N: I’m so sorry it took all week to put this out!! I had it written up, but didn’t like what I had, and I struggled with motivating myself to rewrite it. I’ve also been in a pretty good mood, so writing angst has been v difficult 😬

Feedback is very much appreciated! 💘

“Your boyfriend won’t stop asking about you.”

You rolled your eyes and shut your locker. 

“He’s not my boyfriend.” She gave a disbelieving look. “He’s not!” She scoffed a laugh.

“Right. And the sky is green, the grass is blue, and up is down.” You shrugged your brows.

“Good thing we aren’t pilots, ‘cause that sounds confusing and very stressful.” She growled and backhanded your arm, making you laugh. 

“Will you just ask him on a date for all of our sakes? He’s just too nervous to do it himself.” You started walking to math. You shook your head softly.

“Do you know for a fact that he wants to ask me out, or is that just a guess?”

“Dude, are you fucking serious?! Of course he does! He won’t stop asking me if you’re talking to anyone, even though he literally sees you all the time, so he’d clearly know if you were….” she grumbled under her breath. You grinned and walked into Mr. Pym’s class. Steve and Bucky were already there, immediately stopping their conversation when you and Sharon sat down.

“Hey, Y/N, Bucky has a–” Bucky leaned over and pushed Steve out of his desk. Steve looked up from the floor at Buck. “What the fu–”

“Language... Mr. Rogers.” Mr. Pym spoke from his desk, not even bothering to glance up from his newspaper. Steve got bright red and shot Bucky a look as he got back into his desk. You and Sharon shared a look.

Just talk to him already, she mouthed. You sighed and chewed on your bottom lip as you shrugged off your backpack. You hesitantly walked over to the other side of the room where Bucky and Steve were sitting. You sat down in the desk in front of Bucky and turned around so you were looking at him. His eyes were wide and his face was losing color by the second. You grinned.

“Hey, Buck.”

“H-Hey, Y/N.” He gave you a nervous, but still endearingly charming smile. Bucky wasn’t sure how his brain managed to form a sentence with you right in front of him. Lately, every time you talked, he shut down completely and just stared at you like the angel that you were. God, you’re pretty…. 

“You know what my two favorite foods are right now?” He pinched his brows, trying not to show that he had only just started listening. You watched him glance over at Steve and then back to you.

“Uh… no?”

“Chocolate ice cream and french fries. They’re great on their own, and even better together.”

“I thought there were too many flavors to pick a favorite?” You grinned.

“Chocolate’s better with french fries.” He nodded his head, still looking puzzled. You took a deep breath, “Well, I was gonna go to Peg’s after school and get a shake and some fries…” he kept nodding his head, “would you, maybe, wanna come with?” He stopped nodding abruptly and blinked.

“Alright, folks, back to your seats,” Mr. Pym walked up to the front of class. All Bucky did was stare at you. You sighed softly and stood up, and walked back to your seat, ignoring the expectant look Sharon was giving, and silently pulled out your notebook and pencil and watched Mr. Pym work through a homework problem. 

You should have known he wasn’t really interested in asking you out on a date. He was Bucky Barnes, the only freshman to start on varsity, and unbelievably sweet and caring and un-believably out of your league. Even when you were kids he was still too cool to be associated with you. 

With homecoming in a few weeks, you were now dreading having to hear Dot Williams talk about how Bucky asked her.

Dot already talked about how “close” she was to Bucky asking her out all. The. Time. You’re sure it would only get worse once they went to the dance together.

And why wouldn’t he ask her? She was the head cheerleader for football, wrestling, and, somehow, baseball last summer, even though the baseball team wasn’t supposed to have cheerleaders. Everyone knew she was Bucky’s biggest fangirl, one you weren’t even on the same playing field with. She was the definition of “perfect” for every boy in school. And you… were you. 

You would have to be completely naïve to not realize that she was better than you. 

“Yes, Mr. Barnes? You have a question?” You snapped out of your daydream and looked up at Mr. Pym. You followed his line of sight to Bucky, who had his hand raised.

“Uh… it’s actually for Y/N.” On cue, everyone’s eyes landed on you, including Bucky’s. “I’ve got practice after school until six; can you wait until after?” You felt your cheeks get hot and you nodded quickly. Bucky smiled widely, “Okay. Then, it’s a date.” A slow smile spread on your face as everyone else made small hooting noises. Mr. Pym cleared his throat, attracting everyone’s attention.

“Any more questions for Miss Y/L/N, Mr. Barnes?”

“No, sir.” Mr. Pym glanced between you and Bucky, and shook his head before moving back to the board and writing out the math problem. Someone tapped your shoulder and you turned around.

I told you, Sharon mouthed with a big smile. You grinned, making no attempt to hide your happiness. You glanced at Bucky and saw he was already looking at you. You both smiled at each other, everything else fading away. 

Okay... maybe you were wrong. 

Someone clearing their throat pulled your attention and you went back to copying the board and trying very hard to not look at the other for the remainder of class.

You stared up at the ceiling of your hotel room. You weren’t ready to get out of bed yet, because that meant starting your day, and you still weren’t sure how to feel about it. 

Sharon’s bridal shower was today, an event purposefully scheduled the weekend before the wedding so that you could be in attendance. Because despite whatever you believed, your friends still loved you just the same and wanted you to be included.

Maybe it would have made things easier if more people hated you for leaving. When you first left, you waited three weeks before getting ahold of anyone, and those early calls were full of tears and pleas to come home.

But you couldn’t. Home just wasn’t the same for you.

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, interrupting your thoughts. You sighed and rolled over, unplugging your charger and squinting at the screen. Another sigh, and you answered the call.

“Hello?” Despite being awake since 3:30, your voice was rough from sleep. You cleared your throat.

“Wake up, I need help setting stuff up.” You rubbed your hand down your face.

“Good morning to you, too, Natasha.” She sighed on the other end.

“Good morning, how’d ya sleep? Good? Good, okay. Come over to Sharon’s in an hour.” You glanced at the red numbers on the nightstand, and groaned. It was only eight, and the party wasn’t until noon. “Y/N… don’t make me come drag you out of bed, ‘cause you know I will. I’ll even get Clint and it can be just like old times–”

“Oh my god, don’t. I’m gettin’ up, I’m gettin’ up… I’ll see ya in an hour.” She laughed out a goodbye and you returned the sentiment. You dropped your phone on the bed, and continued staring at the popcorn ceiling. You’re doing it for Sharon. Put your big kid pants on, and buck up. You’ll be fine.

Time had only made you forget how much you disliked Sharon’s mom. Amanda, had made it abundantly clear that she only thought you were going to bring bad luck to Steve and Sharon’s marriage, and took you to the side and told you that it would be “just fine” if you left. 

Peggy stopped it before Amanda could say anything else, but it was too late, the thought was already in your head. 

“Ignore her. She’s only happy when she makes other people feel terrible.” Peggy pulled you along, keeping you by her side most of the morning, having you do all of the busy work, you’re sure to keep your mind preoccupied. 

She sat you at the kitchen table and you both bundled the silverware and napkins together with gold ribbon.

“So, when’s Pepper getting here?” Peggy sighed.

“Not until Wednesday. She had to help a client at the last minute.” She continued to bunch the silverware, “She’s a divorce lawyer, you know?” You eyed her, put continued working at the same pace.

“Yes… I’m aware.” Peggy briefly glanced at you through her lashes.

“Have you talked to her at all? I’m sure she’d lower her rates for you.” You took a deep breath and calmly set the spoon in your hand down.

“Peggy…–”

“It’s just an idea,” she defended herself while looking at you, “and I think it would be good. For both of you.” You blinked.

“I–”

“Oh, god, is mom making you guys do this? Ugh, I’m gonna kill her, I told her to do this.” Sharon pulled out a chair beside you and started wrapping silverware and napkins together. She glanced at you, and you grinned in return. Her brows pinched, “What’s wrong?” You shook your head.

“Nothin’! Peg was just saying that Pepper won’t be here?” Sharon bought the distraction and started explaining why Pepper wouldn’t be here. You figured it was easier for everyone this way. You were tired of everyone walking on eggshells for you, and you were sure they were tired of doing it.

By the time the shower started, you had already volunteered yourself to be the one who replenished food and drinks whenever they were just slightly low. Nat gave you a look when you offered, that silently promised you she would be discussing this later. 

Sharon’s family and a few of her work friends started to trickle in until there were about forty some people mingling in the backyard. You circulated and talked to just enough people that you didn’t look like you were dodging any serious questioning, but any time Sharon’s second cousin or maternal aunt would ask anything personal, you’d find an excuse to leave.

You were stirring the punch when you felt someone stand behind you. You looked over your shoulder and felt your resolve quickly start to fade.

Sarah Rogers. 

Her eyes flitted over your face and the empty cup in her hand shook faintly.

“Y/N?” Your eyes glassed over and you tried your best to form some type of grin or smile. “Oh, sweetheart…” You put the ladle down, and turned to her, her arms immediately spreading. You walked straight into them, the same floral perfume she’d always worn enveloping you. 

She squeezed you like you might evaporate right in front of her. 

Sarah had been everyone’s second mom growing up. She was the one you all went to whenever you needed help with something, and she never judged you for whatever was going on. 

You spent more time at her house than you did your own, most of the time. Sarah Rogers was just one of those people who genuinely cared about everyone, and made sure you knew it.

She made it easy on you and talked the most, filling you in on everything that had happened since you left. You didn’t want to tell her you’d been fairly kept up-to-date on town gossip, scared that you’d hurt her feelings even more if she found out you still kept in touch with all of your friends, except her son and his best friend. 

You were very relieved to find out, however, that Winnie wouldn’t be here because she and George were helping Becca get settled at her new apartment. They would be back in time for the wedding, she assured. 

Wonderful.

Two hours later and the party was finally over. Peggy had sacrificed herself and invited Sharon’s family to her house for coffee or tea, so that they would leave Sharon alone without being explicitly told to do so. Peggy made sure that you all knew that you owed her “big time”. 

You would have left earlier, too, but Nat mentioned something about “bridesmaid duties requiring you to do everything she tells you to.” The power of being maid-of-honor had gone to her head, and without Pepper there to back you up, you were defenseless.

“So, Y/N…” You glanced over your shoulder at Sharon. She came next to you at the sink and wrapped an arm around your waist. “How are you doing?” You gave her a confused face and pulled the plug from the drain.

“I’m fine…? How are you?” You laughed a little at her questioning.

“Well, Peggy told us about yesterday.” Your grin fell and you sighed loudly.

“Peggy and her big mouth,” you spoke under your breath and shook your head. “Everything’s fine, and Peggy can kindly mind her own business.” 

Sharon opened her mouth to talk, but the front door swished open.

“Sharon?”

“In here!” Heavy footsteps sounded on the hardwood flooring and Steve appeared in the kitchen. Sharon dropped her arm around you and met Steve in the doorway, where they shared a kiss in greeting, “How was work?” They walked further into the kitchen.

“Quiet. Hi, mom,” he pecked her cheek and turned back to Sharon, “How was the party?”

“Good! We got the blender we wanted!” Steve shared in her enthusiasm and thrusted his hand up in the air.

“We’ll have to test it out tomorrow. I found a new recipe for a green smoothie that I wanna—”

“Oh my god, you are literally an old married couple already,” Nat teased. “Disgusting.” You all laughed and Sharon flipped her off with a smile. You dried off your hands.

“Well, I think I’m gonna head now.”

“No, stay! We were gonna grill out for supper and Sam and Clint were gonna come over, too!”

“Oh, I’m still kinda recovering from my hangover yesterday,” you chuckled, trying to play it off. “I really just need to sleep for sixteen hours straight.” Sharon and Nat shared a look like they wanted to say something, but didn’t. Sharon sighed softly.

“Alright. Well, thanks for helping set up, and thanks again for the sign! I love it!” You hugged and swayed together.

“You’re welcome. I didn’t want to risk you getting mad at me for not remembering.” You both chuckled. When you had made the sign for you and Bucky, Sharon made you promise to make her one for when her and Steve got married. No one would have guessed Steve was going to wait as long as he did.

“Only a little mad.” You pulled back and gave a hug to Nat, who forced your hand in agreeing to come to dinner at her and Clint’s Tuesday night. You always somewhat believed Nat was an assassin in another life, so there was a genuine fear in upsetting her. 

Sarah gave you another tight hug and told you, for the fifth time today, that she was glad you were here. You turned around to grab your purse, and saw that Steve was already holding it.

“I’ll walk you out to your car.” He grinned, and you gave a smaller one back and nodded. You said another quick goodbye and you and Steve stepped outside. “Do you remember when I finally asked Sharon out?” You chuckled at the memory. 

Steve had been even worse than Bucky had. He could hardly talk when Sharon was within twelve feet of him, nor could he hold eye contact with her, regardless of the distance. Sharon was convinced something was seriously wrong with him. It took him about ten weeks before he finally asked her out without running away two seconds into the conversation.

“I think you owe me fifty dollars, if I remember correctly.” He laughed genuinely and you gave a sincere smile.

“Does Sharon know you bet I’d marry her?”

“Of course she knows. I told her as soon as you asked her out.” Steve chuckled.

“Remind me next time I see ya, and I’ll write ya a check.”

“Wow, you really are an old man, huh?” He bumped into you with his elbow and you giggled. He handed you your purse and you pulled out your keys, and hit the unlock button a few times. “Thanks for walking me out, Steve.”

“Have you gone to the Grove yet?” You dropped your keys, surprised by his question. You bent down and picked them up with a shaky hand.

“N-not yet.” You stopped in front of your car and he opened the door for you.

“Just asking.” You dared a glance up at him and couldn’t stop the tear from sliding down your cheek. “Y/N….” he sighed with a soft exhaust. He wrapped his arms around you as you cried into the chest of his navy shirt. He rubbed his hand in a soothing circle on your back and let you break down. 

You and Steve were friends well before you were friends with Sharon. His house was only a block down from yours, and Bucky’s just a couple down from his. The three of you spent that summer before third grade making memories that built your friendship. Sharon’s desk was beside yours, and it was an almost instant friendship. She introduced you to Nat and Sam at recess, and you met Clint at lunch. You acquainted everyone after school, and the rest was history. 

Even if he was your Stevie, he was Bucky’s first. There wouldn’t be a fight to decide who “got” Steve; he would always choose Bucky. So, you never reached out to him, that way he wouldn’t have to be in the middle. There were many times you just wanted to call Steve for one of his famous late-night talks on the phone, but you couldn’t. You had made your bed, and were forced to lie in it. 

“I’m just so-so…” you broke into another sob and clutched onto his shirt. Steve hugged you tighter. 

You don’t know how long you stood there, Steve letting you ruin his shirt with your tears and watery mascara. You were only distantly aware of the sound of a truck coming down the street. Steve shifted slightly and you looked up at him. He was looking over to the side and you followed his gaze. 

Clint and Sam had pulled up and were having a silent conversation with Steve using only facial expressions. “I’m sorry, I should go. Thank you, Steve.” He looked back down at you and still looked concerned, his hold on you not loosening enough to break away.

“Y/N, you really don’t have to. We have a guest bedroom. You can—” You shook your head.

“No. You need to go in and spend time with your fiancé. She needs you more than I do.” He gave you a look.

“I’m not worried about my fiancé at the moment….” You cupped the side of his face.

“I’m fine, Steve. I promise to call someone if I need anything, alright?” He gauged your response before he slowly nodded. He bent down and kissed your forehead.

“Go get some sleep. I’ll call you in the morning.” You nodded and dropped your arms and got into your car. He softly shut the door after you started the car. You rolled the window down and he leaned his forearms on the sill, “Just a warning: I’m not above busting a few doors down if you don’t answer me when I call.” You smirked, the expression almost foreign to you.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from Captain Rogers.” He gave a crooked smirk. Steve knew better than to believe you were “fine”. 

You did your seatbelt as Steve stepped back. You slowly pulled away, tears brimming as Steve stayed in the street watching you until you were out of sight. You drove to the hotel, and for the second day in a row, cried yourself into a dreamless sleep.

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TAGS: @allonszassbutt, @amazonianbeauty

[yourdeepestfathoms]

I‘ll Be Met by Moonlight

yall are really out here sleeping on Mom Friend Bessie huh

TW: Vomiting (there’s quite a bit, so don’t read if you can’t handle it)

———————

Bessie awoke to the sound of crying. Loud crying.

Instantly, she hurtled herself out of bed, put on her slippers, and loped out into the hallway, natural maternal worry practically giving her wings.

Maggie was peeking out of her bedroom, staring at the staircase leading downstairs. Maria probably would have been down there already if she weren’t staying with the queens.

That meant it was Joan. Joan was crying.

   “She’s been like this for half an hour,” Maggie whispered when she noticed Bessie. “I-I should have done something... I’m sorry.”

   “Don’t be sorry. I understand.” Bessie assured her. Maggie was never one to comfort people, nor did she really know how without making things worse, so Bessie thought her just standing there was perfectly reasonable. “Go back to sleep, love. I’m going to go check on her.”

Maggie nodded and then slipped back into her room while Bessie made her way down the stairs and to the bedroom.

Joan was sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth slowly. From the faint glow of the nightlight, Bessie could see her shoulders violently shaking with the intensity of her sobs.

  “Joan?” Bessie called out, not wanting to startle the keyboardist. Still, Joan’s head jerked up.

  “J-Jane?” She called out weakly.

Oh.

  “No, love, it’s Bessie.” Bessie corrected while walking over slowly. She sat down beside Joan and set a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Joan shook her head, sucking in another quivering breath. That quickly turned into a coughing fit and Bessie thumped her lightly on the back to help her along.

  “Easy, love, easy,” Bessie murmured, “You’re okay. I got you.”

  “B-Bessie?” Joan whispers.

  “That’s right. That’s me, hun. It’s Bessie.”

It was too dark to tell if it was really her. Too dark, too dark, too dark-

Joan never liked the dark, even before she got snared in the forest. It was a dark a lot in the 16th century. There weren’t any nightlights, just candles and maybe lanterns, but it wasn’t advised to keep either of those lit overnight (Joan would know. she still remembers the acrid odor and her mother and father yelling). So, usually, she cowered under her blankets with her eyes screwed shut. Unless her brother let her sleep with her, she usually stayed up until the first hint of the sun came out, then she finally deemed it safe to rest.

Insomnia for her was long-running, too.

The keyboardist whimpered sharply and then collapsed into Bessie’s arms.

The scent of the hair she buried her nose into wasn’t Jane’s. Jane smelled like lavender and sugar cookies, not a roasting fire. Not that the other smell was bad. It confirmed that it was, in fact, not her queen she was clinging to.

  “You’re alright,” Bessie murmured in her ear, her smooth, velvety accent tickling the baby hairs on the back of Joan’s neck. “You’re alright now, honey. I’ve got you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Bessie is caring, like Jane, but she has an aura her that makes Joan feel protected. Like being guarded by a defensive mother bear.

  “Do you think you can breathe with me? In and out. Just like me.”

One is rubbing up and down Joan’s spine in soothing strokes, while the other comes around to hold her head against the bassist’s chest. She feels the rise and fall of Bessie’s lungs contracting, hears the steady beating of her heart, and it calms her slightly. She takes in a breath of her own.

  “There you go.” Bessie’s smile is sweet, nurturing, supportive. “That’s so good, sweetie. Can you do it again?”

Joan obeys and, slowly but surely, her breathing isn’t as ragged or rapid. She pulled away slowly and Bessie thumbs away a stray tear falling down her cheek.

  “I...” Joan starts, but her voice is a brittle rasp, and it hurts to speak. Bessie shushes her.

  “Joan, honey, if you’re about to apologize, then I gotta ask you to stop right there,” Bessie said, “Everyone in this house has nightmares. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Joan nodded a little and she feels Bessie’s thumb stroke back and forth against her cheekbone.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” The bassist asked.

Joan shrugged shyly.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to.” Bessie added.

  “Jane was dying,” Joan whispers, “A-and she kept screaming and crying in agony. She was in so much pain and I just stood there. I didn’t help her at all.” She sniffled and fresh tears fall down onto the hand caressing her cheek, “Then th-this thing ripped out of her stomach and-and-and-”

Nausea bubbles inside of Joan, curling up her throat and into her mouth. She couldn’t swallow it down.

Joan throws up all over herself.

Bessie is moving immediately. Not to get away, but to switch sides so she’s directly behind the heaving girl. It was too late to grab the trashcan in the room, so, instead, she pulls her hair out of the way. Some of the blonde locks were wet with bile, but Bessie didn’t let it phase her if she even noticed.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Bessie murmured when she heard the high-pitched noises of pain Joan was making in between coughs.

Joan was absolutely mortified. She was paralyzed when her stomach finally stopped ejecting itself, frozen in humiliation and terror. More tears spilled free and she sobbed.

  “I’m- I’m sorry- Oh god, Bessie, I’m so sorry-” She struggled to speak and nearly threw up again.

  “Shh, shh,” Bessie soothed, rubbing circles against the girl’s back, which was clammy with sweat, “You’re alright, darling. This isn’t your fault.”

  “But-”

  “Hush,” Bessie said, “You were scared, Joan. I don’t blame you for being sick if that’s what you had seen.”

Joan slowly turns her head to look at Bessie. Even when there were trails of vomit dribbling down either sides of her mouth, the bassist still smiles so gently at her. She would have crumpled into her arms if she weren’t covered in a substance she definitely didn’t want to get on the woman.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Can you stand?”

Bessie gets off the bed first, taking one of Joan’s hands in her own. She lets the girl try to get up by herself, but it’s obvious she’s struggling, so Bessie steps in and helps her to her feet. She feels Joan cringe when the pool of throw up that had been congealing in her lap spilled down her legs and to her floor.

  “Shh,” Bessie hushes when she heard a sharp whimper, “It’s not your fault, darling. Don’t worry about that right now. Let’s go get you in the shower.”

Although she didn’t like leaving the shaken up, ill girl by herself, Bessie understood why Joan didn’t want her in the bathroom while she was bathing. While she waited for the keyboardist, she busied herself by cleaning up the mess left behind.

Being a lady in waiting to half of the queens, especially one that was pregnant several times and had her fair share of morning sickness, Bessie was quite used to vomit. It didn’t bother her anymore. The smell, the sound, the sight- none of it phased her. She could eat a whole feast while someone was emptying their stomachs in front of her and be just fine.

And yet she was afraid of heights of all things.

Oh well. At least she wasn’t scared of moths like Maria was.

It’s been almost forty-five minutes since the shower turned off. Bessie wanted to give Joan space, but she was starting to worry.

  “Joan?” Bessie called out.

No answer.

  “Joan, sweetie, are you okay in there?”

Nothing.

  “Joan, I’m coming in.”

Inside, Joan was on her hands and knees, panting heavily, clutching fistfuls of the shaggy shower carpet. The shirt she was supposed to change into was discarded on the floor, but she does have the shorts on. Without a top, her milky-yellow, sweat-soaked flesh is revealed to Bessie.

And the angry red scar that encircled her torso.

The keyboardist didn’t look to be comfortable in the slightest, as her muscles were contracting violently and her bra strap appeared to be digging into taut her skin. Not that she had the energy to wrestle with the clasp right now, though. One hand lifts to hold her aching middle.

  “Oh, Joan...”

Bessie saw the girl’s entire body tense up. Joan is trying not to move but she’s trembling too badly. Bessie quickly retrieves a clean blanket before stepping fully into the bathroom. She wraps the soft blanket around Joan, who seemed grateful, but couldn’t show it.

  “This just isn’t your night, huh, sweetheart?” Bessie asked while situating herself beside the keyboardist. She takes to threading her fingers through Joan’s hair, since she knew she liked that.

Joan makes a tiny noise. She lifts her head and shudders. A painful cramp seized her stomach with talons of fire and her response to it was by slamming her forehead into the toilet seat. Bessie’s heart clenched a little when she realized she was probably trying to knock herself out.

...Did she really hurt that much? Was the nightmare that bad?

  “Darling, don’t do that,” Bessie chided softly, slipping her hand down to lift Joan’s head up. The answer she got was an incoherent mumble that morphed into a tight whimper.

  “B-Bess-”

  “It’s alright. Just get it out of your system. I’m going to go get-”

Joan grabbed Bessie’s by the wrist, holding on with a death grip. She didn’t look up at her, too humiliated to make eye contact, but still refused to be alone like this. Thank God the bassist understood so she didn’t have to pathetically mewl it out loud.

  “Okay. I’m staying. I won’t go anywhere.”

Joan wanted to thank her, she really did, but bile rose up in her throat and she gathered enough energy to push herself up to avoid vomiting all over herself again.

Bessie holds her hair out of the way, rubbing her hand gently across the top of her back. She sneaks a few glances at the scar when she does so, tugging down the blanket to get a better look.

It didn’t look like the result of a weapon, rather a rope. A permanent trench was carved along her flesh, a slight dip in the pale expanse that was her back. Definitely rope burn of some kind, but how did it happen? Maybe it was a childhood accident? Somehow Joan got caught in a rope? It seemed unlikely, but not improbable.

Joan shudders when Bessie rubs her thumb against her scar. Her back muscles lock up and then relax. The bassist’s touch was...soothing. The strings of fire lit around her chest diminish slightly.

If only that could also effect her roiling stomach.

The both of them stay in the bathroom for an hour, and Joan ends up throwing up two more times before her body finally relents. She sways and then collapses into Bessie’s chest, trembling in exhaustion and pain.

  “There we go, hun,” Bessie said, stroking back her sweat hair from her forehead, “All done?”

Joan nodded. Her stomach was still cramped up, and the sight from her nightmare still replays behind her eyes, but there was no more nausea. Her body just didn’t have the energy to make her sick anymore.

  “You poor thing,” Bessie sighed, “You don’t deserve this.”

Joan could only reply in a weak noise. Her cheeks were puffy and tender and her throat burned from all her excessive vomiting, so she couldn’t muster any words.

  “Let’s get you back to bed, alright? Would you like to sleep with me tonight?”

Joan was nodding immediately.

Joan curled up into a tight ball the minute she was laid on Bessie’s bed. She’s completely exhausted and barely even awake at this point, but Bessie manages to get her to drink a glass of water before she completely passed out.

Bessie stayed up for around half an hour, just keeping watch over the keyboardist and making sure she was really asleep. Finally, she kissed the top of her girl’s forehead and lays down to rest.

It isn’t five minute later that she feels Joan reach out and cling to one of her arms. An amused, but loving smile came across Bessie’s lips and a nickname rolled off her tongue without even thinking.

  “Sleep well, dea della luna.”