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rmnamjoons · 4 years ago

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Taking Flight [KNJ Oneshot]

➳ summary: More than a decade after the alien invasion that wiped out most of the planet, you and Namjoon are both in the Pilot Cadet Corps, training for if the alien attackers ever come back. What begins as a playful rivalry between two overachievers develops into a deep friendship and emotional bond, but when the aliens suddenly return and you and Namjoon are separated, you find out just what you’re willing to do to get back to him.

➳ pairing: pilot!Namjoon x pilot!reader

➳ genre: smut, sci fi au, post apocalypse au, alien invasion au, rivals to friends to lovers

➳ word count: 15.2k

➳ read on ao3, link to my masterlist

➳ tags: smut, reunion sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, emotional loving sex, soft dom namjoon, dirty talk (no degradation), rivals to friends to lovers, sexually charged fight/sparring scene when they’re rivals, previously seemingly unrequited love/mutual pining, shower sex, multiple positions, namjoon is needy and so in love

➳ warnings: unnamed character death/death mention, blood mention, injury mention/vague description

➳ a/n: I know this is kind of a niche genre for smut fics; I primarily wrote this for myself, and I definitely had fun and like what I came up with! What’s the point of fanfiction anyway, if not to have fun? Also, this takes place over a few years, and I tried to portray how Namjoon was feral and angry when he was younger but is now a loving gentle giant. Enjoy!

Everybody lost someone in the attacks that killed most of the planet. Friends. Family. Partners. You had lost everything and everyone, like most people who’d lived in the cities that no longer had names — what once had been centers of commerce, tourism, and civilization were now nothing more than craters, and with so few left who remembered them, what they’d once been were now lost to time.

You'd only survived by chance, really. You and your family had been in a tunnel leaving the city, on foot like everyone else, and when everything had turned to chaos, you’d gotten lost from your parents and sister. You still remembered the way people screamed and ran through the tunnel, their voices echoing harshly off the cement walls. You’d spotted someone hiding off to the side in a utility room in the tunnel, and when the blast hit the city center, that person had made you hide in the room too, their body shielding yours from the hellfire, melting around you.

You were five years old then. You were pretty sure your sister had been eight. You couldn’t remember what your parents or sister looked like, or your house, or where you’d gone to school, other than vague flashes and shapes of people who’d once been your whole world. All you’d had with you were the clothes on your back, and even those had been taken away once you’d gotten somewhere safe and been given something clean to change into.

After the ships fell and surviving aliens left, it had taken years to clear the rubble and start over. The attacks that changed and destroyed everything had also been a gift, or so they now preached, in which humanity was able to grow, learn, and become united. The religions and cults who now worshiped the alien attackers believed humanity had deserved extermination, but you liked the more academic approach to the alien race’s lessons: the technology humans had been able to reverse engineer from their fallen ships.

One of the many ways humanity had advanced in the last few years was flight technology. Planes were faster, turned sharper, could go farther, burned cleaner energy. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was how important Earth’s planes had been in beating them, so that was where all the technology and progress was focused now.

You loved planes and flying, you always had, but the real reason you wanted to be a pilot, you held much closer to your chest: your entire life, you always felt like the attacks when you were young were just the beginning. Like an unhealthy obsession or open wound, it was all you could think about sometimes, what drove your every decision, what led you to the Pilot Cadet Corps. You wanted to be part of the team that took them down if they ever came back. You wanted to be ready.

You were eighteen when you’d joined the Corps. You’d jumped on that opportunity the first moment you were able, without so much as a second glance back at what you left behind. You’d been adopted fairly soon after the attacks, but your adopted parents never felt much like family.

The first full year of Corps was bootcamp. Bunk rooms were co-ed, and every moment of your lives was dictated down to the second. You woke up at six in the morning and ran laps around the track. You had as much free time as you earned between whenever you finished your laps and when breakfast started at seven: the faster you ran, the more free time you got.

Eight to noon was physical training. After lunch was different depending on the day: three days a week you had mental training for whatever field you were going into, mostly flight simulation for the pilots. Another day was more combat training, and the last was an alternate, for first aid, written tests, marksmanship, and other courses along those lines. After that you had more physical training, like sparring and hand-to-hand combat, then dinner, then free time. Lights out was strictly at ten-thirty every night, and then you’d start it all over again the next day.

Now, you stood in line with the other cadets training to be pilots, waiting to hear your class ranks. Every month, they would announce a ranking of all cadets, a score averaged in test results, simulator scores, and overall performance. The better you ranked, the better your placement once you graduated.

“Third place, Park. Eighty-nine point nine,” the sergeant read off, making a small boy a few rows away from you puff up his chest in pride. You weren’t sure why anyone would feel proud of not getting an A, but you pushed that thought away.

You swallowed hard, holding your breath. There were only two spots left, and if you’d scored higher than Park, that meant you got an A and were either in second or first place out of the whole class. You didn’t know everyone’s names yet, so you weren’t sure who you were competing with.

“Second place, Y/L/N. Ninety-five point two.”

You heard the impressed murmur of others in the class before all of them were silenced by a firm look from the sergeant. Your heart sank, your hands curling into tight fists. Second place? You’d been so sure before now that you were working harder than all the other cadets. You were smarter than them, faster, more focused. Who the fuck had beaten you?

“First place, Kim. Ninety-five point three.”

Your brow furrowed. You weren’t sure who this Kim was, but you set your jaw, becoming determined to learn everything about them so you could beat them. Whatever their weaknesses were, you’d find them and exploit them.

You snuck a glance around you, trying to figure out who Kim was, and nearly jumped out of your skin when the tall boy next to you made eye contact with you, raising one eyebrow in the most smug, cocky, asshole-ish look you’d ever seen. That one singular eyebrow quirk, the corner of his lip curling up barely noticeably, all of it made you want to seethe and strangle him.

You’d noticed this man before, but had never thought much of him. He was taller than all the other men, but he hadn’t come off as particularly smart or extraordinary. This guy was the one who’d beaten you?

Now that you looked at him, you noticed he was definitely very muscular. Had he beaten your score through his strength? You could work harder at weight lifting and beat him. Were his test scores perfect? You could make yourself study even more.

Whatever it was that made him first place, you’d find out and beat him.

II.

In the following weeks, you began to wonder how you’d ever missed Kim Namjoon.

You and Namjoon both worked harder than everyone else. You both trained longer, started earlier in the morning and kept going until you were the last ones left. You both pushed yourselves harder than all of your other classmates, academically and physically. Before he was placed first in the class, you hadn’t even noticed him, but now he was the bane of your existence, and you existed only to beat him and come out on top.

You were faster and more agile, but Namjoon was by far stronger. You almost wanted to dispute the scoring system; what use was strength for a pilot? You weren’t soldiers. He needed fast reflexes and precision, not fighting skills or the ability to deadlift two hundred pounds. Was he planning on picking up planes and throwing them at the alien ships? It was so stupid.

The second month of bootcamp, you were the top of the class, and Namjoon was second place now. You smiled smugly to yourself and kept your eyes focused forward, staying perfectly at attention like the other cadets, but you could feel his eyes on you and almost sense his focused anger, that same emotion you’d felt when he’d first beaten you.

After the ranking announcements, you went to combat training in the gym, but your instructor called out both your name and Namjoon’s before you could even get started.

“I want the two of you to spar,” the instructor said as the two of you ran up. “No rules, just fighting. You can use boxing, wrestling, martial arts, whatever you want — just don’t kill each other.”

You narrowed your eyes at Namjoon, almost expecting him to refuse to fight you, for being a girl. Besides occasional glares, the two of you had never so much as said a word to each other, but you figured smug alpha male assholes were all the same.

But instead, Namjoon smiled and said, “All right.” He almost seemed eager to get in the ring and teach you a lesson.

Now, you eyed him from across the ring, how he was watching you with a smug little smirk as he wrapped his knuckles.

“To win, pin the other person’s back to the mat for five full seconds,” your instructor said carefully. “Their back has to fully touch the ground, not just shoulders. They don’t have to be conscious to be pinned.”

You and Namjoon made eye contact at that.

“Whoever wins doesn’t have to run laps next week. Loser runs double laps before eating. You both ready?”

You and Namjoon ended up drawing a crowd of spectators.

The moment the instructor said start, you ran, jumped, and wrapped your legs around his head, twisting and throwing him to the ground so that he was on his back and you stood over his head, smirking down at his stupid surprised face.

He’d hit the mat hard, the breath completely knocked out of him. A few people in the crowd murmured quietly to themselves and quietly asked each other if the fight was already over. You let out a shaky breath, letting yourself feel proud for a split second as you glanced at the spectators, but before you could register what was happening, Namjoon grabbed you by both your legs, making you twist and fall hard on your back, too.

You tried to crawl away from him, but he just pulled you under him by your legs, climbing on top of you and trying to hold you down with his hands. You arched your back as high as you could, touching the mat only with your shoulders and ass as Namjoon fought to grab your wrists. He was on top of you, straddling your abdomen and trying to keep you down without actually touching your chest, and you watched him bite his lip and heard him growl as he focused on not getting hit while you thrashed beneath him.

You brought your leg up and kneed his kidney as hard as you could, making him groan before moving back to pin your legs down too. You could now easily keep your back fully off the mat, but he was straddling you much lower now, bending over you and still trying to grab your arms. This close, you could smell him, his sweat and masculine scent mixed with the cheap soap you all were given, and you had to push aside the fact you kind of liked the way he smelled.

You were panting hard, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each deep breath. You watched Namjoon as he glanced down at your breasts, before his eyes snapped back up at your face, his eyes wide as if he were surprised he’d let himself look.

“Having fun?” you teased, smirking up at him.

“Tons,” he growled, finally catching one of your hands and pinning it down by your wrist.

You hooked your leg up as far as you could, wrapping it around him and using his close proximity to your advantage. This seemed to catch Namjoon very off guard, and you felt more than heard him make a noise in surprise as you essentially embraced him, not giving him any space to move or do anything as you pulled your hand free and wrapped all your limbs around him, hanging off of him like a leach.

Namjoon sat back on his knees, and you held onto him, your legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders, waiting for your moment to use his weight against him and throw him on his back. He was squirming and wearing himself out, while you just squeezed him, hard enough you heard something in him crack.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled, trying to pry you off of him. Before you could answer, he grabbed you by your hair and jerked your head backwards, making you gasp and cry out. He started to force you off by getting his hands between your bodies, but you surprised him, grabbing his throat with both hands and squeezing.

Namjoon forcefully brought his hands down on your arms, bending them so that you let go of his neck, and now you were much closer to his face, nearly nose to nose as he still sat there on his knees with you hanging off of him. He held your wrists with both hands now as you tried to struggle free from him, and when you realized you couldn’t, you twisted one wrist, bringing his hand up to your mouth and biting down as hard as you could on the meat of his thumb.

He yelped and let go of you, but before you could use the moment to your advantage, he grabbed you and pushed you off of him, throwing you down away from him while he scrambled back and looked at his hand.

Your body bounced as you hit the mat, rolling a few times until you slammed against the edge of the ring. Namjoon was back on you before you could react, and you felt him behind you, trying to roll you over so he could pin you down on your back again. You brought your head back hard and connected with his nose, making him jump back again.

When you looked back at him, Namjoon was standing across the ring, holding his nose and glaring at you as you jumped to your feet too.

You circled each other for a moment, both closely watching the other’s every move like prey.

His nose was bleeding heavily, both of you out of breath and covered in sweat. You were pretty sure you had a bruised rib from him throwing you, your lungs burning from exertion from the fight. Everyone who’d been in the gym was now watching, none of them speaking as the two of you circled each other.

You ran at each other at the same time, Namjoon throwing a swing that you easily ducked. While his momentum was off, you punched him hard in the stomach, making him bend over in pain.

He was being sloppy, maybe distracted from his pain and anger, or maybe he was just more of a big clumsy oaf who relied on strength alone than you’d thought. You knew he was smart based on his test scores, but none of that appeared to translate to agility or finesse. He was fighting clumsy and angry, but you only felt more focused now, catching yourself smiling as you almost enjoyed yourself.

When you tried to strike him again, moving to hit your elbow between his shoulders while he was bent over, he turned and reached up, grabbing your neck with both hands. You broke his hold easily, and used that moment to bring your hand up and smack his injured nose.

Namjoon groaned in pain, holding his nose again. You grabbed his free hand, twisting it until he turned around and fell to his knees, yelling in pain, his arm bent painfully behind his back. You now stood behind him, Namjoon unable to move unless he wanted you to break or dislocate his arm, you on your feet with him on his knees.

“Do you forfeit?” you said, pulling his arm up another inch and making him hiss in pain. You could see how much he was sweating and panting, and ignored the way it sent a shiver of lust through you.

“You play dirty,” he seethed. Just standing close to him, you could feel the way heat radiated off of him. You’d noticed before that he was a sweaty guy, but now he was shining with it.

“I seem to remember being told that there were no rules for this fight,” you said, smiling proudly to yourself as you held the large man in place with one hand.

Instead of responding, Namjoon threw himself backwards into you, knocking you off your feet. You were on your back now and he was on his back on top of you, pinning you there. He had to have at least pulled his arm out of socket doing that move, and his body tensed from the pain, but he didn’t stop.

Namjoon pushed down with his shoulders as hard as he could, arching his back and standing up on his feet, bending his legs to put even more weight on just his shoulders to trap you there under him. You were crushed by him, barely able to breathe, let alone keep yourself fully off the mat.

He was so big and heavy, his shoulders wide enough to pin your arms down. You did the only thing you could think to do in the moment, what you hoped would give you an advantage again. You leaned in and bit down where his shoulder met his neck, the same side his arm was dislocated, and you bit down hard.

Namjoon yelped in surprise and pain, and you wrapped your arms around him in a chokehold so that when he tried to roll away, you went with him. He twisted in your arms until he was on top of you, facing you again, and this time you brought your knee up hard between his legs, his eyes closing as he groaned in agony.

You easily pushed him off and got on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning him down. Your knees pressed your full weight down on his biceps, including his injured arm, which made him groan in pain with every harsh exhale. He arched his back and tried to push you off of him, but he could barely move or reach you, his arms both pinned outward.

“Tired of getting your ass kicked yet?” you goaded, raising an eyebrow when Namjoon glared up at you. “How were you ever the top of our class? This is a little too easy.”

“Fuck you,” he growled, seething hard, blood all over his mouth and chin from his broken nose. His back still wasn’t technically on the ground though, so you needed to think of a way to make him stay down.

You were straddling his chest, so you moved your hips forward suddenly before throwing your whole body back, slamming yourself down hard and completely knocking the wind out of him. You simultaneously knocked him down so that his back was against the mat, and purposefully hit the back of your head against his crotch, which had to still be hurting from when you’d just kneed him a minute ago, so that he wouldn’t have the strength to get himself back up for a few seconds. You heard what you thought was a crack, which you really hoped wasn’t his crotch, before you heard and felt him groaning in pain.

The instructor counted out, and you won. You immediately jumped off of him and looked down at the damage.

Blood covered Namjoon’s chin, mouth, and neck, all from his nose wound, which you’d smacked more than once. He was bleeding from the bite on his neck, and his shoulder did not look right, pulled painfully out of socket and potentially broken. He rolled onto his side away from you and moaned, the hand of his arm that wasn’t dislocated over his crotch as he curled up in a ball on the ground.

“You all right?” you asked cautiously, stepping out of the way as the instructor rushed in to help him. Namjoon held up his middle finger to you, closing his eyes as he tried to breathe steadily.

You snorted in amusement and went off to the locker room to shower.

That night, Namjoon limped into dinner.

You were sitting by yourself at a table near the back, reading a book written by a pilot from before the attacks. Namjoon sat down across from you, as if sitting together was something the two of you normally did.

His nose was badly bruised and taped up, definitely broken. Judging by the limp he’d come in with, you’d messed up something below deck. His arm seemed to have been popped back in socket, but you could see the bruising spreading over his collarbone under his t-shirt, and his arm was in a sling. He had bite marks on his neck and hand, and the one on his neck had needed stitches.

You tried not to smile to yourself.

“Y/L/N?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure of your name, like you two weren’t rivals constantly competing and you hadn’t kicked his ass a few hours ago.

“Kim,” you said, returning the formality.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, so you went back to eating, trying not to look over at him. He rested his non-injured hand on his stomach, and you wondered if you’d broken one of his ribs or if he was just hungry.

“You planning on eating?” you asked him after a moment.

Namjoon actually smiled, laughing to himself weakly.

“I don’t think I even have the energy to walk across the room to get food,” he murmured, his voice a little deeper than usual.

Without a word, you stood, walking straight across the room to get another plate of food. When you returned and placed it in front of him, he looked up at you with wide eyes, confused and shocked by your gesture.

“Do you need me to cut it up for you, too?” you teased, though glancing at his arm, you wondered if he’d actually need that.

Namjoon shook his head after a moment, glancing down at his plate.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. You saw a small, genuine smile on his lips, and you realized then for the very first time that he had dimples.

III.

The following week came, as did Namjoon’s punishment week for losing the sparring match. The first morning, you noticed him waking up earlier than everyone else to go start his laps, since he had to do double. You quickly got dressed and followed.

You ran up beside him as he slowly jogged around the track.

“What are you doing?” He looked over at you, furrowing his brow but not stopping.

“Running laps,” you answered flatly.

You ran the same number of laps as he did that morning, despite having won the right not to run this week. Namjoon, you learned, had a broken rib and pulled groin in addition to all the other stuff you’d done to him, and he’d been given an out and didn’t have to run any laps after all. Your instructor had told him that he needed to focus on healing and not accidentally hurt himself more. He didn’t have to do combat training or anything else physical until he was healed, but he still ran his punishment laps anyway, completely by choice, and so you ran them too, matching his pace the entire time, neither of you saying a word to the other.

Despite getting his ass kicked in the sparring match, the rest of the cadets viewed Namjoon as almost a superhero after that. They respected how well he’d taken a beating; he was the guy who kept fighting, even with half a dozen injuries and multiple broken bones. You were the only one who’d been able to best him, using just your speed to outwit him, and now the rest of the class respected you both even more. Namjoon was a nearly unstoppable tank, and you were the lithe fox that beat him.

As boot camp continued, you and Namjoon continued your quiet friendship, neither of you the overly gushy or warm type, both focused only on training. You studied together, and started helping each other instead of competing. Both of you only improved your scores and times.

Namjoon helped you with your physical training, helping you get stronger. You helped him with his marksmanship, precision, and speed. You regularly sparred and fought and pushed each other further. You studied together, fought together, ate together, did everything together.

The first year of Corps ended, and you entered the second year. This was more specialized, focused on specifically becoming a pilot with more time on flight training instead of physical and military training, which you still definitely had a lot of.

Your class was smaller now, but you still slept in a co-ed barrack. You and Namjoon picked spots next to each other this year.

One night during winter break, almost everyone else had gone home for the week, the two of you essentially having the base to yourselves. It was well past midnight and after lights out, but you and Namjoon laid in your beds talking quietly, both on your sides facing each other. You only had about a foot of space between your beds, and you could just barely make out his face in the dark.

Namjoon told you that he remembered the attacks, losing his family, everything. He’d had a sister too, and had lived in a suburb, not one of the cities. He didn’t explain further, but said that he remembered what happened to his family, and that he’d been found in the woods by himself weeks later. He’d only been seven years old at the time, and you wondered how the hell he’d made it on his own for so long.

You got the feeling he was used to being on his own, and didn’t let himself get attached to anything or anyone. Part of you wanted to reach out and touch him, put your hand on his shoulder and tell him he didn’t have to be alone anymore. But instead you sighed, ignoring the way his sad eyes made your heart ache.

IV.

Your second year turned into your third, and you and Namjoon only became closer. You both planned to go on to a fourth year of training, even though it wasn’t required, as it would give you higher credentials and clearance when you finished. Both of you still strived to be perfect, after all.

Halfway through your third year together, you realized Namjoon was the closest thing you had to family. You both saw each other pretty much every moment of every day. You both didn’t leave the base for holidays, so the longest you’d been apart since first meeting was a few hours, at most.

You were constantly together, even when you didn’t need to be. You woke up early and ran laps, even though you were no longer required to — only first year cadets ran laps, but you both continued because… you didn’t know why, and you didn’t question it. You loved running with him.

That first year together, Namjoon had been stoic and quiet. He didn’t talk much, unless directly questioned, and even then he kept his answers as concise as possible. You weren’t exactly talkative, but when the two of you talked to each other alone, especially in the past few years, Namjoon began coming out of his shell. When he wasn’t guarded and quiet, he was warm and funny, almost loving in his own kind of way. You got the feeling he was naturally full of love, but had pushed that part of himself down in the years he’d spent alone and in shelters.

Now, you were giving Namjoon a haircut. His hair grew weirdly fast, and there were rules about keeping everything, including hair, perfectly in uniform. Men had to have very short hair and be clean-shaven, which meant Namjoon had to get a haircut basically every other week.

When it was warm you did this outside, but now it was winter and you were in the locker room. While you worked, you talked about upcoming tests and other little things. You kept catching Namjoon looking up at you as you stood in front of him, between his spread legs, and he seemed to be getting bolder, watching your face outright instead of just stealing glances.

“Close your eyes and tilt your head back,” you mumbled, trying to hide the fact you were blushing and flustered. Namjoon listened without a word, and you let yourself look at him for just a second; your faces were close, even with him sitting and you standing, because of how tall he was. You’d been obsessed with his lips lately, finding yourself fantasizing about them at the most inopportune times, thinking about how soft and full they looked and wondering what they’d feel like against your own.

Before you could pull yourself from your thoughts and start on the front of his hair, the power suddenly cut out.

You let out a small gasp, but this wasn’t exactly surprising around here. The power went out often because of the testing they were doing with switching over completely to alien tech for larger power structures. Still, you’d gasped in surprise because you’d been so focused on Namjoon’s face, and now the two of you were alone together in a dark locker room.

“Are you okay?” Namjoon asked, his hands coming up to rest on your hips.

Of course you were okay; the lights had just gone off.

“Yeah,” you answered anyway. You moved your hands from over his head to his shoulders, feeling him in the dark.

“It’ll be back on in a second, we’re okay,” he said, his thumbs moving slightly, like he was trying to comfort you.

“I know,” you said, your voice sounding small. You weren’t afraid at all, but you didn’t want him to stop what he was doing.

The lights came back on then, and you looked down at him. Namjoon smiled up at you, dimples on full display, and it nearly took your breath away. He had a little piece of cut hair on his cheek, which you gently brushed away, and he wrinkled his nose at you, making your heart ache.

You finished giving him his haircut, and afterwards he pulled off his shirt and went over to one of the showers, to wash off the pieces of hair you’d cut. You gathered up the electric razor and your other belongings while you heard him undressing behind you, turning on the shower and humming happily to himself.

You stopped yourself from looking at him as you walked out of the room and went back to the barracks, refusing to let yourself think about him showering or the way he’d looked at you.

VI.

Your last year of training was mostly just the two of you working together and with various superior officers. You’d get promotions and rank changes after some time in the field, but you’d start out as Senior Airmen, and would probably both make Staff Sergeant within a few years of graduating. There were no wars or active duty anymore, but it meant you’d both be given leadership positions, if ever the need arose.

After graduation, you and Namjoon would both receive your assignments and placements. You’d both requested to be placed together, without requesting anything else. You could be sent anywhere in the world, given any position; you didn’t care where you ended up though, as long as you were with him.

Since it was your last year, you were both given proper rooms instead of barracks. The rooms were small and minimal, but your room was right across from Namjoon’s. You spent a lot of time in each other’s rooms, even sometimes sleeping over.

Now, you laid on Namjoon’s bed in his room, while he sat at the chair by his desk with his feet propped up on the end of his bed. He was playing with a stress ball, passing it back and forth between his hands. You’d finished all your testing and training, so you were both basically just resting until graduation, anticipating your placements. It was late at night, the rest of the base quiet and sleeping.

“Dream placement,” you said, turning your head and pointing at him. “Go.”

“Oh, man…” Namjoon rolled his head back, looking at the ceiling. “Southern California.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “What’s in Southern California, besides desert?”

“That’s the closest base to where the first ship went down. They’ve got the best tech out there, the best planes.”

“Okay, true,” you sighed. “But there’s nothing out there for miles. There’d be nothing to do.”

“What else is there, besides flying?” Namjoon threw the little ball he was playing with gently so it bounced off the wall beside you and landed on your stomach.

“I like flying and being able to see something besides sand, rock, and craters for hundreds of miles,” you said, tossing the ball back to him.

“You feel like you’re going faster if you don’t have anything to look at,” he said, catching the ball with one hand and tossing it behind him onto his desk.

“You also get lost easier,” you laughed, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Not if you’re a good navigator,” Namjoon laughed too, standing up and moving onto the bed with you. He wasn’t exactly tickling you, but he was touching your body and you were both giggling as he laid down beside you.

“If you want to feel like you’re going fast, then just go fast,” you said, your hands on his shoulders now as you grinned up at him. He was partially on top of you, partially beside you as he smiled down at you, his mouth so close to yours.

“I want to go even faster,” he said, but he stilled suddenly, looking down at you with wide eyes. He seemed to have suddenly realized the position the two of you were in, and he moved so that he was just beside you, laying on his side as you laid on your back.

You sighed. It was always like this — not that you were complaining, because you loved the relationship you already had with him. But lately, you’d get so close, almost kissing, almost embracing, almost something, and then he’d back off. You still loved the moments before, where you could forget that you were just friends and pretend you were something more, as much as it ended up hurting your heart in the long run.

Even now, you loved this. Namjoon propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at you as you continued talking, a different topic now. Your mouths were only a few inches apart. It would be so easy for him to just lean down and kiss you, like you wanted him to so badly.

Namjoon’s hand that wasn’t supporting his head rested on your stomach. You put your hands there too, playing with him, feeling his long fingers and how big his hand was, and Namjoon let you, pretending not to notice.

You talked about graduation plans, life plans, little nothings that made each other sadly smile. Neither of you said it, but you both worried you wouldn’t be placed together.

“What’s your dream placement?” he asked you gently, his voice soft.

“You know, I don’t even care,” you said. Because it didn’t matter where they put you as long as you were with him, but you didn’t say that.

That night the two of you fell asleep like that, in that position. It wasn’t the first time.

VII.

When you woke up, you could feel Namjoon’s gentle breathing on your neck. You turned your head and looked at him, studying his expression in the early morning calm.

He was still on his side facing you, so now you were face-to-face, your foreheads and noses only a few inches apart. His hand still rested on your stomach, and you still held his hand there with both of your hands. You felt his fingers twitch a little in his sleep and wondered what he was dreaming about. His other arm was under the pillow now, and through it you could almost feel the swell of his bicep and warmth of his skin.

You only ever let yourself really look at him like this when he was sleeping, when the two of you had sleepovers in each other’s rooms. You studied the shape of his nose, the way his big, plush lips parted, the puffiness of his cheeks as he relaxed and breathed, every freckle and mole on his face that you wanted to kiss so badly. Cuddled up with him like this, you could feel how warm he was; Namjoon was a furnace of a man, and you’d gotten so used to sharing a bed with him the past few months, you now had to layer up and sleep with an extra blanket whenever you slept alone.

Namjoon sighed then, shifting a little in his sleep. You quickly closed your eyes and turned your head back so you weren’t facing him directly, in case he opened his eyes.

You felt him moving, shifting so that his arm was hugging you instead of his hand just resting on you. His hand was now on your side, below your armpit, his thumb on the side of your breast. He sighed and seemed to fall back asleep, softly snoring again after a few moments.

You laid like that for a while, enjoying this feeling, knowing you’d never have this for real. You'd never wake up next to Namjoon in the context you wanted, but this was more than enough for you. You were so in love with him, but he didn’t see you the same way, so you’d enjoy waking up in his arms for as long as you could.

When Namjoon eventually woke up on his own, he seemed to slowly realize the position you were in, moving his hand down carefully to more platonic territory. You opened your eyes and turned your head to look at him, and were caught off guard by the way he was staring at you so openly, looking down at your mouth for a few moments before looking back at your eyes with an expression you couldn’t name.

“Y/N,” he murmured, so softly you could barely hear him, but you could feel the rumble of it in his chest. You didn’t say anything, both of you just looking at each other in the peaceful quiet stillness of early morning, the only noises both of your gentle breathing.

Namjoon moved his hand up to your shoulder, and then his hand was cupping your cheek, brushing your hair back from your face. The tips of your noses were almost touching, his warm breath on your lips. He closed his eyes and put his forehead against yours, your heart almost stopping in your chest from how close he was. He’s never done anything like this before, and you definitely were not going to stop him.

He turned his head slightly, your foreheads still connected as the tip of his nose skimmed along your cheek, by your nose. He brushed his lips against yours so lightly you could barely feel him, his eyes still closed. You could feel his eyelashes tickling your cheek, and prayed he couldn’t feel how fast your heart was racing or how you nearly whimpered at his every touch.

Namjoon moved and brushed his barely parted lips against the corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw. His hand on your cheek, he stroked your skin with his thumb slowly, touching you, feeling you. His leg moved up slowly, hooking over yours, and you spread your legs for him. You couldn’t even think straight right now, the only things your brain were processing were the touches and sensations Namjoon was giving you.

What the hell was he doing? The thought of him seeing you romantically, the same way you saw him, had seemed so impossible before now, but now, as he brushed his lips against your skin, you wondered if he’d been longing the same way you had.

Namjoon turned your head carefully, slightly away from him, so that you were looking directly up again. He kissed your cheek closer to him while he stroked the other, pressing gentle open-mouthed kisses down your face and neck as he slowly moved himself on top of you. You, matching his slow movements, wrapped your legs loosely around him and held onto his shoulders.

Namjoon kissed your skin as lightly as he could, feeling you anywhere you’d let him, and you were lost in him. He switched to your other side, kissing your collarbone and neck and jaw, and one of his hands moved up behind your head, tangling in your hair. Every movement was slow and deliberate and gentle.

You never would’ve guessed Namjoon was the gentle type, but now that this was happening, it made sense and you craved it. He closed his lips lightly against your earlobe and you gasped loudly, trying to arch up against him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your ear. “So soft, so perfect, my angel, my love.” His voice was so warm and deep, and you quietly whimpered, holding onto his shoulders even tighter. You felt like he could make you come just from this, just from his light touches and hearing his deep voice praise you. You'd wanted him so badly for years now, you’d dreamed about him, fantasized nonstop, and now here he was, and the tension was already building up for you.

He hadn’t even fully kissed your mouth yet. Namjoon pressed his lips against your cheek, caressing the other side of your face with his hand, just holding your body so close to his. You swore you could die right now and be fine with that.

An alarm suddenly blared, and both of your bodies stilled and tensed.

Namjoon jumped off of you and sat back on his legs, looking around the room like he was expecting to see what was happening written on the walls. You sat up too, looking around. Your legs were still spread, your brain still hazy from Namjoon’s kisses, and you looked at him as you saw him working through what was happening.

“Something’s wrong,” Namjoon said, quickly jumping up. He sat back down on the side of his bed long enough to put on his shoes. “Come on,” he said, pulling you up when he stood again.

You snapped yourself out of your lust-haze. The alarm was still going off, which meant something major was happening right now. It wasn’t just a test.

You left, quickly scampering across the hall to your own room so you could get dressed.

You and Namjoon met up in between your rooms a moment later, both in uniform, and ran down together to where the rest of the base had gathered, Namjoon taking your hand in his as you ran.

VIII.

It was another attack, like when you were young.

You all stood there at attention receiving orders, none of you looking anywhere except forward blankly. This was it, everything you had trained for, the exact reason you’d trained so hard. They were back.

You and Namjoon were both assigned as squadron leaders to two different units, Namjoon to Red One and you to Blue One. Those were two of the best, most elite units of fighter jets, but you looked over at him when you got your assignments. You weren’t together, so you wouldn’t know if he was okay until after it was all over.

You were all dismissed and had fifteen minutes to get to your planes and prepare for launch. You went straight to your plane, not stopping to talk to Namjoon. You knew you wouldn’t be able to leave him once you looked at him, so it was better to just pretend this morning hadn’t happened.

You were just starting to climb the ladder up to your plane when you heard his voice.

“Not saying goodbye?”

You froze in your tracks, but didn’t turn or look at him. You couldn’t make yourself say anything, instead just staring straight in front of you with your hands on the rungs of the ladder.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice much softer now as he walked over to you. The planes were close together so you were in tight quarters, and he stood right behind you, his hands not quite touching your sides.

“What?” you said, not looking back at him.

“Please don’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said. You'd never heard his voice like this. Quiet, pleading, loving. It was like this morning in bed, but more desperate, yearning, begging you to look at him.

You started to move up the ladder without turning around, and he put his hands on your hips, stopping you. He immediately let go, not wanting to trap you there.

You sighed and turned around to face him, only partially, still a step up on the ladder so you were just slightly taller than him. You reached back and held onto the ladder with one hand as you looked at him.

When you saw the expression on his face, it took your breath away. He looked almost tearful, sick with worry, trying to be stronger than how he obviously felt.

“Goodbye,” you said softly, bringing your free hand up to his cheek.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at you. You stroked his cheek with your thumb and tried to smile weakly. His hair was getting a little long, you noticed then for some reason. He was supposed to keep it short to stay in uniform, but now it looked long enough for you to run your fingers through.

Namjoon’s eyes were wide and innocent, searching your face. Around you, the base was chaotic and busy as other pilots ran to their planes and officers barked out orders and engines started up. The two of you just stood there in your quiet moment, both a lot less excited about your first mission than you’d thought you’d be, everything happening so much sooner then you’d both thought and on such a larger scale than you ever could have anticipated. You remembered almost wanting this when you were young, promising yourself that you’d be ready if they ever came back. Maybe the universe was punishing you; whenever you loved someone, the universe immediately sought to take it from you. Your family when you were young, and now Namjoon.

He looked like he wanted to kiss you or tell you something. He parted his lips and glanced at your mouth, his brow furrowing as he breathed, and he looked back up at your eyes, his expression so worried.

“I’ll see you soon,” you said, smiling gently.

You turned and climbed up into your plane without another word.

There had been twenty pilots in your squadron when you left, and four when you returned.

You didn’t really remember the aliens from when you were little, but you’d seen countless videos. You knew what they looked like, how they performed, what their technology was supposed to be like, what their weaknesses had been.

You saw so many planes go down. The alien ship had a different defense than last time, and the fight was only over when the alien ship suddenly left and moved on, seemingly just because it wanted to, not because the humans posed any kind of threat to it. When it left, it had taken out an entire city, just like last time. The town near the base had only recently gotten its infrastructure set up.

You and your three surviving pilots returned first out of all the other squadrons. You quickly climbed out of your plane and ran down to the hangar, asking about the other pilots still out there. You needed to know if Namjoon was okay.

Before you even got to the hangar, another alarm started blaring. A plane near you exploded, and you spun around, looking up at the sky.

There had to be over a hundred alien ships in the sky, all firing on the base and the planes.

“Get inside, now!” you yelled, pointing at the pilots from your squadron who’d ducked down near their planes. You knew the base had a bunker, and the number of people at the base now could easily survive down there long-term.

There was panic as people got down there as fast as they could, all climbing over each other and yelling. You stayed back where you could see the sky, ducking down in a safe spot and watching as long as you could. You only saw alien ships, none of your own.

You imagined Namjoon’s last seconds. If he hadn’t made it back to the base, there was no way he’d survive. The ships would find him. You could only see the planes you’d seen exploding earlier, hear the voices of the pilots in your squadron on your coms as their ships exploded. A cut-off shout, and then nothing.

You finally made yourself run down to the bunker. In the distance, you could hear the ships destroying every visible part of the base, every last truck and car and plane and tank exploding as the blasts hit them. The walls shook and lights flickered and dust fell from the ceiling as you made your way down the stairwell to the bunker.

Over the destruction above you, you could hear Namjoon’s voice that morning in his bed, the world frozen around you then, the only things that mattered his large, gentle hands, his slow, exploring mouth, and his soft voice.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’d breathed against your neck. You'd been able to feel his smile, the tip of his nose tracing your jaw, the warmth of his breath on your skin. You'd never felt safer than when you were laying in bed with him.

You pushed the door of the bunker shut behind you, your hands shaking and eyes welling up. You could not think about this; you had to push all of that aside for now. You had a job to do.

After about five minutes down in the bunker, the lights went out. The weak backup generator kicked on near-immediately, but now there was no connection to the outside world. If any pilots managed to survive this long, the base wouldn’t know about it or have any way of contacting them.

When you’d taken off, both you and Namjoon had been promoted to captains, to lead your squadrons. Once all of the remaining people at the base were down in the bunker and accounted for, you were promoted again, this time to major.

Almost everyone out of the thousand or so people on the base had gone out to fight. The only people who’d stayed behind were ground control officers, technicians, first years, civilians who worked on the base, and the top few people in charge. There were maybe a few hundred people down in the massive bunker now, and you ranked sixth in command out of all of them.

Namjoon would’ve been so jealous you outranked him, you thought with a small smile.

VI.

Four days passed with no news.

There was no service. There was no internet, radio, or any connection to the outside world.

You were itching to get out. There was no news from the outside world, but there also hadn’t been any explosions since the first day. The alien ships had to be gone by now. On the second day, you’d tried to suggest to the general that you could go up to the surface and see if an evacuation could be planned, but the general and other officers had all said that there was no need to evacuate, because there were plenty of supplies down here. They would continue to work on regaining communications with other bases, and nothing else immediately mattered until then.

Now, you were on your cot, staring at the ceiling above you. It was the middle of the night and just about everyone else was asleep. Most people slept on cots in what looked like an old gym, all lined up in long rows. Everyone had been given two changes of clothes, all gray jumpsuits. You felt like you were in prison.

The scratchy wool blanket was pulled up to your neck. You tried to imagine sharing the cot with Namjoon, the two of you squeezed onto the spot only meant for one and giggling when you just barely fit. You imagined him spooning you, kissing your neck and shoulder and holding you close to him. You imagined feeling his heartbeat in his chest. You imagined his face when his plane exploded.

It wasn’t fair. You’d literally just become something more than friends, maybe, kind of. Your relationship with Namjoon meant everything to you, and it had suddenly been changing in such amazing ways, and then he’d immediately been taken from you.

You refused to cry about this. You refused to even accept he was gone. There were ways he could’ve survived. There had to be. He could’ve flown low and ejected and hidden in the rubble of the city. Except he wasn’t a coward; you knew him, and you knew he was the type to win or die fighting. He could’ve led other survivors away from the city. Except there was no way these planes could’ve outrun the alien ships. They weren’t fast enough.

There had to be a way. You had to get up to the surface and find out. You had to find him.

VII.

After one week down in the bunker, you felt like you were going out of your mind.

You had a plan. You were going to go to the surface whether they let you or not. You were going to find Namjoon, or at least the remains of his plane. You were going to find him or find closure.

You needed climbing gear to get up the destroyed stairwell. You’d need to find rope and gear, a lot of water, and survival supplies. You began your plan, looking around for spare supplies nobody would notice was missing until you were gone. You knew where to find rope, but you had to figure out how to acquire and carry enough water. Plus you would need to bring medical supplies, in case Namjoon was injured. God, you could just imagine him, laying somewhere, bleeding out and barely conscious. You wondered if he’d thought of you, imagined you coming to save him.

You were seconds away from stealing rope from a supply closet when a short little man walked around the corner.

“Major?”

You froze in place. You weren’t in the room yet; you were innocent.

“Yes?” you said, smiling politely.

“The general wants to see you,” he said, and left without adding anything else.

Shit. How had they known? You hadn’t done anything yet, or told anyone or written anything down.

You made your way to the command center. Not much was going on there in the way of commanding anything, but it was where the higher ups — which now included you — met, and it was where they were attempting to reestablish communications with the outside world.

The room was busy with officers buzzing around. There were a lot of exposed wires hanging out of the walls. It looked like they were rebuilding a computer system circa 1970.

“Major,” the general said, motioning you over.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re the highest ranking field officer, so this goes to you first,” he said, handing you a manila folder. “We’ve established communication with a base a hundred and fifty miles from here, but only briefly. They said they have seven survivors from our base. They didn’t say who.” The general quickly added the last part when he saw your face light up at the mention of survivors.

You glanced down at the folder. Before you could speak, the general continued.

“We need someone — a pilot — to go up to the surface and see if any planes are still intact, and if so, fly to Walker Base. If there aren’t any planes left, we’ll probably have you try to find a car, or hike if you have to. We need to get our relay codes to that base, and once we do, we’ll have full communication with them again. You up for it?”

You looked up at the general, smiling.

VIII.

It took you about an hour to climb the staircase. Most of it was rubble and a lot of it involved throwing up a rope and securing it on something to climb the huge gaps where the stairs had fallen out, but you eventually got to the top, pushing aside debris to get yourself outside.

The base was gone. There was no way any planes survived this. Still, you walked out onto the strip, just in case.

Some of the piles of charred metal were still smoking. A few small fires were still going, most of them out in the lot, where jet fuel must still be feeding them. You tried to see if you could spot where your and Namjoon’s rooms used to be, but it was all just rubble, ash, and charred cinderblocks.

You walked down the landing strip, looking at the piles of scorched plane parts, blasted to nothing. Pieces of metal jutted up, a plane wing here, a part of engine there. Every pile you saw, you imagined seeing Namjoon’s body among them. You knew if he was dead, he wouldn’t be here, he’d be out in the city — but seeing all of the destroyed planes wasn’t helping.

You stopped in your tracks.

At the end of the landing strip, under a broken wing of a much larger plane, was the most beautiful F-15 Eagle you had ever seen.

You ran to it, climbing on it when you reached it and pushing aside the wing of the bigger plane until it clamored to the ground. You climbed into the cockpit, dropping your backpack with supplies and the relay codes into the little compartment, feeling nearly dizzy in euphoria. You prepped the jet for takeoff, everything going smoothly, and you imagined Namjoon’s face when you showed up at the base. He’d be so happy to see you, but so surprised, and when you told him that you got promoted to major–

You stopped for a moment, your smile falling as you stared blankly at your hands on the switches and dials.

You didn’t know if he was one of the survivors at the other base. You shouldn’t get your hopes up just to show up and find out he wasn’t one of the pilots who made it. For all you knew, you’d get there and one of the pilots from Namjoon’s squadron would tell you all about how he died.

You focused on the task in front of you. You were on a mission, first and foremost, to get the relay codes to the base. That was the important thing right now, not yourself or Namjoon.

You got the plane prepped and ready to go. The center of the runway was clear, since most of the planes had been gone.

F-15s were always your favorite.

IX.

You didn’t attract any alien attention while flying, thankfully. You got there in just over twenty minutes; around the fifteen minute mark, you slowed down and the base contacted you on your descent into their airspace. You had to identify yourself and state your intentions, but the base seemed completely willing to let anyone human land.

When you landed, a few people ran out and took care of your plane for you, as you were escorted inside. You handed over the relay codes and quickly asked if you could see the survivors from your base.

“Most of them were pretty shell-shocked when they got here, but they’re soldiers. They know how it is,” the officer escorting you said as the two of you walked. “How many survivors at your base?”

“Three hundred and forty-two,” you said flatly, staring straight in front of you as you walked. “We had four pilots including myself return, the rest were non-flight officers and civilians. No casualties on the ground, but the base was destroyed in an aerial attack shortly after we landed.”

“Yeah, we heard about that. That’s why we got your other pilots,” the guy said, motioning in front of him in the direction you were walking, assumedly at the surviving pilots. “They didn’t have anywhere to land and thought the base was gone, so they came here. All from different squadrons, but led by one captain.”

You perked up when you heard that. A captain had survived.

You really did try not to get your hopes up. Your base was huge; there were so many squadrons, only one captain surviving was not good news for Namjoon. Still, you were hopeful.

You were led to a barrack where a few pilots were sitting around together, all men looking bored out of their minds. You recognized Park from your training class, and a few others as well. You scanned their faces quickly, looking from person to person, desperately searching for him, frantic and anxious and despairing when you looked and didn’t see him–

“Y/N?” a voice said from behind you, and you spun around.

Namjoon had walked in behind you from the other direction; he looked like he’d just taken a shower, from the wet hair, clean clothes, and bag over his shoulder, which he dropped as he stared at you in disbelief.

Neither of you even said anything. You were only about ten feet apart already, but you immediately met in the middle, desperately grabbing at each other, hugging tightly. Your legs were up around his waist and he held you to him as he kissed all over your face. The room was spinning or maybe Namjoon was just spinning you around, you didn’t care, you just held onto him and tried to kiss him, one hand in his hair and the other arm around his shoulder, trying to pull him closer.

As much as you wanted and tried to kiss him, Namjoon was just too much; it was like he was trying to kiss every last millimeter of your face at least twice. He was holding you so tight you almost couldn’t breathe, but you didn’t even care. His skin, his hair, his mouth, his kisses were all the most amazing things you’d ever felt. You were pressed chest-to-chest, arms wrapped around each other, and you could almost feel his heartbeat pumping along with your own.

Namjoon stopped kissing you long enough to nuzzle against you, closing his eyes as he rubbed his cheek against yours, nearly animalistic.

“I missed you so much, my love,” he breathed. You swore his face was wet with tears, his cheek still pressed against your own. “I haven’t thought about anything other than you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you this whole time, I love you so much… god, fuck, when I thought I’d lost you…” He started kissing your cheek again desperately, his hand coming up to hold your other cheek and hold you in place.

“I missed you too,” you gasped, your voice small and high-pitched as you tried and failed to hold in your tears.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he kept repeating, not even stopping speaking as he kissed you, so some of his words were muffled.

“I love you, too, Joon,” you managed to say before he kissed your mouth, tilting his head to kiss you so deeply it took your breath away.

“Okay, Jesus Christ,” somebody else in the room said then. “Do you guys want us to, like, leave or something?”

Namjoon stopped, catching his breath as you turned your head to look back at the six other pilots and the officer all awkwardly watching you.

“Uh, sorry,” you muttered, putting your feet back on the ground and turning around. Namjoon kept touching you, not taking his hands off you, even as you faced the others.

“I know you both outrank us, but get a room,” a different pilot laughed, his smile boxy and voice deep.

“You have a room, actually,” the officer that led you in said, perking up like that was his cue.

“We do?” Namjoon asked, confused. He stood behind you, hands on your hips, tall enough to see over your head.

“She does,” the officer gestured to you. “She’s a major. All superior officers class O4 and up get their own private room.”

“Major?” Namjoon said, tilting a little to look at your face. You smiled to yourself smugly.

“I can take you there now,” the officer said, motioning to the door behind him.

Namjoon stepped to the side and looked down at the ground shyly, glancing up at you and pouting. You wanted to roll your eyes; he actually thought you weren’t going to invite him to come with you.

“You too,” you said, holding out your hand for him.

Namjoon beamed, and quickly picked up his bag and jogged over to what must be his bed, grabbing the few belongings he had, and shuffled back over to your side, taking your hand and kissing you on the cheek before following along with you.

“Go get it, captain,” one of the pilots jeered at him, the others all snickering and wolf-whistling as Namjoon dropped your hand long enough to flip all the other pilots off while the officer led the two of you out and down the hallway.

As soon as the door was shut behind you in your room, the officer gone and the two of you alone, Namjoon dropped his belongings and picked you up again, your legs tight around him, the two of you kissing again. You felt your back against the cold metal of the old-fashioned blast door, one of Namjoon’s hands holding your face.

“How’d you get here?” he murmured against your neck after a moment, kissing your cheek between gasps. “They said the base was destroyed, no contact.”

“The attack happened right after I landed. Everyone got down in the bunker, no casualties on the ground,” you gasped, still a little short on breath. As you spoke, Namjoon kissed your neck, working his way up to your jaw. “They needed a pilot to bring relay codes here.”

“What’s this about you being a major now?” he said, smirking, his lips not leaving your cheek.

“Got an upgrade while you were gone,” you said, and then you gasped, laughing as Namjoon suddenly sucked your skin over your pulse on your neck, leaving behind a deep purple hickey.

“Well, Miss Major, that means you outrank me now,” he said, leaning back enough to smile at you, his expression a mix of mischievous and proud.

He stepped backward then, still supporting you with his arms, and walked back until he got to the bed, sitting down on it. He laid back, pulling you down on top of him gently, your mouths connected the whole way down.

He was the best thing you’d ever felt, his large, firm body contrasting his gentle touches and kisses. You couldn’t get close enough to him, but it was slow, lazy, loving, everything you’d ever wanted with him, his soft tongue in your mouth, his firm arms around you, his warm body under you.

You couldn’t get over how good he smelled. There was the soap he’d just used, but you’d known him and been close to him long enough to know his scent. He tasted so good too; he swirled his tongue with yours slowly, tracing lazy patterns on your tongue, kissing you so deeply your head spun. His hands rested on your back, his fingers spreading wider as he tried to touch more of you.

You parted for air as he rolled you both, holding your body to his with one hand as he pulled you up the bed, resting your head on the pillow as he gently laid you down. Even though you would’ve only fallen a few inches and the bed was soft, he set you down like you were made of glass, looking down at you with love and hearts in his eyes, not breaking eye contact as he gave you a small, warm smile.

His dark hair was mussed up a little from you running your fingers through it, and it looked fantastic on him. His face was flushed and his parted lips were red and a little swollen, and he looked like he’d been crying, or was about to cry, or both.

You pulled him down to you and kissed him again. He set his body against yours, lining himself up with you as you wrapped your legs around him. You were both still fully clothed, but you could feel him, pressed perfectly against you from your collars to his growing erection and your throbbing core.

“I love you,” he groaned against your neck, grinding slowly against you. “I’ve loved you for so long, I wanted to die when I thought something happened to you and I never told you. I promise I’m going to tell you now, every single day, every time I see you, every time we make love, every second of every day–” He cut himself off by kissing your neck desperately, moving down toward your breast.

“I love you, my angel. You’re the most beautiful thing in the world, I love you so much,” he said, kissing along your skin frantically by the collar of your ugly flight jumpsuit. “You’re my best friend, and I love you, I love you, I love you,” he said, kissing up the center of your chest toward your clavicle. His messy hair tickled your chin, and you rested one of your hands on the back of his head as he worked, gently stroking his hair.

“I love you too,” you managed to say, though words weren’t really coming to you right now, with all Namjoon was doing to you.

Namjoon got up then, and you watched for a moment as he started quickly stripping off his clothes. You sat up too, pulling off your jumpsuit, and Namjoon got all but his boxers off before your arms were even out. He helped you, running his hands along your skin as you peeled off the jumpsuit, leaving you in just the undershirt and shorts you’d had on underneath.

There was a moment where the two of you just sat there looking at each other. You’d both seen each other in this context — nearly naked — before, from sleeping in the same room to swimming to other random things you’d done together over the years, but this was the first time it was ever like this.

Namjoon raised his hands slowly, his fingers just barely skimming against your hips. His eyes were on your breasts, his mouth nearly watering, and you smiled at that. He looked up at you, his eyes innocent and showing every emotion he had within him; he was asking for permission.

You brought your hand up to his face and kissed him slowly, savoring every movement of his lips, the feel of his tongue, the taste of him. His hands went to your thighs and helped you wrap your legs around him, and then you were laying down again, Namjoon on top of you.

He kissed down your chest, this time simultaneously running one of his hands up your stomach under your thin undershirt. He cupped your breast with that hand, feeling you fully, while his mouth kissed back up to your neck. He got your undershirt off without either of you having to get up, though he did have to lean back a little to give you room to wiggle around, and then he unhooked your bra and threw that and your undershirt somewhere behind him.

Namjoon swirled his tongue around one of your nipples, gently squeezing your other breast with his hand, your peaked nipple hard against his palm. He rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger slowly while sucking the other, just barely using teeth and making you gasp, and then he switched sides, doing the same thing again.

“That feels so good, Joonie,” you sighed, closing your eyes and smiling to yourself. You stroked his hair while he worked, closing your eyes and tilting your head back. Every moment or so, you’d let out a moan for him, tightening your fingers in his hair whenever he did something that made you see stars, and he’d hum back to you, responding without taking his mouth off you.

Namjoon moved down your abdomen, kissing every rib, every freckle, every last inch of your skin. He dipped his tongue into your belly button and you gasped and giggled, feeling his grin against your skin as he kissed down your navel, his tongue tracing along the edge of the little shorts you still had on.

You reached down and tried to pull off your shorts, but Namjoon’s hands replaced your own, slowly pulling just your shorts off and leaving your panties. He tossed your shorts the same direction he’d tossed your bra, and then looked down at you, sitting back on his legs. Your legs were spread wide, your soaked panties the only thing covering you, your eyes desperate for him, your breasts rising and falling as your breath quickened in anticipation and need for him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his expression almost dazed in love and adoration. He looked like he didn’t know where to look, his eyes scanning your face, your breasts, your spread thighs, the spot on your panties where you were already wet and soaking for him. You bit your lip and whimpered, and he closed his eyes, sighing and smiling to himself, like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

Namjoon bent over and kissed your ankle, slowly, chastely. He moved to the other side and repeated that, kissing your anklebone. He moved up your calf, staying on that side, kissing you over and over and moving so slowly you started to whine for him, begging him to go faster and reaching down for him. He reached up and took one of your hands, holding it and lacing your fingers together as he continued what he was doing, not at all speeding up.

He kissed your knee, the side of it, the front of it, and tilting your leg gently to kiss the back of it. He moved up, kissing your inner thigh while still holding your hand. You spread your legs further for him, whimpering and squeezing his hand as he got closer and closer to your center.

Namjoon pulled back then, a smug smile on his face as he started moving down to kiss his way up your other leg, starting again at your ankle. You let out a whiney moan, pulling his hand and looking down at him, pleading.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” he said gently, moving back to where you wanted him most.

He kissed you right over your panties, a deep, open-mouthed kiss that made you cry out. You could feel him breathing hard through his nose, smelling and inhaling you as he moved his mouth against you, letting go of your hand so he could hold your thighs with both his large, perfect hands.

He licked and sucked the fabric of your panties, tasting where you were soaked for him. It was the most amazing thing you’d ever felt, and you spread your legs even further for him, your hands holding onto the sheets of the bed, your knuckles turning white.

You gasped when you felt teeth, and then Namjoon was slowly pulling your panties down your legs with his mouth, looking up at you with playful eyes and a smirk. You wanted to roll your eyes at him, but instead just closed your legs enough for him to get your panties off of you, letting him have his fun. He let out a small growl at you, your panties still in his mouth, and you giggled, a soft noise that made his eyes light up.

Before you could think or do anything, Namjoon was back between your legs, spreading you open with his fingers and licking a slow, thick line up your folds to your clit.

You cried out, your head falling back and eyes squeezing closed. Namjoon repeated the motion, even slower this time, moaning a little too as he let the tip of his tongue enter you for just a moment. You whined, pulling his hair hard and trying to spread your legs even further, and Namjoon stopped, humming softly as he turned his head and kissed your thigh.

“I love you so fucking much,” Namjoon murmured against your skin, kissing you there again. “Your pussy’s so pretty, my love. So soft and wet for me.”

“Joonie,” you sighed, stroking his hair. You could feel his smile against your thigh, and it made you smile, too. You felt warm, like you were glowing from his love.

Namjoon turned his head back and dipped his tongue into you again, this time further, like he was trying to see how far he could go. His lips sucked at your entrance as his tongue flicked in and out, not fast enough to get you off, but not slow, either. He moved his tongue like he was trying to drink you, lapping you up, bringing your wetness into his mouth and down his throat.

You moaned loudly for him, pulling his face harder against you by his hair, and he reached up and grabbed one of your hands, lacing his fingers with yours over one of your thighs.

He moved his mouth up to your clit, drawing random shapes over it with the tip of his tongue lazily while he curled two fingers into you. He moved clumsily, like he wasn’t exactly sure of what he was doing but just wanted to make you feel good, and what he was doing was definitely working. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for in eagerness and love, and when he moaned around your clit, and you nearly screamed.

“Jesus Christ, Joon, fuck. God, your mouth is… mmm, god, you’re so fucking good, that feels so good, Joonie, Joonie–” You cut yourself off with a long, agonized cry as Namjoon sucked your clit into his mouth hard, swirling his tongue around it as he suctioned his mouth and moved his fingers inside you faster. You repeated a chorus of nothing but his name between breathy moans as you held onto his hair with your free hand, your other hand squeezing his.

You gasped when you came, your whole body tensing as you saw stars and every nerve in your body exploded in pleasure. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream as you failed to breathe, your lungs tightening and your orgasm only building and building as Namjoon kept moving his tongue and fingers. You felt like you were floating in space, millions of stars around you all bursting at once, the entire universe stopping for you and Namjoon and the love you felt for each other.

After a moment, you took in a shaky breath, trying to recover while your mind was still mush. Namjoon was still moving his mouth on you, now licking up your wetness at your entrance and moaning to himself at the taste. If he kept that up, you were going to come again, and soon.

You moaned, pulling on his hair enough for him to look up at you, not stopping what his mouth was doing. You pleaded with your eyes, whimpering and pulling his hair again, and he put his lips to your entrance one last time, this time spreading his lips as wide as possible and sucking as he slowly closed his mouth. You gasped and almost screamed at the sensation of him actually drinking you, desperate to taste you.

Your second orgasm was smaller, making you shudder and gasp for just a moment before steadily breathing deeply as you tried to recover again. You looked down at him, barely able to lift your head; Namjoon was kissing your thigh, your hips, pressing gentle kisses to your skin as he slowly worked his way up your stomach. You could see how hard he was, his precum glistening on the head of his cock as it bounced against his stomach with his movements.

You started to reach down to grasp him, but he gently stopped you, bringing your hand back up by your head and lacing his fingers with yours. He kissed your collarbone, leaving a trail of wet kiss spots all over your body, your own wetness in the shape of his lips and chin.

“Please, Joonie,” you hummed, and he came back to you, kissing your lips slowly and letting you taste yourself on him. You wrapped your legs around him tightly as he lined himself up with your entrance, moaning when you felt the head of his cock against your folds, gasping when he started slowly sliding into you, every amazing inch of him filling and stretching you.

Namjoon buried his face in your neck, the length of his nose pressed against the curve of your jaw. He turned his head enough to kiss your neck, feeling your rapid, heavy pulse with his lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your neck, not opening his eyes. “So fucking tight and wet for me, my angel, my princess, my heart, my love. I love you so fucking much.” He kissed your neck again gently before pushing all the way into you and bottoming out, the stretch so wonderfully tight and full. You cried out, spreading your legs further and higher for him, grabbing at his shoulders, scraping your fingernails down his back as he filled you up so completely.

Namjoon pulled out slowly and then pushed in again, rocking into you. You were desperate, nearly delirious and just about ready to cry if he didn’t start moving faster. He seemed to just barely be holding on by a thread, his own orgasm already one sudden movement away from overwhelming him.

“God, Jesus Christ, Joon, fuck,” you cried, close to actually in tears now. You started to say something else but it turned into a small whimper as he thrust into you again, hard.

“I love you,” he groaned against your neck, “I love you so much, Y/N…” Your name turned into a long moan as he began his slow, torturous pace, both of you so close to the edge already. You didn’t know how he was possibly going so slow still, other than the fact he must want to torture you.

“Go faster, please,” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders as tight as you could and digging in your fingernails. “I need you so bad, Joonie. God, fuck me, please…”

“I love you, angel,” he said, kissing your shoulder. He picked up the pace a little, but it wasn’t enough. “I love you, baby, I love you so much. I love you, I love you–”

“Go fucking faster, now, please…” you sobbed, pulling his hair, making him hiss in pain, but he listened, reaching down and holding your hip with one hand as he started pounding into you, the force of it making the bed creak and your breasts bounce with each quick, powerful thrust. You were long past gone, moaning loudly with each exhale, and Namjoon groaned and grunted, his head against your shoulder as the two of you moved together, you rolling your hips up to meet him thrust for thrust.

Namjoon broke first. His orgasm hit him suddenly and he tried to keep moving, his thrusts sloppy, erratic, and uneven as he spilled into you, his mouth hanging open and eyes squeezed shut. He let out a long groan until he ran out of air, and then he didn’t inhale again until he finished, suddenly and harshly gasping in again, his whole body shaking in your arms.

He reached down and rubbed your clit furiously, and you only lasted a few seconds before you gasped too, clenching around his still half-hard erection inside you, which only made him groan in overstimulation as you squeezed and spasmed around him, gasping nothing but his name and feeling nothing but him, your love, your Namjoon.

Namjoon somehow managed to keep himself from collapsing on top of you. He moved to the side enough to fall beside you, one of his legs still between your thighs as he laid on his stomach, slightly turned in toward you. His hand moved up to cup and stroke your cheek as he lazily kissed your shoulder.

“I love you too, Joonie,” you said between shaky breaths, your vision almost blurry from lust and exhaustion and a dumb happy smile on your face. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You laid there for a little while together before you eventually went another round, this time as slow as Namjoon had wanted to go the first time.

When you came this time, your orgasm had to have lasted at least five full minutes (or at least, it felt like that) as Namjoon kept moving in and out of you, keeping up his steady, slow, overwhelming movements that left you delirious with his cock inside you, his thumb on your clit, and his lips on yours, breathing in every moan of his name.

After you both laid there a while again, lazy in post coital haze, you eventually got up and went to your room’s personal little bathroom, where you turned on the tiny shower and let it warm up. You stood there feeling the water’s temperature with your hand while Namjoon stood behind you, arms wrapped around you and lips on your neck. It was like he couldn’t go more than a few minutes without saying “I love you,” not that you were complaining.

You showered together, Namjoon standing behind you the whole time and washing your body for you. He massaged your breasts, hands sudsy as the warm water fell down over them as he kissed your neck, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. One of his hands fell down to your folds, stroking you slowly as his other hand moved to your breast, arm wrapping around you so that his forearm could also press against your nipple, stimulating and touching both of your breasts at once.

Namjoon slid two fingers into you as he kissed your temple. You could feel him hard against your ass, and that feeling made your eyes flutter.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of touching you, pleasing you, making love to you,” he murmured into your hair. You responded with an agonized moan, reaching back and holding onto his shoulder for support. “I’ve wanted you like this since we first met. I dreamed about eating your perfect little pussy so many times, doing exactly this to you, feeling you squeeze my cock like you did earlier when you came so prettily. You’re better than anything I ever could’ve imagined though, baby. Your pussy tastes like heaven and feels even better. You’re so fucking perfect, princess, I love you so much, more than my heart can bare.”

You felt like he had to be bending you over slightly, his firm chest against your back. You swore you could actually feel his cock throbbing.

“I need you,” you moaned, your eyes closed as you felt nothing but his hands.

“I’m here,” he said, kissing your cheek. “I’m here, angel. I love you.”

“Need you inside me,” you said, spreading your legs to stand with your feet braced wider apart. “I love you, too, Joonie. Please…”

Namjoon didn’t need to be told twice. Hooking his arm around your waist for support, he bent you both over a little more, sliding into you from behind in one smooth motion. You cried out in ecstasy, he felt so good and big and yours.

It was fast and sloppy; he hugged you against him with both arms while you braced yourself on the tile wall in front of you. The sound of skin smacking against wet skin, his hips hitting your ass coupled with both your quiet moans and the wet squelching of him moving hard and fast inside you, echoing off the tile walls with the sound of the running water. He filled you so perfectly, stretched you out so far, you felt like he was fucking up into your guts, so hard and deep and good.

You came at the same time, Namjoon groaning and squeezing you harder as your eyes rolled back in your head.

When you’d both recovered some, you stood there under the water, still in the same position. You both knew base rules about wasting water, so you needed to wrap this up, but neither of you wanted to move.

You eventually got out and dried off, both of you getting ready for bed with the toiletries provided by the base. He couldn’t keep his hands off of you the whole time though, so the whole process probably took three times longer than it should’ve.

When you both finished, he pulled you to him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he kissed you, his hands spreading out on your bare back. Namjoon’s tongue slowly swirled with yours as he let out a small, contented hum, and he wrapped your legs up around his body, supporting you with one hand on your back and the other on your thigh.

Namjoon walked to your bed, carrying you, and laid down with you on top of him. You didn’t end up going another round, but you kissed for a while until eventually you started to move off of him to sleep beside him. Namjoon, though, held you there on top of him, keeping you there.

He murmured a soft little “please,” stroking your back gently, begging you to stay where you were on top of him. You laid back down and kissed right over his heart, before turning your head and resting your cheek on his chest, nuzzling in against him to sleep as he pulled the sheets up around you both.

You were safe in his arms. The world around you didn’t matter; not the people down the hall, not anything outside the base, none of it. The whole universe was just you and Namjoon in this bed, and nothing else existed. He was yours, and you were his.

#ksmutclub #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanarmynet #namjoon smut #bts smut #rm smut #kim namjoon #namjoon #my writing #namjoon fic #*

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rosaliepostsstuff · 4 years ago

Text

Good for him | G.W.

Pairing: George Weasley x reader

requested, based on the song Already Gone by Kelly Clarkson

summary: Maintaining a relationship while going through grieving process becomes too exhausting for Y/N and George so they part ways. But what happens once they both take control of their lives back and meet again?

word count: 2.5k warnings: grief, mentions of death, insecurity, fluffy ending (hope i didn’t miss any warnings, in any case please let me know)

tags: @izzyyy-1 ; @hufflepuff5972 ; @pandaxnienke

You walked around the flat above the shop, and you thought about the day you helped George and Fred move in. Memories came flooding back to you, you had just graduated Hogwarts, you were all so full of life, looking bright into the future even as the war was tightening its grasp around you. But you couldn’t have expected it to take so much from you.

The door to the flat opened slowly with a creak and you saw a shell of a man walk in. You were standing in the middle of the small entry hall, clutching your bag filled with little things you had left at George’s over the years, things you would now take with you.

He came back after undoubtedly spending the whole afternoon at a pub.

You looked at him and you felt a lump in your throat as tears slowly clouded your vision. You looked at him and once again you wondered if what you were doing was right.

You loved George with all of your heart, loved him more than anything. He had changed your life in so many ways and left his mark on you. And you knew that nobody else could ever love you the same way he did. You were supposed to be each other’s forever, but grief had other plans for you.

After months, you were exhausted. You had tried and tried to help George up after he collapsed along with his brother but it got just too much. You had your own process to go through and you couldn’t do that while pouring all of yourself into a relationship that no longer physically existed. There is a boundary between trying your hardest for love to help someone get better and hitting a wall, trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped while losing yourself in the process. You hoped he would move on and find happiness with someone eventually. He was bound to find someone better, someone, to give him more than you could.

At first, he was angry. He felt betrayed. He resented you for leaving him when you were supposed to love him. Looking at him like that hurt you, it almost made you break and take it all back, but you couldn’t. Because love just wasn’t enough to keep you together.

So when his initial shock passed you parted your ways in mutual agreement.

As time went on you slowly got better and better. You focused on yourself, on your career and in time you felt something that resembled happiness. You felt almost at peace, but it was a start.

Almost a year has passed since your break up, and one late afternoon you got an owl and felt a pang in your heart upon reading the name.

You tried to avoid George in fear of losing all that progress that you’ve made in moving on. But you also felt that he didn’t deserve to just get ignored by you and you were curious about his intentions.

My Y/N,

I probably don’t have the right anymore to call you mine, but it feels wrong otherwise.

I missed you. I hope time has treated you well. I know it helped me heal. I know I’m not fully there yet, I still have a long way to go, but I’ve woken up enough to see how shit life is without you. I don’t expect you to just let me back into your life, but if you would, that would make me the happiest man in the world. I just wish to see you and talk to you.

Please don’t ignore this letter, I beg you. Even if you don’t want to see me ever again, please, don’t leave me hanging, I hate uncertainty. Please, before I let you go, tell me you’re alright.

Yours,

George

And so, with a shaky hand, you wrote back:

George,

You know well what we did was for the best. You should move on and find someone who will truly make you happy and give you all that you deserve. I can’t do that for you.

Y/N

You didn’t get another letter from him.

You tried to push George out of your mind again, always trying to find something to occupy yourself with. Until months later, an owl delivered a beautiful, formal-looking envelope to your windowsill. Hermione and Ron were getting married.

You’d been successfully avoiding all Weasley’s gatherings, even though Molly never failed to invite you. Christmas, Easter, all the birthdays. You knew she saw you as one of her own regardless if you were dating one of her children or not. But until now you didn’t want to take that risk.

However, a wedding was too important, and both Ron and Hermione proved great friends to you in the past. If they invited you, that meant they wanted you there. And part of moving on meant you couldn’t just avoid George forever.

You had apparated just outside the Burrow. You saw the wedding tent with some people already there, you scanned the crowd, subconsciously looking for him already. You fixed your dress and with your legs a bit shaky, you approached the entrance.

“Y/N! Hi- !” Ginny elongated, walking up to you with her arms spread wide and a huge smile on her face. “Hey, Gin,” you smiled dimly. “It’s so great to see you, it’s been so long..! I’m really glad you came,” she gave you a proper Weasley hug, one full of emotion, showing you how she really missed you. “I know it was probably not easy,” she added a bit quieter, giving you a knowing look. “But anyway, I’ll take that!” she gestured to the gift bag you were holding in your hand, “I’m on gift duty today, thank you-“

“Do I have a seat assigned?” you asked, looking at the rows of seats for guests. And that’s when you saw him, talking to someone by the wedding arch. His back turned to you, but you recognised him by his posture alone. He was wearing a dark navy three-piece suit. One could get really lost looking at this man.

“Yes, yes, Fleur will show you while I put this away. Fleur..!”

You avoided looking in his direction, afraid of catching eye contact. Waiting for the ceremony you thought to yourself you’ll have to meet him sooner or later, but you just didn’t want to be caught looking at him first. You have moved on. He has moved on.

You glided through the sea of guests with a glass of champagne in hand, some of them headed to the dance floor, some to their tables, just like you. You kept your eyes trained on where you were going, careful not to bump into someone but not looking anyone in the eye.

“Y/N,” called the voice that felt like home. You froze in spot, bracing yourself, then turned in the direction it came from.

“Hi,” he said with the tiniest smile and his eyes filled with uncertainty. He looked a bit better than the last time you saw him. His face seems to have aged a bit during this short time, his cheeks a bit hollow. But he didn’t look as tired, the dark circles under his eyes lightened up a bit. His face was clean-shaven and his hair cut. He looked very handsome.

“Hi, George,” you said the name out loud after so long.

His eyes moved down over your body and back up again, “You look beautiful,” he said sincerely. You shifted on your feet and tightened the grasp on your glass a bit, “Thank you, you look really smart.” He smiled a bit wider. There were a million things he wanted to say at that moment, but he didn’t know which one to lead with. Which one would prompt you to give him your attention and listen to the rest. “May-... may I have a dance..?” he asked quietly, barely audible in all the noise, music playing and people partying. You panicked slightly. You did not feel ready for that. “I… I was just going to sit down for a bit, talk to some other guests. Maybe later,” you blurted out the last part and regretted it almost instantly. There was a bit of a pause between you, George did his best to hide his slight disappointment. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, with a fraction of the glint in the eye that you knew well. With that, he turned around and walked away, just his head visible above the crowd.

Your heart fluttered a bit. This felt like old George.

You did your best to shake that feeling off, then noticed Molly next to one of the tables. You owed her at least a conversation.

Not for a moment has she made you feel guilty about not seeing her all this time. She engulfed you in the biggest hug, showing you just how happy she was to see you. Your spirit lifted instantly, and she hasn’t mentioned your break up and asked about your life, what you did in the meantime. Yet inevitably, the conversation somehow shifted to the topic of Fred’s passing.

“We’ve gotten better, we’re trying as best as we can. That’s what Freddie would’ve wanted,” she said with a wide smile and her eyes a bit watery. “Even Georgie’s getting better,” she nodded, looking at him in the crowd. “Sorry, dear, I promised myself I wouldn’t mention that with you…” she got a bit flustered. “It’s- it’s okay Molly,” you smiled as best as you could. “In this case, I do have to say – it is a shame, dear. You know you’re a Weasley to me but I’d always hoped I’d have you as my daughter.” She rubbed her hand on your shoulder comfortingly, “you were good for him, you know? Even Fred always said that…” You stayed silent, focusing all your might into stopping tears forming in your eyes. “My, I better leave before I make even more of a mess. Do have a nice time tonight, dear,” she gave you one last, warm smile and walked off. Leaving your mind in chaos.

“George..?” you tapped him on the shoulder gently, and even the feeling of his warmth on the tips of your fingers felt tingly. He turned to you right away with a smile that had you weak in the knees, then reached his hand out for you to take and gestured to the dance floor with his eyes.

His touch brought you comfort. He held you just like he always had, as if you picked up right where you left off, right before everything went wrong. George’s touch made you forget about everything around you, and as he led you in dance, you lost yourself. If only he’d lead you outside and into the sunset, without a word, you’d let him.

“You know, I was hoping… If you’d see me today, see how I finally got a hold of myself, pulled myself together, everything would change,” George confessed, his voice strained with emotion. The music slowed down and you were just swaying with it. You looked up at him and he continued. “I mean, why did we end things, Y/N?” he asked desperately.

You looked back down, not able to meet his eyes anymore. He went on before you could answer.

“I was a mess. I was in a dark, dark place, Y/N... I didn’t have enough grip to support you as I should’ve, so instead, I dragged you down with me.” George lifted his head high, looking up at the illuminated ceiling, trying to keep his tears from falling. He didn’t want to fall apart now. “I’m sorry. I know I told you that when we... when you left. But my perspective’s changed, I can see better now and I want to say that again – I'm really, really sorry.” “George, please...” you plead, all your thoughts and doubts from the past coming back to you. “I- I feel so bad... that I couldn’t help you,” you confessed, “it hurt me so much, but I wasn’t enough.” You tried to stifle the sobs, tears streaming down your face now.

George pulled you closer, pulling you flush against him and wrapping his arms tight around you. You tried to find comfort in him, your hands fisting his crisp, white shirt.

“It was not your fault, okay Y/N/N? There was nothing more you could’ve done for me,” he said, resting his cheek on top of your head. “...but it’s behind us now. And not for one moment have I stopped loving you,” he confessed.” “But why...?” you cried, “George, I’ve given you the chance. I let you go so you could move on,” you grasped the shirt tighter, “so you could find someone better... You deserve so much better.” “There is no one better! Give me another chance and I promise, I will spend the rest of my life proving to you how perfect you are for me if that’s what it takes..!” He exclaimed, pulling away a bit to take your face into his hands and look you in the eyes. “Just let me, please.”

All words escaped you the moment you looked into his eyes, holding such sincerity. So you just nodded and smiled weakly, feeling a huge weight lift off your shoulders.

George slowly brought his face closer to yours, leaning in he searched your eyes for any signs of uncertainty until the very last moment when your lips touched. His lips were slightly chapped but so welcoming. When you kissed him back, letting go of his shirt to slide your hands along the soft material to his chest, he brought one of his hands to your waist and used the other to deepen the kiss. The song playing was slowly coming to an end, the singer’s soft voice accompanied by delicate piano melody seemed to set a rhythm to your lips. When it ended, he held your lips together still for a moment, then pulled away.

The breath you took then was the first proper breath in years for you, you breathed George in and felt intoxicated. Your eyes darted between his loving gaze and dazzling smile.

“I love you,” he chuckled, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I love you back,” you said breathily, wrapping your arms around his body and relaxing into him.

George kept his promise and did not falter in proving to you how perfect you are.

The summer sun was slowly setting, the light wind pleasantly warm. Your eyes were set on his face, eyes closed and a relaxed smile on his lips, as his head lay in your lap. One of your hands was gently stroking his soft hair, while the other he held in his, on his chest. The sunset left a pinkish-orange hue on everything, making it seem even more magical.

You could stay like this forever, you thought, but Molly stuck her head out the window, motioning for you to come inside for dinner. Right as you were about to nudge George, his stomach grumbled, making you chuckle.

“Ugh, when’s dinner gonna be ready…” he groaned sleepily, opening one of his eyes. “Just now, actually. Come on, love, get up.”

So the two of you got up, going inside, hand in hand. And you were each other’s forever.

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #weasley twins

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liberty-barnes · 4 years ago

Text

Letters To A Stranger

Peter Parker x Female!Reader

Summary: The story of a girl who loved a boy, but couldn't talk, so she wrote.

Warnings: fluff for a bit, but then massive angst, and i mean massive, STOP READING HERE IF YOU DON'T WANT ANY SPOILERS BUT I WOULDN'T FEEL OKAY WITHOUT LISTING ALL THE ANGST FACTORS

(mentions of ED, mentions of self-harm, implied character death, mentions of social anxiety)

Word Count: 1.3k words

Estimated Reading Time: 5 minutes

A/N: did you miss me?

Masterlist

February 21st, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

Are you new? Or was I simply too oblivious to your presence until now? I've never seen you before, you're really pretty.

I don't think I've ever used the word "pretty" to describe a man before. Well, boy, but my point stands.

But you really are. With your caramel eyes, and artistically tousled hair. You're cute. Kind of like a puppy. Not that I'm attracted to dogs, of course, but there's really no better way to describe you. Your face lights up when you talk on the phone, like an excited golden retriever who'd just been told he was going for a walk. I wonder who you're talking to. Is it your partner? Please, say you're single.

You get off after me apparently, so I guess I'll just keep my pining to my letters and hope to see you again tomorrow.

Kinda wishing I was yours,

Your secret admirer.

February 22nd, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

You're back! Is this a simple coincidence or are you a regular?

From the backpack on your shoulder, I'd say maybe you're a student. I don't go to school. You make me wish I did if only to see your face every day for more than the short ten minutes of our joint ride.

I wonder how old you are. You look old enough to be in high school, but which year are you? I know I'm only nineteen, but I'd feel a little bummed about crushing on a fourteen-year-old.

You're smiling again today. I'm glad. I don't see a lot of smiles at the diner. Mostly glares, impatient huffs, and tired, distant expressions. It's a nice change.

I have to go now but thank you for making my day.

Hoping to see you again tomorrow,

Your secret admirer.

February 23rd, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I'm starting to think that smile is permanent. It's the third day in a row that I've gotten on the train and was immediately greeted with your beaming smile as you watched some video on your phone. It made me smile too.

Your sweatshirt's pretty. It says "Midtown Tech" on it. Is that a school? Is it your school?

I may have to do some digging later.

Please don't think I'm a stalker.

Your totally not-stalker secret admirer.

March 1st, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I was late this morning so I didn't get to see you. My boss was not happy about it, I felt like I was walking on very thin ice.

And then this guy grabbed my ass while I was taking his order. I acted on instinct, tried to remember everything they taught me at my self-defense class. I ended up accidentally punching him in the face.

So yeah, I lost my job today. Which is why I'm here so early. I might stay on the subway just to see which stop you get off on.

Yeah, maybe not, that'd be weird and I should start job hunting as soon as possible.

Thank you for making me smile on a bad day.

Thank you for being you,

Your secret admirer.

March 17th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I got a new job! I'm working at this coffee shop/bookstore and it's honestly the greatest thing in the world. I get to be around books AND get free hot chocolate, how much better can life be?

You looked a little down today, I wonder if you're okay? Is everything well at home? Maybe school's the problem? Maybe you got a bad grade, but you look really smart so I don't know.

I hope you're feeling better tomorrow,

Your secret admirer.

March 19th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I wish I knew your name, that way I'd know who to address this to. But I guess Cute Boy On The Subway will have to do.

You were smiling again today, that's nice. I haven't seen you smile in a while, I was starting to get worried. The sweater you were wearing looked a little too big to be yours, the collar slipped down a little when you moved. It looks like there's a massive bruise on your upper chest. Does it hurt? Are you okay?

I wish I was brave enough to ask you in person.

Get better soon,

Your secret admirer.

March 25th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

You're back to not smiling today. I don't like to see you frown. Not at all. I want you to tell me what's wrong. I want to help you get better, see you smile again.

I want to talk to you.

I'll do it tomorrow,

Your secret admirer.

March 26th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

You were sad again today. But that's okay, cause I said I'd talk to you.

Except I didn't.

My stomach started doing uncomfortable flips and I had to get off the train earlier than usual so I could throw up. It was not fun.

Maybe I just have the flu?

Hopefully, I'll be better tomorrow,

Your secret admirer.

March 30th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I've tried talking to you for three days, every time I had to get off and empty my stomach's content. I started to see a pattern so after a half week of that vicious cycle, I went to see my doctor.

Turns out I have social anxiety tendencies and you simply trigger them a bit. So, basically, my body won't let me talk to you.

I'm a little sad but also kind of relieved. At least I know I'm not voluntarily letting you slip through my fingers.

Not that I ever plan on doing that, you've become too important.

I hope you smile tomorrow,

Your secret admirer.

April 7th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I'm worried about you. Your sleeve rose a little when you held onto the pole. There are scars there, familiar ones, ones that I recognize as scars left by one's own hand. Physical marks of a person's suffering.

Why are you doing that? It hurts to know that you feel down enough to resort to that. I want to help, but I can't bring myself to talk to you.

Please stop this,

Your secret admirer.

April 12th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

Your eyes were red today. You've been crying. There are dark circles under your eyes, how long has it been since you've last slept?

A lady asked you if you were alright. You said you were just a little tired. I've never heard a more obvious lie.

I wish I could talk to you,

Your secret admirer.

April 16th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

The dark circles haven't gone away, if anything they've gotten darker. But now there's a bruise on your cheek. You seem to be getting thinner too.

What's going on?

Your secret admirer.

April 28th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

How much weight have you lost? Your cheekbones are more prominent, and your arms are getting thinner by the second. Why don't you eat?

The bruises are more frequent now. Cheek, eyebrow, lip...

Who's hitting you?

Who's making you suffer?

Your secret admirer.

May 6th, 2024

Dear Cute Boy On The Subway,

I haven't seen you in a few days. I wonder where you are.

Are you okay?

I'm sorry, that's a stupid question, you probably aren't.

I've decided that next time I see you I'm gonna talk to you. Ask you what's wrong. Force you to tell me if that's what it takes.

I hope you're safe.

Your secret admirer.

May 27th, 2024

Dear Peter Parker,

I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to talk to you when I had the chance.

I hope you're in a better place now.

I'm sorry you were alone when you did it.

I'm sorry you had to do it.

With love,

(Y/n).

yes, i'm one of those authors that post something an then disappears for two months, i'm sorry. i've been super busy with school and i haven't really had the motivation to write lately but i got this idea and i just needed to get it out.

also, i may be getting a new computer in like 1 or 2 weeks, so that's cool! it'll be better to write and stuff cause this one's getting kinda slow and sometimes it's hard to post stuff cause it won't load lmao.

anyway, i hope you liked it and if you did don’t forget to reblog/comment/like

love you all!

-Miah

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

Taglists: (if your name is striked through it means for some reason tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you)

PERMA TAG

@jeezkiddo @officiallyunofficialperson @beananacake @theunderlier @harrysleftchelseaboot @averyfosterthoughts @onebigolemess @samoney69 @agirlwithpointlessideas @ddaawwssoonn @inhumanwithpowers @imagineshere-forall @stiles-banshees @orowit @spideynut @deathofmissjackson @parkersbliss @ephemeral-limerences @write-from-the-heart @cardboard-ben @my-alignment-is-bisexual @mendes-marvel @timotayswriter @inthecornerchair @lovelynerdytraveler @niallssweetheart22 @incorrect-things @lost-in-the-stars03 @harishaanne @ellamw04 @bisexual-disappointment @onelovesr @ellyseveronica @sovereignparker @notsosmexy @theamazingtomholland @lozzypoz321 @peterspideyy

PETER PARKER TAG

@dreaming-lia @markleehee @juliebean247 @quechulitaaa @bubblegumbarnes @sofiaconlaz @bellaaa321-blog @parkerpetertingle @emily-louise-hynes @clara-licht @ekelly2015 @inlovewithmobtom @quaksonhehe @danicarosaline @tutuabby28 @sovereignparker @spn67-sister @t-monosapiens-h @kayleypaige2233 @galaxystern08 @highlydisfunctional1 @jillanaholland @zeusmyster @sirtommyholland @a-singleboat @allthisfortommy @middevil456 @kdotcxz @drishtisikarwar

MARVEL TAG

@dreaming-lia @emily-louise-hynes @arts-ismything @peachyafshawn @cathwritestragediesnotsins @spn67-sister @t-monosapiens-h @galaxystern08 @highlydisfunctional1 @jillanaholland @hyluas @ravenagrimes @captainbuckyy @kaylig02 @crazyassbitch-things-blog @sharenaloveyouX @tacobacoyeet @andycanbeemotional @angelicromanoff

#libby writes #libbys stuff #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #marvel #avengers #spiderman x reader #mcu spiderman #spider-man #mcu

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starship-squidlet · 4 years ago

Text

As You Like It: Chapter One

Story Summary: Modern/Theatre!AU. Jack Kelly and Crutchie Morris finally make it to Santa Fe, where they find employment at the World Theatre. There they meet a diverse cast of characters who rapidly become friends and family, making Santa Fe into the home they've always longed for.

Chapter Summary: Jack and Crutchie arrive at the World, where they meet the rest of the crew.

Word count: 4,058

Warnings: none (a few swear words I guess tho?)

A/N: Hey, y'all! So, I'mma say it now: 75% of the reason I wrote this story was for catharsis. It's absolutely based off of my current job in a theatre, as well as past jobs in other theatres, and I miss my job SO MUCH as we've been laid off for 6 months now thanks to COVID, and won't be back before January at the earliest. I miss my job and all the people I work with, so I decided to write a story about it, and projected it onto my current obsession: Newsies. Is Elaine a self-insert? Pretty much. Are the characters of most of the boys more based on the guys I work with than their actual depictions in media? Generally. But this was a lot of fun to write, and made me feel better about life. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Disclaimer: I don’t own Newsies or any of the characters you may recognize from it, but I do own this story, Elaine, Alden, Alan, etc. Cross-posting to ChocolatteKitty-Kat on AO3 and FFnet.

Tags: @the-cowbi

Next chapter: Chapter Two

“The World Theatre,” Jack murmured, squinting up at the metal sign shaped into the words, mounted over the door of the auspicious building. The World looked significantly newer than many of the other buildings they had passed on the drive in, but had also clearly been built in some kind of older or more traditional style than most of the other new buildings they had seen in the city.

“We finally made it.”

Jack glanced over at his passenger. His best friend and honorary little brother, Crutchie, was leaning forward as far as he could, straining against his seatbelt to take in as much of the huge building as possible. He didn’t spare a glance to Jack, focused entirely on the view in front of them. Jack smiled to himself and turned off the engine. “We sure did.”

“Come on, Jack,” Crutchie laughed. He leaned back far enough to unfasten his seatbelt and reached for his crutch and the door at the same time. “How long have you been wanting to move to Santa Fe for? And now that we’re here, I’d swear you want to go back to New York already.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I miss the pollution. Don’t go anywhere.” Jack grumbled as he undid his own seatbelt and clambered out of the van. The old-as-heck fifteen passenger had only cost him a few hundred dollars—to purchase. Repairs since then had totaled in the thousands, and Jack truly regretted not just spending more up front for a vehicle in better shape. Despite all odds, however, the piece of garbage had carried them both all the way across the country, and even loaned her converted back section—the first thing Jack had done was rip out all but one row of seats—as a temporary living space for the journey. The outside of the van had at some point somewhat recently been white, probably, but was now mottled with so many colors, between coats of paint, scrapes and scratches, and even a few rust patches and strips of duct tape—not to mention dried mud and more—, that Crutchie jokingly called its color “abstract art”. Somehow, this all seemed appropriate, though. Jack made his way around the van to open Crutchie’s door, and offered his arm up to his friend.

“Jack, I don’t need help,” Crutchie rolled his eyes. He slipped his right arm into his crutch and braced the other on the door before sliding off the seat to land on his left foot on the asphalt.

“Yeah, tell that to your arm and knees,” Jack eyed a nasty scrape along Crutchie’s forearm. “I don’t want you falling again. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.”

Crutchie laughed and gave him a playful shove. “I fell one time. How many dozens of times have I gotten in and out of this car? And I fell once. It happens. It would probably happen even without this thing.” He waved his crutch to illustrate his point. “Anyways, the only reason I fell was because it was raining. The door was wet and my hand slipped. But, right now, it’s completely dry, so I’m perfectly safe.”

Jack rolled his eyes and shut the van door. “Sure. I get that. But I still worry.”

“Since when are you my mother?” Crutchie laughed, poking Jack lightly in the side, his eyes crinkling up as he beamed up at his friend. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

Jack rolled his eyes, locked the van door, and followed Crutchie up the low stairs to the door of the World. Inside, the air was cool, a blissful respite from the aggressive heat outside, and Jack paused a moment to take in the theatre lobby. To either side, wide staircases with more low-rise stairs wound up a full flight to small side balconies, then continued up another whole flight to a wide balcony that spanned almost the width of the room. In front of them was a long counter with a handful of people behind it, all in smart uniforms of white button-down shirts, blue ties that matched the theatre’s logo perfectly, and black vests.

“Good morning!” one of the uniformed clerks called. “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” Jack jogged up to the counter. “I’m Jack Kelly. That’s Charlie Morris. We’re supposed to start work here today. Uh, we’re supposed to see Hannah Martin?”

“You can have a seat over there, and I’ll call Hannah and let her know you’re here,” the clerk smiled cheerfully, pointing at an uncomfortable-looking couch by a wall to the left, underneath a sign with an arrow indicating the direction of a women’s restroom.

As Jack and Crutchie took their seats on the couch—which proved to be even more uncomfortable than it looked—the clerk picked up a phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. The lobby was quiet overall; the only sounds were the soft voices of the three clerks speaking into their headsets, clacking of keyboards as they typed, and the almost imperceptible whir of the air conditioning system far overhead, ever present behind the sounds of the clerks.

After a few moments of awkward silence on Jack and Crutchie’s part, a woman appeared at the top of the stairwell across the lobby from them. She made it halfway down before spotting them, then waved and smiled. “Jack and Charles? You can come on up.”

They stood up and headed for the base of the stairs, but a psst from one of the clerks caught their attention. “There’s an elevator under those stairs, if that’s easier.” He pointed to a small sign under the stairs the woman—presumably Hannah—was standing on.

“Nah, we’re fine,” Jack smiled.

“But thanks!” Crutchie called over his shoulder, already well on his way to the stairs, which he navigated easily, hopping up on his good foot, while Jack trailed along behind, constantly worried that Crutchie would land wrong and fall back down the stairs. Not that that had ever happened, of course, but Jack still worried. Hannah led them up the second flight, and through an unassuming door—labeled ‘offices’— off to the right, next to a small set of elevator doors. Inside, they smiled politely as they passed a middle-aged woman seated behind an impressive, L-shaped wooden desk. Hannah led them around a few small cubicles, constructed by low temporary walls, to a pair of folding tables surrounded by folding chairs.

“Sorry, the conference room is in use today, so we’ll have to use these,” Hannah chuckled a little too loud as she took a seat, gesturing for the boys to do the same. “Alright. I just have some final paperwork for you to sign, mostly about benefits and such.”

For the next few hours, Hannah walked them through quite a few different documents, mostly, as she had said, about insurance and benefits. She explained each document thoroughly before handing it to them, and answered any questions that they had before moving on to the next item. She split the completed papers into two stacks, which grew steadily as they went through each item. “Okay, I think that’s it!” she said finally, offering a bright smile. “These are for you”—she handed them each a blue-green folder—“Inside I have copies of our employee handbook and all of the documents you’ve just signed, for your records. Do you have any more questions?”

Both Jack and Crutchie shook their heads.

“Excellent!” Hannah smiled. “I’ll call backstage and have someone come up to walk you back. Or, actually…” She trailed off as a door, somewhere on the other side of the cubicles and unseen from where they were sitting, opened and a pair of loudly-chattering voices burst into the still quiet of the room. “Elaine?”

The voices quieted for a moment.

“Yeah?” a voice responded hesitantly.

“Can you come over here for a moment, please? We’re at the break tables.”

There were a few murmurs, one sounding suspiciously like good luck, before another door opened and closed, right around the same time a face popped around the cubicle corner that blocked the break tables off from the rest of the room. “Hi, Hannah,” the young woman to whom the face belonged chirped brightly, stepping fully out from behind the wall. She was small, with long, dark hair, and oversized green glasses.

“Hi, Elaine,” Hannah smiled warmly. “These are our two new hires for the crew. Would you mind taking them backstage with you?”

“Sure,” Elaine smiled. She waited as the boys stood up and headed towards her, then led them out of the offices. “Hi, I’m Elaine,” she turned to offer them a bright smile over her shoulder.

“I’m Jack Kelly, and this is Charlie Morris,” Jack replied, leaning around Crutchie to shake Elaine’s hand when she offered it.

“Wow, New York,” Elaine laughed. “Sorry, that probably came out wrong. I grew up in Boston and PA. It’s been a while since I heard a full-bodied New York accent on anyone around here. Well, besides Spot.”

“Spot?” Jack arched an eyebrow.

“Our house manager,” Elaine explained. “You’ll meet him sooner or later. Oh, do you want to take the elevator?”

“Stairs are fine,” Crutchie shook his head, already starting to hop down them. Jack hurried after him, even though he knew that his friend had an even easier time going down stairs than up them. Elaine bounced along behind them, her curly hair bobbing with each little hop down the steps.

“So, if you’re from the east coast, how did you get all the way out here to New Mexico?” Jack asked as they made their way down the double flights of stairs.

“I could ask you the same question,” Elaine teased. “My brothers are performers, and I used to be too. We moved around a lot for a few years, but decided to stick around Santa Fe, at least for a little while. We like it here.” She shrugged. “Your turn.”

“Jack’s always wanted to come to Santa Fe,” Crutchie said over his shoulder, hopping off the last step. “Never said why, though.”

“Yeah, well, I just kind of picked the furthest place I could think of at one point when I was a kid and promised myself that someday I’d get there,” Jack squirmed uncomfortably at the attention, and Elaine’s piercing gaze.

“Fair enough,” she shrugged. “Hey, Tommy, hey, Dutch!” she waved and grinned at two of the clerks behind the front desk. They waved back, and the one who had greeted Jack and Crutchie earlier offered them a second wave. Elaine led them through the spacious lobby, past a gift shop, located behind the front desk, and a concession stand, tucked into the wall by the theatre doors. She threw the double doors open dramatically, and the boys followed her into a small, unlit anteroom. The doors were about halfway closed when she flung open a second set of doors.

These doors opened into a wide room, full of arched rows of padded seats, with gently-sloped aisles leading down to a four-foot-high stage. “Welcome to the World Theatre of Santa Fe,” Elaine grinned, stretching out her arms and spinning as if to show off the huge room. “Seats about sixteen hundred; the booth for the sound and light ops is back there”—she pointed—“and, if you follow me, I’ll show you backstage.”

They trailed along behind Elaine as she made for the stage, then went up five steps built into the side of the stage, next to the wall. They walked through the side stage area, past a rail with several pegs with ropes tied to them. After that, they passed through a door, where they saw a small alcove with several washer and dryers set up in it—along with:

“What is that smell?” Jack nearly gagged.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot to warn you,” Elaine said breathlessly, already on the other side of the machines. “Something in the system backs up and, uh… yeah. That. Trust me, it’s worse when you’re the one standing there for the whole show.”

She led them up another long stairwell—Jack would have guessed it was a triple flight, if he wasn’t so winded by the top—and into a long hallway. “It’s technically lunchtime for crew, but I think I should take you to see Weisel first. I’m sure he’ll have something to say to you…” she trailed off, glancing down the hallway, then grabbed Crutchie by the arm and pulled him into a small, dark room off to the right, beckoning Jack to follow. “Just as a… heads up: Weisel’s a jerk. Like, obviously there’s at least one of those everywhere you go, but Weisel is his own special breed. He sucks, but he’s good at faking nice, so people tend not to notice, at least not straight off. Just don’t let him see if he gets to you. And he’ll probably be nice to start off with, anyways.”

She led them back into the hallway. “Okay. So that’s dressing room five. This is Spice’s office—don’t ever go in there unless you’re invited—and that’s the sewing room… men’s bathroom… cutting and receiving rooms for costumes, and Weisel and Medda’s offices.” She pointed out each room as they passed, stopping in front of the one she had named as Weisel’s office. “All that’s down that way is the rest of the dressing rooms. And that hallway leads to the green room and elevator.” She knocked on the door to Weisel’s office, opening it far enough to poke her head in when a response came. “I’ve got two new hires from Hannah, Mr. Weisel,” she said cheerfully. “And I need to clock out for lunch.”

“Oh, come in.”

“Cool. Mr. Weisel, this is Jack and Charlie.”

Elaine opened the door and slipped into an oversized computer chair, her fingers flying across the keys of the computer at the desk as she logged into it. The boys squeezed in behind her: the office was narrow, barely six or seven feet wide. The two “desks” were actually a wide counter built into the wall, two workspaces divided by a fancy copier, each with a desktop tower and monitor. At the back desk sat an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—and a thoroughly displeased, unshaven face. He looked the two boys up and down, his face darkening further as he took in Crutchie; Jack instinctively wanted to step protectively in front of his friend, but couldn’t fit between Elaine’s chair and Crutchie to do so.

“Hannah said she hired two new crew boys for me,” Weisel turned back to his desk and took a bite of a sandwich, chewing slowly as he swiveled back to face the boys. “So, do either of you have any theatre experience?”

“No, not so much,” Jack said. “We just needed jobs because we were moving out here, and this is what was available. But I’ve done plenty of physical labor, and that’s what she said to expect, so I’m sure I’ll be able to sort it out quick enough. And she said something about… a spotlight operator or something for Charlie?”

“Yeah, yeah, the spot op position,” Weisel nodded, turning back to his sandwich. “Not sure what I’m going to do with him for builds.”

“Charlie, have you ever done any sewing?” Elaine piped up from the computer, where she was effectively trapped by Jack and Crutchie squashed behind her. “Wardrobe always needs help, and even if you haven’t, I don’t mind teaching. We never have enough hands to do all the little things, like buttons and hooks and name tags.”

“Alright, you can have him,” Weisel shrugged. “Next cue-to-cue they run, you can take him up to spot and teach him the follow spot.”

“Okay,” Elaine chirped. “Since it’s lunch now, do you want me to take Jack and Charlie downstairs and introduce them to everyone?”

“Sure, whatever,” Weisel waved his hand dismissively. “Jack, you come find me after lunch, and I’ll get you started. Elaine, you can take Charlie.”

The boys squeezed out of the little office and Elaine followed them. “I’ll show you downstairs, but I have to grab my lunch first. Do y’all have food?”

“Ah, no, we were gonna run out and grab something,” Jack said.

“Well, you don’t have much time for that right now,” Elaine said. “There may be a lot of places to eat around here, but it can easily take well over half an hour to get through them, plus driving back and forth, and we have less than forty-five minutes till we have to be back. But don’t worry, there’s some leftovers from the last concert in the fridge in the green room. Just follow me.”

Jack and Crutchie followed Elaine first to the sewing room, then to a large room, painted sage green, which she called the green room. “When we have concert tours in, we set up their catering in here. The upstairs staff usually eats in here on non-concert days, but Sarah—the other dresser—and I prefer to go downstairs and eat with the crew. Better company.” She opened the door to a tall, industrial-looking stainless steel refrigerator. “Here, there’s a bunch of stuff leftover from the concert the other day.” She produced a half-empty deli tray, along with some other food, and set it on one of the two long tables running through the center of the room, and grabbed some bread from a windowsill next to the fridge. “I know sandwiches aren’t much, but, hey, it’s free food. And way easier and faster than going out for lunch.”

The boys made their sandwiches in silence while Elaine microwaved her own lunch—“Quinoa with black beans, Ragu, and a little bit of cheese. It’s like spaghetti, but better!”

“It doesn’t smell better,” Crutchie wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah…” Elaine sighed, looking sadly into the container. “But I guess that’s the trade-off.”

Once they were done with the food, Elaine helped them load it back into the fridge and took them back out into the hallway. “Elevator,” she said as she punched a button on the wall. “It’s four flights to the basement, and I have bad knees. I try and take the stairs at least a few times a day, but my legs won’t let me all the time. Lunch is when I give myself a break.”

The elevator was painfully slow, and creaked alarmingly as they rode it down. “I don’t trust that,” Jack arched an eyebrow and stared up at the roof.

“Well, I’ve only heard of it getting stuck once, if that helps,” Elaine laughed.

When they reached the basement, the doors slid open—groaning as they did—and a wave of stale but cool air that smelled like beef hit them. The basement walls were made of white-painted cinderblocks, while the floor was the same painted grey concrete that the cavernous upstairs room behind the stage—where the washers and dryers were housed—had, although less stained and cracked. Elaine led them around a corner, past chain-link-fenced cubicles stuffed with fake Christmas greenery, and up to a small room created by two half walls, and an L-shaped row of old lockers, many of which were covered back and front with stickers advertising tours that had (presumably) come through the theatre in the past. There were three tables packed with folding chairs, on top of a filthy, old rug. In the back of the “room” were a small, free-standing sink with just enough counter space for a dish-drying rack, an ancient refrigerator with a freezer on top, and a rickety table with a microwave, old drip coffeemaker, and boxes of plastic cutlery and paper plates. On the back wall was a wide half-white, half-cork board; on the whiteboard side was scrawled, in faded green and red dry-erase marker,

DEFINITIVE LIST OF THE TOP 10 DISNEY ANIMATED MOVIES EVER:

Tangled The Lion King

Aladdin

Great Mouse Detective

Moana

Mulan

Sword in the Stone

Black Cauldron

Robin Hood (should be #2 but whatever)

Cinderella II

Lion King 1 ½

There were also several notes and arrows drawn on the board, seemingly trying to correct whoever had initially written it, but Jack and Crutchie didn’t have time to take those in—in fact, they barely had time to take in anything else, because as soon as they rounded the corner created by the lockers, they were met by a deafening cheer of “ELAINE!”

Elaine jumped, nearly dropping her container of quinoa-spaghetti, and yelped. “Dear lord, boys, don’t scare me like that!”

“Look, we fixed your list!” a voice laughed.

“You didn’t fix it, you made it wrong!” Elaine cried. “The Lion King SUCKS, and is definitely not the best animated Disney movie ever!”

The room immediately dissolved into chaos, each of the dozen occupants yelling over one another, mostly about the movies they felt should be on the list. Elaine set her food down on the nearest table and waved her arms. “Everyone, SHUT UP!”

The room slowly quieted, the shouting replaced largely by laughter.

“Come on, boys, we have to make a good impression on the new guys!” Elaine yelled over the continuing noise. That shut the boys up, and they turned their attention to Elaine. “Thank you!” She grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him forward. “Everyone, meet Jack Kelly, and that’s Charlie…”

“Morris,” Crutchie stepped forward and waved his crutch, his other hand full with his sandwich plate. “But you can call me Crutchie.”

“Sure,” one of the boys laughed.

“Weasel has officially given Charlie to Buttons and Snipe as their new follow spot op”—

“You mean you’re bailing on us, Elaine!?” One of the boys in the back cried.

“Not by choice, Snipe,” Elaine retorted. “By decree of Weasel. Anyways, we always knew this day would come, especially after Barb and Carla quit. But don’t worry, I promise that I will miss you terribly.”

“Yeah, right,” the boy rolled his eyes. “You’ll forget about us in a week.”

“Five days, max,” Elaine said. “Anyways, Jack is on run crew with the rest of y’all, so be nice to him.”

“We’re always nice,” the boy in front of Elaine leaned his head back and batted his eyelashes.

“Sure you are,” Elaine laughed, rolling her eyes and giving him a playful shove on the shoulder. “Jack, Charlie, meet the crew boys.” She pointed to each person in turn as she introduced them. “Race is our deck chief—which basically means he’s in charge backstage, second only to Weasel—and he runs the fly rail. Albert is regular run crew, like you, Jack. Buttons is our L1, which means that he runs the light board and supervises the spotlight operators, namely you, Charlie, and Snipe over there. Elmer here is our A1, which means that he runs the sound board and heads up audio. Finch is the A2–a.k.a. Elmer’s backup and runs the backstage board—, and Henry is the A3–Finch’s backup. Mike and Ike over there are the twins; they’re run crew, and don’t worry about trying to tell them apart, because they’re always switching places anyways and still answer to the wrong name if you use it. The last two over there are Jo-Jo and Romeo, also run crew. And that’s Sarah! For concerts, she’s the hospitality coordinator, and she works wardrobe and dresses for our original shows.”

“And what do you do?” Crutchie asked as they squeezed into the last open seats at the same table as Elmer, Finch, and Sarah.

“Elaine does everything,” Elmer laughed.

“My title is production assistant,” Elaine said. “That just means that, yes, I do everything. I’m mostly a stitcher and dresser, at least for original shows. For concerts, I run for the tours and back Sarah up on hospitality. I also swing in for spotlight, and I’ve even done run crew a few times, and I’m the only person with experience with wigs so I do that, and I help Weasel out with props. But mostly I swing dressing tracks and spot op.”

“Swingers have the most fun,” Elmer teased.

“Gross,” Elaine rolled her eyes, but smiled despite herself. “Speaking of bad jokes, Finch, you wanna hear one?”

“No,” Finch groaned.

“What does a boat do when it doesn’t feel good?”

Finch glared at her.

“It goes to the dock!”

Sarah covered her mouth to hide a smile, and Elmer snorted into his water bottle.

“Thank you,” Elaine beamed.

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mycupoffanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

His Second Chance Part 19

Bucky x Reader

His Second Chance Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Bucky comes back from Wakanda with Steve, ready to begin his recovery from his days as the Winter Soldier, but there’s one thing he doesn’t take into account - you.

Warnings: Violence, use of powers, injury, fluff, language.

Word count: 3500

Thank you to @shygirl-00 and @mochibarnes for your help with ideas and when I was stuck! 😘

The Reader is forced to take on a challenge while Bucky is faced with a very cute opportunity.

ALL TAG LISTS ARE ALWAYS OPEN 💖 feel free to come and chat, my blog is always open for you 💕

_______________________________

“Going in from the west side.” Your hushed tone came over the comms. “Roger that, closing in from the northern entrance, do not engage.” Steve’s voice crackled slightly from interference. You were in a crouched position, moving towards the main building you were infiltrating.

A last minute mission, low risk, high priority. Get in, get the data and get out. It seemed simple, but quickly became much more complex than you had hoped it would be. When you had arrived, there were far more Hydra agents than originally speculated, leaving the mission much higher risk than you’d thought it would be.

“Did you hear me? Confirmation required.” Steve was in full work mode, no sweetheart or sweetie here. He was in his Captain mode, firm and sometimes harsh tone, little emotion shown as he did the job. “Confirmed, Captain.” You answered, a relieved sigh passing through Steve’s lips. He knew how you felt about coming on the mission, so he’d specifically set it up so that you didn’t have to do any combat unless it was absolutely needed. He was the one taking the front, allowing you time to slip in and get the data you needed.

You paused mid movement, immediately forcing yourself up against a half wall outside the back entrance. “Five hostiles on the west side.” You hissed into the comms. A grunt and a muttered curse came down the line. “Can you take them?” Steve asked. You knew you wouldn’t be able to take them without using your powers if you just ran in and started throwing punches.

No. You were going to do this quietly and if you were careful, no one would ever know you’d even been there.

You moved around the low wall, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. You kept your breathing under control as you watched the movements of the men around you, waiting for the precise moment to take the first strike.

Quickly, you reached up, cupping your hand over the mouth and nose of the agent closest to you and hooked your other arm around his neck. You used your full body weight and strength to yank him down with you behind the wall while you knocked him out in a single movement. “What’s your status?” Steve whispered. There were too many around you to speak up, they’d hear you, it could put you in a more dangerous situation. You had to stop yourself from swearing out loud when you spotted three more agents approaching. “Are you there? Status.” Steve tried again.

A strangled sound, a few muffled movements and a groan was all Steve could hear, momentarily breaking his composure as he snuck around the front entrance. “Sweetheart?”

“You think they’ll be alright?” Bucky asked, sighing as he stared down at his coffee. “Yeah, they’ll be fine.” Sam nodded, fiddling about with the week’s shopping list. “Your girl can take care of herself just fine, Steve’s there, it’ll be okay.” Sam smiled, scribbling something down to buy. “Why didn’t he take you?” Bucky asked before taking a long sip of the slightly-too-hot coffee. “Clint used one of his explosive arrows and it blew off a chunk of my wing, gotta get it fixed.” He rolled his eyes.

“Do we have cheese?” Sam asked.

“No.” Bucky replied, honestly he had no idea and didn’t really want to participate, so he made up an answer. “Can’t you fight without the wings?” Bucky asked, frowning a bit. “Shut up.” Sam countered, throwing a used coffee capsule at him. “Can you put plums on the list?” Bucky asked, twirling his cup around slowly. “No.” Sam deadpanned while he messily wrote plums down.

“You coming with me?” Sam asked, flapping the shopping list about. “You’re tall enough to reach everything, right?” Bucky smirked, receiving an offended glare from Sam. “Obviously.” He scoffed in response. “Then you don’t need me.” Bucky excused himself before Sam could force him to join the grocery shopping trip. “But- Buck- you’re shit company anyway!” He called out of the kitchen as Bucky walked away. “So are you!” Bucky called back from down the hallway, a smile making it’s way onto Sam’s lips. In Bucky and Sam terms, that was as close to saying I love you to each other as they were going to get, but it was all just mindless banter with no real harshness to it.

Bucky walked down the street, pausing to kneel down and tighten the lace of his boots. As he looked up, he saw the closed café and he let out a sigh. Oh, pretty girl, I wish this place was still open for us. Bucky wandered towards the old café, his eyes on the rental sign above the shop. The windows were now blacked out, presumably until it was refitted. Bucky pondered for a moment, staring up at the sign above the shop. He eyed the phone number for the agency and thought on it for a moment.

Don’t be ridiculous, the Winter Soldier owning a goddamn café.

No, it would be Bucky and his girl baking sweet treats and making coffees together. Maybe he could even build her a herb garden so she could make her own tea blends and- no, you’re getting carried away. It’s just a dumb dream.

A really stupid, dumb-

A soft squeak like sound pulled Bucky from his thoughts and he looked about for the source of the noise. There were people around, it was raining and there was quite a bit of traffic on the main road, but this street was fairly quiet. The sound came again and Bucky peered around the side of the café into the small alleyway. Dumpsters and rubbish bags lined the alleyway and it smelled something awful. Bucky took a side step towards the alley entrance, pausing when he saw some rubbish shift and heard a rustle.

Bucky waited for a moment, almost limiting himself from breathing properly, careful not to make even the slightest sound. He was a trained assassin, he could probably sneak up on whatever was in that alley, not that he was likely to do that. His eyes widened when a literal ball of fluff peeked around a bin bag. Oh. My. God. It’s SO CUTE. The little fluffy cat, a Maine Coon Bucky thought, slowly stepped out into the open. The cat looked skinny, despite the large amount of fluff to suggest otherwise, but he knew it was starving just by looking at it.

Edging closer to the little cat, Bucky crouched down on one knee, slowly extending a hand out and waiting for it to come to him. It sniffed the air a little, eyes locked on him as it wearily checked its surroundings before limping towards him, one of the front paws of the cat was damaged enough it couldn’t bare weight on it and Bucky’s heart broke clean in half at the sight. Poor little baby. A sad smile spread across his lips as the cat approached, nose nudging his finger slightly as it inspected him, judging whether Bucky was trustworthy. “Hi friend.” Bucky whispered out, the little cat staring up at him for a moment before gently leaning into his hand.

The alarm blared loudly in your ears, not that you could hear much over the ringing. You ran, full pelt for the server room. You could hear Steve talking, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. You spotted shadows of men approaching down the hall and practically threw yourself into the server room, closing the door and blocking it, heaving out a deep breath. You drew your silenced pistol, clicking off the safety before you started your sweep of the room, making sure to be careful between the rows of servers and computer parts.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?” Steve voice crackled through your ear piece, but you only caught half of what he said, your ears still ringing from a nasty hit you took to the side of the head. “I’m in the server room.” You replied, keeping your voice low. “I’m coming to you. Are you hurt? I’m calling for immediate evac, this is too high risk.” Steve’s voice was wavering between stern Captain and concerned best friend, finding it hard to keep focus. “I- I’m fine Steve.” You mumbled, reaching up to wipe away a trickle of blood from the side of your head, the tangy, metallic smell flooding your senses.

Not fine.

You’re not fine.

You stepped slowly through the rows, analysing each section until you reached where you needed to be. Your hands were shaking more than you’d expected them to, causing you to fumble with the flash drive you pulled from your tac suit pocket. “Drop the mission, we’re getting out.” Steve ordered. “No, I’ve got this Steve.” You shook your head, breathing out as you plugged in the flash drive, the program on it was set to automatically transfer the files, bypassing any encryption walls in place. “We have to go, west entrance, two minutes.” Steve instructed, he sounded like he was running. Two minutes was all you needed.

“One minute thirty, hurry it up.” Steve stressed down the comms. You looked down at your smart watch where the progress bar for the file transfer was displayed. “It’s at eighty percent, give me thirty more seconds and I’ll move.” You reasoned. “No, it’s too long, get out of there.” Steve put on his best Captain voice.

Ninety five percent.

Ninety six.

Ninety seven.

“Come on, evac is about to land!” Steve yelled down the ear piece at you.

Ninety nine.

“Sweetheart, please.” Steve sounded desperate. “Shit, oh fuck.” Steve breathed out. Rapid gunfire filled your ears, muffled movements and glass breaking.

One hundred percent.

You grabbed the flash drive, bolting straight for the door, slipping it back into your secured pocket as you went. “I’m making an exit now.” You informed him, trying to keep your voice level as you heard the background noise of a fight, both over the comms and in the distance. “West entrance in compromised, get to the evac from the east side, I’ll join you back at base.” Steve shouted at you. “What? No, I’m not leaving you.” You frowned, pulling the server room door open and looking both ways down the corridor. “Dammit, do as I told you, don’t engage and get on the fucking jet.” He shouted.

Stay or go? Leave Steve or delay evacuation?

That fight sounded brutal. It sounded bad. It sounded like a full shoot out and Steve was by himself. Sure, he was a super soldier and you’d seen him take on full groups of people, but he usually had backup. You were his backup.

Fuck it.

“You fucking- what?” Sam seethed over the phone. “I got a cat, moron.” Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You can’t just- fuck me, Stark’s gonna kill you.” He groaned. “Put it in a shelter or something.” Sam sighed. “She is in a shelter, she’s in my room.” Bucky smiled down at his newest little friend, purring away as she rolled about on his bed. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. No- this is on you.” Bucky could almost hear the eye roll from Sam. “I don’t want it near me.” Sam sighed. “It is a she and her name is Gemini or Gem for short.” Bucky said matter-of-factly. “You have a nickname for it already?” Sam sounded incredulous. “Her, she is female, Sam.” Bucky corrected, rolling his eyes. “Un-fucking-believable.” And then Sam hung up.

“It’s alright little Gem, Sam will melt when he sees you.” Bucky grinned lazily at the fluff ball next to him, her paw wrapped up in a bandage as she lay on her back, gently kneading at his arm as he stroked her fur down. Gem trilled at him and Bucky swore he felt his heart melt, almost as much as it did when he saw you doing cute things. “Urgh, you’re so fucking cute.”

You bolted out of the building, slamming the door against the outside wall so hard that the metal groaned a bit. Agents swarmed the back compound area and you were out in the open. Perhaps running straight out of the building like a bat out of hell was not the best idea. “What the hell are you doing?” Steve hissed down the comms, unimpressed by your appearance. “I told you to go.” He grumbled as he was swarmed by a whole group of Hydra agents. You leapt into a sprint, running straight for the group, rage boiling up inside of you.

You didn’t want to have to do it. You never wanted to, especially not since last time. Not since the damage you caused your own mind last time. But you had to. “Sweetheart go.” Steve all but begged, but you ignored him, launching yourself right at the group, a blast of power throwing the front of the formation to the ground, disrupting the whole crowd. You stood, one against nearly forty men and women.

Flashbacks from your last real use of your powers on a mission came back to you. Not again. You wouldn’t let it cause you the same pain again. You couldn’t be afraid of yourself anymore. You had to do this. Even if Steve didn’t need saving, you needed to do it for yourself, perhaps it was selfish, perhaps it was stupid, but some part of you made you feel like you needed to do this, to prove something to yourself.

“Steve, shield.” You ordered, voice low, eyes squinted slightly as you concentrated. “What?” He breathed out, crouched on the floor. He saw you running straight of him and he immediately understood, pulling his shield over his crouched form. You ran full pelt towards him, your powers feeling like a blaze ripping through your forearms as it travelled towards your palms, the fire within you igniting. You leapt up, feet landing on the face of his shield and Steve jolted at an upwards angle, giving you the leverage you needed.

You were propelled up into the air, flying forwards, fire erupting out of your palms in swirling, controlled spheres. You landed in the middle of the group of agents, using the force of your landing to send waves of fiery energy out, knocking everyone back. You screamed out when the fire encircled you, making it hard for you to regain control of it, to pull it back in.

“Stop! Sweetheart, you need to calm down!” Steve raced over to you, almost reaching out for you but retracted his hand before he could burn himself on the energy force around you. “Deep breaths, focus on me, not them.” Steve’s eyes flitted about, checking for any more agents who could be around. “I need you to take long deep breaths, I need you to stop, we have to leave before backup arrives.” Steve was teetering on the edge of Captain mode and protective brother mode. “Sweetheart please.” He breathed out, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t control it; it was impossible to pull it back in. “I can’t Stevie.” You turned away from him, propelling a huge force of energy, exerting all of the power you had left, leaving you weak.

“Fucking- you weren’t supposed to do that.” Steve grunted out as he lurched forwards, reaching out to catch you as your knees buckled. Your eyelids felt so damn heavy, everything felt heavy and numb. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?” Steve asked, you felt dazed, weak and shaky. It was all a bit too much. “Shouldn’t have to done that, we shouldn’t have done this, as soon as we saw there were too many we should have just left.” Steve pulled you close to him, lifting you up from the ground as he looked around nervously. “I’ll get you out of here, sweetheart, hold on.”

“Oh my- did you really have to get a damn cat?” Sam huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he peered around Bucky at Gem. “She chose me, I had to bring her home!” Bucky exclaimed, like that was a valid excuse, which if you asked him, it was.

“I’m not feeding it.”

“Her.” Bucky grumbled.

“I’m not feeding it. Or playing with it or cleaning up its poop.” Sam scowled.

His pissed off demeanor slowly frayed at the edged when Gemini sidled up towards him, stepping so delicately between Bucky’s legs and letting out a sweet little trill as she swished her tail in curiosity at the new human in her home. Sam’s eyes softened for a moment until he caught Bucky’s smug grin and immediately resumed his scowl. “Shut up.” He growled through gritted teeth before stomping away, giving a quick glance back at Gemini as she happily twirled herself around Bucky’s legs.

No, no, no, pretty girl, please be okay. “What did you do to her?” Bucky pushed between Steve and Sam to get a look at you in your hospital bed. Fuck me, she looks so weak. “You idiot Steve, you should’ve pulled her outta there!” Bucky raged upon seeing his girl completely knocked out and on fluids. “I tried! I tried Buck; she wouldn’t listen!” Steve defended himself. “She insisted on getting the data and when I told her to leave me and go for evac, she came back for me.” Steve explained. “Oh my- Steve, are you stupid? Of course she’d come back for you!” Bucky half-heartedly slapped his chest. “Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with you for her favourite person, you shoulda’ known she’d come back for you.” Bucky frowned.

He wasn’t really mad at Steve, but the man was so blinded by his role as Captain that he failed to consider that you, a very stubborn, sweet girl who adored the crap out of Steve, would ever dream of leaving him.

“M’sorry Buck.” Steve sighed, a look of guilt on his features as he watched over you, his fingers lacing between yours. “She’ll be okay though.” He glanced down at you. “She’s our strong girl.” Steve murmured as he moved to gently brush some of your hair out of the way. Bucky came down to sit on the other side of your bed, busying himself with making sure you had your pillow just how you liked it and that your blanket was pulled up to where he knew was comfortable for you, making sure to pull it tight enough that all the creases were gone. “Our strong girl.” Bucky smiled, gently grazing your cheek with his metal fingers.

My strong, pretty girl.

“A mocha for the soul and a chocolate pancake for the stomach.” Bucky handed you a tray of food and leaned forwards to kiss your forehead before he fluffed your pillow for the umpteenth time that morning. “Thank you Bucky.” You grinned up at him, Steve peering around the door into your bedroom. You, thankfully, had gained enough energy to go back up to your quarters and continue your recovery in the comfort of your own space.

“How’s my sweetheart doing?” Steve asked as he walked into the room, giving you a soft smile. “Much better.” You replied, through a mouthful of pancake. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry about what happened.” Steve sighed, sitting down next to you. “Stevie, I’d do it a hundred time over if it meant I didn’t have to leave you to fight alone.” You shook your head frantically. Yes, the recovery was gruelling, but in your eyes, it was worth it.

A little squeaky meow caught your attention and you gasped dramatically when you caught sight of a fluffy tail walking into the bedroom. “Oh my god.” You squealed excitedly, trying to crane your neck to see the little cat who had made herself welcome to your space.

“A… Cat?” Steve looked absolutely befuddled. “Her name is Gemini, or Gem for short.” Bucky grinned, enjoying the excitement on your face as you watched Gem hop up on the bed. Steve immediately leapt up from his spot and stared wide eyed at her. “You got a cat?” Steve almost shrieked, looking down at the sweet, calm little fluffy cat as if she was the devil incarnate. “Mhm.” Bucky nodded, quite pleased with the chaos he’d caused for both Sam and Steve.

“No- no, you have to take it out.” Steve shook his head. “Stevie, please.” You pouted, giving him your sweetest look, big eyes and all, causing him to pause with his mouth wide open as he looked at you. He stayed silent for a moment until Gemini nudged her face against Steve’s leg and he stared at her with such confusion.

“You did almost kill my girl, I think letting us keep Gem is a good apology, don’t you think doll?” Bucky shot you a sly grin, making you giggle. “I think so.” You nodded. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to kick out a little stray kitty, Stevie.” You spoke in the cutest voice you could muster and Steve glanced up at you, a look of defeat as he sighed. “Fine.” He huffed before making his way out of your room.

“Welcome to the family, Gem.” You gently stroked the top of her head, eliciting a blissful trill from her as Bucky settled on the edge of the bed to join you in making a fuss of the little Maine Coon.

Our little family.

_______________________________

Permanent Taglist:

@shygirl-00 @swanlakemikey @scuzmunkie @paintballkid711 @lovelylilia @mapreza1 @love-bucky-3000 @cals-cigarette @scarlett-berserker @2407zzz @mercurybarnes @mywinterwolf @geeksareunique @fairislesheets @wendaiii @mochibarnes @anyasthoughts @miamua-posts @megantje123 @sideeffectsofyou

His Second Chance Taglist:

@socialheartbreak @whatsupbucky @yesno18 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @crystallstaircase @fantua @lady-x-red @buckys-islandgirl @chipilerendi @butteryoptimisticpeanut @blondecity @dark-night-sky-99 @marvel-ous-buckyy @rand0mfangurlstuff @tfandtws @vxidnik @bluerorjhan @calwitch @hello-keeley @vrgelivvvv @carol-twinklefists-danvers @stitchers-in-stitches @hungry-pasta @lauraxwndrlnd @supercleverbouquetsoul @isaaclaheygurl @torntaltos @jhangelface0523 @love-on-the-murder-scene @a--1--1--3

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #avengers x reader #james buchanan barnes #sergeant james buchanan barnes #james barnes #steve rogers #captain steve rogers #captain america #sam wilson #anthony mackie #sebastian stan #chris evans #mcu fic #mcu #marvel mcu #bucky fanfic

138 notes · View notes

pengychan · 6 years ago

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 12

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: A bit late, but here's an update! Thanks for @senoraluna for proofreading, because I wrote half this chapter while drunk off my ass.

*** Héctor is a serious cuddler, even in his sleep. Especially in his sleep.

Imelda found out as much pretty early on, and - especially warm nights aside - she doesn't mind at all. On cooler nights such as this one, she's actually rather grateful to have him draped around her like a human blanket. She gets to lie awake for a time, listening to his breathing, basking in the warmth of his skin against hers, feeling his heartbeat, and there is nowhere else she'd rather be. Come morning she'll wake up first, and poke him in the ribs to wake him up. It always works, and the resulting yelp as he's startled into awareness never fails to make her laugh. Or maybe she'll think of a more pleasant way to do so, with no nightclothes in the way and-

Clack.

The sound of the front door opening and then closing, quietly but not quietly enough, puts an end to that very pleasant thought. There are steps and those, too, are trying to be quiet - 'trying' being the key word.

He may come up with an excuse as to why he’s there, but Imelda knows that the little photoshoot - ‘Photoshoot Two’, as Héctor called it - they sent him is the real reason why he's just come crawling back. He probably got in his car as soon as he could leave whatever toilet stall he'd managed to run to. Again.

Not that he'll get to have any tonight, though. She and Héctor already had their fun; he'll have to wait and, if he behaves, he might get to take part next time. Serves him right for trying to force them into going out for the fourth evening in a row.

“Come on, just a drink to celebrate.”

“We’ve been having drinks to celebrate for the past three nights, Ernesto.”

“So what’s one more?”

“I have a headache and work to get done in the morning.”

“Well, Héctor is coming. Right?”

“Uh, actually…”

“Come on!”

“I just need to rest a bit before our big day, you know. Have a quiet night in, and--”

“We can rest tomorrow!”

“I think I’ll pass. You go and have fun.”

“Ugh, fine. You to stay here and bore yourselves like an old couple!”

Clearly, he forgot what happened last time he accused them of being two bores aged before their time, so Imelda saw it fit to send him another reminder. Héctor was more than eager to help.

The steps come closer, and then stop at the bedroom door. Imelda stays still, eyes shut and cheek pressed against Héctor's hair. She half-expects Ernesto to come in and approach the bed, and she has a remark ready for that - "of all times to come late rather than early!" - but there are no more steps, no sound at all except for Héctor's steady breathing and her own, the faint noise of traffic in the distance.

Imelda opens her eyes to see he's standing in the doorway. They forgot to close the blinds again and, in the sharp light cast by a street light, she can see the look on his face as he stares at them. She'd expected lust, she'd expected disappointment; longing is not what she thought she'd see. She wonders how many people got that special Kicked Puppy look from him, but she knows deep down - and with no small amount of smugness - that this look is different. This one is reserved to them alone.

Are you going to gape for much longer?, she almost asks, but she knows that would wake Héctor up and really, she's had such a pleasant evening; every bone in her body feels like cooked asparagus and she has never felt less inclined to start a fight - especially since she knows her husband would be all for letting him in. So she just lifts her free arm in a mute invitation, and he takes it.

He’s walking quietly across the room the next moment, stripping as he walks and leaving his clothes to fall on the floor. He’d better pick them up in the morning, she thinks, and doesn’t say as much only not to disturb her husband’s sleep. Which is disturbed anyway, because the mattress tips and the springs creak when Ernesto slips under the covers, and it is enough for Héctor - who usually needs the aid of a trumpet to be awakened any time before dawn - to stir.

“‘Nesto?” he mumbles. One arm tightens around Imelda, and the other stretches out for Ernesto. He grins against her skin when he grabs that hand and presses it against his cheek. “Liked the pictures?”

“You two are the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” Ernesto informs him, and the grin widens.

“How many visit to the toilet?”

“Chingate.”

“Imelda already did,” Héctor says innocently.

“I want to be in the next one,” Ernesto says. She can feel him pouting against her skin, and holds back a laugh. Instead, she yawns. “In the morning,” she mutters, and neither argues. She’s about to suggest they should shift - Héctor is usually in the middle, it feels wrong for him not to be and since he woke up he may as well move - but she has no time to say anything. Ernesto moves suddenly, and his arms are around both of them, his face pressing against their joined shoulders. Much like Héctor, he feels pleasantly warm.

“The worst thing that ever happened to you,” Héctor says aloud, grinning at Imelda over his head. She returns it with a smirk of her own while Ernesto heaves a long sigh.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and for a time they do. There is some shifting around, and Imelda is soon half-asleep, not really caring which one of them is going to wind up in the middle.

In the end, no one does. Morning catches them in a messy pile, with Imelda awakening slowly to the sunlight. There is warmth and quiet breathing, the occasional snore and twitch, sleepy mumbles and fingers running over skin, through hair, and it isn’t a bad thing to wake up to - it isn’t too bad at all, and their bodies awaken before their minds entirely catch up.

Eyelids still heavy with sleep, Imelda can barely tell that it’s Ernesto’s chest beneath her head, and if it’s Héctor’s cock poking her. If she chose to focus, she would be able to tell whose hand is it on her breast and whose hand is resting on her thigh. But she’s still half-asleep and so are they, and she finds she likes it that way. After all, it’s Sunday; one lazy morning cannot hurt.

Imelda keeps her eyes closed, reaches for Héctor’s morning erection, and begins to lazily stroke its head with her thumb. There is a sigh, sleepy and yet shuddering, and Héctor’s cock twitches in her hand. He shifts closer but just barely, as sleepy as she is, and lets out an almost dreamy sigh. A thumb brushes over her nipple, and the hand on her thigh slips between her legs, to cup her mound. She tilts her head to kiss exposed skin - whose and where, it hardly matters. If she were to guess she’d say it might be Ernesto’s neck, but she won’t guess. She’s not awake enough to.

Another sigh from her husband, and her hand beings grow slick with precum. Another hardness is poking her, but she feels a hand - Héctor’s? Ernesto’s own? Does it matter? - reaching to grasp it, and Ernesto’s chest rises and falls in a long, content sigh. The hand between her legs - whose? Does she care? - parts her folds, and she feels gentle pressure on her clit, tiny circular movements that get a sigh out of her as well. It’s all very slow-- the touches, the build-up, even the orgasm coming in long, gentle waves.

Imelda doesn’t get many lazy mornings but, all things considered, she could do this more often.

***

“He’s about to say it.”

Imelda’s whisper is barely audible, for Héctor’s ears only. Leaning against the door with his arms crossed, he glances over to the bed. Ernesto has lain down every single charro he owns and is going over them all, walking back and forth like a general inspecting troops, his back to them.

“He’s not that bad,” Héctor whispers, gaining himself a look that clearly says ‘just wait’.

Ernesto pauses in front of a blue charro, shakes his head, then walks past it to a deep red one with golden stitching Pepita has chosen to lay onto. He reaches out as though to move her. Pepita flattens her ears and hisses. Ernesto pulls back his hand.

Smart choice, that: it’s hard to play guitar with a torn-up hand, and Ernesto wants to play at his very best tomorrow. It’s not every day you meet with your record label to sign the deal, give an interview to announce an album is officially in the pipeline, and perform on live TV right afterwards. He’s very obviously nervous, even if he tries to act like nothing worries him.

Héctor is… sort of nervous, too, but it’s easy to think everything will go smoothly with Imelda’s steady presence by his side, watching Ernesto try to pick an outfit for the following day. An exhausting process, truth be told, from the moment Ernesto walked in with armfuls of clothes asking for help.

They are now down to the last five suits and he has yet to make any decision other than ‘don’t bother the cat’. He finally sighs, and Héctor knows he’s about to lose a bet just a moment before he turns.

“I have nothing to wear,” Ernesto finally declares, and Imelda flashes Héctor a smug grin.

Told you he’d say it.

Héctor pretends not to have seen it. “You have plenty to wear.”

“Maybe I should go naked.”

“That’s unadvisable,” Héctor says.

“I look great naked.”

“That’s debatable,” Imelda speaks up.

Ernesto pouts. “Well, if your murderous cat wasn’t sitting on the charro I was thinking of wearin-”

“Afraid of a kitten now? You can try and move her.”

“If she’s such a nice kitty, why don’t you move her for me?”

“She’s comfy where she is,” Imelda says, and glances down at the charros. “Besides, I don’t think the red one does you any favors.”

He frowns. Héctor knows very well that the red charro is one of his favorites. “No?”

“Too aggressive. You’d look better in blue,” she adds, taking a step closer. “Or the white one, but Héctor will be wearing his white one. It goes well with his guitar.”

“We could both wear white.”

Héctor laughs. “If you want us to look like we’re trying to get into a church choir,” he says. “Or as angels in the church’s Nativity play, like that time when I was six. Remember how we used ropes to make me fly? I think we did pretty well.”

Imelda raises an eyebrow. “You knocked down the star and caused it to wreck Jesus’ cradle.”

That causes Héctor’s smile to fade a bit. “Ah. You remember that.”

“I played Mary. It nearly hit me,” she reminds him. “By the way, what were you thinking?”

Héctor shifts. “... Well, I guess it seemed seemed a good idea at the time.”

“You almost gave Sister Gregoria a stroke. And thank God Jesus wasn’t a real baby.”

“See? No one was hurt and it all worked out,” Ernesto points out as he picks up the blue charro, holding it up. Imelda rolls her eyes.

“Whose idea was it, anyway?”

“Ernest--”

“Héctor’s.”

“Hey!”

“It was absolutely your idea. My ideas tend to work.”

“You were the one who said everyone would be impressed if we actually flew across the stage!”

“Well, if course they would be. Angels fly. It’s what the wings are for,” Ernesto points out, carefully hanging the charro. “But you were the one who suggested we try it with ropes.”

“Well, your idea involved a trampoline hidden off stage! And-- and I didn’t see you stopping me after putting the idea in my head!”

“Why should I?”

“Because you were ten and I was six, for one.”

“Didn’t make me your babysitter.”

Héctor huffs, crossing his arms. “Some amigo,” he mutters, but truth be told he’s nowhere as mad as he pretends to be.

He has very fond memories of that day, despite the unmitigated disaster; of the look on his parents’ face as they seemed torn between red-faced embarrassment and the almost inhuman effort not to burst laughing in front of the rambling nun handing them back their child, covered in sawdust from head to toe, broken makeshift wings hanging sadly from his back. They had at least made it to the car before they’d both laughed, and the lecture that had followed had been more an afterthought than anything else.

The one who couldn’t keep himself from laughing, right there and then, had been Ernesto’s father, who’d been dragged there by his wife to watch a play he clearly gave no fucks about only because their son was in it. It was surreal, really: big, foul-tempered, scary Estéban de la Cruz roaring with laughter in the midst of a stunned silence.

He hadn’t even bothered to listen to a word of what Sister Gregoria was trying to say: he’d just kept laughing, picked up his stunned son with one arm, and walked right out with tears of mirth in his eyes - followed by a wife who looked embarrassed and relieved in equal measure.

“I wasn’t even sure he knew how to laugh,” Ernesto would tell him the next day, still in a sort of stunned awe. “He kept going until we were home and then some more. I think I heard him laughing in his sleep at night.”

Entirely unaware of his fond recollections, Ernesto is talking to Imelda - ignoring Héctor as he always does when he’s absolutely, disastrously in the wrong. “So, the blue one? You sure?”

Imelda shrugs. “It’s not bad,” she concedes. “I don’t think anyone will be focusing on your clothes only, anyway.”

“... Right. I need to make sure my hair is at its best, too,” Ernesto mutters, turning to glance at his reflection in the window nearby. Imelda is rolling her eyes hard enough to make Héctor think they must be close to falling out of her eye sockets.

“I assume they will have someone to fix you up before the interview.”

“Well, true,” Ernesto concedes. “At least they won’t have to work too much on me. I already look good.”

Imelda rolls her eyes. “Now that you’ve picked the outfit--”

“I need to pick the shoes.”

“No you don’t. I made you a pair.”

“You-- what?”

“She made us shoes for the occasion,” Héctor explains, a wide dumb grin spreading on his face. He hadn’t suspected a thing, because Imelda already had their measurements and didn’t need to ask for them again, and he’d believed her explanation of having orders to catch up when he’d noticed her working longer hours than usual in the past couple of weeks. She’d surprised him the previous day, and now it was Ernesto’s turn to be surprised.

As expected, he blinks at Imelda, entirely taken aback. “Ah. I… gracias,” he mutters, sounding somewhat awkward. It’s how he sounded when Héctor’s father gifted him a moño charro for his birthday - one he’d spent mostly at their place.

Imelda smiles. “Don’t thank me yet, we need to make sure they fit,” she says, like there is any chance at all she might have gotten the measures wrong. She might have mentioned something on how weirdly small Ernesto’s feet are, but now she spares his ego and doesn’t bring it up. As she steps out of the room - followed by Pepita, who seems to have decided Ernesto’s red charro is not comfortable enough - Héctor’s grin widens.

“Isn’t she amazing?”

Ernesto doesn’t reply, but neither does he scoff as Héctor expected him to. He turns to see his best friend brushing a hand across the charro he’ll wear tomorrow, slowly.

“... Maybe my parents will see the interview tomorrow,” he says, very quietly.

Oh.

It’s a possibility Héctor hadn’t thought of, but it’s far from impossible, given that by now news might have spread throughout Santa Cecilia; it’s not often that someone from their town is on national TV, let alone two people.

“I guess they might,” he says, slowly. Ernesto’s family was always an uncomfortable subject, and one they avoided entirely since that entire fiasco with the letter. Héctor has no idea what was written on it, if Ernesto read it at all or if he destroyed it as he said he would; it doesn’t seem wise to ask.

“I hope they do,” Ernesto mutters, brow furrowing. “I hope my old man chokes on that.”

Not a word of his mother, who could barely choke out her question - “How’s Ernesto?” - without crying. There is a sudden knot in Héctor’s stomach, and he ignores it. “Well, you sure showed him.”

A moment of silence, then a shrug. “He’ll probably just switch channels. It’s your family that should be here to watch us.”

It’s a thought that has crossed Héctor’s mind several times, with every milestone - they should be here to see me - and it stings every time. As Ernesto picks something up from the bed, he makes an effort to shrug, like it hasn’t hit him as hard as it did. “Well, guess it wasn’t to be, and-- what…?’

Ernesto holds out his hand and there it is - the moño charro Héctor’s father gifted him, not long before he died. He wears it for all the important concerts, and Héctor is glad he does, but there is a tiny nagging voice in the back of its mind that sometimes reminds him that he has no gift left from his father, that their home was gutted by the explosion and fire and next to nothing could be salvaged. Other than some inheritance and a life insurance policy payout, he was only left memories and a few photos.

“I think you should wear this tomorrow.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?”

“Do you need your hearing checked? Not ideal before a musical performance on TV.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

“I’m serious, Héctor!” Ernesto exclaims, seizing his shoulders. “Look at me in the eye and tell me your hearing is fine.”

“Really no--”

“Because if it isn’t and you mess something up on national TV, I will die.”

“Hey now--”

“I will literally drop dead.”

Ay, dramatic as always. Héctor laughs, slapping his arms off him. “My hearing is fine, pendejo. I just mean-- well, it’s yours.”

“And you’ll give it back after the performance,” Ernesto mutters, pushing the the moño charro in his hands. “Come on.”

He does take it, and swallows back a lump in his throat. “... Gracias,” he murmurs. Before Ernesto can reply anything Imelda is back with the brand new shoes for them, and they let the matter drop. Still, later on - before he folds everything neatly on a chair for the next morning - Héctor stands in front of the mirror, tries it on, and stares at the reflection.

As he did in other times of his life - the day he moved to Mexico City, the day he got engaged, the moment he stood with Imelda before the altar - he tries to imagine what their parents would think of him, tries to imagine what they would say.

You did good.

We’re proud of you.

His vision goes blurry, and he reaches to wipe his eyes, but never does: Imelda’s arms are around him the next moment, her head pressing against his back, and his hand stays in mid-air. He blinks, tears fall, and then he smiles. “Te amo.”

“Lo sé,” she murmurs, and holds him a little tighter.

***

“... And you have quite a following on social media, too. What would you say is your secret?”

“My beautiful face.”

Ernesto’s quip makes Imelda roll her eyes, but her lips do curl into a smile and by the sound of it, the audience in the studio found it absolutely hilarious. The sound of laughter causes Pepita to lift her head and glance over at the TV screen, where Héctor and Ernesto are sitting on a sofa in front of the interviewer.

Héctor is a little hunched over and leaning forward, all wide grins and gangly limbs, while Ernesto is sitting back, one leg crossed easily over the other and a charming smile on his face. Laughing, Héctor elbows Ernesto in the ribs. It causes him to lift his hands.

“Just kidding, just kidding. Well, it did take quite a lot of networking, but I think music is what we really have going for us,” Ernesto says, the smile widening. He looks perfectly at ease, like he was born to be on camera. By looking at him now, it’s hard to guess how many sleepless nights he spent checking the hit count for their songs on Spotify, planning streaming events and networking with the nebulous bunch of people he refers to as ‘people who matter’. “It’s what it’s all about, our greatest passion, and I think that speaks to people.”

“And what good music it is,” the presenter says. “Here’s footage of your latest performance…”

The footage is shown, the interview continues, and Imelda finds herself frowning slightly. It’s going well, but she can’t help but notice that Ernesto is the one talking most of the time, with Héctor only replying to questions directed specifically at him. He can be as much as a charmer as Ernesto if he wishes, in his own cheeky way, but it’s obvious he’s leaving much of the spotlight to Ernesto.

And that… irks her. Not too much, because she knows Héctor cares very little for the fame and always happily left that aspect to Ernesto, but something still gnaws. They should come across as more of a team, not Wonderful Ernesto with a side dish of Héctor.

“Héctor writes all of their songs,” she tells Pepita, polishing the pair of shoes she just finished while still staring at the TV, Ernesto’s face filling the screen. He’s babbling something about believing in a dream and seizing his moment. “Should at least mention that.”

But Héctor looks happy and, well, her gaze pauses on the moño charro he is wearing. It was… nice of Ernesto to let him wear it for the occasion, and the pang of annoyance grows neglectable. Still there, but neglectable - and it helps that, when they move on to discuss the upcoming album, Ernesto does finally acknowledge Héctor’s role as the songwriter.

“So, will there be any songs that no one has heard yet?”

They share a glance, grinning. “Well, our agent said we can’t speak of such details,” Ernesto says, pride obvious on his face as he mentions they have an agent now. “But you never know with Héctor. I’ve had him waking up in the middle of the night during a hotel stay screaming before he grabbed a bunch of napkins, wrote a song on them, and passed out again.”

More laughter, including Imelda’s own, and Héctor slaps his arm. “It was one time,” he protests, but Imelda knows very well it happened at least on three occasions. By the time the interview ends and they prepare to play on stage for the audience, the earlier annoyance is gone.

“What song are we going to hear?” the presenter asks, and Héctor grins, picking up his guitar.

“Un Poco Loco,” he says, and glances at the camera. “I wrote it for my wife.”

Ay, mi amor.

It makes Imelda a little sorry that she’s not there in the studio - she was offered to come, but had too many orders to catch up with - but then again, she thinks, it doesn’t matter.

They will see plenty of each other that evening.

***

“... Then we had another bottle, I think Armando was moments away from rolling under the table by the time--”

“The counter on Spotify is going crazy!”

“That’s great, ‘Nesto. Anyway, it went really well-- I mean, you saw us, so you know it, but… it went really well.”

“You did wonderfully,” Imelda says, smiling back at him. Sitting at the desk before his laptop, Héctor wishes he could reach through the screen to kiss her just now. They will be back in Mexico City late the next morning, and it feels like an unbearable long time. “Now get your idiot friend to drop his phone.”

“Sure,” Héctor says lightly, and turns to glance at Ernesto over his shoulder. He’s pacing back and forth across their hotel room, eyes fixed on the screen of his cell phone. “Imelda says you should drop the pho--”

Thud.

As the phone falls on the ground, the rubber guard on it the only thing that keeps its screen from shattering, Héctor recoils. On the screen of his laptop, Imelda blinks.

“... I didn’t mean you should literally drop--”

“We’re trending on Twitter,” Ernesto announces, immediately picking up the phone again. He stares at the screen a few more moments, as if to double-check, then his expression breaks in a wide smile. “We’re trending on Twitter!” he repeats, like it’s the ultimate seal of approval, and leans in to kiss Héctor.

It feels good, deep and thorough and tasting like the tequila they both had, but it lasts too little. Just when Héctor is about to reach down for Ernesto’s belt and give Imelda something really fun to watch, his friend pulls back and holds up his phone again. “All right, just a quick photo for Instagram, okay? Smile at the cam--”

Oh no, not now. Héctor grabs his jacket and yanks his head back down into another kiss. “Forget about that,” he says, pulling back to grin and his widened eyes. “Best if this stays a private spectacle.”

“I’m recording, by the way,” Imelda speaks up. Both turn to the screen to see she’s resting her chin in her hand, looking awfully pleased, eyes half-lidded. “Feel free to go ahead.”

“Really no--”

“There may or may not be a surprise for you once you undress him.”

There is a sound that is part a scoff, part a laugh and part a groan, and then Ernesto is kissing him again, pulling him up on his feet, reaching to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“I want a copy,” he mutters against Héctor’s throat, only to get a sharp order out of Imelda.

“Then get on the bed,” she says, sounding all the world like a movie director, except for the curl of her lips and the glint in her eyes. “With him on your lap.”

Until not too long ago, Ernesto would have argued, snapping something on how he took no orders - but now, he clearly is beyond that. They’re on the bed the next moment, and good thing the laptop is already angled so that Imelda gets the full view. Héctor glances down at Ernesto’s flushed face and grins as Imelda speaks again.

“Undress.”

“Going to enjoy the spectacle?” Ernesto asks, but he does do so without tearing his gaze from Héctor. He reaches to unbutton his jacket just as Héctor goes to unbutton his, fingers fumbling.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not tired of performing yet,” Imelda says, amusement in her voice and something else that is well on the way to turn into arousal. And, well, Héctor’s duty as her husband is to help along, isn’t it?

With a smirk, Héctor leans in to undo Ernesto’s tie with his mouth, pushing the jacket off his shoulders before he pulls back with it still in his mouth. Their eyes meet, and Ernesto smiles back, slightly out of breath… and the reason why is obvious, already poking his thigh through his trousers. Best to take care of tha--

“Get his trousers off, Héctor,” Imelda’s voice comes again from the screen, soft as velvet.

Well, great minds do think alike.

He drops the tie and slides down, until he’s kneeling between Ernesto’s legs. He glances up, grins, and takes the zipper in his teeth, pulling it down slowly and relieving some of the fabric’s pressure on his cock - which is fully hard at this point. He nuzzles it a moment, and Imelda speaks before he can pull down the underwear with his teeth as well.

“Get up.”

Imelda’s voice is like the crack of a whip but oh, is her breathing fast. Héctor glances towards the laptop to see she’s leaning against the backrest, lips parted and skin flushed. One hand is reaching beneath her blouse and the other is nowhere on screen, but he has a pretty good idea of where it is.

“Sí,” he rasps, and stands. Ernesto stays on the bed a few more moments, panting, until Imelda speaks again and he recoils.

“Both of you. Come closer.”

They do, Ernesto almost stumbling over the trousers that have fallen around his ankles. Pushing off his jacket and getting the shirt off him takes little, leaving him down to his underwear. Ernesto steps out of his trousers and kisses Héctor’s neck, trailing down to nip at his collarbone. As he does, Héctor looks over his head towards Imelda.

She’s almost a vision like this, with her blouse open and a breast exposed, a nipple visible through her kneading fingers. Her lips are parted, pupils blown open, and by now she probably has several fingers in her. He smiles, breathless, and she smiles back before mouthing, ‘turn’.

Ah, right-- they planned this next bit. Héctor turns, unbuckling his belt and offering Ernesto his back. Within moments he’s pushing the shirt and jacket off him, kissing his neck and reaching into his trousers-- then he stills, and Héctor holds back a laugh.

“Wha-- is that lace?”

From the screen, Imelda laughs. “Get his trousers off,” she almost purrs, “and find out.”

Ernesto kneels and the trousers are pushed down almost before Imelda is done speaking, Héctor loses his struggle not to laugh, glancing at Ernesto over his shoulder has he cups his ass. He’s staring at the lace underwear Imelda picked for him with wide eyes, clearly speechless. “The moment?” he mutters, confused.

“For you to seize,” Héctor and Imelda say at exactly the same time, and Ernesto’s baffled expression melts in a guwaffing laugh.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” he mutters, and yanks Héctor’s arm to make him turn to him.

He lets out a yelp, but truth be told he’s… not surprised when he sees Ernesto reaching for his tie on the bed, not really. He glances at Imelda, and she nods, licking her lips.

Let him.

He does let Ernesto tie his hands, biting his lower lips. Ernesto rolls his eyes, face flushed and really hard in his underwear. “Was the fake tattoo really necessary?”

“Who says it’s fake?”

“Your fear of needles, that’s what.”

“Oh, sure, what about yours and that time in Oaxaca--” Héctor trails off with a yelp when Ernesto tightens the knot just a little too much.

“We’re not discussing that now,” he snarls, and physically throws him face down onto the bed.

“Hey now--” Héctor begins, starting to lift himself up on his elbows - but suddenly Ernesto’s hands are back on his ass, his mouth his brushing over it through the lace, and he finds he doesn’t really want to protest. A glance at the screen confirms that Imelda is very much enjoying the scene, too, and that settles it: Héctor drops his head back on the mattress, and lets Ernesto do as he will.

And what he does is tease an awful lot, all small kisses and nuzzling as though Héctor’s cock isn’t hard as stone and straining against the lingerie. He lets out a low whine, trying to buckle his hips, pressing his ass more firmly against Ernesto’s lips and warm, warm hands. He feels him smile against his skin just as Imelda lets out a hum.

“Well, are you going to seize your moment, or not?”

A growl, and the lingerie is pulled down roughly, the brush against his erection almost making Héctor cry out. Through half-lidded eyes, he can see Imelda leaning closer to the screen. Her skin is flushed, some hair sticking to her sweaty forehead.

“Now get yours off.”

Again, no protest or retort: Ernesto’s hands fly to do just that. A bit too quickly, really, because at the first attempt the elastic band of his boxers slips from his fumbling fingers and hits his skin again in a resounding smack, followed by a less than dignified yelp and laughter from both Héctor and Imelda. “Nice grito,” he compliments him.

“Pretend it’s from me,” Imelda adds.

“Very funny,” Ernesto grumbles, and takes off his boxers, letting it drop on the ground. With a chuckle, Imelda waits a moment - wait, is she having a drink? Was that glass there all along? - before leaning back. One of her hands is still off camera and very likely in her own underwear, if she has any on at all.

“Sit back on the bed,” she instructs, and turns her gaze to Héctor, who feels a shiver going down his spine. “And you get on his lap.”

He does and, before long, everything is drowned out by pleasure as he straddles Ernesto’s legs, bound arms over his neck, thrusting his hips up into his friend’s fist - against his cock, it’s such a tight fit, so warm and hard and he can feel every vein and twitch, every grumble in Ernesto’s chest and the puffs of breath against his face. He could come from just this, but oh, when Imelda orders Ernesto to turn him around, lube up and fuck him, Héctor nearly sobs with relief.

“Fuck-- fuck, fuck--” Ernesto groans against the nape of his neck, canting up his hips to push into him deeper, stroking him at the same steady rhythm. Through a veil of tears, he can see Imelda panting, too, head tilted back and mouth open as both of her hands disappear under her skirt. Their gazed meet, she smiles, and he smiles back breathlessly - so lost in the moment that he’s entirely lost track of time, and it doesn’t matter at all.

He could keep this up for his entire life, and he’d die without a single regret.

***

[Back to Part 11]

[On to Part 13]

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #coco #mind the gap

11 notes · View notes

hannahindie · 7 years ago

Text

In the End

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam, Chuck (narrator) Word Count: 4,111 (My hands slipped...whoops) Warnings: Blood, description of injury, being trapped, foul language A/N: I wrote this for @mamaredd123‘s 100 quotes challenge! I had a lot of fun writing Chuck, and his quote is in bold within the fic. Congratulations, mama!

Beta’d by my lovely @pinknerdpanda! “ I'm shook. SHOOK i tell ya! Love this part.”

As usual, tags are at the bottom! If you would like to be tagged, please let me know.

Overview: Chuck decides to tell the story of the reader and how important she is to Dean. Meanwhile, the reader takes off on her own without telling Dean where she was going and bites off more than she can chew.

Endings are hard…but you know, I’m getting ahead of myself. I should really start at the beginning. Not the beginning beginning...that would take far too long, and honestly it has nothing to do with now. What we’re talking about is the beginning of Y/N and the Winchesters. Out of all the relationships they have developed over the years, the one they had with her was one of the most important. They had gone through a lot together; they had lost so much, and almost lost each other, but they always, always prevailed. Of course, being God I’ve had a front row seat to most of it but today...today I’m going to stick with Y/N. It’s important to stick around for the beginning and the ending to a story.

Dust. The smell of rotten wood. Damp earth. Y/N couldn’t remember where she was, the last fuzzy memory she had was of being somewhere well lit, wind blowing through open windows and smooth leather under her fingertips.

The Impala. The last place she remembered was being in the backseat of the Impala on her way...to...somewhere. That memory seemed far away though, and didn't explain why she was where she was now.

The next thing she noticed was pain; blinding, fiery pain that swept through her torso and into what felt like every bone in her right side. She shifted slightly, biting back a scream as even the smallest movement sent agony coursing through her. She dug her fingers into the cool, soft dirt she was laying on as she attempted to calm herself down enough to inventory all the injuries she had.

She took a deep breath, her eyes still shut, and slowly moved one hand up and towards the main source of pain. She noticed that everything seemed fine as she ran her hand from her upper thigh to her hip, but as she traveled towards her rib cage, her hand brushed against a sharp, splintery shard of wood. As soon as she made contact with it, she screamed. If she thought it hurt before, nothing compared to the white hot agony that streaked through her ribs and into her chest. She took another deep breath and tried to brace herself for what she was about to see.

She lifted her head as much as she could without jostling herself any more than necessary and slowly opened her eyes. A large chunk of wood, about a foot long and four inches wide, had gone through her side and under her ribs. A quick check told her that it also protruded slightly out of her back, and she groaned as she dropped her head back onto the ground. She'd been in some pretty bad situations, but she was pretty sure this took the cake. She wondered if Sam and Dean even knew where she was. She closed her eyes and tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to come.

How the hell did she even get here?

By all accounts, had Y/N had a normal life growing up, she probably wouldn't have found herself here. Not saying she would have had a white picket fence kind of life, but she probably wouldn't have found herself in a dark cellar, impaled on a piece of wood while running from a vampire.

But she didn't. She grew up traveling the country with her parents, much like the Winchesters, and had been lovingly deposited at both Bobby’s and Pastor Jim’s on various occasions. It was during one of those instances that Y/N met Sam and Dean.

They did not get along.

They would not get along for much of their younger lives; Y/N and Sam were fine but her and Dean...they butted heads constantly. One time they fought so hard, Bobby had to take a water hose to them to make them stop. Later, he'd had to use the hose on them for a completely different reason that I don't want to go into detail about. Let's just say, they started to get along.

The long and short of it was that, no matter how long it had been, when Y/N and Dean saw each other again, they always fell back in step as though no time had passed. Which was why, when her parents died in a car accident (a heck of a way for hunters to go out. Sometimes I like to cut ‘em some slack), Y/N had looked for Dean and Sam, which in turn...brought us here.

Despite the pain in her side and the overwhelming urge to just lay on the cool ground, Y/N forced herself to roll to her uninjured side and onto her hands and knees. Her stomach roiled and threatened to rebel against her as she struggled to keep her balance. Her vision began to fade around the edges and she prayed that she wouldn’t pass out; all she needed was to land on the piece of wood just the wrong way. After a moment, the feeling passed and she chanced a quick glance around the room to see if she could use anything to stand up. There was a thick wooden beam to her left that still seemed fairly stable, so she slowly crawled across the dirt floor, grimacing as small pieces of stone and broken glass dug into her palms and knees.

She took a deep breath, gripped the beam as tightly as she could, and slowly pulled herself up from the ground, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood as she bit back another scream. Once she was standing upright, she leaned against the rough wood, ignoring the splinters dimpling the soft flesh of her cheek, and struggled to catch her breath. Bits and pieces of how she got here were starting to come back to her, and she realized that she’d rather just deal with the task at hand than deal with the idiotic decision that led her here. She dug her hand around in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Though the screen was cracked, everything else seemed to be in working order, so she turned the flashlight on and risked taking another look at her side. From this angle it was hard to see much because her flannel was in the way, but she could still see where the wooden shard came out on both sides. There wasn’t as much blood as she would have thought there’d be, but she knew that the wood was probably keeping most of it in. “I’m not a doctor...but that looks pretty bad, kiddo. Like, ‘You’ve got some internal bleeding that’s going to get exponentially worse when you pull that out’ bad,” she thought to herself.

She flipped the phone back around and checked her signal. Nothing. Not even a single bar that would give her the slightest chance to get in touch with Dean and Sam. She looked around the dark, damp space and located where she had apparently gone wrong. The remains of what used to be a staircase clung precariously just below the door she had ran through, but was too high up for her to easily reach it. She swept her gaze across the small room and noticed a small window about eight feet off the ground. Not too high, but in her current condition, it would take some work to get to.

There was a large desk and a few small crates she could use to get to it, but she realized that none of it would matter if she didn't get the wooden shard out of her side. She wasn't sure what was more dangerous; leaving it there and catching it on something while she was moving stuff around or pulling it out and possibly bleeding out where she stood. It was time to make a decision, and Y/N was pretty sure it would be a lose/lose situation.

When Y/N finally found the Winchesters again, it had been during a time of her life when she’d felt the most alone. Her parents were gone, Bobby was gone, Pastor Jim was gone...but she heard rumors that Sam and Dean were still roaming around, and had decided to follow the whispers. Her boys...she’d been desperate to find them, and the moment she first saw Dean again, her heart had nearly jumped in her throat. He was still her Dean...sunkissed and freckled, his green eyes bright in the afternoon light. But there was something different about him, a hard edge that wasn’t there before; an exhaustion that had been nothing but a mere shadow when they were younger. She had wanted to reach out and smooth the worry lines from his forehead and kiss the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was Dean, as handsome as ever and even more of a smart ass, but he also seemed infinitely older. It was as if the weight of the world was literally on his shoulders.

I guess in a way it was. I can't say I was ever gentle with the Winchesters, and it showed. ...I need to make a note to apologize to them for that...anyway, Y/N coming back to them had been the best thing that could have happened to either of them, especially Dean. Why she'd left to start with had become fuzzy for both of them. It didn't really matter anymore, and the important thing was that they were together. The three of them were inseparable yet again, and Y/N had come to realize just how much she loved and needed Dean.

Dean had taken more convincing. Don't misunderstand, it wasn't that Dean didn't love Y/N. No, no, it wasn't that at all. It was that Dean didn't think he deserved her, which is truly a classic Winchester trait.

And before you say anything, I know...I'm God, I made them that way, it's my fault. Well, until you yourself are a god, maybe keep your comments to yourself, peanut gallery.

Anyway, it took some convincing, but Y/N managed to convince Dean that he was good enough. And the rest, up until this point, was history.

As per usual, though, emotions had run wild. I don't want to jump ahead...maybe I should let Y/N explain it herself, I wasn't really paying attention to most of it.

What? Don't look at me like that, even if I can see and hear everything doesn't mean I want to.

Now, back to the story…

Y/N looked down at her side again as she contemplated how she was going to do this now that she'd decided to remove the piece of wood. She was going against her better judgement, but it had become pretty evident that she wasn't going to be able to move around well when she'd tried stepping away from the beam. Just walking was torture, and although removing a giant splinter that may or may not be holding her organs in place may have been a bad idea, if she didn't pull it out she would likely die where she was anyway.

She gently probed the wood, ever so slightly running her fingers down the length to check which way the grain was going. Pulling it out was going to hurt, but if she pulled it from the wrong direction she was going to have a whole new set of problems. The next problem she encountered was that the wood had not only gone through her side, but also her shirt. She carefully slipped both arms out of the flannel, then tore the sleeve off the side opposite the wood. She was going to have to be quick if she was going to even remotely try to staunch the blood flow once she pulled it out. She wrapped both hands around the front end of the splinter, and for a brief moment, Dean’s face flashed in front of her face. “I guess that’s what they mean by your life flashing before your eyes”, she thought to herself, then braced herself and pulled. The sound that left her was inhuman, and for an agonizingly long minute, she thought she was going to pass out. She sucked in air in hitching breaths, unable to control the sobs that were escaping her, and let the now bloody shard of wood roll out of her hands and onto the floor. She hurriedly shoved the torn shirt into the hole now in her side and let loose another almost primal scream.

“It’s okay, it’s okay...it’s out, it’s gone, now I just have to climb out of that window. It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated it like a mantra as she tore another strip off of her shirt, folded the large piece into a thick square, then tied it in place with the smaller strip. Her hands were slick with blood and it took her three tries before she was able to get it tight enough to stay. She leaned heavily against the beam and tilted her head back, her eyes shut. She shouldn’t even be here. If she had just let Dean explain himself before getting in a huff and storming off, trying to prove something she didn’t have to prove, she wouldn’t be in a dark basement, bloody and alone. She didn’t even manage to get the vampire she had gone after, and to top it off, she was pretty sure Sam and Dean didn’t know where she went.

She took a deep breath and tried to force the image of Dean out of her mind so she could concentrate on getting out of the basement. She slowly began to make her way to the desk, each step more excruciating than the last. By the time she reached it, sweat was pouring down her face and her vision was beginning to blur. A shiver passed through her as her hand traveled slowly to the soaked through makeshift bandage. With nowhere else to go, the blood had begun to drip down her side, and she grimaced at the warm, sticky tracks it left as it began to soak into the waistband of her jeans. “Dammit…” she whispered into the darkness.

She shuffled around to the far end of the desk. She would need to push it about five feet to the left and then a couple feet back to even remotely have a chance of reaching the window. She braced herself against the worn edge of the desk and pushed as hard as she could. Her still bloody hands slipped but she caught herself and pushed against the desk again. This time, it moved with a groan and she felt like cheering. She pushed again, and the desk shifted another few inches. The room began to spin, and Y/N stopped, her hands flat on the desktop, and tried to collect herself. Sweat rolled into her eye and she swore under her breath as it stung, blurring her vision more than it already was.

“Listen, God, I don't ask for a whole lot. Truthfully, I probably don’t deserve much...I cuss like a sailor, I drink too much, I have had way too many one night stands for it to be healthy, sometimes I sneak cigarettes when Sam and Dean aren’t paying attention, and let’s be real honest...the codependency between me and Dean is as bad if not worse than him and Sam. But I do some good...I help people, and I don’t really expect anything for it. I just...I need outta here, okay? Even if it’s meant for me to die, please don’t let me die alone in this basement. I can’t go out that way, okay? Help a girl out a little, just this once.”

She mustered all the strength she could and shoved one final time. The desk scraped across the floor, gouging tracks along the dirt as it went, before it hit the wall with a resounding thud. Y/N stood and looked at it with wide eyes, unsure how she got it to move that far that quickly, but decided not to question it. A quick glance at the distance between the desk and the window confirmed that it was still a little too high to reach, but she thought that if she used one of the crates, she could probably bust out the window and make it out. She turned to retrieve the crate she had seen earlier and a sharp twinge of pain doubled her over, and a fresh river of blood rushed down her side. Her knees buckled and she hit the floor with a bone rattling thud. For a moment she thought she might stay conscious, but everything began to fade to gray before her eyes rolled back and everything turned black. The last thing she felt was the cold dirt against her cheek as unconsciousness took over.

Okay, so this doesn’t look great for Y/N, and she didn’t really explain what happened with her and Dean. In the end, I guess that part doesn’t matter as much, but it is why she ended up here so….maybe we should recap.

It started with Dean not letting Y/N go with them to what they thought was the vamp nest. She had told him three separate times that he and Sam were going to go the wrong way, but every time Dean had been adamant that they were right, and that she would absolutely not be going with them. As if that hadn’t been bad enough, when they’d come home empty handed and irritable, Dean had insisted they all go to the bar. Sam had told Y/N that they had heard one of the newer vampires hung out at that bar, and they figured they could get some information. It turned out that the vampire that they were looking for was a female, and that instead of just letting Sam handle it, Dean had waltzed over and laid on the Winchester charm.

Y/N had stormed out, and on the way back to the hotel, had had an epiphany. She knew where the nest was. And without giving Sam time to catch up with her, she’d hotwired a car and took off in the direction she believed their nest to be in. She’d been ignoring their calls and text messages the rest of the evening, and Dean had become furious. Sam had insisted they go after her, but in a moment of very un-Dean like behavior, Dean had refused. And Sam, against his better judgement, had stayed back with his brother. But as time passed and minutes turned into hours, Dean’s anger turned into worry.

“Track her phone,” Dean had demanded.

“What?” Sam had looked up from his computer where he was researching locations the vampires could be holed up in confusion.

“Track her damn phone, Sammy.”

So Sam did. And when the coordinates for her location also matched the coordinates that Sam had found for an abandoned house that had been in the center of several murder scenes, Dean’s stomach had dropped. He hadn't listened to her and his mistake had put her in danger.

“I'm sorry, Dean, I don't know how I missed this-”

“It doesn't matter now. Get your ass to the car,” he had grumbled and Sam had scrambled after him.

And this is where Y/N’s fate was in the air. Sam and Dean had broken multiple traffic laws to get to the house. Now it was just a matter of if they had arrived on time.

A groan slipped from Y/N as she began to stir. The sound of footsteps echoing to her left threw her into a panic, but she didn't have the energy to do more than shift slightly away from the sound.

“Y/N! Where are you?” She lifted her head at the sound of Sam’s voice, excitement replacing her anxiety. They'd found her. She tried to answer, but she was so tired. She let her head drop back to the ground and waited for him to get closer. “Y/N! Are you down there-oh shit!” The footsteps stopped abruptly as Sam slid to a halt at the top of the collapsed steps. “Dean, the stairs are gone!”

“Do you see her?” Dean's voice, though further away, resonated in Y/N’s ears. He'd come for her. She made a mental note to thank the man for his perseverance.

“No...but...Jesus, there's a lot of blood down there, Dean.”

Y/N looked up towards the door and saw Sam and Dean standing next to each other in the open doorway.

“That's a big drop, Sam. How are we going to get down there?”

“I don't know. Looks like there might be a window over there. Do you think she's here?”

“I don't know...but if that's her blood, she's in trouble. We've gotta get down there.” Dean leaned out over the broken landing to see if he could make the jump down without hurting himself. The remains of the staircase made it too dangerous for him to try and he cursed under his breath. “We’re going to have go outside and break that window to get in.”

Y/N felt the panic begin to spread through her again at the thought of Dean leaving her, even for a moment. “Dean!” She attempted to shout, but it came out a hoarse croak. “Dean!”

“Dude, did you hear that?” Dean squinted into the darkness.

“No...what?”

“Shhh! Listen…”

“Dean! Sam!” It was quiet, but Dean recognized the voice.

“She's down there! Y/N, we’re coming! We have to go in through the window, okay? I'll be right there, hold on!”

Y/N felt a tear roll down her cheek as Sam and Dean’s footsteps slowly faded as they ran to go around to the basement window. She wasn't sure if it was because she was relieved they were there, because she'd lost sight of Dean, or if it was from the pain that had taken over every other sense. She was so tired.

She rolled her head to the side and saw two large shadows cross in front of it and smiled. Dean had found her. Everything else seemed so silly now.

“Y/N, we’re coming, sweetheart, hang in there! We just have to bust in this window.”

“Okay…” she whispered, and let her eyes slip shut slowly. She heard a dull thud and Dean’s muffled son of a bitch, and couldn't help but chuckle. If she could just hang on a few more minutes, she'd be fine. Dean was going to save her. She heard another thud and looked back up at the window.

“Sam, why is it not breaking?!”

“I don't know! Maybe they used safety glass instead of regular glass.”

“Why the fuck would someone do that in a normal, run of the mill house?”

“I don't freaking know!”

Y/N frowned as the window began to get fuzzy, and she noticed how cold she was. Dean should have been inside by now. Her eyelids slipped shut, and the last thing she heard was the delicate tinkling sound of glass as it shattered, pieces of it raining down on the desk below.

Well, that's it.

That's the end.

What's that?

Oh, you want to know what happened? Now see, I told you when this started that I was sticking with Y/N, and her part of the story is done.

Come on, don't be upset with me. No doubt - endings are hard. But then again… nothing ever really ends, does it?

Listen, the point of this story was not about how it ended, not really. It was more about how life with the Winchesters seemed to welcome this...you could say…”destructive chaos”. Especially when you're an important part of their lives. The more important you are, the closer to the storm…or whatever. But it's not their fault.

Wait, no, don't you go pointing fingers at me. I didn't have a choice. With great power comes great responsibility.

...Is that from Spider-Man? Doesn't really matter since I'm the reason Spider-Man exists anyway, so...there's that.

Anyway...that's it. I guess you'll have to stick around and see if Dean ever decides to tell his side of it.

….You're still here. I don't have anything else. That's it, that's the story. So unless you would like a rousing rendition of Hallelujah, I just learned it on guitar, then there's nothing else. Go. Go on. Go do whatever it is humans do, okay? Just don't murder anyone.

Forever Tags: @trexrambling @pinknerdpanda @wheresthekillswitch @emilywritesaboutdean @arryn-nyxx @emptywithout @escabell @charliebradbury1104 @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @deanssweetheart23 @canadianjelly @super-not-naturall @aubreyreadsstuff @dean-winchesters-baby @melissaj616 @fandomismyspiritanimal @keepcalmandcarryondean @assbutt-still-in-hell @owllover123 @rosie-winchester @amionthetumbler @duubaduu @hiimaprofessionalfangirl @goldenolaf25 @authoressskr @nanie5 @mrssamfuckingwinchester @zincomms @kathaswings @crazynerdandproud @barbedwireandbubblegum @sandlee44 @boxywrites @justanotherdeangirl @smalltowndivaj @captainradicalpassion

Dean Only: @lavieenlex @highonpastries @akshi8278 @valkyrieslament

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