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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

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Pain Is For The Living [Javier Peña x F!Reader] - Chapter 3

Summary: Sex work in the heat of 1980’s Colombia was never going to be a walk in the park. Especially not when you had a crush on your number one client, agent Javier Peña. You’d been warned about him and his reputation, but after one very specific incident that would change your life forever, you find yourself attached to him like never before and you’d do anything to make him yours. Even if it means endangering your own life.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Javier being kind of an asshole, allusions to sex, a ~moment~ in the bathtub, mention of PTSD and trauma, food mention, drink mention, ...feelings?

Word count: 4200

Author’s Note: It’s been so long! I’m sorry. It’s been pretty hectic and I’ve been doing my best to wrap up my other series’ and complete requests. I appreciate you all for sticking around and asking for updates on this chapter. I’ve mentioned it a few times, but PIFTL is very difficult to write. It deals with very sensitive issues and so not only can it be mentally draining to write, it takes a lot of time to research and edit. I won’t give up on this series though. I adore this story and can’t wait to share it all with you.

Pain Is For The Living Masterlist

* Reblogs appreciated and my ko-fi is linked in my bio if you wish to support my writing!

Nina pushed off Javi quicker than a bullet leaving a gun, grabbing a blanket from her bed and wrapping it around her naked body. “What the fuck Javier?” she spat.

Jesus Christ -- Javier had never made that mistake before. Moaning someone else’s name? He was better than that. It took him a moment to just process what happened, Nina’s yelling and accusations only a blur in the background. “Who is she, Javier?” Nina questioned, her tone venomous. That was enough to snap the agent out of his thoughts. Her cold eyes burned like wildfire as she glared at him. “Who. Is. She?”

“Uh…” Javier racked his brains to try and figure out a way he’d be able to save this situation. But the longer he took to answer Nina’s question, the more infuriated she got. “Informant.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. You’d agreed to help him. But whether or not you’d actually be able to provide Javier with any relevant information was a different ordeal in itself.

“You’re still sleeping with your informants?” Nina gasped a little, clicking her tongue and shaking her head in disappointment. “Why am I not surprised?”

Javier sighed and rolled his eyes, pulling himself off Nina’s bed and grabbing his denim jeans that had been previously discarded on the floor. “C’mon Ni, don’t get jealous now. We haven’t been together for like, a year.” Javier hummed, zipping up his pants. His eyes darted around the room as he tried to locate his shirt. Maybe there was no fixing this. For a split second, he’d forgotten why things had ended with Nina, but now it was becoming clear again. He just had to get outta there. He needed air, and a smoke.

“I let you cum inside of me and you moan out another woman’s name!” Nina exclaimed, shaking her fists in the air. “Javier Peña I fucking hate you!”

Javier offered Nina a small shrug of his shoulders before finding his shirt and buttoning it up. “I’ll see you around Ni.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Called him seventeen times Con, he’s taking the piss.” Steve grimaced, aggressively flicking to the next page of the Bogotá local newspaper.

“Will you just calm down? He’s our friend. We’re doing him a favour. He'll be back soon,” Connie sighed, glancing back over to you, where you had been sleeping on the sofa for the past two and a half hours. “She sleeps better than our Liv,” Connie noted. “Wish we could sleep as well as that.”

Steve hummed in agreement. “I’ll go check on Liv.” He announced at the mention of his daughter. He’d put her down for a nap about an hour ago in Javier’s bedroom.

“No honey, I’ll go. You keep working on your crossword,” Connie giggled before pointing her index finger into one of the blank squares. “Fourteen down: Los huevos revueltos.”

“I would’ve got that,” Steve huffed, scrambling to write the answer down. He definitely would not have. The Spanish puzzle was made for infants and yet he was still struggling.

“Whatever Murph.” Connie rolled her eyes, leaving the table where they were both sitting at.

The second she left the room, you woke up in a cold sweat, feeling dizzy and shaking from a nightmare you didn’t want to remember. Your cheeks were wet, tear stained and goose pimples pricked at your arms. You checked your surroundings in a fluster, not recognising the brown leather couch you were laying on, or the oak wood coffee table in front of you, or even the television pushed against the cream coloured walls. A man with blonde hair and mustache raced over to you, and dropped to his knees, holding you by your shoulders.

“Are you okay?�� The man quizzed, his blue eyes searching to meet yours. You were horrified, the feeling of an unfamiliar man grabbing you like this. You screamed in terror, and defensively dug your fingernails into his skin. The man yelped out and stumbled back from you, hitting the coffee table in the process. “Fuck-- shit-- ow--” He gasped. “Connie!” he called. “Connie, she's awake!”

The way he yelled and screamed your name... it was like you were some kind of monster. You hated it.

The sound of footsteps padding into the living room alerted you, and a woman, not much older than you, knelt down in front of you. But unlike the man, she knew well enough to keep her distance. “Hi sweetheart, are you alright? I’m Connie, don’t be afraid. You’re okay.” she assured you, her voice sweet like honey.

“Where am I?” you choked out, tears filling your eyes.

Connie hesitated for a moment. “She doesn’t remember where she is?” Steve asked Connie with concern, scratching the back of his neck as he pulled himself together and shuffled over to you. Taking a note out of Connie’s book, he kept his distance. Connie briefly explained to her husband how your behaviour right now actually made a lot of sense, and how victims of PTSD can often have ‘memory blanks’.

“Darling, I’m Connie Murphy. I’m a nurse. And this is my husband Steve. Steve is DEA. He’s friends with Javier Peña. You know that name, right? Javier Peña.” She repeated his name slow and steady, allowing you to take your time to process the words. Javier Peña. Just like that, a wave of calmness washed over you. His name felt like home. It felt like safety.

“I know Javi.” you whispered in admittance, shuffling around on the sofa. You could feel your lips trembling. It was strange. You were new to Bogotá, and you didn’t really have any friends, other than the late Rosa. And well, Javier too. He was a client, sure, but he was always kind and gentle with you, unlike your other customers. You’d like to think of him as a friend. Right now, he was the only person you had.

“This is Javier’s place. He’s going to watch over you for a little while, okay?” Connie explained. “We are your friends and we’re not going to hurt you. I promise,” the lady soothed. She turned to Steve. “Bring over Olivia.”

“What-- why?” Steve quizzed, his eyebrows furrowing together in bewilderment.

“She needs to know she can trust us. Bring over Olivia,” Begrudgingly following his wife’s instruction, a wary Steve stood up and padded into Javier’s bedroom where Olivia had been left to sleep in a small, transportable crib. He picked up his daughter and carried her into the living room. “This is my daughter Olivia,” Connie told you quietly, smoothing out Olivia’s black hair. “She’s one year old. Would you like to hold her?”

“Connie are you fucking crazy?” Steve snapped.

“I’m a fucking nurse Steve, I know what I’m doing.” Connie hissed back, taking Olivia from her father. She looked back over to you and her deep frown turned into a comforting smile as she slowly handed you the baby. Connie’s hands never left Olivia, and she made an effort to support her head as you cradled the sleeping baby in your arms.

Holding Olivia Murphy gave you a feeling of responsibility. If Steve and Connie were dangerous, they would never have shown you their daughter, let alone allow you to hold her in your arms. You contemplated everything and although it was hard, you decided that you probably could trust them. Still, it raised the question: “Where is Javi?”

Steve shook his head incredulously and stood up, grabbing the phone from one of the side tables and dialling his partner’s number again. You didn’t know what was wrong with the blonde haired agent, but you got the impression that he did not want to be here.

“Steve is going to call him, again. He went to get groceries. I’m sure he won’t be long.” Connie informed softly, and you nodded your head.

“Your baby is adorable,” you announced quietly and Connie smiled, thankful you were beginning to talk a little more. Seemingly, you’d calmed down, which meant Connie’s comforting approach had worked.

“She’s a real gem, isn’t she?”

Javier was just a couple of blocks away when his carphone began to ring. He eyed up the display and read the ‘17 missed calls’, cursing under his breath. He clicked the accept button and continued to drive.

“Javier Peña. You prick.”

“Hi bestie.” Javier grinned, shaking his head at Steve’s introduction. Typical.

“You left us here for three fucking hours with some random girl -- who, by the way, is incredibly unstable, Javier. I don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, but I’m not here for it. Where the fuck have you been? No, forget that. You better be home in the next ten minutes and you better have the ingredients for my fucking paella.” Steve growled before angrily slamming the phone down on the hook.

Javier couldn’t help but chuckle. Steve Murphy was ever the drama queen.

As he drove down the street, he made one final attempt to shrug off what had happened with Nina. Okay, yeah, saying your name was a little uncalled for. But she always got so needy and possessive -- even when she had no reason to be. Nina and Javier weren’t exclusive and hadn’t been for a long time, so, what was her deal?

What was even more concerning to Javi, was the fact he said your name in the first place. Nina looked rather similar to you. Not identical, but from a distance, there was a chance she could’ve been mistaken. Only, when he was pounding into her from behind, he wasn’t at a distance. In fact he couldn’t have been any closer, and yet he still said your name. He was really struggling to justify it.

Sure, he’d been thinking about you when he was inside of her. But was that really so bad? You were clearly on his mind, and Javier just pinned that down to the fact he’d been out all day investigating the crime scene at the brothel. He’d been with you, he’d held you and comforted you. Fuck, even before noon he had been fucking your mouth. It wasn’t exactly unreasonable…

But moaning out your name… shit, could Javier really get past that? Was there any way to justify that -- other than the blatant and glaring honest reason that Javier refused to admit. He wouldn’t even let his mind go there. Whatever, it was fine. He was home now. The end of a long day.

Javier grabbed the groceries from the back of his car and buzzed himself into the DEA apartment block where he and Steve were living. Making his way over to his apartment, he opened the front door and set the brown paper bag of ingredients down on the kitchen counter. When he got home, Connie was just finishing up painting your nails a beautiful sea blue gel colour. She turned around and she looked up at Javier. Your eyes, however, were already fixated on him the second he entered the room.

“Where’s Steve?” Javier asked, diverting his gaze from the two women and continuing to unpack the food.

“He went home. He’s pissed, Javi.” Connie admitted, shaking her head in annoyance and placing the pot of nail polish on the coffee table. She walked into the open space kitchen and nudged the agent.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Javier muttered, stacking the canned goods into a cupboard.

“I’m going home, but don’t think we’ve forgotten about the paella. Steve wants that fucking paella,” Connie chastised. Javier nodded his head but remained silent as he emptied his bag of shopping. “Unbelievable.” Connie scoffed incredulously, and opened the front door before slamming it behind her.

“Thanks Con!” Javier called, but there was no telling if she even heard.

Javier was half way through putting his shopping away when he heard your meek and softly spoken voice call his name in a questioning tone. His dark eyes looked over at you. You were sitting upright on the sofa and his face softened. Stopping what he was doing, he neglected the bag of groceries and padded into the living room to sit down next to you.

“Hi.” Javier murmured, crossing his legs and adjusting the crochet blanket that was covering your lap.

“Hi.” you replied, feeling somewhat shy and slightly nervous, for a reason you couldn’t quite place.

“How are you feeling?” Javier asked, bringing himself to look at you.

“Um,” you fumbled at the blanket and thought for a moment. It was a loaded question. Other than the overwhelming feeling of distress and helplessness, you decided to give the agent a simple answer. “Well rested. A little thirsty.”

Javier nodded. “How would you feel about taking a bath?”

You swallowed back a knot in your throat that you hadn’t even realised was there in the first place. “...Do I smell?” you asked, You stretched out and gave your underarms a sniff, prompting Javier to burst out into laughter. Shit, had you always been that adorable? Your nose scrunched up at the distinct smell of dried up blood on your clothes and your shoulders slumped sadly. Javi, noticing your change in demeanor, gently lifted up the blanket and wrapped it around your body.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he cooed. “Believe me, I get stinky too. It happens. Let me help you take a bath. Come with me.”

Taking his hand, Javier navigated you towards the bathroom. It was a small boxy room with barely any space to move around, and yet, to your surprise, it fit a bathtub. Javier twisted the faucet, and the tap began to run warm water. He picked up a bottle of bubble bath and a tub of salts. “I have a bad back,” Javier told you. “These salts really help me relax. And the bubbles are nice too.”

You nodded with a smile. As he emptied the contents into the tub, you watched the products swirl into a colourful abyss. “It smells like you.” you uttered, without really thinking about the weight of your words. Javier said nothing, and you both sat by the side of the tub in comfortable silence, watching as it filled up. He occasionally dipped his hand in the water, checking the temperature.

“Will you be okay?” Javier asked you, taking out a towel and folding it up on top of the toilet seat.

You weren’t really sure, but you nodded your head anyway. Just as he was about to leave, you spoke up again. “Actually, Javi, could you stay?”

Javier fumbled a little but smiled. “Yeah, of course.”

Javier had seen you naked countless times due to the nature of your job but for some reason, this time, it felt different. He’d never had a woman use his bathtub before, let alone be requested to stay in her presence as she got undressed and stepped inside. You slipped out of your sultry, blood stained dress and let it pool to the floor. Javi’s mouth parted as he took in your naked form under the amber tinted bathroom lights.

You stepped inside the tub and almost slipped over, but Javier, as quick as lightning, grabbed your arm and steadied you. “Sorry,” he muttered, and your hand slid into his. As your fingers interlocked, you felt something. It was like a bolt of electricity, running up your arm, and judging by Javier’s reaction, he could feel it too. “I should’ve warned you. It can be a little slippery.”

You giggled and tried to tear yourself from Javi’s grip, but he didn’t let go of you once. Instead, he helped you sit down comfortably amongst the bubbles and aromatic hot water. You moaned, feeling your body become indulged and your muscles soften. You smiled and laid back, the bubbles fizzing around your neck and chin, and Javier felt his heart swell in his chest as he noticed your lips curl into a smile. It was the smile he would kill to see, and he hadn’t even realised how much he missed it.

“Just relax,” Javier soothed. “I’ll be back faster than you can count to ten.”

Javier ran into the kitchen and took a glass from one of the cupboards before racing back to the bathroom. Kneeling down by the side of the tub, he dipped the glass into the water, filling it up, and gently emptied it down your hair.

“Close your eyes,” he requested, continuing to wet your hair ample enough until it was ready to be shampooed. Taking the bottle of his musky scented shampoo, Javier squirted the thick liquid into your scalp and began to massage it in. You couldn’t believe how gentle he was, and how he was taking his time with you. You’d never in a million years imagine Javier Peña being like this, or acting this intimate, with any woman -- especially not you. To be honest, his own behaviours were even coming to shock Javier. But he just let his instincts take over. He wanted to protect you and make sure you knew just how safe you were. That was the most important thing on his mind.

Once he rinsed your hair, he grabbed some soap and a sponge, handing them to you. “Do you uh-- uh-- do you think you can wash your own body?” He asked, his dark eyebrows knitting together. “If not, that’s okay. I can help. But--”

You smiled and rested a wet hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay Javi. I’ll be fine.” you promised, taking the sponge from him.

“I’m going to find you some clothes to change into.” He told you. “Shout if you need me. I won’t be long.”

And he stuck by his word. Javier raked through his drawers and picked out a pale yellow button down shirt that he hadn’t worn in a few years and a pair of boxer shorts. Padding back into the bathroom, he presented you with them. “It’s not much but it’s all I have,” he told you. “I’m sure Con will take you out shopping at some point. Or we can hop on back to your place tomorrow to grab some of your stuff,” You smiled and stood up, making sure to be careful not to slip this time. Javier held out the towel for you and wrapped you in it. “I’ll leave you to get dried.”

When Javier went back into the kitchen, he figured he should put the rest of the groceries away, only to notice that the once frozen paella ingredients had become defrosted and been rendered completely useless. “Shit.” Javier cursed, pushing them to one side and running a hand through his hair. Looks like after all of this, he couldn’t make paella tonight. He knew he was about to get an earful from Steve at work tomorrow.

“Do you like pizza?” Javier called, rummaging around for a take-out menu and grabbing his phone from the counter.

“I do!” you called back, buttoning up Javier’s shirt and wrapping a towel around your head.

When you padded into the kitchen, dressed in Javi’s clothes, the agent felt his throat dry up. You were a sight to behold. You smelt distinctly like him, but you already looked one thousand times better now that you were clean and comfortable. You felt better, too. It was amazing what a bath could do to you. You shimmied onto one of the bar stools Javier kept by the counter and rest your elbows against the laminate. Javier passed you the menu so you could look over the dishes.

You agreed on a simple chilli pizza, which was one of Javier’s favourites anyway. Javi called the deli and asked for a large, planning on sharing it with you. Remembering that you’d mentioned you were thirsty, he poured you a glass of water and handed it your way.

“Steve is gonna be so mad at me tomorrow,” Javier chuckled, rubbing his temple. You peeked up from the glass that you nursed and looked up at him through your eyelashes. “I promised him paella and I’m not gonna be able to make it tonight. Not only that but he’s gonna ask me where I’ve been. He’ll know I wasn’t out getting groceries for three hours.”

You furrowed your eyebrows together and tilted your head. “Three hours? Where were you?”

Javier paused and absent-mindedly brushed a finger along his mustache. “I bumped into an ex at the store. Went back to her place and-- you know.”

Your eyes fell back into your glass of water. “Oh.”

Javier picked at his short fingernails and another sigh left his lips. “Shit, I just--” he shook his head. “Made a mistake. A very big mistake.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Yeah, that would probably be for the best but how could he even begin to tell you what happened, when you were part of the problem? Javier figured it might even scare you away. “It doesn’t matter… she’s just…” Javier scratched his head. “She’s fine. It’s a ‘me’ problem, I think.”

The doorbell rang and Javier was grateful for the interruption. He paid the pizza delivery guy and sent the stone bake on the table.

“It looks good,” you smiled. “I’ve never had Colombian pizza.”

Javier’s jaw dropped. “You--?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Dulzura, how long have you lived here?”

“A month,” you grinned, with a mouthful of pizza. “Tastes good.”

After you’d finished eating, it had gotten pretty late. You and Javier exchanged small talk, learning little things about each other. You liked it a lot. He had always been an enigma to you, and even though he offered little information, it was still something, and you appreciated that a lot.

“It’s been a difficult day,” Javier noted, folding the pizza box and throwing it away to be recycled. “You should take my bed.”

“No,” you insisted. “I’m fine on the sofa. Honestly.”

Javier sighed. “I’m not going to let you sleep on the sofa any longer. You’ll get back ache.”

“Then I’ll just use your bath salts.” You smirked in retaliation. Javier laughed and you relished the way small crinkles appeared in the corner of his honey coloured eyes.

“Please, take my bed.” Javier said, staring at you pointedly. His eyebrows were raised and his strong arms were crossed over his chest.

You were about to argue further but truthfully, sleeping in a bed tonight sounded like exactly what you needed. You took a few steps closer to Javier, a pool of butterflies swirling in your stomach as you broke any distance between you both. You wanted to kiss his lips so desperately, taste him once again. It was only earlier today you’d had your lips wrapped around his cock, and yet, so much had happened in between then and now. You wondered if Javier was thinking about it too.

“Get some sleep, hermosa.”

Your eyes were completely trained on his soft pink lips. You wanted to kiss-- you just wanted to kiss him. Just one kiss. Just one-- you leaned in and shut your eyes, and neared him, closer and closer... but Javier stepped away.

And you felt your heart shatter in your chest.

“Nothing personal,” he told you. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Nothing personal? How were you meant to accept that? You had literally sucked him off just a few hours ago and now he wouldn’t even grace you with a kiss? Maybe Rosa was right; you shouldn’t form crushes on clients. Especially not Javier Peña. You’d only get hurt. You tugged on the sleeves of his button down shirt and balled your fingers into a fist, trying to ignore the pain in your chest.

Without uttering a word, not even a ‘goodnight’, you sulked away and into his bedroom.

Javier wanted to shout out. He didn’t want you to be mad at him, or even upset. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. It took him all the strength he could muster to deny you of that kiss. Your perfect lips looked so soft and delicate and if Javier could have it his way, he would’ve taken you in that very moment.

But you were more than just a sex worker now. You were a compliance in the hunt to catch Escobar -- and he had to be careful. No matter what, he couldn’t risk losing track of the bigger picture.

-—-—-—♡—-—-—-

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one-more-offbeat-anthem · 4 years ago

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have a conversation

for @dadstielweek day 4: misunderstandings

So they defeat Chuck, and then Jack fucks off to do celestial entity shit, and then Sam goes on an urgent find-Eileen mission, and Dean is left alone in the bunker.

(Well, Sam is coming back. At some point.)

Dean contemplates drowning himself in whiskey, thinks about what Cas would say, and then decides to deep-clean the entire bunker instead. By the time Sam finally comes back, with Eileen in tow, Dean’s got this awful, jittery energy all the time, so he takes to praying to Jack in the mornings.

(He would do Cas, but, uh. Cas. Yeah.)

On day twenty-three of Dean’s ongoing pray-to-my-weird-godly-son-thing breakdown (that includes a lot of where the fuck is Cas? and please come back, Jack, we still have your room set up), the aforementioned cosmic entity, junior edition, shows up at breakfast.

Sam jumps and Dean spills half his coffee, but Jack just waves serenely. “Hello!” he says brightly. “I’m back.”

“I can see that,” Dean replies, trying to sop up his coffee with his napkin.

“And he’s not alone,” another voice says, and then Dean spills the rest of his coffee, because it’s Cas and Cas is in his kitchen and Cas is alive and--

“You dumb sonofabitch,” Dean practically growls after he’s been hugging Cas for an embarrassingly long time in front of everyone, “Never do that again.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and Dean believes him.

Breakfast after that is a joyous affair--Eileen and Cas sign rapidly across the table about something (Dean doesn’t catch all of it but from what he does understand he thinks Eileen is updating Cas on what happened to Chuck), and Sam produces a box of sugary cereal for Jack, and it’s all awesome.

Well.

Mostly.

Because Jack and Cas are supposed to be in each other’s orbits. Sure, all of them had a hand in raising the kid, but Cas is Jack’s honest-to-god (maybe a little too soon for that turn of phrase) family. Dean remembers vividly how bent up Cas was those times that Jack died--and how Jack took the news that Cas was gone, after that night in the dungeon. That’s a father-and-son duo right there if Dean has ever seen one.

But they won't look at each other.

Dean tries not to read too much into it, but the whole day, they’re never alone in the same room, and when Dean offers that maybe they could take Miracle on a walk, Cas backs out as soon as Jack volunteers.

Dean definitely has ulterior motives when it comes to dragging Cas to his room when Cas tries to slither off that night (namely: kiss him like it’s going out of style in an attempt to make up for the last decade and some change), but after the long-awaited make-out session, Dean can’t help but ask the question that’s been on his mind.

“What’s up with you and Jack?”

Beside him in the bed, Cas stiffens. “We, uh...had a disagreement.”

Dean cranes his head to look at Cas, who is currently using Dean as a pillow. “You’ve been back for fourteen hours! What did you disagree about?”

Cas sighs. “After resurrecting me, Jack took me first to Heaven to show me what he had done. It was impressive--he started redesigning the whole thing. But, uh, I don’t know how it came up...but he started asking about me dying.” Cas lifts his head, and Dean sees his eyes welling up with tears. “He’s angry with me, Dean. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay.” Dean attempts to gather all of the reassurance he can muster. “First of all, he’s not even four years old yet. When Sam was four, he would get mad about someone changing the TV channel. If someone in his family up and died, he would probably be even more upset.” Dean has to stop for a moment as his brain catches up to his analogy and he remembers that he was four when his mom died and he stopped fucking talking for a year.

“That’s true.”

“And maybe you two just need to get real about it, y’know? A good old fashioned conversation.”

“Ah, yes, something you have often.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and then he kisses Cas again to make that command stick.

----------------------

Despite the warmth and contentment that come from having someone in your bed, Dean still wakes up at the asscrack of dawn because he can’t sleep, and he finds himself in the kitchen, contemplating making something extravagant for everyone for breakfast since he has the time. French toast, maybe?

He goes on a journey to find suitable bread in the pantry and then drops said bread on the ground when he turns to see Jack standing in front of him.

“Gonna put a bell on you,” Dean mutters, bending to pick up the bread. “What’s up, kid?”

Jack looks nervous. “It’s Cas.”

“Go on.” Dean leads them back into the kitchen and starts rooting through the fridge for eggs and milk. “Spill.”

“I--” Jack sighs heavily, a twin to Cas’s sigh earlier, and Dean thinks that it really is uncanny how alike they are. He leans against the counter heavily. “We argued.”

“What about?” Dean asks. Nutmeg, that’s what he needs next. Sam was the one to use it last, so it’s probably somewhere really fucking weird.

“...I’m angry.” Jack sounds shattered, and Dean pauses. Jack looks up at him, eyelashes wet and voice small. “Why am I still mad at him, Dean? I brought him back! He’s here!”

Dean remembers being really pissed off when Cas pulled Sam out of the pit, upset that Sam even jumped in. So he thinks he knows what he wished someone would have said then, and he pulls Jack to the kitchen table.

“Sometimes,” Dean starts, “People we love do things that make us upset.”

“Like dying?” Jack asks.

Dean lets out a low laugh. “In this family, yes. But being upset with them doesn’t mean we don’t love them. In fact, it might even make us angrier, that we love them and they pissed us off.”

Jack nods.

“So,” Dean decides to give Jack the same advice he gave Cas. “Maybe you should just try to have a conversation with him about it. Tell him how it felt that he was gone.”

Jack slowly nods again. “I think I’ll do that.” He gets up and throws his arms around Dean’s neck. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean sits there, stunned, for at least a minute.

Maybe Cas’s paternal nature is rubbing off on him.

----------------------

Cas announces after lunch that he’s going out, and then Jack says, “Me too,” and they fool absolutely no one.

Dean spends the afternoon making meatballs for dinner (in addition to becoming Mr. Clean since Cas died, he’s become Martha Stewart), and hopes, when he hears the bunker door slam, that it’s a good sign.

“You’ve got something on your face,” Dean says to Jack when he walks into the kitchen with a smear of chocolate across his cheek.

“We got ice cream!” Jack says.

“It was delicious,” Cas adds, following Jack in. His expression as he looks at Jack is warm and full, not the hard-edged sadness of yesterday, and Dean breathes an internal sigh of relief.

As it turns out, though, they did not bring ice cream for everyone else. Disappointing.

#dadstiel week #I struggled with today's prompt so I hope this is adequate?#offbeatwrites #TIME TO TAG SOME FOLKS #AHHHH #friendshapedcastiel #userstarry #chocolatecakecas #userdainty #kashmircastiel #userdorksinlove #anyways #:)

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downwiththemutantnjnjaturtles · 4 years ago

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We Met Within This Screen [chapt. 7]

[Donnie x reader]

chapter 6 here

"Nothing gets past me, especially not you and your nervous habits, Donatello," Splinter's voice bounced around Donnie's head.

The brothers all looked at each other incredulously, Donnie's anxiousness replaced by complete bafflement. Everyone was wondering the same thing: How did he know?

"You wonder how I knew," Splinter said pointedly, "as if you four are any good at keeping a secret."

They waited for him to go on, but instead there was another uncomfortable pause, Splinter assumedly expecting them to say something. It was Mikey who finally broke the silence. "Are you gonna, like...tell us what we did wrong? How you knew? So next you can't—"

Splinter scoffed and brought his staff down on the youngest's foot. Mikey yelped, bouncing away on one leg. "Teach you how to lie? I have taught you many skills, but one that will always elude you is how to keep something from me. Parents have a sixth sense, you know." He turned to Donnie, regarding the rest of them with a dismissive wave of his hand, "You three, to your rooms. Come to the dojo with me, Donatello."

The three were quick to scatter, Mikey whining into Raph's ear about being sent to their rooms so early, and Raph huffing that he'd been dragged in too.

Swallowing, Donnie followed behind him a few paces, not sure what to expect but nervous all the same. He was lead in and instructed to sit down on the floor, Splinter settling down in front of him. Donnie's fingers brushed along the ridges of the knuckles of his other hand again and again as he tried to find something to occupy them with.

Resting his palms in his hands, Splinter began to talk, voice less harsh than Donnie had anticipated. "I know that we lead a very isolated life, my son. But you must keep your priorities in perspective. You four need each other, and betraying one another's trust does not help that case."

"I'm sorry, Master Splinter," Donnie apologized and hung his head.

"Perhaps you should apologize to your brothers, just as they should to you."

I did put them on the spot, especially Leo, thought Donnie, considering now that he had put him and Raph in a weird position. They had to choose between ratting on him to Splinter and keeping it under wraps for the sake of not stirring up the pot needlessly. As much as Leo was a stickler for the rules, he didn't want to create dissension between him and Donnie. So, they chose the latter option, and now all four were in trouble with their father.

"Okay. I guess...but, Master Splinter, how did you know?"

"About your secret antics?"

Donnie let out a humorless chortle, feeling a twinge of embarrassment that he had actually thought at some point, he was getting away with anything. "Yeah, it...it wasn't very much of a secret."

Stroking his chin, Splinter plainly said, "It was only a suspicion, until you confirmed it."

That night a few weeks ago when Splinter came to him in his lab. The way he squeaked when he was confronted just prior to them going to talk alone. Why didn't I think of that? It was a classic trick, one their father had deployed quite a few times on them. He'd been baited into giving himself away. None of them could tell when he was bluffing or if he actually knew. Save for Leo, who managed only twice in their time to make heads or tails of it.

"I really walked right into that one," Donnie whimpered under his breath, palms pressing down on his knees.

"You did. But," his tone turned more serious, looking him dead in the eye, "you must fix your mistakes, son."

"How?" asked Donnie softly, searching for his father's guidance, but it would find no purchase. He was hard pressed to find a solution immediately.

Splinter shut his eyes and thought. It was a tricky situation, indeed. He gathered that if anything, this was an excellent lesson for Donnie, as well as the others. Under his own supervision, of course; there wasn't room for any more blundering.

Standing up, he placed his staff under his hand. "I trust that you will find a way. You have a brilliant mind, Donatello. Use it well," he told him, and went to leave the training room.

Donnie was still sat on the floor contemplating Splinter's words, honored yet uneasy at the same time that he was being entrusted to fix things. How, he didn't know. Truly. He was at war with himself trying to balance his logic with his emotions, trying to make the two meet gracefully, but it felt impossible. Whichever road he chose, it was a betrayal to the other. One left behind while the other took the wheel. And thoughtlessly, he blurted out, "What if your heart is telling you something completely different, Sensei? What if everything feels contradictory, and—and like there's no right answer, even though you do have this mind, you just can't seem to…"

Donnie's voice tapered. Slightly surprised, Splinter stopped in his tracks, brows high as he looked back at him, who was so clearly riddled with a deeper kind of conflict. Critically discouraged, but still the sliver of will in those eyes of his. His heart went out to him.

Splinter had known that Donnie was interacting with a human. What he hadn't known was that he was in love with the human.

There was a moment of understanding, and Splinter realized that Donnie could not do this on his own. It reminded him of the times the turtles had all been children, the way Donnie looked to him for wisdom as he grappled with himself. Sighing, Splinter sat back down, this time close to him. Donnie was despondent, reverting to staring at the edge of the mat he sat on. "I know your struggles, my son. It seems like there's a sacrifice no matter what you choose, does it not?"

"I don't want to let you guys down. But, I...you know, I'm sorry, Master Splinter, but you don't understand."

He didn't want to say bluntly that he wanted to think of himself and his needs, unlike usual. He knew Splinter would probably not approve of that. None of them had much of a chance to make a selfish decision, aside from everyday things such tucking into the pizza before it even made it back to the Lair. So far, the number of times he could recall making a consequential choice for the sole purpose of indulging himself, was an astounding zero.

"What makes you think I would not understand?" questioned Splinter, and Donnie regretted that he'd said it. He didn't miss how Donnie looked to be becoming mildly sour (among other things), though not at him specifically.

It was then Donnie clammed up, shut down the conversation, he was not going to say it. "It" being what he assumed Splinter wasn't privy to, that he had undoubtedly fallen hard for his friend. But knowing his father, he could totally have had a clue. Splinter didn't always need the details to make an assessment when it came to his sons, whom he knew all too well.

Letting out a crestfallen huff, Donnie rested his chin on his knee, arm obstructing the better half of his face. "It doesn't matter," he mumbled.

Splinter stayed quiet. He didn't want to drive Donnie off—not when he was in such a turmoil. The atmosphere changed to a cold one. Donnie didn't acknowledge him until he put his hand on his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze and saying, "I will tell you again: I trust that you will figure it out."

What if I make the wrong decision?

"For all of our sakes, I hope you're right, Sensei," Donnie responded. Splinter smiled and got up, prepared to leave the matter at that until any further updates. Until the phone in Donnie's back pocket began to vibrate out of the blue. He wanted to answer, but what, at that point? What should he say?

A minute went by of more persistent vibrating, and Splinter's ear twitched, certain he knew who it was. He was disappointed with the carelessness that had brought them to that moment, but what was done was done. None knew if the girl had any suspicions. "Are you going to answer it?" he asked, sort of prompting him to pick the phone up.

"May I?" Donnie thought he might have sounded a little eager.

Splinter let out a calm hum and motioned for him to do it. Donnie lifted his finger to press accept, but Splinter interrupted firmly, "Speaker, Donatello."

Eyes flitting to Splinter, he accepted the call and reluctantly turned on the speaker.

"Bo, what was all of that earlier, dude? You had me worried sick!" spoke [y/n], more concerned than angry (which Donnie was somewhat relieved about), but he sunk down sheepishly upon seeing the look on his father's face. He gave Donnie a questionable glance at the word "Bo", as he wasn't aware of the details. Donnie wasn't about to correct her right now.

"I–...hey, [y/n]," he said, forcing himself to turn to the side so he wouldn't have to look at Splinter. The eyes on him made him feel put off to the point he couldn't focus on her voice, but the fact that Splinter was right there, listening in, and both were fixing to find out just what kind of mess they had on their hands. "Believe me when I tell you, you don't want to get caught up in this," he told her, "I can't—"

"Listen," she started, exasperated, "I've heard it before. 'I can't tell you this', and 'I can't tell you that'," she went on, "Be honest with me, Bo; is it that you can't or you just won't?"

Splinter's thoughts were undetermined. Donnie couldn't read anything from his stoic expression.

"It's not that I won't," he rebutted, pitch going up involuntarily, "Why won't you listen to me when I say I can't?"

"Because there's something going on, with you, and I know my eyes weren't just playing tricks on me. I saw something crazy—I heard it, too, when I called you the other day!"

I am so dead. Donnie's stomach did a flip. He couldn't face his father, but behind him, Splinter placed his hand on his face, covering his eyes. He shot Donnie an intimidating glance, and Donnie waved his hands nervously, listening to her go on as he backed up. Pivoting around from the jabs sent to his side by Splinter's staff, he jumped away with his comically long stride, trying to avoid the onslaught while juggling the phone. He muffled a grunf of pain when the cane managed to whack his head.

"Hold on!" he said, and Splinter stopped and narrowed his eyes, the voice on the other end of the phone also going silent. Donnie couldn't regain his composure while being chased around the dojo, so he finally was able to sputter out, "W-what did you see?"

"I was on the balcony, 'Don'. I heard your voice on the phone and saying the same thing from the roof, and saw two giant...turtles! With weapons, fighting what looked like ninjas?! What even is this?" she yelled.

She'd put two and two together. There was no fixing.

Only acceptance.

Blinking, Donnie nearly dropped the phone. Splinter shut his eyes, slowly shook his head, and turned around. The sound of his cane tapping the floor as he walked was the only thing he could hear after he tuned out the speaker.

He was now alone in the dojo, under the light that streamed through the grate above him, standing in the hush.

He turned the speaker off. She, on the other end, was quiet, too, in disbelief. And probably rightfully feeling betrayed, in a way, Donnie thought. The friend she'd come to care for so much turned out to be someone she couldn't have even imagined.

Licking his lips, he put on the most level tone he could and said in a struggle, "You can't tell anyone. I-if you say something, I'll... we'll…"

I could never threaten you, [y/n].

"You'll what?" she asked, voice low.

Then, all the could hear was her breathing. The dojo was completely quiet, the room was large, and there he was, in the middle. Donnie liked smaller spaces. Darker spaces, like his lab. He felt exposed in that moment, even when no one could see him.

"Be in danger," he said in earnest.

There was some rustling, then the sound of wind on her end. He barely heard a sliding door shut.

"Come here," she told him firmly.

His eyes went wide. "What?" he questioned, stupefied.

She sighed, "No more lying, Bo—Don—I don't know. If what we have really matters to you…"

A mix of emotions swirled in him as he waited for her words. She hesitated.

"I'll come," he whispered, finishing her sentence.

"You'll come."

Blowing a breath out from between his lips, and nodded. Sorry, Master Splinter.

He snuck through the Lair to the exit of the sewers.

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cacoetheswriting · 4 years ago

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champagne problems, ch.14

Chapter Fourteen: Sunflower: Things are really looking up. A/N: chapter is titled after this song if you want to listen while reading. Word Count: 2k Warnings: maybe a swear word or two, but really just fluff

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A/N: i know i probably sound like a broken record, but thank you for your continuous love and support! i probably wouldn't have finished this fic series if it wasn't for y’all, and now we are almost at the end! after this chapter, there is only the epilogue left omg!!! also, shout out to @ellesgreenaway for the song suggestion that titled this chapter!

Spencer’s arms were wrapped tightly around your frame, reminding you without the use of words that he will never let you go again. His hot breath hit the back of your neck. It sent a gentle shiver down your spine causing you to flutter your eyes open. As you adjusted to the bright morning hues, you could feel his heart beating against you and a sleepy smile circled your lips.

There was no better feeling than waking up next to Spencer.

With him by your side, greeting the day was easy. It came slow and relaxed, as if the universe was commanding you to bask in this comfort for just a little while longer.

This is what harmony really felt like.

The second you stirred in your comfortably warm spot, and turned so you could admire the sleeping man next to you, he also opened his eyes. A smile instantly graced his features.

“Good morning, doctor.” You whispered and leaned over to peck his soft lips.

“Hmm... Good morning, how did you sleep?” The handsome doctor asked, his hand travelling to your face and brushing away any signs of sleep. You swayed into his touch like a magnet before replying; “Would you believe me if I said it was the best sleep I’ve had in months?”.

Spencer chuckled airily, his hand still caressing along your cheek. “I don’t know if I believe you, but I definitely am flattered.”

“As you should be, doctor.”

In a split-second, his lips slanted over yours in one of those open-mouthed kisses, tender yet extremely passionate. His fingers tangled in your hair, as he pulled you in as close as it was humanely possible. It always amazed you how your lips fit so perfectly together like two puzzle pieces.

After what felt like a glorious eternity, the brunette doctor slowly drew away. He placed a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose before rolling onto his back, one arm draped beneath your neck and hand resting on your shoulder.

“What would you like to do today?” Spencer asked, looking up at the ceiling. You contemplated his question for a moment, but before you got a chance to answer, the sound of your phone ringtone caught your attention.

Sitting up, you reached over to the bedside table and quickly answered the incoming call, “Hello?”

“Oh thank god, you’re alive!” Penelope breathed a sigh of relief on the other line. “We were all worried sick! I even stayed with Tara last night just in case you came back here.”

“I’m okay, don't worry guys.” You replied, glancing briefly at Spencer who has since gotten out of bed. He leaned down to kiss your cheek and exited the bedroom to give you some privacy.

“Well, you’ll get a talking to about not calling or texting later. But for now, how did it go? Tell me everything!” She asked and you couldn't help but giggle, “It went well, Pen. Like really well.” You replied.

Garcia squealed. “AHH! I am so happy for you, sugar plum! You and our lovely resident genius are just meant for each other. A match made in heaven!”

The smile gracing your features grew wider by the second. “Yeah, I’m glad it worked out in the end.”

“Like I knew it would! Now, you get back to whatever it is you were doing and I’m going to update Tara with this wonderful news. Should I tell her she needs to start looking for a new roommate?” She teased, and you rolled your eyes.

“Firstly, nothing untoward is happening.” You began, but Garcia was quick to interrupt you,“Riiight... I’m gonna pretend like I believe you, honey. Love you, have a great day and we can catch up on Monday.”

“Love you too, Pen.” You giggled back before the call ended.

Gradually, you scrambled out of bed and with a light bounce to your step, you joined the hazel-eyed doctor in the kitchen - where the smell of freshly brewed coffee overpowered your senses.

“So, how much trouble did you get in?” Spencer teased, as you rested your body weight against the counter next to him.

“Surprisingly, none at all.” You replied with a shrug. “She’s happy for us.”

Spencer glanced at you briefly, a smile circling his lips. “That makes two of us.” He stated in a low tone and you blushed ever so faintly.

“I forgot just how charming you can be, doctor.” You reacted, earning yourself a kind-hearted laugh. The melodic sound caused your heart to flutter, and you proceeded to tilt your head up and attach your lips to his.

The kiss was short and sweet, reminiscent of many you’ve shared previously. When you pulled apart, Spencer handed you a cup of coffee, and the two of you made your way to his couch.

“Have you given any thought as to what you’d like to do today?” He asked before pressing the mug to his mouth and taking a sip.

“Well, we’ve a lot of catching up to do, doctor.” You replied, throwing your legs over his lap. “I honestly wouldn't know where to start.”

“Y/N, we’ve our whole lives to make up for lost time.” He retorted, and you couldn't help but smile at the thought of growing old with him. “Let’s just take today to enjoy each others company. The sun is out, maybe you want to go for a walk? Or we can stay in and watch a movie?” He suggested.

You took a quick sip of your coffee. “We could actually do both of those things today, doctor. And if you’re good, I can even cook us dinner later.”

Spencer smirked. “If I’m good?”

You nodded, a stupid grin plastered across your face.

Truth be told, you had forgotten just how effortless everything was with Spencer. Your mind was continuously flooded with memories of your time with him. Even when you were apart, you’d get bombarded with thoughts of how uncomplicated the most menial tasks were with him. Although those memories didn’t compare to the serenity you were experiencing right now. Nothing compared to living in the moment with him, again.

The day you spent with Spencer had an unsurprising natural flow to it.

The brunette doctor first drove you to Tara’s, so that you could shower and change out of the pyjamas he lent you. While he waited for you to get ready, he enjoyed a conversation with Tara and Penelope. A conversation about the diamond ring he still carried with him everywhere - but that wasn't for you to know.

The four of you enjoyed a nice breakfast before the girls waved you off for the day. Spencer took the liberty of choosing the park for your walk. Hand in hand, the two of you looped around the paths for hours. Hours of laughing, chatting, and reminiscing. Hours of pure unfiltered joy.

Next stop on the unspoken agenda was the grocery store. Arguably one of your favourite places to go to, especially with the handsome doctor. While you picked out what you needed, Spencer guessed the ingredients of each item you placed in the metal cart. It was no surprise he was always correct, but honestly, that almost made the game more fun.

Back at his apartment, he helped you unpack the bags and proclaimed himself your sous chef. You wanted to protest, tell him to sit down and to let you cook alone, but Spencer wasn't having any of it - “My kitchen, my rules.”. The statement earned him an eye roll because you were sure the last person to actually cook anything proper in his kitchen was you, years ago.

With his... assistance, it took about three hours to make a simple recipe. And once you were finished, the kitchen looked as if a tornado had passed through it.

“Looks like we’ve an evening activity lined up.” Spencer joked, analysing the mess around, and you couldn't help but let out a laugh.

“Can’t wait.” A detectable hint of sarcasm in your voice.

The two of you ate in congenial silence - the first one of that day. It didn’t bother either of you, however. If anything the moment proved just how comfortable and at home you felt around one another.

The move to the couch after dinner was effortless. Spencer picked a movie, one you’ve both seen before so you could cuddle up to one another and talk about random topics without worrying about missing the plot.

It wasn’t until Spencer’s phone rang that you realised how disconnected from the outside world you’ve both been all afternoon.

“I’ll grab it for you, doctor.” You quickly jumped up on your feet before Spencer could do anything. You briskly shuffled around the sofa until you reached the coat hanger by the front door. As you searched the pockets of his jacket for the phone, your fingers brushed against something else.

The ringing stopped when you retrieved the item.

“Spencer, what’s this?” You asked, brows furrowed together.

The brunette doctor turned around. His gaze travelled to the small box you were holding up and he swallowed his breath. Shit. He completely forgot that was inside his jacket, which was ironic considering his eidetic memory. Not to mention the fact he’d been carrying it everywhere he went.

Spencer immediately jumped up from his seat. He appeared in front of you in a flash, his hand wrapping around yours and the box.

“This is definitely not how I envisioned this moment. But then again, when it comes to us, nothing ever goes as planned.” Spencer began, looking into your eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but ehm, I’ve known I wanted to be the man you marry since before we even started dating. You’re the most patient, caring, loving, and not to mention beautiful person I’ve ever met. I am extremely lucky to have you in my life.”

Your eyes glossed over with tears as Spencer continued, “I’ve loved you for a very long time, Y/N. The journey you and I have been on so far is more than your average couple goes on. Which proves that together we are extraordinary.”

He took a deep breath before retrieving the box from your grasp. He slowly got down on one knee and proceeded to open the small box, causing a gasp to escape your lips.

“You’ve been through a lot, Y/N. I understand that you may not be ready to take this next step with me yet, therefore this is more of a promise rather than a question.” He licked his lips, fighting back his own happy tears as yours trailed down your face.

“Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me, one day?” Spencer asked and your heart soared at the question.

“Of course, yes. Yes, yes, yes! Yes!” You squealed, holding out your hand. The hazel-eyed doctor didn’t waste any time to put the ring on your finger, a goofy smile visible on his features. He then stood back up and kissed you with all his might, as you wrapped your arms around his neck and melted into his embrace.

“I would marry you in a heartbeat, doctor.” You mumbled against his lips.

Effortlessly lifting you off the ground, Spencer spun you around. The two of you laughing uncontrollably, basking in the love you were both experiencing. Your fingers tangled in his brown hair, as he trailed sloppy kisses across your jaw and down your neck.

“I love you.” Spencer whispered in your ear before pulling back to look at your face, his hazel gaze locking with yours. “I love you too.” You exclaimed in a hushed tone and pecked his lips.

Gently, he lifted your hand to admire how the ring looked on your finger. His lips twirling upwards even more, as if that was even possible. Both of you felt as if you were on cloud nine.

This is what the rest of your life felt like.

I promise I'm the one for you Just let me hold you in these arms tonight

A/N: ahhh we’re almost at the very end, i can’t believe it!! as always i’d love to hear your feedback! thank you for your continuous support. with love, mal. x

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story taglist: @girloncorneliastreet, @haylaansmi, @rexorangecouny, @l0ve-0f-my-life, @obsssedwithjustaboutanything, @aperrywilliams, @sassy-hades, @rainsong01, @reverdevivre, @dracomikaelson, @softieekayy, @lunaofcrows, @andrewhoezierbyrne, @blameitonthenight21, @lyl-26, @do-yr-research, @nazifa94, @stepsofthefbi, @chatterbug2-0, @calm-and-doctor, @halseysunset, @ellesgreenaway, @chipot-lol

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#champagne problems series #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid story #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction

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teaspoon-full-of-sugar · 5 years ago

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sleeping on the blacktop

pairing: harry styles x reader

warnings: angst, descriptions of a car accident, blood, gore, mentions of death, vomiting, medical terminology (that i know absolutely nothing about !! i am not a doctor or an emt—almost all of my knowledge is from an anatomy class or tv so—don’t come for me pls), my ramblings about fate and free will, i also gave the baby a name (sorry if you don’t like it :( i just hate having y/d/n, ya know? too much work)

word count: 8.5k

synopsis: while harry is away on tour, his wife and baby get into a car accident

author’s note: please, be mindful of the warnings and don't read if you're uncomfortable with anything mentioned and sorry for the sort of rushed ending... other than that, i hope you enjoy! xx all the love

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—

“You don’t need to do that,” Anne says from behind her, and Y/N flinches, nearly dropping a plate. She got lost in her thoughts, staring out the window in Anne’s kitchen.

“You cooked. It’s the least I can do,” she says. Anne grabs a rag and dries some of the dishes. Gemma is keeping Rhiannon occupied in the next room, and from the peals of laughter, it’s the happiest she’s been in days. Y/N sighs, wiping her pruned hands on a paper towel. If she’s being honest, she’s not doing too well; Rhia has had a hard time adjusting to not having Harry around all the time, causing a varied sleep schedule and more bouts of fussiness in general, and Y/N struggles keeping up.

“How’re you doing?”

Y/N hesitates. She contemplates lying. She doesn’t need one more person worrying for her, and she doesn’t want people to think that she can’t take care of her own child by herself. Harry already worries enough, even though she’s assured him many times that he doesn’t need to be.

She knows that he feels guilty for not being there all the time, but she would never force him to stop touring and doing what he loves, partly because she’s afraid he’ll resent her. Despite him being across an entire ocean, she never feels like he is far; he’s always willing to stop anything when she calls, and he tries his hardest to talk with her twice a day. She always keeps him as involved as possible, sending daily updates and photos.

“It’s tough,” she admits, “but it’s getting better, no need to worry about me.” She offers Anne a weak smile.

“Can’t help it,” she says, pinching her cheeks lightly.

Noticing the dimming sky, the sun sinking below the line of trees in the yard, Y/N sighs.

“We should probably go,” she mutters, slipping into the next room. Despite how tired she is, she can’t help the smile that takes over her face when Rhiannon looks up at her, showing her gums.

“Time to go, bug,” she says, light and lilting. Rhia kicks her legs, making her almost lose her balance. She’s too confident for her own good, like her father; she’s only just started sitting up on her own and thinks she can wiggle around without falling.

“You sure you’re okay to drive, love?” Anne asks from behind her. Y/N rolls her eyes, yet smiles fondly at her protectiveness.

“We’ll be fine. It’s only a few minutes away.”

Ever since Harry left for tour, Y/N has been staying in their lake cottage to be closer to Anne. It’s only a quick 20 minute drive away, which has been helpful during the days when Y/N needed to catch up on sleep, and Anne is always happy to help. She didn’t like to do that very often, feeling like she was taking advantage of her mother-in-law.

The cottage was a cute little thing, perfect for just the two of them, and Y/N was glad to get out of their shared home; it was too big and empty for just her and Rhia. Harry was always able to liven up any place they were at, but now that he’s gone, it felt hollow and dismal.

“You know you’re welcome to stay here. I’ve got plenty of room,” Anne tries to convince her one last time. As much as Y/N appreciated her worrying, she didn’t want to impose, and she’s sure that Anne wouldn’t want to listen to a fussy baby, even though she would deny it to the end of her days.

Y/N puts Rhia in her coat with little resistance, which is surprising, but she only had a short little nap that afternoon, and they had a busy day.

“I know, Anne, but I don’t want to intrude,” Y/N says. “Besides, Rhia sleeps better in our bed, and you need all the sleep you can get, don’t ya?” She tickles her daughter’s little bloated belly, making her giggle sweetly. Once she’s strapped in, the baby stretches and tries to put Y/N’s fingers in her mouth.

“You know I worry about you,” Anne sighs, kneeling next to Y/N.

“No need to worry,” Y/N smiles. Anne tucks the woven green blanket under Rhiannon’s legs. It’s the same blanket Harry had when he was a baby, barely held together with a few threads and love. Y/N stands, hoisting the carrier up to her hip.

“Call me when you get home, yeah?”

“Course,” she says, pressing a kiss to Anne’s cheek.

When they’re settled in the car, Anne stays out on the porch, watching them until they’re safely on the road, offering a wide smile and an air kiss. Y/N is so thankful to have her shoulder to lean on.

It’s a clear night, which Y/N is thankful for, no fog or rain, which isn’t an often occurrence. She stops at a sign, brakes squealing slightly. She stays there for a second, feeling the familiar burn of exhaustion behind her eyes. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel.

“Da, da,” Rhiannon mumbles. Y/N reaches behind her, barely able to reach her on the opposite side of the back seat, and she grabs onto her fingers.

“I know, peach,” Y/N sighs, “Miss daddy, too.”

She never considered how fragile life could be until she met Harry, not in the sense that death is an imminent and constant force, more in the sense that everything, her goals, her view on life, and her priorities, shifted when she met him. He became her influence, and she was willing to go through hell or high water just to be with him.

In summation, it takes all but five seconds for your life to completely change, for better or for worse.

There are dozens upon dozens of tiny events that build up and push you toward that one big moment that will change your life. Nothing is set in stone; different choices lead you down different paths, and your paths are constantly changing, either for better or worse, and slowly but surely, you’ll finally reach the top of that mountain. Every choice you questioned, every sacrifice you made, will come together in due time, just know that you’re working toward a greater purpose.

Y/N has never been a big believer in fate, that everything is beyond your control and that everything is already set in stone, but perhaps there is some truth to it. Fate could have pushed her to leave home when she was young. Fate could have put her on a safe and stable path when she went to university that landed her a good job when she was fresh out of her internship, and fate could have brought Harry into her life.

But she will never claim fate as a sole guide to her life. Fate is not responsible for her success nor her mistakes; that was all because of her hard work and integrity, her youth and ignorance. To her, fate is simply an excuse. People want to put blame on something, and when things seem out of their control or when they make bad decisions, they don’t feel quite as guilty. They’re willing to take credit for good things that happen but won’t when it affects them negatively.

Say, perhaps, that fate brought Y/N to that intersection, then maybe it was fate that planted the trees that obscured her vision; perhaps, it was fate that made the lights in the post go out that evening.

If so, fate has a twisted sense of humor.

If not, why wouldn’t fate give her any time to react before the impact?

How could fate be so cruel?

—

Working as an EMT, there are always certain risks you accept when you are on the clock; not only are you surrounded by an unbelievable pressure, there is always the ominous cloud looming overhead, a thin thread between life and death threatening to break at any moment, and it’s your job to keep them stable until they arrive at the hospital.

Not too hard, right?

Being able to save people from the brink of death and reuniting families makes almost everything worth it, but there are always scenes that stick with you for the rest of your life, and for Leslie Greene, this is one of them.

What stands out the most is the sound of a crying baby.

She’s seen some very horrific accidents: cars that have been reduced to nothing more than a ball of cheap scrap metal, with blood coating the shattered glass, to DOA’s, where the impact made them look unrecognizable. She has seen a lot of unspeakable things and had a lot of good people die on her watch.

But never has she ever had a baby present at any accident scene. That’s new.

Those cries will probably haunt her for the rest of her life.

“I didn’ see ‘em,” the man slurs from the police car. He has a bloodied lip and a slight bruise forming around his neck from the seat belt. The stench of rum rolls off him with every breath. He sits back, eyes dull and hooded, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s done.

Another EMT meets with her half-way to the other vehicle, lodged against the ditch across the way.

“Driver side sustained some serious damage. The baby has no discernible injuries, but another ambulance is a minute out to take her.”

From the driver’s side, Leslie can see the baby on the opposite side of the backseat, the car seat still tightly in place. The baby flails about, legs and arms kicking with strength. The car is twisted and mangled, but most of the damage is on the driver’s side, the door latched closed. Shattered glass cracks beneath her boot.

When they’re finally able to get the car door open, the woman, barely even mobile, opens her eyes slightly, but she flinches back at the bright lights. Blood drips down from her hairline, bruises already forming on her eyes from the impact on the steering wheel. Blood pools on the leather seat as she shifts with discomfort.

James, a newbie who has never been to a scene with this much damage, breathes out shakily. Leslie turns to see his lips curling, close to dry heaving.

“Go get the baby, yeah?”

He nods quickly, pale in the face, and scurries to the other side. The baby is soothed only momentarily before her wails continue. The woman’s eyes snap open fully this time, panic clear on her features. She tugs fruitlessly on the seat belt, a pained groan leaving her when she moves too quickly.

“Please, don’t move. My name is Leslie. I’m here to help.” She presses a hand to her chest, feeling the woman’s racing heart. “What’s your name?��

“Y/N,” she grits out, her eyes fluttering dangerously. From how she reacted to the lights, she probably has a concussion. Leslie cuts the seat belt, and glass falls onto the blacktop, clinking musically until they settle, like they’re sleeping. Through the gloves, she can feel how warm she is, sweat beading down from her forehead. Glass has settled in the divots of her wool sweater, but not before cutting her skin, caking the pearl necklace peeking from the neckline in blood.

“Y/N, I need you to turn a bit. I need to see where the bleeding is coming from,” Leslie says softly, inching her slowly onto her side. She sighs as more blood pools, gushing down her back and soaking her jumper further. It’s from a rib that broke through the skin. She can only hope that they didn’t puncture an organ.

“Does that hurt?” She asks as she puts pressure on the skin.

“No,” Y/N whimpers, eyes fluttering closed. When they get her on the stretcher, with minimal blood loss, she stirs with life again, her trembling hand reaching onto the sleeve of Leslie’s shirt, painting it red.

“Rhiannon—my baby girl—is she…” She swallows back tears.

“She’s fine.” Leslie knows that it’s unwise to lie to a patient; perhaps, she’s not entirely lying, but it’s never a good idea to give a victim a sure diagnosis without actually knowing anything. There may have been no physical signs of trauma to the baby, but internal problems are a very real possibility that they won’t know of until they get to the hospital.

She knows that she shouldn’t lie. It takes seven minutes to get to the nearest hospital, but it’s time that Y/N may not have; despite how quickly they were able to get her into the ambulance, she’s losing a lot of blood.

“Thank you,” Y/N sighs in relief, clutching onto her hand. Her wedding ring nearly cuts through the gloves from the pressure.

“Of course,” Leslie says, easily putting her on an IV.

“My husband,” she gasps suddenly, her arm jerking about. “Harry—he—he’s gonna be worried. ‘M supposed to call. He has to tell her goodnight—“

“Y/N, relax,” Leslie coos. “We will contact your husband. You need to focus on yourself, yeah? Don’t close your eyes, Y/N.”

Leslie can see the fear in her eyes; it’s something she’s grown very familiar with, but it’s not just fear for her own survival. She can see how scared she is for her family. She struggles to keep her eyes open, resilience and weakness fighting for power. Like any mother, she’s fighting for her family. She’s fighting to be able to hold onto and kiss them one more time.

She is trying so hard to fight for her family.

But at the same time, it’s so easy to give in.

“If I don’t make it,” she slurs, breathing quickly out of her nose. The blood from her nose slips down into her mouth, making her cough.

“Don’t say—”

“If I don’t, I need you to tell Harry that I love him, and that…” She lets out a pained whimper, struggling to catch her breath. “I’m sorry.”

“This wasn’t your fault, love.”

Her lip quivers, teeth chattering.

“I’m just sorry for everything.”

Leslie knows exactly what that means. She’s making amends, apologizing for not being able to fight. A lone tear slips from her eye, but Leslie wipes it away.

“I will.” She promises, gripping her hand tighter.

Only two more minutes.

Y/N gives her a thankful nod, and as if she has finally made peace with the world, she falls limp, the light leaving her eyes.

—

Harry has always enjoyed New York, and it’s not very often that he is able to stay for longer than one night. There is just something about it that’s completely different from London or L.A. that he likes about it; He couldn’t imagine actually living there, with the massive crowds and fluctuating weather, but it’s a nice place to visit, very different from what he’s used to.

He’s halfway through the tour for his most recent album, and New York is the last stop before he gets a short break to go home. He has a show tonight at Madison Square, a radio interview in the morning, and then, he’s home free. He’s been looking forward to this break before the tour even began. Don’t get him wrong, he loves performing and meeting fans and traveling the world, but now that he has a family, it gets more and more difficult not being there for the people who need him most.

“So, I heard,” the interviewer begins, smiling widely.

Sadly, Harry has already forgotten his name. The interview was supposed to be a short little thing for social media, only supposed to take 20 minutes, so he could prepare for the concert that evening, but it’s been nearly an hour, and there are no signs of stopping any time soon. Harry holds off yet another yawn, the lack of sleep from the night before washing over him. He’s having trouble focusing.

“You’ve got a baby girl.”

“Yes,” Harry beams. Even though he wants to keep his baby out of the limelight, he can’t help the excitement that fills his chest whenever she's mentioned. He can easily go on and on about how wonderful and sweet and perfect she is. He tugs on his pearl necklace, biting on his lips to keep quiet. He and Y/N agreed that it would be best for Rhia to grow up as normally as possible, which meant only posting about her on his private social media and avoiding busy places so as to not be seen, but some things were simply unavoidable, like interviewers trying to get him to let something about her slip to get their five-minutes-of-fame. It seems rude of him to completely ignore their questions, so he just sticks to very short, vague answers.

“How are you adjusting to fatherhood?”

“Uh,” he laughs, fiddling with his wedding ring. “It was a struggle to begin with. I will admit that, but it’s getting better. We’re still learning how to adjust to everything.”

He says it like he’s actually there, actively helping Y/N, even though he's on the other side of the world. He hasn’t seen his daughter in nearly two months; video chats have absolutely nothing on the real thing. He isn’t helping Y/N put Rhia to sleep when she’s feeling particularly fussy or feeding her at two in the morning, so Y/N can finally get some well-deserved sleep, and he’s not there to play with her or comfort her.

It feels like he’s lying.

He’s a sad excuse of a father. That’s what he really is.

The thought makes the smile fall from his face, but he’s quick to force another one; if there’s anything that he’s learned after years in the public eye, it’s how to fake emotions. The interviewer gives him an understanding smile. He’s older, but not too old, only having a few years on Harry, age wise, but the wrinkles beside his eyes and the nicked ring on his finger suggest years of familial experience.

“I completely understand. I have three boys of my own, and—”

“I am so sorry,” Jeff, Harry’s savior, says suddenly from behind the camera. “D’ya mind if I borrow Harry for a second?”

The interviewer nods.

“No problem. Take 15?”

Harry feels a twinge of guilt as he stands quickly from the chair, happy to finally have a break.

“Thanks,” Harry sighs, brushing past Jeff to the refreshment table. “‘M exhausted. Maybe it’s ‘cause of Rhi, but every little thing wakes me up. Swore I heard her cryin’ last night.” Jeff is quiet, fiddling with his hands nervously. Harry doesn’t notice how quiet the man has gotten, and he opens a bottle of water, rifling through his bag.

“Isn’t it almost 3? Y/N should be callin’ soon.”

“Harry,” Jeff says again, stronger this time. Harry still doesn’t notice how his voice breaks slightly, wobbly and hesitant.

“Yeah?” Harry drinks nearly half of the water, not sparing a glance up. He fishes for his phone, only to remember that he left it in the car. He sighs and turns. That’s when he finally notices how shaken up Jeff is, pale and nervous.

“What’s up? Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he laughs, downing the rest of his water before tossing it in the bin.

“Harry,” Jeff says again, soft and somber, and it makes Harry stop. Dread settles in his stomach, deep and heavy. Jeff has never been one to be the bearer of bad news, and he tended to beat around the bush. “Why don’t you sit down?” Jeff tries to guide Harry over to the cheap stool in the corner of the room, but he rips his arm from his grasp.

Harry has never been one to let his mind run wild; he’s the calm one, who looks at reason and logic. He's the one to tell everyone that everything’s going to be fine; he’s the one who takes everything in stride, like water rolling down his back. Bumps in the road are nothing. He’s the one that comes up with solutions and executes them with ease, but with the way Jeff is treating him, his heart races.

“What?”

“There’s been an accident,” Jeff says slowly, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

It takes a second for Harry to process his words, but when he does, he stumbles back.

His mind automatically tries to reason with itself, that maybe it has nothing to do with him. Perhaps, something went wrong at the venue, and they would have to postpone, lengthening his stay for only a couple more days. Maybe, Mitch got food poisoning and will be unable to play that evening. There are dozens of reasonable explanations as to why Jeff pulled him aside, but Harry knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t have such a mournful look in his eyes, if it isn’t anything less than very serious.

Okay, fine, there was an accident. That could mean so many different things. An accident doesn’t even necessarily mean that they are in grave danger; they could be walking away unscathed.

“W-what? I-i-is it Gem? Mum?” Endless scenarios flicker in his mind, each one worse than the last. The one thing that he doesn’t even consider is it being Y/N or Rhiannon. His mind refuses to go down that road; if it did, there’s no way of knowing how he would react. He doesn’t even consider the possibility of them being in trouble. He hates how long Jeff is taking to tell him, as if holding off will soften the blow. Irritation starts bubbling below the surface, and he finds it hard to keep calm.

“Harry,” he says, shaking his head. “Anne called me. There was a drunk driver, and they’re headed to the hospital now—”

“They?”

His heart stops for a second, and it feels like his chest collapses in on itself. His body feels like it’s reacting to a stressful situation, with adrenaline and fear and anger, but Harry isn’t thinking with a grieving mind; it’s cloudy and slow, delusional, even. He shakes his head.

“No,” Harry mutters, taking a step forward. He can feel tears burn in his eyes, and he makes no move to wipe them. “It wasn’t…” Harry can’t finish the question. It makes him nauseous. Jeff nods solemnly, which, in any other circumstance, would have been answer enough. “Say it,” Harry snaps.

It’s unreal, like a dream. This didn’t happen to him, not his family.

They’re safe. There’s just been a mistake. That’s the only reasonable explanation to everything. Someone made a mistake. Maybe a fan thought it would be funny to pretend to be his mum, and they somehow got Jeff’s number. It had to be a horrible, awful, repulsive joke to get some attention or something; as implausible as that seems, it’s the only thought that makes sense to him because he can’t possibly understand the weight of the truth. He doesn’t know if he can handle it.

His girls are fine.

They have to be.

“Harry—” Jeff tries to calm him down, seeing a bright red flush to his skin, frustration seeping through every pore. Anger isn’t becoming of Harry; Jeff has only seen him angry a couple of times, but never to this extent: red in the face, words shaky, eyes glassy.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“It was Y/N and Rhiannon.”

That is the absolute last thing that he wanted to hear.

Even though, deep down, he knew that they were in trouble. From the first moment Jeff said his name to how sickly he looked when he told him to sit down, Harry knew, deep in his heart and mind, that his family is in trouble. He just wasn’t willing to accept it or even think about it, as if that could change reality. Until Jeff said those five words that confirmed his worst nightmare.

And he feels his world come crashing down, but he’s stuck, frozen, mind not moving nearly as fast as it should be.

“My—my…” He stutters, throat closing. “My girls?” The ache in his chest increases tenfold, and he holds onto his, feeling the racing of his heart and his quick breathing. “You’re fuckin’ with me,” he scoffs, rage building. He shakes his head with denial. “What kind of fuckin’ prick—”

“I wouldn’t joke about—”

Harry knows that. Y/N and Jeff are close. Hell, they even considered making him their daughter’s godfather. Jeff would never joke about something this serious, and Harry knows that, but he isn’t willing to accept the reality because the reality is nearly too much for him to comprehend, to carry on his already weak shoulders.

“No, they’re not,” Harry closes his eyes, hands slipping through his hair like it normally does when he’s anxious. He tugs on it, but the pain is nothing compared to the sick feeling in his stomach or the crack in his pounding heart. He honestly feels like he’s going to be ill or pass out, feeling his mouth dry up, his hands clamming up, and he begins to feel light-headed.

“Y/N’s just about to call me. It’s Rhi’s bedtime.” He rambles, not listening to Jeff.

They can’t be going to a hospital. He talked to Y/N just this morning when he couldn’t fall asleep. He spoke about his worries and doubts and guilt that he felt for being so far away from them, and Y/N soothed all of his fears and reservations, reminding him why he does what he does. Before she left, she told him that she loved him, and he could hear Rhi babbling away in the background, content and happy and safe.

“There’s a plane leaving in a half an hour—”

“And I sing to her. That's the only way she’ll sleep through the night. She hasn’t been sleepin’ very well these past few days,” he says, lost in his thoughts. His words begin to slur.

“Harry, listen to me,” Jeff says, holding onto his shoulders, trying to keep him grounded, from falling apart. Harry doesn’t get anxious often, but when he does, everything comes to a startling halt; he’s not used to it, and he lets it overwhelm him until he can’t function. That’s the last thing anyone needs.

“No, no, they’re fine. They’re fine. They’re—” He swallows, and like a wave, realization dawns on him, drowning him. His family is in the hospital, and he’s not there with them. “Oh, god,” he cries, feeling bile burn his throat. He sinks to his knees, hand pitifully covering his mouth to keep from vomiting. His vision darkens. It feels like the walls are crumbling down, and he’s stuck, frozen and alone, with no one coming to save him.

Just like his girls.

“Harry, you can’t shut down, not now,” Jeff says, kneeling beside him. “They need you.”

He knows that. He needs to be strong for the both of them, so he wipes away his tears, clenches his jaw, and pushes everything down, even if it feels like he’s choking. He has to be strong for the both of them.

The drive to the airport is a blur. He swallows back his tears until his head feels like it’s going to burst and holds his breath until he can see black spots in his vision, but most of all, he’s numb. A small part of him is still trying to convince himself that this is all just a big misunderstanding, but the larger part, the part that’s screaming the loudest, tells him he’s being irrational and selfish.

It takes 7 hours to get home; he has to travel across an entire ocean to get to his family.

How unfair is that?

He wants to blame the world, God, fate. He wants to curse whatever force existed, but behind all of the hate and accusations and judgement, he is nothing more than a guilty, broken shell of a man.

He’s angry with himself, mostly, with the choices he’s made, with how selfish and greedy he was, and how inconsiderate his actions have been for the past few months. He can’t believe that he could be so self-centered, taking Y/N for granted. She’s his wife; they’re supposed to be partners, equals, and he treated her like she was disposable while he traveled the world, living out a dying dream.

He wishes he was there, to not only prevent it, but also to tell her just one last time how important she was to him and tell her of the pain that would spread in his chest at the possibility of losing her or their child; he wants so badly to show his love for her. In four days, they would have been celebrating six years together, and in that time, he has never doubted his love for her. He knew, from the moment they met, that she was meant to be with him until the very end. They were soulmates.

Now that he might lose her and his baby, he feels like his soul is being ripped out of his chest, leaving nothing but a gaping, painful void.

Jeff sends him a link to Twitter and a message: Harry, take all the time you need.

The post says: Due to a personal emergency, Harry will not be able to make the show at MSG this evening, and all tour dates from this moment forth will be canceled until further notice. Know that he wishes he could be with you all, and please, respect his privacy in these trying times.

He calls his mother shortly after, but she doesn’t answer. When he tries Gem, she picks up after a few rings, shaky and winded. He sighs, trying to quell the tremors in his hands. His lips quiver.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Gemma explains what happened to the best of her ability, that Y/N just left to go back to the cottage after eating dinner And that Anne received a call from the hospital, after he didn’t answer his phone (that part stung to hear).

“Please—” He begins, but his voice teeters and breaks at the end. He can’t help the tears that slip down his cheeks. Exhausted and weak, he finally cries. He cries for his wife, his child, and himself. They’re not heart-wrenching sobs, where he’s keeled over, grief and anxiety spilling out of every pore, but they leave him breathless, chest aching.

“Please, tell me everythin’s gonna be fine.”

Her silence is answer enough. She can’t promise him anything. It’s too early to tell, and she’s not going to lie to him, either, not when his wife and child’s life is in the balance.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Gemma admits, “but I will call you as soon—”

He hangs up before she can finish.

—

Rain thunders onto the broken concrete, a flash of lightning brightening the dull sky. Despite the rain, the earth nearly brimming with life, the hospital is dead. There’s not a soul going in or out. The lights flicker eerily in the corner of his eye. It’s four in the morning, so it’s not much of a surprise, but the sight of it being so lifeless just feels wrong.

His mind is moving quicker than the world can keep up with, it seems, and he feels like it goes against the laws of nature. It’s a strange feeling when you feel like you’re falling apart, but the world continues on; most people on the street wouldn’t bat an eye or even pay any notice to him as he’s deteriorating before their very eyes.

As irrational as it is, it feels wrong. It feels wrong that everyone else is able to go on while his life is crumbling.

He called Gemma when he landed, and there were still no updates on their condition. He broke dozens of traffic laws to get there, and now, he stands outside the entrance, still wearing his wool jumper from the day before, smelling like an airport, with rain soaking his hair. Droplets slip down his cheek and jaw, livening the dried tears from earlier, and they seep into his mouth; he can taste the salt.

He’s just staring at the flickering sign.

He can’t move.

Well, that’s not really it; he can move, he can feel, and he can see, but he doesn’t want to move.

How fucked up is that?

He doesn’t want to go inside. Despite all of his fears, and his longing for answers, and his need to see his family, he can’t move.

Because that would make everything real.

If he goes inside, if he pushes past those doors and sees the doctors, he can’t deny it anymore. When he goes inside, he has to face the very real possibility that he could lose his wife and daughter. He isn’t sure if he’s strong enough to handle it.

He’s being selfish. He knows that. He should be running inside, yelling at doctors and nurses to tell him what they’re doing about his family. He should be trying to do something, anything to see his wife and daughter.

But why is it so hard to move his feet?

And why does he still feel so numb?

He breathes in the cold air, burning his tender throat.

When he finally opens those doors, past the point of no return, he’s welcomed by a blinding light and the scent of antiseptic. The inside is just as lifeless, with dull white walls that leaves his head throbbing and dingy carpet that scrapes against his boots. He follows the signs, leading to the waiting room.

A new round of tears fills his eyes when he sees his mother’s familiar figure. He hasn’t wanted to just completely collapse into her arms, crying, in years, but now, he just wants to be in the comfort of her presence, to forget the world.

But he can’t, just like Jeff told him, he needs to stay strong, for them. He can’t shut down. He breathes out deeply, raises his head, and calls out for his mother.

Anne turns around, and when he sees Rhiannon pressed tightly to her chest, safe and sound, he feels more of his strength return, like he can breathe a little easier. He feels his knees weaken, but he keeps moving. He doesn’t feel quite so empty and broken and numb, a small ray of hope filling him for the first time in hours. He cups the back of her little head, thumb caressing the soft baby hairs. They’ve gotten thicker since the last time he saw her.

“She’s fine, Harry, just a little shaken up,” Anne says, smiling slightly.

His happiness is short lived when Gemma stands from behind Anne.

“Y/N’s in surgery right now. All we can do is wait,” she says, her eyes ringed with red, mirroring his own.

“Da,” Rhia says, and he smiles, a single tear running down his cheek. He wipes it and sniffles.

Y/N pretended to be upset when that was Rhi’s first word. She said it only hours before he had to leave. They were in their home, and Y/N was helping him lug his suitcases out of the bedroom when he heard it. It sounded like another babble, but it became clearer until—

“Da,” she squealed, bouncing in her little jumper chair. “Dada.” She hit a little plastic toy ring on the tray

“Y/N,” he called out for her and knelt down in front of his baby. She rushed out of the bedroom.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“Say it again, peach, show mummy,” he cooed, and Rhi repeated it, again and again, reaching for her father.

“I carry her around for nine months and feed her out of my tit,” Y/N whined, “and this is the thanks I get?”

They laughed, nevertheless. It was a bittersweet moment, as he looks back on it now. He was so happy that Rhiannon was growing and learning, but she was growing up too fast for his liking. He lifted Rhi up out of the chair and pressed a gentle kiss to her chubby cheek, tears stinging behind his eyes.

“She’s just daddy’s little girl. Aren’t ya, peach?”

She left a slobbery kiss, well, her version of a kiss (which was more tongue than lip) on his nose. He scrunched up his face, and her features pinched together in return, mimicking him.

“See, jus’ a little mini-me you are,” he said, tickling under her chin.

And when she called out to him after saying their final farewells in the airport, it made it even more difficult for him to leave.

Maybe it was a sign that he shouldn’t leave.

He should have listened.

He’s knocked back into the present when his baby girl looks up at him, eyes lit up with innocence, completely unaware of the dire situation they’re in. They’re not in their London home, and Y/N’s not there with him. His lips wobble, nose burning. His chest hurts, whether from unshed tears or from the thought of actually losing the love of his life, he doesn’t know.

He cups his baby girl’s cheek.

Rhia has Y/N’s eyes. He loves her eyes. When she first opened them, as he held her for the first time, bundled tightly in his arms, he cried big, fat tears until they were all dried up. He felt nothing but love for this little human because she was a perfect mixture of him and Y/N. He loves Rhiannon’s eyes, but now, they serve as nothing but a deathly reminder of his wife, who could possibly not survive these next few hours.

She gives him a gummy smile, her little tongue slipping out over her lips. There’s some white peeking through her gums, and his heart aches. He wipes some drool from her chin, and she reaches for him, but he backs away.

His stomach sinks, and he wants the ground to swallow him whole. His mother looks at him softly, not a shred of disappointment apparent on her face, as if she knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his own daughter. His throat closes.

How could he be so weak?

Rhia’s smile drips down, but she lays her head back on her Nana’s shoulder. Anne cups the girl’s head, wrapping the thinly woven blanket tighter around her; sadness and pity present in the air.

“‘M gonna check in with the nurse, see how Y/N’s doin’,” he whispers, backing away, and he stumbles down the hallway, following the signs until he sees the nearest nurse, clad in pale blue scrubs. Even though he’s sure the nurse expects him to look nothing less than distraught, he smooths down his clothes and clears his throat, trying to quell the cries building, lips quivering pitifully.

“Do you have any information on Y/N Styles?” His voice is watery and broken.

The nurse looks at him with sad eyes, warm and understanding, like his mother’s. How does everyone else know what he’s feeling besides himself?

“No, I’m sorry, sir,” she says, and he simply nods. He doesn’t have the energy to be upset or press her anymore. The heaviness on his chest building, he doesn’t even try to stop it anymore. He just wants to wallow, curl up and cry until he’s finally able to wake up from this nightmare. He hates the feeling like he’s just given up, accepted that Y/N may not come back from this.

He wants to fight, but all of the fight he has left him as soon as Jeff told him the news.

“Thank you,” he whispers, heading back to the waiting room. He sits down silently on the chairs next to Gemma, the worn wood squealing from the sudden weight. Anne paces in front of them, rocking Rhia back and forth, like she has been for the past few hours; call it a nervous tick or a mother’s instinct, but holding Rhiannon calms her.

Gemma glances at him in the corner of her eye, unsure of how to comfort him in such a situation. He can see her

“I can’t hold her, Gem,” he says weakly, and she looks at him, finding his gaze held on the small little bundle in their mother’s arms. She sighs. “What if—” There’s a bitter taste on his tongue. He covers his mouth with trembling hands, trying to push back the cries swelling in his chest.

“What if Y/N dies?”

It’s one thing to think about it, but saying it aloud breaks his heart in two.

Y/N has been a constant in his life for six years, and in that time, she became his rock, his shoulder to cry on, his stability, who held his heart so close to her. Then, he thinks about his baby girl, who has had her mother for barely seven months, just to have her ripped away so easily because of some drunk who didn’t know when to quit, and he thinks he’s going to be sick again.

It takes only one mistake to set off a series of irreversible events.

Exhausted, he doesn’t fight the sob that comes out, his shoulders shaking as more and more. He heaves for breath, curling into himself. Gemma wraps an arm around him, and he cries into her shoulder. He feels useless, sinking further into the endless pit in his mind. He’s never considered the possibility of Y/N never being there with him, holding his hand through the fire, and now that possibility is very real; he can’t face it.

When he’s run himself dry, he finally looks at her with red-rimmed eyes and swollen cheeks.

“If she dies, I dunno if I could even look at her,” he admits. “To see her eyes...” Gemma just listens. She knows that there’s nothing she could ever say to make the situation any better. She holds her brother’s hands tightly. “I should have been here,” he says, nodding softly.

“Harry, there’s nothing you could have done. It’s that prick’s fault, not yours,” she says angrily. She’s trying to keep calm, for everyone’s sake, but it’s difficult when it feels like her family is being torn apart.

“I would’ve been driving,” Harry insists. “I would be the one in there, not her, and they would’ve been safe.”

“You don’t know that,” Gemma argues softly. She’s never seen him like this before, but that’s to be expected in the situation they’re in. He’s normally such an optimistic person, and to hear him degrade himself is almost too much to handle.

“If she does make it—”

“When she makes it,” Gem snaps.

“She’s gonna hate me. I know it.”

“She has never blamed you for anything, not when fans gave her shit, not when paps would follow her, and especially not when you had to leave. There are some things that are simply out of our control, and she understands. She understands that you can’t be there all the time. She understands that this is your job, and your job has made you who you are today. She won’t blame you for this either, so don’t blame yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” he sighs. It’s true. She does not understand what he’s gone through. She doesn’t know what it feels like, but she knows that the damage is already done. There’s no use in looking back and analyzing everything to see what they could have done differently.

“I should’ve been here.”

“If only things were that simple.”

“Harry?” A shallow, unfamiliar voice speaks from behind him, making everyone raise their heads.

Anxiety spikes in his stomach. He wonders how anyone could have recognized him, since there is absolutely no one else in the hospital, and how insensitive they would have to be to come talk to him while he’s in such a state. Anger bubbles within him, his skin turning hot as he turns to face the woman.

The blood on her uniform makes him pause.

“My name is Leslie. I was one of the first people on the scene.”

“Do you know anything?” She shakes her head sadly.

“But I was with your wife in the ambulance. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you and…” She coughs, hesitation clear on her features. “And not to give up.”

She probably doesn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words because when he stands and tugs her into a hug, she tenses, hesitantly wrapping her arms around him. Again, like when he saw his baby girl, hope warms him, blanketing and strengthening him.

It’s like Y/N is speaking to him through her.

“Thank you,” he whispers, offering her a weak smile. Just as they part, an older woman rounds the corner. Everyone sits up a little straighter, the air becoming a little tenser, when she gets closer to them.

“She’s resting, now, but she should be up in a few hours,” the doctor smiles.

Harry wants to crumple to the ground as a weight lifts from his chest, and he can finally breathe. He’s run ragged, a broken cry slipping out of his blubbering lips. He tugs Gemma into his arms, who returns the embrace wholeheartedly. Such relief and warmth fills him that he can barely hear the doctor as she continues.

“There was some pretty severe internal bleeding, but we got her stabilized. She also had a couple broken ribs, nothing that time and care won’t heal. After we do some more tests, she should be released in about a week. I can show you to her room, if you’d like?”

“Yes,” Harry cries.

When they reach Y/N’s room, Harry pauses outside and turns to his mother. Her eyes, noticing the confliction in his eyes, are soft and understanding. He never thought about seeing her in such a state until now, but least she’s still with him, his little fighter, just like Rhi.

“Mum, can I, uh…” He nibbles on his lip, holding his arms out.

“Course,” Anne says, moving the baby in his open arms.

“Hi, peach,” he says, smiling. She sleeps contentedly, her features relaxed. His heart twinges as she burrows herself into his chest, and he wraps the blanket a little tighter around her.

“We’ll go to the cottage and get some extra clothes for you all,” Gemma says, knowing that Harry needs this time alone. She tugs her mother, who hesitates but soon follows.

He expected her condition to be poor, but that doesn’t stop the burning in his eyes when he sees her, hooked up to what seems like dozens of machines, her face swollen, and stitches along her hairline; she looks so fragile, so broken, but her heart beat is strong, breathing steady. As if sensing her father’s discomfort, Rhi burrows further in his arms, snuffling lightly.

He settles in a chair next to Y/N’s bed, one hand holding hers while the other arm cradles his baby.

“Gave daddy a scare earlier, peach,” he coos. “Daddy’s sorry that he wasn’t there with ya.”

He promises her many things, that she’s safe, that nothing will ever happen to her, and that her mum is safe, too, but most importantly, he promises to be there for her. He cries silently, careful to keep the tears and painful jolts of his chest from waking Rhi. He just can’t help it. After the dust settles and the smoke is cleared, the gravity of the situation weighs on him: he could have lost the two most important people in his life, and he would not have been there.

A nurse stops by to bring a bassinet for Rhiannon and to check on Y/N, who is doing wonderfully, especially after such an invasive surgery.

Y/N wakes after about an hour, just as the sun peaks beyond the horizon. Harry is still up, of course, watching his girls, finding comfort in the heart monitor. He pushes the bassinet back and forth with his foot.

“H?”

He beams when he hears her voice, gravely and worn, but it’s her voice nonetheless, comforting and warm. He wishes that he could hold her and kiss her until his love heals her wounds, but he has to settle for holding her hand and kissing her forehead for the time being.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, tears slipping past her swollen eyes. “It happened so fast.”

“What are you sorry for, lovie? You did absolutely nothin’ wrong,” he says, brushing back her hair.

“You had to leave because I wasn’t being careful enough, and I—”

His heart aches, eyes glazing over. He hates that he made her feel like his job was more important than her.

“No, none of that,” he says, shaking his head. “That doesn’t matter. Listen, this was not your fault, and as far as tour goes, it’s not nearly as important as you two. I would drop everythin’ if you needed me to. There is nothin’ that I wouldn’t do for you. You know that, right? You both are my life, now; I made that promise the day we got married and the day she was born. You both are my number one priority, and I haven’t been treating you like it. For that, I’m so sorry.”

“Harry—”

“It was selfish of me to think that I could live in the past and the present, live the life that I used to while trying to be a father and a husband. It wasn’t fair of me, and I am so, so very sorry, babylove.”

He kisses her, careful of her bruises, and she sinks further into the bed, comforted by his warm words and tender touches. Her eyes, fluttering with exhaustion and filled with tears, refuse to close, as if she’s afraid that he’ll be gone by the time she wakes. He runs his thumb along her cheek, mindful of the swollen areas. For the first time in what feels like years, his mind is calm, basking in the feeling of happiness as he’s finally able to feel and see his family, safe and within his reach. That’s all he’s ever wanted, and as he sees her nodding off, he presses a quick kiss to her knuckles, whispering.

“Rest, lovie, I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”

She falls asleep with a faint smile.

Perhaps, fate isn’t cruel as many think. Just like anything, it can be merciful and loving for those who are worth mercy and love.

—

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #ellie writes #ellie writes angst #not my gif #credit to owner

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recurring-polynya · 3 years ago

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Writing/Art Update 10/8/2021

Hello, it’s me, the slowest person in the world at everything! Gosh, everything was such a slog this week. I think it’s because I was really determined to finish Ch 8 this week, so I would sit down and not really let myself do other things, but at the same time, I really didn’t want to work on it, so I was really dragging one sentence out of me at a time. The good news is that I did, in fact, finish it.

That makes 8 out of (I think) 12 chapters total, so I really am getting there. I feel kinda excited about it, but I’m trying not to feel too excited, because I still have a long way to go. I also feel like I have a lot of little plot elements that I picked up and never concluded, or other things that don’t have enough build up, so I am probably going to have to go back when I’m done and fill in cracks and slap on another coat of paint, so to speak. If you’ve never written a really long story, it really is sort of a marathon, in terms of keeping your enthusiasm going so you don’t burn yourself out or skimp on quality control. When you work on something for a really long time, you just want it to be done so badly. On the other hand, I keep telling myself, you spent so much time on this, it is worth spending just a little more time so that it’s actually good. I personally, love long fanfics, but I always feel like I’m asking a lot of people to read what is essentially a novel.

I don’t even know why this thing is so long. It’s some dinner parties, a old guy you want to punch in the face, a bunch of Squad Six fuckery, Byakuya being angrily soft for his trash children, and a thousand scenes of Rukia and Renji gazing longingly at the other one when they think the other isn’t looking. No one needs 100k words of that, and yet, what is I see here? None of it is even very well developed!! It’s honestly just me, rambling, as usual!! Quite a few of the scenes are completely shoehorned in because I wrote them before I had a plot but I am too enamored of my own voice to ever delete anything.

Speaking of numbers, Ch 8 rang in at a marginally excessive 11,900, for an overall tab of 63,749 (+5,269).

Usually, I compulsively re-read and tweak stuff I have already written, but I haven’t really been able to stomach that, for some reason. Nevertheless, before I jump on Ch 9, I think I am gonna try to go back and clean up some of my earlier chapters so I can send them off to beta. Like I said, I feel like they’re gonna need a little more sanding and polishing, but if I don’t get some sort of feedback/encouragement, I’m going to die, so.

Oh, right. I have also been contemplating the idea of posting a few teaser snippets in my weekly updates, in part, to keep my own enthusiasm up. I am estimating that I have 8-10 weeks of work left on this thing, so I could reasonable post a paragraph or two from each chapter if I started next week. Is that something people would be interested in?

Finally, in other things-I-do-slowly news, I am very close to done a very cute piece of art that you will like, depending on how long I futz around with the background. I really like it, it’s just been agonizingly slow going, probably because it’s got, like, 1000 textures. I’m not even doing a real background. I’m ridiculous. I will finish it this week, I promise.

#writing update #art update

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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

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Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Chapter 11

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption. This is a sugardaddy x sugarbaby fic soooo… a daddy k!nk too oops.

But in this chapter - references to verbal abuse and a neglectful mother.

Author’s note: After an accidental one month hiatus, I’m back! I’m nervous about posting this because I haven’t updated December Magic since I saw WW84. As you may have noticed, I have rebranded this fic and the name is now called ‘Sugar and Spice’! There is a slight time jump in this chapter, and it’s just a short one as I ween back into it, but I realised I was struggling so much continuing this fic after seeing WW84 because it just didn’t feel like the Max Lord we ended up with was anything like the Max Lord in this fic. This chapter is my attempt to make amends and draw a link between Sugar and Spice and WW84.

While I’m here I want to give a shout out to my new on-going Max Lord series ‘I Believe In Love’, which you can read here. I Believe In Love is like my baby and I am so so proud of it thus far. Anyways, enjoy chapter 11 of December Magic!

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS - CHAPTER ELEVEN - NEXT

He hadn’t come home for Christmas. He hadn’t come home for two months. It was fine at first. He called you as soon as he reached London, just like he promised. He expressed to you how busy he was with work commitments and how difficult it was for him to cope with the timezones. The distance between the UK and USA was devastating. Your hour long phone calls gradually became more spread out and only lasted a few minutes, and honestly? It broke your heart. There you were; living in Lord Manor, and Maxwell had kept his word: “you want for nothing”. You had everything. His weighty black AMEX card, a house staff such as a butler and a chef and your own personal driver to take you wherever you wished to go. Any material possessions you wished for… they were yours. You weren’t even working for the privilege or the money. Max was far away and yet, he made sure you still had a home and a life, and he made sure that you were safe.

But there was still an extreme void in your heart. You were missing Maxwell. You’d try calling him but there was always a dead line. Not even Raquel would answer. You felt like you were drifting apart and your whole body ached with dread as you wondered if Max had forgotten about you. You’d kept in contact with Maxwell’s three assistants at Black Gold and they had no information on the work commitments that Max was supposedly seeing too. The romance you had shared during December may have been a whirlwind, but you knew him better than any other person on the planet and you felt like he was deliberately avoiding you.

There was something not right.

***

“Kitty!” Maxwell cried, his cheeks burning red and his eyes flicking with bewilderment as the child was thrust into his arms. A ghost from his past. Kitty was an ex lover of Maxwell’s, and honestly one of many. He hadn’t thought about her in years.

“I’ve brought him up for the past six years, he’s your problem now!” Kitty spat, an evil smirk crossing her lips. “I see you on the television with all your fame and fortune, if you don’t want him then the least you can do is pay a nanny to watch him. I have nothing Max. A shitty little apartment in the east of London. I’m working for a modelling internship but it’s hard to find luck when I’ve got a six year old kid dragging my heels behind.”

“Dragging your heels?” Maxwell repeated, furiosity burning his lungs. “He’s your son for Christ sake! How can you say that? Right in front of him!”

Maxwell turned back to the child who was standing as still as ever in the centre of the hotel room, nervously looking at his feet. Everytime Kitty raised her voice, the boy winced, and it crushed Max. This situation was all too familiar to him.

“He’s your son too!” Kitty glared, her face just as cold as her heart. “I want nothing to do with him. Goodbye.” Kitty said, her voice venomous, before leaving the hotel room and slamming the door behind her.

Maxwell’s knees felt weak and wobbly and he stumbled to his bed, sinking down with an exasperated sigh. Max’s hands cradled his own face and he blinked away unshed tears before sitting back up and looking at the six year old boy. The boy was silent, and his dark eyes matched the sadness of his father’s. How could this have happened?

Maxwell Lord had a son.

Max didn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say? He remembered doing work in London back in 1977; it was the start of his big break, and his bachelor persona hadn’t changed much since then. When Kitty found out Maxwell was back in London, she used it as her one final chance to track him down. Turns out, a big name CEO such as Max Lord was hard to get a hold of, especially when he lived on the other side of the world. Kitty never had pure intentions. Of course the pregnancy was unplanned and the sad reality was, Alistair was unwanted by his mother. Kitty was an aspiring model, fueled by ambition and goal, much like Maxwell. She didn’t have a single maternal instinct in her. Only there was a significant difference between Alistair’s parents. Whilst Kitty cared so little about her son, Maxwell knew that from this day forward, Alistair would be his top priority. He would never let his job intervene with his son. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes his own parents did.

Maxwell never thought about children, or considered bringing any into the world. He told himself he’d never want to be a father. He had such a terrible upbringing himself and his mother was wicked, he’d be too afraid. He’d never want to hurt or disappoint a potential child of his the way his own parents had hurt and disappointed him. But when he looked into his son’s eyes he felt nothing but determination. He’d been an absent father and that was not okay. Max just wished he’d known about his son before now. But it’s not like he could turn back time. Max knew he had to make amends and he knew he had to do it now.

Maxwell opened his arms and held Alistair’s hands, bringing him close and holding him tight against his chest. “My son,” he whispered, trying to refrain from crying. “I love you so much. I know you don’t know me, but you will, and I will spend the rest of my life making you proud. You are my everything.”

“You saved me daddy,” Alistair whimpered, tears spilling and dampening his father’s pinstripe shirt. “Thank you.”

***

You waited every day for Maxwell to return, but you never expected him. You were laying on the living room sofa, a blanket wrapped around you, half asleep as the muse from the television drowned out your thoughts. When you heard the lock on the front door click open, you thought you were dreaming. There was no way. No way. Footsteps. Hell, there was more chance of an intruder than it was Max. You rubbed your eyes and cautiously rose to your feet.

Your heart sank when he entered the room. It was him. He was home. Tears filled your eyes and you couldn’t hide the excited grin that painted your lips. “Oh my god Max!” you squealed, running up to him. He looked tired, but he was smiling too. You were inclined to run into his arms, but your focus on his face left you without realizing the small sleeping child he was carrying in his arms.

You blinked in confusion, your gaze flicking between Maxwell and the boy. “This is Alistair, my son.” Maxwell informed you, his voice hoarse and low. At the mention of his name Alistair stirred in his sleep and Maxwell immediately, on instinct, shushed him.

“You-what?” You were speechless. You knew something was wrong the second Max had distanced himself. The second the phone calls had stopped and he hadn’t come home. You knew something was wrong when his assistants said his work schedule was clear. But never in a million years did you expect your sugar daddy to come home with a son.

“I didn’t know,” Max whispered in avoidance to wake up Alistair. “It’s a long story but I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’m sorry I didn’t come home for Christmas like I promised. I’m so sorry baby. I’ll make up for it.”

You couldn’t even gather words. You swallowed the hard lump in your throat and contemplated everything. You sighed. You believed Max - how could you not? Of course, you were very interested in learning all about his secret son but you supposed that didn’t matter too much right now. All that mattered is that Max was home, and safe. You smiled and rested your hand on Alistair’s forehead, brushing his straight black hair out of his face. Alistair smiled sleepily under your touch. Max’s cheeks grew warm with admiration as you comforted his son. It meant a lot to him that you took a liking to Alistair and that you accepted the fact Alistair was in his life now, and nothing would change that.

After all, Max Lord was still hopelessly devoted and in love with you.

“Come on,” you whispered, bringing your hand up to cup Maxwell’s face. You brushed your thumb over the height of his cheekbone and Max found himself subconsciously leaning into your touch. “Let’s take him to bed and go to bed ourselves. We clearly have a lot to catch up on.”

Max nodded his head in affirmation and you followed him upstairs. He took Alistair to a guest bedroom and gently tucked him under the blankets, pressing a caring kiss into his son’s forehead before turning back to you. As you watched his gentle actions, it was like you were witnessing a whole new side to Maxwell. And it was beautiful.

Sugar and Spice taglist: @100layersofdaddyissues @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-wayson @this-cat-is-dea @blonde2bomshell @maiyaaaa0130 @autumnleaves1991-blog @justanotherblonde23 @softly-sad @laaadygisbooornex3 @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @drinkingwhileblogging @kesskirata @honestlystop

Permanent taglist: @paintballkid711 @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie @harrys-stan @kennedywxlsh @cripplingmoon @cheekygeek05 @mrschiltoncat

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #max lord #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #ww84 #max lord series #maxwell lord series

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hualianff · 4 years ago

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T.F.T.A (I.H) III 《II》

Irodori – Hiroaki Tsutsumi “I can touch up some patches of the walls that look washed out?”

“Uh, no you don’t have to-“

“-oh! And I can vacuum the carpets in the morning before work, during the day, and at night once everyone leaves so the floor will always be spotless-“

“No, really, that’s a bit much-“

“Does anything in your office happen to need dusting?“

HX sighs. This human never stops.

First, it is the food and drinks he delivers to the employees on each floor–without being asked to. His employees are filthy slobs when it comes to dealing with their customers as it is; the extra vacuuming would admittedly be appreciated. Though, HX has no complaints when XL personally brings him fresh coffee and pastries from the bakery on the corner.

Then, it is the excessive cleaning that has somehow become one of his biggest priorities, courtesy of XL. HX supposes this is what he needed a custodian for in the first place. But he can’t help but wonder how YY found a human who is so damn eager to be worked like a slave.

“Mr. Xuan, what cleaning fluid brand do you prefer the bathroom floors to be mopped with?” Xie Lian asked, still sitting in the lone chair in front of HX’s desk, one hour after he first entered. Here he was, going through a laundry list of sterilization questions while HX was still trying to process just how ugly the human’s work uniform was.

He’ll have to do something about that.

HX was, by no means, generous or fashionable. Hell, he currently had on all black–the inner and outer robes being different shades–and cheap sandals that exposed just how pale his skin was. He sported the same skull earrings since first getting his ears pierced, and he kept his hair back in a simple, low ponytail that felt like a rope of lead at times.

They surely must make quite a pair, like the dark and mysterious goth teen meets the wrongly-dressed happy-go-lucky old man. There is no doubt HX beat XL in age by a couple of hundred years, yet, XL somehow still gave off wise-beyond-his-years energy. A man who has seen and been through plenty of life’s obstacles.

Such fragile beings, humans were.

“Um, Mr. Xuan?” XL spoke up again when HX didn’t answer his twentieth question right away. “Is it alright if I call you that? Or should I call you Black Water?”

HX’s frown deepened, sincerely considering how XL should address him. It was not like XL knew the truth behind the title Black Water, and for that reason, it felt improper for the human to speak a name he was not aware held so much power.

“Mr. Xuan is fine,” HX says curtly.

“Oh, okay. Mr. Xuan it is.”

HX exhaled with thinning patience. He placed his elbows on the desk, preparing to shoo his new employee away so he could work in peace.

“You can just call me Xie Lian. I hope to be of the best assistance to you, Mr. Xuan,” XL adds quicker than HX can respond. “By the way, about those cobwebs surrounding the hallways lights-”

Seriously, was this guy out of his mind?

From XL’s perspective, he believes he hit the jackpot with this job. Not only is it incredibly low-stress compared to his previous hustles, but XL often finds himself to be most useful in keeping Black Water company. Yes, XL is aware HX strives to be as antisocial and non-confrontational as possible. And yes, a boss-employee relationship probably shouldn’t cross a certain line into the best friend zone.

But whenever HX happens to be nearby, and XL bounds over with a dozen updates on his work and random stories that he can’t help sharing, HX begrudgingly stays and listens.

“See? Doesn’t dusting make everything nicer to look at?“ XL questions with a sunny smile, gesturing to the bookshelves on one side of HX’s office. He was a quarter of the way through with this task when his boss walked in.

HX merely grunts, then plops down in a chair different from the one guests typically sit in. It appears to be a new addition to the room. In XL’s eyes, more furniture means more growth in self-care for one’s personal space. In this case, HX’s working environment.

Naturally, XL approves with a satisfied nod. He also can’t stop the next words from tumbling out of his mouth.

“By the way, I noticed your tastes in literature differ across many subjects: Folklore, politics, ocean science…”

HX raises an eyebrow at this comment.

“What about it?” he asks, a little blunt, a little curious.

XL continues dusting in between the shelves. He faces away from HX and is glad his boss can’t discern his nervous expression. XL knows he has his nosy moments, knows that he often unintentionally crosses others’ boundaries in order to connect, which irks people all the time.

Maybe this is one of those moments.

Still, XL wants to try.

“Do you want to tell me about them? I’m quite the avid reader myself, and some of these titles look positively compelling,” XL says, skimming a hand down the exquisite spine of one of the books. He turns his head just enough to sneakily eye HX’s reaction, who hasn’t changed his seating positions the last forty minutes.

HX’s arms remain crossed over his chest, staring straight ahead at the wall of bookshelves XL insisted on dusting and tidying. His obsidian eyes noticeably sharpen, jaw slightly relaxing.

HX doesn’t say anything for a long minute. One minute bleeds into two, and then three.

XL sighs, a bit disappointed. He doesn’t want to push HX’s limits, nor initiate conversation he is in no place to discuss. Quietly, XL turns his attention back to work.

But as XL squats down to straighten out some books on the lower shelf, the image of black robes gliding along the floor catches his eye.

HX walks to one of the middle bookcases, caressing his fingers along his vast collection until he pauses on a book with an emerald green cover and characters glimmering in gold. He plucks the novel out of its homely crevice, opening the cover to flick through the worn pages.

XL takes this as his cue to approach, waving around the feather duster in anticipation. HX shifts to show the human the open book, finger pointing to the section header.

“This one is a myth about a parasitic ghost who latches onto its host and feeds off of sadness, sorrow, despair,” HX explains slowly, deliberate with his words. XL’s mouth opens in an “oh” shape, expressing interest in his features.

HX brings the book closer for XL to see.

“It’s one of my favorite reads,” HX murmurs, focusing on the text. XL blinks in astonishment, feeling especially honored that HX shared this with him.

It has only been one month since XL started working at Paradise Deals, and despite HX’s “I don’t care” attitude when it comes to basically anyone ever, XL definitely considers them to be friends.

And that is honestly the most he could ever ask for.

“Then I’ll be sure to put it on the top of my list,” XL chirps, tapping the book with the duster.

The corner of HX’s mouth tugs upwards.

*** Flor y Sangre – Sophism, Isabella LeVan, A Million in Vermillion One day, as XL rides the elevator up to the eleventh floor, it stops at the third floor first. The doors open to reveal a man with a green dress shirt tucked into black-and-white checkered pants. The same checkered-patterned suit jacket hangs loosely over his shoulders.

The man’s dark hair is long enough to cover his ears, making him appear quite young. Side bangs obstruct his eyes, but upon seeing XL’s face, the strands fly out of the way as he shakes his head in surprise.

“YOU!” The man seethes out, stomping into the elevator with clenched fists.

“M-me?” XL looks around, then points to himself questioningly.

“What are you doing here!? And what the hell are you wearing!? Am I supposed to fall for a dumb disguise like this?” The stranger fires back, voice getting more high-pitched as he jabs an offending finger at XL’s nose.

XL is beyond confused. He glances down at his custodian attire, the nameplate thankfully still in place. It’s in navy this time, courtesy of Black Water’s kindness is providing XL with more than one work outfit that doesn’t automatically suck the soul out of whoever sees it.

There is an awkward beat of silence.

The elevator doors close, XL now pressed with his back against the wall, nervously fiddling with the mop in his hands.

“Do I know you?” XL asks, forgetting his manners in a panicked state while searching his memories, trying to recognize the man in front of him.

“Fucking rude, as always,” the man sneers, giving XL a nasty stink-eye before backing off. “If you won’t reveal your true self now, I’ll just follow you until you do.”

“Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” XL rushes out, sneaking in a few bows here and there. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for the wrong person?

The man crosses his arms as if seriously contemplating XL’s words. His eyes shift from XL’s face, to his attire, to the mop, and then finally, up towards above XL’s head.

He decidedly shakes his head, unconvinced.

“No, I’m not that gullible. How convenient would it be that the first time I see you in who-the-fuck-knows-how-long, you’re stuck like this,” he hisses lowly. “Weak. Useless. Ignorant.”

Now that makes XL’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. He’s been harshly insulted before–regarded as pitiful and lacking potential in many areas–and likes to think his skin is thicker because of it. But to be directly attacked by a man whom he has no memory of meeting before? XL can’t help but feel like this is entirely uncalled for.

How does this man even know him?

The elevator doors slide open, having reached the eleventh floor. On the other side stands Black Water, wearing an expensive-looking suit with navy lining and silver cuffs. His foot stops its tapping on the ground where it had been denting the carpet.

“Xie Lian, I’ve been looking for you,” Black Water says, completely ignoring the other man in the elevator. “I’m meeting with a few clients on the east side of the city, and I need you to handle the documentation.”

He holds out a huge briefcase with the same fish symbol as the ones on the doors in the hallway. As XL steps out of the elevator to accept the briefcase, an interested “Xie Lian, huh?” sounds from behind.

“Pardon me, sir, if I can’t recall our first acquaintance. But did you need something from me?” XL asks while turning around, attempting to hold out an olive branch once more. Next to him, Black Water pulls out his phone and mindlessly scrolls down the screen.

“I can’t believe you actually did it. Got yourself a name and everything,” the man says, disbelief coloring his features. Then his eyebrows pinch together in a sudden display of anger. He locks eyes with XL, those amber eyes looking eerily similar to his own. “You disgust me.”

Before XL can react, the elevator doors slam shut instantly with a loud boom, masking the sound of fingers snapping right next to him. XL jerks at the sound, hands white-knuckling the briefcase.

“Do you know who that is?” XL asks his boss, tilting his head. This encounter has left him awfully confused and a little worried about his job. Would this affect what his boss thinks about his impact in the workplace?

It seems this trouble is needless when HX eyes simply narrows his eyes at the closed doors, a stormy expression on his face.

“No one to concern yourself with.”

Bonus:

XL finds out QR is the lower-levels’ boss, who holds an apparent grudge against him…? Once QR had come across XL in the elevator, he sticks around like an unwanted pest, somehow having the time to harass XL many hours a day.

XL: “Why does this guy keep following me around and insulting me?”

XL eventually cleans QR’s floors too because he has time and it seems QR won’t leave him alone.

HX: “Give me back my custodian!”

QR: “Fuck off! Why are you so defensive about mortal scum?”

XL, wiping down the doors, whistling: (´∀｀*)

#tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven offical's blessing #hualian #hualian au #xie lian #hua cheng #he xuan #qi rong #cerdrabbles #TBC #one of he xuan's books is titled 'how to get away with murder' no cap #xie lian and he xuan best friend agenda #guess who suggested he xuan should get a custodian in the first place #it's the same person who he xuan leeches off of to pay xie lian his salary #protect xie lian at all costs he's gonna need it #I'm writing this instead of doing online college #college is a scam

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thetomorrowshow · 4 years ago

Text

unless you take your army back ch. 4

First - Previous - Next - Read on AO3!

okay so I’m moving to college this week!!! My updates will probably be delayed or sporadic until I figure out my schedule, but I will definitely not stop writing :)

cw: temporary paralysis, blood, injuries

Crutchie twitched into wakefulness when he heard noise, and was almost instantly annoyed. Had he slept right through the whole day? He’d wanted to practice walking some more before anyone got back, had only been planning on napping for a few minutes. With the commotion around him, it sounded like everyone was already returning.

Crutchie cracked open his eyes to see Jack, sitting in that chair that he’d taken over for the past week. He was drawing something, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.

Around the room were a few of the guys--Mush, Blink, Buttons, Henry, Romeo. Romeo had been returning home earlier than normal, falling right into bed and lying there until Jack made him leave so Crutchie could redress his wounds. In moments of quiet, when Jack was dozing in his chair, Romeo would creep over to Crutchie’s side and whisper about how badly his head was pounding, how he felt dizzy and tired. His head had been hit pretty hard in the riot, so it wasn’t exactly surprising. The others were all still nursing various bruises and scrapes.

Jack looked up now, dropping his art as he saw Crutchie was awake. He looked bad, to be honest--his hair was sticking up awkwardly under his cap, eyes swollen and face grimy. Crutchie didn’t ask about it, just nodded to him.

“Hey, Crutchie,” Jack sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “How ya feelin’?”

Crutchie shoved away the irritation at being asked that again. Did Jack expect his answer to change just because he took a nap? He ignored the question, stretching out a little bit, relieved to find that stretching almost felt good.

“Romeo,” Crutchie called past Jack. A hand lifted from Romeo’s bunk. “How’s ya head?”

“Better ‘n better,” Romeo called back. “Think I’s just about good as new!”

Crutchie wished he could say the same. He felt like he was going to fall apart every moment he was awake, and even some of those when he was asleep. He hadn’t been having nightmares, exactly--just a vague sense of fear, death around the corner. Exactly like how the Refuge had felt. Maybe that did count as a nightmare, even if he never saw anything.

“Crutchie, I gotta have a meetin’ with the boys,” Jack interrupted his thoughts. “I didn’t wanna leave afore you woke, or wake you up. I brought ya a sandwich, here.” Jack handed him a small bundle of paper, presumably wrapping a sandwich. Then he left the room, beckoning for the other boys to follow without even letting Crutchie thank him. Romeo groaned, but rolled out of bed and followed.

They were going to have a newsies meeting . . . without him?

Crutchie frowned as he unwrapped the sandwich. He really wasn’t all that hungry, despite the only thing he’d ingested being the coffee from this morning. He was still a newsie, even if he couldn’t do the job lately. Wasn’t he?

This . . . this hurt, more than the stinging lashes on his back, more than the sharp pain in his chest when he breathed, more than the sickly aching of his bad leg. He’d been present for every newsie meeting ever since he started living here, and they were just going to have one without him?

Jack had always made sure to include him in everything. Even when some of the other guys didn’t make the effort, Jack did. And now Jack was purposefully excluding him. Just because--because, what, he couldn’t walk? That had never changed anything.

He really had to get back to work. Soon. They had to be leaving him out of it because he wasn’t technically a newsie, right? He felt bad even thinking that. Of course he was a newsie, he always would be. Newsie meant more than a career--at least, it did to him. Maybe none of the others thought of it the same way.

Crutchie morosely picked at his sandwich, putting tiny, manageable pieces into his mouth. The swelling of his face had almost completely gone down, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to move his jaw. Nor did it mean he wanted to eat at all.

Maybe they just didn’t want to disturb him? That was decent of them, he supposed, but not at all what he wanted. He wanted to be involved, prove he was getting better, see the guys and laugh with them again.

Unbidden, an image of the Refuge on that calm day popped into his head. All those boys, worked to death for no purpose, celebrating in what ways they possibly could while Snyder was out of the building. They included the sick, the hurt, the broken.

Now Crutchie was actually getting a bit annoyed. They weren’t even going to try to hide their meeting, or ask if he wanted to participate? He wasn’t a child. He could assess his own limits and make good choices. In fact, if Jack had just told him straight out that they were going to have a meeting and what it was about, and invited Crutchie to join them, he probably would have turned him down in favor of rest.

Jack hadn’t said that, though. Jack had left, taken everyone else with him, had mentioned it offhand like it wasn’t important at all. What kind of friend--brother--did that?

Crutchie rewrapped the sandwich as well as he could manage, his fingers trembling as usual. He was so sick of this. Sick of barely being capable of any fine motor skills, sick of not wanting to eat, sick of sleeping the day away. He hated feeling so weak. He hated the others seeing him so weak.

Mind made up, Crutchie sat up the rest of the way from his reclining position. His entire body ached, and for the first time in a long time, Crutchie wished he had a drink to numb it. He shook the thought away after contemplating it for a moment. He didn’t need another problem to deal with, another expense to owe. Not to mention, there was no way he’d get it past Jack.

His crutch was still within easy reach, but placing it under his arm reminded him uncomfortably of the cut there that was now stiff with dried blood. He probably shouldn’t irritate it anymore, should probably take the empty room as a chance to clean the wound and rewrap it.

Crutchie didn’t do that. Instead, he stood up.

He almost doubled over immediately. How was the pain that much worse than it was this morning? He hadn’t been doing anything, just sleeping. Wasn’t he supposed to be feeling at least a bit better?

He didn’t back down, though. Crutchie straightened his back, breathed in and out for a few moments, then swung forward.

His bad leg dragging against the floorboards shot needles of pain up through his body, but his knee trembled and gave out when he tried to lift it up. Dragged on the floor it was.

Just the one step had made his entire body break out in a light sweat, but still he hobbled forward. This step was easier than the last. His back stung with the stretch of his shoulder, fingers trembled around the grip of his crutch. He could do this. He hadn’t survived the Refuge just to not be able to cross a room. The next step was going to be easier still.

It wasn’t, but it wasn’t necessarily worse. Crutchie’s good leg wobbled from lack of use and fatigue, his breathing so heavy that he imagined he could feel his ribs scraping together. That would explain the pain, right?

The door seemed to be forever away. Crutchie took another hop toward it, then another, then a third in quick succession, almost trying to outrun the exhaustion that was beginning to fill his bones. He dimly registered that under his right arm, up against where his crutch chafed, was sticky. That was probably not very good.

Crutchie paused for a moment, his head pounding in time with his pulse. He could do this. He looked around, trying to distract himself from what felt like his body failing. The room wasn’t all that dark, even though the sun had completely set outside. Only one of the windows was still open, the one that led out to the fire escape right next to the bed that Crutchie had been spending the week in. A few candles or lanterns were scattered around, giving the room a familiar nighttime ambience.

Crutchie took another step, breathing in short gasps--the smooth wood felt like spikes underneath his bum leg, his chest was tearing apart from the inside out, his back had to be on fire, every single part of his body was aching and trembling.

One more step sent his legs collapsing from under him, his body slamming into the floor. Crutchie cried out quietly, shoving his fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. Not that it really mattered. There was no way that fall went unheard. The bedframe closest to him was still shaking from the impact.

He wasn’t sure that he was going to be awake in time for anyone to find him, though. Black was encroaching on the edge of his vision, increasing with every agonizing thrum of his injuries. Something sticky was dripping down his back, sticking it to his shirt, but Crutchie didn’t have the time to consider it before the world was completely black.

He wasn’t quite . . . asleep, though. He couldn’t surrender to the darkness yet, some hidden reserve of energy fighting for any thread of consciousness. The pain of his body was distant, something separated from his current state.

There was a crashing sound--the door?--then a sea of gasps and shouts and bangs and so, so much noise. Crutchie couldn’t move a muscle--not that he’d really want to, that would hurt. Still, he wished he could’ve given some sign to Jack that he wasn’t asleep. Jack, who was now brushing his hair away from his eyes.

“Crutchie,” came Jack’s frantic voice, “Crutch, can you hear me? C’mon, bud. It’s okay.”

“What happened?”

“Whaddya think?”

“Well I dunno, or I wouldn’ta asked!”

“Shuddup, Jack’s tryna focus!”

“Crutchie, please wake up. What were ya tryna do?”

I am awake, Jack, Crutchie desperately wanted to say. I’m fine. But his mouth wouldn’t respond to anything he tried. He was limp, yet frozen in place.

“Should I get a doctor?”

“See anyone here what can afford one?”

“He’s breathin’,” Jack said, so close that Crutchie could feel his breath on his cheek. A fist wrapped around Crutchie’s wrist and he panicked, tried to wriggle away from whoever it was about to drag him to his next torture session. He didn’t move at all, though, and the hand was gentle and pressed against one spot of his arm for several seconds before pulling away.

“Pulse is sorta quick I think, but his skin’s too warm. Albert, he--” Jack’s voice broke-- “help me get ‘im ta bed?”

Strong arms scooped him up, and once again Crutchie tried to throw himself away from them, his heart racing with fear. Once again, he could not move. He was half aware of who was touching him, and why, but the other half of his brain was too far in the shadow to realize that it was safe, that they were helping him.

Soon enough, he was laying on something soft and Crutchie almost let it overtake him, almost gave in to the darkness pulling at him. A feeling of--shame?--rose up, though, making it impossible to let go.

He hadn’t even made it across the room. Maybe not even halfway. He’d wanted to go to their stupid meeting, surprise them by being functional, insist that he could go out and sell at least for a little while tomorrow. Jack would never let him now, not after this stunt. Not after this failure.

“He’s bleedin’ through ‘is shirt, Jack, see?”

“I see, Blink, no need to call it to the world.”

“I’ll get the bandages, where they at?”

Crutchie’s heart seized. He couldn’t let them fix him up, they’d see! They’d see everything, all the lashes and cuts and marks from beatings. He’d seen how upset and uncomfortable just his visible ones made them, he couldn’t--he didn’t want--

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts. “No, he wouldn’t want that. He’d be real mad if he woke up ta see we’d done exactly what he said not to.”

“So what we gonna do, Jack?”

“Jackie, somebody’s got to help Crutchie. If none of us can afford a doctor, somebody will have to do it. Who do you think Crutchie would want to do it?”

“No one, he ain’t wantin’ no one! He ain’t even let me do it, Davey, he don’t want us seein’!”

Jack sounded unbearably upset. Crutchie tried for what felt like the thousandth time to open his eyes, but his lids were just so heavy. Why was Davey here? Wait, Les was here too, he’d heard his voice earlier. They were included in the newsies meeting, when Crutchie himself wasn’t?

“Isn’t there anyone--”

“Katherine. But she’s--wait--Race--”

“Yeah?”

“Head down ta Medda’s, see if Kath’s there for a show. Bring ‘er back if she is, got that?”

“No problem, Jack!”

A door slammed distantly. Crutchie took a break from trying to force his body to move. It would hurt a lot if he succeeded, anyway. Maybe he should just sleep.

Someone was holding his hand, gently, rubbing his knuckles, and Crutchie wished he could squeeze their hand. Anything to show he was okay.

He wasn’t okay, though, was he? As he thought about it, the pain that had been distant and disconnected mere moments ago was becoming clearer and sharper. Why? Couldn’t he have a moment’s reprieve? Couldn’t he just get better already?

“Crutchie, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?”

He wanted to, couldn’t Jack see that?

“Did he move?”

“Yeah, a little. His face, y’know?”

His face had moved? How had he managed that? Nothing had seemed to change--maybe his eyelids had twitched from his ceaseless attempts to open them.

The pain was spreading, bringing back every memory of how it came. Crutchie didn’t want to cope with it right now. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to hear Jack pleading with him to wake up. He just wanted darkness.

Finally, Crutchie surrendered to the sleep pulling on his bones. He could rest for a minute, before trying to open his eyes again. Jack would understand.

It felt like forever until Crutchie could hear their voices again, but he still couldn’t move. In his mind it felt like he was drowning, thrashing about just under the surface. Each time he struggled to move, he just sank lower and lower, until he was full-on panicking, freaking out entirely while never outwardly moving a muscle.

It was mentally exhausting, and after some time, Crutchie had to take a moment to rest or risk losing this little taste of consciousness. He wasn’t quitting, he told himself, trying to placate his mind. He just needed a rest. As he did, though, it felt as if he rose, just a tiny bit, closer to the surface.

It took a few tries, but Crutchie forced himself to stop struggling. He relaxed as much as he could, and the longer he waited, the faster he rose--until--

With a release of air that almost sounded like a groan, Crutchie opened his eyes. Immediately the talking ceased, and Crutchie registered that there were several faces crowding around him. He blinked a few times: Jack, closest. Then Albert, Davey, and Henry, a little further down. Crutchie opened his mouth a few times, swallowing away the dry feeling as well as he could, then spoke.

“Hey?”

There were sighs; Jack’s head dropped to his hands, Albert rolled his eyes, Davey stepped away.

When Jack looked back up, there were tears in his eyes. Crutchie shifted uncomfortably, then gritted his teeth when his injuries all reminded him of their existence. Davey returned with two glasses of water, one of which he handed to Jack, the other he pushed against Crutchie’s mouth. Crutchie accepted it without complaint--he wasn’t sure that he could make his fingers grip the glass right now.

After he finished drinking and Davey had placed the glass somewhere on the floor, Crutchie met Jack’s red-rimmed eyes. Jack stared at him for a moment.

“What in Manhattan was you thinkin’?”

Crutchie cringed. What had he been thinking? Well, he’d wanted to be a part of the meeting, but now he wished he’d gotten over his anger. How was Jack ever going to believe that he was good enough to be a newsie now? Shame rose, bile-like, in his throat, as he opened his mouth to speak.

Jack cut him off before he could even say anything. “D’you know how much you scared the guys? What made ya think you could walk, ‘specially without help? How did ya get the idea into your pointy little head that it was somehow okay? Tell me what you was thinkin’. Tell me ‘xactly what thoughts led to ya doin’ somethin’ so stupid.”

Maybe he would, Crutchie thought with a prickle of irritation, if Jack would shut up. Jack kept on talking, though.

“Ya know ya made Elmer cry, right? You coulda been dead, for all we knew. We was so scared and you wouldn’t even wake up!”

“Jack--” Davey started, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder, but Jack shrugged him off. Other than the three of them, the room was empty. Albert and Henry must have left at some point.

“It ain’t been a week since you was in the Refuge--” Crutchie flinched, Jack didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in his gesticulating hands and beginning to pace in the small space beside the bed-- “and here you is, tryin’ ta walk like it ain’t happened. Ya can’t even walk normally, how the he--”

“I was tryin’ ta go to the meeting,” Crutchie burst out, face red. Yes, he was ashamed of it. No, he did not need Jack jumping down his throat like that. “I-I miss seein’ everyone,” he added. It wasn't a lie, not exactly. He did miss the guys, a lot.

Jack paused in his short pacings, looking down at Crutchie with his mouth wide open. “Why didn’t ya say nothin’?” he asked loudly, as if Crutchie was slow. “I coulda brought everyone up for a few.”

Crutchie snorted, his face still burning. “Not like you gave me any time ta say anythin’. And I don’t want everyone up here, I wanted ta go to the meeting.”

Jack waved him off. “You don’t really wanna go to it, y’ain’t even workin’ right now, it woulda put ya ta sleep.”

Who was Jack to tell him what he did and didn’t want to do? And yes, Crutchie wasn’t working right now--he was still a newsie, he still got to go to newsies meetings! Right? Did Jack not see him as a newsie anymore?

“I still wanted ta be there,” Crutchie said stubbornly, trying not to show that anger was steadily overtaking his embarrassment. “I wanna know how the sellin’s been goin’ after the strike, wanna know if they’s seen any o’ my regulars, wanna know how the Delanceys are treatin’ everyone--”

Jack’s face went white. “Yeah, well, ya don’t need ta know,” he said brusquely. “You’s in bed all day. There’s nothin’ you can do about it.”

Crutchie’s fingers twisted in the blanket laying over him. The aches were vanishing as anger pumped through his body. What was Jack’s problem? Everything he was saying was just confirming Crutchie’s fears, that they no longer wanted him to be a newsie, only saw him as a burden. It couldn’t be true, right? Clearly Jack was thinking it.

“Ain’t everyone you, Jack,” Crutchie argued, shifting so that he was sitting up more. “I can decide for myself what I want, I don’t need you to tell me--”

“Oh, so you don’t need my help?” Jack cut in, disbelief written all over his face. “Ya’d be a-okay if I just stopped bringin’ ya food? Stopped payin’ rent for ya? Kicked you outta my bed?”

“Well, since you clearly don’t want me here--”

“Okay, can we maybe--” Davey tried to interject.

“This don’t concern you, Davey,” Jack spat. “Brothers only.”

Davey looked a little hurt, but instead took the glass from Jack’s hand, which he had been waving around for emphasis.

“One’d think you was tired of everything I sacrifice ta keep ya safe,” Jack continued. “Maybe you should try doin’ it all yourself--”

“Maybe I want to,” Crutchie interrupted, his face going red as his anger grew. “Didja ever think about that?”

“Yeah, well, ya can’t, so get over yourself and--”

“Yes I can! I’s perfectly capable of--”

“No ya ain’t, ya just--ya just collapsed while tryin’ ta cross the fu--”

“I’m not a child, Jack--”

“Yes you are!” Jack yelled, his face redder than ever. “You’s just a kid! You don’t deserve none o’ this, you oughtta be in school and with parents, and no bum leg and no Snyder, and someone who can actually take care of ya, someone who can stop freaks from attackin’ ya--”

Jack broke down, his knees buckling as he fell into the chair beside the bed. Loud sobs tore from his throat as he hid his face in his hands.

Crutchie ran a hand across his own face, shocked to discover tears of his own. He was fuming, madder at Jack than he had ever been. Even looking at him made him want to scream in frustration. The only other option was Davey, though, and Davey looked so uncomfortable Crutchie thought he might die from it. So Crutchie stared at Jack, wishing his eyes could set fire to Jack’s newsboy cap through the heat of his glare alone.

Crutchie swallowed repeatedly, trying to get his voice to a place where he wouldn’t yell at Jack. Finally he spoke, voice shaking. “You’s always said I’m just as capable as anyone else. Why is that suddenly not true?”

Jack drew in a shuddering breath, but didn’t say anything. Crutchie waited for a moment, before huffing and turning his head to look out the window. It was too dark to really see anything, what with the candle on the post of the bed shining right against the glass. Still, though, he stared at the glass. The adrenaline from the shouting match had begun to exit his system, leaving him very sore all over.

“I jus’--I don’ want you gettin’ hurt,” Jack choked out. Crutchie remained resolute in not looking at him. He hated it when Jack got protective like this, but usually it only lasted for two days or so after Crutchie had been sick or pushed around by one of the Delanceys. And sure, maybe the Refuge was on a bit of a larger scale than either of those, but that didn’t give Jack any right to treat him like--like a kid, like Les, or Elmer, or Boots, or any of the other littles. Come to think of it, actually, Jack would probably treat them just normal-like. Jack was still letting them sell, even after the riot. It was only Crutchie, only the kid with the crippled leg. When was that stupid leg going to stop defining his capabilities in Jack’s eyes?

Crutchie decided to try a different angle. “Why didn’tcha even ask me if I wanted to go ta the meeting?”

“Crutchie, I couldn’t--”

“No, Jack,” Crutchie interrupted. “I’s been doin’ nothing but lie in bed all day. I can handle a newsies meeting!”

“It ain’t that I think you can’t--”

“News ta me, it certainly sounds like--”

“You couldn’t come because the meeting was about you,” Davey burst in. He gave Jack an apologetic glance before turning his focus on Crutchie. “Jack didn’t want ta hurt your feelings by talking about you in front of you.”

Crutchie’s heart felt like it stopped. So this was it, wasn’t it? The decision on whether or not he was going to be able to work. Whether or not they would need to kick him out. Crutchie couldn’t decide what was worse--being thrown out onto the street in his condition, or knowing that he was just so pitiful that they couldn’t bear to do anything but keep him inside all the time. “Oh, so you was gonna save my feelings by talkin’ about me behind my back?” said Crutchie dumbly, his mouth moving of its own accord. “Real smart, Jack Kelly. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, you bein’ so considerate-like.”

“Ya don’t understand,” Jack managed, running a hand under his nose. “It ain’t like that, it ain’t--”

“Oh, well feel free to jus’ tell me what it was like,” Crutchie said, gesturing with a wince as he noticed that under his arm was sticky and pulled painfully. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t--”

“Oh, I’m too weak ta know, huh? Just a kid, like you said--”

“Crutchie, I don’t--”

“Which makes it so much better, huh, makes it all--”

“It was the Delanceys!” Jack shouted, spit flying. He took a deep breath and pulled at his hair, knocking his cap to the floor, tension in every line of his body. “They was--they was bein’ rude.”

Crutchie scoffed. “The Delanceys? I can handle them. I can take them any day.” He didn’t mention the sick feeling that lined his stomach at the mention of them. The last time he’d seen them, they’d practically bashed his head in and dragged him off to the Refuge. Still, he’d never known the Delanceys to be particularly kind. He could deal with their insults.

“They . . . were bein’ a bit worse than rude, Crutchie,” Davey said quietly. Davey glanced at Jack, whose face was in his hands again. Jack shook so badly that Crutchie thought he was crying again for a moment. When his face reappeared, though, it was clear that it was barely-restrained anger.

“They said they was gonna kill you,” Jack growled. A tear rolled down his cheek, unnoticed. “They--they was gonna hunt you down, and get you, and--” Again, Jack couldn’t seem to go on. Davey laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Crutchie, we’re scared for you, that’s all,” Davey said placatingly. “At the meeting, we were trying to work out a way for you to keep selling papes but stay safe. We should’ve invited you, that’s for sure, Jack just thought you’d be too tired.”

Crutchie didn’t speak. The sick feeling in his stomach had spread to his head, making it feel gross and backwards and like he was going to throw up. He was fine, he was alive, but for the first time in a very long time, the Delanceys actually struck fear into his heart.

Luckily, he was spared from having to say anything by a knock at the door. Race poked his head around the corner, an apologetic look on his face.

“No sign of her,” Race called to Jack. “Need anythin’ else?”

Davey walked away to talk to Race, leaving Jack and Crutchie alone. Crutchie tried to swallow away the bad feeling, but Jack took his hand, completely distracting him. For a moment, Crutchie considered shaking him off, the embers of anger that had been left when the mention of the Delanceys had doused his chest flaming up, but it was clearly an olive branch of sorts. Jack wanted to forget the argument for now. Crutchie could at least do that.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jack muttered. “For goin’ all--y’know. A minute ago. You don’t deserve that. It was just . . . so, so--hard, and wrong, ta--ta come in here and find ya out, and on the floor--” Jack turned away, his voice choking up.

“I was awake,” Crutchie said, gripping Jack’s hand as hard as he could. Jack looked back at him, confused. Crutchie wasn’t entirely sure why he’d said it--had he been awake? He hadn’t been able to move or open his eyes. And yet, he was certain that he could remember almost everything that happened before he slipped away. Maybe he was just trying to make Jack feel a bit better. “Yeah,” he added self-consciously. “I sorta . . . heard everything? I jus’ couldn’t move, right? I’m better now, just . . . felt a bit like I was all wrapped up in a blanket an’ couldn’t escape,” he finished, blushing a bit. That was a stupid comparison.

Jack watched him carefully for a few moments, his thumb running along Crutchie’s knuckles. “Heard o’ that, didn’t know it was real. Sorry about that. That’s--real bad. Terrible, that feeling. I’ve heard, I mean. I haven’t--yeah.”

Crutchie nodded. He could guess where Jack might have seen or heard about that. He tried to swallow past the sick feeling in his throat, only succeeding in making it drier than ever.

“How d’ya feel about finishing that sandwich, huh?”

Crutchie blanched, shaking his head with jerky movements. Literally anything would be better. Jack frowned at him, but nodded.

“All right, I trust you,” Jack said. Crutchie looked him in the eyes, trying to forget about the apple he’d tossed out the window just this morning. “But Katherine ain’t around, so either I or you is gonna have ta fix you up.”

Maybe literally anything wouldn’t be better. Crutchie sighed. “I got it,” he replied, feeling weariness settle into his bones right alongside the pain. “I’ll let ya know when you can come back in.”

He was still mad at Jack, though not nearly as mad as he was at himself. What kind of idiot went and got himself all bloodied up trying to cross a room when he knows he’s hurt? Crutchie just took a shallow breath and allowed Jack to help him into a sitting position. Whatever kind of idiot that was, Crutchie was stuck with him for a while.

#newsies #livesies #newsies live #newsies fanfic #newsies fanfiction #crutchie morris #jack kelly #mas writes #< i'll try to tag every chapter with that #i love writing arguments #i'm terrible at having them but they're just so easy to write #all of my characters have rage just beneath their incredibly polite facade #every character i have ever written is ready to throw hands at the slightest provocation #but otherwise they are very kind and do good recklessly!!#just wait until you see chapter ten lol #anyway see you whenever!#love you guys

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gypsydanger01 · 4 years ago

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THE STORM - Part twenty-four

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

A/N: Double update today because I feel like it🤍 VERY SOFT VERY FLUFFY

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

I choose you

[Later that night]

That night, Black Noir patiently waited for Vought Headquarters to slowly drift to sleep. Once the building had gone silent and mostly everyone had left, the silent superhero made his departure and ventured into the night.

In front of Sarah’s house, concealed in shadows, he waited. He could hear her pacing inside, rap music playing in the background. And he imagined her form engulfed in a sweatshirt, hands wrapped in the ends of the sleeves. Her soft scent and dark hair. Her radiant smile and tired eyes.

He rounded the house and flipped over the fence. Walking with determination he found the backdoor left ajar; he pushed through, letting the warmth engulf him.

He found her in the living room where she was sweeping up debris from under the sofa.

Noir stood contemplating her amongst the wrecked furniture that once graced her living room. The blackened pillows, broken television screen and wobbling coffee table served as reminders of their fight and how they’d been at each other’s throats. Small holes littered the once pristine walls, and the ruined picture frames were stacked in a corner.

He picked one up and gazed at the serene woman in the picture. Although the glass in front of it was cracked, he could still see the happiness in her smile, the live energy in her eyes.

“Thanks for lunch,” her voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

She had yet to turn around as she finished sweeping, and Noir realized she must’ve known he was there the whole time.

She set the broom against the wall and turned to face him, arms awkwardly crossed in front of her chest. Her eyes caught the item in his hands.

“That was seven years ago, I went to Japan for my birthday.”

His eyes traced her in the photo, and the colorful city lights spilling across her face reminded him of their movie night together. In the dark, he’d been captivated by the way the television highlighted her features, first blue, then bright white, finally orange.

He nodded at the photo and delicately set the frame down, suddenly regretting how their fight had destroyed most of her home and belongings.

Sarah watched him, and he watched her, but there was no tension, no animosity left between them.

Finally, she switched her Dr. Dre playlist off.

“There’s cake left,” she began to fill the silence, “Would you like some?”

Noir simply turned and walked back into the kitchen where he pulled a chair out for her. Once she’d sat down, Sarah felt the ghost of his fingers over her hair as he moved away and went to sit on the other end.

Well, no cake then, she thought.

He produced a small notebook from a pocket across his chest and slipped a pen from his left boot. The one they usually used was at its last pages and Sarah wondered if he always carried an extra one on the off chance they met.

He signed, “New table,” and lightly knocked against the wooden surface.

Sarah nodded and kept herself from fidgeting.

“Why are you here,” she couldn’t help the question that slipped out. “I’m just confused,” she amended, “We fought, and now you know who I am, but you left me that note and bought me lunch, and—”

She paused when she saw him begin to scribble on the notepad.

You were right

She glanced at the page and leaned in.

“I was telling you the truth about why I’m doing this,” she licked her lips and while she could not tell, the man in front of her was immediately drawn to the small action. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to lie about my identity, but can you blame me? I thought you’d break me like a toothpick.”

He nodded, feeling something stirring within at the sight of her flushed state.

She leaned back in her chair, incredulous.

“So that’s it?”

Noir was surprised at her sudden outburst and brought his pen back to paper.

I do not condone hurting children

At that point, Sarah stopped and really looked at him, wishing she could look past his mask. She knew who he was and what his real job was; she knew he’d probably tortured and killed countless men. But he softened and was protective of children.

She needed to look him in the eyes and see what lied there. Would his eyes be emotionless and passive, or would she see passion, pain, and torment? As she watched him fidget under her gaze, she was reminded of his reaction upon learning that she too had been subjected to testing.

And then she remembered the light webbing of scars over his hands in the sink.

He added a few words. No more blind trust. He added, one-sided trust.

Sarah glanced at the page and was momentarily speechless at his confession.

“And do you trust me?”

He nodded. You are good. You want to help people.

The woman in front of him read the words and let them sink in. He was questioning his loyalty to Vought, she realized. Maybe, after years of blindingly carrying out Vought’s orders he’d grown tired of being left in the dark. Maybe, the fact that the test subjects were children had landed hard, hitting a sore spot within.

They will not find you

She watched him clench the pen, the point still against the page. She scanned him, noting the tension in his shoulders and the way his other hand pressed against the table’s surface. Homelander following her kept replaying in front of his eyes, like a broken record player. Homelander waiting to catch her alone, asking for her name and allowing her to call him John. Homelander acting so pleasant and personable was a disgusting façade, and Noir had felt the urge to knock him into a wall when he touched her.

And then the vicious cycle of thoughts and energy came to a halt. Her hand was small next to his as she lightly traced lines across his gloves.

He finished writing. Homelander will not hurt you

She gazed at him, and a feeling of safety wrapped around her like a warm blanket hugging her through the night.

“Thank you, Noir,” she replied softly, wincing at the crack in her voice.

He nodded, and the violence in his head subsided. At that moment, they were together and nothing else existed outside of that kitchen. Since the night at that gala, he’d fixated on her, but that obsession had morphed into something more, a connection that ran deeper than any label could define.

He scribbled one last message before setting the pen to the side.

I choose you

Yes, he’d chosen her. His loyalties had wavered, but he’d seen her pain when she explained her motives, the truth that shone in her magnetic eyes. His loyalties had wavered, but he’d found the damning evidence against Vought and now, he’d chosen Sarah Burns and Marianna Stacker combined. All that matter began and ended with her.

Sarah was lost in her own thoughts, still tracing patterns over his gloves.

She decided to press forward while they were enveloped in this bubble of air, far away from the rest of the world. First, she brought her hands up to the edge of his glove. Stopping at his wrist, she pushed at the sleeve and traced light circles onto his skin. Her eyes still trained on his, she slowly slipped the dark material from his fingers. His hand felt tense, but it slowly relaxed as she ran her fingertips over his knuckles.

And he let her.

Noir brought his other hand forward and slowly discarded the other glove.

She smiled softly at him and rose from her chair. He twisted in his chair to follow her, but she came to stand in the space between his legs. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he automatically brought his hands to her waist.

“I trust you,” she softly spoke and felt his hands lightly squeeze her waist in response.

She continued, “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” she whispered as her fingers ran against his mask’s edge. “You said you choose me,” she repeated his words. “Trust me.”

Noir stiffened for a moment, and it wasn’t distrust that gripped him but a deep-seated fear of her rejection. Finally, he nodded and pulled her closer to him.

Her scent was intoxicating and an unusual fear of losing her had his heart pounding against his chest.

She slowly slipped his mask up and off his face, setting it on the table.

Sarah drank in the sight of him and smiled, although her heart stopped at the light scars crossing one side of his face. He had sharp features and she was sure he’d gain quite a following if fans saw him. She lightly traced his scars before following the line of his nose. He wouldn’t meet her eyes until she called his attention, “Hey.”

It took a few seconds for him to finally look into her eyes. He was sitting with her standing between his legs, and yet his height made it so they were nearly on the same eyelevel.

Sarah had been wondering what she would find beneath the mask. Now, she saw fleeting emotions, such as fear, pain, desire, and an underlying adoration.

Under his intense gaze, she felt as though he truly saw her, as though they could truly communicate without saying a word.

Sarah pressed a soft kiss to the side of his head, and he held onto the sensation of having her so close.

He suddenly pulled her closer, taking her into his lap. Sarah blushed at the change in position, her heart beating faster. Her legs falling on either side of him, she looked at him and smiled.

Under the soft kitchen light, in the quiet of her home, she hugged him, letting her fingers trace patterns on the nape of his neck. The suit was hard against her chest, but she didn’t mind as he wrapped his arms around her. His fingers too searched for her in the folds of her sweatshirt, almost in an attempt to feel her under the oversized material.

He needed to make sure she truly was there and not a fiction of his mind. Then he suddenly stopped, not wanting to scare her. He settled for delicately holding her to his chest, still sitting at the kitchen table.

Sarah’s mind thought of their jobs, their conflicting missions. But at the moment, she enjoyed the embrace letting everything else fall away.

He’d chosen her.

She closed her eyes and whispered a reassuring, “We’re okay.”

And he lightly squeezed her waist in agreement.

[A while later]

They stayed that way for some time, melting into each other. He’d alternate between running his fingers over her hair and holding her close. At one point, they’d agreed on a way to communicate: she would speak, and he would tap once against her back if he agreed, or twice if he didn’t. After some time, she drifted to sleep.

Once her breathing had slowed, he gently rose to his feet. She couldn’t be comfortable against his suit, he imagined. And so, he slowly walked through the living room, turned out the lights and headed for her bedroom.

Setting her down on the soft bedding, he didn’t feel comfortable lying beside her without her permission. He craved being close to her, but ultimately stepped away. Returning from the living room, he gently covered her with the light blue blanket she often had wrapped around her shoulders.

Finally, he left her room and sat on the couch.

And there he stayed all night long.

In the silence, he was aware of every pin drop; he would protect the one good thing in his life, the one soul so closely intertwined with his own.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx @rayray1463 @mialexisrodrigues @angelocipriano @reborn-rekall

#the boys #the boys tv #the boys amazon #black noir #the boys season 2 #fanfiction #oc story #black noir x oc #romance

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penguintransporter · 4 years ago

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Winning The Game Called Love (Hector Bellerin) Part VIII

Hello, everyone! It took me a while to post this, but fear not - I have another chapter edited and ready to update next weekend. I contemplated for the longest time if I should post continuation of the chapter VII or maybe write a flashback that is entirely in Héctor’s POV, and decided that some of his thoughts wouldn’t be bad - so consider this as a filler even if it’s an entire update. Enjoy, let me know what you think, and don’t shy away from my inbox. You can read the first seven chapters of the story - here - along with the rest of my stuff. Lots of love, and stay amazing as always!

There was rarely a moment in which the canteen of the Arsenal FC Training Centre didn’t feel like a mini circus of some sort.

Buzzing with noise at any given time of the day, the spacious and with the long tables packed room often hosted a diverse bunch of people of different backgrounds and nationalities, ages and paychecks, contracts and positions in the club – all of them taking a refuge from their daily routines. More than often, administration hermits, trying to escape their paper-stacked offices mingled with millions of pounds worth footballers who needed their fuel before or after their training sessions, and all the high-positioned officials in their suits were known to chat away their coffee breaks with the wonderful Simone behind the canteen till.

Still, on that Friday noon, as the world was waist-deep in the month of December, the entire room felt just a little bit quieter than usual.

As he sat alone at one of the long tables, waiting for his teammates to join him for lunch, Héctor wondered if the certain quietness was caused by the miserable weather outside or just because the feeling of yet another year slipping away was weighing down on people’s minds – including his own.

With a shake of his head, Héctor scooped some of the food on his fork before setting down his knife on a plate in front of him, looking at the windows that span along the wall to his left – the abundance of greyness greeting him. One would think that after all the years since he’s moved to England and started calling London his home, he would have gotten used on the picture in front of his eyes, but he wasn’t, and he knew that he won’t ever be.

Looking away, Héctor pursed his lips as he lazily chewed on his mouthful before glancing at the time on his phone as he reached for his knife to scoop more food, but he couldn’t help but freeze in his movements – the familiar scent filling his nostrils.

Oranges?

Confused, Héctor swallowed before leaning back in his chair as he felt the air leaving his lungs.

It wasn’t as if the oranges were something he rarely had the chance to smell, but only a handful of times the particular scent could make him feel the way he did as he apprehensively breathed in – memories of his childhood breaking out on the surface of his mind.

Warm, hot late autumns. His hand firmly held by his grandmother’s as they walked along the less-known pueblos where the oranges on the trees, bent by the their own weight, were just a reach of a hand away.

Héctor let his eyes wander as discreetly as possible around the canteen, trying to find the source of the smell that brought back the picture of the little Belle and the sight of the oranges laying along the sides of the pathways – their sweetness and stickiness an invitation for a feast for all the ants and flies.

Skinny, little boy in a sailor-striped t-shirt; thin-soled tennis shoes slippery on the cobbled slope; smell of home-cooked paella in the air.

She.

The irritating girl from the reception sat at the end of one of the long tables in the corner along with some other employees whose faces Héctor vaguely recognised, but despite it, it seemed as if she didn’t belong the rowdy bunch of five men. She seemed to be in her own little headspace, quietly looking at the round fruit she held in her hands – eyebrows slightly narrowed in a thought.

The white collar of a button down played a peek-a-boo from underneath the scruffy navy-coloured jumper she was wearing, hair tucked behind her ears and away from her face, and a pair of beaten-up shoes on her feet – she looked out of the place among the sea of red tracksuits and football kits. Héctor watched her drop the orange to her lap before looking at her phone, grinning at something, and without even realising, his leg started to bounce ever so slightly.

She’s probably dating someone equally irritating as she was.

Realising that he was staring, Héctor looked away quickly, sucking a deep breath before running both of his hands through his hair, pausing for a moment – his fingers interlacing behind his neck. He wasn’t sure what it was that has possessed him, and God knows, he didn’t want to do it in the first place, but he did it anyway. Glancing back at her again, he observed her as she dug her nails into the skin of the orange – nose scrunching a little when the aromatic juice sprayed against her face.

He could almost feel it too—

¡Joder!

Héctor’s head snapped quickly in front of him, rubbing his face in frustration before looking at the doors of the lunch-room, hoping to see someone who could distract him from looking towards the one person he didn’t want to spend his time on.

A feeling of relief washed over him as he saw Calum walk inside the canteen, giving a quick wave to Simone before picking up a plate to serve himself from the large containers that were neatly arranged along the till. Héctor’s eyes followed his teammate, waiting for the tall guy to look in his direction so he could wave him over.

He hated how jittery he was beginning to feel, so when his teammate scanned the room for a free seat, Héctor quickly raised his hand, ignoring the feeling in the very pit of his stomach that he couldn’t comprehend.

Jesus Christ!

“What you’ve got there?” Calum asked with a grin, and Héctor returned the smile, but for some reason, it didn’t quite feel right. His teammate slid in the chair next to him, peering at Héctor’s plate, “Beans? Really? Have you not seen all the food out there, Héc?” he grinned, pulling the sleeves of his tracksuit jacket up to his elbows, ready to dig into his food.

“What’s wrong with my beans?” Héctor asked, smiling a little as he took another forkful of his lunch, just in time to see Rob and Alexandre, walk in, quickly serving themselves with the food before walking over to where Héctor and Calum sat. Héctor looked back at Calum, waving his fork in his mate’s direction as he continued to talk, “It’s healthy, makes me run faster than you, and honestly mate,” Héctor stopped to take a sip of water, “it looks better than your chicken.”

“Chicken again, I see,” Rob commented passively without a greeting as he sat down opposite Héctor – long legs trying to find space under the table. Alexandre followed shortly, balancing more food than the plate could actually hold in one hand, while typing on his phone with other. He nodded, sitting down – his eyes never leaving the shiny screen.

“One day he’ll turn into a chicken,” Héctor joked before glancing at Calum from the corner of his eye while chasing the white bean covered in the tomato sauce around his plate.

His mate let out a small chuckle, carefully taking a bite of the grilled poultry in his mouth, “You say that now, but you’d become a carnivore again for a chicken like me, Heccy.”

“What did you just say?” Alexandre asked, looking up from his phone with a grin, “Héctor, my friend, I beg you, stay vegan. He’s not worth it…” he trailed off before the four men started laughing, earning an amused and curious smile from Simone who passed by their table, and dirty look from one of the elder officials who tried to focus on whatever he was doing on his iPad. “Anyway,” Alexandre started as they calmed down a little, setting his phone away and grabbing the fork only to stab chunks of steamed carrots and broccoli, looking up at his teammates, “do we know who’s going to be David’s date for the charity party? Rumours say he’s single again.”

“Do we care?” Rob asked, grinning to himself as he still tried to find a comfortable position for his legs.

“Why yes,” Alexandre responded, earning a lifted eyebrow from Héctor in return, “my bet is Claudia or even, what’s her name, the tall blonde that’s always running around in the physio room.”

“Eveline?” Rob curiously asked, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle with ease to take a sip, “I think she’s married, but yeah, then definitely Claudia, that’s if the boss let’s him ask her out.”

Calum shook his head swiftly before glancing towards his right for a second, “I think he’ll make a move on our pretty, little sunshine called Aida,” he commented, nudging Héctor under the table.

“Why are you nudging me?” Héctor asked with a laugh, setting his cutlery down as he decided to join in the conversation. “Am I missing the joke? Who’s Aida?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, all three of his teammates looked at him – amusing smirks on their faces, and as Héctor was the one to buy on the paranoia feeling that washed over him, he’d say that the entire room was looking his way as well. Deciding that his best bet was to ignore their questioning stares, Héctor shrugged before breaking the piece of his bread and running it along the lip of his plate – picking up the leftover sauce.

“Are you taking the piss now?” Rob asked, genuinely interested now in the course of their conversation as he smirked, leaning forward, and Héctor shook his head, sticking the piece of the soaked bread into his mouth.

“Why would I?” he asked – feeling as if he was missing on some important joke, “I don’t know if this idiot’s nudge was supposed to tell me something,” he added before grinning at Calum, and just as he was about to add something else, the sound of a chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor interrupted him. Simultaneously, they all looked up and in the direction of the screeching sound where the receptionist girl was smiling apologetically towards no one in particular.

Héctor felt the knot in his stomach rise up to his throat, but he swallowed it quickly back as he, along with his mates, watched the petite girl with the messy hair scoop the orange peels in her palm, while balancing a dark-green water bottle under one arm and a lilac notebook between her lips.

The Arsenal’s right-back looked down at his plate – piled vegetables and grains staring back at him before clenching his jaw in annoyance. He could vaguely hear a commotion and Simone’s laugh, not caring about what Calum had yelled in her direction, and caring even less about what she had responded before laughing that loud, but nonetheless contagious sound.

“Since you’re wondering,” Alexandre grinned, sticking another carrot into his mouth when Héctor looked up at the Frenchman, “that’s Aida.”

“—honestly, I think she’s actually nice to have around. Quite funny,” Rob responded to whatever Calum had said as he wiped the beads of sweat off of his face before leaning forward on his stationary bike.

Next to them, Héctor wanted to groan out loud like a teenager would when being interrogated by his mother about his whereabouts.

He wasn’t sure nor could he pinpoint the exact moment when the name of the receptionist girl was dropped again in their conversation, but there it was – levitating around them as he shared the corner with the treadmills and stationary bikes with Rob, Calum and Leno – the German lad being his usual reserved self.

Héctor knew very well that there was no real need for them to talk about her, but the grins that his teammates were giving him were a proof enough for him to know that they were doing it on purpose.

Hate was a strong word, but he couldn’t say that he enjoyed it either. Not after he was already—

Focus.

Instead of giving in on his teammate’s banter, Héctor rather focused on the sound of his trainers hitting against the treadmill’s moving belt.

“She’s also babysitting Auba’s son sometimes, no?” Bernd mumbled, smiling his tight-lipped smile.

Calum chuckled at the tall goalie next to him, “I know many lads that would love to be babysat by her.”

Despite wanting to keep his mouth shut, Héctor couldn’t hold back the snort as he lowered the speed on the treadmill, while monitoring his heart-rate.

“I just don’t understand why—,” Héctor started, but quickly stopped himself, “never-mind.”

“What? You wouldn’t?” Calum asked, looking at him. “I am sure she’d love to babysit you if you only let her,” he added teasingly, and as much as he hated himself for doing it, he actually wanted to laugh at his bad joke.

“WHO WOULDN’T WANT WHAT?” David boomed from where he was jogging towards them – wild hair tied up in a ridiculous palm-resembling-something on top of his head. Joining them, he leaned casually against the side of Héctor’s treadmill.

With a curious smile, David glanced between the group of men before his eyes settled on a Calum who was still looking at Héctor with a smirk.

“Heccy doesn’t fancy Aida,” he answered matter-of-factly before wiping some of the sweat off of his face with his jersey. Next to him, Rob rolled with his eyes before reaching out his towel which Calum refused with a shake of his head.

Their Brazilian teammate had an amused yet shocked look on his face as he looked at Héctor with a silly grin. “What? Really? Everyone fancies her!”

“Exactly our point,” Rob interjected and it was Héctor’s turn to roll with his eyes, “but apparently, Héctor here doesn’t.”

“You do know that I am still here?” Héctor asked, forcing a grin which only earned him a handful of playful looks from his teammates. “Besides, I have every right in the world to not fancy someone.”

“But you do like brunettes, no?” Calum asked as he started to run again, and for once Héctor wanted to be outside, in the freezing cold, preferably running next to someone who didn’t ask such stupid questions or was usually consumed by their own thoughts – Sead maybe. “—okay, maybe she’s not all legs or whatnot, but still, sometimes the compact ones are the best…”

Hoping off of the treadmill, Héctor grabbed a towel that rested on one of the chairs in the corner, refusing to hear the rest of Calum’s statement or to give in into the banter.

“You really need to find a hobby,” he grinned after wiping his face before leaving his teammates and making his way towards the other end of the room that was reserved for heavy-weights and strength training.

Standing there alone and tying his hair in a ponytail, he glanced through the windows to his right, and as if it was a force of something above, the receptionist girl walked past – steps quick as she wrapped her scarf around her neck, shielding the lower part of her face from the harsh wind.

Héctor shook his head as he looked down at his trainers before glancing back up, only to catch a glimpse of her silhouette disappearing around the corner – the soft scent of oranges returning to haunt him for a split of a second.

What if...

No.

#hector bellerin fic #hector bellerin fan fiction #hector bellerin fanfiction #hector bellerin imagine #hector bellerin oneshot #footballl fanfiction #footballer imagine #footballer fanfiction #football imagine #football oneshot #arsenal fanfiction #arsenal fc fanfiction #arsenal fc fan fiction

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unmanageable-day · 4 years ago

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By your side | 09 (end)

MASTERLIST // previous chapter: 08

Summary. For the introvert Song Yeoreum, having an extrovert boyfriend like Johnny Seo was something she never imagined before. Fortunately it turned out pretty good, and the relationship between Yeoreum and Johnny lasted for 4 years. Unfortunately, it reached a point when Johnny started to think everything felt different, that Yeoreum probably has changed.

a/n: after months of having no inspiration for this, I’ve finally come back :") unfortunately i have to make this chapter the last one because i currently have no idea how to go on with the plot, and i mayhaps lost my notes on this story too :") therefore, if anyone used to read this fic, i'm sorry for the abrupt ending. nonetheless i hope you enjoy reading this!

One week had passed, and Johnny was still able to calm himself. She needs time and I will give as much as she needs, he told himself on repeat. In no time, one week had changed into one month. His patience hadn't betrayed him, yet he was getting more anxious. Isn't a month too long? Anything can happen within the past 30 days. By anything he meant the possibility of Jaehyun and you. What stressed him even more was none of his friends now told him about any recent updates about you. The universe worked its magic by never putting you and Johnny in a same project anymore. If anything, your schedule and his never matched that these days he couldn't even see you in the office. Lately Ten and Doyoung was getting closer with Jaehyun as well, but they won't spill anything whenever he tried to seek information about you and Jaehyun.

Johnny started to lose his sanity when it was almost three months without you making any contact with him. He tried to ask you out twice, which successfully getting turned down because you always said to have other stuff to do. Everyday his thumbs had to resist not to text you although all he wanted just to ask casually how you're doing. He already expected you to come up with short answers and wrap up the conversation immediately. But it would be still better than being like this.

One day he happened to see you working overtime. The best idea he had was to wait for you and take you home. Except, Jaehyun seemed to think exactly the same thing and he had made his moves. There he was, sitting beside you, unboxing some food and drinks from a paper bag. Johnny was contemplating whether he would join the two of you or not. With an endless train of thoughts messing with his head and his feelings, approaching you did not seem to be a good idea.

They're friends, John. They are friends. Jung Jaehyun is not more than a friend, just like Jungkook. Jung Jaehyun must be only friends. Johnny won't get tired saying this to himself.

Jung Jaehyun has to be friends.

But it wasn't Johnny if he didn't find himself eventually losing it. So one day, without thinking much further, he decided to confront Jaehyun. When he arrived in front of the broadcasting room where Jaehyun was still on air, that was when his brain started to work.

A sigh escaped Johnny's lips. He felt exhausted even before he did anything. What am I doing here?

As he was about to leave, Jaehyun roughly opened the door, making Johnny startled.

"John?"

"Jaehyun." The taller managed to be as firm and stand tall. He cannot lose like this.

"What are you doing here?"

Although with puzzled face, Johnny maintained his intense eye contact towards Jaehyun. Usually Jaehyun would feel intimidated, but not today. He managed to be calm and asked Johnny to talk in a cafe nearby. He already knew where this conversation would go, and the last thing he wanted was to be watched by the other staff.

Jaehyun spent the first 10 minutes being silent. His hot americano on the table remained full and now it was warm. "I'm gonna be straightforward. I hope you'd understand."

"If it's about Yeoreum—"

"It is." Johnny quickly cut him out. "I'm trying to work things out between us. But with you in the picture..." he shook his head slowly, his eyes looking for sympathy as he continued, "Please, don't take her away from me."

"Wait, I'm in the picture?" Jaehyun repeated his words in disbelief, before screaming internally, 'You are in the picture when she and I are trying to get somewhere to figure things out. Now I am in the picture?'

Johmmy was surprised to see how Jaehyun got worked up a little bit. "Jaehyun, please.."

"Nobody is taking her away from you. If she's thinking what you're thinking, wouldn't she find her way to go back to be by your side?"

"I know I did wrong.."

"I don't want to say this, but admit it, Johnny. She’s not going back," Jaehyun almost raised his voice. On a daily basis, he was never one to speak with high tone, nor with intense emotion.

Johnny can't go on with his words. He was devastated and there was nothing Jaehyun could do to console him. Suddenly Jaehyun got up to pick up a phone call.

"Oh, Yeoreum?" Eyeing Johnny, he talked quite loudly, making sure that Johnny was aware of how things got more seriously between you and him. "Okay, I'll go there. Wait for me."

"Jaehyun, please, I'm begging you," Johnny continued as the younger hung up his call. "Yeoreum just needs more time. I know we can go through this. We can work this out.."

"Johnny, you need help. You're drunk too, I can smell alcohol from your breath."

Johnny wouldn't admit it that he did had a few glasses of liquor although it was not even 9 PM. He spent a little bit too much of time crying over his own acts at a bar. There were a lot of things going on his mind. You, Jaehyun, you and Jaehyun, and the relationship between you and him. Piles of work were not even included yet.

Jaehyun sighed. "I'll tell Doyoung to send somebody to pick you up."

"Please don't." Scolds and nags from either Doyoung or Taeyong was the last thing he would want to hear these days.

"Johnny, you can't drive under influence like this."

"Why would you care?"

"I don't, but Yeoreum? Maybe she still do care about you, Johnny. I just thought, if anything happens—please don't get me wrong, I just don't want Yeoreum to worry too much about you."

—

Driving without destination had been Johnny’s new routine for the past week. He left work earlier, making Doyoung wonder what he did after work. He rarely attended party, making Taeyong amused that he could survive without parties. He barely hung out with Mark, so the younger boy had to play with Lee Donghyuck and his same-age friends instead. He drove mindlessly and the next place he parked was your apartment. Then he found himself standing in front of your door, drowning in his own thoughts. The next second, the door was swung open, you being surprised with Johnny’s presence.

"I love you," was the first thing he said. Not even a ‘hello’, or a ‘how are you?’.

You looked unfazed. "Johnny, you're drunk."

"I'm not. Why would I drunk confess to you?" He let out a breathy laugh, not because something is funny. "I did drink, but only a little. You know I could handle alcohol pretty well."

"Johnny, I'll call a taxi for you, okay?"

"Why can't you let me talk?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Us." Johnny bent down, resting his forehead against your shoulder. His arms slowly approached your waist, asking for a hug. But your hands stopped them, tightly gripping his wrists on your sides. He lifted his upper body, his eyes finding yours with confusion.

"Johnny, I told you, don't wait for me."

"What if I am?"

"What if I'm not coming back to you?"

"That's just a 'what if'," he denied.

"Things are not the same between us anymore, Johnny. You have to let go."

‘Things are not the same between us anymore.’ Isn’t that my words when we broke up? Does it hurt this much when I said that?

"Are you with Jaehyun now?"

Squinting your eyes, you almost answer him with a raised tone, "Wha—"

Two guys loudly making a fake cough distracted you and Johnny who immediately turned to see who they were. Standing a few steps away from you and him were Jungkook and Jaehyun with their judging expression.

"Yeoreum, I've bought the soy sauce and sesame oil. Can you please assist Jaehyun cooking? He insists and he won't let me order take-out and I'm starving to death," Jungkook calmly said, once a while glancing and making eye contact to Johnny.

You were hesitating to move from your standing spot. If it wasn't for Jungkook pushing you back in to your apartment, you would have been frozen there and probably still engaged in that never-ending talk with your ex.

Johnny silently watched your back walking away with Jaehyun by your side, disappointment was evident in his face.

"Hyung, please, if you truly love her, let her go," Jungkook said before smoothly signaling gestures to go away to the older guy.

Sure, you did like Johnny. Who wouldn't? He was a good company, he laughed a lot—basically a happy virus, he took a good care of you and other people. But that's it. You never fought? Obviously, since you tended to keep it all to yourself. But this doesn't mean Johnny is a bad guy. He is always kind-hearted and gentle. But again, that's it. You simply accepted him because of that.

At the end of the day, it finally came to your senses. After the break up, it took you months later to realize that you did not like Johnny that way. You felt lighter without him. Still, probably due to all those parties. After all, it was the Johnny Suh. Being his girlfriend was definitely something. While with Jaehyun, everything went in a relatively slow pace. No rushing. And you were just being you, no need to try hard to be as 'superior' as the other. This just made you guilty and regret that you accepted him in the first place.

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct au #nct fanfic #nct 127 series #nct 127 imagines #nct johnny #johnny imagines #nct jaehyun #jaehyun imagines #nct angst #johnny angst #kpop fanfiction #post by yourblinkies

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 4 years ago

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Boys are raised to be men. Part 3 - Breakfast, lunch, and a shattered vase

Series Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist - Full Masterlist

Summary: Things are different outside the city. When Bucky moves out of the city to live closer to his father’s best friend, Steve, he meets a peculiar girl from a strange family. She’s loved by everyone in the village and like him, she’s missing a limb. And, to Bucky’s surprise, she’s determined to make him part of her life.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 3368

Warning: This chapter contains a panic attack.

Author’s note: I am not disabled and I couldn’t ever imagine what it’s like. If you have anything to not about that aspect of the story, please send me a message so I can fix possible mistakes or misunderstandings in upcoming chapters. Also, let me know if you want to be tagged in future updates.

Light peeks through the small gap in the curtains in Bucky’s bedroom. He stares at the stream of light and the small dust particles dancing along it. His sleep hadn’t been peaceful. When he first laid down, he couldn’t get his head to rid of the thought of Y/n in his bed. When she implied he’d be good at pleasuring a woman, he had to run. He walked home with the dirtiest images in his head. This beautiful woman looked so ethereal and seemed so innocent, but had such a dirty mouth on her. His mind was playing games with him, making up scenarios of what she’d say and all the little sounds she’d make. But the picture that kept reappearing in his head was her laying on her back in his bed with her legs spread and him between her legs. Such a dirty, dirty image. And then, when he finally got to sleep, a nightmare hunted his dreams. He woke up in a cold sweat and opted to take a shower but that didn’t work. He couldn’t fall asleep again. Groaning, Bucky gets up from his bed. With a sigh, his hand gazes at his missing limb. Most mornings, it feels like it’s still there. A psychologist told him it’s called a phantom limb. It’s a horrible experience. Like your own body is rubbing it in your face that you’re not normal. Sometimes it hurts terribly. Like someone is stabbing a fork into his nonexisting limb but he can still feel it. He grabs the nearest pair of pants and puts them on, not even bothering with a shirt. Today, he’s just not going to put any effort into it. With his lack of sleep even putting on a shirt becomes the most annoying task there is. He’s happy the pair of pants he grabbed was sweatpants because he honestly didn’t even want to bother with a zipper. It takes too much time. While he’s still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he makes his way down the stairs slowly. It’s almost as if his brain wants him to count every step down and wants his bare feet to feel every cold step he touches. He finds himself in the neat kitchen as he quietly thanks his former self for swallowing his pride and hiring a moving company. Time for an easy breakfast. Coffee and cereal. At least this morning isn’t taking too much out of him. Or is it?

The doorbell rings, pulling him aggressively out of the peace he created in his kitchen. Panic takes over. He isn’t wearing a shirt and he’s supposed to open the door. What if they find his scars off-putting? What if they think he’s a monster? What if they think he’s disgusting? His kitchen doesn’t feel peaceful anymore, it feels like a panic room. The doorbell rings again. He puts his coffee down, only now realizing he had been holding it near his face. Should he open the door? No, why would he? He doesn’t have to. He feels cold sweat working its way down his back and his hand starts to tremble. A panic attack, great. The ringing continues. Shit, is he contemplating opening the damn door? He used to be a sergeant. A fearless soldier. What the hell is wrong with him? He grabs into his fruit bowl, taking out a lemon and biting straight into it. The sourness spreads in his mouth and all his thoughts focus on it. There’s a calm washing over him as his thoughts slowly fade away. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Yeah, tell that to his shaking hand. ‘Bucky! It’s just me! Y/n!‘ Y/n? What would she be doing here so early in the morning? He feels himself relax a bit more. At least she won’t think anything if he opens the door like this. ‘Are you home?‘ Oh shit, but he does have to open the door. He quickly throws the lemon in the trash and wipes the sour juice off his lips, hoping she won’t see how disheveled he was mere seconds ago. ‘Hi, sorry I wasn’t quicker,‘ he says, opening the door just a little bit with his shaky hand. Enough for her to see his face but not enough to see his full body. ‘That’s okay. I just came to ask if you’d like to get some breakfast together.‘ He watches her smile and her figure. She doesn’t look fully rested either but she did take a conscious effort to get dressed. Well, she got dressed. She’s wearing flared corduroys and a thin, sheer sweater with a sports bra underneath that is visible through the fabric of the sweater. That’s more than he managed to do. ‘I’m just having breakfast,‘ he tells her, a bit taken back by her spontaneous question, ‘and I’m not dressed.‘ ‘I can see,‘ she grins, ‘well, that’s alright. I’ll see you around then?‘ She starts to leave but Bucky doesn’t want her to leave. He doesn’t. ‘You got plans for lunch?‘ She stops in her tracks and turns back around with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. ‘I don’t.‘ ‘I’ll pick you up at twelve?‘

Why? Why did he do that? Now he has to get dressed. He just wanted to spend the day in, hopefully, take a nap sometime today to make up for lost sleep. Now he can’t even sit down. Nerves are rushing through his body. Why was it so easy to interact with her yesterday? Was it that one image she put in his head that did it for him? Really? All it took was her suggestion? Bucky stares down the clothes in his closet like they’ll decide what to wear for him. He doesn’t want to do this at all, but at the same time, he does. Is this what it’s like to have a crush? If so, he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the nerves, the cold sweat, and the sleepless nights. He already had those, this is only making it worse. Should he engage in these feelings? Is this really the best for him? But on the other hand, there are his therapist’s words. “James, you should try to engage with people. It’d be good for you to make some new friends.” Yeah, sure. She had also suggested moving away from the city to have a change of pace. Maybe he should call her. Ask her what he should do. Or he could go to Steve.

Steve’s house is what you would expect from a loving, old man. Carpeted floors, a big comfy couch, a reading chair, a few standing lamps next to the couch and chair, a stained coffee table, and old people smell. Their house is cozy. There are pictures on the fireplace, the windowsill, the desk in the corner. Everywhere. Bucky and Steve are seated on the big couch while Peggy works on a flower arrangement in the kitchen. She told Bucky it was to put on the dinner table and coffee table, but she might have too much so she’ll give him some as well. ‘Let me get this straight,‘ Steve says as he puts his coffee cup on the coffee table, ‘Y/n asked you to get breakfast, you said no. And then you “accidentally“ asked her to get lunch together?‘ Bucky nods. ‘That’s great!‘ ‘What?‘ ‘She’s a wonderful girl, you’re a nice lad, you-‘ ‘I don’t have a crush.‘ ‘But she does,‘ Peggy calls from the kitchen, ‘she never has breakfast with friends. She always eats breakfast with her family and if they’re not around, she eats breakfast here.‘ ‘She never eats breakfast alone?‘ Bucky’s eyes dart between Peggy and Steve, deeply curious why this girl never seems to be alone. She’s halfway through her twenties and she still lives at home while all her friends seem to either live together or alone. ‘It’s a long story,‘ Steve chimes in before Peggy can tell him everything, ‘and it’s not our story to tell. But I think it’d be good for the both of you to spend a bit more time together. I think you’ll be able to understand each other.‘ ‘How? She seems so happy-go-lucky while my head makes every breathing moment agony,‘ he admits to Steve. A concerned frown appears on Steve’s face. ‘I thought you were doing better?‘ ‘I was,‘ Bucky says quietly, letting his head hang. Steve puts a hand on the man’s shoulder to comfort him. ‘Talk to me son,‘ Steve says with a reassuring look on his face. A sting goes through Bucky’s body. He had tried to hide it but he really can’t. Steve will find out either way. ‘The kid,‘ Bucky silently tells him, tears filling his eyes, ‘he didn’t make it.‘ The kid. Steve knows who the kid is. Of course, he knows. Bucky used to talk about him often. That he was recovering, his brain activity went up, his wounds were healing. Words suddenly seem useless. Steve pulls Bucky into a comforting hug, wrapping his arms around the man. He starts to hear soft sniffling against his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,‘ Steve whispers to Bucky, ‘but don’t force yourself into anything if you’re still mourning. You’re allowed to feel sad.‘ ‘I know,‘ Bucky silently replies, ‘but I want to move on. That’s the whole reason I moved.‘ The two let go of each other. Bucky wipes his tears away. ‘I don’t know why but yesterday was so easy. Stark invited me in like I’d known him forever, talking to Y/n felt so normal, and the people around here don’t seem to care that I’m different.‘ Steve smiles proudly. ‘But it’s like my body isn’t allowing me to move on,‘ Bucky explains further, ‘I have all these thoughts and feelings. I mean, I had a panic attack when the doorbell rang this morning. And it doesn’t seem fair that I get to live. I’ve done such horrible things.‘ Steve straightens up. ‘Now you listen to me sergeant James Barnes,‘ he states, ‘you followed orders and did the best you could. You’re alive because you pushed through. No one thought you were going to live and yet, here you are. You were given another chance and you will take it. You have to. For the kid.‘ The rough words make Bucky straighten up again. He wipes his tears and takes a deep breath. ‘For the kid,‘ Bucky repeats.

You stand in front of the mirror in your room. You look at yourself for a second. Why do you feel so nervous? It’s just Bucky. You know, the man who ran towards her when you fell on the grass, the man who insisted on walking you home, the man who got awkward when talking about sex and ran away. You have known this man for a mere two days. With a sigh, you look yourself up and down. You didn’t change much about your appearance after going out this morning. You just changed your sweater and sports bra. You’re still wearing your corduroys but you simply changed her sweater for an emerald blouse with short sleeves. You like this look. You wear it a lot. It makes you feel comfortable because it almost looks like you have two normal legs. You know you shouldn’t think like that. Like Tony always tells you: “It makes you Y/n.” You smile at your reflection. You’re literally going out for lunch with a man who is missing an arm. Why should you care about your leg? Your movements come to life. You know you have a black skirt that would look great with this blouse. You shimmy out of your pants and put on the skirt, tugging at the annoying zipper that never likes to work with you. It just enjoys getting stuck. With one last pull, it goes up all the way and you look at yourself again. You used to wear this skirt all the time. Black, silk pencil skirt that just covers your knees with a slit up your left leg, your bad leg. Your heart sinks to your stomach. No, this is not it. Maybe you shouldn’t. It just doesn’t look the same. But let’s be honest, nothing looks the same when you lose a leg. You know what Tony would say. “Your mom used to love that skirt on you and I see why. You look stunning.” ‘I do look stunning,‘ you smile shyly at your reflection, ‘I just don’t look the same.‘ The ringing of the doorbell pulls you out of your staring contest with your reflection and a wave of nerves flushes over you once again. ‘I can do this,’ you promise to yourself and you finally step away from the mirror. The whole walk to the front door feels a lot longer than it usually does. You feel each of the grooves and scratches in the wood on every other step of the stairs, notice every single creek of the wood as if it’s whining for you to step off. You hear the pitter-patter of your own foot on the hardwood floor and feel the carpet under your foot as you scurry through the living room before the pitter-patter sounds again. Every step closer to the door flushes a new tingle through your body but at this point, it’s not nerves anymore. It’s excitement. You open the front door and see Bucky standing much smaller than he did yesterday. He looks about as nervous as you but he’s holding a bouquet. Did he bring you flowers? Did he actually bring you flowers? That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen. ‘Hi,‘ you shyly say as a smile creeps onto your face. Your smile seems to work its way over to him as he feels a thug on the sides of his lips. ‘Hey, these are for you,‘ he says, holding the flowers out to you. ‘Thank you so much,‘ you smile even brighter as you take them from his hands, ‘they’re beautiful. I’ll have to put them in some water.‘ You take a few steps back from the door and open it fully. ‘Do you mind coming in for a second?‘ He nods and follows you inside. He closes the door behind him and suddenly notices you’re barefoot. He looks at all the shoes in the hallway and realizes they’re a “shoes off inside the house family.” ‘Do you want me to take off my shoes,‘ he questions loudly as you have already gone into the kitchen. You peek back to the hallway. ‘No, that’s fine,‘ you assure him, ‘I still have to vacuum.‘ He feels hesitant to step into the room. ‘You don’t have to come inside if you’re not comfortable,‘ you call over to him, ‘it’ll just take a second anyway.‘ He hears some movement in the kitchen and suddenly a loud crash, like glass shattering on tile. Without thinking twice, he moves. He steps into the kitchen seeing you standing, staring at the mess you’ve made. ‘Are you okay?‘ You look up at Bucky, shock still visible in your face. ‘Yeah, I’m fine,‘ you throw him a small smile, ‘just dropped it, that’s all.‘ He walks over to see what kind of mess you’re in. You’re surrounded by glass with no way out without slashing your feet open. ‘Do you need help?‘ ‘Ehm, yes, could I, like, ehm-‘ He takes a few steps closer, crushing the glass under his boots. ‘Hold onto me,‘ he says, holding his arm out to you. You do as he says and wrap your arms around his neck. He puts his arm around your waist and easily carries you over to where the hardwood floor meets the tile, where he thinks it’s safe. You chuckle. ‘Gosh, I’m such a klutz,‘ you say to yourself, ‘let me get that cleaned up.‘ You move before he realizes you are moving. He quietly walks over to the couch and has a seat. ‘Can I help you with anything?‘ He asks when you return with a broom and dustbin. ‘In a minute,‘ you tell him, ‘if you could grab another vase when I’m done. Wouldn’t want to knock over another one.‘ ‘For sure doll.‘ ‘Doll?‘ A rush of nerves goes through his body, but when he looks at your face he doesn’t see any discomfort or awkwardness. ‘Yeah?‘ ‘Cute,‘ you grin and go to work on the glass. “Cute?“ You called him cute and smiled at him. And not in a condescending manner at all. He watches you clean the kitchen and only now notices you’re wearing a skirt again though you were wearing pants this morning. Are you doing that for him? So he doesn’t feel left out? He noticed you had changed yesterday too. No, he must be imagining it. ‘Bucky, could you help me out,‘ you call over after disposing of the broken glass. He stands up and walks over to you. You point at the vase at the top of the cabinet but you don’t move away. He stands behind you, grabbing the vase with ease whilst trying to keep his distance between their bodies. You take the vase from his hands with a grateful smile and move it to the sink. He watches your gentle movements as you cut the flowers and put them in the vase that you filled halfway with water. There’s a comfortable silence between you. ‘Okay, done.‘ you put the vase on the dinner table with a proud smile. ‘Where’d you get these?‘ ‘I was at Steve’s earlier and Peggy got too much of them at the market,‘ he explains to you, ‘she suggested I should take them home but I thought you might appreciate them more.‘ ‘Thank you,‘ you smile. In your mind, you’re planning to bring him flowers the next time you meet. Just for the fun of it. To see how he reacts. ‘Should we get going? I’m starving.‘ ‘Yes, of course.‘ Bucky walks back to the door before you, opening it for you. You quickly slip into some sneakers and grab a light jacket before following him outside. ‘Say, do you even know where we should go,‘ you ask in a teasing manner, grabbing his arm as you catch up to him. He feels himself flinch when you touch him and he feels you loosen your grip. He doesn’t want you to let go at all, so he pulls his arm towards him to cage your hands against his body. ‘I don’t.‘ You move closer to him, wrapping your hands further around his arm with a smile. You know what he was doing. ‘Okay, so let’s get some lunch, and then I’ll show you around if you feel like it. Sound good?‘ ‘Sounds great.‘

Tag list: @nickkie1129 @healy-facedown

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