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yesimwriting · 3 years ago

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A Knife in the Back

A/N felt like coming back to writing here now that it’s summer and i’m working on rediscovering myself in order to deal with some mental health stuff. What’s a better thing to come back with than my roots?

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader

Background: This is very much inspired by the main relationship dynamic in the Hulu show ‘The Great’ (if you haven’t watched it and have a hulu subscription and are old enough I’d def recommend it). Basically this is just playing into the ‘i love you, but i’m supposed to want to kill you’ trope. Also inspired by Taylor Swift’s ‘My Tears Ricochet’ (i’m obsessed with the line ‘you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same’)

Summary: Y/n has been groomed her entire life to take over as head of a major gang. Recently, she’s been working with the Crows. Tonight, though, she’s being put to the ultimate test of loyalty. No longer is this a game of cat and unaware mouse, because now she’s supposed to kill Kaz Brekker.

this ends on a cliffhanger bc i wanted to do a two-part thing, so let me know if you’d be interested in that or want to be tagged :))

I was first exposed to the concept of taking someone’s life when I was about seven. I don’t remember what happened, but I remember that Cassandra hadn’t meant for me to find out about it. She didn’t take any care to keep it from me, but she didn’t exactly want me walking into her office after she slit the throat of the merchant that tried taking advantage of her.

She had blinked at me, then, before telling me that forcing death was just a part of life. She didn’t react when I ran out into the hall to throw up after the man’s blood soaked into my socks. She rubbed my back gently and told me that soon I’d learn how to kill efficiently so that I wouldn’t have to stomach much.

I was ten when Cassandra made good on that promise. I still remember the day she taught me how to kill with calculation. We spent the day together, plunging blades into foam mannequins. She presented me with my first dagger that day.

That was years ago, and somehow, by some kind of miracle, I had avoided ever having to kill someone. Cassandra raised me, meaning that there’s always been someone else around to do the dirty work. Either Cassandra would do the ugly part of a job for me or one of her upper ranking underlings would be around in order to spare me.

But today is the day where all of that changes. Not only do I have to kill someone, but I have to kill Kaz Brekker. The pit in my stomach should only exist because of my fear of retaliation. I should only be concerned about what the Bastard of the Barrel will do if he realizes my betrayal, but that’s not why I’ve felt sick all day.

When I first started playing double agent, I didn’t think it’d end like this for so many reasons. Cassandra never told me that her overall goal was to have Kaz Brekker killed. I also really, really didn’t expect to see Kaz as a person, let alone...

I don’t even know. I just--I hated him. I was supposed to hate him and being exposed to his cruelty and lack of regard for life made it easy. And then--then one day it started to seem like maybe he isn’t made of darkness. Maybe he’s only touched by it, maybe he only wears it because he needs to. Maybe he’s more like Cassandra than I was supposed to realize.

“You alright, dovey?”

I should roll my eyes at Jesper’s question and relax into my seat. I should act normal so that no one will suspect anything of me. All I can manage to do is slump into my seat. “A bit of a headache,” I mumble, “You know it happens from time to time.” My dagger is sheathed beneath layers of fabric but somehow I still feel the coldness of the metal. It forces a chill through me. “And don’t call me ‘Dovey’, we’ve talked about nicknames.”

Jesper lets his head fall to the side dramatically. My eyes move to the glass in his hand. The amber liquid sloshes with Jesper’s movements. “You’re no fun when you’re in a mood.” I open my mouth to comment on how dramatic he’s being and the fact that I’m feeling perfectly fine, but he beats me to it. “Then again, with what boss-man said, I’d be in a mood, too.”

What--what Kaz said? “With what who said?”

Sobriety attempts to grasp Jesper, but he quickly dodges it. His eyes briefly shut as he takes a sharp inhale. “You don’t know.”

Something in my stomach knots. Did Kaz find out who I am? “Know what?” He brings a finger up to his lips, signaling that it’s a secret. “Jesper.”

“Y/n,” he copies the sharpness of my tone. I continue to glare at him. “C’mon, don’t put me in this position, today’s been hard enough. Our job went off without an issue, don’t drag--” I don’t stop glowering. “Y/n--” He sighs once. “Fine--I don’t--I didn’t hear much, just that your name--” Jesper pauses, struggling to arrange his sentence. “Your name came up during a deal. I couldn’t quite hear everything.”

“Well, what did you hear?”

Jesper hesitates again, eyebrows pinching together in an unsettlingly pitiful way. “Some kind of contingency thing--something that would’ve--would’ve given the other man the rights to you.”

Something in me bursts into flame. The ice of the knife strapped to my skin is suddenly welcome. An old instinct in my chest understands the meaning of Jesper’s slurred words before the rest of me does. “The rights to me?”

Jesper shifts uneasily. “If your headache’s not going away, maybe you should just have a drink for your nerves and go to bed.” I don’t move.

“How can someone have ‘the rights’ to me? I’m not indentured--”

“Kaz knows how to run with an assumption when it’s convenient.”

Something in my chest turns to stone. Jesper’s drunken testimony has left gaps in the story, but it’s not exactly hard to fill in. For whatever reason, Kaz put me on the line for a deal. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to make good on his promise. Kaz could slip something into my drink. He could overpower me or have someone do it for him. He could force me into something at gunpoint. He could--he could have sold me.

I swallow once, wiping my eyes with my palm. “Listen, y/n, Kaz says whatever he needs to--”

“His word means something, Jesper, you know that.”

My voice must reflect how hollow I feel inside because Jesper sighs once. “Y/n-”

I swallow once, “I’m fine, Jesper. You didn’t hear everything, and you’re drunk, and nothing happened. Everything’s fine.”

Something in my chest has stopped. He was willing to sell me. I was wagered like the gambling chips from the Crow Club. Everything Cassandra said was right. Kaz Brekker may be a criminal like the woman that raised me, but he lacks Cassandra’s one redeeming quality. He lives without humanity.

I have heard the stories, I have seen what becomes of women sold and bartered. Cassandra has stolen so many women that were owned by men like the man Kaz just did business with. The man he was willing to sell me to just to get an edge on Pekka Rollins.

Thousands of images reflect in my mind. I can see them now, their empty eyes offset only by the litter of bruises against their skin.

“Y/n--”

“I said I’m fine, Jesper. I know how Brekker is.” I repeat, voice stern. “I just need to go to bed.” He looks like he wants to say something. “I’ll sleep it all off.” I stand, staring at a blank spot on the wall. “Don’t drink too much, alright? Just make sure you eventually find your way to a safe bed. It doesn’t even have to be yours.”

Jesper grins, “You get me.” He sighs, adjusting his hold on his glass. “Will do, Doves, make sure to take something to make sleeping off that headache a little easier.”

No matter how tonight goes, if I survive, I’m going to need to drink something strong. “Yeah, Jes, I’ll take care of my headache.”

I am a phantom as I approach the stairwell. In another life, another version of events, I never entertained the idea of being Jesper’s company as he drank in celebration of our success. In that reality, what I need to do is less possible.

With shaking hands I reach towards the pocket of my dark pants. In a single slash, the blade my fingers are touching can take a life. I can extinguish a flame of destruction and Cassandra will be proud of me. She’ll realize that the child she took in was worth it.

“Y/n--”

I turn, trying to hide how ambushed I feel. Okay...there’s nothing weird about jumping about someone’s sudden appearance. “Kaz.”

His name stumbles awkwardly from me. Act normal. “I need to speak to you.” Speak to me, how kind of him to waste his valuable time communicating with someone who’s basically cattle. “I have some business to attend to first. Meet me in my office before the hour ends?”

Why, is my purchaser going to be expecting me? The urge to lash out pulses through me, but that will get me nothing. Kaz is beyond reason. If I could change him, if I could spare him, I would. So I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.

“The color’s drained from your face.” His observation is a blow to the chest. “You’re not ill. Does Nina--”

“I’m fine.” His concern is only practical. Illness would only slow me down or make me less valuable. “Just a migraine. I’ll sleep it off tonight.”

His eyebrows draw together for a moment. “Hm.” Please let that be the dismissal I’m looking for. “If you’re feeling uneasy, you don’t need to over concern yourself. That’s what I wanted to meet with you about.” Kaz pauses, an odd affliction crossing his features briefly. “You did good work today.”

An unnamed feeling wedges itself between my hurt and fury. Grief--crushing, undeniable grief has found itself in me. “Thank you.”

Kaz won’t stop looking at me directly in the eye. “I know that you’re adverse to killing and much of what I do, but you never let that translate into weakness.”

His voice is low and uneasily patient. My chest flutters, all of my emotions curdling in my chest. Even on a normal day I wouldn’t be able to think of a good response to that. “I’ll see you before the end fo the hour.” He nods once and I turn. “Kaz,” his name comes from me without my permission, “I appreciate your acknowledgement of my lack of weakness.”

For a second, I think he might smile. “I never said you lack weakness.”

“I know, but your gushing approval made your true feelings clear.”

“Dear, y/n, light of my existence,” Kaz approaches me, extending a hand slowly. I become perfectly still as his pinky latches onto mine for a brief moment. My heart stops. “I have never once ‘gushed approval’.” His sarcasm seems to settle me. The corner of my mouth turns upwards. “Now, get out of my way, I have some business to deal with downstairs.”

“Doubt I could get you to ask more nicely.”

He takes a single step forward. “Please, excuse me.”

A final good moment with Kaz. My chest swells as I step to the side. “That’s more like it.”

He disappears down the stairs. Okay--within the hour. I have time to-to think and to--I don’t even know. Cassandra sent me here to ruin him, to work against him so that our gang could do better. I’m a mole, not a killer. But I should have known that one day our relationship would end like this--the knife of one buried in the back of the other.

That final thought echoes in my chest, shattering me. I make it to my room, lock the door, and sink against the wall, suppressing a sob.

I stay like that for as long as I can justify it, but there is no putting off the inevitable. Kaz Brekker will die at my hand, and it is deserved. I wipe at my tears with the back of my palm and wash my face in the sink. Once I’m convinced that I’m presentable, I leave my room, checking for the blade secured to my thigh. It hasn’t been that long, so there’s a good chance I will have the element of surprise. That’s the only way to end this. I’ll be efficient, just like Cassandra taught me. He will not suffer, and it will not be personal.

I walk to his office, my steps methodical. He would have sold me. He would have sold me. He would have sold me. I take a deep breath, reaching for the handle of the door to his office. I pull the dagger from its place, squeezing the hilt. He would have ruined me.

Pushing the door open silently, I stop breathing. His tall figure is turned away from the door. Good, this way he won’t have to see me and I won’t have to feel his reaction. My steps are even until I’m within arms reach of him. Think of Cassandra, think of all he’s done.

My blade plunges into his back. The world stops. I pull my knife out before pushing it back in. Tears swell in my eyes. Again and again, I stab him. He takes two unsteady steps before falling to his knees. I yank the knife out one final time. He collapses in front of me.

Everything in my body shatters. Dead--Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the boy who stayed up with me after an injury left me too sore to sleep, the man who would have sold me. He used me as currency, he has disrespected and threatened me so many times, and he linked his gloved pinky with mine in order to ease me.

I stare at his body, forcing the hurt to crash into me like violent waves. All of my fury, all of my desire to win Cassandra over, vanishes. Now all that’s left is a burning agony.

What have I done?

The question is screamed so loudly in my head that it feels silent. I tear my gaze from the body--his body--and stare at my knife. The end of it is coated in so much sticky, red liquid I could throw up. My hands and clothing are covered in the same thing. I drop to my knees, letting everything I’m wearing soak into his blood. My free hand covers my mouth in hopes of silencing the sound that is ripped from my throat. The urge to touch him, to feel him while he’s still warm, pours through me. But the one thing I can still offer him is the protection of his will. I will respect his wishes. So instead of dropping over him, I just stare, my fingers still gripping the damn knife.

What have I done?

Collected footsteps snap me out of the trans I’ve fallen into. I take two deep breaths before turning my head. If I have been caught, I deserve whatever fate I will be met with. Blinking twice, I force my eyes to adjust on the person who has found me. There is no energy in me for fear for myself, there is only heartbreak.

Kaz. It’s--he’s alive. By some Saint granted miracle, he’s alive!

He’s standing there, watching me with the blankest expression I’ve ever seen him wear. I don’t care. I don’t care. I jump to my feet, disregarding the only man I’ve ever killed. Whoever he was, that’s something for me to feel guilty about later. Eventually, the relief will become a feeling I can manage and I’ll be able to regret the life I just took, but right now all that matters is Kaz.

I drop the dagger, letting it clatter against the hardwood floor. I run towards him, desperate to be close enough to see his open eyes and to be aware of the rise and fall of his chest. “Kaz,” a lament, a prayer, a lifeline.

My hand moves forward without a second thought. I link my pinky with his, the same way he did earlier. I squeeze his finger as tightly as possible, desperate to feel the fact that he’s alive. Kaz owes me nothing, but he gives me what I need. His pinky squeezes mine back, his eyes holding mine.

I think we could have stayed like that forever. But the man that I attacked shattered our silence with a pained, exhausted groan. Our hands fall apart.

#Kaz Brekker #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x you #kazz brekker imagine #shadow and bone #shadow and bone fic #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone netflix #six of crows #six of crows x reader #soc #six of crows imagine

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the-bugs-under-ur-skin · 3 years ago

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Hello! In your opinion who of the omori cast is a possessive yandere? I've been curious and I love the way you write them!

I didn’t really know what you wanted but I made this so I hope it’s good.

My list from most to least possessive would probably look like this:

1) Aubrey

Aubrey is positively the most possessive yandere in the whole group. She doesn’t think of you as an object, but she does think you are hers and hers alone. She also might say “you’re mine” to you at some point and definitely has said “they’re mine” to people. She’ll also try to keep you away from as much people as possible and wants you to have most of your attention on her.

2)Sunny

Sunny is definitely close to being first but not quite. The biggest difference is that he’s doesn’t care too much with the whole “you’re mine” thing. I think he’d be really insistent on you saying “you’re mine” more than him. But he also demands you’re total attention more. He isn’t as scared to verbally demand you’re attention as much as Basil or Hero would; he’ll just bluntly demand you’re attention or get rid of people he considers threats.

3)Basil

I actually kind of struggled with where Basil would be on the list but I think he’d be in the middle of the spectrum. He definitely doesn’t like to share too much when it comes to you, but isn’t really all about the whole “you’re mine” thing. He doesn’t think of you as his, rather he wants you to think of him as yours. But he’s still pretty “possessive” since he still doesn’t want anyone else near you.

4)Hero

Hero has always tried to be supportive, mostly because he only wants you to be happy, but it doesn’t really prevent those thoughts. He wants you’re main source of attention, love, and happiness to be from him. He also doesn’t feel like he owns you in anyway but, unlike Basil, he isn’t foaming at the mouth at the thought of you saying “you’re mine”. He’d be totally fine if you said it though, it’s all about how you feel. But, he’d still have the need to be the only one you spend time with, he just pretends better than the people above.

5)Kel

I’m very confident in putting Kel at the bottom of the list. I think that he wouldn’t have no possessive traits, he absolutely loves you’re attention, but he’s more confused than anything. He’s actually really embarrassed when he realizes he’s being possessive for no reason, so he’ll just try to laugh it off and move on. But he does feel an odd satisfaction when you focus on just him. Also, this man has never said “you’re mine” in his life. He would only think/say it in like a normal healthy relationship way. And if you were to say it he’d smile widely and verbally agree with you.

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aka-indulgence · 4 years ago

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I was a bit sad and I had an idea with Kraken Sans so....... here it is /w\

Hurt/comfort, reader feels lonely and usually tries to hide it, etc. etc.... giant sea monster man comes to comfort.

-----

There were many reasons you went to the cliff by the sea, with it’s huge waves crashing onto its craggy side.

There were times when you came with friends to go down to the beach. There were times when you came just to enjoy the view (the sunsets were especially breathtaking).

And then there were times where you came when you weren’t feeling so great and just needed to go somewhere.

That was the case right now.

You lean against the railing, the only barrier stopping you from falling down. Looking down always made you dizzy during the day, but during the night, all was dark; nothing but shadows below you, with the occasional glimmer of the waves, or a bit of sea foam whenever the sea struck the rocky face.

Your eyes shimmer as they look up at the stars. Out here, far away from artificial lights, they were clear to see, twinkling wherever you looked at the sky. The wind was blowing in your hair, sweeping your tear-stained cheeks.

You hadn’t even noticed you were crying.

“S… stupid…” you mutter, wiping away the infuriating drops away from your face, even as they keep springing from your eyes.

W… what were you supposed to do when you felt lonely? It wasn’t like you could just… swim over to the main island just like that. Even if you got on a ship, you’d only be there temporarily before you had to go back, and you weren’t exactly made of money to go every day.

You were here to work, and you get visited sometimes, and that’s nice…

But there are times when you really just… wanted someone to be with you, on this relatively tiny piece of land.

“G-get it together… stop… crying already…” you sniffled, frowning in dismay as more kept flowing out of your eyes. You pressed your hand to them, closing your eyes, your body shaking as a silent sob wreaked through it. Your tears ran down your elbow, falling to the waves below.

A few more moments of that gnawing, painful feelings of loneliness, and you took a deep breath, folding your arms on top of the railing. You took in the salty air, letting it slowly fill your chest before exhaling it out. The tears hadn’t stopped, but you’re sure you wouldn’t feel like you were stuck in a lobster cage anymore when you went back to the bungalow you stayed in.

… Maybe… just a few more moments out here. At least until I’m really calm. You thought, waiting for yourself to stop crying, just breathing in, and out.

The sound of the waves and the winds were relaxing, unwinding your muscles. It was quiet and loud at the same time, in a way that you enjoyed.

You were sighing when all of a sudden you a hear a much louder, big splash, waters below you being disturbed, as if something big had come near the shore.

… Or more accurately, like something big had come out of the water.

You watch with wide eyes as a giant skeleton?!?!? Rose out of the waves, with something dark and gleaming rolling about, parting and making waves around it. You squeak when a massive hand lands right beside you, crushing the and bending railing like it was made out of thin wires. You were completely frozen when a skull much bigger than your entire body appeared behind the cliff, and huge lantern-eyes stared down at you.

They both shone white, but there were little changes in its brightness, as if it was a floating ball of liquid sloshing around an invisible container. In a weird way, it reminded you of the sea itself, with globs moving back and forth in those huge glowing spheres.

It only took a few more moments of staring into this giant’s eyes (eyelights?) before you noticed the predicament that you’re in, and fear settled in as your utter shock started to bleed away.

A- A kraken?!!

You assumed as much, those long tendril like objects that were slopping around this creature must’ve been its tentacles.

You started taking a step back.

W… what’s a kraken doing here? W-was he here to eat you??!

Maybe it was the step, or maybe it was the pure terror that was on your face, but suddenly the huge beast reacted. His face contorted into a look of sadness and worry, and the huge interlocking sharp teeth that made his mouth parted in the slightest. He let out an impossibly deep rumbling sound that practically quaked the ground and shook your entire body. The sound stops you in your tracks, trying to stop yourself from losing your footing.

He made another, slightly higher sound that reminded you of whale songs, the hand on the cliff shifting against the ground, his fingers gently curling behind you. The paranoid side of you thought for a second that he was trying to block your escape route, but he didn’t try to grab you or squash you; just making a (protective?) curl around you.

Your hammering heart started to slow down as you realized this giant of the deep doesn’t seem to mean you any harm. But if he didn’t, then… why was he here?

“H… hello?” you greet(?) him tentatively, rubbing your hands together, both fidgeting and keeping them warm.

Your voice seems to have delighted him, as his furrowed brows raised a little and he looked like he was smiling.

Did… did he even understand…?

A series of clicking sound filled the air from somewhere in his throat (you’d wonder how, but you were staring at a giant skeleton-kraken monster). Somehow, it sounded happy to you, light and playful.

He brought his skull closer to the cliff, trying to get a closer look at you. Something about his gaze made you blush, and you hug your hands a little.

“…. (y/n)….” He rumbled again, and after bracing yourself against the deep sound, you perk a little when you realize he not only spoke, but he also said your name.

“H-??” you breathe, “How did you know my name??”

The monster seemed to process your question slowly, blinking once.

“like…. (y/n)….”

At that, the beast’s mouth definitely turned into a smile, and you hear the waves churning under him as he seems to get excited, his sockets crinkling. His tentacles must’ve hit the cliff, because you feel a minute shaking in the ground.

“Like me…?” you echo, and the giant nods as fast as his body allowed, making what you guess is a happy little trill in response.

You let out a sigh. He doesn’t seem especially dangerous at the moment, though you are aware of how easily it’d be for him to squash you like a bug.

His eyes seem to shine brighter when they look at you, and the movements below him slow down.

“How did you…” you start to say, but you’re not sure how much you want to know about apparently having a giant deep-sea admirer, and the fact that you never noticed he was even there. So instead you ask, “Well, who are you… Mr. Sea monster? Do you have a name?”

He didn’t take as long to answer that.

“sans….” he tells you. Then, “have… sea name…”

He demonstrates his other name by making a series of rumble and clicks that you don’t understand, but you assume must mean a whole lot in… ‘Sea language’.

You giggle at this apparent-gentle giant, smiling at him. “Oh ok! So, Sans, or…” you try to mimic whatever sounds Sans had made and apparently made him chuckle (new languages are hard!), “why are you up here?”

Sans’ grin falls a bit, and his eyes looked… sad? His other hand rises over the cliff, around your level, and he points at you.

Or more specifically, your face.

You furrow your brows a little. For you? Was this the time he chose to introduce himself to you?

“H-huh?” was all that came out of your mouth, looking from his pointed finger (it was pretty much as big as you!) to his face.

When it’s clear to him that you didn’t understand, he brings his hand close to you. So much closer that he was going to touch you. You held your breath a little, concerned as to what he’s about to do, and then-

Poke.

You felt a firm, yet light touch on your face. His finger was on your cheek.

“Wh…?”

“… water…” Sans rumbles. “from… your face…”

… Oh. Your tears. You still had tear tracks on your face, and you found you even still had some left when you blinked, another one falling down your face.

“O-oh, these?” your face reddened a little in embarrassment and you wiped the remaining drops away. “Th-they… it’s… nothing to worry about.”

Sans actually frowns, and his brows dip between his sockets.

“… sad.”

Your heart sinks in your chest.

You were used to hiding your hurt from others. You were used to drying your tears and smiling for others when they came around the corner. As much as you hated having to just take and endure it, you wouldn’t know how to face others if they tried to look closer.

… And yet…

Just one word from this monster that just appeared himself to you… just brought down any sort of walls you were unconsciously trying to build.

It was so genuine, like…

Like he was speaking to your soul.

A new wave of tears welled up in your eyes, and you let them spill. No use hiding it when it feels like he could see right through you.

“Y-yeah. I was… I’m… sad.” You say in defeat, slouching in front of him. His pointing hand shifted around you, and blink through wet eyes, seeing him cup his hand around you, and his giant thumb gently press against your cheek, as if he was trying to wipe them away.

His hand was warm. It felt like… he was hugging you, the closest thing he could do to hug you, and you slump into his palm. You hug the thumb that was on your face and started to sob against the giant bone, shaking and shivering a little. Just… having someone with you… it opened the floodgates, again.

“I-I just…” you tremor, “I-I just feel so lonely s-sometimes…”

It wasn’t if you couldn’t speak to your friends, you could. But the distance was wearing on you, and you weren’t quite as close to your colleagues, and you just…

You just wanted someone to…

…

You wrap your arms around his thumb and rub your face against it, finding yourself comforted instead of afraid when his fingers curl further around you.

Lulling, empathetic songs sounded from the great monster, slowly getting lower in pitch before it raised back up to do it all over again. With practically no pressure, he rubs his thumb on your face, either to dry your tears or to pet you.

… Slowly, you let your trembling fingers go of his giant one, and Sans seems to sense that you’re pulling away, because he pulls his fingers away from you to let you stand. You hold onto the tip of his thumb and rub your sleeve against your face, sniffing.

“Th… thanks Sans.” was all you manage to eke out, unsure of what else to say.

Sans croons, bringing his hand back to press behind you, radiating heat and keeping you warm and safe from the slightly chilly night.

You feel slightly awkward in the silence, not sure what you’re supposed to say to a giant kraken monster after you just cried all over his hand.

You suppose, “I… I should go back. T-to my house,” you stammer, breath still interrupted by the occasional hiccup.

Sans’ calm and almost sleepy face suddenly looked distressed, looking at you like you just threatened him. Sad, weeping sounds came out of him, his fingers starting to close in around you.

Apparently, he didn’t want to say goodbye.

“W-wait! Don’t worry! We can always meet again!” you held your hand out against him, almost reassuring him while you were panicked. “I can come see you again here, tomorrow night, if you’d like?”

The wibbling and calls of despair he was making got quieter, and when you look back you realize both his hands were coming up behind you, like they were about to scoop you up and take you away. At your offer, Sans looked mildly placated, looking at you hopefully.

“tomorrow…” he echoes, “… promise…?”

Ah… maybe…

Maybe you weren’t the only one here who was lonely.

“I promise, Sans.”

You add, “You were good company. I’d like to meet you again tomorrow.”

He takes another moment to process your words before his smile was back on his face, wider than before. A series of rumbles came from him in waves, like… like a chuckle. He pulled his hands away from you, giving you your way back to the bungalow.

“tomorrow.” he says, almost in a sing-song voice, “(y/n). tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” you smiled at him, as you turned inland. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sans!”

“(y/n). tomorrow. (y/n). (y/n).”

You could faintly hear his voice as you walked back, with a little spring to your step. At the moment you had promised to see him tomorrow to stop him from possibly taking you away, but you really did like Sans. And you did want to see him again.

If you looked behind, maybe you could’ve seen those two huge lights, watching you walk back home.

#yea i jus been a bit sad and lonely lately ;v;#so i write.... for comfort... weh #sans x reader #kraken sans #hes been following you... because he loves you

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songbirdstyles · 4 years ago

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sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly.

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp.

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do.

The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry?

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record.

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends.

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants.

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

~~~

The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off, waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd.

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles series #harry styles drabble #harry styles one shot #im sure im going to regret starting this as a series and not trying to make it one long piece #but honestly??#im working on another fic right now so i just want the beginnings of this to be out there #i hope u enjoy

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years ago

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New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 5

A/N Sorry for the long break between chapters. As some of you might have seen from my Tumblr blog, I’ve been off on vacation these past two weeks. Plus, when I felt the urge to write, it was my new Vaquero AU that kept calling to me (21,000 words and counting!), rather than this fic. Which is probably a good argument for why I don’t like to post WIPs. In any event, here is the next chapter some of you have been asking for, entitled Third Appointment. Be careful what you wish for. Angst ahead, plus a trigger warning for infertility trauma, miscarriage.

The first four chapters are available on my AO3 page.

The Thursday after her impromptu encounter with Jamie and his niece at the Royal Hospital for Children, Claire woke with a strange twisting pain in her gut. Skipping breakfast, she was halfway to her office before she diagnosed herself with an acute case of nerves, the kind that sprouted between her lungs and ribcage like a vestigial organ whose sole purpose was to unsettle her.

She wasn’t in the habit of meeting patients outside of the clinical confines of her practice, but it was more than that. Jamie had caught her in a moment of weakness, with both her personal and professional armour missing. What he might have seen and how he could have interpreted it had occupied her thoughts ever since.

Eating lunch was out of the question. By the time two o’clock approached, her insides were a buzzing hornets’ nest of anxiety, her palms clammy with sweat. A half-empty bottle of Xanax called to her from the bottom of her purse. Before she could weigh the implications of taking one at work on an empty stomach, Jamie’s familiar knock intervened.

She could tell as soon as he entered that Maggie hadn’t needed a transfusion that week. His russet curls shone like garnets in the midday sun and his uncanny eyes glittered like sapphires. Still, he avoided looking directly her way as he settled into his usual chair, and she wondered if the overlap of their personal and professional lives had left him feeling unnerved as well.

“No wheat grass smoothie,” he commented, his gaze running over her desk.

“No, I didn’t have time for lunch today.” It was a blatant falsehood, since she’d spent her lunch hour picking her cuticles until they bled, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Ye should eat more, Sassen..., Doctor Beauchamp. Ye canna help anyone else if ye’re no’ properly nourished.” She caught the slip, and for some reason it angered her.

“Is this your attempt to negotiate a reduction in your fees, Jamie? Dietary advice in return for counselling? Because if so, I’m afraid I don’t bill on the barter system,” she snapped, despising her churlish tone.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed, then dimmed. Message received, he sat up straighter in the armchair and crossed a foot over his knee, assuming a position of poised and detached calm that had no doubt served him well during business negotiations. She regrouped by pretending to glance at her journal for the notes from their previous session, although the space next to his name was accusingly blank.

Boundaries thus defined, the session went surprising well. Jamie spoke of his relief that Maggie’s latest round of chemotherapy was over, allowing her to return home and to some semblance of a regular life for a child of six. Claire coaxed him gently towards the topic of his overwhelming guilt for abandoning his family when he was most needed. Jamie processed pain through the recounting of stories, coming to terms with his self-decreed transgression by weaving together the tale of those he loved and pointing to the holes his absence had caused.

As his resonant voice spun its web of words, Claire became aware of an underlying hum. At first it was subtle, like the mumble of traffic from a far-off motorway. But as their hour together ticked by, it grew in strength until she could no longer ignore the buzz that pressed against her from all directions.

“... saw that it was really Jenny and Ian who I was... Claire? Doctor Beauchamp, are ye well?” Jamie was watching her with concern, and she realized she’d been shaking her head, trying to dislodge the omnipresent hum.

“Yes, I’m... yes. Sorry. Just a funny noise that’s... Please, continue.” When Jamie didn’t immediately pick up the thread of his narrative, she tried again. “You were saying something about Jenny and Ian?”

Instead of continuing his previous thought, Jamie picked that moment to broach the topic she’d desperately hoped he would avoid.

“I hope ye’re no’ upset about the other day, at the hospital. I didna mean tae impose or tae... o’erstep the bounds of our relationship. No’ that we have a relationship, mind,” he hastened to add. “Only a professional one. But when I saw ye, I couldna resist introducing ye tae wee Maggie. I hadna told ye about her yet, and I thought...”

“Jamie, it’s fine,” she cut in, halting his rambling explanation. “She’s a lovely girl. They all are. It’s only that, I’m sort of...”

“Ye’re verra good with them. Children, that is. Ye’ll make a fine mother one day.”

All the oxygen left the room at once. Her heart beat so hard there was a bruised feeling behind her sternum. Launching to her feet, Claire stumbled blindly away from her desk. She wanted to run, to scream, but her vision was a narrow chasm and a now-deafening throb filled her ears. She only made it a few steps before her knees buckled and the carpet floated upwards to meet her.

“Ifrinn!” Jamie leapt to her side, catching her by the shoulders before her head could hit the floor. He lowered them both carefully to the ground, resting her body against his lap. “Sassenach? Claire? Can ye hear me? Do I need tae call an ambulance?” The words reached her from very far away, but the threat of medical intervention acted like a dose of smelling salts.

“No,” she groaned, the room spinning around her like a kaleidoscope. “No hospital. I just... need to eat,” she grasped at the most innocuous explanation for her current state.

Without dislodging her, Jamie stretched his long arm and brought back the small basket of miniature muffins that were the day’s offering from Geillis. With surprising dexterity, he peeled away the paper one-handed and broke apart a bite-sized morsel, holding it gently against her lips. Realizing that her dignity couldn’t get any more battered, Claire opened her mouth and allowed Jamie to feed her. After only a few bites, the buzzing disappeared and she was able to sit up on her own.

“Thank you,” she murmured, afraid to look into his eyes for fear of the pity she knew she’d see there. “You were right. I should have eaten lunch, I guess.”

“Claire.” Jamie made a prose poem of the single syllable of her name. She looked up at him through her lashes, stunned to find him looking back, not with pity, but with something akin to adoration. “Mo nighean donn,” he ran a tender hand through her loosened curls. “Ye need tae care more for yerself.”

“I will. I’ll try.” And when she said it to him, she really meant it. Jamie made the impossible seem probable.

They stared at one another, shoulder to shoulder on the floor of her office. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but nor did she move. Her gaze flitted over his face, noticing a vestige of boyish freckles across the bridge of his nose, a mole hidden in the harvest stubble on his cheek. Jamie was performing a parallel inventory, eyes finally coming to rest at the level of her mouth.

“Ye’ve got a wee crumb, jus’ there.” Unconscious, her tongue swept out, triggering a predatory response, twin blue laser beams narrowing on the target she had just painted on her lower lip.

“I... I’d verra much like tae kiss ye, Claire. May I?”

An amputated moan was all she could manage in response, but Jamie must have understood its meaning. He bent his head until only a whisper separated them. The air crackled, sending that extra organ plummeting towards her hollow womb. Clenching her eyes shut in defeat, she closed the infinitesimal gap until they met in an effervescent caress of lip and tongue.

Cold washed over her skin, bathing her in gooseflesh. Jamie tasted like he looked; a banquet of fresh, volatile flavours that called to mind a picnic in a meadow, a spray of sea foam, the warmth of hearth and home. She could feel him trembling against her, his moist breath rushing against her cheek in shallow pants. For a score of heartbeats, Claire was the happiest she had ever been. Then, reality crashed down around her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, pulling away. “I... this can’t... I’m sorry.”

Jamie leaned back with a mixture of longing and resignation. She hated adding herself to his list of regrets, but it was for the best.

“I’m your doctor, Jamie. This isn’t right.”

“Aye, I ken. I should apologize, but I canna seem tae find it in me tae repent.”

Jamie stood, reaching down to help Claire up as well. As soon as it was apparent she was able to stand on her own, he dropped her hand as though it burned. The line between his brows deepened, and she could see the question forming before he gave it voice.

“What if ye werena my doctor? Would it be right then?”

“That’s neither here nor there, because I am, Jamie. A relationship between patient and doctor of a romantic nature is ethically off-limits.”

Jamie nodded, apparently accepting her explanation at face value. Her heartbeat calmed. He moved slowly, gathering his coat and starting to leave.

“But what if ye weren’t?” he said, facing the door. “If we’d met at the hospital, or out on the town?”

“I...” she stammered, searching desperately for any answer except for the truth. “No, Jamie,” she said at last, watching as she destroyed his last bastion of hope. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel that way about you.”

Nodding abruptly, Jamie let himself out of the office. She listened to his low murmuring voice through the door as he spoke to Geillis, heard him make an appointment for the following week, then the loud snap of the main door closing. Only then did she allow herself to collapse once more to the floor, angry sobs overtaking her.

***

“Are ye out of yer fuckin’ mind?” Geillis inquired with her usual brutal eloquence.

With the help of a Xanax, Claire had managed to see her last two patients of the day, and only needed to navigate the shoals of her office manager’s ire before she could go home and fully medicate herself into a dreamless sleep.

“Jes so we’re clear, ye want me tae write a letter terminating your services as a doctor an’ suggesting suitable alternative providers? An’ ye want me tae send this letter, over email, tae Jamie Fraser?”

“That’s right.” She had determined that icy calm was the best antidote to this conversation, which was fortuitous, since she felt numb all over.

“An’ what reason am I tae give fer this abrupt conclusion tae yer association wi’ Mr. Fraser?”

“I don’t owe him an explanation. Only sufficient notice and an opportunity to seek counselling elsewhere,” she said, feigning reasonableness.

Pushed past her limits, Geillis rose from behind her desk, a tiny tempest of moral indignation.

“Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, ye are a good friend, a fine doctor an’ a fair employer. But I swear by the Almighty that if ye dinna drop the façade and tell me wha’ is going on I am going tae smack ye until yer ears ring!”

There was a certain relief in knowing that Geillis wouldn’t take no for an answer. And unlike Jamie, she knew where Claire lived and would not let her rest until the truth came out.

“He kissed me. Or rather, I kissed him. And I liked it! That’s why, Geillis.”

Her friend’s shoulders sagged, all righteousness gone in an instant. She reached around Claire’s frame and held her in a bone-crushing one-sided hug.

“Och, hen. An’ ye figured ye could deal wi’ those pesky feelings by jes, what? firing him as yer patient?”

“I can’t deal with this right now, Geillis. I can’t feel the way he makes me feel. And this practice is all that I have left. There’s no way I can risk losing it just for an affair that won’t even last the summer.”

She didn’t need to elaborate on her reasons for that dire prediction. Geillis knew them as well as anyone.

“He’s an intelligent man, Claire. He’s gonna ken something is up. Moreover, he’s a good man. He deserves tae hear the truth.”

Shaking her head sadly, Claire walked towards the door. Just before exiting, she called back softly to her friend.

“Geillis? Make sure to include Dr. Rafferty’s name on the list of referrals. I think they’d be a good match.

***

Monday morning dawned with little promise for the fledgling week. Moving robotically through her weekend routine, Claire thought frequently of chickens. How their bodies kept moving once their heads were lopped off, nerves and muscle and bone continuing to function for a time despite the fatal blow.

The elevator chimed its arrival on her floor. As the doors slide open, Jamie was the first thing she saw. He loomed by her still-locked office, a sun-topped thundercloud gripping a sheet of printer paper.

She’d worn her best black suit and a pair of chunky heels that brought her closer to his height. Perhaps, on some subconscious level, she’d anticipated this confrontation. Perversely, she relished it. Vitriol and deceit didn’t suit her, but it was preferable to feeling absolutely nothing.

“Do ye mind tellin’ me,” Jamie began before she’d even set foot in the hallway, “jus’ what this is about, Claire?” He brandished the paper like a wanted poster.

“I would think it was self-explanatory, actually. I’m terminating our professional relationship,” she huffed, golden eyes coming to life for the first time since Thursday.

“Via email. Sent tae me by Miss Duncan, because ye dinna have the guts tae do it yerself. Christ, Sassenach, even my ninth grade sweetheart didna dump me so cruelly!”

“I’m not your sweetheart!” she burst out, a flood of emotion cresting with her rising anger. “Don’t call me that! I was your doctor, Jamie, and now I’m nothing to you. Nothing. Just go. Please. Just go,” she finished weakly and without any hope that he’d listen.

“All this jus’ because I kissed you?” Jamie persevered. At her stubborn silence, he continued, “Nah, I dinna think so. Ye’re many things, Claire, but a coward isna one of them.”

She found this hysterically funny, since a coward was the only role she played to perfection. She didn’t have time to laugh, however, because Jamie was suddenly standing much closer, forcing her to lift her chin to meet his stormy eyes.

“Nah,” he continued smoothly, a big cat alerted to the smell of its prey. “If ye’d objected tae the kiss, ye would have told me so. Read me the riot act or kneed me in the bawls. I think ye’re scared, Doctor Beauchamp. I think that kiss terrified ye, because ye realized ye liked it. Somethin’ ye couldna plan for in yer wee journal, right there under yer nose. Bet it made yer heart beat so fast. So fast, jus’ like it is now.”

Jamie’s hand rested gently over the placket of her suit jacket, where he could surely feel the trip hammering of her pulse.

“Please,” she begged. “Don’t. I can’t...”

“Can’t what, Sassenach?” he whispered back, goading her.

The truth hung on her lips, and the toll of the past few days meant that she no longer had the strength to stop it from spilling forth.

“Can’t have children. Ever. I tried, for years. Fourteen miscarriages, fourteen lost chances. And seeing you with those children last week. I know it’s presumptive, but I could never deny you that chance, Jamie. That’s why I can’t see you anymore.”

She was looking down, watching the buttons of his shirt rise and fall with his agitated breath, but as she finished speaking, their movement ceased. Chancing a glance upward, she was stunned by the fury that had overtaken his expression.

Jamie opened and closed his mouth several times before he managed to speak in a gritty growl.

“Mutation of the RUNX1 gene tha’ causes leukemia. I was tested, along wi’ Jenny an’ Ian, after Maggie was diagnosed. I have a fifty percent chance of passing it along tae my children. An’ since I canna stand the thought of ano’er bairn havin’ tae suffer as Maggie has, as soon as I got the test results, I went out an’ had a vasectomy.”

Claire recoiled as though she’d been slapped, a high pitched whine in her ears.

“Ye’re no’ the only one who’s hurting, Claire!” Jamie continued, voice dashing against the rocks of her name. “We’re no’ meant tae suffer alone. Ye, of all people, should ken that.”

Stunned in the silence following the thunderclap of his revelation, she couldn’t find the words to express her sorrow, her outrage, and her crippling shame. By the time the power of speech returned, Jamie was gone.

#my writing #outlander

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softyoongiionly · 4 years ago

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BlackHeart Bakery

Who says Halloween can’t be romantic?

Pairing: Emo! Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Genre: fluff

A/N: HI OMG IM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE. I love you, I hope you like it. I’m sorry it isn’t longer but, I still can’t wait for you to read it.

-you never imagined that the quirky lil bakery down the street from your university would change your life

-But it did

-“Omg shut up, you’re so dumb.”

-“Rawr xD”

-“Did you just say rawr xD out loud??? That totally defeats the purpose of its existence...”

-“Don’t cite the deep magic to me witch, I was there when it was written.”

-“And now you’re quoting the chronicles of narnia- alright just go back to sleep you big dummy...”

-“Mmm but you married a big dummy so what does that say about you”

-“Jungkook don't spoil it oh my god!”

-“Like they don’t know what’s coming already- spoiler alert losers! I get the girl.”

-“I hate you...”

-“Mm yeah- I love it when you talk dirty to me baby. The last time you said that- we ended up fuc-“

-“Ok! That’s enough! Our story begins...”

-Jungkook’s bakery was quite famous around your city

-If people didn’t come for the gaudy Halloween decorations

-They came for the music

-Exclusively pop punk, if you’re wondering

-It was like 2009 everyday

-Which was comforting, considering the world has gotten a little

-Tricky

-Since then

-But anyways

-If they didn’t come for the music or the decorations

-They came for the AMAZING espresso

-And the spooky themed treats

-But if you’re being honest

-You think the main thing that keeps them coming back

-Is Jungkook

-If his sweeping black hair didn’t get you

-Or the adorable cheeky twinkle in his eyes

-It was the tattoos and the piercings

-He looked like he walked right off of a black veil brides music video set

-He was hot

-This was obvious

-But he didn’t seem to think so

-You had come to the conclusion that he was oblivious

-he shoved his feet into his big black doc martens every morning

-Slipped on his beaded bracelets and studded chokers

-Pulled his fall out boy t-shirt over his

-Massive

-Tattooed

-Biceps

-And just thought hm

-I’m pretty average I guess (lol)

-That’s a direct quote from him btw

-Men truly are hopeless

-Jungkook opened the bakery two years ago

-He had mentioned to you that he had saved up money from his 3 part time jobs to put a down payment on the building

-Which was wedged between a sex shop

-And a thrift store

-And honestly his bakery

-Blackheart Bakery, if you’re being specific

-Fits right in

-Jungkook refuses to hire new staff

-“They won’t do it right.” He whined to you one day

-“One time I tried to hire this guy and he put the sugared googly eyes on the cookie skeletons ALL WRONG”

-“How do you put googly eyes on wrong?” You had giggled

-“you just do- i- See? This is exactly why I can’t hire anyone...”

-You had started chewing on the end of your pencil in the midst of your laughter

-It was an unconscious habit

-And it makes Jungkook shift uncomfortably, his hands moving off of the top of your table

-“Don’t do that...” he had muttered, smirking to himself as he walked back behind the counter

-he did that a lot

-He’d mutter something

-Mildly flirtatious under his breath and then

-Just walk away

-It was quite confusing

-But honestly you had a feeling he was just a filrty person

-You certainly weren’t the only girl he smirked at

-Not that you pay attention

-Ok

-Maybe you do

-Kinda

-Pay attention

-but it’s not your fault!!!!

-You just

-Can’t help but feel a little jealous

-You kiiiiiinda have a little thing for him

-Ok

-Maybe it’s a big thing

-Maybe it’s a massive

-Gigantic

-Towering

-Crush

-But look at him!!!

-You simply couldn’t be blamed

-It was his fault

-Yep

-That’s what you’re going with

-It was Jungkook

-And his tight t shirts

-His ripped jeans

-His dangly earrings

-His tattoos

-His big

-Stupid boots

-Ugh ok

-Focus

-You have work to do

-The whole reason you began coming to Jungkook's cafe was so you -could find a consistent place to study for your exams

-You were in school to become a teacher :)

-And teachers have to study very very hard

-Educating the youth is no easy feat

-Jungkook had asked what you were studying during the first week you arrived at his spooky house of baked goods

-“Oh I’m an education major”

-“Ahh so you’re getting an education about...education.” He concludes

-“I love it.”

-“So meta.”

-“Are they educating you on the disparities between impoverished children and wealthier children?”

-His wide eyes were brimming with genuine curiosity

-You kind of got a kick out of how candid he was about such heavy conversation topics

-“Not as much as they should be but, I’m actually writing a paper on a similar topic right now...”

-This caused a brilliant grin to come over his face

-It was almost blinding really

-And it made your heartbeat all wonky

-“Of course you are. You look smart like that...”

-He had backed away from your table then, seemingly satisfied

-Had you passed the vibe check?

-“I’ll leave you to your paper.” He nodded to your laptop but as he walked away, he pivoted back towards you on and the heel of his combat boot, “welcome to Blackheart Bakery by the way, let me know if I can get you anything.”

-Another brilliant smile is sent your way

-“Thank you.” You had smiled back, sending a tiny wave his way

-Which in turn, made HIS heartbeat all wonky

-You’re cute

-Like really cute

-And despite how often it may seem like his eyes are elsewhere

-They are ALWAYS on you

-Every chance he gets he is glancing your way

-Smirking to himself at how endearing you are

-Brow furrowed

-Lips pouted in concentration

-Completely oblivious to his gaze

-He has to remind himself to look away

-He doesn’t want to be a creep

-“Creepy men deserved to get kicked in the teeth...”

-He’s said this to you before when another patron had made you uncomfortable

-Jungkook kicked him out immediately

-“If you don’t leave, I’ll have no choice but to kick you in the teeth. One, because I can’t compromise my personal philosophy and two because you’re making my favorite customer uncomfortable.”

-Oh look there goes your heartbeat again

-WONKY

-The guy leaves in an angry rush, flipping Jungkook off in the process

-Saying something about leaving a bad Yelp review

-He doesn’t care tho

-He definitely doesn’t want to be a creep

-You’re just so

-Pretty

-Ugh

-He rolls his eyes at himself behind the espresso bar

-The latte in front of him neglected

-In need of a bit of foam

-“Focus Jeon, she’s just a chick...”

No wait

-“She’s just a woman. A woman who I respect, like I respect all women...”

-He’s been watching a lot of feminist theory on YouTube

-He likes staying educated

-And also fuck the patriarchy

-The man waiting for his drink has arched a brow at this point, wondering if his barista has lost his mind

-“Uhhh medium...” he checks the cup for his awful hand writing, “ghostly toasted marshmallow latte!”

-“Thanks.” The guy mutters, throwing a judging look Jungkook's way

-He gives him a lazy salute as the guy struts away with a briefcase in tow

-“Thaaanks.” Jungkook mocks him, his face scrunching up in annoyance

-Stupid man

-With his stupid briefcase

-As Jungkook is pulling out a batch of cream cheese frosting stuffed pumpkin muffins

-Or as Jungkook calls them

-PUNK-in Muffins

-Movement at the counter catches his eye

-is that

-”oh shit...” He grunts, hastily wiping his hands on his apron and rushing over to the counter

-normally he would meander

-stroll

-or even slump to greet any new guests at this hour

-and by this hour

-he means 45 minutes before closing

-Jungkook’s bakery is open til midnight on weeknights

-9pm on Sundays

-and 3am on Saturdays (for the culture of course, gotta keep it spooky)

-tonight happens to be a Friday night and the person awaiting his assistance is

-you

-”You’re still here?” He gawks, the black polish on his nails glimmering as he punches in a few keys on the register

-You offer him a tired and slightly amused smile, “No. Y/N died around 4:30, you’re speaking to her ghost. Please leave your message after the tone.”

-Jungkook cracks a smile, his palms resting on flat on the counter, “Do ghosts check their voicemails?”

-“Oh of course not but, I will be checking yours because you have access to caffeine.”

-Jungkook laughs

-no...he giggles

-and it’s fucking cute

-but you digress

-“I feel like I should cut you off...this is your 4th latte; I’m pretty sure you’re 80% caffeine at this point...”

-“Noooo, don’t do that.” You whine slumping against the counter, “I just need to finish this one page...”

-He quirks a brow as he scribbles something on your cup, unimpressed with your statement, “You said that three hours ago. I’ll make you another one but I’m not putting an extra shot in.”

-Your face turns up in protest but he click his tongue against his teeth , shaking a manicured finger at you

-“Ah ah- nope. I don’t want to hear it. You either take that or I’m making you a hot chocolate and shutting the buildings power off.”

-With a dramatic sigh, you concede

-“Ugh fine. Here-” You go to hand him your debit card but he shakes his head

-“Put that away.”

-You want to protest but given the fact that he’s made the rules thus far during this interaction, you doubt you’d be able to stop him.

-A smile appears on your face then, appreciative of his generosity

-“Thank you.”

-He merely grins, waving you off before rolling up the sleeves of his black Blink 182 shirt

-as soon as his tattoos are out

-all the moisture leaves your mouth

-you try your hardest not to stare at him

-expertly, he eases the espresso shots into the milk, tongue poking between his lips in concentration

-and you

-being sleep-deprived

-and a little loopy

-decide to

-flirt????????

-if you could even call it that

-which you could but you shouldn’t

-“For the record, when I finally dig my way out of this of mountain of death I’m stuck in, I will definitely take you up on that hot chocolate...”

-Jungkook’s brow quirks at the tone of your voice, his hands suddenly itching with nerves

-was that

-was that flirty?

-should he flirt back?

-“My hot chocolate is legendary. You won’t be disappointed.” His lips display a small grin as he places the lid atop your finished latte, “Also mountain of death is a great name and I WILL be stealing it.”

-You giggle

-again

-“and I WILL be suing you for copyright.”

-He laughs now, wiping up the bit of milk he spilled

-the sinewy muscles in his forearm tensing and untensing

“Good luck getting me to show up to court.”

-and that’s kinda how it was between you and Jungkook

-for like six months

-it was a little bit flirty but never anything to push either over you over the edge.

-and speaking of being on edge

-recently, you had gone from vacationing in your timeshare on the edge

-to signing a 35 year mortgage contract

-4 bedrooms

-2.5 bathrooms

-of pure

-unrelenting

-stress

-you could feel it in the middle of your back

-shoving itself up between your shoulder blades

-your body seemed to ache with it

-the worst part being

-it was Halloween

-You should be out with your friends, having fun

-wearing itchy costumes and drinking sugary drinks

-but instead, your headed towards the bakery to work

-Jungkook was behind the counter, smiling happily at a family dressed like the cast of scooby doo

-from what you could see he was wearing a skeleton onesie

-his jet black hair tousled perfectly above his head

-he looked adorable

-(and hot)

-He notices you instantly, his face turning up in surprise

-you offer up a small wave and head over to your table

-you know he’s going to say something about you being there but

-you don’t really have much of a choice

-this work has to be done

-it takes him a second to spot you but when he does

-he seems to perk up

-his smile brightening as he looks back towards his customer

-as you’re setting everything up, you feel a presence (not the spooky kind) at the end of your table

-it’s Jungkook and he has your regular order in one hand, along with something wrapped in skeleton-patterned parchment paper

-“I know, I know.” You acknowledge before he’s even able to chide you for being here

-He smirks “What are you doing studying on the holiest day of the year??”

-You giggle

-“The holiest day of the year huh?”

-“Of course. Halloween is the one night a year that the homies can dress like total -sluts and no one can say anything about it.”

-This makes you giggle again

-“And you went with slutty skeleton huh? I love it- it’s like as naked as you can possibly get.”

-He chuckles, gesturing to his costume

-His floppy black hair getting in his face

-“Damn right baby.”

-The way he grins tells you the pet name is a joke

-But the deepening of his voice gets to you anyway

-“Thank you for this. I promise I’ll get out of your hair early tonight.”

-“The only thing I’m worried about getting out of my hair is this white spray paint. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

-He’s put a streak of white spray paint in his raven locks

-Why? You’re not certain

-Does it look good on him, like everything else does?

-Absolutely

-Its been a few hours since your night of studying began

-Jungkook’s dropped off two free lattes since you’ve arrived

-As well as a slice of his ‘I write cinnamon not tragedies’ bread

-Which was equally hilarious and delicious

-You caught him glancing over at your table a few times but you didn’t think anything of it

-He’s probably just checking to make sure that no one needs your table

-His bakery is packed most nights but Halloween is a special night at Blackheart Bakery

-He has a trick or treat counter set up with free (homemade) candy

-A photo op complete with a fake haunted house backdrop

-A Halloween playlist

-And a bunch of discounts on his signature lattes and food

-you watch him amongst the chaos

-He is completely unfazed

-He seems elated at the amount of customers he has

-he grins and laughs at something a man dressed like Thor says at his counter

-he seems entirely in his element

-you realize that the denial tactics you’ve been trying out haven’t been working

-because this floppy haired, tattooed, slutty skeleton/baker kind of has a hold on your heart

-you’ve been friends for a long time now

-he always makes sure you’re taken care of

-he always asks if you’re ok

-he always gives you this little grin

-it feels like a secret sometimes

-but maybe it’s been his way of letting you know where he stands

-he’s been bringing you lattes and pastries for months now

-he never charges you full-price

-he always reminds you not to work too hard

-he

-fuck

-he likes you doesn’t he?

-you look back over at the counter to see him bending over and handing a skeleton cookie to a little girl dressed like Captain Marvel

-he laughs at something she says

-his eyes focused entirely on her and whatever she seems to be proclaiming to him

-your heart goes wonky again

-alright

-enough is enough

-you’re doing this

-Jungkook’s done so much of the work thus far

-it’s time for you to seal the deal

-and if he rejects you, well…

-you can just crawl into a hole and never come out again

-easy peasy

-You can feel his eyes on you as you get up to take your place in line

-luckily there isn’t anyone else behind you

-rejection with an audience would certainly be worse

-Jungkook has his witty comment ready for you as you approach the register

-“I know for a fact you haven’t finished your third latte and I’m not making you another one until-“

-“I’m not here for another latte.” You laugh, trying to ignore the thrashing of your heartbeat

-“No? Well, are you finally going to try my Welcome to the Blackened Chicken Parade Burger then? I’ve been asking you for like three weeks…”

-god he’s fucking cute

-“I’m here to ask you out.”

-Jungkook swears he feels his heart stop

-“You’re here to…”

-He repeats the first part of your response as his he didn’t hear you

-his black fingernails anxiously tapping against the countertop

-“I’m here to ask you out- on a date.”

-Jungkooks face seems to go through various stages of confusion before a shy smirk presents itself on his pretty mouth

-“Me? You’re asking me-“ He places a hand on his chest, “-out on a date?”

-“Yes!” You laugh, slapping the counter a bit too hard, your nerves getting the best of you, “Are you down?”

-He shakes his head but his answer contradicts his movements

-“So down, beyond down. There is no one on Earth who is more DOWN than I am. Yes. My answer is yes. 50000% yes.”

-you can’t help the smile on your lips

-“great. So are you free next Friday then?”

-He grins with his teeth this time, nodding emphatically

-“Consider the shop closed.”

-and so it was

-you returned to your table moments later

-feeling on top of the world

-you did it

-you asked Jungkook out

-and he said yes

-and now you

-NOW YOU HAVE A DATE WITH JUNGKOOK

-LOOK AT YOU GO

-TAKING CHARGE

-you try your best to engage with your studies but with Jungkook on your mind

-its really hard

-roughly two hours later, things at the bakery have finally started to slow down

-“Hey uh- Y/N?”

-Jungkook's voice that pulls you out of your studying trance

-he’s standing at the entrance of his back room, waving you over with his hand

-and who are you to deny him?

-you make your way over there, annoyed at the instant increase in your heartrate

-he stands awkwardly to the side and gestures to the boxes on the metal rack

-“I just remembered that I’ve never given you a tour of the place. I give all my regulars a tour of the stockroom and my office and uh-”

-he cuts himself off and clumsily cups your cheek

-he pulls you into a kiss

-a really good kiss

-his lips are so warm

-he smells like cinnamon

-you could literally die happy

-The ridiculous nature of his first attempt to kiss you, makes you giggle into his mouth

-you feel him smile, his hands smushing your cheeks together as he pulls away

-“Ok I lied. There is no tour. I’ve just been watching you focus on your computer for the last two hours and you’re just really fucking cute and-”

-this time, it’s you who cuts him off

-“You better give me an actual tour next time. How else am I going to steal your secret recipes?”

-he scoffs in mock offense

-“Ah ha! So that’s the only reason you asked me out huh? Should I be calling you Plankton instead of Y/N? Ew no wait- that would make me Mr. Krabs and he’s a dirty capitalist...”

-You laugh, “Oooh good point. Guess you’ll just have to be Karen, my computer wife.”

-This makes him laugh now and the sound warms your soul

-“I could live with that- I like your last name better anyways.”

-with another kiss, your adventure with the emo baker of your dreams begins

-It may have been Halloween but it sure felt like Christmas to you

389 notes · View notes

nico-di-genova · 4 years ago

Note

coffee shop au please cass 🥺🥺

Maya, you genius, I love you for sending me this!!

“You know,” Nile says, coming up behind him as he’s putting the finishing touches on a hazelnut latte, “if you’re going for subtlety, I’m not sure a heart is the right choice.”

Nicky feels the beginnings of a blush warm his cheeks, “It’s the only design I know how to do.” He’s swirling the heart atop the coffee before him with practiced ease, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he puts all his concentration into perfecting the latte art. This part of the job had never been a part of his training. Quynh and Andy preferred it when the drinks were completed efficiently, but right now it was slow, and the man who ordered the coffee was a regular; Nicky may have also thought he was cute, but that was beside the point.

Nile leaned over his shoulder, just enough to get a better look at the small details Nicky was adding to the foam, “With how much work you’re putting into this, it may as well be a confession of your love.”

“I don’t love him,” Nicky hisses under his breath, glancing up just long enough to cast a look at the man across the café, sitting at his usual spot by the large bay windows. He’s already got his sketchbook out on the table before him, a pencil in his hand. Nicky tries not to stare too long at the curve of his lips, or the way his curls stick out from underneath the beanie he’s wearing. He makes even more of an effort to ignore how breathing suddenly becomes a lot harder. “I barely know him, Nile. I’m just being nice.”

“You’ve been working on his drink for five minutes now.”

“It’s called customer service.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she teases, smiling in a way that tells him she’s just picking on him. Nile is the only coworker who knows about his crush on Joe, she’s the main reason he’d even spoken to the man in the first place. Usually, she runs the register, and he makes the drinks. When she’d noticed how he stared at Joe, how the tips of his ears would go pink when the man laughed at one of Nile’s terrible jokes, she’d make some excuse to slip into the back when Joe came in, forcing Nicky to finally speak to the man, rather than marvel from afar.

He swirls one final flourish into the design, and then steps back to admire his work. The heart is a little lopsided, but Nicky supposes it’s the effort that counts. “There. Done.”

Nile takes another quick look at the drink, “Looks great. You should probably bring it to him before it becomes an iced latte though.”

It is the longest he’s spent making a drink, but another quick glance at Joe tells him the man doesn’t mind. He’s already thoroughly engrossed in whatever sketch he’s working on today. From the few short snippets of conversation they’ve had, Nicky knows he’s studying art at the university down the street, the same school Nicky attended for philosophy and law. He’d yet to see any of Joe’s work though. As he always did when Nicky approached, he snapped his sketchbook shut quickly and then looked up with a smile that was dazzling enough that Nicky’s brain always short-circuited a bit.

“Hey again coffee boy, I was starting to think you got lost back there,” Joe’s voice was light. In the golden afternoon sun that filtered through the window behind him, he looked ethereal. Nicky had to force himself to remember how to breathe.

“I um… I was trying something different.” Joe’s order is always the same. Hazelnut latte, one pump of liquid sugar and one pump of pumpkin syrup. It was just on the cusp of too sweet for Nicky, but Joe must have liked it, he came into the café at least three times a week for it.

Joe’s smile widens, “Yeah? Different how?”

In lieu of an answer, Nicky places the drink before Joe. He can’t help the nerves that bubble up inside him. It’s dumb to get so worked up about a drink, especially because there’s no way it could compare to whatever Joe kept hidden in his sketchbook. Even still, he twists his hands anxiously as he watches Joe study the latte.

“You did this?”

“Yes. I’m still learning, so it’s not perfect-.”

“It’s great, Nicky!” He looks back up at Nicky, brown eyes bright with the light from the sun and the joy he seemed to constantly radiate. “Are you sure art’s not your thing?”

The first time Joe had told him what he was going to school for, Nicky had made the mistake of blurting out that he’d never met a real artist. He was distracted by Joe’s freckles at the time, and only continued to stick his foot further in his mouth by explaining that he’d never understood art. He’d come out sounding pretentious, like he was putting Joe down, when really he’d just lost control of his mouth. Nile had picked at him for a week after that, only stopping when she realized how mortified Nicky really was. Even the mention of the conversation is enough to make his blush deepen, he can feel the heat of it spreading to his neck.

“Don’t worry, Nicky. I’m only teasing. It’s good, you’re very talented.”

Nicky, who has never been the best at receiving praise, even from people he doesn’t want to kiss, finds himself at a sudden loss for words. Joe’s curls, the freckles that dot his skin like constellations, the way he twirls the pencil in his hand as they talk, with nimble fingers and practiced skill, it makes Nicky feel like he’s about to combust. He can spend hours debating the merits of good deeds, can present a case before a mock jury with the cool demeanor of someone far his senior, but around Joe, any sort of speaking skills seem to go right out the window.

He manages to stumble over a quiet, “thank you,” before turning to rush back behind the counter. It’s embarrassment that forces him to keep walking, right past Nile’s questioning gaze, and into the stockroom that’s hidden away from customer view. He takes a very vested interest in the stock of styrofoam cups and sweetener packets, counting each individual thing until the blush and pounding of his heart fades. 204 cups, 518 sugar packets, and one idiot who loses the ability to speak anytime the boy with pretty eyes and a soft smile comes into the shop.

By the time Nicky works up the courage to come back to the counter, Joe’s already left. Nile’s still there though, leaning against the register and looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“You’re a disaster,” she states.

He groans, “I know.” He leans heavily on the counter before him, burying his head in his hands.

“Joe must like train wrecks though,” Nile continues. He can feel when she moves to stand beside him and looks up to see her offering him a piece of folded paper. “He left this for you.”

Nicky tries not to look too excited as he grabs the paper and quickly unfolds it. When he catches sight of what’s on it, his breath leaves him all over again. It’s him, unmistakably so, down to the mole on the right side of his face. Joe has left out nothing. He’s drawn Nicky’s apron, syrup stains and all, the untied laces of his right shoe, the strand of hair that always sticks up at an odd angle and refuses to stay down no matter how much Nicky fusses at it. Under the drawing, there’s handwriting:

‘Call me, maybe I can show you some ‘real’ art sometime.’

Nicky’s mouth has gone dry.

“Is that his number?!” Nile shrieks, snatching the paper from his hands to get a better look at the ten digits that have been left under Joe’s message. Nicky feels his heartrate pick up all over again.

“You got his number! This is possibly the smoothest pickup method I’ve ever seen.”

Nicky nods, but he’s not really listening to what Nile’s saying. He’s too busy thinking about a hazelnut latte, one pump of liquid sugar, one pump of pumpkin syrup, and a badly drawn heart on the top.

#anyway #if you need me I will be starting my own coffeeshop in a small italian village just to feel happiness #my fic #the old guard

340 notes · View notes

thanksjro · 4 years ago

Text

More Than Meets the Eye #32 - Nobody’s Ever Actually Dead in Comic Books

Our band of merry guys-who-weren’t-on-the-Lost-Light-in-issue-#1 approach the shattered husk of the Lost Light, in a gruesome scene that is only slightly marred by the graphic design.

Font doesn’t really suggest danger, does it? Here, for comparison, is something I slapped together in fifteen minutes (including recreation of background) using a font I got off a free font site.

Now, one could say that my version is rather derivative, flat, and arguably cliche, but you know what else it is? Appropriate for the fucking mood of having found a destroyed, hemorrhaging ship after everyone you knew disappeared.

I’m available, IDW! Hit me up.

Theorizing that this is the ship that the Coffin Rodimus came from- remember that? It was a few issues ago- the gang flies in for a closer look. The ship blood is actually something called quantum foam, which allows for quantum space travel to happen. It’s not supposed to be outside of the quantum quills, but the ship’s pretty junked up, so it is.

Because the ship is so very full of holes, the gang can set down for repairs pretty easy. They land in Swerve’s, finding it in less-than-pristine condition. They also find evidence of Crosscut having gotten creative, as a poster for the play he was working on is hung up in the room. Considering he was still writing it when he disappeared, this might seem a bit odd. But then you remember that this is a ship from the future, and it stops being so odd.

Because this is a future ship, with evidence that Crosscut did some stuff, it stands to reason that, at some point, everyone is going to come back from being disappeared.

Just to die.

Which is a bummer, but one crisis at a time.

Megatron disembarks the Rod Pod, with Ravage following, and everyone is just a touch put off by the duo. Everyone but Nautica, who proceeds to commit a microaggression.

Nautica, that’s Soundwave’s father you’re petting like a common animal.

Ravage, angered by this over-familiarity, swats at her. Skids questions letting an active Decepticon roam around, but Megatron brushes off these concerns, saying that finding any still-living crew members is more important. With that, the search begins.

The gang splits up to look for clues, despite Riptide thinking this is a horrible idea. They’re on the clock for this one- the quantum foam is liable to explode if it touches anything, and there’s an awful lot of the stuff floating around right now.

Nightbeat and Nautica leave the rest of the group to their own work, seeing as Nautica has the most appropriate alt-mode for traversing the gaps in the ship.

Man, that’s pretty cool. Wish Nautica hadn’t been regulated to being “girl best friend” for her character arcs, I would have loved to see her do some neat stuff for her own development. Guess that’s what happens when you get introduced as main cast late, and have to compete with all the faves who had dozens of issues to be established and who also don’t have to deal with the whole “token girl character” thing.

The rest of the gang- Megatron, Ravage, Riptide, Skids, and Getaway- start looking in the area they’re already in. Seems a little lopsided, but whatever.

Ravage finds someone almost immediately, identifying Ultra Magnus through smell alone. Only, it isn’t just Ultra Magnus.

The Magnus armor lays not terribly far away, having had its hands cut off to prevent the recall signal from being activated before being gut-murdered.

Gut-murdered wiTH A FUSION CANNON, MEGATRON

Of course, Megatron was forced to destroy his fusion canon after it was decided he would be joining the Lost Light, but you can buy these things off the black market like it’s nothing. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Brainstorm had a few stashed in his lab.

As it currently stands, nobody can trust the guy who has a storied past of killing Autobots, on a future ship where the only folks who could stop him are dead. Megatron, at least, has the good sense to not argue this fact, and suggests that the boys lock both Ravage and himself up until they suss out exactly what happened.

Meanwhile, over with Nautica and Nightbeat, we run through all the weird shit that’s happened in the last day or so.

Nautica, you’ve been on this ship for months now. How did you miss the fact that the only couple within 800 miles got annihilated by way of Phase Sixer? I feel like that attack might have come up at some point.

Since they’re on the subject of spouses, Nightbeat asks Nautica if she’s married, or if she has friends. Though noting that such a direct line of questioning might get him slapped with someone else, Nautica reveals that she is single, though she does have a best friend. Nightbeat is also single, probably because he pulls shit like this.

While this conversation is going on, Nautica uses her Sonic Screwdriver wrench to open a door with the literal push of a button. Brainstorm tricked out her wrench so hard it turned into a magic wand, which is good, because they’re going to need all the help they can get now that space is literally warping around them thanks to the quantum foam.

Nautica kicks something on the elevator, and that something turns out to be Brainstorm’s mysterious briefcase. Too bad Swerve is gone, he was so invested in what it contained. Luckily, Nightbeat is just as interested.

Back over on the other side of the ship, it seems as though Megatron kept his word about not resisting, as both he and Ravage have been locked in a cabinet. Wonder how that’s going for them.

Oh, better than I expected.

Ravage is fucking pissed that Megatron joined the Autobots, thereby turning his back on everyone who supported his cause during the last four million years. Despite this grievous betrayal though, the Decepticons haven’t stopped moving. Turns out, Galvatron’s in charge now.

But only if Autobot Megatron isn’t some sort of ploy.

It’s at this point that we learn just why Ravage is here to begin with- to see if Megatron’s truly given up the Decepticons, and if he has, to murder him. But first he’d like to know why this is happening.

Megatron views himself as a monster, having perpetuated a war that ended the lives of billions, destroyed the Cybertronian way of life, ostracized his race from the rest of the universe, and killing just to have something to do. He doesn’t like feeling this way about himself, so he decided to walk away from that life by joining the other team.

Don’t think it’s quite that easy to do, but okay.

Ravage isn’t so sure that this change of heart is going to stick, still convinced that Megatron will snap back to his old self with just a bit more time. Problem is, Megatron may not have a ton of that resource left.

Didn’t they build that body in like an hour so you wouldn’t die? Yeah, no wonder it feels as ill-fitting as a twenty-dollar suit. Thing’s probably made out of pig iron and duct tape.

The lights come on before further self-reflection can be done, and the duo realize that they’ve had guests this whole time.

Someone put the kettle on.

Obviously some fucked up shit happened on this ship. Megatron isn’t so sure that it’s him who did these dirty deeds, however, as he reaches into Ratchet’s mouth and pulls out his brain. Which feels like something that doesn’t really absolve one of guilt, but okay.

Also, ew.

Back with Nautica and Nightbeat, things are getting weird.

Now, this sequence might seem confusing at first blush, but this is because the laws of reality are collapsing around them. Going by clues in the background, we can find the proper, linear progression of time, and thus is conversation. This is what is actually happening:

With the mystery of Brainstorm’s briefcase eluding us once again, we move on to see more graphic aftermaths of violence. Poor Tailgate has been nailed to the wall with a chunk of a metal beam that’s almost as big as he is. The mood lighting for this scene is gorgeous, but I’ve hit my limit for exposing y’all to gore for this issue, so you’ll just have to trust me on this one. Then they find something even more interesting.

Who’s ready for Under Cold Blue Stars… 2!

Back over on the opposite side of the ship, Riptide’s found something nasty. It’s a bunch of dead bodies!

Including, uh, Pipes.

Who already died a while ago.

Hm.

All the bodies in this room are in their alts, and it looks like they’ve all been shot and drilled into, for some reason. Skids brings up that he had a friend who could identify the placement of any robot’s brain module just by knowing what they turned into. Then he reaches into a corpse to see what the drill-hole’s all about. It makes him sick, though maybe not for the reason you might think. He gets on the phone with Nightbeat, who’s called to tell them that they’ve found Overlord.

Still locked in his weird body harness.

And decapitated.

Megatron is on the other line, calling because he’s figured out the same thing Skids has. Someone paid a visit to this ship. Someone nasty.

The gang regroups, and Nautica gets the basics on the DJD, because I guess nobody’s mentioned them even in passing in the last six months, either.

God, what do they even talk about on this ship? Certainly not their feelings.

The reason that one room was filled with alt-modes was because of Tarn’s addiction to transforming; t-cogs are easier to remove when they’ve been used recently.

We get a quick 4/5ths-page gore-fest, then it’s back to making it all about Megatron.

Maybe you should have thought about that before you FUCKING DEFECTED, YOU POOL NOODLE.

Nightbeat’s beginning to put two and two together. There’s an Overlord in the basement. That shouldn’t be, because Overlord got exploded by Chromedome when he mercy-killed Rewind. Something is off about the past of this ship.

Before he can establish his MTMTE everybody-lives-but-then-dies AU though, the quantum foam fucks with the ship. These sons of guns need to get the hell out of here, pronto.

Oh god, what now?

Ravage smells someone inside the Magnus armor, someone who isn’t a part of the usual nesting doll lineup. Megatron reaches into the Crackerjack box and pulls out one hell of a prize.

HE LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVES

Chromedome would be so thrilled, if he still existed.

#transformers #jro #MTMTE #slaughterhouse #issue 32 #maccadam #Hannzreads #incoming analysis #text post #long post #comic script writing

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simptasia · 3 years ago

Note

Could you please insult Jack?

insult jack? jack shephard? well, gosh, i guess i could try but im sorry if i don't have much to say... [smiles deviously]

why are you so big large you're freaking me out [squishes him into a tiny box and hands it to kate] for safe keeping

the way he expresses himself is like he's a sim testing out animations. he looks like feels every emotion before saying anything. he genuinely comes across like his actor is on coke

fuck your buzz cut and fuck your chest hair, i believe in long(er) hair + shaved chest jack supremacy

perfectly fine with using a spoon that kate sucked on right in front of him. you sick fuck, you liked that didn't ya?

the scene with richard and the dynamite is genuinely terrifying. you're scaring richard! stop that!

that bit where he blows up a bunch of trees to make a point that they have the ability to blow stuff up now but like. bitch you just wasted a bunch of the explosives. limited supplies, fuckhead

jack's main tattoos are a bunch of stupid looking nonsense and i'd forgive that if there wasn't a fucking EPISODE DEDICATED TO THEM. charlotte didn't get a centric episode but jACK'S TATTOOS-!!! [starts foaming at the mouth]

the poor reception of that episode was so bad that it's the reason the abc were like "okay you're only getting 6 seasons". like thats a good thing and a bad thing, it's a mixed bag but thats not my point. my point is a jack episode was SO BAD that the abc was like "okay fuck this, we're cutting you off, here's your deadline" BRUTAL

season 5 jack and large chunks of season 4 jack can go straight in the fucking bin. that there be the Cunt Jack Zone, my friends

sometimes jack looks directly at the camera and i feel pain

his voice is very high and whiny which makes the parts where he's insufferable even worse

none of us can look at angel hair pasta the same way

he has the aura of a grown adult who enjoys a glass of plain milk

your beard is bad and you should feel bad

"if i was checking you out, you'd know it" he says leaning confidently against a tree. what the fuck does that even MEAN. how is that a flex!!! also you were??? you were dopey zoned out staring at kate's ass (fair) and she clearly liked that, why are you disputing it?? im not saying they should started fucking against that tree, but holy fuck jack doesn't get flirting

basically jack has the social skills of a turnip. there are just. too many examples to list. everything. all of it. six seasons

Jack Shephard Bullies A Depressed Disabled Man For Six Seasons Cringe Complication

yeah dan tried to set off a hydro bomb to bring back his love interest, i've made fun of that, but at least thats like noble. jack's reason is so fucking immature: set off hydroden bomb because my girlfriend broke up with me and it hurts too much so i'd rather erase our entire relationship than feel heart hurty. like dan is being grossly irresponsible to save somebody's life, jack is being grossly irresponsible because WAAAAAHHHHHH

theres CPR and then theres beating people back to life

holds a pathological fury against the mere concept of belief, as if doctors don't see miraculous things on a regular basis

i'm sorry but his ears are weirdly small for his head

he's not cool and at no point will he ever be cool

yelled in hurley's face, scaring him. and some crimes can never be forgiven [cocks shotgun]

look, theres nothing in canon that suggests this but nothing that disputes it either: i just don't think he's good at Fuck

record for shortest term as Island Protector at less than a day! [presents him with a tiny trophy made out of tin foil]

honestly do i really even need to insult jack when there's a scene where he's sobbing into his steering wheel while led zeppelin plays. just picture that. i can't make him more pathetic than that moment

i could continue. and i will in small chunks, as i always have. but this feels,, [short of breath] this feels like enough

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if-you-built-yourself-a-myth · 3 years ago

Text

Check Ignition: Part VI

The Sobbe fake-dating Hogwarts AU that one person asked for and I dove into headfirst

First part // Previous part // Next part

Requests are open, and I live for your comments

Telling Noor was out of the question. Robbe was in far too deep to admit to something like that. And here, he dangled on the precipice of making his relationship with Sander the truth. She could wait. She could never know. Whatever.

Robbe needed to marinate in this feeling as long as it would last.

He stayed up all night, reliving the moment until he could no longer form coherent thoughts. It was so vivid: Sander slid his hands under Robbe’s shirt and kissed the side of his mouth. He sucked gentle bruises into the bridge of Robbe’s collarbone and lower, and lower…When Robbe fell asleep, around eight in the morning, he dreamed of warm kisses in the crook of his neck. Did it really happen? Could it have really happened? Robbe couldn’t believe how different a kiss could be when he knew it wasn’t for anyone else’s benefit.

Of course, it could have been for someone else’s benefit. He didn’t know for sure what it meant. He had to talk to Sander.

Everything about this was disclaimers, every day. How annoying.

He pushed himself out of bed at ten with a mere two hours of sleep under his belt. Breakfast waited for no man. The thought of Sander was enough to rouse him to action. Moyo and Aaron were both in the bathroom already, hogging the mirror. Moyo must have stayed after some hangout last night. They talked in animated whispers.

Moyo’s mouth leaked toothpaste to the sink as he spoke. “—so then I told him that you can’t expect a Patronus if getting head is the happiest you’ve ever been—”

“What’s your memory?” Aaron countered. The bristles on his toothbrush were flattened.

“My memory doesn’t matter, because I’m not thinking—”

“No, I want to know. Since you think you’re so much better.”

“It’s not sex, if that’s what you—”

When they spotted Robbe, they froze.

“Fucking hell,” said Moyo, after a beat. “What happened to you last night?”

Robbe rubbed his neck. He couldn’t see what he looked like with his friends blocking the mirror, but he could make an educated guess. There were one or two hickeys his t-shirt collar may or may not cover. Tingling dry skin around the side of his lip spoke to hours of kissing someone who had the first prickles of facial hair. Aaron and Moyo made a big show of focusing on brushing their teeth.

“Promise you won’t tell?” said Robbe. He never saw the boys uncomfortable. It could be fun to play with them a little more. Logically, Aaron saw him leave with Sander yesterday. It still left Robbe with hours of free time unaccounted for, time to switch companions, but not a lot, if Aaron remembered.

“We promise,” Aaron said. He wouldn’t meet Robbe’s eyes.

Robbe steeled himself. “I met someone.”

Moyo’s toothbrush clattered to the ground. Moyo hurried to pick it up. “What?”

Aaron, less shocked but just as surprised, spit a glob of minty foam into the sink. Robbe treasured their expressions. And also didn’t. He vaguely remembered them plotting with Jens about something the other night, something about him and Sander, but how would they react when the real thing came out? Positive. Probably positive. They seemed supportive when they pushed him out the door to Sander before.

“I met someone,” Robbe repeated. He decided he would leave it at that. Let them stew in it. There would be more to say after he talked to Sander, and told Jens.

Moyo had other ideas. “Not a serious someone, right?”

Robbe shrugged. “Might be.”

“But what about your arrangement?”

“It’ll end, I guess.”

Now Aaron showed signs of distress, too. They weren’t understanding what he meant. “It can’t end! What about Sa—” Moyo smacked him in the side, not subtly. “What about Noor? Won’t she bother you again?”

As love lives went, Robbe’s had never been the most interesting. Seeing the boys so invested in something that involved him made Robbe irrationally happy. Or maybe it was the residual thrill of Sander. Who cared? He dragged it out. “No, she won’t. I don’t think things around her will change that much at all.” There was enough there for Moyo and Aaron to catch his drift, if they were going to, and enough to keep deniability if it did not work out.

Robbe didn’t want to think about it not working out. Even though that was a large possibility.

Moyo breathed in deep. “We’re happy for you, Robbe,” he said. “Just—don’t lead Sander on if it’s over.”

“How am I leading Sander on?” Fuck, this was almost funny.

“You’re not, you’re not,” Moyo backtracked. “But if you were, I mean, I would ask…”

“Forget he said anything,” said Aaron. “Go be happy. Have fun. Sorry, we were—” He pushed Robbe back a step with the palm of his hand and closed the bathroom door between them. What followed was a buzzing in Robbe’s ears, indicative of the Muffliato charm for silencing purposes. Aaron had some skill after all.

Back in the main room, Jens rolled over in his bunk and glared at Robbe. “All that… You’re in love with Sander, aren’t you? Motherfucker.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, warding off the oncoming headache. “Gay rights.”

Robbe didn’t know what to say to that, so he set off to the Great Hall. Truthfully, he didn’t know if he was gay. He knew he liked Sander. The rest was another crisis for another day.

***

Breakfast that morning featured mounds of French toast, three different variations of eggs, and enough pumpkin juice to put the castle underwater. The Hufflepuff table was nearly empty, no more than a few first years fussing over their notes for upcoming exams. Robbe sat a reasonable distance away to eat. Close to the doors. He couldn’t stop smiling.

Across the way, at the Ravenclaw table, Zoë, Milan, and Senne pored over their Potions books. This week, Robbe thought, he could return to his regularly scheduled Potions class. Britt told him he was the winner. He didn’t have to be afraid of her.

Milan caught Robbe’s eye and winked. Zoë gave him a wave and a double thumbs-up.

No one occupied the Slytherin table. The only people who’d be up this early were their Quidditch players, and yesterday’s game had been rescheduled for tonight. They were likely on the pitch already, practicing. No sign of Sander.

He served himself another heaping helping of egg, despite not having finished the first. Whatever spices were in the scramble, it tasted better than anything in his father’s recipe cards from home.

The hourglasses at the front of the Great Hall shined as points drained from Slytherin’s side. Gryffindor was on track to win the House Cup. Those fuckers.

Okay, so here was the plan: he’d finish up eating here. He would go back to the dormitory to shower and change and all that jazz. Sander usually met him at the Hufflepuff table for lunch. When that happened, maybe Robbe would suggest they visit the astronomy tower instead, and maybe they’d have their deep conversation. Jens had a Quidditch practice scheduled at two.

If Sander didn’t show up to lunch, chances were he’d be at the Quidditch came this evening. Jens had it double-underlined in the plan, after all. Robbe would intercept him afterward and kiss him until they both forgot how to breathe.

Solid. Good plan. Robbe rewarded himself with another scoop of eggs.

A few Slytherins walked into the Hall in full Quidditch regalia. Robbe’s earlier assumption had been correct. He stood up on reflex; he could ask them where Sander was, or something like that, and then he could clarify what their thing was right away. Fuck the plan.

It was a real relationship. You don’t kiss people you don’t want a real relationship with.

Or, good people don’t.

Or, maybe that line of thinking didn’t make any sense. He was losing his mind here. He’d never been this happy. The Slytherin group was engaged in an intense conversation, their circle closed, their voices easy to hear. Robbe gave them a respectable distance while he waited for them to finish speaking. Then he could ask his question.

“Britt said to leave him be for a while, y’know?” the Slytherin captain said. “She said someone would come.”

“You’re gonna leave him?” asked one of the others. Might have been the Seeker.

“Can’t do much else. I can’t get him up.”

“Shit.”

Another interjected, “Does Madame Pomfrey know?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell her. He could be tired, I guess, but it’s weird. Anyway, Britt said someone would come for him.”

“Sander’s weird as hell. He was probably just up all night with what’s-his-face.”

Wait, what? Robbe backed away. They hadn’t noticed him waiting behind them yet. He could make it back to his own table if he moved fast, except, he wouldn’t hear the rest of what they had to say.

“You always get the worst roommates, Willem.”

The Slytherin captain huffed. “He’s not bad, he’s just asleep. Overdramatic. Oh hey, eat your eggs. Energy is the name of the game today.”

The group moved on to other topics. Like the weather.

“Sorry, do you know where Sander is?” Robbe surprised himself by speaking up. He wanted to disappear when the whole group turned to him. The captain, Willem, looked him up and down with a gaze like a barcode scanner. He paused for a minute at Robbe’s shoulder level.

“He’s asleep,” he said, simply. “Tired as fuck. Sorry.” He gestured to Robbe’s neck. “I guess we know why.”

Shit, Robbe had forgotten he was covered in hickeys. He should have put on his robes before coming to breakfast, but Moyo and Aaron were in the bathroom, and he couldn’t change in the front room!

Back to the plan, back to the plan. Sander would be there for lunch, or if not, he’d be there for the match. Moyo must be out of the bathroom by now.

“Thanks,” he said. He could go sit with Zoë, Senne, and Milan in the meantime, so he didn’t look like a loser.

“Hey,” said Willem as Robbe made to leave. He got up from the table to do so, while the others continued their conversation as if he were not there. “Hang on a second.”

Robbe stopped, even as everything in his body screamed at him to move. He was a shy, uninteresting person; it was a cornerstone of his personality. He didn’t mean to keep challenging the persona, as he had for these two weeks, as he always would for Sander.

“Do you know who’s coming?”

“Coming for what?”

Willem shrugged. “Britt said someone’s gonna get him. I don’t mind, really. It’d be—I don’t know—cool to know who’s gonna be wading through my belongings.”

Robbe answered honestly. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Fair. I suppose the ex would know more than the current.” He said it so passively, Robbe kind of wanted to punch him. “Whatever.” Willem shoved his hands into his pockets.

For a second, they both stared at the floor in silence. There was something more, dangling on the tip of Willem’s tongue. Robbe could feel it. He waited patiently for whatever it may be. The Slytherin team chattered in the background about the eggs this morning and the assurance that they would win against Hufflepuff at the Quidditch match.

“You can see him, if you want,” said Willem, finally. “The password’s written on the frame of the closest painting. Regulus will help you.” He paused. “Regulus is the painting. If that wasn’t clear.” Robbe blinked. He wasn’t expecting help. Willem extended his hand to Robbe’s and shook it, although Robbe’s hand was kind of a limp fish in his grip. “I’ll see you on the pitch, then. Good luck.” He returned to his friends and their meal.

Alright. This was a blessing. Sander was asleep, as he should be at this hour. It was totally reasonable. Robbe thought it over for less than a minute before deciding he needed to let Sander sleep in today. It would come across as clingy to go visit and wake him up, and Robbe couldn’t give off that vibe so close to the beginning of their relationship.

There was a new list of rules in his head, alongside all his other archived lists. How to handle being a boyfriend.

If Sander wanted him as a boyfriend.

Robbe went back to his plate, where it remained on the Hufflepuff table. He took a few more bites of the eggs. At home, they had a red ceramic frying pan and an electric tea kettle, and these instruments were the sole caretakers of breakfast. Robbe’s mother swallowed her pills with a teacup. Robbe wanted to know those things about Sander, he realized. He wanted to know Sander’s hands by the freckles on his knuckles, he wanted to know Sander’s presence by his step on the staircase. He wanted to know what Sander ate for breakfast at home.

Simple things, you know. He hadn’t felt this way for anybody else, ever.

Milan jarred Robbe from his reverie. He, Zoë, and Senne were leaving for their daily activities. “Might want to invest in some concealer, buddy.” He tapped one of the pinkish blotches on Robbe’s neck and winked. Robbe tugged the hem of his shirt to cover it.

***

Quidditch practice passed without pain. Before Robbe knew it, he was in his official robes and hovering far above the grass once more. From this vantage point, even the Great Lake looked small as it reflected oncoming storm clouds. No hail tonight, according to Professor Trelawney, although Robbe didn’t know how she could predict something like that with such assurance. He never bothered with Divination classes. Jens slicked all his hair back with the first spat of rain. He and Macs leaned forward on their brooms, anxious for the match to begin.

Yasmina gave the pep talk today. “Play good. Win.” Everyone enthusiastically agreed.

Robbe didn’t have to worry about any talk of strategy. He spent the final six minutes before the Quaffle’s release examining the stands for Sander’s bleached hair. The rain made this a difficult task; not only did it blur the image ahead of him, but many people wore ponchos that covered their hair colors and sometimes most of their faces. Robbe couldn’t even make out Moyo, and he knew for a fact that his friend would be sitting in the first row.

The captains, Jens and Willem, met in the middle of the pitch to shake hands. As soon as they were finished, the Quaffle was thrown and the game began. Jens and Macs took turns with the ball as they rocketed down the pitch. First points came seconds after. The Hufflepuff stands screamed.

In sharp contrast to the game versus Ravenclaw, Robbe found himself trailing Slytherin’s seeker in the search for the snitch.

The rain picked up. What was once light drops became a downpour so torrential that Robbe couldn’t see more than five feet in front of his outstretched hand. He knew Hufflepuff and Slytherin scored some points, because the bell chimed when they did so, and also because Luca practically screamed it every time it happened.

“I think that went through the hoop. One for Macarthy, his third today. If he wants to contact me, I might be free Monday night—”

Slytherin’s seeker ran into Robbe’s side. Robbe gave him the benefit of the doubt, especially because he put his arms out in front and had the good sense to fall off his broom. Robbe didn’t falter.

“Has anyone seen the snitch yet?” Luca wondered.

They had not.

The score stood at thirty to twenty in Hufflepuff’s favor after a whole forty-five minutes of play. Robbe was beginning to doubt that the snitch had been released from its container at all. Wouldn’t that be just his luck?

Macs zipped by with the Quaffle. The wind strengthened, a storm heating above them. The air buzzed with electricity. Robbe needed to go lower—the perspective he’d craved was clearly not working out here. The clouds must be less thick closer to the ground, and maybe the snitch would be there.

He aimed in the direction of Hufflepuff tower, or what he thought was Hufflepuff tower, and angled his broom downward.

“Looks like Robbe sees something. About time. I’m cold.”

Nope, still hadn’t seen it.

The stands materialized in front of him. Dozens of people in black raingear crowded together. Some had flags, or at least sticks; it was hard to tell with the rainwater pounding the fabric against the students. Robbe flew just above their heads, as he had last game. He thought he saw Moyo in the front.

No Sander. Sander had very distinctive eyebrows. Robbe would have seen him.

Sander didn’t have to go anywhere. It would be okay if he skipped this match.

“Jens with the Quaffle again,” Luca’s voice boomed. “Willem comes from behind—aw, that’s shit luck. Bad luck. Sorry. Willem takes the Quaffle.” She sounded close. This was the Hufflepuff stands. Robbe made a second pass, hoping some students would find it in themselves to take off their hoods and get soaked in the rain.

No sign of Sander. He could get a little bit closer, or even land, but what good would that do? Robbe bolted off in the opposite direction. Sander didn’t come.

Why would he come? What was the point in coming?

He was probably ignoring Robbe. Avoiding him.

Robbe tried to stop his thoughts from pendulum-swinging back and forth. Thunder cracked, then lightning. No hail.

One hour elapsed without sign of the snitch when the rain subsided. One whole fucking hour. The Hufflepuff chasers and beaters had taken to holding the Quaffle and loitering in the air to conserve energy. Willem and his team resorted to batting the Hufflepuffs around and praying they’d drop the ball. All the while, the two seekers were locked on equal ground.

“This is the fucking longest game I’ve ever attended,” said Luca into the microphone. For once, no one could debate her use of profanity. Everyone wanted to leave.

Fuck it. Sander should have been here. Robbe u-turned and passed so low over Hufflepuff’s stands that he could see the eye colors of everyone in the back row. Nothing.

Robbe couldn’t even be mad when Slytherin’s seeker caught the snitch somewhere high above him. Hufflepuff’s lead gave them the lenience to scoot by with a win, barely.

Sander didn’t come. They had the most wonderful night last night. The best in Robbe’s life. Robbe wanted to sit down with Sander and hold him for the rest of forever, and Sander didn’t come to a Quidditch match that he said he’d attend. Not even that—he hadn’t seen Robbe all day. The anger stirred rapid and sour in Robbe’s stomach. No, not anger. Disappointment. He almost laughed at the thought of saying that to Sander—I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.

Robbe landed a little too heavy on the pitch. He was soaking wet, used up, stood up. He wanted to go to sleep.

“Great game we played tonight,” said Jens. Yasmina, Macs, and Aaron, who walked with them back to the castle, knew this sarcasm wasn’t for them. It was a little daunting to hear something icy from Jens, Robbe’s protector.

“We won,” said Aaron.

Something bubbled inside of Robbe. He didn’t like it. He wanted to go back to the workshop with the origami butterflies. Sander must have reasons for not coming. He had to have a reason why he didn’t come. Robbe had the password to the Slytherin common room.

Sander could have been tired. Sander could have wanted to avoid the implications of cheering against Slytherin when his roommate was the Slytherin captain. Sander could have—

It didn’t do any good. Sander said he’d be here and he wasn’t. They kissed last night for hours and Sander hadn’t said a thing today.

“Yes, you all did great.” Jens bumped Robbe with his shoulder. Robbe wanted to scream.

He was being overdramatic.

“Robbe did his best,” Yasmina said. “Leave him alone. The rain was bad.”

“His focus was bad,” said Jens, but he stopped talking after that. Unlike Robbe, he could shrug off a minor sin without a second thought.

***

New plan, new plan. Clearly the old one hadn’t worked. New plan. Robbe would visit the Slytherin common room and he’d yell to anyone that would listen that he was in love with Sander.

Too grand. He’d yell it at Sander. Wherever Sander was. He would just say it, and then he’d go to Noor and tell her everything. New plan, he wasn’t going to be ignored on the day after the greatest day of his life. He just wasn’t.

Robbe had made up his mind by the time they breached the doorway to the castle.

“You guys go on ahead,” he told them. “I have to see something.” They waved without protest.

Robbe took the stairs that were closest to the entryway. He took them three at a time, not unlike Britt left the astronomy tower on Thursday. Something was wrong, he could feel it. It boiled in his bones. At the bottom of the staircase, a painting hung over a thick wooden door. Intricate drawings of serpents in green, silver, and gold wound their way through the woodgrain, snakes devouring each other’s tails, ouroboros, the chain of a locket dangling into a pool of water. The painting depicted a young man with black wavy hair and a similar locket looped about his neck.

“Password?” he asked.

“Willem said you’d help me,” said Robbe.

“Incorrect.” The painting clicked its tongue. “Try again.”

Willem said something about an inscription on the side of the frame. Robbe checked, but all he could see was a little plaque detailing the exploits of one Regulus Arcturus Black. Nothing remotely helpful.

“Black,” Robbe tried.

“Do you think we’re stupid enough to make the password my last name?”

“No.”

“Try again.”

“Willem?”

“I hate that rat bastard,” said the painting. “Might as well sit down if you’re going to keep guessing.”

Robbe sat down. “Sherbet lemon.”

“Wrong. Who do you need to see?”

“Ouroboros.”

“Nope. Why do you need to get in?”

“Locket,” Robbe guessed. He had a good feeling about that one.

“Stopping guessing,” said Regulus. “It’s embarrassing. Tell me why you’re here.”

“To see my boyfriend.” It was a little forward, he supposed, but he could always say it was for the sake of their fake-dating thing if it backfired. Shit, he’d almost forgotten about the fake-dating thing. “Basalisk.”

“Why the fuck would someone make that the password?” Regulus shook his head in disgust. “Do you really think so little of us—”

“I need to see my boyfriend,” Robbe insisted. “Regulus Black.”

“You said that already.” Regulus relaxed back into his painting. In it, he sat in a deep velvet armchair. He wore a similar velvet suit, with green cufflinks that matched his eyes. “I was in love, once.”

“Regulus Arcturus Black.”

“It is not a variation of my name.” The painting continued his story. “I know power corrupts everything, but I didn’t think it would do that to us. I thought we had something. But then, what could you expect? I was eighteen. Am eighteen, I suppose. And everyone under the age of twenty is a certified idiot. Should’ve listened to Sirius.”

Robbe was a little curious. Maybe the password was hidden somewhere in this story, maybe that’s what Willem meant. “What happened to you?”

Regulus laughed. “I drowned in a lake within a cave. You still want to see your boyfriend?”

“What lake?” Robbe prompted.

“You know, I’m not really sure. It was in a cave.”

“Cave.”

“That isn’t the password.”

“Drowned in a cave.”

“Mm, too much of a mouthful. I’ll save that for the next time they change it.”

The knot tied in Robbe’s stomach slowly began to unwind. Disappointment ran off into the excitement of this little game. He thought over the brief summary of Regulus’s life again for any more clues. “Cave Lake.”

“No,” Regulus said. He paused, considered Robbe. “Why do you need to see him so badly?”

There was no harm in an honest answer. “I’m in love with him. He needs to hear it so he can decide what we’re going to be.”

Regulus nodded, as if he understood. “Animagi. I see.”

“I didn’t say anything about animagi.”

“What are you going to be?”

“I don’t know, boyfriends or something?” Robbe had yet to give that aspect as much thought as he’d given this kissing escapades. He knew they would be people who kissed each other. The label would be icing on the cake. They would be people who went to each other’s Quidditch games. Something was still wrong, because Sander should have been there, because—“Sirius Black.”

“You said he was your boyfriend already,” said Regulus. And then, “Sirius was a Gryffindor. We would never make him the password.” He considered the situation. “You’re about to have the what are we? talk, then?”

“Yes.” Robbe rubbed his eyes. He felt a headache coming on.

“I see. So you’re being a bitch because you’re worried, I take it?”

Bullseye. “He hasn’t seen me all day.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Robbe shot back, “Are you going to help me or not?”

Regulus stroked his chin. “That depends. I don’t see how helping you would aid the relationship, if you don’t trust him enough to spend one day apart.” He adjusted a flower pinned to his lapel, a bright white lily. Robbe recognized it from the plaque at the front of the Great Hall—many who fell in one of the earlier Wars had them on their portraits.

“I can trust him,” Robbe said. “It’s just—”

“It sounds like you’re about to make an excuse.”

“I didn’t come here to chat with a painting.”

“And I wasn’t painted to be a relationship counselor,” said Regulus. “But here we are. If I’m going to let in a non-Slytherin, it needs to be worth my while.”

So Robbe leaned back against the stone. He pictured himself in the astronomy tower. And he thought. Sander spent quite a bit of time kissing him last night. They were together for hours. This morning, Willem mentioned that he couldn’t wake Sander up. He must have been exhausted after such a long period of strenuous physical activity. And then, he could have assumed that the arrangement was over, that they were something real. Such an assumption would invalidate Jens’ plans for their fake relationship, and Sander would not have to go to the Quidditch match if he was too tired to do so.

Yeah, that made sense. He could run with it. Whatever Sander’s absence had inspired earlier, it was stupid. Hell, it was almost hilarious.

“You’re going to be a clingy boyfriend,” noted Regulus, without a note of humor. “I pity this boy.”

I’m going to be a clingy boyfriend, thought Robbe. If one missed Quidditch match would do so much to him, who’s to say what could happen if Sander was late for a date? He needed to chill out. What they had wasn’t that serious, anyway. It wasn’t.

Some clarity would be appreciated, of course. He had a right to demand some clarity.

“You know what, go ahead. The password’s Lover Boy, if you have to see him so badly. Go on, go.”

Robbe had made a fool of himself during that Quidditch match, focusing on Sander instead of the snitch. He was an idiot for coming here. At least Willem hadn’t lied about Regulus’s help.

“Never mind,” he said. “I overacted.” This would be his first exercise in trust. Go a whole day without seeing Sander, the first since they’d been fake-dating. Go a whole day without kissing him, without tasting the spearmint of his toothpaste on his tongue…

“About time you realized that,” said Regulus. “Get out of here. I’m going to my other portrait.”

Robbe went up the stairs. He walked through the hallways. It was dark. Jana should be with him if he was out. He could lose house points for being seen here.

It was for the best that Sander didn’t come to the match. It could even be good. He’d wanted to tell Jens about how he felt before Sander anyway, even if Jens had inferred it from his behavior. And after taunting the boys with it this morning, it wouldn’t be much fun to end the suspense and bring Sander in as an official boyfriend right away. It could be good. It would be good.

He trusted Sander enough.

He turned the corner to get back to Hufflepuff’s common room. The scene went by in stop-motion animation.

There they were.

Sander and Britt.

In the hallway.

Britt was holding Sander. Hugging him close. He could make out that much. Sander’s hair basically glowed in the dark.

This wasn’t happening.

Robbe couldn’t breathe. He fell back against the wall and mumbled a cloaking charm under his breath. They couldn’t have seen him. It was too dark. He trusted Sander, he trusted Sander, he trusted Sander…

“What are you going to do?” Britt whispered. “What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know,” said Sander.

“You’ll have to tell him something.” Britt threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “Fuck, Sander. You can’t keep pulling shit like this. It’s not okay.”

“I know.”

He shouldn’t be listening in. How was it, in the span of two weeks, all of his important information came from eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. He hated it. He couldn’t keep himself away.

“I’m not in love with him,” said Sander. The conviction in his voice was surprising; whatever disappointment had dulled in Robbe’s soul earlier returned with a surge fierce enough to take Robbe to his knees. But not really.

He just stood there. Everyone under the age of twenty was a certified idiot. He was a certified idiot. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing ever meant anything.

Okay.

“Well then,” Britt said, her arms wrapped tight around Sander’s neck, “there’s nothing more to it than that.”

Robbe couldn’t bear to hear the rest. His legs carried him back into the Hufflepuff common room without another word.

#sobbe #wtfock #sander driesen #robbe ijzermans #hogwarts au #fake dating #requested fic #my writing #fanfiction

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spencers-renaissance · 4 years ago

Text

Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch.2

hell is empty, and all the devils are here

Chapter One

This is the second chapter in my new ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Last Chapter: Spencer's disordered and depressed thoughts were introduced, he was shot, Foyet stabbed Hotch, and Spencer ended up alone in his apartment :(

In This Chapter: we get to see Hotch's view of the events of early season five.

TW: aftermath of violence, recovery, spousal death, grief/mourning

Word Count: 3.4k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

AARON

All but mariners plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, then all afire with me: [he] cried, 'Hell is empty and all the devils are here.' — William Shakespeare, The Tempest

The team is working on the case.

Aaron tries desperately to remember this when the fear starts to rise in his chest again, squashing his lungs and pressing violently against his already groaning heart. The team is working on the case, they always solve the case, and he trusts them with his life because, at the end of the day, that’s what’s at stake here, isn’t it? Haley and Jack are all he has in this world; he absolutely cannot lose them.

The team is working on the case.

Frustration builds as he lays in a hospital bed, completely incapacitated during the most important case of his life, and it’s only made worse by the knowledge that Spencer is hurt, too. He was absolutely furious when he eventually found out after asking his whereabouts on his third day of hospitalisation, having realised he hadn’t seen him once at the hospital.

Rossi had deliberately omitted Spencer being shot from his account of the case. Why, he had no idea. Did he not think it important that one of their own was seriously injured? Aaron hopes not. Did he think he was unable to handle the information at that point? Certainly more probable, but still infuriating.

It was all exacerbated by the guilty expression on JJ’s face when he asked who’d been visiting him. She’d told him that there hadn’t been time, that they were working on the case 24/7, that Penelope had heard from him and he was fine, but it wasn't enough to satiate his rising anger. Aaron doesn’t quite understand the blistering fury he still feels when he thinks about Spencer injured and alone, abandoned by his team, but he expects it’s because he still feels protective over the youngest member of the team.

That’s almost definitely it.

He takes a month off from work, but he has no idea what to do with himself, especially once he's discharged from hospital and returns to a lonely apartment in which he was brutally attacked by the FBI’s Most Wanted Serial Killer. He’s miserable without seeing Jack regularly and fearful of the length of time he’ll have to wait until he can see him and Haley again as he tries desperately not to think of the possibility that he may never see them again.

A lot of time is spent touring his DVD and box set collections and passing the time by cooking and exercising as much as his healing body will allow him. Every functional moment, every spare shred of brain power he has to spend, though, is directed at the Foyet case.

Finding Nemo is playing on the TV when there’s a knock at the door a week into his stay at home — admittedly, his collection is not all that large and he’d exhausted the more age-appropriate films far too quickly — so he turns it off and peels his exhausted bones off the couch. Most of the team have dropped by at various points, bringing food and gifts and comfort in the worst time of his life, so he’s expecting Emily or Rossi or JJ, but instead, it’s Spencer standing on his doorstep.

He doesn’t have the time to school his expression so his surprise is written all over his face, and Spencer must see it because he immediately cringes and deflates, as though suddenly doubting whether showing up out of the blue was a good idea after all.

“Hi.” Aaron smiles welcomingly to try and counter the negative thoughts that are almost certainly worming their way into Spencer’s mind. “Come in.” He steps aside and allows him to hobble awkwardly into the living room, his crutches dragging slightly along the carpet, the telltale sign of someone not quite accustomed to them yet.

“I hope it’s alright I came,” Spencer says shyly, almost apologetic. “I should have texted but I dropped my phone under the sofa and I can’t get down on the floor to retrieve it.” He blushes at his admission but gratefully accepts Aaron’s invitation to sit down.

Aaron smiles as warmly as he can manage, joining him on the couch. “You're fine, don't worry; it’s not like I’m up to much. I’m just happy to have some company.” He almost confesses that he was watching a children’s film before Spencer showed up, but decides that’s perhaps revealing just a little too much. “How have you been doing? I did message you, but I suppose your phone gathering dust under a couch explains the lack of a response.”

“You did?” Spencer’s eyes meet his and he looks utterly bewildered for some reason, seemingly surprised that Aaron would do such a thing. “Sorry, I— yes, that would be why, uh.” He looks down, clearly trying to gather himself as he plays with his fingers. “I’m fine, though. Obviously, the leg is a little sore, but. I’ll be back to work on Monday.”

“Good,” he replies, though he knows a gunshot wound will still be more than a little sore only two weeks after the initial injury. “How long do you have that?” He gestures vaguely to the brace around Spencer’s left leg.

“Not really sure,” Spencer says, looking sort of bemused by the contraption. “It’s pretty inconvenient, so I hope it isn’t too long.”

Aaron can’t help but smile at the small grin on Spencer’s face as he looks down at the brace. It looks… genuine. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to contemplate why that’s so endearingly surprising. “Are you looking forward to going back?” he asks, settling back into the couch cushions as he feels his muscles protest against his strained position.

Spencer seems to struggle for a response, unsure how to answer him. If he wasn’t so damn exhausted he might try and figure this slightly odd behaviour out, but the inherently complicated puzzle that is Spencer Reid feels like one too many right now. “I’m looking forward to not being quite so bored,” he eventually replies with a short, self-deprecating laugh. Aaron almost flinches at the sound, so foreign for Spencer’s gentle soul.

He’s fiddling with his crutches and the profiler in Aaron is screaming at him to decode what’s going on, but he forces himself to push it to the side. Spencer is a capable man. He’ll be fine. Aaron, on the other hand, needs to try and save his energy for his family.

“I can understand that,” Aaron says diplomatically, careful to not reply too emphatically one way or another. “The boredom’s crippling sometimes. Thankfully, the team coming round has been saving me from having to watch too many movies.”

Spencer seems to sort of shutter down as the words leave his mouth for reasons he doesn’t know or comprehend, but he does know that the resulting silence is awkward and he feels like he’s stuck his foot in his mouth by saying something totally innocuous. Has he had a falling out with someone or something? Is it something to do with not having many visitors in the hospital? He wouldn't blame him at all if that's still a sore spot.

“I’m going to have a coffee, I think,” he says, getting up carefully from the sofa and heading towards the kitchen despite the pain in his torso begging him to sit down. “Do you need anything?”

Spencer’s head snaps up, suddenly back and engaged. “Uh, no, I’m alright,” he says, and he sounds almost… choked up? “I should probably get going, anyway.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Aaron says, a little surprised. His mind is too foggy with pain and grief to process the microexpressions and endlessly odd behaviours Spencer is exhibiting. He knows how much Spencer appreciates his company usually, so his leaving so soon is just wrong.

He doesn’t want him to go, he loves spending time with the younger man, and even if he is acting a little strangely, he’d much rather Spencer be with him than away from him, especially when the world seems so much more personally dangerous than it was before. At least if Spencer is close to him then he knows he’s safe, and that’s all he deserves, really. To be safe.

“Say hello to the team from me,” he says, fumbling with the door handle and awkwardly making his way out. He briefly turns back, “bye, Hotch,” before he’s closing the door behind him. Aaron can hear the plastic click of the crutches on the linoleum of the corridor as he hurries away from the apartment.

Before he can think much of it, though, he’s drawn to the couch, exhaustion overtaking his body. He’s asleep in seconds.

Eventually, he goes back to work and for a small amount of time, things seem like they’re going to be okay. Emily picks him up and takes him in, Penelope gives him homemade cookies — not that he didn’t already have an ample supply of the fruits of her kitchen waiting to be eaten in his fridge — and sure, he’s a little stressed and abrasive throughout the first case, but no-one holds it against him. It’s a little tricky when he doesn’t manage to stop Darin Call from shooting his father, but he’s calmed down by the time Emily walks him back to his apartment.

“He’s not alone,” she says as they stand in his small living room, talking about Call but looking rather pointedly in his direction. They both know what she means.

Penelope and Sam, the marshall looking after his family, help him see Jack again on his 4th birthday — granted, over one of her many computer screens — and he has to swallow down a sob at the sight of him swinging in the park, looking happy as ever. He tries to be furious at Haley for uprooting Jack again, causing them to move to a halfway house because of a few phone calls to her mother, but there’s nothing left in him. Anger at the inevitable takes energy he simply doesn’t have. It’s why he simply accepted it when the money for the counter-surveillance against Foyet ran out. Fighting seems pointless.

He does manage to get angry, though, when he finds out Spencer lied to him by telling him he was cleared to travel when he wasn’t. He’d put himself at risk for deep vein thrombosis or other complications, so he calls him out as soon as the initial debrief ends. He looks sort of relieved to be staying behind with Penelope, which is a little strange since he’s always so eager to be in the thick of the action, but he brushes it off and they get on with yet another case.

Of course, it’s significantly harder to deal with when the Bureau questions him as Unit Chief of his beloved team. He takes a step back for the sake of the team, and he’s glad he does, but things don’t feel quite so good, quite so positive. He’s suddenly following Morgan’s directions instead of giving them, no longer a leader, and it’s… humiliating.

Still, he trusts Morgan. He trusts the team in general, and they still solve cases, and they still gel together like a well-oiled machine. Things are okay. There’s still hope.

But then.

Then Karl Arnold sends him a message.

Then he agonises, fights, wrestles, swims against the current to try and save his family in time.

Then Haley dies.

🌧

Aaron thanks every god he doesn’t believe in that Jack is too little to really understand what’s happened. He knows Mommy isn’t around anymore, he knows something bad happened, that Daddy is sad, but beyond that, he has no real comprehension of the situation.

In the first days after Haley’s death, he spends a lot of time cuddled up in bed, holding Jack as close to him as he can, hugging close all he has left of his ex-wife, desperately gripping onto the one person he loves more than anything else in this world.

Once he’s cleared by the Bureau, he can at least breathe a little easier in knowing his job is safe; he can provide for his baby boy. What follows, however, is less pleasant than job security.

Watching his team cry at her funeral and seeing Haley’s family in pieces almost does him in. He’s not usually the kind of man to show emotion, but he can’t help swallowing a choked sob as he tells everyone gathered just how incredible Haley was, how lucky he and Jack and everyone who knew her were, and just how much he loved her.

“If Haley were with us today, she would ask us not to mourn her death but to celebrate her life. She would tell us… she would tell us to love our families unconditionally, and to hold them close because, in the end, they’re all that matter.”

As he reads his speech, he can’t help but think of his team. For years, they've been his second family — arguably, as much as it pains him to admit it, the family he prioritised the most — and now, they're all he and Jack have. All of them have reminded him of that over the past few days, between helping with funeral arrangements and making food for them both, constant check-ups and distractions and messages of love and support. Having his back in the moment that mattered most.

“Okay, you can go ahead,” he murmurs to Jack as he lifts him up onto his hip, the last two standing at her coffin. He watches as his son places his white rose on his mother’s coffin before following suit, stomach constricting with grief as he does so. “Blow Mommy a kiss.”

And he walks, his son clutched desperately in his arms, towards the wake.

(The team leaves the funeral, called to a case that — despite everything that’s happened — he can’t help but long to be a part of even if he knows he’d be no use right now, lost in the haze of grief and the massive life change that is suddenly being a single parent, the sole carer for his son.

He uses the time off to pack Jack’s things and move them into his own flat, trying as hard as he can to keep life as normal as possible for a little boy who just lost his mom. Actually having time to be with Jack feels like the only possible good thing to come out of this situation, and he tries to be present in the moment as much as humanly possible, grateful for every second he spends chattering away with him about the dramas and dilemmas of being four-years-old, or playing dinosaurs with him, or stroking his hair while he falls asleep.

Strauss visits, says hello to Jack, and then offers him early retirement. With a heavy heart, he promises he’ll think about it.

Jessica offers to stay with Jack while he’s away. He calls Strauss, and he declines.)

Almost as soon as the team gets back from their case in Tennessee, Spencer shows up again. This time he’s only leaning heavily on a cane instead of awkwardly wrestling against two crutches, and his brace is gone.

“Hi,” he breathes, smiling hesitantly at Hotch. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry to show up unannounced again. This time I don’t have a dusty phone to use as an excuse, I just wanted to come as soon as possible and see how you and Jack were doing.”

“It’s fine, Spencer, don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, opening the door wide enough to allow him into the sitting room. Truthfully, he’s glad he’s turned up. Spencer’s a soothing presence; innocent, almost, in his openness and honesty, how trusting he is of everyone around him despite how hurt he’s been in the past. And while the others always scoff and groan at his academic and overly factual rambles, he’s rather fond of them.

“I don’t know if you heard,” he says as he takes a seat on Aaron’s sofa again, “but we solved the case.” His leg is clearly bothering him still: he’s subconsciously rubbing it through the fabric of his trousers and his facial expressions are showing subtle indicators of pain.

“I never doubted it,” Aaron says, face soft and open, happy to have Spencer here. He joins him on the couch. “How is it, working cases with the injury?” He wonders whether asking about work will have the same response as before, but he seems slightly calmer this time around. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss when he’d gone back, though he had, of course, been a little preoccupied; there's plenty he could have missed.

Spencer considers for a moment, looking marginally more subdued than the last time he’d sat on his sofa. “It’s… not easy, but I’m sort of used to it now. I don’t mind sitting out the fieldwork too much; besides, I get to talk to Penelope more.” He looks like he’s not saying something, averting his eyes as he talks but Aaron doesn’t push. He doesn’t want Spencer to bolt, but he makes a mental note to keep an eye on him when he eventually gets back to work again. “I heard through the grapevine that Strauss offered you retirement.”

He looks up at Aaron with wide, hesitant eyes and for a moment, his heart clenches tightly, a rush of some emotion he can’t quite place flooding his chest and squeezing the breath out of him. It’s only for a second: the moment’s over before he can actually process it, but it leaves him floundering for a response.

“I— ah, yes. She did,” he affirms, nodding his head, “but I declined.”

“You did?” Spencer asks, suddenly looking far brighter and another flash of that feeling flares in his chest.

As such, he can’t help the fond, private smile that spreads across his face. “I did.”

Spencer looks like he’s about to say something else but he’s interrupted by Jack dashing into the room, flying his toy plane around the room. As soon as he spots Spencer on the sofa, he dashes over, eager to show off his toy.

“Wow, that’s amazing, buddy,” Spencer says, looking as interested in a wooden replica of an aeroplane as an extremely well-educated adult possibly could. That’s probably because, Aaron thinks with a smile, he actually is.

Before Aaron knows it, he’s watching him be dragged towards his son’s new bedroom to inspect all his other toys. Jack has always loved Spencer and Spencer has always loved Jack, sharing a bond over an interest in all things scientific and mechanical, albeit at vastly different levels.

He hadn’t noticed how dull Spencer’s been looking until he brightens so considerably as soon as Jack is engaging with him, and his brows furrow. Trusting Jack to keep Spencer well entertained for the next few minutes, he fills a glass with water and leans against the counter of the kitchen, sipping it quietly as he thinks it over.

Now that he considers it properly, Spencer has seemed rather downcast and far quieter than usual recently. Not that he’d had the energy to address it, or even really clock it, the last time Spencer had turned up at his apartment, but his weird, abrupt departure was clearly triggered by discussion of the team. He starts to get some food out for lunch as he resolves to keep a much closer eye on things when he gets back to work.

He only thinks it over for a few more minutes before Spencer emerges into the kitchen, one hand clutching his cane and another gently holding Jack’s. He’s still bombarding him with questions about planes and trains and cars, but Spencer fields them expertly, managing to actually get an answer in before another question takes its place, a skill Aaron has yet to master. His chest clenches for the third time in the small period Spencer’s been in his flat as he watches the two together.

“Would you like to stay for lunch?” he offers, taking in Spencer’s small frame and dark eye bags; he can’t help the protective desire to feed him and make sure he’s happy and healthy.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Spencer says, looking pleased with the offer, mouth twisting into a little smile. Aaron probably shouldn’t feel quite so delighted at his acceptance, but he brushes it aside and turns to face his son, who is watching them curiously.

“Hey Jack,” he says, crouching down to face him, “how about we get you some lunch, yeah? You can continue asking Spencer some questions while we eat. How does that sound?”

Watching Jack’s face light up as he nods happily and looking up to see Spencer’s small smile still firmly pasted on his face makes him feel, for the first time since Haley died, like there’s a future for him. A good one.

Chapter Three

If this chapter brought anything up for you, hotlines are in the endnotes of the AO3 version of this fic. Bigger countries are listed and a link is included if you live somewhere else in the world. I love you all, see you next Saturday! <3

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @marvel-ous-m @oliverbrnch @sbeno22 @aaron-hotchner187 (taglist form)

#my writing #rct #rct 2 #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #jack hotchner #hotchreid #aaron hotchner/spencer reid #aaron hotchner x spencer reid #spencer reid/aaron hotchner #spencer reid x aaron hotchner #heid #hotchreid fic #hotchreid fanfiction

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the-lady-writes-what · 4 years ago

Text

22. Keigo Takami

Theme: Warlock, soulmate

Kinks: Mutual intoxication, dry humping, cowgirl

Masterlist

You clutch your spellbook tight like how mothers hold onto their babies. It’s worn and weathered, and its black leather tells more of a story than how to cure warts with a bit of bacon grease. It’s probably as old as your line, and it traveled all the way down that family tree to you, a mere leaf. The pack on your shoulders was ladened down with food stock, a knife, quill feathers, bottles of ink, charms, clothes, and an extra pair of socks. You found yourself at the center of a family dispute. Marriage had been on the table. Two men that you wouldn’t be caught dead with at the harvest festival, let alone meet him at the altar. It wasn’t that they were ugly; you weren’t that shallow. It was their personalities that made you gag. One was a raging hot-head with the ego to match his fire-powered magic. The other was just as bad except add an inferiority complex and creepy blue eyes. Naturally, picking neither displeased your family so much that they were forced to fight and debate, which would be the better match.

Your opinion was a moot point.

An idea struck you in the middle of the night. You woke from a dream where you walked through a forest, and it was raining red feathers. This was the omen you waited for. Well, any excuse would have nice, but you couldn’t imagine the serendipitous coincidence of such a dream a few days before your parents would decide your fate…for you. By dawn, you already began to set your plan in motion. At midnight the following night, you secreted some things away in a large pack, snuck out, and hurried into the woods where they didn’t dare to follow you.

Within a couple of days, you couldn’t smell the smoke of chimneys or hear the cows and goats. Instead, you smelled damp earth and ripening wild apple trees and listened to the calls of various birds. Magpies, cuckoos, sparrows, and crows, you heard them all but no red feathers. You never saw a cardinal, which you hoped to mean that you were on the right path just as you interpreted your dream. Once or twice you took shelter beneath a conifer or the ruins of an ancient building to escape the rain, which it often did. You foraged where you could and slept on a pillow of moss. You were tired, but this was the sweetest price of freedom.

The forest wasn’t particularly cursed or haunted. There weren’t any wolves, and nobody had seen a bear roam through here in decades. You knew enough about the wildlife to leave enough alone. All you had to do was march through the woods and reach the next village on the other side before winter set in. Your family was too good for trekking through the woods and far too proud to ask someone on the other side of the woods for help. Soon, you’d be out of their hair.

You were trampling through the woods one afternoon. The earth and fallen leaves were sodden with a recent shower. You barely had enough time the night before to create a shelter for you with a spell you found in your family’s tome. It was rightfully yours by birth, and your mother had no interest or skill in magic at any rate. Your grandmother certainly approved when she helped you sneak it out of the house. Wherever you went in the world, you would find work. Witches and warlocks had been in high demand for some of their conjurations, and with your skills and knowledge as a healer, you could find a job easily enough. If not in the next village, then in the next one. Or maybe you would go far into one of those cities you heard so much about from passing travelers.

Your leather shoes were soaked through having trekked through the mud and rain puddles. It dampened your socks all the way to the marrow of your bones underneath. You could feel your toes begin to tingle. You looked around, hoping to find more ruins or a cave, for a place to build a fire. You looked at the trees, and your heart sank a little. All the branches around you looked too wet to be used as firewood. There were a handful of matches left in your pack, but you needed to save those for emergencies, not just because your toes were getting cold. You had to find shelter soon. The clouds had been gray all morning, and the rain was coming again. You sighed for the umpteenth time while looking at the sky.

A laughing brook ran out ahead of you. The width was big enough for you to jump across no problem. You thought that if there was a brook, it could turn into a stream. A stream meant a waterway, and where there was a waterway, there was bound to be people. People lived in houses. You followed the brook through its natural course. Just as you thought, the brook grew bigger and bigger in size. It turned into a stream, then a creek and finally a small river. It cut through a clearing in the forest. Your eyes traveled with it to a lovely two-story cottage. Attached to that cottage was a watermill that turned the water into frothing foam. A garden grew wild though somehow not choked by weeds. You stopped in your tracks.

No. That couldn’t be. Your eyes must be deceiving you.

In the garden grew all sorts of flowers and herbs, most of which were out of season. You saw lush leaves, blooms, and green foliage even from where you stood when you knew that they should have turned brown with the season. That was the first of your many mysterious and curious sights. You drew closer to the place and discovered that the cottage was no cottage. Wood turned into cobbled stones, and the humble appearance took on a new shape. It wasn’t the size of a castle, but it imitated its shape. There was a keep, a tower, and a courtyard that grew a variety of trees. The bricks were made of stones you never laid eyes on before. They seemed to glitter despite the dull sunlight. That was one thing that this mysterious place couldn’t change the weather.

You realized that the smoke billowing out of the chimney wasn’t gray but shimmering purple. Plumes of it belched into the sky before disappearing. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You had to skulk about the courtyard to find the main entrance. It was a heavy ebony wood door with a green-blue Green Man’s face for an ornate knocker. You clutched the ring in your hand and banged on the door twice and stood on the stoop for probably ten minutes before the door swung open.

You didn’t know what or who you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Instead of a wizened old man with a flowing white beard or a velvet-clad seductress, it was a young man, not much older than you. He had golden eyes marked at two corners with black arrows. Blonde hair was swept back from his face and yet remained uncontrolled. The man rubbed the sleep from his eyes. You felt bad for waking him up from his nap (because how could he still be asleep at noon?).

“Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if you mind terribly granting me shelter. I’ve been traveling for days, and my boots are soaked all the way through. It’s going to rain soon, and I was hoping to mind somewhere safe to rest and stay clear out of it,” you said.

The man in the doorway stared and stared and stared. After a while, he had to blink or go blind.

“What did you say your name was?” His voice made you tremble.

Not out of fear, though. There was something in his voice that sent a playful tingle down your spine. You furrowed your brows.

“I-I didn’t give you my name,” you said, curious.

“Why don’t you come on in and warm yourself by the fire? We can exchange introductions over some tea?” The man in the doorway pulled the door open wide enough for you to enter.

If you thought his house was big on the outside, it was much bigger on the inside. Or it would have been if the space wasn’t taken up by trinkets, tools, and books. Towers of books reached the vaulted ceilings. You picked up the front of your skirts to give your legs room to keep up with him. He was a little shorter than you, but he walked a lot faster. His parlor was, so far, the cleanest space in his home you’d seen. At least, by comparison, the parlor was spacious, and you could comfortably sit down in the large armchair by the fire. You set your bag down and plopped right into the chair. Your feet would be singing your praises if they had mouths and sentience. You warmed your feet by the fire while your host left to make tea.

He returned after a long while with a serving tray. Jasmine filled the parlor as he poured two cups. Taking the seat across from you, he sipped from his cup.

“I’m Keigo Takami,” he said.

Politely, you returned, “Y/N L/N.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N, if I have permission to call you that?”

“You do.” You grinned into your teacup.

“What brings you all the way out here in the middle of the woods? Get lost on the way to the next town?” Keigo asked.

“Not exactly.” You swallowed some tea and continued. “Escaping an unwanted arranged marriage.”

Keigo didn’t seem surprised. His golden eyes softened, and he nodded. It was as if he understood your situation.

“My old man wanted me to be a foot soldier. I told him ‘no.’ He didn’t take it too kindly. Locked me up in a tower until I ‘came to see the error in my ways.’ And look where I am now!” Keigo gestured around the room.

While cluttered beyond imagination, the parlor held expensive treasures and gadgets. Clocks, sundials, colorful glass vases, feathers…Feathers?

Your eyes snapped to a red streak dashing in front of the stained glass window in the hall. It was followed by another, third, and a fourth. A red feather floated on the air as if pulled by an invisible string into the parlor. A few more followed. The feathers went to work dusting, wiping, and putting books on the shelves. Some of them pulled off your boots, strung your socks up on the mantle to dry, and pulled on a fresh pair that were soft as sheepskin. Your eyes followed the red feathers wherever they traveled. Keigo wore a small smile while watching you marvel at the feathers. However, you were following them with your eyes for a reason different than the one he was thinking about.

“I just thought I’d tidy up a little. It’s been a while since I’ve had company. They’re a pet project of mine. It took me a while to get the enchantment just right,” said Keigo.

One of the feathers fell into your lap. You picked it up like it was a delicate spider-web.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Keigo showed you the rest of his house: the kitchen, dining room, second parlor, library, observatory, and the guest bedrooms. You sat down to dinner with him to discuss some sort of arrangement. You felt terrible taking up his space and mucking up his lovely floors.

“What if I worked for you? That way, I can get some training, you’ll have an extra hand around, and we won’t have to be lonely come winter. I know I’m just a village girl who ran away from home, but I know things. And I’m a fast learner,” you explained over a pot of stew.

“I work with a lot of hoity-toity rich folk for commissions. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

You shook your head. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Makes me feel old,” said Keigo. “It does get frustrating having nobody to talk to all the way out here. You seem real eager to learn, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t take up an apprentice.”

You clinked your glasses of wine together to solidify your spoken contract. You stared at the red feathers again as they swooped in to take care of the dinner table. Keigo caught you standing frozen as your eyes flickered this way and that to follow them.

“I apologize if this sounds rude but, did you have a lot of magic where you came from?” Asked Keigo.

“Well, yes, but—” You bit your lower lip. “You’re going to think it’s silly.”

Keigo smiled and turned his head towards the doorway. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

You tore your eyes away from the marvelous red feathers and followed him out into the hallway. Without turning back to speak to you, Keigo said, “And bring your spellbook with you.”

You ran back to the parlor and found your spellbook on an end table where you found it. Keigo came, found you, and led you to the observatory. The glass dome showed the brightest stars. The moon was in her full glory.

“I’ve noticed how you’ve been staring at my feathers. Is there any particular reason why? Trying to discover how to do it yourself?”

“No, nothing like that!” You said as you shook your head again. “Before…before I left home, I had this weird dream. You see, I remember in that dream I was walking through a forest and all of a sudden it started raining red feathers. I didn’t know what it meant, not that I do now. I think that I was led here by something.”

“Let me see your book,” said Keigo.

You were more than hesitant to hand it over. You didn’t like your family, never had, but this was still your family’s spellbook. It was an heirloom. Your hands shook a bit when you held it out for Keigo to take. Someone of his magical caliber would know the weight of a family’s spellbook and would respect its secrets, wouldn’t he? Your heart started beating louder as if Keigo was rifling through your personal belongings.

Keigo pried open the cover and pulled out a gray and brown feather, and closed the book. He set it gently on a table and kept the feather. Your brows furrowed; you never saw that before.

“You see, Y/N, I had a strange dream too. A few weeks ago, I dreamt that I was also walking through the woods. I saw a young woman in a green cloak just like yours hand me a book. Inside was a feather just like this.”

You were acutely aware that you still held onto one of Keigo’s red feathers. A shiver ran down your spine as Keigo slowly closed the gap separating you. His golden eyes looked straight into yours. An alchemical experiment was taking place in his eyes. You could see all sorts of emotions congealing and mixing in there. You were too dizzy to distinguish one from another. Keigo took your hand that held his red feather in the one where he carried the gray feather. He clasped your fingers between his. You felt his blood race in the center of his palm.

“Do you believe in soulmates, Y/N? Because I don’t know how else to explain this.”

“I…don’t know,” you answered honestly.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Keigo pressed his mouth against yours, hands still clasped together. His free hand found your waist, and his thumb began to draw infinite circles on top of your bodice. You kissed before (not that your parents would ever know), so this shouldn’t have been anything new. But the way Keigo moved his lips against yours and how his tongue slowly teased you, it felt like being kissed for the very first time. Your hand moved to caress the back of his neck, which brought your bodies a lot closer.

Suddenly, you were falling. You landed on a pile of pillows that weren’t there before. Keigo landed on top of you, shedding his outer coat. He went back to kissing you without missing a beat. Your fingers deftly unlaced the front of your bodice and let Keigo peel it away. You weren’t a virgin anymore, but that didn’t stop the goosebumps from arising in your skin when he touched you, kissed your skin, or teased you with his adept tongue. Calloused hands moved under your skirt to remove your bloomers and a couple layers of petticoats. Keigo nestled between your thighs, gently humping you. Your face darkened while he continued and played with your clit. Your back arched like a bow as you came for the first time that evening.

Keigo leaned above you, smiling like a triumphant demon of seduction. The illusion sold a lot better if he wasn’t panting slightly or dripping with sweat. A wooden box carried by a team of feathers wandered into the room. They set the box in Keigo’s hands. He opened the lid and turned to you.

“Want to try an experiment with me?” He asked.

“What kind of an experiment?”

You were just coming down from your high when Keigo took out the contents of the box and set it aside. In his hand, he held two large, dark orange flowers.

“This is Epifagus Aboreum. You pull the flower from the stem and suck on end. I’ve heard that it produces a very ‘relaxed’ state of being. Do you want to try it with me?”

You nodded.

You and Keigo carefully removed the flower from their stems. You watched Keigo suckle the end of the flower, which looked like a horn to blow into. You did the same. There seemed to be no effect at first. Not for long, however. In ten minutes, you and Keigo were back at peeling each other’s clothes off. Skin never felt so alive under your hands. You could feel his heart racing. Mouths pressed together again. Licking and nipping at each other while you rolled around on the pillows. Keigo’s hands palmed your breasts while you rubbed his shoulder with one hand and stroked his cock with the other. Your head felt heavy and light at the same time. The stars shining through the glass dome appeared brighter and more clear. Candles flickered with a multitude of colors, shifting, changing, morphing.

“Oh, Keigo,” you moaned as the man suckled on your neck, making sure to leave a love bite.

“Do you feel good?”

“Mhmm, yes.” You hummed.

“Wanna continue?”

“Yes!”

Keigo shifted you onto your side and lifted one leg over his shoulder. The blunt head of his cock brushed against the wet seam of your cunt. He slipped twice, unable to get it in the right way. The third time proved the charm as he slid inside your walls without much more effort. Your cunt fluttered around him. From this angle, you could see everything he did to you.

His first thrusts were sloppy as if he couldn’t figure out what angle to pound you with. Keigo quickly got the hang of it and rutted against you, fast and hard. You weren’t aware of how loud you were. His body moving on top of and inside you created new sensations you couldn’t understand while under the influence of the flower-drug. Stars burst in front of your eyes with each stroke of his cock. There was no beginning or end. It was just the two of you. You clawed at the pillows as you tried to find purchase. Your mind was going blank.

“You feel so good, baby bird. Fuck, where have you been all my life?”

“O-Over the brook and through the woods. At grandma’s house.”

This made him chuckle, though it didn’t stop his rough treatment of you. Keigo’s grip was bruising, but you don’t feel any pain. There was no cause of complaint when he was burying himself deep inside of you. You couldn’t tell if it was just him or if the flower-drug made him thicker. His veiny ridges created the right amount of friction against your inner walls.

You were both panting like dogs in heat. You moved your hips against him, and his calloused fingers tweaked your clit.

“K-Keigo…”

“Me too, baby. I’m gonna cum...so hard.”

Keigo was an honest man. After what seemed like hours of him railing you, Keigo groaned loudly. He shoved his cock all the way in until the blunt head brushed along your cervix. You didn’t have time to climax first before he was releasing all he heads straight into your womb. Warmth spread throughout your body. The drug, Keigo’s cock, and the cum painting your insides white were all enough to have your eyes roll into the back of your skull. You came shortly after.

The room was spinning so much after coming so hard that you couldn’t move a muscle. Apparently, Keigo wasn’t better. He was still inside your body when he rolled over and laid you on top of his chest. His cock remained buried deep, all the way in, when conscious hit you both.

When you awoke, you still lay on top of Keigo. You looked down to find you had been inside. Even though he was still asleep and limp within the confines of your pussy, that ddin’t stop the naughty grin across your face. You were awake and fully alert. No drugs in your system could prevent you from feeling Keigo unhindered. You moved your hips up and down, impaling yourself on his cock. You braced your hands on his hips to help steady yourself.

Keigo stirred when he felt himself grow hard and feel the moist walls of your cunt, sucking him in. He rubbed his eyes, then laid back to enjoy the view. Your breasts bounced seductively in front of him as you rode him just as hard as he rode you the night before. Keigo couldn’t resist palming each breast in his hands and play with your nipples. Your hair swayed with each of your movements like a warrior-queen riding her powerful stead.

�� He heard footsteps climbing up the stairs, but he was too lazy and felt too good to make you stop. Whoever it was, they were about to get an eyeful of your ass, and easily you took his cock. Keigo wore nothing but a smirk. Your eyes were heavy-lidded while you concentrated on riding him. You couldn’t hear a thing other than the wet clap of flesh against flesh.

A tall, feminine figure approached. Her white bunny ears grazed the top doorway before she stopped dead. Your back was turned to her, so you did not see her. Keigo looked past your form and gave her a curious look. You were too busy to notice him. His friend quickly disappeared rather than wait in the doorway for him to finish with you. Keigo snapped his hips upwards to meet your every downward thrust. He teased your clit to ensure a speedy climax. Keigo filled you up again and let you scream to the high heavens. You held his hands as you came around him one more time. Keigo pulled out gently and pulled a couple blankets literally out of thin air to cover you with. While he dressed, once more, you drifted to sleep. Keigo gave one last look at you from the doorway and smiled to himself. He quickly turned into the hallway to find his friend. The sooner he figured out what she wanted, the sooner Keigo could return and spend all of his time with you and learning everything there was to know about you.

#my hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #mha smut #kinktober #kinktober week #kinktober my hero academia edition #reader fic #keigo takami #keigo #hawks #keigo x reader #hawks x reader #fantasy AU

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salty-sith-bitch · 4 years ago

Text

Sweet Child O’ Mine

Chapter 1

Words: 5k

Pairings: Din Djarin X Orla Fett (Boba Fett’s daughter), Boba Fett & Daughter

Genre: Fluff, humor, angst, romance

Warnings: cursing, canon typical violence, eventual smut, more to come?

Summary: Orla Fett is reunited with her long-lost father five years after his presumed death and welcomed into his palace. Hired as one of his best bounty hunters, Orla struggles with finding her place in the galaxy and if she wants to stay a bounty hunter. Her new companion, The king of Mandalore - Din Djarin - may end up helping her make up her mind.

“I’m just a simple woman trying to find her way in the galaxy, like my father before me ”

That’s what Orla told herself every morning when she woke. She was just a simple woman trying to survive and make her way in the galaxy, catching one bounty at a time as her father did. It was her only job - staying alive and filling her father’s spot.

When her father passed five years prior Bib Fortuna hired her as his main mercenary and provided her with more than enough jobs to support herself. Orla didn’t particularly love it but it’s what she had. Her father had made sure that if anything were to ever happen to him that she had a large and appreciated skill set, making it easier for her to find work. She was thankful for that. Thankful her father prepared her for the worst like his father before him.

There were still days she missed her father. Days where it became hard to get out of bed and put her armor on. She missed the Slave I too. Not because it was a great ship or that it was supposed to be passed to her at the fall of her father, but because of the memories she made with her father there.

Laying in her cramped quarters Orla stared at the ceiling, brushing her fingers through her hair gently as she recalled one of her earliest memories - her first hunt with her father.

The smell of rain and metal dripping from her father's armor made her slightly queasy, reminding her of blood. She could almost taste the iron in her mouth if she thought about it too much. She wasn’t used to it but her father said it would become less noticeable over time. Nodding silently she watched her father drag the bounty away and towards the carbonator. She could hear the hissing and screams of the bounty and it sent a cold shiver through her body. She tried to instead focus on detangling the soaked braid on her head.

Growling in frustration Orla dropped her hands and stomped her foot. Her body ached with exhaustion and she was uncomfortable. Letting a sniffle escape she leaned her head against the wall of the ship and cried.

"Ad'ika," her father called softly.

When she didn't respond he approached her and set a hand on her shoulder. "Orla, my princess. What is wrong?"

Orla rubbed her eyes and took in a hiccuping breath before speaking. "My hair is tangled, papa."

Smiling sweetly, her father patted her cheek. "Come, daughter. I'll fix it for you."

Orla found herself being scooped up and cradled into her father's chest. He carried her to the makeshift cot he made for her and set her down, letting his fingers gently pull apart the tangles.

"You did good today my child."

Humming Orla let her eyes drift shut as she leaned back into her father.

Sighing heavily Orla raised a shaky hand to her cheek and wiped away the tears. A full-grown woman and highly respected bounty hunter, crying in the sleeping quarters of her little hut long before the suns had even risen. She laughed at herself. If her father was here now he would sternly tell her to get herself together and then gently pat her cheek lovingly.

Steadying herself Orla wiped the last few tears and sat up in bed. Throwing the covers off she made her way across her hut and started to assemble her armor.

***

Orla sat in the Cantina of some outer rim planet stressed and annoyed. She had been on this mission for nearly a week and still couldn’t find her bounty. She had even asked the locals and none of them could give her information on the bounty. Clutching the glass in her hand Orla watched as foam swirled as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. She was ready to give up, head back to Tatooine and tell Fortuna he could just shove it up his ass. The thought brought a smirk to her face but she knew she couldn’t do that.

Sighing heavily Orla poured herself another glass of mead and brought it to her lips. Throwing her head back Orla downed the entire glass and slammed it on the table. Wiping her mouth she raised an eyebrow as she made eye contact with the new visitor.

The woman, small and sleek with a braid down her back, eyed Orla back. Her eyes were piercing and it made Orla unsettled. It wasn't often that she felt uneasy about someone but for some reason, this woman in front of her made her uncomfortable.

“I’m not really in the mood for company at the moment. So unless you have info about my bounty I would appreciate it if you left.” Leaning back in her chair Orla reached for the pitcher of mead.

Her new, unwelcomed visitor was quicker though, swiftly grabbing the pitcher and her glass to fill for herself. Lips pressed into a thin line Orla continued to lean back, letting her hand slowly brush over her thigh and towards her blaster.

“I’m not here to keep you company or to give you info about your bounty. And there's no use in trying to shoot me. I know all your tricks. You’re just like your father.” Smirking, the woman lifted the glass of mead and downed the entire glass much like Orla had just a moment prior. “I’m here to take you back to Tatooine. Your presence has been requested at the Hutt Castle."

Orla scoffed. She was starting to grow unsettled but refused to let it show. No one openly talked to her about her father, especially so forward. Yet here was this woman she knew nothing about and seemed to know almost everything about her.

"I'm on a hunt. I'm not just abandoning. They know where I am. If it was so important they could comm me."

"It's under new management now. This hunt isn't important. What is, is that you come back with me to Tatooine and do just as I say."

"Dank Farrik," Orla cursed under her breath.

Her mind was racing with hundreds of questions and thoughts. New management was never good. It meant Fortuna was most certainly dead leaving her without work. The new owner could very well be demanding she come back to the castle to give her a new position… or to simply kill her off. It would all depend on just who killed Fortuna and where the Fett Clan stood with them.

Orla couldn't think of anyone who would be seeking her demise but her father told her to always assume someone would be after her. She thought about escaping. Trying to find a way out of the cramped cantina and find a new home elsewhere, or maker, even change her name and lay low in a village or dinner caves. But then her thoughts turned into what if she just listened to the woman in front of her and went back to Tatooine. This woman wasn't trying to fight her or take her as her own personal bounty as far as she could tell, and if she listened maybe they would see that as her committing her skills to them and hire her on a permanent mercenary.

"Listen," the woman spoke up. "I can see you thinking. This isn't a trap and you're not gonna die. You're more than welcome to just leave now, forget about the bounty you are on, and start a new life but I think you'll want to see what happens at the castle."

Chewing her cheek again, Orla stared into the woman's eyes, looking for any hint of a lie. When she couldn't find anything Orla leaned forward and grabbed the pitcher and glass, pouring herself the last serving and gulping it.

"Fine. I'll go. But what about my ship? And how can I trust you? I don't know who you're working for and I doubt you'll tell me, so can I at least get your name?"

"Your ship doesn't matter anymore. You'll be given a new one. We can stop and collect anything you may need from it for now but if you wish to come back and get it in the future then do as you will."

The woman stood and Orla followed, trailing after her out of the cantina and to the ship docks.

"And my name," the woman said as she looked over her shoulder, "is Fennec Shand."

***

The ride to Tatooine was spent in silence. Orla didn't mind, she was never one for conversations with people outside her close ring and Fennec didn't seem like much of a talker either. Orla spent most of the flight napping in the passenger seat, hand lingering over her blaster just in case Fennec tried to do anything funny. The trip was long and Orla's body cried for rest. Relaxing into her seat she let sleep eventually consume her. When the ship started its descent she woke and stretched her stiff limbs as the dunes came into view.

Even walking to the castle was spent in silence. Orla started to worry less and less about Fennec trying to harm or kill her but she still couldn't shake the feeling that something big was about to happen. The universe felt off, heavier, and almost foggy like a dream. Shaking the feeling off Orla continued to walk until she reached the castle, stopping just outside the entrance to the lower level.

Fennec didn't bother stopping calling out to her as she continued to go down. "You don't want to keep him waiting."

Shutting her eyes and taking one last steadying breath Orla walked down the stairs and down into the throne room.

The silence that welcomed her was terrifying. She had never seen the palace empty and was prepared for someone to jump out and attach her. Turning around in circles she searched for Fennec but couldn't find the woman anywhere. The only thing that greeted her was the echoing sound of her footsteps bouncing off the palace walls. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She felt the tension in the air, like electricity wrapping it around her and coursing through her veins.

Down the hallway, a new set of footsteps echoed off the palace walls. Orla turned slowly to see who it was, her hand inching towards her blaster prepared to draw and start shooting if anyone tried attacking. Before she could reach her blaster though she froze. Every muscle in her body locked up and she felt her lungs screaming at her to breathe.

Brain screaming, Orla tried to calm herself but she found it nearly impossible as she stared at the bounty hunter before her. Finally able to breathe again Orla dropped her hand away from her blaster, only for her brain to start screaming more, telling her this could still be a trap. She felt like she was going in circles. She couldn't process what she was seeing.

Finally getting herself to relax enough Orla took in a couple of steadying breaths before collecting her thoughts and speaking.

"Dad," she questioned, brows knitting together. Her knees started to shake as she continued to eye the man.

Giving a small tilt of his head the bounty hunter started to take cautious steps forward. Shaking her head in disbelief, Orla walked backward until her back was pressed against the wall.

Confused and on the verge of tears Orla reached for her blaster and drew it quickly. She knew this was an imposter, her father was dead. Killed many years ago by the Sarlac, leaving her to take care of herself and forge her own path in the world of bounty hunting. The only other explanation she could find was that she was also dead. That she had gone with Fennec and was killed in her sleep and as some cruel joke, the maker chose her and her father's resting place as Jabba's palace - the last place she had seen her father.

Continuing to watch the man slowly approach, she studied the freshly painted armor. It didn't fit the man like it did her father, being a little tight in the gut, but the dent on the helmet told her it was indeed at least her father’s beskar. That dent had been there as long as you could remember. Orla had heard rumors not long after her father's death of his ghost walking around in the far parts of the planet but refused to believe it. Then she heard about how it was just a marshal who had found the beskar, using it for his own advantage. She pondered if this was that man, but couldn't think of any reason why he would be here and why he would have killed Fortuna.

Shaking her head Orla switched the safety off on her gun and lifted it, aiming at the man in front of her. No matter who this was it was not her father and she wasn't willing to let anyone take her life or get her father's armor.

"Take one more step and I'll shoot," she snarled through clenched teeth; her hand shaking just slightly from the adrenaline.

Stopping, the man raised his hands in surrender, letting them drift slowly to the helmet as if going to take it off.

Trembling, Orla clenched her jaw, unable to speak any further as she watched the man lift the helmet from his head. Time ticked by slowly, almost painfully as she waited for the man to reveal himself. When the helmet was completely removed and tucked under the man's arm Orla felt as if the wind was knocked out of her.

"My child," Boba whispered. He studied Orla, wide-eyed as he took in her face. "You've grown so much, little one."

Dropping her blaster Orla lifted a shaking hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut; hot tears sliding down her face. The world started to spin as she continued to shake, her breathing becoming heavy and labored.

“This, this can’t be happening. Y- you were dead!” Snapping her head up she pointed a finger at her father. “You left me! You left me to fend for myself and promised you’d be back!” Taking the last couple steps towards Boba she pushed against his chest with both of her trembling hands, the sound of flesh hitting beskar echoing in the empty room.

Stumbling back Boba threw his free hand up in defense, allowing her a minute to process and sob.

Orla was so full of rage and anger she couldn’t tell if she was still shaking from the shock of seeing the man she thought was dead or because she was so furious he was alive all this time and didn’t come to find her.

Furious Orla gave out a shriek and started swinging at her father. Boba was quicker though, quickly stepping back to avoid her fist colliding with his face.

“Verd’ika…” Boba pleaded his own desperation and hurt seeping through.

Letting her fists fall to her sides Orla hung her head and sobbed. She had almost forgotten what her father's voice sounded like after all the years he was gone. The sounds of her nicknames rolling off his tongue were like a spear through the heart. It sent her body limp and every nerve on edge. But the desire for nothing more than to hug her father and beheld was stronger than her anger.

Rushing forward Orla threw her arms around her father, almost knocking him over. Dropping his helmet Boba threw his own arms around her, lifting her from the ground and burying his face into the padding on her shoulder as dust flitted around. The smell of her father overwhelmed her causing her to cry harder. Trying to inhale and catch her breath Orla clung closer to her father like she did when she would have a nightmare and he would be there to protect her.

Maybe that's all this was, she thought. A bad dream and she was just now waking up.

“My little girl,” Boba wept. “I’m so sorry. I should have come back sooner. Should have told you."

"Papa," Orla cried. "I'm just happy to see you. I can't believe you're here."

Setting Orla back down Boba took a step back and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"I was so scared, Orla. When I was tumbling down into the pit I-I thought about nothing besides you and how I had failed you." Boba's lip trembled as he tried to hold back another sob, determined to be strong for his little girl.

Boba was a fierce man. Anyone could tell you that. He was a little rough around the edges and seldom let outsiders into his life - Fennec, Din, and Orla's mother's being the exceptions. When it came to his daughter though he would go to the ends of the galaxy for her. She was his entire life from the moment she arrived. A piece of him and a piece of the woman he once - and even now still- loved. She reminded him so much of himself when she was younger and when he was falling to his death he couldn't help but think about how he was leaving her, just like his father did. Since the day of the Sarlacc pit, the idea of leaving his daughter haunted home.

Reaching up Orla gently wiped the tears from her father's scarred cheeks. "But you're here now Papa. And I'm here. We're ok. It's gonna be ok."

Giving a wet and loving chuckle Boba pulled his daughter into another hug.

They stood there for a couple of minutes holding each other until their crying died. Father and daughter reunited again and both were determined to keep it that way.

"Sorry to break up family time," Fennec said from the hallway. "But Mando is back and I don't think it will do him good if he sees you crying from your little reunion."

Sighing heavily, Boba stepped back from Orla, giving her a smile and a soft pat on the cheek.

"Buir," Orla groaned playfully. "You haven't done that since I was a child."

"And every day I was away from you I wished I could do it again." Scoping up his helmet Boba set it back on his head. "Now come child, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

***

Meeting the Mandalorian was… interesting. When introduced to him by her father he gave a curt nod and nothing more. The rest of their meeting went with little talking. Her father gave him the credits he earned for his bounty, told him where to find his next one, and asked him how he was doing.

At her father's last question the Mandalorian hesitated before answering, his helmet turning to her for a brief moment before responding with a quiet "fine."

When the Mandalorian left the room Orla stood and looked down at her father.

"Seems like some great company. Reminds me of a certain someone." She said cheekily.

Sighing heavily Boba stood and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You'll warm up to him while we are all here. The man's just been through a lot."

Frowning slightly Orlla raised her eyebrow. "While we are all here? What does that mean?"

"You work for me now little one. And you'll be staying here in the castle with all of us."

Scoffing, Orla brushed her father's hand away. "Working for you?"

"What, you think just because your father shows back up you don't have to work?"

Shaking her head Orlla leaned against the wall. "Well, I didn't ask to be a bounty hunter papa. There are other things I want to do in life. And I have my own home."

A low growl cake from Boba. "What do you possibly want to do in this life ad'ika?" His tone was sharp as he spoke. "You're a fantastic hunter from what I have heard and just because you are my child doesn't mean I'm gonna give that up."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Orla glared at her father. "I'm a great hunter because I had to be. Without you, it's all I had. It's not what I wanted at all. I want to be able to be me. Do things you never got to do properly and I know you longed forward. Like having a real family! To fall in love and not worry about losing them or my children! And you just came back! And you're gonna send me out on hunts? You of all people should know how dangerous that is!"

"Sorry to burst your bubble Orlla, but that's not how our lives work!" Boba's voice continued to rise in volume, causing Orlla to flinch away from him. "We'll never be the type of people to settle down and just enjoy the mundane things in life. I tried, and look at how that turned out for your mother! So if you want a family then you're gonna have a damn struggle of a time keeping them safe. And maker above, if that day ever comes I hope you're prepared to be fighting for the rest of your life, and whoever the bastard is that touches my daughter - so help me Orlla, it will not go well!" Sighing again Boba took a moment to try and cool himself. "As for the missions I know it's dangerous and the risks I'm running by sending you out there. That's why you're going with Mando."

"What?!" Orla yelled, throwing herself from the wall and storming towards her father. "If you wanna send me out then Ita best to tell you now, I work alone. I trust no one. Not even you right now. You taught me that! I'm an adult! I don't need some sort of babysitter! Or you telling me what I can and can't do with people!"

Lowering his head Boba stared at his daughter through the visor of his helm. "You're my daughter! My only family left Orla! I'm just trying to protect you! In and out of bounty hunting! And I've changed my opinion. At least when it comes to mando. So you're going with him on missions and that's final!"

Grinding her teeth together Orla set her piercing gaze on her father's helmeted face. She couldn't see it but she knew underneath his face was twisted with worry for her. "Fine. I get it. I won't argue. For now. Right now I'm tired physically, emotionally, and mentally. I haven't slept in a bed in I don't know how long. I haven't eaten anything today and I'm still trying to process everything. Let's talk more about this later?" Relaxing her gaze on her father softened, telling him she was done fighting.

Nodding his head in agreement, Boba looked towards Fennec in the doorway. "Show Orla to one of the rooms please so she may rest."

Turning, Fennec left down the hallway, leaving Orla to wander behind.

***

Sleeping was impossible. Tossing and turning in the unusual bed Orla replayed the events of her day in her head. The fact her father was alive and well - despite some gnarly scars and possibly some emotional damage - overwhelmed her. Everything she had known over the last five years was abruptly coming to a halt and she couldn't help the gut feeling that the actions of today were going to drastically change her life. She wasn't sure how but she knew they would.

The argument with her father wasn't how she wanted to say goodnight to her father but it was fitting. Before he left the last time she saw him they would constantly argue before he left for every mission. She didn't like it and it was stupid but it seemed to be their way of communicating with each other. It worked needlessly to say. They always heard the other out and usually came up with a middle ground where they could meet each other's requests. But this argument was different. Orla, much like her father, was not an open book. She didn't share her truest desires or feelings but seeing her father today set her emotions over the edge.

Groaning, Orla tossed over in bed looking at the chronometer on the wall.

4:34 am

"No use in sleeping," Orla grumbled.

Throwing the sheets off she climbed out of the bed and pulled on her slacks. Running her fingers through her hair yelping when she hit a knot, accidentally tugging on it. Giving up on her hair before even really trying to fix it she tucked her long unruly into the collar of her shirt, keeping it out of the way.

Shuffling her way down to the dining room the smell of freshly brewed caff welcomes her, pulling her towards her destination. Wondering if her father was already up by some miracle or perhaps he couldn't sleep either - neither of them were morning people - she rounded the corner into the dining area and was met with a surprising sight.

Standing at the counter pouring coffee was a man with luscious deep brown hair and soft tanned skin. He wore a gray old short sleeve and what appeared to be his flight suit pants. She couldn't see his face straight on but the tiniest bit of facial hair could be seen.

Gasping louder than she meant Orla realized it was the Mandalorian from earlier. Looking over to the table she saw his gleaming silver helmet staring back at her.

"Hi."

The single word filtered into her ears softly, causing her to whip her head back to the man.

Gawking she restudied the man. His eyes were gorgeous. A warm earthy brown that made it feel like summer was swimming around her. Ans his lips… she watched as he brought the mug up to his mouth, his lush lips kissing the rim as he drank.

"H-hi," she croaked.

Lowering the mug mando licked his lips before speaking. "I wasn't expecting anyone else to be up for a while."

"I couldn't sleep," she said sheepishly.

Nodding in understanding, Mando moved from the counter and sat at the table in the middle of the room.

Making her way across the dining room Orla grabbed her own mug and poured herself a cup of caff. She could feel the Mandalorian's gaze burning into her back as she rummaged around I'm she cupboards, trying to find the object she was looking for.

"If you're gonna stare can I at least get a name to address you besides Mando?" Reaching behind some cans of food she found want she was looking for. Standing she uncorked the bottle and dumped the contents into her coffee.

Turning to lean against the counter she looked at Mando who was still eyeing her.

"Isn't it a bit early to start drinking?

Rolling her eyes Orla took a drink of her caff; the hot liquid and burning of the alcohol warming her insides and helping her relax. "Not in this family. It's never too early. More like too late by the time you find the alcohol." Taking another drink she rolled her shoulders, leaning further into the counter. "So do I not get to know your name? I'd like to know something about the man I am going to be spending most of my time with."

"Din."

Curling her lip Orla gave a soft 'hmm'.

Looking away from Orla, Din stared down into his mug. "I get the impression you don't like me very much. Any particular reason? Or do I just have to go off of the information I heard between you and your father earlier?"

Flushing, Orla's gaze burned into the side of Din's face. "That's none of your business. And now that I know your eavesdropping on my conversations it just gives me reason not to trust you even more."

"Not really eavesdropping when the two of you shout at the top of your lungs," he mumbled under his breath.

Seething, and knuckles white from gripping the mug so tight Orla let out an annoyed snicker.

"I'm just saying," Din said with a shrug as he turned to look back at Orla. "Your dad is just trying to protect you. He's scared of losing you again."

"And how would you know that?" She snapped back. "You've been part of my father's life, what, maybe a week?"

"I know what it's like. To lose a child," Din admitted heavily.

"Oh." Relaxing Orla made her way to the table and sat across from Din. "I-I’m so sorry. I didn't realize you were a father."

Sighing, Din gave a weak smile. "It's ok. He was a foundling I saved from the empire. He's with his people now. If it wasn't for your father I don't know what would have happened to the kid."

Looking down into her mug Orla fought the tears that tried to spring from her eyes. Of course, after everything her father had been through with her grandpa, and thinking he lost his own daughter he would help another man save his child. Again, her father was tough but when it came to children the poor man turned into a softy.

"I'm glad your kids safe," she whispered. "However," she raised her eyes back up to look at him, "that still doesn't mean I fully trust you."

"Who says I don't trust you either?"

Smirking Orla brought her mug up to her lips once again with a smirk and a twinkle in her eye. "Touché."

Din and Orla sat in silence for the next hour, sipping coffee and spacing out. It wasn't until they heard footsteps down the hallway they perked up and looked at who it was.

"My own daughter, up before me?" Boba chucked before ruffling her hair.

"Couldn't sleep. Fresh caff is brewing. Alcohol is in the cabinet."

Smiling Boba made his way to the counter, coming back a moment later with a steaming cup of spiked caff.

"Taking It you couldn't sleep either mando?"

Shaking his head Din finished the last of his coffee.

"Well, sorry to say but we've all got work to do today."

Groaning, Orla stood from her seat, downing the last of her coffee. "I'll go get ready then."

Before she could leave the room though she felt a tug on her hair; pulling it free from the collar of her shirt.

"Ad'ika… what is this? Please don't tell me you let your hair be like this all the time while I was gone." Boba scolded.

Orla smiled sheepishly at her father. "I never learned to braid after you left. So I just put it in a ponytail or bun. But when it's down it gets tangled so easily. It's just so thick.

"Orla," Boba chided.

"Papa! I didn't have the energy to learn when you left! And I was gonna cut it off but I couldn't bring myself to do it…"

"You're just like your mother. And if I ever find out you cut off your hair it might be the actual death of me." Chuckling Boba guided his daughter back to her chair. "Now sit."

Groaning Orla plopped herself down into her seat, letting her father pull apart the tangles in her hair.

"Your so dramatic buir."

"And you're not?"

Both chuckling Boba continued to gently separate her hair into strands, braiding them together and picking up pieces as he went.

Across from them, Din went unnoticed as he watched intently; learning how to braid.

*******************************************************************************************

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yoongi-sugaglider · 4 years ago

Text

Daegu Quarantine

Jungkook x reader

Gang/ zombie apocalypse au

Warnings:

Gore, violence, blood, gun shot wounds, zombies, mention of drugs and drug dealing, weapons discharge in self defense, main character death, zombies, course language, zombies, drinking, did I mention zombies?

Summary:

They were the top of their game, known throughout the city as the smartest and most dangerous crew to ever hit the Daegu streets. But what’s going to happen when this group of young men encounter something right out of a horror film?

Word count: 2588

Part 14===Part 15===Part 16

The sound of screaming voices awoke me the next morning to the sight of an empty room. The dull aching in my chest and leg only grew the more my mind woke up.

The screaming escalated, followed by a series of crashes and thumps from downstairs. I sighed, shifting to the side and almost having to roll myself into a sitting position. It wasn’t unusual to wake up to the sound of yelling, but from the way things seemed to be, this one might just actually be serious.

Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed I inhaled deeply, steeling myself to stand when the bedroom door swung open and a wild looking Jeanette and Rose bolted inside before slamming the door shut behind them.

Rose slid down the back of the door, arms folded over her knees as she leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. Jeanette inhaled, exhaling the breath slowly through her nose in a quiet whistle and humming to herself as she shook her head at the closed door.

“What’s going on out there?” I asked, wincing slightly when the two women jumped and whipped their heads around to stare at me with terrified gazes.

“Shit! You’re awake!”

“Oh thank god you’re awake!”

Their voices swirled and merged into one single unit of confusing emotions and I couldn’t help but snicker at their faces. “Okay, conflicting moment aside there. I’ll repeat, what in the ever loving fuck are those idiots up to downstairs?”

The two began talking at once, each speaking animatedly and raising their voices in an attempt to talk over the other. I raised a finger, instantly silencing them to sheepish glances between each other.

“I am...one person. With two ears, and half a brain coming down off of some pretty intense pain killers. Please...one at a time.”

Jeanette glanced at Rose who shrugged in defeat before dropping her chin to rest on her folded arms. The younger woman gave her a nod of deference to speak on the subject.

“Well...okay so like this morning when I got up everything was pretty quiet so I thought I’d go to the kitchen to start breakfast. Hobi was there balancing dishes from the dishwasher in one hand while trying to open a cabinet with the other. Your uh..Jungkook was sitting at the table kinda staring off into space when Tae came in and scared Hoseok. He dropped all the dishes and that’s what set Jungkook off. Jimin jumped in and they started screaming at Tae about some mission and well... They’ve been fighting ever since and it’s only getting worse.”

I let out a long suffering sigh, scrubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes before looking up at them. “Help me up.”

“But…” Jeanette paused as I shook my head.

“I’ve got to get down there. Those idiots are going to kill each other and I’m the only one that can stop them.”

Rose groaned, banging her head against the door and fisting her hands through her hair. “This is all my fault…”

“That’s not true.” I grunted, shifting my weight to the edge of the bed.

“But if I hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have gotten hurt and they wouldn’t be fighting over it.” She groaned again, head hanging as teardrops fell to the floor.

“Tae and Jimin have been at odds for a very long time. And Jungkook...well… Kookie can be the absolute sweetest and smartest man you could meet. But when it comes right down to it the man is an actual blonde. I joke with him all the time they dipped his brain in bleach before they handed him off to his mother.”

Rose snorted, glancing up to me as she wiped her tears away. “Isn’t that all men though?”

The three of us giggled, sharing a moment of joined exasperation before sobering up as another crash echoed through the house.

“Alright, for real. Jin’s gonna cry if any more of his kitchen gets destroyed. Come on, help me up. I’ve got to end this.”

***

True to form the dumb asses were still fighting by the time we’d made it down the stairs.

Jimin was off to the side, standing by the fridge as he screamed obscenities at Taehyung. Jungkook and Tae were on the floor, pulling at each other’s hair with their legs wrapped around one another to keep the other from escaping.

A massive bruise had bloomed just beneath Tae’s right eye and Jungkook’s lip was split and seeping blood all over.

“It’s all your fault Tae! Every time she’s gotten hurt it’s always you to blame!” Jimin screamed. He moved as if to launch himself into the scuffle but Hobi, who’d been watching from the stove reached over to stop him, effectively wrapping him in a bear hug and pinning his arms to his sides.

“Oh no you don’t Doc. We don’t need you getting hurt.”

“Let me go! Let me at him! This has been a long time coming Hobi!” The boy was basically foaming at the mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks as he struggled in the dancer’s hold.

I couldn’t help but sigh, knowing the only way to stop this was if I intervened. Glancing between Jeanette and Rose I shrugged them off, taking a step forward on my own and muttering under my breath. This was going to suck.

“Boys! Please! Stop this!” I yelled, internally cringing as my weight landed on my injured leg.

The offending limb buckled under the pressure, causing me to yelp out in pain as I staggered forward a half a step before falling to the ground. It was worth it though.

All activity in the room ceased. For a moment it was quiet as I lay there wheezing and whimpering in pain. And then chaos ensued.

From my vantage point I could see the boys scrambling to my side, Jungkook and Tae disentangling themselves from each other as Jimin and Hobi pushed each other out of the way in an attempt to reach my side. Jin, Namjoon, and Yoongi walked into the room just in time to see Rose and Jeanette reach me first, shooing the boys out of the way as they helped me into a sitting position.

“Fuck sake. What are you all in here tearing the place up for?” Namjoon growled, giving the younger boys the stink eye as Jimin crouched at my side to check my bandages.

“They’ve been arguing for the last hour, how have you all not noticed till now?” Hobi grumped as he stood to his feet and dusted off his jeans.

“Because unlike you idiots we’ve actually been doing something.” Seokjin frowned, leaning his broad shoulders against the doorframe as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“And what’s got the three of you so wrapped up in each other that you couldn’t notice the idiot brigade trying to off one another?” I huffed, pushing away the pain of my leg.

“Securing the satellite links, setting up better firewall protections for the security cameras.” Namjoon replied.

“Reinforcing the front gate, making sure our rear’s covered in terms of fortifications.” Yoongi added in.

“Adding more cameras to the sides of the house just to make sure we have every inch of the lawn and side yards covered.” Seokjin frowned, glancing at the three younger men. “I can’t believe the three of you are grown ass men. And to think one of you is in charge of giving me orders.”

He shook his head, eyes darting back and forth between them before landing on the mess that was his kitchen. It was almost comical the way his gaze went from mildly frustrated to all of a sudden full blown horror and betrayal.

“M...my… MY KITCHEN!!!”

The series of events that followed may have been comical but it certainly managed to squash the feud and rising tensions that’d settled over my boys in the time I’d been unconscious.

Jeanette and Rose managed to help me off the ground, settling me into a chair at the center island as Seokjin screamed and ranted about how ungrateful the younger men were while demanding they cleaned up their mess.

Jungkook and Taehyung actually managed to look ashamed and remorseful as they swept up the broken plates together and wiped down the counters before settling into mopping the entirety of the area. They stayed silent, barely glancing at each other or speaking until Jin tore into Namjoon who’d resigned himself to ‘helping’ cook breakfast before getting scolded about holding the knife upside down as he attempted to chop an onion.

“Ya! How can someone have such a high IQ and STILL not know the meaning for sharp side down?? All those brains and muscles and no common sense!” Jin’s face shone bright red as he screamed, barely stopping for breath as he smacked poor Namjoon over the head with a wooden spoon.

Taehyung snorted, Jungkook giggled, and after a shared look between them they burst out laughing, leaning against each other for support as they lost their minds over the sheer visual of the genius level man getting scolded by his elder.

Jimin all the while did his best to address my leg, crouching beneath the ledge of the island as he checked the skin above and beneath the bandage.

“It hasn’t bled through, so the stitches are holding. But I really wish you would stay off it as much as possible.” He frowned up at me, tiny hands wrapped gently around my ankle as he balanced on his heels.

“I’m sorry Doc. It’s just, you all were so worked up over nothing and I just had to do something to get it to stop.” I shrugged, not sure if it was a valid enough reason for almost dislocating anything that was still left to injure.

“I mean, you could have just fired in the air or something. Thrown something at them, anything but literally throwing yourself to the ground and risking actually breaking something.”

“I could have sure. But that would have meant risking the ceiling and Yoongi’s room. Not about that life if I’m being honest.” I grinned at the doctor, earning myself an exasperated glare and a pat to my uninjured leg.

“Really, and here I thought you were the rational one in this group of misfits.” Jimin stood, brushing his pants off and then walking around the island to wash his hands at the sink.

“I may be irrational at times but at least I have the ability to forgive people.” My blunt words hit home. I could tell. He’d paused all motion, staring down at his hands as the water ran over his fingers.

I reached across, turning the sink off and folding my hands before me on the cool countertop. Patiently I waited, watching the emotions flit across his face faster than his expert fingers stitching up a wound.

“Jimin...we’re going to have to talk about this eventually.” I spoke calmly, knowing that anything could set him off if I misspoke.

“I know it’s just…”

“We were all attached. The first truly good thing to come out of all our awful work.” Pausing I focused for a moment on the tiny scrapes and scratches I’d gotten from being out in the thick of it.

“We got comfortable. All of us did. And sloppy. But Taehyung can’t be blamed for that. We were all at fault. But more importantly those bastards that kidnapped me and tried to hold me hostage were at fault.” I turned slightly, watching as the others went about their business.

“When it came down to it he had to make a choice. Yes we’re always family first but everything was on the line. Literally everything Jimin.” I turned back to him, watching the frown deepen his brow and tug that sweet face of his into a scowl. “If it weren’t for Taehyun,g half our crew would be dead or in jail. Including Namjoon and Jungkook. Do you think I’d have ever let him live it down if he had chosen any other way?”

He shook his head, tossing the towel in his hands on the counter. “No… No you’re right. You wouldn’t have. You’d have torn Daegu up, burned the whole city down.” He chuckled and I joined him, my shoulders shaking with the snickers joined between us.

“You’re not wrong. But considering the circumstances I didn’t need to do a thing. The city’s already burning.” The mood chilled at those words and we sat together in silence, watching the others fuss and fight over cooking and who was on dish duty.

“This could be the end days huh?”

Turning back to him I sighed, though the motion left me wincing at the pain in my chest. “That may be so… and if it is, if everything is ending and the world is burning...shouldn’t you go make up with your best friend?”

“...Yeah….yeah you’re right.” his eyes crinkled as he smiled at me, reaching across and giving my hand a squeeze. “Thank you for talking some sense into me.”

“Jungkook may be the brawn but we all know I’m the brains of the operation here.” I snorted at my own words. My heart warmed as I watched Jimin walk over to Tae and begin whispering softly to him.

Both men, grown as they were, became teary eyed, suddenly lunging forward and hugging each other as close as two men could.

“Damn, look at you.” Rose plopped into the chair beside me, nudging my arm as she grinned at the two now openly sobbing gangsters. “You get paid to be the family shrink?”

“Nah, they couldn’t afford me if I were to actually charge them.”

Jeanette ambled over, hand subconsciously rubbing her belly as she leaned into Rose who wrapped a gentle arm around her waist. “I don’t think even the richest man could afford your services. You really out here keeping these boys from killing each other and still surviving in this world? Absolute boss if you ask me.”

It felt good to laugh with them as we sat there. It’d been a good long while since I’d had female friends. Not that I didn’t love my boys but there was something about being around someone who got my mind without me having to say something that just felt so right.

Things settled down as we all gathered around to our meal, the chatter subdued and amiable as food was passed around in abundance. It would last us a while sure, but the idea that at some point it might run out had us all appreciating it that much more.

As I munched on my toast my mind wandered, but my thoughts were abruptly by Taehyung and Rose cheering as they jumped out of their chairs and began laughing and hugging each other.

“YAH! What the hell!” Jin demanded as he scrambled to wipe the juice he’d spilled on himself at the shock of their cheering.

“We did it!” Tae grinned, the biggest boxiest grin on his face as his ears blushed crimson from the kiss Rose had planted on his cheek.

“We managed to fix all of the security issues! Cams are on lock and all internal systems are now free of amature hour hack jobs!” Rose’s smile was infectious, cheering the whole table and causing the others to whoop and holler their appreciation for the two computer experts.

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