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iamanartichoke · 3 years ago

Note

Fic prompt: If you feel like doing another hurt/comfort with Mobius, I would love a version of that end scene where Loki's freaking out but it actually is our Mobius. So Mobius listens to everything Loki has to say, and then they just kind of...take a breath, I suppose, before whatever they're going to do to fight Kang - perhaps Loki gets some tea, and/or an actual meal, a little sleep maybe (has he eaten since that cake on the train or slept since that brief nap in ep 2??), or whatever comfort-y stuff you want - I just need that sweet fic healing lmao.

@scintillatingshortgirl19 Thank you for the prompt and I hope you like it! <3

Summary: Takes place at the end of episode 6, where instead of saying "Who are you?" Mobius knows Loki and they pick up from where they left off in the void. Word Count: 1956 Author’s notes: I'm not feeling super confident with these prompts, so please don't judge me bear with me as I dust off my little writer-brain gears and try to find my footing with these new characters and characterizations.

Completed prompts.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mobius is saying, holding his hands up, but Loki can’t stop talking. The words are spilling from him; he’s tripping over them, and from the look on Mobius’s face Loki knows he’s not making sense, but still, he can’t stop.

“He’s set on war,” Loki babbles. “We need to prepare, Mobius.”

“Hang on.” When Loki pauses to take a breath, Mobius reaches out and places his hands on Loki’s shoulders. It’s almost comical, the way he needs to reach, as Loki towers over him. Yet Loki feels very small, too, and doesn’t protest the contact. “You’re speaking faster than my brain can process words. Breathe, okay? Start at the beginning.”

Loki doesn’t know when the beginning was. It could have been the moment he’d leapt up and grabbed Sylvie’s arm before she could land a fatal blow to their enemy; it could have been all those days (or months, or hours, Loki has no idea; time, for him, has completely ceased to exist) ago that he’d landed in a Midgardian desert and the TVA immediately swarmed upon him.

“You’re not understanding me.” Frustration colors Loki’s tone. “There’s no time to stop; he’s - they’re - coming.”

“You’re right, I’m not understanding you.” Mobius lets go of Loki’s shoulders and rubs the back of his neck. “I want to, but you gotta slow down and fill me in, okay?”

“Maybe we should take him somewhere,” says B-15. Loki had barely noticed her but now he steps back, his gaze flicking from her to Mobius, taking in the confusion on both of their faces.

“You don’t look so good,” B-15 adds, taking in Loki’s appearance. He must be a sight, he realizes; his hair is matted and tangled and he feels grimy, his skin caked with so much dirt and blood from injuries he doesn’t remember getting.

But, what difference does it make? Loki turns back to Mobius, desperate. “Mobius, listen to me. Sylvie and I -”

“Come on.” Mobius cuts him off. He moves in, taking one of Loki’s arms. “You can tell me everything, okay, Loki? I just need you to calm down and to come with me, preferably before you pass out. Hauling around a five hundred pound demigod wasn’t on my to-do list today.”

Loki bites back a sharp retort. He’s vaguely aware of B-15 taking his other arm, and it’s only once Loki’s shoulders slump and he allows himself to be led away from the shelves that the exhaustion hits him. He’s been running high on adrenaline for hours, and now that he’s moving slowly, supported on either side, all of that energy seems to drain from him at once. His knees buckle.

“Careful,” Mobius says. Were it not for him and B-15 holding him up, Loki is certain he would have collapsed. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on placing one foot in front of the other, not caring where they’re going. The archives, the time theater, one place is the same as another.

They move through halls that are bustling with activity, minutemen running and disembodied voices crackling over speakers. They don’t know it’s pointless, no amount of hunters in the field will matter or make a difference.

He thinks he says so, or perhaps he just imagines he does. Neither Mobius nor B-15 acknowledge him, at any rate; they only keep moving and after awhile, they arrive at the dormitories, where Loki has not been since the first day Mobius brought him here as an official TVA employee.

“Why are we here?” Loki asks, confused.

“So you can get a shower and a change of clothes,” Mobius says simply, “and then we can have some coffee and you can tell me what happened after the void.”

Loki sighs, and then nods, resisting the urge to insist that everything else could wait (until when?), because Mobius isn’t understanding the precariousness of the situation, but he knows it won’t do any good.

“Fine,” he says instead, giving up. The sooner he does what Mobius asks, the sooner Mobius will listen.

He’d not realized just how badly he needed that shower and change of clothes until he’s scrubbed the dirt and blood from his skin and allowed the hot water to beat over his sore muscles and rapidly-forming bruises. For lack of anything else to wear, he puts on a clean suit, fastening the cuffs firmly around his wrists and buttoning the collar up to his neck.

He’s sick of this outfit; he never wants to see it again but, without his magic, he has no other choice.

In the dormitory kitchen, Mobius is brewing a pot of coffee. He looks up when Loki walks in, and his mouth quirks in a half smile. “Better,” he says, “but you could still probably use some sleep and a meal.”

“Stop fussing,” Loki snaps, irritated with Mobius’s sudden desire to hover over him like a governess hovering over a petulant child who won’t eat his peas. “I hate coffee, by the way.”

“You’ve never had my coffee,” Mobius retorts, sounding unbothered. “Just sit down, okay? You still look like hell, is my point. When’s the last time anyone fussed over you, anyway?”

Loki makes a scoffing noise as he drops down into a chair at one of the small kitchen tables. “I’m sure my mother did at some point, I don’t remember.” Actually, he remembers very well that it was always his mother who looked after him when he was sick or tired or lonely, until he’d grown too old to allow himself to seek her out for comfort.

But he doesn’t want to think of his mother, who is lost to him and perhaps lost to the real Loki as well, the sacred timeline’s Loki, if enough time has progressed and Malekith has indeed run her through with a sword and left her bleeding out on the palace floor.

Loki shudders as he thinks of it, remembering the sight of his mother’s lifeless body projected onto a screen. He’d been helpless to stop it, utterly powerless, just as ultimately he’d been powerless to stop Sylvie.

His mother, dead. Sylvie, lost to him. The timeline destroyed - the end of everything. The weight of it all crashes over him; had he not already been sitting, the sheer despair of it would have brought him to his knees.

Loki drops his head into his hands instead, thinking back to Mobius’s words that first day: you were born to cause pain and suffering and death.

In retrospect, Loki knows that Mobius was merely fighting dirty, using whatever words necessary to break Loki down - the ends justify the means, and all that - but he wasn’t goddamn wrong.

How could Loki have ever believed, even for a second, that he could possibly change?

We write our own destinies now, he’d told that creepy little clock hologram, and she’d smirked, seen right through the words because they were rubbish and they both knew it.

Good luck with that.

Loki doesn’t realize he’s crying until Mobius sets down a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He lifts his head and rubs tiredly at his tear-stained cheeks, unable to meet Mobius’s gaze as Mobius sits down across from him with his own mug.

“Here,” Mobius adds, reaching into his inside blazer pocket. He pulls out a slim, red candy stick wrapped in plastic and hands that to Loki as well.

Loki stares at it. “What is this?”

“Something better than grapes or nuts,” Mobius says dryly. “It’s a Twizzler. Popular Earth candy. I’d say don’t tell anyone I’ve stashed a bunch, but …” He trails off and shrugs, glancing around at the kitchen with forced amusement. “Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

He pulls out a second Twizzler and unwraps the plastic, then bites into the candy. Loki watches him for a moment, and then imitates him. “Gross,” he says, after he’s taken a bite. It’s a very bland candy, with texture not unlike rubber. “Think I prefer grapes.”

“Well, maybe Twizzlers are an acquired taste,” says Mobius.

Loki finishes the Twizzler anyway, and then takes a sip of coffee. He does usually dislike coffee, but either he’s hungrier than he’d realized or Mobius has a gift, because this cup is actually quite good.

“Okay, now let’s go back to the beginning,” Mobius prompts, after a silence. He drums his fingertips against the table. “What happened? I’m assuming you were able to enchant the murder cloud?”

All of the words that had been spilling from Loki’s lips before, so desperate to be released, now get stuck somewhere in his throat. He wraps his hands around his mug and takes another sip of coffee, wondering idly how long it had been since he’d actually had something warm to drink. Or eat, for that matter. The train on Lamentis, perhaps. A moment ago, a lifetime ago.

“We did,” he finally says. Despite the coffee, a chill breaks out over his skin and he sets the mug down, choosing to fold his arms as if to fold into himself for warmth. “We made it past Alioth and found him - the one who’s responsible for all of this.”

Just like that, the words are no longer stuck. Loki pours out the entire story, starting from when he and Sylvie had crossed the threshold into the citadel and ending with his own tumble back through the tempad’s portal into the TVA.

But he omits the kiss, only mentioning that Sylvie had distracted him to get the upper hand. He’ll never speak of it - either that Sylvie had used his feelings for her in order to betray him, or that he’d fallen for it (of course he’d fallen for it; for a few seconds there, he’d let himself believe - but, it doesn’t matter, it wasn’t real, and there are bigger problems now).

“She closed the portal before I could get back through it,” Loki says. He notices that he’s twisting his fingers together so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. He forces himself to stop. “I can only imagine she finished the job after that because, well.” He barks a laugh that sounds, even to his own ears, broken and pathetic. He used to be so good at maintaining a cool, calm facade but it, like so many other things, had been steadily breaking apart, piece by piece. There is very little left to guard the scared little ice runt who trembles at the core.

“Look at the timeline,” he adds; he laughs again and rubs his eyes against a fresh wave of tears.

For a long time, neither of them say anything. Loki finishes his coffee and Mobius eats two more Twizzlers before another word is spoken.

“So we lost.” Mobius’s voice is hollow. “We lost before we could begin to fight.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mobius shrugs. He runs a hand over his short, gray hair before letting out a laugh of his own. “He Who Remains,” he repeats, more to himself than to Loki.

Loki allows a beat to pass. “We have to try to fix it, Mobius.” The only way to ease the weight of his guilt, Loki knows, is if he goes back and tries to make it right - or to die trying.

“How are we supposed to do that?” It’s Mobius’s turn to rub his eyes. His shoulders slump and for a moment, he looks very tired. Older. Loki studies him and wonders, fleetingly, if the real Mobius is someone’s father. “I don’t even know where to begin, Loki.”

“I might.” Loki straightens. Deep down, beneath the anguish, a seed of determination has taken hold and he focuses on that; a lifeline. “But you’ll need to trust me.”

#charlotte writes #follower celebration prompt series #loki series spoilers #loki spoilers #loki tv series spoilers #loki series positive #loki + mobius (platonic)#hurt/comfort #validatemepls #i was listening to the titanic soundtrack as i wrote this lmfao

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much-obliged-timothy · 4 years ago

Text

Got the urge to write some Devil May Cry tonight, so have a family dinner that goes about as well as you’d expect

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Nero said, for probably the millionth time that day.

Kyrie continued to hum and ignore him, checking on dinner to make sure it wasn’t burning. Nero followed her around the kitchen, silently fuming.

“Kyrie, let’s call it off,” Nero said. “Hell, it’s not like I owe the bastard a timely warning. He can find his own dinner.”

“He’s your father, Nero,” Kyrie said, which had him wincing. She gently pushed a stack of plates into his hands, folding hers over them and squeezing. “Set the table, please.”

“Kyrie-”

“It can’t hurt to try,” she said. “I wouldn’t do this if I thought you really didn’t want to. But you agreed, Nero. We can call it off if that’s what you want, but I know you. You’ve found the family you always wondered about.” She gave a small smile. “And you’ve always been too curious for your own good.”

“He cut my arm off,” Nero said, flexing the fingers of his regrown hand. “Not much of a start to the whole parenting thing. Definitely not the dad I used to dream of having. No, you and Cre-” He bit down on his lip, then pressed on, because it wasn’t right to deny Credo’s memory just because it still hurt. “You and Credo are my family.”

“And we still are,” she said, squeezing his hands again.

Nero looked into her eyes for a long moment, then let out a quiet string of curse words. He let her squeeze his hands once more before pulling them away to go set the table.

She’d suggested they have the twins over for dinner, wanting to get to know Nero’s family. She’d met Dante before, but now that she knew he was Nero’s uncle, she was even more eager to spend time with him.

And Vergil.

Nero set a plate down with too much force, relieved when it didn’t break. This whole dinner was going to be a disaster. He wished he’d never agreed to it.

But he had agreed to it. He didn’t want to think too hard on what that meant.

And Vergil had agreed to come. He definitely didn’t want to think too hard on what that meant.

So rather than think, he busied himself helping Kyrie. She’d been working hard on the meal since this afternoon, wanting everything to be perfect. His mouth dried up every time he tried to tell her how much the effort meant.

She knew what this meant to him. Or, at least, what it could mean, if things would just go right. Nero didn’t want to dash her hopes alongside his own, so he stopped pointing out how awful this was likely to turn out. At least the food would be good. Maybe he’d even make Dante a to-go dish if he helped kick Vergil out when shit hit the fan.

All too soon, there was a knock on the door. Nero went to answer it, leaving Kyrie to put the final touches on dinner.

“Smells good,” Dante said, poking his head in and sniffing as soon as the door was open enough for his head to fit through.

Nero pushed his face back. “You can’t eat it all, you mooch.”

“Who’s going to stop me?” Dante scoffed.

“Kyrie,” Nero said simply.

Dante sighed. “Yea, alright. That’ll do it.”

He stepped into the house, the movement revealing Vergil behind him. Nero couldn’t help but glare a little, though he did step aside to let Vergil in.

He couldn’t untangle his own feelings. He’d longed for a family as a child, and now here they were. But of course the crazy, power-hungry asshole that cut Nero’s arm off also had to be his damn father.

Vergil’s gaze traveled around the room, his expression revealing nothing but his usual judgment. Nero gestured to the couch.

“Have a seat. I’ll get drinks,” he said. He doubted even alcohol would lighten Vergil up, but it was worth a shot.

He fetched three beers, tossing one to Dante, one to Vergil, and popping the last for himself. He wished he’d gotten something stronger.

“Where is Kyrie?” Dante asked, lounging on the couch. Vergil was trying to shove Dante’s feet away from himself, but Dante was persistent in his role as annoying brother.

“Finishing up dinner. It’ll only be a few minutes,” Nero said. He was too anxious to sit, so he leaned against the wall, lightly drumming his fingers on his beer.

That few minutes turned out to be Dante carrying on a full conversation almost by himself. Nero jumped in a few times, but Vergil never spoke.

“It’s ready!” Kyrie called, saving them from the whole thing carrying over into awkward territory.

Dante hopped off the couch, making sure to kick Vergil in the leg as he did so. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Nero said.

“Even more reason to pick up the pace, kid,” Dante said, shooing him in the direction Kyrie’s voice had come from.

Nero led them to the table, where delicious looking food was laid out for them. Kyrie smiled, kind and welcoming as always. Only the way she twisted her hands together gave away that she was feeling any of the anxiety Nero did.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. If this failed...Shit. He didn’t want it to, but he knew it would hurt him. And Kyrie knew that, too.

“Take a seat wherever,” Nero said, claiming his usual seat. Kyrie sat next to him, pressing her leg to his. He’d survive, even if this whole dinner went to hell; he could make it through any hell with her support. But that irritating flicker of hope was hard to douse.

“Looks delicious,” Dante informed Kyrie as he began to pile his plate. “I’m coming here more often.”

“You’re welcome any time, Dante,” Kyrie said.

“Please don’t tell him that,” Nero said. “She didn’t mean it. You’re not welcome any time.”

Kyrie ignored him. “As are you, Vergil. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Kyrie.”

Vergil was eyeing her with the same judgmental expression he’d had when he came into the house. Nero wondered if he’d been born with that expression on his face.

Finally, Vergil spoke. As soon as the words left his mouth, Nero wished the asshole had just stayed quiet the whole night.

“You don’t look like you can fight,” he said.

“I can’t,” Kyrie said, patient, unbothered. “I don’t want to.”

Vergil scoffed quietly. “Then you don’t belong in Nero’s world.”

“You couldn’t even let me eat before you go getting us kicked out?” Dante said in exasperation.

“If Nero plans to continue fighting, then she doesn’t belong with him,” Vergil said, as if it was the most obvious statement in the world. “She becomes a liability.”

“I’m sorry you think that,” Kyrie said.

“You don’t owe him an apology for his own shitty thoughts,” Nero said, temper lashing to the surface.

But Kyrie rested a hand on his thigh, shaking her head. “No, Nero. I mean it. I am sorry he thinks that. I feel bad for him.” She met Vergil’s eyes, unflinching under his cool gaze. “Who loves you, Vergil? Who grounds you? Who worries for you when you go running into all your fights?”

His eyes narrowed further. He didn’t answer. Nero doubted he could.

Kyrie nodded, like she’d expected the silent hostility. “Nero has that. When the world comes apart under his feet, I’m there to grab his hand and hold him up until he can find steady ground again. When he goes into battle, I pray for his safe return. If he comes home injured, I tend to him. When he can’t love himself, I love him. Maybe he didn’t have parents growing up. But he never went a day unloved since I met him.”

“And when an enemy captures you and he has to risk himself to save you? Will your love and support be enough then?” Vergil mocked.

“It was enough before,” Nero said, resting his hand over hers. “You fight for power. I fight for the people I love. And I’m the one who kicked your ass.”

Dante let out a sharp whistle. “He’s got you there, Verg.”

“It’s foolish human sappiness,” Vergil said, shaking his head. “She puts him at risk. It’s as simple as that. Someone who doesn’t want to learn how to fight is a weak point for a warrior like Nero.”

“It’s a damn shame Kyrie worked so hard on this meal just for me to punch you in the face and throw your ass out of my house before you try any of it,” Nero said, slamming his hands on the table and standing up. “You don’t-”

Kyrie tugged him back into his chair. “What he was going to say, is that you don’t get to come in here and decide anything about our relationship. Establish your own with Nero before you go judging the two of us. Part of me hates you, Vergil. The part of me that found Nero bleeding to death with his arm ripped off? I don’t know if it can ever forgive you for that. But I’m trying, for his sake. Maybe I can’t run around stabbing demons all day. But don’t you come into my home and tell me I’m weak. You should be grateful I have the strength to bite my tongue and try to give you a fresh start.”

They stared each other down for a tense moment. Finally, Vergil reached out and scooped food onto his plate.

“I will not waste my time arguing this. Nero can live with the consequences when they inevitably catch up to him,” he said.

He fell silent again for dinner as Kyrie carried on a conversation with Dante, trying to urge Nero and Vergil into it. Vergil resisted expertly, but Nero allowed himself to be part of it.

When they were done eating, Vergil stacked the dirty dishes and pushed them off to Dante, who found himself being sweetly pressured by Kyrie to help wash them. No doubt hoping to be invited back for another meal, he complied.

But it left Nero and Vergil alone at the table. Nero considered getting up to go help just to escape Vergil, but then decided there was no use in being cowardly now. He’d never been afraid to piss people off before. Might as well not start with his father.

“You ever come in my house and talk badly about her again, you better take a damn good look around on your way out, because you won’t ever step foot in here again,” Nero warned.

“She’s as stubborn as you, that’s for sure,” he grumbled.

Nero opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. Some part of him thought that it might have even been a compliment.

His anger dissipated just enough for him to think over the argument. Had Vergil been...concerned?

Nero leaned back in his chair. “Some things are worth the risk. I’d give my life for hers.”

Vergil was silent for a long moment before saying, “Then you take after your grandmother.”

Nero opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just closed it and nodded, too stunned to know how to reply to that.

His grandmother. A woman who died to protect those she loved. Whose death set Vergil on the path for the search for power, because he’d been too helpless to protect his family when they were under attack.

When Kyrie and Dante returned, they seemed to expect tension or an outright fight between father and son. Instead, Nero and Vergil sat in an almost companionable silence, their drinks almost finished.

Nero got up to see the twins to the door, Kyrie following him. He took her hand in his, their fingers sliding together with a familiar ease. He allowed his thumb to trace a pattern over her smooth skin, her hand soft against his rough, calloused one.

“Thanks for the meal, kid,” Dante said. “Ah, guess I should be thanking Kyrie, actually. I doubt Nero cooked.”

“He helped,” Kyrie said, smiling. “Thank you for coming. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“Hey, I never say no to free food,” Dante assured.

“Next time, I’ll buy something stronger than beer,” Nero said.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Vergil said, turning his back on them and leaving out the door.

Dante clapped Nero on the shoulder. “Think you’re winning your old man over. And if you’re not, Kyrie sure is. Catch you later.”

Nero shut the door once he was out. “He’ll...come again. That was his way of saying he would.”

“Is that a good thing?” Kyrie asked, voice soft.

“I think it could be.” Vergil had suffered the loss of his mother. Maybe he was an asshole about it, but Nero thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to see his son suffer a similar fate. “He’s a dick. But there might actually be something like a heart in that chest.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know if a man like that remembers what it means to love someone. But I think he remembers what it’s like to care.”

Nero held her close. She looked up at him, her smile easing the anxiety he’d felt all night.

“Maybe he just needs a reminder,” she said.

He kissed her head. “I’ll help cook next time. I think I’m actually gettin’ the hang of it now.”

They stood there together, holding each other in the aftermath of a night that had turned out better than Nero could’ve hoped for. He’d try with Vergil. Vergil might suck at it, but he was trying in his own way. Nero could try to.

And even if he failed, he’d always have Kyrie.

#devil may cry #Nero Sparda #Vergil Sparda #Dante Sparda #dmc kyrie #dmc nero #dmc vergil #dmc dante #DMC #devil may cry fanfiction #My writing

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hauntedfalcon · 3 years ago

Text

living in midnight

for day four of Nile Freeman Week: "Nile & Struggle" plus a fantasy AU in which superheroes exist, Nile isn't one of them, and she doesn't let that stop her. 1700 words, rated M for swearing. content warning for wounds and needles because it's Nile's turn for sapphic patching up, as a treat

the title is from Lianne La Havas’s “Midnight”. many thanks to @flightsofwonder for beta reading <3

read on AO3 or below

Nile opens her eyes to see an unfamiliar ceiling. There is an unfamiliar pillow under her head, and she is recumbent on an unfamiliar sofa. Above it is a window, where streetlights reflect in the sinuous trails of raindrops.

Rain. Knives. Three attackers. She fought like hell, might have broken someone’s arm, but they landed one good hit. They left her for dead in an alley. She watched her own blood run into a puddle.

She bolts upright--and hisses when a wave of agony breaks over her, starting in her abdomen and shooting everywhere.

“Please don’t move,” says a softly accented voice. “You’re safe here. I haven’t seen your face.”

Nile collapses back down to the pillow and touches her face, just to be sure. Her mask is still in place. She drops her hand and forces one eye open, blurry with pained tears, to get a look at whoever dragged her in from the alley.

A white woman. Dark shoulder-length hair. Youngish, maybe Nile’s age. Dressed all in black, much like her--not for stealth but for soft goth vibes. Cute, if she’s honest, but this isn’t the fucking singles bar, get it together Freeman.

“I staunched the bleeding,” her rescuer says, “but I was waiting until you were conscious to do the stitches.”

“Do we have to?” Nile groans before she can stop herself.

A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I’m afraid so. Would you like some fortitude?” The amateur surgeon holds out a bottle of Everclear.

Ugh. Nile takes the cap off and drinks deep, leaving enough in the bottle to sterilize whatever needs to be sterilized. It tastes like ass and lingers at the back of her throat.

Before the alcohol can set in and obliterate her senses, she says, “Can I borrow your phone?”

The woman hesitates. Very wise of her.

“Listen,” Nile says. “We had two leads come in at the same time. Al-Tayyib took one and I took the other, and mine was a decoy, which means...” She can’t, won’t, say it aloud. She hates how feeble she sounds. “I just have to check in with him. Please.”

The woman hands her a smartphone, unlocked. Nile hits the keycode to make the call anonymous, then dials Joe’s shitty flip phone from memory. He keeps it on silent when he’s on the rounds, and he’ll only answer if he’s safe.

Pick up, she wills him, because if she has to hear his stupid cheerful voicemail greeting now of all times, she’s going to scream right in front of this poor woman who didn’t ask for any of this drama in her life. Pick up, pick up, pick--

“Pronto.”

Nile’s gut tightens (painfully, but that’s not what matters right now) at the sound of another unfamiliar voice. The assassin. Joe walked into a trap.

“Where is he?” she demands, trying to sound hard and not like she’s lying on a stranger’s couch with an open wound.

A gust in the speaker. Is he laughing at her? She strains to hear anything that would give away their location: traffic, a clock tower, machinery, anything. There’s nothing else. No hint of Joe yelling in the background, either.

“I will return him to you presently,” says the asshole. Very formal.

“What, after you shank him like your goons did to me?”

“They were instructed not to kill you,” he says in a voice that wouldn’t fog a window in January. “Did you die?”

White-hot rage flares out of her with no place to go. “Where is he, you son of a--” But he has already hung up on her.

Nile resists the urge to growl. If this was her phone she would throw it against the wall. Instead she quickly deletes the record of the outgoing call, and hands the phone back to the woman, who pockets it. “Thank you,” she says tightly.

“I’m sorry to say so,” says the woman as she holds the tip of a curved needle in a candle flame, “but you are in no condition to save anyone right now.”

She blows out a sigh in answer. When she pulls the hem of her shirt up and peels away the medical tape and bandage pad, she discovers that the woman is absolutely right. This isn’t the worst Nile has been hurt and still fought, but it is pretty bad.

And it’s one thing to trash a gang of traffickers while she’s actively bleeding. It’s something totally different to track down a guy who has been three steps ahead of them this whole time, and seems to have removed his sense of morals with an ice cream scoop.

There’s only one thing left to do: say a silent prayer. The way she learned to pray feels insufficiently casual for the circumstances; she wishes she knew more about the format of the rakat. All she remembers is, “God hears the one who praises him,” so she starts on the Lord’s Prayer because praise comes before petition.

In place of, “Give us this day our daily bread,” she substitutes, “Get Joe out of this with his head,” and then she has to hold back a giggle at the rhyme. She must have lost a lot of blood.

The woman wipes the needle down with Everclear. “You know, I met the old Guardian too.”

Nile eyes her carefully. She won’t say Andy’s name in this woman’s presence. She won’t say Joe’s name either, much less her own. She won’t slip no matter how much blood she’s lost or how strong the alcohol is or how fundamentally good and trustworthy this woman seems or how much this is going to hurt. “Not under the same conditions,” she presumes.

“Very similar,” the woman says with another fleeting smile. “I hope she’s well?”

“She’s good,” Nile hastens to reassure her. “She retired.” And she left Nile her nom de guerre and all the weight that went with it.

“I’m glad she made it that long.”

“Probably thanks to you,” Nile says, and she gets a longer smile for it.

Then the needle bites into her skin and Nile whimpers softly and throws an arm over her eyes. She’s hard. She’s tough. This is what she does.

The woman’s gloved hand pinches the wound closed as she stitches. She works quickly, professionally. “I’m really glad you found me,” Nile manages. “I can’t exactly go to a hospital.”

“I think you would be surprised,” the woman says. “You are well loved in this city. People would protect your identity.”

That’s not it. Nile can’t go to hospital because there’s a chance her mom would be on shift, and the only thing worse than keeping her alter ego secret from her mom is the idea that she would find out because Nile came in on a gurney. She can’t do that to her.

A tug, as she ties the thread off, and then a snip of the shears. Nile lifts her head and looks down at a slightly puckered, neatly stitched, no longer bleeding knife wound.

Her laugh sounds brittle, just this side of hysterical. The woman glances at her. “I have work tomorrow,” Nile says weakly.

The woman tapes a fresh bandage over the wound. “Me too.”

No rest for the righteous. “The struggle is real, huh? Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“I will call in if you do,” the woman offers.

But going into the office in the morning might be the soonest opportunity to make sure Joe is okay. Nile pulls her shirt down and zips her bomber jacket over it. “I should go.”

The woman sets one hand on Nile’s arm. “Please stay. You shouldn’t be out alone tonight.”

“They might have been watching when you brought me inside,” Nile warns.

“Then I will need your protection, won’t I?” the woman says without blinking, as if she’s not the one that just saved Nile’s whole life.

Nile cracks an incredulous smile but the woman just gazes at her solemnly.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Okay, I’ll stay. Thank you. And I’m sorry for bleeding on your couch.”

It’s not enough, but the woman just sets about cleaning up her supplies. Nile settles back against the pillow and wills her muscles to unclench.

“May I ask,” the woman asks as she washes her hands, “why you do this? You don’t have superpowers.”

No, and none of the people who do have taken this city under their protection. Flippant, lazy answers parade through Nile’s mind, because she’s not in a charitable mood. Anger issues. No one else is gonna do it. I’m a giant masochist, actually.

But when she opens her mouth, the first thing that comes out is Andy’s answer, from when Nile asked her years ago. “Because there are people worth fighting for.”

Then Joe’s answer: “People who won’t get justice any other way.”

And, finally, one that’s all hers. “I have a responsibility. This is my city”

She’s going to pass out any minute, but beneath her fatigue there’s still a live coal of the feelings that made her put this mask on in the first place. This is her damn city. She spends so much time in the guts of its shitty justice system, and the rest of the time punching assholes, that she sometimes forgets her city is full of ordinary, decent people. Good people. People who will bring someone in from the rain. People like…

“What’s your name?” Nile asks, and then catches herself. “I can’t--give you mine. Sorry. It might be safer if I don’t know yours.”

“Celeste,” says the woman.

Good people like Celeste. How comforting that is.

Her pain is down to an ache instead of a burn, and her eyes drift closed. In the morning, she’ll be out of Celeste’s hair. She’ll shower at her apartment, carefully, and she’ll go into Legal Aid, and Joe will be there, a little banged up but alive. He’ll hug her, quick and tight, and they’ll loiter by the coffee maker and speak in low voices and sort out their next play. And when the work day is over, they’ll go with Andy and Quỳnh down to Booker’s for drinks and darts, and Nile will order a bouquet of flowers sent to Celeste’s apartment in thanks. Everything, for given quantities of everything, will be fine.

Confident in her safety, secure in her purpose, Nile rests.

#The Old Guard #Nile Freeman #nileweek2021

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ssa-sugar-tits · 4 years ago

Text

queen of hearts // chapter four

summary: y/n y/l/n was crushed when she found out about maeve donovan. heartbroken, she left her entire life behind. what happens when she becomes the most prolific serial killer the bau has ever seen?

prologue + series masterlist & taglist

content warnings: swearing, angst, implied/mentioned sex, restraints, blood, head injury, kidnap/hostage, alcohol, gunshot, murder

a/n: reader is a psychotic murderer. this is purely a work of fiction and if you or someone you know are experiencing homicidal urges, seek professional help immediately.

The room was filled with tension and an overwhelming sense of despair but no one said a word. No more hellish arguing, no irritatingly random facts, not even discussion to solve the case. Everyone worked on their angle of the case and despite the fact that no one would dare admit it, they all somewhat hoped that Y/N wouldn't be caught. Some hoped more than others but deep down they all felt a twinge of it. JJ walked into the room and spoke, startling the team and ripping them away from their thoughts and guilt.

"I've given a picture of her to the media, it's being circulated."

It pained her-- almost physically-- to have to hand over a picture of someone who'd been like family for so many goddamn years. She felt that she was betraying Y/N and that made her feel indescribably horrible.

"Now what? We just wait?" Morgan seemed to be the only one that really did want to stop her. Maybe he was angry that he hadn't seen the signs. Maybe he was angry that his best friend had just... left. Maybe he was angry that she lost herself so much. Maybe he blamed himself.

"What else is there to do Derek? Call me bad at my job- Hell, call all of us bad at our jobs but we can't profile her. Admit it, we're all biased. Too biased to think straight but there's no way we can give this case to another unit." Emily had always been so close to Y/N and was able to open up to her. Something she couldn't bring herself to do with most people. But you weren't most people, were you? Even with what Y/N could be doing, Emily doesn't have it in her to hate her. The sadness she was feeling must have shown because JJ squeezed Emily's hand and gave her a weak smile. And for the millionth fucking time, everyone stayed silent. Not even Spencer was saying anything and he is not the type to stay quiet this long. Believe it or not, that was actually one of the things Y/N had loved about him. Everyone rolled their eyes or cut him off but she loved to listen to him ramble. To everyone's surprise, she was always genuinely interested in what he had to say and that was one of the first things that made him fall in love with her. She never invalidated him or called him strange. Sometimes when she had a nightmare or experienced anxiety she'd even ask him talk to her about a random topic so she could focus on his voice until she calmed down.

"Your voice is like... honey. In my ears." Spencer wanted to scream with emotional torture building up as he remembered how she'd laughed when she said that and how he'd had smiled at her with nothing but adoration and love.

"That seems unsanitary Y/N."

"You're such a smartass."

"Am I?"

"Definitely. But it's ok. I love that about you. I love you."

"I love you too."

She'd planted a sweet kiss on his lips before laying her head on his lap and listening to the rest of his topic rant. Still basking in the memory of Y/N, a sharp pain entered his hand and he realized he'd dug his crescent nails into the palm of his hand. And in that moment, he couldn't help but think about how much he'd love to be holding her hand right now.

"Guys!"

They all turned to Garcia, the source of the exclaim, who was walking in with Hotch.

"A bartender downtown says he just saw a woman matching Y/N's description leave with another man."

"She's chosen another victim? Here?" Rossi asked with confusion written on his face. "Up until now she's only killed 2 people per state and knowing the BAU has been called in, why is she staying here?"

JJ stepped in,

"This place is special to her, she has history here. Y/N must have an endgame but what is it?"

"The profile says she'll take as many people as she can with her. Probably suicide by cop."

Derek had accepted the situation. So why did that hurt to say?

"Rossi will go to the bar and talk to witnesses. Reid and Prentiss, stay here with Garcia. JJ and Morgan, PD is surveilling the radius around the bar and setting up roadblocks, come with me to help them."

"There's no way I'm staying here." Spencer objected.

Stay here and do nothing? Like hell.

"Neither am I, what the hell Hotch?"

"Reid, Prentiss that's an order. You're not going."

They both started to argue again but Hotch had already left. JJ and Derek followed and Rossi stood up with to leave for the bar. Apologetic looks were shot at Spencer and Emily because they all know why they have to stay behind. They're the two closest to her, the two that wouldn't be able to keep their emotions from affecting them on the field. And with that, off they all went.

Y/N's POV

The second you get to his hotel room, your lips crash against the handsome stranger. Your next victim. He pushes you against the wall and you moan loudly. His hands roam your body and you pull back.

"Hey... Go lie on the bed and wait for me."

Panting and staring at you with lust, he complies. Of course he does.

For God's sake. This man doesn't even know your name.

To be fair, Spence didn't even know Maeve's last name. And he still chose her.

You walk over to the eager man on the bed. Your hot breath on his neck, you lean close and whisper to him.

"We're going to do things my way."

He moans and you fight the urge to roll your eyes at him in disgust.

"Yes ma'am."

Taking out a rope, you tie him up and you know he thinks you're just a kinky slut. That's what they all see, isnt it? Suddenly something roars inside of you. Forgetting your usual routine, you pick up the lamp on the bedside table and smash it against him. Crimson stains the bed and you drop it, shocked by yourself. Yes, you've done worse. But it isn't the act that's sending regret and nausea through your body, it's that you're devolving. You're losing control.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Starting to panic, you take the unconscious man and check for a pulse. He's still alive.

Giving him a shower (much to your disdain) and change of clothes, you put his arm over your shoulder and walk out of the room giggling as you pass one of the housekeepers.

"Baby, you're such a lightweight! Let's get you out of here."

The housekeeper barely gives you a second glace but when she enters the room of the man you've taken, she starts to scream and you know you're running out of time.

Run. Drag him. Just hurry the hell up.

Finally at his car, you take him to the small studio you own downtown. No one can find you here. It's been yours for nearly a decade and you aren't stupid enough to have told anyone about it or put it under your name. Granted, you'd never thought you'd have to use it to hide out from the feds, it's still useful. After taking a look at the brightly colored wall in your basement, you feel a sense of sudden pain race through your veins. You used to be normal. You used to have a life.

The man is chained up, gagged, and bleeding but you can't even remember doing anything to him. What you need is numbness. They thought the other bodies were bad? Wait til they fucking see what you do with him. Pain shoots through your skull again and you wince and fall to the ground.

"Fuck. I- I need a drink." you stammer to no one in particular but yourself.

A wig and sunglasses make you look different enough from the woman being circulated to take the bus to a nearby gas station. Walking down the liquor aisle of the store, you hum a song to yourself and let the AC blow on your skin. Vision blurred, you bite your lip and taste the unmistakable strong metallic taste of your own blood. Still humming that fucking song. The song you'd danced to with Spencer in your living room before you'd made love for the first time.

"You cannot be serious!"

"Y/N! I can't dance."

"Oh come on. How bad can you be? Seriously, the songs going to end and it'll be too late."

"Yes, that's what I'm hoping for."

"Psh. Don't tell me Doctor Reid is scared to sway around a little."

"Shut up."

"Make me." you laughed.

With one playful look, you dared him to shut you up in the most passionate, sensual way he could. But instead he put his warm hands on your hips and swayed to the song. You melted into his touch and your breaths synced as you laid your head on his chest. His heart beat was steady and calming. One hand reached for yours and intertwined before twirling you and pulling you back in to dance. He'd held you until it was over and brought your chin up to his face. The kiss was so intense, so loving. He tilted his head and pulled you tighter to get as close as he could to you. His tongue met yours and your mouths bathed in each other's taste. Running a hand through your hair, you'd started to unbutton his shirt. He'd been taken aback at first but then picked you up and placed you in the bedroom ever so softly. Placing gentle kisses all over each other's bodies and undressing for the other, you made raw, breathtaking love for the first of many times.

"Hey lady! Get out of the way!"

"W-What?..." You tremble and realize you're crying on the floor of the aisle.

"I said get out of the damn way, some of us got places to be."

The man is clearly batshit drunk. Probably here to buy his next fix. Shaking and letting yourself actually feel your emotions, you stand and use the wall to balance yourself. The man that yelled at you curses to himself as his phone rings and he picks it up.

"Hell do you want? Thought you were still mad about Andrea."

Andrea? Mad about Andrea. Another cheater. Another liar. Right? It has to be.

Before you can process what you're doing-- how irrational it is-- the gunshot rings through the store and everyone turns to see the man before you on the ground, screaming and spitting blood. A mix of a laugh and a sob escapes you and you scream.

"Everyone on the fucking ground! If I see any cellphones, I'll shoot you just like this dickhead. Got it?"

Frightened people drop to the ground and you start to yell, incoherent bullshit again. You smash the freezer glass behind you and open an expensive bottle of bourbon.

You practically whimper having to take deep gasps in between words, but in a somehow still confident, fearless tone.

"Now let's have some fucking fun."

But what you didn't know was that the cashier in the front had sent a text 5 minutes earlier.

Call 911! The girl from the news, the Queen of Hearts. She's in the store.

What you didn't know was that the woman that recieved the text had called immediately.

911, what's your emergency?

What you didn't know was that the BAU was on their way.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x you #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction

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aellynera · 4 years ago

Text

Accidental Anniversary (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

ACCIDENTAL ANNIVERSARY

💜💘 Happy Valentine’s Fic Exchange, @samrockweil 💘💜

I am your Valentine’s elf (or maybe cupid?) It was an absolute blast writing this for you!! At first I couldn’t decide which guy to write for, but Llewyn spoke to me and I ran with it and I hope you love it even half as half as much as I did writing it. Happy reading and happy beeps!

Also, huge thanks to @sergeantkane for putting this fic exchange together! Love you Clarke!

Word Count: around 8k oops look i had a whole MONTH okay i’m not sorry

Summary: You meet Llewyn Davis one night at the Gaslight, and soon find out that the universe has an odd sense of humor and an even weirder sense of timing.

Warnings: A few curses. Nothing else, it’s 99.999999999% fluffy fluff.

March 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a whiskey, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as your boss flips the power on.

You’ve been working there for a couple weeks, a side job to help make your rent and keep you busy on the weekends. It’s not a terrible gig, most of the time; the patrons are pleasant enough, the performers hit or miss, and Pappi, your boss, is okayish, so long as you can mostly steer clear of him.

You begin to wipe down part of the bar while the next performer sets up on the small, dingy stage. You haven’t seen him before, but whispers from the stools at the counter hint he’s semi-popular around these parts. You quirk an eyebrow; he certainly is easy on the eyes, at least.

From the minute he takes the stage, your focus is ninety percent on him (you do need a little brain power to do your job, after all) and you find that he is also very easy on the ears. Dark curls, dark beard, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a surprisingly bright voice singing lovely songs. He finishes his set, comes off the stage, and sidles up to the bar. You hand him the requested bourbon with a soft smile.

And the next thing you know, Pappi is on the ground and this stranger is holding his hand, wincing, flexing his fingers. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “What--”

“Jesus Christ, Llewyn,” Pappi groans from the floor. “I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, doubt that,” this Llewyn person mutters under his breath, taking a seat on the stool closest to him. “Can I bother you for some ice?”

You keep a wary eye on him, and on Pappi as he gets up and wanders to the other side of the room like nothing happened, and wrap some ice cubes in a towel and hand it to him. “You decked him.”

He scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “You hear what he said about you?”

Well, no, you hadn’t actually, but having heard what Pappi has said about others in the club over the past two weeks, you can imagine. “I can handle him,” you say archly.

“I’m sure you can,” a huff of air escapes his lips, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He turns around to look at Pappi, who just glares and shakes his head. The man in front of you flips your boss off.

You refill his glass without him asking and stick out your hand, telling him your name.

He shakes it and says, “Llewyn Davis” with a sheepish smile.

April 14

Llewyn shuffles down the sidewalk towards the Gaslight, really only noticing the early spring chill that hangs in the air. It’s early, before noon, but he wants to run through his set before the night’s performance and the early hour is convenient for him to be able to do so in peace.

He’s about a block away when a sound distracts him. A voice is singing, pure and sweet - if a tiny bit off-key - and if he didn’t know any better - and he certainly does, at least most times - he would call it angelic. No, not angelic. An actual angel. That’s what it sounds like.

Llewyn stops and looks up at an open window on the third floor. He can make out the vague outline of a figure inside, but he’s unable to see any details. But that voice. A few minutes pass as he just listens, staring up at the window, thinking about calling up to get the attention of the mysterious singer. But he doesn’t, and he just stands and listens, until he finds his feet starting to carry him on to his usual destination.

Three steps into his walk, he realizes he knows the song. It’s one of his songs. Part of him can’t believe it, and the rest of him wants to offer pitch correction. Three more steps into his walk, and his face makes very solid, very resounding contact with the light pole on the corner.

“God dammit,” he shouts.

A few seconds later, the window on the third floor slides open and a head pokes out. “Oh my god. Llewyn?”

Llewyn looks up and groans inwardly as he recognizes your face from that last gig at the Gaslight. “Hey,” he waves awkwardly, leaning on the pole.

“Are you bleeding?” you call down to him.

He reaches up near his eyebrow and realizes he is, in fact, bleeding. Quite a bit, honestly. Before he can answer, you call back down, “Come up the fire escape to the side window!” The window drops shut and he can hear another slide open.

So Llewyn Davis climbs the fire escape steps and meets you at your side window, a first aid kit in your hands as you motion for him to sit. He does and you start to patch up his wound.

“You should be more careful,” you mutter as you worked, stopping briefly to look him right in the eyes.

He holds your gaze. “Sorry, I was...distracted.”

“Mmm,” you return. You fold a gauze pad and hand it to him. “Hold this on that cut. I’m going to get you some ice.” You turn to walk to your kitchen.

He mumbles his thanks and leans his head back against the fire escape railing.

May 14

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and although Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, he takes up a spot at the end of the bar and thanks you as you pass him a drink.

“How have you been?” you ask. You’d seen him a few times over the past couple weeks, here and there in the Village, but it’s been several days. You found Llewyn’s company quite enjoyable. You’d talked a bit and even shared lunch once at the diner a couple blocks away.

His lips turn up, a shy smile lighting his face. He opens his mouth to respond, when another voice breaks in.

“He’s been an asshole.”

Llewyn’s head ships around and you follow his gaze. A slender woman with long, straight brown hair and piercing eyes stands about ten feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Neither of them says anything for a beat, Llewyn turns away from her, and then she’s on him, daggers flying from her lips, going on and on about assholes and responsibility and electrical tape.

Llewyn keeps his eyes down, the bottom of his glass suddenly staring back at him. “Jesus Christ, Jean.”

You bite your lip as you glance between them. You have no idea who this woman - this Jean - is, but it’s clear she is not a fan of Llewyn Davis. In three seconds flat you decide you do not like her either.

“Is there something you needed?” you break in.

Her eyes flare at Llewyn, then at you, then bore into the back of Llewyn’s head. You resist the urge to literally toss a glass of whiskey in her direction.

“I need Llewyn to stop being an asshole,” she seethes. Llewyn rolls his eyes.

You arch an eyebrow and the words are on your tongue - I need you to back off, you crazy weird bit-- you bite your tongue just hard enough to make your mouth behave. Fortunately, she’s distracted by someone else calling her name and her attention drifts to the stage. With a final mutter of “asshole” and a rude hand gesture, she flounces off.

You point over Llewyn’s shoulder. “Um, what was that?”

He snorts. “A night of bad decisions and a lifetime of regret.” A pause. “It’s...a long story.”

You watch as she adjusts the microphone center stage. “Good lord, is she a singer? Tell me she’s not going to just smile and sing after...whatever that was.”

“Yeah. Well,” he offers by way of explanation and doesn’t say anything else. It’s almost like this woman sucked all the fight out of him and you feel your heart give a little twinge.

You toss the rag in the sink and take his glass. “Do you wanna get out of here?” The air around you has a weird vibe now, and you felt a sudden impulse to get out and take this man - your friend - with you, away from this...whatever she was, somewhere safe.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, a grateful glimmer passing through his dark eyes.

“There’s a great cafe down the block.”

“But don’t you have to...you know...work?”

You look around and shrug. “It’s dead in here, and Bobby can handle it,” you hook your thumb at a co-worker behind the bar. “And if Pappi says anything, I know someone who can set him straight.”

Llewyn’s eyes glint and his lips turn up in a real, honest smile this time. “So, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

June 14

The summer - or very last days of spring, technically - is starting to get hot and your open windows are doing the bare minimum to alleviate the warmth. Of course, the third glass of wine you’re drinking probably isn’t helping things either.

Whatever. It’s your day off.

Shoes kicked off, jeans rolled up above your ankles, feet up on the arm of the couch, a record on the turntable and your glass of red as the dusk slowly melts into dark. The night is tranquil and relaxing and perfect. It has been a shitty week, and all you want is to ignore the outside world and do exactly this.

The shrill ring of your phone bursts that bubble..

You close your eyes and tilt your head back on the couch. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away. The phone stops ringing. Deciding to take no further chances, you switch off the ringer, completely, then sigh happily, settling yourself on the couch and sipping your wine.

Perfect.

A resounding, repeated thump echoes through the room. You bit back a shriek. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away - lightning can strike twice, right? It was extremely rude of people to just call you and knock when all you wanted was--

“Hey, are you home?” a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Suddenly alert and somehow much less annoyed, you spring up and cross to your front door. Yanking it open, you find a very disheveled Llewyn Davis on the other side. He doesn’t seem to notice right away that the door was now open, and you had to jump back as his hand, raised to pound on the door again, almost knocks you in the head instead.

You take a deep breath. You catch a waft like the mat under the taps after a long night at the bar.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” You take him by the arm and drag him inside, appraising him quickly. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his curls an absolute mess, and there’s a dark mark under his left eye and a split in his lip. He looks terrible, smells just as bad, but suddenly all your desire for a quiet, no-other-humans night evaporates. “And did you get in a fight?”

“...yes?”

You sigh and point to the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ll make some coffee, and then you’re getting a shower..”

“You’re incredible,” he slurs, smiling, “And you’re so…I tried t’call you, from th’phone on the corner but you dinnt answer. An’ then I realized, hey, I’m on your corner, so decided t’come up and see you. You’re pretty.”

You take him by the elbow and lead him to the couch, only stumbling twice and managing to catch him as he sways, precariously, once. “Uh huh,” you bite your lip to hide a smile. “Sounds like you’ve had a fun night. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” He flops down on the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

By the time you make the promised pot of coffee and get back to the living room, Llewyn is snoring, still face down in the throw pillow. Turning off the music and the lights, you cover him with a blanket and take your glass of wine to your room.

July 14

Ring, ring, ring.

You’d remembered to turn the ringer back on three days after Llewyn slept it off on your couch, but your phone hadn’t actually rung again until just over half an hour ago, and honestly you weren’t sure if that was a blessing or if it was just sad.

You are sure, however, that the sheer desperation in the voice on the other end when you answered is the reason you’re on this train to Queens. Are you doing anything, Llewyn had asked, because I could really, really use some help right now. Please, I’m begging you. And now the echo of your phone ringing just, well, rings in your ears.

The train screeches to a halt and you exit, making your way to the given address. You knock on the door of a smallish, nondescript row house and it swings open almost immediately, revealing a very disheveled, slightly panicked looking Llewyn.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes and grabs you by the arm, dragging you inside.

“Llewyn? What is going on?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says. He’s completely serious.

You’re preparing yourself for blood, broken bones, water damage, collapsed ceilings, possible dismemberment, anything, really, that could explain your friend’s current frazzled condition. What you get is completely, unexpectedly, not anything like that.

There are about ten kids, all around ten years old, running around in the living room, which is also full of balloons and streamers. One giant pinata, shaped like a baseball glove and bat, hangs from the light fixture. To Llewyn’s credit, it is kind of...chaotic, but it’s far from a disaster and you can barely contain the guffaw that escapes your lungs.

“Whose birthday?” you grin at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s not funny.”

You consider this and try to straighten your lips. Nope, not working. “It’s a little funny.”

Llewyn smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and my sister forgot some party thing and made a run to the store. I was stayin’ here last night and she just decided, oh, Llewyn can watch the kids, and she was gone.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?”

“She should be back by now,” his eyes look slightly panicked.

“Maybe she had to go to a couple stores? Maybe she just got delayed by transit?”

“I can’t do…” Llewyn gestures around weakly, shaking his head. “This.”

“Llewyn, they’re kids. They can’t be more than what, ten years old? Just blindfold them and let them whack at the pinata.”

“You’re the people person. I can’t...can you help me, please,” he turns to look at you. Directly at you. You’re fairly certain his eyes cannot get any bigger or shine more pleadingly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Let’s go wrangle some kids.”

The panic slides from his face and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head in his thanks.

And when one kid takes a wild swing at that tacky papier-mache sports equipment, misses completely, and lands a clean hit on Llewyn’s thigh, neither of you talk about it.

You just get him an ice pack.

August 14

“I’m making lasagna. Come over for dinner.”

You worked early that day, and said this to Llewyn as you left the Gaslight for the day. He isn’t playing tonight, and he’s really just here to stay out of the sun, and as much as he doesn’t like to push his luck with others’ hospitality, he has to admit that a home-cooked meal does sound incredible.

He has a feeling your invitation was partly due to Jean showing up, ready to do unnecessary verbal battle because she just can’t let it go, and you’d asked to both deflect her and keep yourself from actual physical battle. But whatever.

So he finds himself at your front door a couple hours later, a bottle of cheapish red wine in hand and an odd tingle in his chest. He dismisses it offhand; he’s probably just hungry.

You open the door and Llewyn’s nose is assaulted by the smell of homemade sauce - he’s half Italian, he knows these things - and cheese and garlic. You smile brightly at him. Yeah, he’s definitely hungry.

“Hey! Come in, it’s almost ready.”

He hands you the bottle. “Brought wine.”

“Excellent,” you lead him to the kitchen table and motion to a seat. He settles himself into it and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table as you grab two wine glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a mouthful of carbs.

The timer dings and you pull the lasagna out of the oven. “No occasion. I just felt like making this and I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“Lucky for you I like to eat,” he chuckles.

Your face suddenly feels warmer. Well, you did just pull a piping hot casserole dish out of the oven, so that does make sense, you suppose. You turn and put the lasagna on the trivet in the middle of the table, then turn and grab two regular glasses for water. There is an outlandish, metallic ka-chunk-ing noise as you turn on the tap, and suddenly water is shooting from under the sink and halfway across the room.

Llewyn jumps up and dives at the faucet, a chunk of bread clutched between his teeth, at the same time you crawl halfway under the sink to try and shut the water off. The stream blasts you in the face and you sputter.

This is not how you imagined tonight. Blasted ancient, rickety building. You make a mental note to have words with the super tomorrow.

You finally get the water shut off, and Llewyn closes the tap and sinks down onto the wet floor next to you. You lean against the cabinets and try to wipe the water out of your eyes.

Llewyn fares a little better; he’s only wet from his waist down. Your head thumps back on the soaked particle board behind you and you turn your head towards him. For a long moment he looks back at you, then rips the butt off the hunk of baguette in his mouth and passes it to you.

You snort. He bites his lip.

“Sorry, I think dinner might be a bit late,” you deadpan, eyes still on him, and take a bite of bread.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “It’s okay. Lasagna is always better the next day.”

Llewyn has to admit, though, it’s still pretty good a couple hours later, after you’re both dry and the lake in the kitchen is mopped up and you settle on the couch with your plates.

And if you use the water glasses for the wine, well, neither of you mentions it.

September 14

It’s pleasantly warm today, the heat of late August dragging itself into the beginning of September, and you find yourself in Washington Square Park, on a checkered blanket, a basket in the middle and a guitar by your feet. Pigeons wander and plot to steal food, but it’s easy enough to shoo them away.

It takes a little convincing, early that morning, to get Llewyn to agree to join you. It didn’t, really; he’s quickly become one of your best friends, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, he just likes to tease you.

But he does accept, and you eat some of the bread and cheese you packed and drink the iced tea you brought, and you get out a container of fruit salad and package of cookies your down-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, made for you that morning.

“For you and your lovely man,” she’d said as she knocked on your door. You feel the warmth in the tips of your ears and you certainly see the color rise in Llewyn’s embarrassed face, but you don’t have the heart to correct her. She’s such a sweet old lady.

Llewyn plays a song or two while you enjoy your lunch, and even asks if you want to hear a new song he’s been working on, which you are more than happy to agree to.

It’s such a pleasant afternoon.

Until a small, brownish-gray blur jumps onto the blanket and grabs a chunk of bread and darts further onto the lawn.

“What the hell!’ Llewyn shouts as you yelp in surprise. The squirrel, for its part, just stops fifty feet away and turns back with a triumphant gaze, then scoots off into the bushes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

He starts to make a comment about the nerve of the wildlife, but you’re not really listening. Your eyes are fixed on the path the squirrel just ran and you tug on Llewyn’s sleeve. He keeps muttering and you tug harder.

“Llewyn.”

He finally looks up and follows your finger. There’s a flock - an honest-to-god flock, not that he has any real idea on the technical makeup of a flock, but there’s more than one so as far as he’s concerned, yeah, it’s a flock - of geese marching directly at the blanket.

Okay, so there’s only three of them. But they look angry.

The leader strides forward deliberately and bites at Llewyn’s shoe. Another yelp leaves your lips and he grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet. He also grabs the remainder of the bread and tosses it in the opposite direction as he takes off running towards the fountain, dragging you behind him.

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“No idea,” he replies. The leader falls for the bread feint, but his loyal minions do not, and they follow behind you, quacking and honking and flapping and Llewyn isn’t sure but he may dislike geese even more than he dislikes pigeons.

He jumps up on the edge of the fountain and pulls you into a protective embrace as the beasts close in. Only Llewyn doesn’t account for, you know, physics, and the force of your bodies colliding sends you both straight into the water.

Spluttering, you try to wipe the water out of your eyes. Llewyn is doing the same when a loud HONK startles you both. The leader is back, flanked by his friends, and they’re all staring at you.

“Um, Llewyn?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“...don’t geese like, love the water?”

His eyes flick to you, then the winged monsters, then you again, then the fountain like he’s seeing it for the first time and all he can do is mutter, “Shit!” and grab your hand as he pulls you to your feet and takes off running again.

You manage to swing by and gather the leavings of your picnic, blanket and basket tucked under your arms and his precious guitar clutched to him, as you beeline out of the park, soaking wet and laughing.

October 14

Llewyn slides the key into the lock and turns it, an odd flutter rolling up his spine as he hears the bolt click open. He’s had a key to your apartment for almost two months now. You gave it to him, insisted really, telling him this way he wouldn’t need to worry about finding somewhere to crash. That your couch is always open.

It still doesn’t feel real and he doesn’t always use it, but tonight he really, really doesn’t feel like making the rounds. You’ve been spending more time together recently anyway, and he feels mostly comfortable around you.

He’s greeted by the sight of you wearing a catcher’s mask and knee high rubber boots, and you’re wielding a tennis racquet. He doesn’t know what to say for a full minute.

“What are you...why are you wearing...what the hell.”

“There’s a bat,” is your whispered response.

Llewyn’s nose scrunches and he isn’t any less confused than he was a second ago. “What?”

“There’s a bat,’ you repeat. Your voice is slightly on the edge of hysteria because, well, “there is a bat. In the bathroom.”

“...okay?”

You jab your finger at the closed door. “I was just going to wash my face and brush my teeth and I went in there and it was just...in the corner, by the shelves. It was staring at me.”

He bites his lip, trying his hardest to suppress the smile tugging on his face. It isn’t working. He drops to a whisper himself and asks, “Baby, why are you whispering?”

Your head jerks towards the bathroom, and your shrug nearly sends the tennis racquet into his shoulder. “Because that’s how they...they’re...how they do the...the bat hearing thing!”

Llewyn laughs fully. He can’t help it; you’re ridiculous and his face heats a bit as he realizes it’s entirely endearing. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says, his voice sliding back to a whisper. He avoids your death glare as he makes his way to the bathroom door. “But sit tight, slugger, I’ll get rid of it.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and considers this. “Just gonna encourage it to go home? I dunno.”

Your grip tightens on the racquet. “How will that work?!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a fucking bat!” he hisses at you. “Just, make sure a window is open.” He opens the bathroom door.

Several things happen at once. Llewyn doesn’t so much open the door as he flings it wide and it slams into the wall. The bat makes a squeaky-shrieky noise (you were entirely unaware, until now, that they could even do that) and swoops out, recklessly streaking through Llewyn’s mess of curls. You make an actual shriek and fling the side window open as wide as possible. Llewyn makes a sound he can’t describe and you’re honestly not sure if it was Llewyn or the bat. The bat decides to take a few laps around the living room and you duck under the window sill just before it mercifully decides that outside is the place to be. Llewyn slams the window shut and you spring back to your feet, crash into his chest and his arms wrap around you.

Neither of you say anything, and Llewyn isn’t sure how much time passes, but he’s very aware of your hand running through his hair, and your soft words catching as you say you’re just trying to smooth out the bat damage.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll keep watch out here, make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” he jokes. “You okay?”

You finally - finally, he cheers internally - take off the catcher’s mask and nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m...good. Thanks for...thanks.”

Llewyn lets you go and takes the tennis racquet out of your hands, placing it next to the couch. He throws you a soft smile. “Just in case.”

November 14

It’s been a long night at work, a lot longer than it has any right to be and infinitely insufferable. The Gaslight is packed, patrons nearly crawling the walls and not an empty seat to be found. Drink orders stack up and you try to keep up. It’s so crazy that even Pappi doesn’t have a chance to be a smartass like usual.

Apparently it always gets like this, closer to a holiday.

Note to self - skip holidays.

There are two acts tonight. Llewyn is first, and it’s clear much of the crowd is here to catch him. It cheers you slightly, and it would certainly cheer you more if you had the time to pay more attention to him, but the constant call for whiskey and gin takes most of your focus. But for the time he’s on stage, your heart feels lighter.

Then the second act takes the stage, and Jean launches eye missiles at Llewyn from behind the microphone, and your mood sours instantly.

Yeah, it’s a very long night.

Everything is blurry for the rest of the evening, until last call mercifully rolls around and you can finally get to straightening out the mess the bar has become. You notice Llewyn still sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Don’t even say it,” you point at him sternly. “When will you stop fussing about this?” Ridiculous man. He has a key to your apartment, and still he worries that he’s an inconvenience.

You toss an orange slice at him, and he allows you a sweet grin.

Finally - finally - you’re home and Llewyn follows you inside, locking the door behind you. He heads for the couch and you head for your room, a mumbled g’night the only word that passes between you. You’re far too exhausted to deal with anything higher level.

It could be minutes or it could be hours later - your alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor and the darkish sky outside giving nothing away, and when did it start raining anyway - when a loud SPRONG and then a yelp and a THUMP from the living room jolts you awake.

It takes a few seconds to regain your senses. “Llewyn?”

“Fuck.”

You stumble out to the living room to find him half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, the quilt he normally uses tangled around his knees and ankles. He rubs a spot on his lower back and winces.

“Llewyn! What happened?” you cry.

He points to the middle cushion and you see something sticking up from the padding.

“Oh, Llewyn, jesus. I’m so sorry,” you apologize. You really do feel terrible; your couch hasn’t been in the best shape for ages, and it looks like the squeaky spring you noticed a few weeks ago finally gave up and poked it way through. And stabbed Llewyn in the back as he slept. Damn it.

“It’s...it’s fine,” he tells you, still wincing. “I can turn the other way, or sleep on the floor. Not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “Yes big deal. My couch just stabbed you, and it’s cold outside, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“S’fine. Not the first time I ended up on the floor.”

You make up your mind before you even think about it and reach your hand out to him. “Come on,” you wiggle your fingers. “Come to bed.”

Llewyn’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to protest, but your look is so firm that he relents with a soft sigh and extricates himself from the blanket. He follows you to the bedroom and asks, no less than seven times, if you’re sure this is okay and says he really has no problem sleeping on the floor. You eventually tell him to shut the hell up and get under the covers.

You both lay on your sides, facing each other, but keep a space between you. Llewyn still looks mildly uneasy but relaxes as you smile at him and the warmth of your duvet and the softness of your pillows pull him under.

“Good night again, Llewyn,” you whisper.

“Good night again,” he replies with a soft yawn.

The rain steadily patters on your window and the sky slowly lightens as morning breaks and you languidly wake, curled into Llewyn’s chest, his arms secure around you.

December 14

Snow falls lightly outside, coats the grass and sticks to Llewyn’s curls, and his breath swirls and makes curlicues in the chill winter air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and you decide to put up a tree, a real tree, and you tell him he’s going to help decorate it.

You also tell him that a bunch of your light strings have stopped working, and before you can ask him to run to the shop down the block that sells replacements, he volunteers and is out the door.

He can’t remember the last time he was anywhere with a real tree. It was usually those cheap-looking fake ones, the green plastic branches a color that would never exist naturally, if there were any tree at all.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little excited. He comes up the steps to the apartment, a bag perched in the crook of his elbow as he unlocks the door.

“So I got the lights, like you asked,” he says cheerfully, and sets the bag down on the table by the door.

“Help.” That’s...not the response he’s expecting.

It’s two weeks since the entire living room has been rearranged. The new, non-back-stabbing couch is on the opposite wall. You rearranged all your shelves, got a new armchair, and much to Llewyn’s wary delight and bewilderment, a new side table. The side table has blank sheet music and pens and there’s a guitar stand next to it and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You just smile and tell him he needs a space to be himself, whatever that means.

The newly-opened space under the window is where the tree is going. Or, should be going. Llewyn looks down at the toppled fir and sees a foot sticking out near the trunk.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Your voice answers from beneath the branches. “Can you just help get this off me, please?”

Llewyn rights the tree and turns his head to check on you. He’s more concerned about you than the tree, of course, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t take you out again so he secures it to the stand as he takes you in. Thankfully you look fine, a few needles stuck to your sweater and a tiny scratch on your cheek, but otherwise…

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re looking very festive.”

Your eyes narrow. “Go ahead and ask,” you bite out, “because I know you’re going to ask.”

“I already did ask, before I had to be your lumberjack.”

You refrain from telling him that lumberjacks fell trees, not upright them. Whatever. You motion your head to the shiny silver tinsel wrapped around your torso. You can’t use your hands, really, and you’re not sure how they got tied up in this mess, exactly, but here you are, sitting on your living room floor in a pile of pine needles, trussed like a Christmas goose in sparking silver twine.

And your best friend is laughing at you. Jerk.

“I was trying to get this around the top part, and I lost my balance. Then like an idiot I tried to catch myself on the tree, and the whole damn thing went down with me,” you sigh. “I don’t even know how the rest of this tangled mess happened.”

He does laugh now, full and rich. “I was only gone for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, can you maybe...untie me?”

“Oh! Wait, here, I got something else,” Llewyn jumps to his feet. He ignores your request and pokes around in the shopping bag.

“If it’s not chocolate, I don’t want to hear about it,” your grumbled response brings another laugh.

Llewyn’s back in front of you seconds later, holding a small white cluster above your head. The grin on his face is equally charming and infuriating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you blink at him.

“I mean, I was just gonna, y’know, hang it above the door later and let it happen, but now seems like a better time for some Christmas cheer.”

“I think you’re pretty satisfyingly cheerful right now, idiot.”

He waves the mistletoe over your heads. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

One day, maybe you’ll be able to stop sighing in his presence, but today is not that day. You sigh again, roll your eyes, and lean in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and delighting in the shade of crimson he turns in response. He clears his throat and places the mistletoe to the side.

“Now will you untie me?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

He does, and helps you get the tinsel where it’s supposed to go and you spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree and drinking hot cider.

Llewyn sings you more than one Christmas song to make up for all the teasing.

January 14

It seems like a good idea at the time. One of your friends at your actual day-to-day job offers to set you up with another coworker, and it’s been ages since you went on a date and you figure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out the answer is, a lot. A lot can go wrong. So much that you don’t even want to think about it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is no chemistry, no spark, just an hours-long recitation of how your date is god’s gift to pretty much everything under the sun and possibly also the moon. The name-drops are just the cherry on top.

Maybe your first impression isn’t wrong after all.

You trudge up to your apartment, the bag of your favorite takeout under your arm filled to nearly bursting, and get the door open. All you want to do is stuff your face and maybe take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The melody of a strumming guitar stops as you place the bag on the side table and shimmy out of your coat. The lamp in the corner is the only illumination and you tilt your head towards the armchair’s occupant. You’re surprised that he’s there, but only because he was supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Knowing he wouldn’t be around was at least...half the reason you agreed to this stupid date in the first place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?” Llewyn asks in a low voice through the dim light.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at the Gaslight tonight?” you retort, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Might have had a few too many an’ said some things. Might’ve gotten thrown out.”

“Mmm,” you appraise him. He just looks the same way you feel; ridiculously tired. Exhausted. “Might’ve told my date I had to use the restroom but… maybe didn’t mention I meant the one at my house.”

“That bad?” Despite his snort, Llewyn sounds genuinely curious.

You sigh as you flop down on the couch and hold up the takeout bag. “I’d rather not talk about it. You wanna help me eat this?”

In an instant he’s on the couch next to you and you hand him some plastic utensils and a napkin. You get up and grab two beers. For a while you just focus on eating, passing containers back and forth with occasional comments about the food. Your knees bump sometimes as you each reach for different containers or your drinks.

“So what happened?”

You stab a piece of chicken a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid idea to go on a blind date.”

“Kind of a stupid idea to go on a date at all,” Llewyn replies softly.

“What.” It’s not really a question. You definitely don’t mean it as a question and you vaguely think about throwing an egg roll at him but that would be an honest waste of decent takeout.

“I know what the problem is,” he continues in a normal voice. “It’s the fourteenth.”

You look at him with a raised brow. He has an odd look on his face and you wait a beat before asking, “Okay? And?”

Llewyn also waits a beat before replying and points at you with his fork, a green bean stabbed on the end. You lean forward and pluck it off with your teeth. He needs a moment to clear his throat before he can go on. “It’s the fourteenth,” he repeats. “Don’t know if you noticed, but...well..weird things seem to keep happening. On the fourteenth. Of every month.”

“Huh.” He’s right, now that you think about it. You stab your food again. “What do you think that means?”

Llewyn looks like he wants to say something, like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shrugs. You put the container down and lean back on the couch, swinging your feet into Llewyn’s lap.

He idly strokes your ankles as his expression grows serious. “I think it means we should not go out on any fourteenths, ever. Just to be safe.”

You poke him with your big toe. “You’re an idiot. There are things that can happen inside. There are things that have happened inside.”

A smirk creeps through his beard. “Shit, you’re right. One-a your crappy novels might fall off the shelf and crack me on the skull.” He pauses. “More run-ins with wildlife? Oh! I know. Squirrels, but this time, in the walls.”

“That’s not funny!” you try to poke him again and dissolve into giggles as he tickles your foot. Your combined laughter ricochets off the living room walls before dissipating back into silence.

This time, you’re clearing your throat before being able to continue. “It’s been a day. I’m gonna go take a hot bath.” You get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Please don’t fall asleep in the tub!” he calls after you. “Don’t forget what day it is.”

Idiot.

After your bath, you head to the bedroom and find Llewyn passed out on top of the covers. He has a key, and he stays over far more often than not nowadays, and even though he’s been told numerous times since the broken couch that it’s okay if he’d rather sleep in a bed, you don’t mind sharing, he rarely takes you up on that offer. Okay, so this is the first time since the broken couch that he’s even sort of taken up the offer.

It’s been a weird day.

You grab a quilt and curl up on the other side of the bed, pulling it over both of you and snuggling down into your pillow.

“I wonder what happens on the next fourteenth,” you yawn mutter into the darkness of the room.

You’re asleep, so you can’t notice that Llewyn isn’t, really, and he rolls to face away from you and whispers, “Yeah, me too.”

February 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a straight bourbon, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as Pappi flips the power on.

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, and he hasn’t shown up yet, which is strange.

Another thing that’s strange? This weird feeling of déjà vu. Whatever, you’ve been working more nights at the club recently, and they’re all starting to blend together.

“Your friend’s out back,” Pappi’s voice breaks into your thoughts as he sidles up to the bar and leans back on it.

“My friend?” you ask, confused.

Pappi shrugs. “Said he was a friend of yours. Dark curly hair, worn corduroy jacket, always looks tired or pissed off or both.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Wait, why is...did he get the crap kicked out of him again?”

“Nah,” Pappi shakes his head. “At least, maybe not yet. Anyway, I dunno, he just asked me to tell you he was outside. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to.” He nods his head towards the back exit and turns to tend to the bar.

Strange.

You duck your head out the door and glance up and down the alley. You see nothing except the usual debris; trash containers, the dumpster, the rusty drain pipes that run down from the gutters, weathered fire escapes. Something skitters off at the far end and disappears between the buildings. Was that a raccoon?

You snort a laugh as you recall Llewyn’s jab about wildlife run-ins. It would be something that happens, in a dark alley behind a basket house in Greenwich Village on the fourteenth of…

Oh. It is the fourteenth.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the head of the alley.

Llewyn stands there, leaning against the brick, dark curls and worn corduroy and all. He holds a single yellow rose in his hands. He looks incredibly nervous, enough to match you looking incredibly confused.

You step fully outside and the door clicks shut behind you. “Hi?”

“Uhm, this is for you,” he says, awkwardly holding the rose out. “Saw a guy selling ‘em a few blocks down, thought you might like it.”

“Thank you? But what’s the occasion?” Why is everything coming out as a question? Even that.

He bites his lip. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s the four---” Oh. Oh.

“You wanna get out of here? Have dinner with me, maybe?” Llewyn rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen him done countless times, usually when he’s thinking about something serious and… Oh.

You twirl the rose in your fingertips and don’t quite meet his eyes. “I thought you said maybe we shouldn’t go out any fourteenths.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Um, I don’t know if you also noticed, along with this whole fourteenth business, but I...I really like spending time with you, just hanging out with you, and...I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought maybe we could, y’know, have a non-weird fourteenth day of the month for a change.”

He’s rambling and it’s adorable. You hum softly. “...on Valentine’s Day.”

Llewyn’s hands twitch in his pockets. “Well...yeah. I mean, I like spending time with you, but...I also like you. So why not?”

He has a point. And really, now that one of you has said it out loud, you really can’t deny it. All the time spent together, all the shared meals and drinks and late-night talks on the couch and letting him basically move into your apartment...it’s no secret, you realize, it never really was, how close you’ve become over the past many months. How easy it is with him. How natural it is.

All the times he helped you. All the times you helped him. All the times you were together, just being.

The fourteenth of the month be damned.

You pretend to think about it for a little longer than necessary as Llewyn watches you anxiously. “Well, I do have to work, you know.”

“I already asked your boss,” he shakes his head, “and he was more than willing to agree. Something about not getting a black eye on your behalf tonight.”

Your laugh rings out into the street. “But it is the fourteenth. What if one of us gets food poisoning or chokes on dessert or something?”

“Vomit doesn’t bother me and I know the Heimlich,” he smirks. “And I’m already asking you out in a dark alley in the Village, how much weirder can it get?”

“You make a fair point, Llewyn Davis.”

He extends an elbow and a hopeful smile.

If he notices, as he brushes his lips on your knuckles as you take his offered arm, that your breath catches and your heart rate increases, he doesn’t let on.

But later that night, as he trails kisses along your jaw and down your neck and asks you what you want to do on the next fourteenth, well, Llewyn Davis definitely notices then.

~end~

#llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #valentine's fic exchange #oscar fandom fic exchange #samrockweil

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pocketramblr · 4 years ago

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Poll Results

Alright, that’s it, i’m tired of trying to sort the answers so yall just get the big list of all the free response answers to that quiz about ofa. be aware some are less safe for work than others.

memorable ones: OfA Snickerdoodle, I’d Give It To A Cat, So You Know Vore Right?, I’m in Love With Nana, Slicey Blood Oath, and Homoerotic Sword Fight

(My answer above is how I think it did happen, not how I want it to happen.) I personally think something along the lines of a Bruce Banner Jennifer Walker blood transfusion where the OFA holder doesn’t realize they’ve passed it on until later.

a tender kiss. perhaps loving. perhaps they're dying, and i already knew that they loved me, either platonically or otherwise, and we always knew that i'd be next. perhaps they tried so hard to make sure it never happened, and perhaps that tender kiss as an apology as much as it is a gift. sure sucks to be gay i guess

Peacefully? By doing the do and making it a wonderful moment of lovemaking and passing on the future.. If we're in the middle of battle you bet your freaking butt I want them to kiss me dramatically, tell me they love me, and then yeet me away as they turn back to the fight. Ow but relationship goals.

If we're not romantic because I am obsessed with the Duo Holders ship currently, blood works fine. Ingest it or have them pressing a bloody palm into a wound of mine *shrugs* Gotta pass it along somehow

Personally, I'd rather drink blood instead of hair. It feels less gross. But I'd pass it on as hair just to fuck with my successor

Hair or blood eating, but no touchy-touchy or whatever thx.

Probably a vial of blood so it’s easy and over quick

kiss 👉👈

i would like it to be blood from an already opened wound just cause it would probably less weird, ..........but knowing my luck and because irl my sister has attempted to feed me her baby teeth by shoving it to my lips and saying "eat", thats actually how i would get ofa. ( >:/ i have almost eaten at least two teeth this way because i thought she was being nice and giving me candy )

Consider: doing one of those blood oath things where you swear to be BFFs for eternity except now you also get a quirk out of it. But lbr kissing is way more romantic and you’ve made First/Second my new OTP, so I’ll stick with that for them. <3 But also, maybe to make the kiss option more romantic First thought something more along the lines of wishing he could give ~everything he has/all of himself~ to Second which counted as including his quirk, rather than specifically about giving him the power to defeat his brother?

This is going to sound gross but all ways of transferring DNA is. Just work up a sweat and have the other party drink it. It would probably be the best tasting option which is kinda a weird thing to think about. Nvm sweat doesn't contain DNA looked it up but I don't want to delete all of this so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ maybe a scraping of skin cells

Honestly the hair is probably the way I'd want to go. That or blood. Like just swallowing it.

Look, i know realistically it was probably some desparate on-the-brink-of-death "please defeat my brother" thing and oo, magic he gets the quirk. But consider. First's last fight with afo. Second is holding his bleeding body, crying. First gently cups Second's cheek and pulls him into a bloody kiss before dying. Second pulls himself together just long enough to flip off afo, barely resisting the urge to absolutely slaughter him, knowing he would lose. He finds his successor and trains him to the best of his ability, determined to not lose another person he cared for

I mean like dead skin cells probably dont work right? Except hair works so thats not true. So like you totally could lick someone to get OFA. Like could you imagine the whole holding your hand over someones mouth to shut them up but they lick you and they somehow wind up with your quirk, like crazy. What must have been the trial and error with this stuff cause they must have kept passing it inbetween each other to figure out its dna right. How long did it take for them to realize. Like you’re eating breakfast and theres a hair in your food like ew and why am i stronger now. Overall, comedic timing for getting a quirk would be hilarious.

My apprentice lays broken and bloody beneath me as I cradle them in my arms, crying on to an open wound on their face praying the power will be enough to save them

little bit of skin like a hang nail just like put it in a sandwich and dont thing about it

Put it in my coffee.

If I received it from Nana then I would love to have received it via eating her out~ though for passing it on to others I think I would just either spit into their mouths or shove a bleeding finger down their throat until they swallow and then run and get myself killed by AfO while taunting him with "I DON'T HAVE YOUR BROTHER'S QUIRK ANYMORE! SUCK MY NON-EXISTENT DICK YOU LOSER!"

knock me out and just inject the blood. if i have to actively think abt ingesting someone elses dna im gonna yeet myself into the ocean. to pass it on i'll just spit in a cup (or in their mouth) bc im not gonna make someone eat my hair nor is anyone getting my blood

who in their right mind would trust me with a power like ofa 💀afo just looks at me funny the quirk is his. im not a mc for a reason

Sexy battle where I’m the villain, and randomly the hero thinks “I wish I could save you”. Boom I punch them with bloody knuckles and the quirk passes to me. Now the hero has to teach me how to be good again. Also we fall in love.

You know, I always assumed I would head canon it as something romantic until canon proved me wrong But these options are so varied - I had to choose the most Dramatic (tm) one As for my actual answer: a gentle kiss with full consent from both parties

I will bite a holder as a sign of affection. There's probably some dead skin cells in the arm I can swallow by accident. They are used to this and sometimes we switch the quirk around for funsies.

You know, I spent like 10 minutes trying to think of something original here, but knowing my shit luck some bastard would spit in my drink or something and cast upon me the Curse of Bone Breaking and/or.... y’know..... AFO...........

okay this is gonna sound weird but. consider this i marry a very lovely women. we are in much love. we get attacked by evil people because she is a good hero but plot twist. i am secretly her nemisis. the attackers are my minions. i wanted her to protect me because i am very smol but. my comrades were too mean. she is nearly dead. "take this" she says. she kisses me and i am one for all. fuck, i say internally, but i dont tell her. she dies in my arms. i run and become vigilante and take down my once comrades. all is not well. i die unsatisfied. i eventually pass it onto a cat in an alleyway because they are the only one who is with me when i get hit with a back alley sniper

Blood or just like. skin. You could use nail clippers to take a bit off from a really fleshy area, like just under the nail. It's that easy

Spit in my food like an underpaid fast food worker.

i have long hair so that would not be ideal, but blood seems kinda...unsanitary, but i guess it would be better if i was 100% positive i wouldn't pass on some sort of disease. so if that could be ascertained then like a few drops of blood in a glass of water or something and then down the hatch, bam ofa passed on. i know other folks are probably typing some nsfw stuff but just. no. keep it in your pants y'all.

Blood transfusion First, pick a hospital Second, steal all their blood Third, have the previous user donate their blood to that hospital Fourth, get into a major accident and need a blood transfusion near the hospital you robbed Fifth, hope either OfA will only pass onto you bc your the intended recipient, or that no one else needs a blood transfusion Sixth, get the transfusion Seventh, steal all of the previous users blood back Eigth, return all the other stolen blood Ninth, get new identities, this crime leaves DNA everywhere Tenth, die of a blood clot due to incompatible blood types (optional)

okay realistically bleeding into a cut or a drop of blood into water and drinking it would be easiest but like... what if somehow dna could be baked into like a muffin or cookie or something... like i know when cooking with wines and stuff the alcohol cooks away and evaporates out but is that process the same for like blood? like if you baked your blood into a cookie would traces of your dna still be there? basically i want an ofa cookie (snickerdoodle preferably)

no i like my bones

drink a drop of blood. it'd go down easier than hair

Something dramatic and desperate in the heat of battle like blood or something

First of all, I think First passed OfA as he was dying entirely on accident, because Second was badly (though not critically) injured and they'd been sort of dancing around each other's feelings and doubting their own worth, so First, knowing he was dying and that his brother was a petty bitch who would probably kill Second anyway because he knows that First cared about him, kisses Second with blood on his lips and his last thoughts before dying are about how he wants Second to have the strength to survive if his brother comes after him.

If I was given the option of getting OfA, I wouldn't take it. I'm a coward and being given something like that is a death sentence.

If it was forced, probably ingesting the previous users blood, because blood is a lot easier to choke down than hair.

If I already had it and had to pass it on, I would want it to be something suitably dramatic like collapsing on the doorstep of a trusted loved one and explaining with my dying breath who killed me and why and then raising my blood covered hand to their face like I was going to caress their cheek only for them to taste blood. They cry and try to get me take it back and when I finally die they swear vengeance over my slowly cooling corpse.

Pass it on in a non-life threatening scenario where I decide I actually don’t like the weird bone breaking power a random person gave me as they were dying and wish I could pass it to someone else and through a weird set of circumstances end up accidentally cooking some of my own hair into brownies I was making because I shed like a dog and passing it to my new neighbor I came to welcome to the neighborhood.

Either drinking a glass of milk with their saliva (no icky hair taste), or an epic sharing of blood while clasping hands like knights in a noble brotherhood!

not by eating all mights long ass hair thats for sure, why did he give midoriya one of the longest ones he had, he has shorter hair right there on the back of his head. not to mention the fact of like how i would prefer to recieve it or give it away which would be just, fucking sharing a pop or something and swaping it through the backwash??? less nasty than hair and not as weird as the other options for spit which is like straight up spitting in a drink or the other persons mouth outside of kissing. if someone told me i had to eat their hair i would straight up say no thanks, cheers for the fitness glow up tho homie

I want nana 2 kiss me, on.,, the m,,,.."#*(@÷out.h pretty lady.,

Q-tip to the inside of the cheek

Those blood pacts where you slice your hands open and do a little handshake thing. Not very creative, but idk it just appeals to me

Via consumption of blood, babey

I would want it to be with a maybe maybe not homoerotic sword fight in a Wendy's parking lot, preferably while we are both being impaled on each other's swords. The sweet pain of almost dying is a very intense moment to share isn't it?

Sweet love

Hair

If it's someone cute, a kiss. Otherwise I'd probably just swallow a hair with some water.

i'd just like. spit in their water bottle. if thats not enough dna i guess licking a paper cut it is. hair is bad idwa bc it doesn't digest and can get wrapped up in things. and like. im too aroace for kissing and such

Last option, cause first is sexy as hell

okay you know what vore is, right. and you know how blood and organ transfusions work? well...

Not at all, like?? I enjoy being alive and not having my body destroyed thank you. Literally everyone with OfA died young-ish or has suffered debilitating injuries bc of it. Like Midoriya's bones are powder, and we don't even need to go into All Might's medical history. Like thanks but no thanks no freaky dna ingestion 4 me

Had a open cut from a can lid and ofa holder had an open cut. While lamenting about fins a successor.

Blood

Assuming we can bypass the rules of canon, it would be funny as fuck is OFA was passed on by intentional physical contact. So yes, a smooch for First and Second (and Second and Third) but also. Bitchslap of destiny. Nana giving her protege one last hug. All Might ruffles Mido’s hair like a dad to pass it on. I’m sure you get it

Bleeding over an open wound

lil bit of spit in a milkshake.

I hold their hand Platonically but it's summer and we're both sweaty and they're a little loopy and having weird thoughts due to dehydration and heat lmao, literally hanging around anyone for any extended period of time guarantees you accidentally ingest SOME of their dna. Dead skin cells are floating through the air ~constantly~ and if you have a friend I promise you've inhaled their dead skin cells before. Have fun with that knowledge!!

ok so like deffo a kiss, but in canon people get weird biological urges for using their quirks, like bby Toga drinking bird blood. First has had a LOT of "spit in their drink" intrusive thoughts over the years. immediately post first-kiss he is mystified that his intrusive thoughts have disappeared entirely, but then BAM it seems that second has the stockpile now, and with it, a preoccupation with vampire lore

drink from the same water bottle?

“EAT THIS!”

Pass it on by making them lick my arm because that would make them rly uncomfortable, passed to me by spiting in my 20oz Red Bull and then chugging it

#aaaand done #this was going to be like. nicely organized in a couple different ways and i still might #but out of slots for that today so

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thicctails · 3 years ago

Text

Summer Of Whump Day 23 [Sick/Survivor’s Guilt]

Crosshair cursed as Cal went limp in his arms, the boy slumping lifelessly. Omega was right behind him, her eyes slipping closed as she wheezed in pain. Both kids needed his attention, but he could only focus on one of them at a time.

‘Damn it! This is why I need my vode here, then we could make sure they were both getting the help they need right now.’ He cursed mentally.

He laid Cal on the ground and pressed his hand against the boy’s stomach, trying to stop the bleeding. Part of him seethed with anger at the fact that he had given that wretched creature a quick death. Keeping one hand on the wound, he leaned over and started checking Omega over. Spots of crimson bled through her clothes, soaking into the fabric and spreading further as the seconds ticked by. The bite on her leg concerned him the most, as the animal’s fangs were quite long.

“What happened here-!”

A woman’s voice had his head snapping up. There was a woman and a few kids now standing before him, horrified expressions on their faces. He moved in front of the downed children, bristling with protective fury. The woman, a Togruta dressed in familiar brown robes, moved into a defensive stance, lightsaber in hand but not yet ignited.

“Easy,” She started, raising one hand, “I just want to help them.”

“They would not need your help if you hadn’t stolen them.” He spat venomously.

A flash of guilt came over the woman’s face. “I know, and I’m sorry. We thought that you were working with the Empire.” She inched a bit closer, and Crosshair’s hands twitched towards his rifle. “But I can help them. If you let me, I can save their lives, but we have to be fast.”

Crosshair’s eyes flicked towards the wounded children, mentally calculating how much medical supplies they had and if he could even carry both of them back in time to use the supplies before they passed away. His decision was made for him when Omega started shaking and sounding like she was choking. He nodded quickly and scooped Omega and Cal up into his arms. The woman and an older teenage Bothan rushed forward, grabbing the other teens who had been injured during the fight.

“Follow me.” The Jedi said, and he obeyed without argument.

They ran through a network of caves until finally stopping in a pristine chamber. A pool of water sat in the middle, surrounded by thick white cots. Crosshair placed each of the kids in his arms on their own cot, turning Omega over on her side. She coughed up a horrible mix of foamy saliva and stomach acid, her sides heaving as she vomited. The sight disturbed Crosshair greatly. Clones didn’t get sick, so if someone was puking their guts out, it was usually because of one of three reasons.

One, the person had had a bit too much to drink.

Two, they’d seen something so bad it had turned their stomach.

Or three, the person was dying.

Judging by how Omega hadn’t been drinking and had been face down in the dirt for most of the ordeal, that left only the third option.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t faster ad’ika.” He whispered, rubbing Omega’s back.

Suddenly, the Jedi was beside him, her hand pressing against Omega’s leg.

“What’s wrong with her?” He asked.

“The same disease that drove that animal mad is coursing through her bloodstream. I must remove it before it reaches her heart.” The woman said, closing her eyes.

Omega whimpered under her touch, and the sound was almost enough to make him turn and attack the Jedi to make her stop touching the girl. But he resisted the urge, knowing that Omega needed this Jedi’s help. Not wanting to be useless, he turned his attention to Cal, peeling up his shirt to examine the wound on his stomach. It was a large laceration, going from the tip of his left hip to the start of the right side of his ribcage. Blood spurted from the wound, sticking to the boy’s clothes and sliding down his pale skin. Crosshair cursed and looked around the room, searching for something to wrap the cut with.

“Bandages are on the left side of the room. Top drawer.” The Jedi murmured.

Crosshair got up and retrieved the bandages as quickly as possible, grabbing some clothes as well. He dipped the clothes in the water and began to clean Cal’s wound. Once the blood had been wiped away, he could see that it wasn’t as deep as he had originally feared. It would scar, but the boy wouldn’t need stitches. He carefully wrapped the gauze around Cal’s torso, making sure that it was tight enough to stop the bleeding, but not so tight that it would restrict his breathing.

He ran a hand through the boy’s hair, unsure of what to do now.

“I didn’t know clones could have children.” The Jedi mused, her voice startling Crosshair out of his own thoughts.

“They’re- they’re not mine. I’m just looking after them.” He said, a bit shocked that she had thought that he was their father. Had he really gone that soft?

“I knew that Cal wasn’t yours, but with how quickly you moved to protect them, I thought perhaps young Omega here might have been related to you. She has your ferocity.” The woman replied, frowning. “I can sense that she would be willing to kill to protect those she loves.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Crosshair questioned, eyeing her but not fully turning to look at her.

“For someone like her, it can be. She is strong in the Force, unusually so, but she is inexperienced. She has no way of fighting off the temptations of the Dark side, and if she uses her abilities to hurt or kill, she may end up Falling.”

“Falling?”

“Falling means you’ve given in to the Dark side. She’s a wildcard, and her raw power makes her dangerous. There are those who would seek her out and drag her down into the dark with them. In the wrong hands, she could become the Galaxy’s worst nightmare.”

“That won’t happen.” Crosshair growled.

“I had a feeling you might say that.” The woman smiled. “You’re welcome to stay here while they recover, if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” He said, knowing that she was taking a risk by having him there.

She nodded. “I am Crèshe Master Azeu Mirthver, but please just call me Azeu. There are spare rooms available, or if you’d like, I can set up a bed in here.”

“I want to stay with them. I need to make sure that they’re okay.” Crosshair said immediately.

Azeu nodded again. “Omega will need monitoring. Her Force signature is radiating a sense of illness and exhaustion, and I fear that a fever may soon set in.”

“A fever?” Crosshair arched an eyebrow. “This quickly?”

“Her immune system is incredibly weak, and she’s practically bleeding stress and pain. This has been a long time coming.” The Jedi sighed, getting to her feet. “I’ve managed to remove the disease, but the puncture wounds are deep. They are the highest risk points for infection, so they’ll need to be checked regularly. I must go check on Tiger and Chex, can you finish applying her bandages?”

“Sure.” Crosshair said, taking Azeu’s place at Omega’s side.

“I’ll be back with a fresh set of clothes soon. I’ll be right down the tunnel if you need me.” Azeu said, quietly leaving the cave.

Crosshair made a noise of acknowledgement as he started to clean the bites on Omega’s leg and ankle. Azeu had cut away part of her pant leg, making it seem like she was wearing shorts on one half and pants on the other. He dabbed at the puncture wounds until his cloth no longer came away bloody, hating how, for most of the time Omega had been around him, she’d been seriously injured or recovering from a major injury.

“We need to get you some armor, eh shiny?” He joked softly, wrapping the bites gently in gauze. “Where would we even find armor that little, huh?”

He ran a hand through her hair, smiling when she made a small noise and unconsciously shifted closer to him. Silently, he gently worked out any knots in her hair, occasionally plucking a stray flower petal from her hair. He glanced at them, a small twinge of sadness rippling through him. There had been two flower crowns on the ground when he had leaped down from his vantage point, well made and still mostly intact, if a bit dusty. He hadn’t payed them any mind at the time, too wrapped up in his panic as he tried to save Omega and Cal from bleeding out on the dirt. Thinking on it now, they were probably Omega’s handiwork, as there weren’t any flowers where he had first heard Cal’s voice coming from.

“We’ll go pick some new ones once you’re better, okay?” He whispered. “But you’ve got to get well first. No running off ‘til we’ve got all of that nastiness out of your system.”

He turned and looked at Cal, his voice still quiet as he spoke. “And that goes for you too, little jetii.”

Maker he is going soft.

It unnerves him slightly; how easily the two children in his care have made him drop his cold exterior. He hasn’t been this open, this vulnerable, since he’d been a small cadet, just barely beginning to learn what his purpose was. Back when he’d been shiny and wide-eyed and new, just like the rest of his vode. Back before the gruelling tests and painful experiments. Back when he had simply been CT-9904, although he didn’t miss the number designation. He’d worn the name his brothers had given him like a badge of honor, as it was something that had been freely given to him, the first thing that had really belonged to him.

He thinks about that, about names. Omega, although it is not a traditional designation, is still the identifier the Kaminoans had stamped on her medical charts. It’s a name, but is it truly hers? Does she even know that, if she wanted, they would help her find a new name? Would she want a new name? What would it be? Something soft in nature, he thinks. Hunter and Tech had picked picked their names based on their enhancements, but he doesn’t think Force or Sensitive would make a very good name.

Flower, maybe?

No, that’s too soft.

She’s good with her bow, so maybe Sharpshot or… just Bow?

No, he doesn’t want her to have to be named after her fighting skills or a weapon like so many of his vode are. They were made for war, but he will do everything in his power to keep Omega as far away from it as possible.

Omega shifts again, and the movement makes him realize that she’s shivering. Crosshair looked around, searching for a blanket. He can’t see any, so he moves to stand up and go look for the Jedi master to ask her where they are. Omega whines pitifully when he moves away, and the sound has him sitting back down right quick. Her face scrunches up in discomfort, and he can hear her murmuring under her breath.

“Mnh… Wrecker, snap out of it…” She whimpered softly, and Crosshair’s heart breaks.

He can’t leave her, not when she seems to be getting some form of comfort out of him being there, but he also doesn’t want her to be cold. There’s only two sources of heat in this room, and he’s not going to put her near Cal, not when he’s injured like he is. That left only himself.

He’s never been the best cuddle buddy, too gangly and thin to be very comfortable to lay on. Tech had been the only one who could ever find him suitable to use as a pillow, the smaller clone curling up near his stomach. However, he’d been told that he ran warmer than his brothers, sometimes reaching fever-levels of heat after a particularly intense combat training session. So if warmth was what Omega needed right now, he’d simply have to make himself as comfortable as possible.

He shed his armor and set aside his rifle, leaving himself in only his blacks. As if sensing his sudden increase in softness, Omega lunged for his stomach, pressing her face into the taunt muscles. Crosshair coughed quietly, wrapping an arm around her as he eased himself down to the floor. The area around eye was still bruised from when that damnable trooper hit her with his blaster, so he gently nudged her face so that she was resting with her bad eye off of his stomach. She snuggled down into him, sighing softly. Slowly, her shivers subsided, leaving her smiling as she slipped into a more peaceful state.

Crosshair huffed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The floor was far from comfortable, but he’d slept on worse. Shifting, just slightly, making sure that no sharp points were poking Omega, he settled down to sleep. The weight was so familiar, so comforting, he found that, for the first time in years, sleep was coming easily. He blinked tiredly, his breathing slowing down as he relaxed. Lulled by the exhaustion of the day and his own heartbeat, he let his eyelids slip shut.

Cal’s vision was blurred as he cracked his eyes open, groaning. His torso burned, a thin stripe of agony that stretched across his body. Bleary eyed, he reached out to the Force, searching for Omega. Her Force signature glowed warmly, drawing him in. Pushing himself up, he stumbled over to where she was, letting the Force be his guide. As his eyes adjusted to the now dim light, he spotted Crosshair and Omega lying on the ground, Omega’s face buried in the older clone’s stomach. Still groggy from sleep and unwilling to go looking for Master Mirthver, he laid down on Crosshair’s free side, leaning against his chest as he snuggled up to him. An arm fell over his back, pulling him closer. Cal yawned and closed his eyes again. For as long as he could remember, he’d slept alone, no matter if he had been sick or hurt or afraid. He’d always felt like asking to sleep with his Master would have been against the Code, even if he had just awoken from a terrible nightmare and really needed the comfort.

Now, as he lay in this cave, cuddled up to a clone that, a few days ago, would have killed him for comfort, he found himself wishing that he had sought out that comfort, taken that time to experience the closeness that he only now realizes that he’s been desperately craving. Tears well in his eyes as he fists part of Crosshair’s outfit, and he knows it’s not because of his wound.

He misses his Master so much that it hurts. It hurts more than any of his previous injuries combined. The guilt had made him feel like he was made of stone, but for the past few days he hadn’t had a moment to feel guilty, to preoccupied with either being terrified for his and Omega’s life or so filled with joy and warmth that he had been fit to burst. But now? In the stillness and quiet? The gnawing feeling came back, making him curl up into a little ball.

What was he doing? He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve to be comforted. He’d been a terrible padawan, possibly the worst padawan! He’d let his Master die, what kind of person did that? All he’d had to do was be faster, move quicker, think quicker, and yet he’d failed. He’d failed, and then he had been alone, lost and left to mourn amidst the wreckage of a war that would soon come to an end in the worst possible way. When he’d been captured, a part of him had wanted to simply attack, to get them to end his life the same they had ended his Master’s. But the fear that had been coursing through his veins had made him freeze up, to not call to his Master’s lightsaber, which was safely tucked away out of sight.

He thinks, bleakly, that he might have overcome his fear if he had been thrown into that cell alone.

Omega had been a burst of starlight in his life, the Force around her curious and untameable. She was unlike any padawan or Jedi he’d ever met, so open and bright. She projected her emotions and made no move to shield her thoughts, having no secrets to keep locked away. Being around her was overwhelming but it was good. It was good because he was so focuses on her that there was no time to think about what had happened, what he’d done. She’d saved him, kept his mind from going back to the dark place it had been in during his time alone on Bracca. A dark place that was slowly dragging him back, its sharp claws digging into his mind.

“Cal?”

Master Mirthver’s voice was quiet as she stepped into the cave, a bundle of blankets in one arm and a cot tucked the other. Cal sniffed and peered at her, his green eyes wet with tears. The Togruta gave him a sad look, moving over to kneel beside him.

“What is troubling you, young Ketsis?” She whispered.

“ ‘m a bad padawan.” He croaked, his voice trembling. “I let Master Tapal die.”

“Oh Cal,” The Crèshe Master crooned, draping a blanket over him, “that isn’t true in the slightest. No one would ever blame you for what happened that day. Jedi Masters that had been training for longer than you’ve been alive couldn’t stop the clones. Master Tapal’s death was not your fault.”

“Yes it was!” He sobbed, the tears falling freely now.

His raw emotions and sorrowful cry woke the two clones he had been resting with. Crosshair jolted a bit, his military upbringing making him snap to alertness. Omega was a different story, all slow movements and hazy questioning over their bond. Crosshair drew Cal into a hug, understanding that the youngster was upset but not yet knowing why.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, rubbing Cal’s back. “It it your cut?”

Cal pressed his face into the clone’s chest, making a noise of disagreement.

“He feels guilt.” The Togruta explained. “He blames himself for something out of his control.”

The Jedi’s words did nothing but make Cal cry harder. Crosshair looked hopelessly confused, unsure of what to do or how to make things better. Omega, now very much awake and practically being suffocated by Cal’s emotions, wiggled her way over Crosshair’s body and pulled him into a hug, holding him as tightly as possible.

“Let it out.” She whispered. “Let it all out. You’ll never be really alright if you don’t get everything out when it starts to be too much.”

The redhead shuddered, clinging to her like his life depended on it. Omega winced as she moved her leg, letting Cal cry into her shoulder. Her own tears slipped down her face as she shared his misery and pain, and she leaned against Crosshair for support. The man brought both her and Cal into a hug easily, wishing that he could help more.

“You’ll be okay.” She rasped. “I promise.”

Crosshair and Azeu looked at each other, neither one quite knowing what to say or what to do. Omega seemed to be the only one who could truly understand what Cal was going through, but neither adult wanted such pressure to fall on the shoulders of a young child. Azeu tentatively reached out with the Force, but quickly pulled back when she felt a sharp, almost electrical feeling. It was like a force-field, protecting those within and keeping any others out. She couldn’t tell if Cal had put it up in an attempt to shield his broken psyche, or if Omega was, in her exhaustion, was trying her best to protect her friend.

Unable to do anything other than simply hug the distraught kids, Crosshair murmured quiet comforting words, both in Basic and in Mando’a. After a while, the sobs died down as the children fell back asleep, still holding onto each other. Silently, Azeu and Crosshair constructed a plush bed for them. Crosshair held Cal and Omega close, not wanting them to wake up and start stumbling around in the dark. There was a pool of water near by, after all, and he didn’t want them falling into it. There was no resistance on their end, the duo easily finding a comfortable spot on his chest and in the crux of his elbow.

“I’ll be back to check on them in the morning.” Azeu whispered.

Crosshair nodded, laying his head down. The blankets made sleep come even easier, and he quickly found himself back in the darkness of sleep.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

Crosshair smoothed Omega’s hair down, the blonde locks dampened by sweat. The girl’s face was flushed, reddened by a fever that had taken over her body. Her brown eyes were glassy, fogged over by illness. The sight was distressing, both for Crosshair and Cal. The freckled boy was in his cot, staying there only because Azeu had threatened to move him into a different room if he kept trying to check up on Omega. Crosshair wasn’t looking towards him right now, but he was sure that, if he looked, he’d see Cal sulking. He sympathized with him, but the clone knew that he needed to rest.

“I‘m cold.” Omega whined, shuddering.

“You might feel cold, but I assure you, you’re warm as an oven, little verd.” Crosshair replied.

“Lil’ wha?” Omega questioned.

“Verd. It means warrior.” The man responded fondly.

“Oh.” She said, glancing up at Crosshair. “Whatsa warrior?”

“Someone brave who fights for the good of others.”

“Y’think I’m brave?”

Crosshair gave her a kind smile. “Of course. Bravest little clone to ever grace this wretched Galaxy.”

“Awww.” She giggled, leaning into his hand. “You’re so nice, Crosshair.”

“I think you’re the first person to ever say that.” He said, ruffling her hair.

“That’s ‘cause you act too much like a cactus.” Omega replied.

“What?” Crosshair looked at her, confused.

“Prickly on the outside, soft on the inside.” She said, sounding very sage.

“Oh, quiet you.” Crosshair snipped, no heat behind his words.

“Crosshair?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

A bucket was swiftly handed to Omega, and the poor girl clutched it as she emptied her stomach of its contents. Crosshair awkwardly rubbed her back, wincing when she started coughing. He himself had never thrown up, but he’d heard stories from Echo about the time he and his twin, Fives, had gotten blackout drunk. Apparently, it was one of the worst feelings you could experience.

Once she was done, he offered her a cup of water and helped her get comfortable again. Omega groaned as she lay back down, her face contorting in displeasure.

“I don’t like being sick.” She whined.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Crosshair said sympathetically.

“I wanna go home.” Omega sighed, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

“Me too, ad’ika. I’m going to try and contact the Havoc Marauder as soon as you’re better.” The older clone said.

“Why not before?” The young girl asked softly.

“I don’t want to leave you here while I go look for a signal. You can both come with me once you’ve recovered.” He explained.

“Why can’t we stay here?” Omega asked innocently.

“I don’t exactly trust the people who kidnapped you and Cal to be the best babysitters.” Crosshair muttered.

“They’re not bad people, Crosshair. They thought that you had kidnapped us. They’re all really nice.” Omega glanced down. “Except for Chex, he’s kinda mean.”

“Kinda?” Cal lifted his head off his cot. “He nearly cut you in half!”

“What?!” Crosshair growled, sitting up straighter.

“He thought I was like the chipped clones!” Omega explained quickly “He just wanted to protect his family.”

“That’s not an excuse for attacking you. Nothing is an excuse for attacking you.” He hissed, pulling Omega closer, as if to defend her from some unseen threat. “You’re a child. You didn’t do anything.”

“He didn’t know that.” Omega said softly.

Crosshair hugged her closer, and Omega could hear his rising heartbeat thundering in his chest. She nuzzled his stomach, trying to calm his anger before he did something stupid.

“Please don’t hurt him.” The blonde haired clone gave him her best puppy-dog eyes. “I don’t want you to start a fight you can’t win.”

“I can win any fight.” He muttered, but made no move to get up and hunt Chex down, so Omega counted it as a success.

“He’s still a jerk though.” Cal piped up again. “I kinda want to see Crosshair scare the daylights out of him.”

“Cal!” Omega scolded, leaning over to glare disapprovingly at him.

“What?” He asked teasingly. “Don’t pretend that you don’t want to see that.”

Omega puffed her cheeks out, but her sickness-induced flushness and ruffled hair robbed her of any semblance of intimidation. “Where is he anyways? I lost track of him once things got crazy.”

“Forming an apology, I hope. He owes you his life.” Cal huffed, before closing his eyes. Omega lifted her head slightly, sensing him reach out with the Force.

“Oho, he is miserable! He’s as sick as you!” Cal chuckled, before hissing and clutching at his chest. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“Laughing at someone’s pain? That can’t be something Jedi do.” Omega teased.

“Not a Jedi yet, still got time to make mistakes.” Cal argued, lying back down.

Omega huffed, feeling sleep creep up on her. She yawned, stretching her arms.

“I just woke up, how am I already tired?” She complained, rubbing at her uninjured eye.

“You’re healing. Sleep, ad’ika.” Crosshair said, pulling a blanket up over her shoulders.

“One day, I will figure out what you keep calling me.” Omega yawned again, letting sleep bring her into it’s gentle hold.

Blaster fire, yelling, the smell of smoke.

Omega cowered, staring up at the uncaring face of the man before her. Steel blue eyes look down at her with disdain, the man’s lip curling with disgust.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the little defective. You’ve caused quite a stir, what with your escape on Verbrick. You know, the Kamnioans want you back, but since there are so many little Force users here, I see no reason why we can’t just take one of them instead.” He smirks, and Omega feels very cold. “Kill her, and grab one of the children. Not the redhead, though, that one is to be exterminated.”

NONONONONONONO!

The Force becomes alight with her rage and fear, and she calls out to someone, anyone.

She finds someone. She finds them, and the world explodes with noise.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump[23]#omega bad batch #cal ketsis #crosshair bad batch #the bad batch #star wars #star wars the bad batch #whump prompt #writing challenge

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spiderman-homecomeme · 4 years ago

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‘cause spider-man comes tonight

🎄The Twelve Days of Promptmas🎄 - Day Four

concepts: holiday smut

dialogue: all I want for Christmas is you.” “You’re Jewish?” “So?”

The sequel to the dirty talk fic, but make it ~festive~

❆❆❆

“Good moooorning.”

Peter’s voice is gentle, almost singing against her bare skin as his lips trail kisses along her shoulder.

Michelle shifts, grumbling at the soft, dragging touches.

Still, he persists, his breath tickling. “Wake up.”

And as annoyed as she is for being woken up, she can’t help but smile as he snuggles against her, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her close. “Too early…” She mumbles sleepily into the pillow, nestling further into the blankets.

Peter huffs out a laugh, his lips pausing momentarily over the strap of her tank top before he keeps going. “Didn’t you wanna go to shopping today? For the party?” He reasons, though MJ knows for a fact that the purpose in all of this isn’t to get the two of them out of bed, per se.

No, his intentions are perfectly clear.

“Not at—” She barely cranes her head up, glancing at her phone on the bedside table. “—nine in the morning.”

“Wow, so early,” he mumbles against her skin.

Her expression contorts when he finds a particularly ticklish spot on her neck, half-heartedly warning him as she tries to twist away from his mouth. “Hey.”

“What?” He chuckles, cuddling closer, arms locking around her, pressing his cheek into her shoulder blade as he gives her a loving squeeze. “Does that tickle?”

He knows the answer already, the little shit, and she can’t help but lightly smack his arm in response.

He laughs again, a sound that makes a comforting warmth bloom in her chest. It’s good that he can’t see her face, that his is burrowing into her shoulder, to see the light smile tugging at her lips, the way her eyes close again as she breathes out a contented sigh.

Though, his touches soon turn less than innocent, and he’s whispering filthy nothings into her ear as his hands shamelessly roam her body, as he presses his hardness against her. While some of what he says is of the highest quality—he’s actually great at dirty talk when he wants to be—there’s always that one line he has to sneak in there.

Sure, “I have a big present for you,” as he pokes her in the back of thigh with his morning wood isn’t necessarily groundbreaking, or his worst yet, but it’s still enough to coax a slightly undignified snort out of her.

Finally, she turns over to face him, eyeing him carefully, a single brow raised. “Oh really?”

Peter nods, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I sure do.”

“Of course.” Her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek as she fights the urge to roll her eyes and laugh.

When she doesn’t say anything else he nudges her. “Are you not gonna ask what it is?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea—” She glances down. “—It’s either an actual present… or, if I know you well enough, which unfortunately, I do—” She meets his gaze again. “It’s your dick.”

“Bingo.” He throws in a wink for good measure.

“I thought I already got that present, though?” MJ asks, trying to stay casual. “Eight nights in a row?”

“That was for me,” Peter insists. “This—” He bites is his lip, pressing himself against her again. “Is for you. You can even have it early. As a treat.”

She can’t help but laugh as he leans in to kiss her, pressing her palm against his chest to keep him away. “Not supposed to open anything till Christmas. Come on, man, you know the rules.”

“Good thing I’m not wrapping it.”

The double meaning gets another snort out of her, and she playfully dodges him again as his lips press into the corner of her mouth. “Peter—”

“I can put a little bow on it if you want?”

All she can do is shake her head in response and pray that she can suppress her laugh for just a second longer. “I swear… To God.”

“Love you, too,” he grins, leaning in to kiss her fully this time.

But once again, she stops him, scooting away from him. “Wait, no. Morning breath.”

Peter pauses, his hand lingering on her waist, lip caught in his teeth in thought. She has a point there, at least she sees him thinking it through. He shrugs. “I mean, there’s doggy… reverse cowgirl… deck the halls.”

“Deck the halls?” Michelle’s brow furrows in confusion.

“I’ll deck your halls with my boughs of holly,” he winks again.

“That’s not even a position, you just wanted to make a joke,” she playfully pushes him.

He shrugs.

Does she hate him?

Who knows?

Is this turning her on still, as stupid as it is?

Maybe.

“Now, come on,” he says, patting his legs, inviting her to climb onto his lap. “Hop on.”

“So romantic,” she deadpans with a quirk of her brow.

But does that mean she’s giving in so soon?

Absolutely not.

Some restraint and discipline would be good for them both.

They have things to do today.

Namely, getting ready for Flash’s big holiday bash tonight.

“Maybe later, okay?” A knowing, sly grin stretches across her face as she pats him twice on the cheek, climbing up from the bed before he can protest.

He huffs out a laugh, looking up at her with borderline pleading eyes. So innocent a look for so definitely not-innocent a request. “Please?”

“Nuh uh,” she says as she starts rifling through her dresser. She makes a show of getting dressed, slowly peeling her tank top off. He grins, his eyes instantly taking in the sight of her bare chest, before she’s tossing the shirt at him. He catches it easily, his gaze never leaving hers.

“We have to go shopping.”

ii.

Why she thought it was ever a good idea to let Peter peruse the holiday section of the local Michael’s with her, she has no idea.

Especially when he’s in the mood he’s been in all morning—for the entirety of their relationship, really.

One minute, he’s by her side, holding out different festive candles for her to smell as she looks at the different coffee mugs and tea sets, and the next he’s throwing her a wink and a subtle kiss as he points at a sign that says fall on your knees.

He seems especially thirsty today, for some reason—though she would argue that Peter never really needs a reason to try and seduce her with his own brand of dirty talk, however horrible it may be, however it makes her blink unimpressed at him, however it makes her laugh until her sides hurt.

While it had all started as something kept strictly to the confines of their bedroom, more and more, it’s started to bleed into their everyday conversation. And every time, it has the same effect on her. She’ll stare at him, slow-blinking, lips twitching as she tries to suppress a smile.��

And, she’d be lying if she said that no matter how cringey some of his lines are… damn it, they kind of work. She’s too attracted to him as a whole for them not to.

“MJ.”

She hears his voice on the other end of the aisle. Insistent, a self-indulgent chuckle hiding under his tone.

Her lips press into a thin line as she pointedly ignores him, continuing to browse the different tea towels.

“MJ,” he says again, louder this time. Childish, even.

Still, she doesn’t look at him, shaking her head as she purses her lips.

“MJ!”

His voice is suddenly right next to her, and she jumps, turning to see him holding up one of those weird Elf on the Shelf dolls.

“What?” She hisses.

There’s that damn, stupid grin on his face as he pokes the felt figurine, his bottom lip caught between his teeth when she narrows her eyes. “When I think about you, I touch my elf.”

And as usual, it takes everything not to smile. She bites the inside of her cheek. “You’re an idiot.”

His smile widens to levels of supreme dopiness. “I’m your idiot,” he says with all the affection in the world.

“Unfortunately,” she shakes her head, huffing, though she can’t help the way her lips curve into a smile, the way her face warms. And for a moment, she thinks he’s done. He’s had his fun. He’s made her smile.

“Wanna cradle my dreidel?” He asks under his breath, his hand dangerously low on her back.

The sudden snort of laughter she lets out startles some poor old lady on the other end of the aisle.

iii.

If she thinks she’s free the minute she gets back to the apartment, she’s sorely mistaken. Okay, maybe not sorely, per se. But she is very much mistaken.

It’s again, as they’re deciding what dish to bring to Flash’s holiday get together later in the evening, rifling through their pantry and fridge in search of any usable ingredients.

“We’ve still got these pie shell things,” Peter says, holding up the box of premade pie crust from the freezer. “Pie’s are always nice. For holidays and what not.”

Ah, yes. The ones they forgot to bring to May’s for Thanksgiving—making them have to run to the store on a major holiday for something that was pretty much already sold out. Perfect.

“Great. A pie’s good,” MJ says, feeling a sense of relief that they don’t necessarily have to leave the apartment again. At least until tonight. “What kind do you think?”

Peter looks up, titling his head as his lips twist in though. But then, his gaze flits to her briefly.

“I’ve always liked creampies.”

This time she might actually hit him.

iv.

She’s just pulled her sweater on over her head when Peter walks into the bedroom, his eyes instantly drinking her in, from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. His appreciative gaze sets a warmth in her stomach and chest, and she bites back her smile as she pushes her hair over her shoulder, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

His smile is is bright, and his eyes meet hers in the mirror as he comes to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he murmurs into her hair, “God, can’t wait to hurry down your chimney tonight.”

And to think she’d started to lean into him. She scoffs, smacking his arm gently. “Shut up.”

“Seriously,” he says, a laugh under his tone as he steps back. His hand lingers though, falling to play with the hem of her black skirt, gently brushing her thigh through her black tights. “You look really pretty. Easily one of my top favorite outfits.” He pauses, tilting his head in thought. “Besides nothing. You should wear nothing more often.”

“Note taken,” she says, nodding slowly, holding herself together—at least attempting to.

“And honestly,” He muses. “I think taking this off—” he tugs at the sweater, his voice lowering. “—would really elevate the look. You know what? The skirt too.”

She quirks a brow at him in the mirror, though there’s nothing she can do to prevent her smile from widening. “Oh, so I should just… take my clothes off?”

“Let me be perfectly clear,” he replies, trying to be serious, his hands holding her waist, dropping to her hips and giving a tempting squeeze. “You should always be taking your clothes off.”

It’s amazing how this idiot can make her feel so lightheaded, how he can make her entire body feel that blurry warmth. It’s him, clearly it is, because she’s not sure she’d ever take that kind of shit from any of her other past relationships.

Peter’s just Peter.

“Keep it in your pants, Parker,” she teases when he tugs her closer, her back against his chest. She knows what he’s doing; exactly what.

And again, it’s not going to work.

Unlike him, she has a sense of self-control.

No matter how hot her boyfriend is.

His laugh causes her stomach to flip pleasantly. “But, baby, all I want for Christmas is you.”

“You’re Jewish?”

“So?”

She turns in his arms, facing him now, her palms pressing into his chest. “Also it’s not Christmas yet?”

“Christmas eve is pretty much Christmas.”

She blinks.

“Where’s your sense of imagination? Your holiday spirit?” He asks earnestly, squeezing her gently. “Now what do you want? Naughty? Or Nice?” His face lights up. “Oo! Both.”

It’s a wonder her eyes don’t roll out of her head and onto the floor, or that her cheeks fall off from how hard she’s trying not to smile. She ignores the conversation. “We’re gonna be late to Flash’s. Come on.”

“Eh, I think there’s time.” Peter’s hand falls to hers, locking their fingers together as he pulls her close, his lips finding his favorite spot on her neck easily.

In spite of the ticking clock in her mind, she closes her eyes, sighing softly at the feeling of his soft kisses pressing into her skin.

“Flavortown has holiday hours right?”

And it’s the wicked grin on his face when he pulls back to look at her that causes her to snap back to reality. She laughs, her body practically screaming in protest as she steps fully away from him and out of his warmth.

The whole car ride to Flash’s feels like an eternity, given the lack of time for a pre-party quickie back at the apartment. Peter’s hand stays on her thigh, the other on the wheel, and it’s clear that he’s not paying all that much attention when he stalls at one or two red lights, startling when there’s a chorus of honking from behind them.

Though it’s a seemingly innocent touch—he never ascends past the hemline of her skirt—it still burns her skin through the thin material of her tights. It still causes her mind to go places where it really shouldn’t go while he’s driving, while they’re on their way to a friend’s holiday party. All day, it’s been a constant game between them, and at first, MJ had assumed that she had the upper hand.

Now, however, she’s not sure.

She’s tried her best to ignore his dumb jokes mingled with legitimate propositions, and for the most part, she’s been successful.

But she just knows he’s going to try something stupid at the party. She doesn’t know what, but she knows him.

Surprisingly, however, Peter’s able to behave himself for the first hour. He mingles with everyone, never once making a suggestive comment, never once does his hand fall past the appropriate spot on her back. It’s honestly a bit of a shock.

But of course, all things must come to an end.

It’s as Flash is overexplaining the different stockings on his fireplace—all for him apparently—when Peter returns with a drink in hand, his voice lowered as he leans in to whisper. “Did we bring any stocking stuffers?”

Michelle’s brow furrows in confusion. “No? Why would we?”

Peter seems puzzled for a moment, lips twisting in thought, before his eyes light up. “Oh! I forgot.”

“Wha—”

“I brought the most important one.”

She’s ashamed that it takes her more than five seconds to process what he’s said, to get it, but when she does, it’s a slow blink and a heavy sigh. “Is it in your pants—”

“—It’s in my pants.”

Okay, so maybe she doesn’t have as much self control as she’d originally thought.

But she can’t honestly find it in herself to care, especially with Peter’s mouth hot on hers, pushing her into the dresser in one of the spare bedrooms, his hands greedy as they travel her body, hungrily twisting and pulling at her clothes.

She’d dragged him in here not two minutes ago, after one “candy cane” joke too far. She’d been pushed right over that edge.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and she lets out the softest of moans as his tongue slips into her mouth, one of his hands falling to grip her ass. His groan as he presses his hardness against her causes the heat in the pit of her stomach to flare, her hold on him to tighten, clinging desperately.

When she finally pulls back, her chest is heaving, her breath catching as his lips and tongue drag along the underside of her jaw. How he’s so good at just this, something so seemingly simple, how he can reduce her to a puddle of nerves with a few touches, she has no idea.

But, God, she needs him now.

Her hands move to his shoulders, gently pushing him down to where she wants him.

But he holds still, pushing back against her, stubborn. His gaze meets hers, almost challenging, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What do you want?” He asks, knowing perfectly well what.

Her eyes narrow as she smirks. “You know what.”

“I don’t follow,” he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm. “You gotta be more specific.”

On one hand, her body’s screaming at her to just jump his bones, to climb him like a tree, etc. But on the other, it wants her to drop kick him off of a mountain. “Peter…” She groans, her head falling back.

“Am I gonna be a DJ?” He asks, and she snorts. “Am I gonna spin you all night long like a little dreidel?”

MJ’s brow furrows. “I thought your dick was the dreidel?”

He playfully pinches her sides, shaking his head with a laugh before looking up at her again. “Am I going somewhere? To eat, maybe?”

“God, just—” she shakes her head, lips pressing together stubbornly. It’s the mischievous glint in his eyes that tells her exactly what he wants her to say.

And dammit, she’s too horny for this.

“Go to Flavortown.”

His giggle makes her heart nearly burst out of her chest.

“I dunno. Is it open right now? It is almost Christmas.”

“Doors are always open for you,” she almost laughs.

“I’m on it.” She’s cut off by Peter spinning her around, his hand splaying on her back and pushing her chest into the top of the dresser as he bends her forward. A heady rush of excitement flares within her, and she shifts on her feet in anticipation. His hands slide under her skirt and up to her waist, thumbs hooking under the waistband of her tights. The brush of his knuckles against her skin leave goosebumps in its wake as he peels them—and her underwear—down to her knees, and she gasps as the cool air hits her center.

He’s mumbling some song under his breath—one that sounds suspiciously festive. She looks back at him, a confused grin tugging at her lips when he sings aloud, “Spider-Man is coming to Flavortown…”

He bunches her skirt at her waist, and before she can even think to say anything about his song, his mouth is on her. Her knees buckle, glad to be gripping the dresser as tight as she is, when he licks a long stripe up—or down for her—her slit. His tongue is all over, languidly lapping at her, gathering her wetness and spreading it messily over her swollen clit.

A wet gasp falls from her lips as he brings two fingers up to tease her entrance, circling lazily as he sucks her clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue.

“Fuck, Peter—”

The warmth in her belly grows hot, boiling even, as he fervently and eagerly works her heat, moaning openly into her cunt. His fingers are skilled as they curl into her, sliding in effortlessly and finding her spot. The vibrations of his hums are addictive, intoxicating, but still make her smile when she realizes it’s even more holiday music that he’s humming.

“You’re such—fuck—such a dork,” she says, breathless, mouth curved into a wavy smile as her cheek presses into the wood of the dresser.

He laughs against her, though his pace doesn’t falter. It stays relentless, and continues eating her out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.

She comes with a choked, strangled moan, her knuckles tense as she grips the side of the dresser for purchase as his fingers fuck into her, as his tongue swirls around her clit in his mouth.

The ground feels shaky underneath her, and she doesn’t dare stand. Instead, she only melts further into the furniture, her eyes fluttering closed as she gathers her breath.

“My compliments to the chef,” he says, dumbly, hearing the lewd sound of him licking his fingers clean.

There’s nothing she can do to hold back her the laugh that bursts out of her

But then, the sound of the metal of his belt clinking reignites that same heat, and she finds herself almost whimpering in anticipation. She nearly jumps at the feeling of his tip sliding through her folds, gently tapping against her clit as he soaks himself in her arousal. The sound of Peter’s breath hitching makes her smile, and she suddenly finds energy in herself to push back against him, to grind herself on his erection.

He doesn’t wait another moment, a throaty groan spilling past his lips as he pushes into her, inch by inch, up to the hilt.

His pace starts slow, giving her time to accommodate, but soon, neither of them seem to have patience. In the next second, he’s fucking into her, his rhythm almost desperate as he matches it to their ragged breaths.

“Fuck, yes. MJ. You feel so fucking good,” he moans, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. “I’ve been wanting to do this all day. Fuck.”

It’s almost impossible to form words, her mouth hanging open, a croaking gasp leaving her lips when he shifts the angle.

She only nods, too lost in the sound of skin slapping against skin, the feeling of him filling her so well.

“I love you so much, Em,” he breathes, his voice shaky.

“I love you, too,” she manages somehow, miraculously.

And she looks up in the mirror, seeing the slight uptick of a smile on his lips. “Hey, Em?” He asks, his eyes meeting hers.

“Fuck—Yeah?”

His grip on her hips tightens as he picks up his pace, one hand placing a hard, but loving, smack on her ass.

And as that smile grows, instantly, she understands.

“Looks like we’re gonna have a white Christmas this year.”

#spideychelle #petermj #petermjane #promptmas #promptmas 2k20

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langdxn · 4 years ago

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My dear, our litte discussion gave me a thought. Would you please grace us with your writings...I guess this is kind of a two part request...How would our Cody boys be as vampires?? And how would their first time drinking from their girl play out??? Please my wonderful sister/wife, I need vampire Cody characters!!

OOFT this whole concept has brought me out of a bad mood, thank you wifey! i would gladly do a whole damn oneshot/series with ANY of these boys if you need to see more of them… i know i do🧛🏻🖤

Outpost!Michael looks like the typical velvet-draped Victorian vampire your mind conjures up whenever you think of this fascinating bloodthirsty creature, but he had many years to craft his glorious image after he was infected in his teens. This slick, fluid, articulate character that pervades the adult Michael that once wore Doc Martens and skinny jeans now preys upon the inhabitants of Outpost 3 in the bronzed corridors of the former Hawthorne School in the most menacing, manipulative manner — drinking from each doomed occupant without a care or diligence to who witnesses him. If he’s caught sucking the vitality from a grey, he simply denies the accusations to Ms Venable and targets the whistleblower the next day, returning to his routine again and again. Of an evening when his slick organisation fails, he retires to your shared quarters and pulls you in by your lips, gently nicking your soft skin and leaning back to watch the crimson droplets racing down your chin. “Good girl,” he coos with a wicked intent, raising a finger to swoop through your trickling blood before dipping the droplets on his tongue with a heady groan. “I’ve been waiting to taste you all day.”

Vampirism was thrust upon Xavier by a fellow counsellor at Camp Redwood — foolishly taking a stroll through the pitch black woods one night while lighting up a spliff, he was ambushed and bitten by a figure he couldn’t identify. It was only as he belted across the camp at lightning speed and scanned his face in the dimly-lit bathroom mirror that he discovered his eyes plunged a deep maroon and his mind swam with uncontrollable thirst. Thirst for blood. The first living body in sight? Yours, laying innocently among the tangled sheets just where he left you before he was... changed. Xavier slips into bed beside you, crawls between your legs, wraps his arms around you and stirs you slowly awake as he plants searing, lingering kisses into your neck. Parting his lips softly, his newly-sharpened teeth softly graze your skin, desperate to sink in and feast on the blood pumping so hastily through your veins. “Bite me, Xavier,” you whisper as you turn to expose your neck further. “Another vampire’s blood is far more appetising than that of a plain, normal human.”

Jim Mason isn’t cut out to be the stereotypically flamboyant, charismatic and suave vampire. With his kind heart and his young lust for life, he’s so far removed from what you’d expect from a bloodthirsty nocturnal that you’d be forgiven for thinking he’d ever been changed at all. He absolutely refuses to drink from you or anybody you know, he preys specifically on Bay Boys that have wronged him — a running inside joke between you that he’s the PV Batman. He doesn’t alter his dress code in the slightest in order to save face, to avoid blowing his cover, to maintain his façade as an average curly-haired high schooler that gets into trouble just as much as everybody else. It’s only when you catch him sucking the blood out of a particularly malicious surfer on the rocks for trying to steal his waves that you realise this new Jim is someone you can happily spend your days with. “I am vengeance,” he husks ironically as the last of the boy’s life force drains from his body. “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.”

His newfound vampiric nature brought out the exquisite flamboyancy in Duncan Shepherd that you never could have expected from your wealthy partner. First came the vintage furniture to grace his penthouse apartment, then the black chandeliers, then the ornate four-poster bed hand-carved from deep English Oak. Of course, he already draped himself in expensive tailored suits so the glamour was already there in his appearance, but now he makes perfect use of his signature husky tones to dazzle you into anything he desires. “We’re going to head home early, sweetheart,” he whispers as he cinches you in at the waist, careful to avoid attracting attention from the public figures swirling around you at the formal evening. His gaze roves your sumptuous blood red velvet gown billowing over your curves and tumbling to the floor like a fountain of fresh blood spilling recklessly at your feet. “I have a deliciously prominent democrat tied up in the shower that we can feed on,” he leans in closer to bare his fangs and softly nicks the skin of your neck, inhaling deeply and humming under his breath. “And afterwards, I’m going to drink from you more than ever before. Any objections, Mrs Shepherd?”

Richard truly resents his vampirism and tries his hardest to fight his urges in the only way a young, conflicted man possibly could — containing his rage until he reaches the safety of his room’s four secure walls each night. A tentative knock on the door interrupts his chaotic rocking back and forth as his eyes bleed black and his hunger takes over, springing to the door and pinning you against it, sinking his teeth into the straps of your dress and casting the unwanted fabric into a heap on the floor before you’re pushed back onto his bed with a thump. “Hold still,” he whispers as he crawls between your legs, deftly spreading them apart before him and dipping his head down low against the skin of your thigh. With a deep inhale and his eyes pressing closed, Richard’s fangs slowly sink into your flesh, puncturing expertly into your femoral artery. Both his hands wander to pin your hips flat to the bed, groaning explicitly as he drinks in not just your blood but the swift arch of your back and the dip of your head back into the pillows. “You taste like heaven,” Richard mutters as he rises for air — the night has only just begun.

#vampire!michael x reader #vampire!xavier x reader #vampire!jim x reader #vampire!duncan x reader #vampire!richard x reader #outpost!michael x reader #xavier plympton x reader #jim mason x reader #The Tribes of Palos Verdes #duncan shepherd x reader #house of cards #The Last Time I Saw Richard

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glimmerglanger · 4 years ago

Note

Can you please do more vampire Obi-wan? I want Anakin to convince him to take more than just a few mouthfuls and for it to maybe end a bit steamy?? Please? 🥺

:DDDDD

In the end, Anakin ended up listening to the mind healers. He’d tried everything else, after all. He waited until they were planetside on a world where everything was - for once - not going completely awry and found Obi-Wan in the small but clean room he’d been given to stay in during the treaty negotiations.

Obi-Wan smiled to see him, waving him through the door, saying something about the meeting they were supposed to attend the next day. The words went through Anakin’s head like water, leaving no trace behind. Obi-Wan noticed, somehow, glancing up at him and frowning while he asked, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Anakin said, though his pulse was beating too fast and his mouth felt dry. Obi-Wan stared another moment, nodded, and started to turn back to all his paperwork. Anakin took a sharp step forward before he could, seized onto the mind healer’s advice, and blurted, “I want you to bite me. Again.”

Obi-Wan froze, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand, only slowly turning his head to look at Anakin once more. His expression looked perfectly serene. “Excuse me?”

Anakin licked his lips - they felt ridiculously dry - and said, “I’d like you to - do you remember when you, I mean, you--”

“I recall,” Obi-Wan cut in, quietly, gaze dipping down just briefly and - and his eyes looked darker, all at once. Something about that made Anakin’s gut clench.

“Good,” Anakin said, because this was, somehow, going better than he’d worried it would. “I’m - good. That’s good. I thought, maybe. You could do that again.”

Obi-Wan’s head cocked to the side. He still hadn’t moved the rest of his body. He said, slowly, as though selecting each word with care, “I’m well-provisioned, Anakin. I should have more than enough synth to--”

“I know that.” Anakin always double-checked, these days. He’d entertained brief thoughts of feeding Obi-Wan again as a necessity, but the idea of Obi-Wan starving to death had left him too horrified for that. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Obi-Wan asked, eyes narrowing a little. “Surely you don’t just want to be bitten?”

Anakin’s nerve threatened to flee, but he was the man with no fear. He’d faced entire armies. And the mind healers said this would help, that it was the best way to handle the issue. He drew back his shoulders, took a breath, and said, “Actually, I do.” Obi-Wan stared at him, unblinking, unbreathing, perhaps, and Anakin continued, trying to fill the quiet. “I liked it, when you did it. And I - I want you to do it again. For more than two swallows.”

He found, to his shock, that actually saying the words did feel good. The healers must have been onto something. He felt physically lighter. Obi-Wan still hadn’t moved when he said, “Anakin, I think I should take you to the healers--”

“No, I don’t need the healers.” Anakin took a step forward, reaching out for Obi-Wan’s free hand. “Believe me. I - it felt good, Obi-Wan. I’m not delusional or confused or anything. I - look. Look into my feelings.” He pulled Obi-Wan’s hand up against his cheek, a remnant of the distant past, when he’d thought touching was necessary to share feelings.

Obi-Wan started to say something and stopped, blinking, as he took in the swirl of Anakin’s feelings. He straightened, fingers so cool on Anakin’s skin, gaze going thoughtful and then dark as he exhaled, “Oh. Oh, you....”

“Yes,” Anakin said, glad he’d intentionally worn a loose fitting shirt, one bought specifically for it’s low, swooping neckline, as Obi-Wan’s gaze dropped. He swallowed. “I do.”

Obi-Wan gently put the papers down, shifting towards him, his other hand stroking up Anakin’s arm, over his shoulder, thumb brushing over skin. His expression looked rapt. The intensity of it, all focused on Anakin, left him breathing faster, aching with want. Obi-Wan said, “But I could hurt you.”

It had hurt, a little. Being bitten. But - but not very much. Not nearly as much as it had felt good. And Anakin had liked knowing his blood was inside Obi-Wan, pumping through his veins. Even thinking of it gave him a pleased, shivery feeling. “No,” he said, voice lower and rougher than he intended, “you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. I trust you.”

Obi-Wan made a soft sound, grip tightening as he shifted forward, well into Anakin’s space, enough so that Anakin felt bold enough to put a hand on his hip. “I,” Obi-Wan cleared his throat, gaze still fixed on Anakin’s throat. “I admit, I have wanted to - to try again.” Anakin swallowed a groan, barely. He should have worn looser pants, he realized, far too late to go back and change. “But I don’t want to impose on you. Or make you feel you had to do something--”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, touched by the concern, but far too impatient to appreciate it properly. “Bite me. Please.”

He felt Obi-Wan shiver. “Alright,” Obi-Wan said, and Anakin’s pulse jumped, anticipation unfurling through him. “But you should sit down.”

Anakin managed to look away from him enough to glance around the room. There was a chair - it did not look sturdy enough for both of them - and a bed. He felt bold enough to step back, keeping his hand on Obi-Wan, and to sit on the bed.

Obi-Wan stood before him for a moment, dark-eyed, looking Anakin up and down, before he licked his bottom lip. Anakin’s cock twitched in response, and, probably, he should have said something about that, too, but surely they’d done enough talking for one evening.

He tilted his head to the side, baring his throat, and Obi-Wan made a hungry noise, moving closer, one hand on Anakin’s shoulder, the other on the curve of his jaw, head ducking. He stopped, a breath away, and asked, “Are you sure?”

Anakin panted out, “Yes,” half-disbelieving that he was getting what he wanted, half-sure that someone would burst through the door and ruin things, or that he’d wake up, or--

Obi-Wan brushed a kiss across his throat - he hadn’t done that last time - and then there was the cool slide of his teeth and a sting of pain, fleeting, and Anakin bit his bottom lip, fighting not to groan the first time Obi-Wan swallowed.

It felt only natural to put hands on Obi-Wan, tugging him closer, and Obi-Wan, apparently, got more pliable while drinking. He sank forward, teeth shifting in Anakin’s neck as he put one knee on the bed and then the other, as Anakin pulled him down and closer.

It felt only natural for Anakin to sink back, an arm around Obi-Wan’s back to bring him along, so Obi-Wan sprawled over him, one forearm braced by Anakin’s head, his fingers still on Anakin’s cheek and jaw, cool and steady and firm, all the things Anakin felt anything but.

He ran hands down Obi-Wan’s sides, seemed unable to stop himself, fingers flexing at his hips. Obi-Wan stayed on his knees, over him, and Anakin fought the urge to tug him down, to pull their bodies flush together, to get some pressure against his aching cock, groaning - audibly, unable to stay quiet - as Obi-Wan made a thick, pleased sound.

He cried out, softly, when Obi-Wan lifted his mouth away, shifting up onto one hand and looking down, his expression some mix of pleasure and concern, his lips stained red with Anakin’s blood, Anakin’s blood that was inside him, moving through his veins and his heart, touching every part of him, filling him up, and--

“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan asked, voice wrecked, hair falling forward into his face, as though he could not tell that Anakin felt more alright than perhaps he ever had in his life.

“Yes,” Anakin managed to rasp, aware he should probably put something over the bite, but - but it had stopped bleeding on its own last time. And he was having trouble caring about it, gazing up at Obi-Wan, aching with want, knowing the mind healers would tell him to talk about what he was feeling, what he wanted, but--

But he’d surely done enough talking, he thought, sliding one hand up Obi-Wan’s back, curling a grip around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck and tugging him down. And the taste of his blood on Obi-Wan’s mouth made him groan, helplessly, even as he felt Obi-Wan startle against him, before melting, deliciously, down.

#obikin #obi-wan the polite vampire ahahah #polite vampire obi-wan #glimmer replies #ask me anything #spicy adjacent #anakin realizing maybe talking works #ahah :DDD

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berensroadhouse · 4 years ago

Text

(ao3 link)

Davis drags his damp rag across the dusty countertop, sighing deeply once he hits the edge. He scans the barren interior, jumping from empty table to empty table to an empty table with bottles, plates, and crumbs left behind. His previous customers must have dipped when he wasn’t looking. Davis grabs a nearby basket, moving towards the mess. He dumps the plates inside, then the bottles after he guzzles the dregs of beer left behind. Finally, Davis takes what he’s owed. Their bill came out to thirty-eight dollars and ninety-five cents. They paid with two twenties, flat. “Fucking assholes…” Davis pockets the money, returning to his post.

Just another ordinary day at Berens’s.

He brings the used dishware into an equally empty back kitchen, the doors flapping behind him. Davis recycles the bottles and places the dishes in the sink, washing them immediately. As he sets them on the rack to dry, his eyes linger on a framed photograph hanging nearby. He brushes his thumb across a faded face, a wet fingerprint left behind on the glass. Davis smiles, chuckling softly at where water droplets race down Cal’s profile.

He misses him. It’s been so many years, and yet Davis still aches for his touch. Davis remembers the phantom feeling of Cal’s arm draped over his shoulders, of their fingers lacing together, of his nose tracing the lines of Davis’s cheek while they took this picture. It was a beautiful day at the beach for them, on a spring morning where they both decided clear skies were better than the suffocating walls of a lecture hall. They fled the campus and found a deserted shore, and under the cover of an umbrella they talked, ate, and kissed and kissed and kissed until the moon replaced the sun and made Davis’s night-dark skin shine when its light hit him. Cal, in reverence, traced constellations with his lips from memory; him, a creamy-white nebula hovering over Davis’s pitch-black galaxy, both communing in a transcendent ritual. It lasted past curfew. They were grounded. It was worth it.

Someone cuts Davis’s reflection short. A sharp whistle interrupts his thoughts, followed by a gruff, “Anyone home?”

“I’ll be with you in a second!” Davis needlessly dries his hands on the stained apron tied about his waist, hurrying out of the kitchen to greet his new customers.

He finds them waiting by the pool table, the one with deep-brunet hair inspecting the cues while the other, fairer-haired man tickles a hole in the table’s lining. They’re dressed for the beach, in brightly patterned shirts, bathing suits, and flip flops, and Davis prays they haven’t come from it. He doesn’t think his ancient joints can manage an hour of sweeping floors, collecting sand that somehow gets everywhere. Regardless, he plasters a replica of a smile onto his face. He clears his throat, drawing their attention. “Sorry for the wait,” he says, “what can I help you with?”

“Lunch,” Fair Hair says, moving close enough Davis can count the freckles dotting his pinkish cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “What d’you have?”

“Regular fare,” Davis shrugs, “I can get you a menu or –“

“No need,” Fair Hair says, “we’ll have burgers, fries, and beers, the most expensive you have!” Then, as he motions for the darker-haired man to stand beside him, he wraps his arm over the brunet’s shoulders. Davis spies the silver band on Fair Hair’s hand. It matches the one his friend wears. “We’re on our honeymoon,” Fair Hair tells Davis, without invitation to do so.

Davis’s demeanor shifts. A more genuine expression appears on his face, while a warmth rouses the rosebuds sleeping in his chest. It makes their velvet petals bloom, urge forward their aroma, rich and sweet, and causes their thorny brambles to wrap themselves tighter around Davis’s heart. “Congratulations,” he replies, “I don’t have a special newlywed section… but you can sit anywhere, at any table, or the bar… I’ll go and fix up your burgers.” He turns, hiding his glossy, brown eyes before he embarrasses himself. Married men always do this to Davis, unlock a more wistful and sappy part of his soul. Some long-buried piece, that used to dream of a time where he might have had a similar experience to those two on the other side of the kitchen doors.

He places two beef patties on the grill and starts frying oil for the fries.

While cooking, his gaze wander back – as it always does – onto that photo of him and Cal. Inspired by his new customers, he reflects on a memory years after that lazy beach day. They shared an apartment, one that offered little besides its amazing view of the ocean and a balcony they could watch the sun set along the waterline after work. It didn’t matter if Davis’s tips barely added up to a twenty, or that Cal’s eyes went cross from staring at numbers for hours at end, because they’d come home, watch orange bleed into blue, then purple into orange, and when the ink dried above Davis finally went about cooking dinner. Cal watched him; eyes alight like the stove burner that simmered their pasta water. “You deserve your own place,” he told Davis, “that way everyone can have a taste of your amazing cooking.”

Davis shook his head, chuckling. “One day, baby. One day. There’s about a million other things we need to do first, and about half of them involve money.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Cal reached across the counterspace, intwining their fingers. “It might take a while, with how we get paid.”

“It might,” Davis conceded, squeezing Cal’s hand. He brings it up and softly kisses each knuckle. “At least we’re saving where we can. Homecooked meals, cheap place… lucky we can’t get married, so we’re saving money that way.”

Cal frowned, seriousness plaguing him for the moment. He stepped closer, stare intense as he breached Davis’s personal space. “If we could?” he asked, voice hardly a whisper, “would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Want to get married?”

“If they’d let us…” Davis paused, chewing his answer over. He released Cal, moving the steaming pot off the burner. He flicked it off. “I…” He leaned against the stove, arms crossed, “Christ, Cal, I’d want to do more than that.”

Cal arched a brow, head skewed to the side. “What more is there?”

“I’d want a big wedding, with all the bells and whistles,” Davis explained, laughing, “a party, a celebration of you and me as we become… well, you-and-me. Then, after the party, we’d go on a big honeymoon –“

“When we already live next to the beach?”

“A different beach! Maybe an island!” he said, “And once we’ve finished our trip, we’d buy a little property somewhere in the ‘burbs, as we go about looking to adopt.” Davis rubbed his neck, sheepishly peeking through his lashes at a blushing Cal. “What I’m trying to say is… if I could, I’d want more than marriage. I want a life together where we can just… we can be together, without always worrying who might know, y’know? I’d kill for that. Hell, I’d fight to have that.”

Funny, though, that when it came time to fight, Davis lost. He fought the paramedics, but they wouldn’t let him in the ambulance. He fought the doctors, who wouldn’t let him see Cal. He fought Cal’s parents, their harsh words and condemnation like being stoned in front of an eager crowd as they chewed him out for their ‘delusions’. Davis heard Cal passed, but wasn’t there when it happened. He also wasn’t invited to Cal’s funeral, to see him off into his next life. Davis did steal a quick moment, though. A kind nurse took pity on him and snuck Davis down into the morgue. She allowed them a final goodbye, as Davis traced the lines of Cal’s cheek with his thumb and pressed tiny kisses wherever his teardrops fell. “I’m sorry,” Davis croaked, chilled by the waxy numbness of his lover’s lifeless hand, “I’m sorry forever wasn’t as long as we planned.”

Davis assembles the plates messily, mind caught between the past and present like a line of wash. He, hung up by clothespins, is pushed mercilessly by incoming winds. Those clothespins cannot hold forever. The fabric of his body shifts out of their vice-like hold until, finally, he flutters away and out of the kitchen. He returns to the main room of the bar, delivering Fair Hair and his husband’s meals. As expected of newlyweds, they’re wrapped up in each other. The husband whispering into Fair Hair’s ear as they sit on the same side of the table, their fingers laced together atop it. Davis clears his throat, setting the food and drinks down. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” Fair Hair grabs his burger with a free hand, shoving into his mouth despite the silent, amused judgment obviously displayed on the other man’s face. Fair Hair moans around the bite, puffy cheeks bursting with a grin. “Dufe,” he says around soggy chunks of bun and burger meat, “Thif if awesfome!”

“Thanks,” Davis nods, brushing at his apron, “Now, if you need anything, don’t be afraid to holler –“

“Actually,” the husband delays Davis’s exit, pointing behind him and towards the bar. “I was wondering if you could settle something for us.” Davis looks to where he’s directed, at the glowing neon sign that hangs above rows of bottles. It’s similar to the one that brands the front of his business, in a similar script, too. Except where the cowboy hat-and-bandana hovered above ‘Berens’s’ of Berens’s Roadhouse, indoors it was placed next to it. “Dean here,” the husband continues, Dean – Fair Hair’s name, apparently – rolling his eyes at being called out, “thinks there shouldn’t be an extra ‘s’, after the apostrophe…”

“Cas…” Dean whines, unofficially introducing his husband, “You don’t have to –“

Cas continues over Dean, ignoring him. “Meanwhile, I told him that, as long as it’s not plural an ‘s’ should go after the apostrophe. Can you please tell my husband he’s wrong?”

Davis stares at his sign, tracing the curve of the script with his eyes. In the background, Dean argues in a fierce whisper. “Why are you bringing him into this? He’s not gonna admit he’s wrong!”

Cas volleys, backhanding his response at Dean. “It’s his name, Dean, he wouldn’t spell it wrong.”

“Actually,” Davis interrupts, “it’s not my name.” He turns, laughing at their bent brows and Cas’s skewed head and the tiny dots of sauce staining Dean’s mouth. “It was my old boyfriend’s name,” he explains, “Last name.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, burger forgotten for the moment. Cas realizes there’s a meal in front of him and begins picking at it, chewing absentmindedly on a fry. “You named your place after an old boyfriend?”

“Felt only right,” Davis shrugs, “Couldn’t have bought this place without him.” Cal’s job, while lacking pay, had a generous insurance policy. Davis was listed as the sole beneficiary. That, coupled with what Cal left Davis in his will, meant he had enough to buy the little property near the beach like they always planned. Naming it after Cal soothed him, somewhat. That angry, gnarly scar over his chest numbing slightly. “Besides,” Davis says, “at least, with the name… it’s like he’s with me.”

“But not actually with you?” Cas asks, “Like… you haven’t been feeling any cold spots, have you?”

“Cold spots?”

�� The table jolts, saltshaker sliding a few inches to the left. Davis guesses Dean kicked Cas, from the serious edge to his expression and the apologetic wince on Cas’s. “Sorry about him,” Dean apologizes, “he spent the morning binging supernatural podcasts. Y’know… monsters, hauntings, ghosts. Must’ve fried his brain better than the sun could.”

Davis huffs, smiling. He moves towards the bar, leaning against it to better chat with his customers. “Ghosts?” he says, “No… ain’t nothing like that, at least the kind you’re thinking of.” Davis lets himself imagine Cal like that, tethered to this earthly plane even after passing. His battered body floating amongst empty tables and dirty dishes. Cal chained to their dream, making it a nightmare. Davis quickly dismisses this notion. While he misses Cal, Davis knows wherever he is must be better than this failing monument to Davis’s love. “Maybe if I thought it’d help drum up some business, I’d’ve entertained it. But I doubt ghost stories would help this late in the game.”

“Oh,” Cas hums. Davis recognizes the tone, familiar with it. Hears it from his accountant, his sister, and the occasional guest who dawdles in the front before skipping off elsewhere for food. “Is your business failing?”

“Cas!”

Davis watches them descend into another fight. The paradise of honeymoon quickly crumbling, storm clouds rolling across clear blue skies. He walks behind the bar, grabbing an empty glass and filling it with the tap until the rim is frothy. As he meanders his way closer again, he tunes into their conversation. Dean picks at Cas’s bluntness, while Cas defends his claim in an even pitch that makes Dean sound hysterical.

“He’s not wrong,” Davis joins them, sitting at an unoccupied seat, “I mean… you think I’d be here chatting with you two if there were things that needed doing?”

Dean shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable given how he’s looked at the door five times in the span of a minute. “Sorry to hear that.” He guzzles his drink, drowning whatever else he might have said.

Cas resists the threatening tide of awkwardness lapping at their ankles. “It’s odd that this place isn’t more packed,” he tells Davis, “with the amount of people here – the vacationers alone – there should always be a steady stream of customers.”

“Those lemmings?” he snorts, sipping at his beer, “They’re always chasing after the next thing. What’s new? What’s shiny? When Berens’s was new and shiny, we got a lot of traffic. There was a time when you couldn’t walk three steps without bumping into someone else. But then more fancier places were being built… chains and clubs and all that… I couldn’t compete. I mean, Roadhouses are popular in the middle of nowhere when there’s barely anything else to do! But I’d’ve been damned if I had to live somewhere without the ocean. Would never want to be fuckin’ landlocked…” His eyes find that swirling script of Cal’s last name. Something heavy crushes his chest, each subsequent breath more labored. “It does suck though. This was our dream, having a place that was… ours. Even when it was just me, I still went ahead because, I thought, why not? Wasn’t as if I had much going for me after Cal… but every month now it’s like the water rises a bit higher and keeping myself afloat doesn’t seem all that worth it anymore.” He glances back at the newlyweds, seeing how he commands both their attention. He notices a somberness in their gaze Davis does not care for. “What am I doing?” he asks aloud, scoffing “This is your honeymoon. You probably have something like parasailing or jet skiing planned, right? Probably cutting into your time –“

“No, no,” Cas assures him, lips tight as he smothers the pity straining for release. “That’s not it at all –“

“Yeah,” Dean adds, “We’re all jet skied out from yesterday –“

“Dean!”

“And I’m afraid of heights,” he trails off, shoving fries into his mouth, “so that’s a no on parasailing…”

“What he means,” Cas translates for Davis, “is that we don’t mind listening. It must be stressful, running this place by yourself?”

Davis chuckles. “Stressful is an understatement.” He slides his drink back and forth across the table, its rhythmic scraping sound almost hypnotic. Skrt. Skrt. “You’d think being mostly empty would make it easier, but actually it’s worse.” Davis looks away from them, bouncing around the room. He frowns at how stray sunlight highlights the dust covering his furniture or floating in the air. “Getting to the point where I don’t know why it’s worth it, coming back day after day.”

“Because this was your dream,” Cas says, “Yours and Cal’s.” Davis bites his tongue, holstering whatever pointed he comment he had that might burst his bubble. It’s not his fault. Four minutes cannot compare to the four decades of hell Davis lived through without Cal. Forty years of slowly being picked apart by people who didn’t care nor understand what this place meant to Davis. They saw a building where they could eat for an hour, maybe two, and then leave without thinking twice about it. Dean and Cas didn’t plan on gnawing his ear off with this conversation, they stopped by because they were hungry. They were here for their honeymoon, and some of that magic must shield Cas from the harsh reality of Davis’s predicament. He’s blinded from the pain by those romantic, rosy shades. “Doesn’t that make it worth it?”

“It did, at first,” Davis concedes. He rests his elbows on the table, shoulders sagging with the tiniest amount of relief that feels like water on a blistering, arid day. “But I can’t keep doing something because it’s worth doing… not at my age… not with how business is doing.”

Cas bristles, responding with more heat than appropriate. “But what you’ve done, for as long as you’ve done it, it’s been good,” he insists, “why stop now because of a – a slump!” Davis’s good temperament chars from the observation.

He squeezes his drink, hands trembling. “It’s more than a slump,” Davis says, “it’s a freefall. I’ve been putting in all this hard work, and for what? What do I have to show for it?” Davis finishes his drink, meeting Cas’s fierce gaze with his own. “This place’ll probably do better as a condo –“

“You don’t know that.”

“I might not, but some folks do.” He bites his lip, unsure why he hurls his troubles into these strangers’ laps. Davis guesses it’s because Cas’s eyes, while hard, effortlessly prodded at the truth and that Dean listened like he cared for whatever left Davis’s mouth it made him want to say something meaningful. Or perhaps Davis was tired of keeping this to himself, and these saps were the tipping point. “Got some realtors skulking about, always asking when I’m ready to put this place out to pasture. Condos were one thing that was discussed… so were gyms, a dispensary, a parking lot –“

“You’d let them turn this place into a parking lot?” Cas asks.

“I don’t have much of a choice in my position,” Davis says, “They’ve got money that I need.”

“But you said this place… you named it in memory of your love,” Cas murmurs, softer. He shrinks, drooping slightly. Dean gently cups Cas’s neck and massages with such care Davis sucks in a quick breath. Davis feels the memory of a caress on his neck, enough that he ghosts his fingers over the skin there in case someone had touched it. “If you sell… then isn’t that like giving up on him?”

Davis wondered the same things. He spent countless hours awake in bed, worrying about how admitting failure went past the surface. That giving up on Berens’s meant letting go of that final piece of Cal he can call his.

But Davis, weary from these thoughts, has made peace with this sacrifice. “Everyone else already gave up on Berens’s,” he says, “I’ll only be the last…”

“That’s bullshit.” Dean speaks, finally rejoining their conversation. His sudden outburst places him at the center of this conversation, affixed at his husband’s side. “You shouldn’t give up. Cal wanted this place for you, didn’t he? You were only able to buy it because of him.”

“Because he died,” Davis growls, “That’s how. If he knew how much of a shitshow this whole business would’ve been, I doubt he’d have wanted me to use the money for this. Hell, he’d probably hate if I stayed and pissed away the rest of my money trying to keep the lights on in here. Like stopping footprints from being swept smooth by the tide, it’s like.”

“Well…” Dean fumbles, scratching at his plate for something to do. There’s no food left. Neither on Cas’s plate. Davis knows Cas was too busy to eat. “Okay, what if you sold it to people who… who want to run it as it is?”

“I’d ask them how they think they can do this any better,” Davis sighs, slumping backwards. “Besides, there isn’t anyone who wants to do that who’s also eyeing this property.”

“What about us?”

Davis asks Dean what he said. Dean repeats himself. From Cas’s wide-eyed stare, Davis knows he heard correctly. “Really?” he drawls, sarcasm heavily coloring his tone. “You want to buy this place? Like that?”

Dean shrugs, fiddling with his thumbs. He sweats, spotlight too warm for him now. “Uh… yeah?”

“Have you ever run a restaurant before? Or a bar?”

“No,” Dean says, “But I had family, who ran a roadhouse. Helped them a few times when my brother and I stopped over – we traveled, a lot, for work. It was years ago but I still remember a lot of what went into it…” Dean smiles unnaturally. It reminds Davis of those phony grins motivational snake-oil salesmen would coach suckers into doing in front of mirrors, to inspire confidence. “Besides, Cas and I have been looking for a career change.”

“That is true,” Cas adds, brow raised, “Although we never discussed running a roadhouse.”

“Cas, sweetie, I mentioned how owning a bar might be cool.”

“Bars and roadhouses aren’t the same thing.”

Davis coughs, nipping the budding argument while young. “As nice as the offer is,” he starts, “You boys don’t haf’ta buy this place from me because of pity –“

“It’s not pity,” Dean insists, “No, not at all. I…” He glances at Cas, a strange emotion shuddering across his face. Like maybe he’s seen a ghost. That grip on Cas’s neck visibly tightens. “I know what it feels like, wanting to keep something… of someone you love. A physical reminder that they were here and that they mattered and… they mattered to you.”

Cas leans into his husband’s side. “Dean’s very sentimental.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, “I guess you could call it that.” He takes the empty plate with his free hand and stacks it atop the other, pushing them towards Davis, knocking it into the salt-and-pepper shakers and napkin dispenser. “I’ve lost a lot in my life, and I’ve only been so lucky to not just have them come back to me, but to get second chances. Or third chances, or even fourths.” Dean’s lips lift at the corners, flashing a friendly smirk. He definitely appears more relaxed than he did seconds ago. “I want to be the one to give chances, now, because I can. I want to buy Berens’s from you… if that’s okay?”

It’s too good. Davis pinches himself, first. When he doesn’t wake, he knows he isn’t dreaming. He places a hand over his heart. Its strong beat reveals Davis has not died. Still, Davis cannot lower his defenses completely. “This isn’t a sting?” he asks, “Some harebrained scheme cooked up by scuzzy developers to get me to sell?”

“The fuck this look like, Scooby-Doo?”

Cas chuckles, “It might if you brought your ascot with you.”

“Cas –“

“So, you’re…” Davis scrubs a hand over his mouth, pressing it against stubble and focusing on the drag. “You’re serious? About wanting to buy this place?” He huffs a tired breath, tension leaking out of the cracks in his bones and leaving him with little support. Davis collapses on himself, smiling. “What about your honeymoon?”

“Honestly?” Dean laughs, mirroring Davis’s posture, “We were running out of things to do. Probably would have hit the road in a few days, head on back to Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Davis squawks, “You sure you aren’t using this as an opportunity to jump ship from there?”

Cas sips at his drink, a bead of condensation falling off it from how long it went untouched. “We love Kansas,” he tells Davis, “but where we live now it… there’s a lot of baggage there. We want to start fresh.”

“Besides,” Dean adds, “my brother was talking about renovations, making it more… work-friendly. Figured it’s best me and Cas dip and let the little brat have a go at it on his own. He’s earned it, I guess.”

Davis nods. “If that’s all…” His gaze darts to the neon sign, a question in his mind. “Hey,” he says, “if you are plannin�� on doing this… this crazy idea of yours, are you – do you have any preference to what you call this place?”

Dean taps at his chin, drawing the silence longer than necessary. “Well… a few come to mind. Harvelle’s… Campbell’s… Singer’s… hell, I could follow your lead and name it after Cas here, Novak’s – “

“You’re not funny.” Cas elbows Dean hard enough the other man gasps from the pain, the other two delighting from the bug-eyed look that flashes. “We’ll keep it Berens’s.”

“Thank you,” Davis says, standing, “Really… I – this is good. Great, actually. You want another round? On the house?”

“Hey!” Dean protests, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “No giving away free booze! That’s our profit you’re eating into…”

“Not yet,” he jokes, digging through his pockets, “Deed’s not yours until the I’s are dotted and money’s in my hands.” Davis finds what he searched for, tossing a quarter towards them. Cas catches it, effortlessly. “Why don’t you pick something from the jukebox, my treat!”

He rises, and Davis turns to round the bar. Davis grabs three smaller glasses, and the Jameson he keeps on the highest shelf. He pours them each a generous fifth, maybe more. It’s a celebration, after all. As he carries the drinks back over, the opening chords of a familiar song start. Davis nearly drops the drinks.

His expression must concern them, because Cas clears his throat and asks, “Is this okay?”

Elvis croons from the speaker. Davis’s face strains from the too-wide grin threatening to crack his face in twain. “It’s perfect,” he says, settling at the table. He distributes the drinks, Cas joining them. “Cal always dug Elvis.”

“I get it,” Dean says, “guy was a hunk, for the fifties.”

They spend the next hour like that. Getting drunk, discussing the hardships of running a business and debating Elvis’s legacy as ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ plays in the background on loop. During a lull in their conversation, Davis feels, for the first time, that Cal is alive again.

It wasn’t because of the bar, or how it fares. But because of these two men, a sense of calm washed over him. They make Davis hopeful for the future.

Berens’s is in good hands.

#supernatural #spn #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fanfic #destiel wedding #destiel honeymoon #berens's roadhouse

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fanficteen · 4 years ago

Text

Job Description

john winchester x reader

tw self harm; death mention

Scars were as much a part of a hunter’s life as fake badges and cheap hotels, so it wasn’t like anyone was asking questions about bloodstains and ridged skin. You could put a name to many of them, and so could Sam and Dean. There was the one where your appendix should have been, that Sam had stitched up for you, while he and Dean had both wrestled with the tense silence of knowing that you had taken that knife for them. There were the scars on your temples and cheeks, where a demon had been a little overzealous demanding information about your companions. There were wendigo claws, vampire bites, aching memories of shackles and fights. There was even one across your throat, where John’s knife had pressed too hard the day he returned, demanding to know what you had done to his sons to have them house a witch.

You and John got along better now. You didn’t talk about scars. They were in the job description. You did talk about hunts. Although what you had done tonight could hardly be described as talking, you mused, as John slammed the door behind him, growling something about needing a drink. It wasn’t often your arguments went to first round knockouts, but what could you say? I’ve been a hunter my whole life! I knew what I was doing! Yeah? Is that girl’s going in the ground rather than to therapy? Stab. If I’d followed your plan, you and her would’ve both been dead! Don’t turn this on me! You couldn’t handle your emotions and you got an innocent girl killed. And twist. All you could do was stare at the door as John’s footsteps scuffed in the direction of a bar. The adrenaline of the hunt and the fight afterwards seeped out of your veins and you felt your limbs begin to tremble. You reached for the phone. “(Y/N)?” Dean’s voice was soothing, ever familiar, crackling through the phone. “What’s wrong?” “We’re fine,” you assured him, though you knew the quiet rasp of your voice wouldn’t convince him. “Not injured. But I need you to ring your Dad. Make sure he’s okay. He stormed out on me after the hunt.” Because I got someone killed. “What?! What happened?!” “I picked him over an innocent girl,” you admitted, quietly. “He didn’t like that.” You heard the tired sigh at the end of the line and muffled a sob. “Hey, don’t cry. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dean soothed, carefully. “He’ll get over it. Just clean up and get some rest, I’ll take care of Dad.” A choked thank you and you let the line go dead.

You didn’t know how long you spent staring at the door, your thoughts heavy and swirling and painful. The girl, dead on the floor. Just 19. John’s face when you’d cut the vamp’s head off. The tense ride back to the motel. The slamming door. You got an innocent girl killed, and there was anger and disappointment in John’s eyes and you didn’t know which was worse. I should’ve kept hunting alone. I’m better off without you. It was the resignation that hurt the most, you thought. No surprise, just the exhausted weight of being let down. As though he almost expected it. Somewhere in the haze of your thoughts, you’d made it to the bathroom and into the shower, knife clenched tight in your hand. It was an old one, but sharp. You made sure of that. It had been your mother’s once, and you took it with you everywhere. Beneath your pillow when you slept, strapped to your thigh on hunts, hidden under skirts and smiles when it had to be. You watched blood trickle down the drain, dancing patterns of crimson in the trails of hot water and tears. It was almost hypnotic. By the time you stepped out of the shower, you could almost put your body count out of your mind in favour of the robotic haze of clean, dry, cover. Your eyes flitted over the first aid kit and decided against it. No point wasting bandages. A too-big hoodie and leggings and you flicked on the television to drown out the remnants of your thoughts. Some shitty reality shows flickered across the screen and you let it drown into static around you in favour of staring at the mildewing ceiling.

At some point, you became aware of blood still seeping down your arms, oozing from the fresh cuts. Part of you wondered if that was so bad. The other part of you kicked and screamed loud enough to drag your wool-filled mind into action and you found yourself cracking ice out of the mini-bar freezer and pressing it to your bleeding wrists. That would slow the blood flow, right? You didn’t have it in you to find anything to wrap it, so you just sat there, ice cradled in your bleeding arms. Eventually, you registered that the freezer had started to beep in protest and you managed to kick it shut and stagger back to the bed, ignoring the sopping sleeves of your hoodie slipping back down your freezing arms.

“Go to bed, Dean,” John’s familiar drawl sounded, irritably. You heard him begin fiddling with the lock, muttering to himself about calling his damn son to check up on him and felt your heart sink in your chest, though you hadn’t known your spirits could get lower. When the door finally opened, John stumbled over the threshold, clearly well on his way to drunk. And it took a lot to make that man lose his footing. You’d almost forgotten about the fresh wounds until you jumped to your feet to help him. John’s eyes cleared as you hissed, concern furrowing his brow. Great, you upset him, and now he’ll know. You decided not to get any closer as he kicked the door shut behind him. “D’you get hurt on the hunt?” His voice was gruff, but concerned. “Why didn’t you say?” You shook your head, resisting the urge to match each of his steps towards you with one back. “I’m fine.” And now you’d lied to him as well. He raised an eyebrow as you shuffled back a few steps in response to his approach, but paused in his place. “(Y/N).” You didn’t know how he made one word – just your name, which he’d said a million times – sound like an offer and a threat all at once. He took another step forward and you stepped back again. “Sweetheart, let me see.” You could only shake your head and step back again, but then he was there. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face the swirling emotions in those dark eyes, so you just hung your head. “What the hell’s got into you?” He was so close, towering over you, clasping your wrists to keep you from pushing him away, and you could smell the whiskey on his breath. You didn’t realised you’d cried out until he released you, eyes going wide. Then his fingers were pressing your chin up so you were looking at him. “(Y/N), tell me what the fuck is going on.” You could see the question, the almost-pleading in his eyes as he reached for your arms again and you were too tired to push him away. Too tired to run again, like you had so many times. He pushed back your sleeves.

Your forearms were stained red, a mixture of blood and icy grey skin. A few pale patches were forming and you frowned at them, wearily. His voice was barely a breath as he swore. Then there was movement again, and all you could do was sit, as a warm cloth peeled away some of the dried blood, soothed the fragile skin. Then it was burning. You whimpered, ready to pull your arm away but John held it. “I know. I know, sweetheart, but I have to warm it or it’ll get worse.” His grip was firm, but careful to avoid the sensitive skin as much as he could. So you bit your lip and tried to ignore the burning until it was gone. Until all that was left was the slight sting of antiseptic as John bound bandages over your wounds. “This ‘cause of what I said?” he asked, eventually. “You know I didn’t mean it? It’s better with you around. You’re a fine hunter.” Each word dripped with more fear, more anger than the last. Who he was angry with, you weren’t sure. “’S not your fault.” You wanted nothing more than to curl in on yourself and disappear. Make this whole week fade away. The girl would still be alive, John wouldn’t be angry with you, and he certainly wouldn’t be looking at you with those morose, dark eyes, heavy with something you didn’t understand. Realisation flickered across his face, chased by more fear.

“Take these off.” “You don’t wanna –“ “Take them off, (Y/N).” There was no point refusing, so you stripped, revealing all the long, pale ridges along your arms, the newly scabbing cuts on your thighs. Memories you would rather forget, carved into your skin. John didn’t say anything as he handed you one of his shirts. “I can get–“ “Just put it on.” You obeyed, then he knelt between your legs and cleaned your wounds again. And then he was done, and the silence was back, almost worse than it had been before, as he packed the first aid kit away. At least the first time, you had known what to say. Had known what he would say. Hunting was a safe subject. Scars were not. Especially these ones. So you just sat there, as he packed the first aid kit away and folded your bloody clothes out of sight. As he locked the door and turned off the bathroom lights. As he sat beside you on the end of the bed, and sighed. “(Y/N)–“ “I’m sorry.” You cut him off, willing your voice not to break. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll–“ “No.” You wondered how many times a heart could break. “Don’t apologise for how I feel about it. This ain’t about me.” “Sorry.” You winced and he noticed, running a hand down his weary face with a sigh. Then a surprisingly hesitant hand found your chin and he turned you to look at him. “Sweetheart–“ The pet name broke you, this time, and you couldn’t stop the tears welling up in your eyes, falling freely down your cheeks. “Oh, darlin’.” His arms were warm around you, pulling you into his firm chest, one hand combing through your hair. And he let you cry, steady as a rock, murmuring words you didn’t hear but knew anyway. By the time your sobs subsided, even the music from the bar had faded into the night. John simply lifted you into his arms and laid you under the covers, still snuggled to his chest, without a word.

#john winchester x reader #john winchester #supernatural x reader #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #tw self harm #tw death #tw drinking #tw shouting #tw scars #winchester x reader

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slytherinbarnes · 5 years ago

Text

Sub Rosa [9]

ix. unity day

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Language, drinking, violence/fighting, implied character death, sad things.

Summary: Unity Day welcomes an ironic twist, when a meeting with the Grounders results in everything except unity.

a/n: happy show day bbs. let’s pretend everything is okay, and just watch this cute smiley gif of Bellamy that I made for this chapter bc he is baby and I love him! also, yes, the taglist for this series is OPEN! also also, yes all of your sweet comments and reblogs DO make me scream with happiness, so thank you!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

You drop down from your perch in your tree, where you spent the better half of the morning watching the Unity Day celebrations from above. As your feet hit the ground, you meander over to the crowd gathered to watch Jaha’s speech, catching the end. “To our sons and daughters on Earth listening to this message, we will see you soon. The first Exodus ship will launch in under sixty hours, carrying you the reinforcements that you need, so stay strong. Help is on the way.”

You roll your eyes as he finishes, before the Unity Day pageant begins. You watch in relative interest, as the crowd around you thins in favor of the Unity Juice that Jasper is passing around. You move closer to the screen as the story of the Ark is told, and you feel someone come up beside you. You know it’s Clarke before she even opens her mouth. “Unity Day right?”

You scoff, catching onto her tone. “We all know the history of the Ark. Refusing to acknowledge the violence doesn’t erase the fact that it happened.” You turn to look at her, shrugging. “Besides, I never got to enjoy it like you guys did. I was always locked up, forced to listen to the celebrations over the speakers.”

She says nothing, and instead turns to watch the pageant. As the story continues, there’s a strange sound before the comms cut out, leaving nothing behind but static. You and Clarke exchange confused glances, and you mutter, “Strange.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it, who knows what’s going on up there.” She takes a breath before turning fully to face you. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but mom will be down in two days.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not saying you need to forgive her. I’m just saying that you need to be ready to deal with this, to see her and maybe work with her, even if you don’t forgive her.” She squeezes your arm, “Just think about it.”

You watch as she walks off, before you shake your head and move to the perimeter, opting instead to spend a little time on security.

Night comes quickly, and with it, the sounds of partying only grow louder. As more Unity Juice makes its way around camp, you trade out on detail, and move to check on the comms. You aren’t surprised to find Clarke already there, tinkering with the static screen. “Still dead?”

She looks up, “Yeah, there’s nothing.”

She stands up straight and looks around, and you watch her eyes catch on the partying. You smile a little, “You should join them.”

Her eyes flit to yours, surprised, and she immediately shakes her head. “Me? No. There’s still too much to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait until morning.” You bump her shoulder with your own. “As our top medical professional and the unofficial leader of this camp, you deserve a night off.”

“I’m not the only leader. You, me, and Bellamy share that title.” She turns to you, a smirk on your face. “Maybe you should go tell him to party. Let loose with him.”

You pull a face and shake your head, “I know what you’re thinking, and no. He’s an ass, and he’s not my type.”

She laughs, and you smile at the sound. “How would you know your type? You were-”

She cuts herself off, expression dropping, looking uncomfortable. You laugh and turn to her, “I was locked up. It’s okay Clarke, you can say it. It’s not like it isn’t the truth.”

When she stays quiet, you grab her hand. “C’mon, we’re gonna go get a drink together, AND just to appease you, I’ll bring one to Bellamy.”

Her grin splits her face, and she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Really? Ooooo.”

You roll your eyes and lead her to the fire in the middle of camp, picking up two cups of juice, handing one to your twin. You turn to face each other, and your mouth lifts in a smile. “To the stars.”

Her smile matches yours, “To the moon.”

You both tap the cups together before swallowing the juice quickly, urging it past your tongue and down your throat before you can think about the taste. You scrunch your nose as you feel it trace a path through your body, and you smile when you find Clarke’s expression matching your own. You both laugh and you have to control the feeling spreading through your body, a mixture of pure joy and a nostalgia for something you’ve never gotten to experience before. Going to a party with your twin sister.

She pulls you from your thoughts by lifting two cups to your face, a smirk hidden behind her neutral expression. “Appease me.”

You grab the cups with an eye roll and scan the camp for Bellamy, finding him quickly near the edge of the party, watching everything with a smile on his face. Your stomach flips, and you tell yourself it’s the Unity Juice. You head towards him, turning to glance at your sister, who is full blown laughing now. You shake your head and turn back, coming to a stop in front of Bellamy. He smiles, “Best Unity Day ever.”

He lifts the apple in his hand to take a bite, as you lift the drink to him. He takes it with his empty hand, and glances down at the other cup in your hand. “Didn’t know you were the type to let loose.”

A laugh blows past your lips, “Never really had the chance before this.”

His smile drops a fraction of an inch, and you regret being the reason why. His eyes find the Ark in the sky. “Your mother comes down in two days. You ready to face her?” His eyes drop and lock with yours, “You ready to forgive her?”

“I don’t want to talk about my mother.” You lift your glass and give him a one sided cheers, before draining it in a single gulp. When you lower the cup, you can see mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Well I guess that’s that then.” And then he lifts his glass to do the same.

You don’t know how long it’s been when Clarke finds you and Bellamy, plopped beside each other, side by side, laughing. “Hey Clarke, are-”

You lift your eyes to greet her, cutting yourself off when you see her face, expression etched with that serious look she gets. “I need to talk to you.” Her eyes shift from yours to Bellamy. “Both of you.”

You stand, a little uneasy on your feet, and you feel Bellamy shift onto his feet beside you. “What’s wrong?”

“Finn's set up a meeting with the Grounders. I'm leaving to go talk to them.”

You rear back in shock, and Bellamy stills beside you, voice coming out in a quiet angry way that scares you a little. “Because you think that impaling people on spears is code for ‘let's be friends’? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Bellamy is right, Clarke.”

She shrugs, “I think it might be worth a shot. I mean, we do have to live with these people.”

“They'll probably gut you, string you up as a warning.”

Her voice drops, “Well, that's why I'm here. I need you both to follow us, be our backup.”

You think about Finn, and all his anti violence rhetoric. “Does Finn know about this?”

She turns to you, “Finn doesn't need to know.” She grabs your hand, giving you a serious look. “And bring guns.”

You nod your head and squeeze her hand. “Be careful.”

She squeezes back and walks away, leaving you and Bellamy to make a beeline for the weapons tent. When you both step inside, Jasper and Raven are already there, lost in conversation. Bellamy starts talking as soon as he sees them. “Jasper, you're coming with me.”

“I am?”

You lift a gun and hand it to Bellamy, who passes it to Jasper. “You handled yourself well in the cave with the Grounder.”

“I mean, I hit him in the head.”

You step over to the bullets and start grabbing some, but Raven puts her hand on your arm to stop you. “If you're planning on shooting anything, you better think twice. I haven't checked those yet.”

You shrug her off, “Then give me some bullets that work.”

“What do you need them for?”

You say nothing, and turn to look at Bellamy, who just shrugs in response. You turn back to her and give her a glare. “Your boyfriend's being an idiot. And has now dragged my twin into his idiocy.”

You see her face drop, and regret mentioning Clarke, just a little. She hands you a few magazines full of bullets. “I'm coming with you.”

You shrug, “We can always use one more.”

You turn and hand some of the bullets to Bellamy before you both exit the tent, Raven and Jasper right behind you. Bellamy nudges your arm and then points, and you follow his finger and see Clarke and Finn ducking out of camp. You turn to Bellamy and nod, letting him take point before you follow, the other recruits hot on your heels.

Most of the hike is spent in silence, trying to keep Finn from hearing the group following behind them. Night bleeds into day, and you feel yourself growing sober with every step you take. You never thought you’d miss Unity Juice, yet here you are. As the terrain slopes down, Finn and Clarke stay level as your group goes down below. Eventually the trees open up over a small creek and a bridge, and you can see Clarke and Finn standing side by side, with...Octavia.

Your brows lift in surprise, and Jasper whispers, “What's Octavia doing here?”

You all watch as the Grounder from before runs across the bridge, catching Octavia in a hug as she flings himself into his arms. You nod, your earlier suspicions now proven correct, as Raven reaches the same one. “I guess we know how he got away.”

Beside you, Bellamy tenses, and you reach out to put a hand on his arm. He turns towards you and his eyes soften a bit, before you give him a small smile and a nod. He nods in return and you both turn back to the scene, watching as the Grounder angrily eyes Clarke, and she shifts back and forth, nervous. You feel your fingers tense around your gun, but before you can react, Finn reaches out and grabs Clarke’s hand. You turn and look at Raven, her face fallen, and realize how stupid you were for directing your anger at her on behalf of Clarke. Because Finn is clearly the problem.

You turn back to the bridge, watching as three horses emerge from the shadows, and a woman slides off one of the horses and makes her way towards Clarke, who is now walking to the center of the bridge, alone. You watch through your scope, trying to make out what they’re saying, but unable to. All you can see is the anger on the Grounder woman’s face. Raven says as much. “Grounder Princess looks pissed.”

Behind you, Jasper mutters, “Oh, no. No. This is bad.”

Bellamy spins towards him, and you watch as Jasper lifts his scope to the sky. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There’s Grounders in the trees.”

“What?”

“Where?”

“Are you sure?”

You all lift your guns and look around, scanning the trees nervously. You lower your gun when you don’t see anything, and turn to give Bellamy a concerned look. “I don't see anything.”

“They're gonna shoot!” And before any of you can stop him, he jumps from behind the treeline, screaming, “Clarke, run! Run!”

He lifts his gun and immediately starts firing, and you watch as a Grounder falls from a tree. You lift your gun and turn towards the Grounder woman, aiming as she pulls a knife from her sleeve. You pull the trigger and fire a single bullet, watching as it catches her in the shoulder. Clarke turns to look at you, scared, her eyes locked on yours. You nod once, and then turn back to the trees, firing as Raven yells behind you, “Go, go, go!”

You and Bellamy cover them as they run back into the woods, and you watch in relief as Clarke, Finn, and Octavia slip behind the trees, heading into safer territory.

You and Bellamy turn and leave, covering each other, sprinting up the hill and meeting up with the others as you tear through the trees, ignoring the branches that tear and scratch you. You run until the sun drops from the sky and the walls of the camp come into view, and only then do you all stop, doubling over to catch your breath.

You look around at the others, and your eyes land on Finn, who is leveling a glare at Clarke. If looks could kill. You step closer to him, brushing past Bellamy to glare right back. “You got something to say?”

Finn stands tall, still looking at Clarke, voice loud. “Yeah. I told you, no guns!”

She steps beside you, radiating anger. “I told you we couldn't trust the Grounders! I was right.”

Raven cuts in right after, exasperated. “Why didn't you tell me what you were up to?”

He spins towards her, “I tried, but you were too busy making bullets for your gun!”

Bellamy jumps to Raven’s defense, “You're lucky she brought that! They came there to kill you, Finn.”

“You don't know that! Jasper fired the first shot!”

Octavia glares at Jasper, “You ruined everything.”

“I saved you! You're welcome.”

Octavia storms off and Jasper follows, clearly upset. Finn turns back to Clarke, “Well, if we weren't at war already, we sure as hell are now. You didn't have to trust the Grounders. You just had to trust me.”

Finn storms off into the camp, with Raven right behind, calling his name. You, Clarke, and Bellamy exchange glances, thinking the same thing. He turns to you, shaking his head. “Like I said, best Unity Day ever.”

Behind you, a loud sound rips through the air, and you all turn to look at the sky, watching as a bright light races across it. Bellamy muses, “The Exodus ship? Your mom's early.”

Clarke lets out a laugh and you feel your skin pull tight with anxious energy. But as you all watch the ship, her smile fades. “Wait. Too fast. No parachute? Something's wrong.”

And as soon as she gets the words out, the ship disappears behind a range of mountains. Seconds later, a bright light flashes through the sky, followed by an explosion. You jolt back as if the explosion hit you, mouth dropping open in shock. Beside you, Clarke shifts, and then stumbles, dropping to her knees, a choked sob escaping her throat. You drop down beside her, wrapping your arms around her as she sobs, crying out for the only parent you both had left.

You feel Bellamy lower down behind you, placing a strong hand on your shoulder and Clarke’s. Later you’ll wonder when things changed between you and him, when your mutual hatred started to ebb. Whether it was gradual, or all at once. Whether it was ever really hatred at all, or just misplaced anger. But for now, you hold your twin close, comforting her as she cries for your mother.

It’s hours later before you pull yourself up into your tree, and allow yourself to think about her. And just as you start to get lost in thought, a voice drifts up from below. “Anyone home?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come up?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

You wait and listen, the sound of boots scraping against bark and grunts as he pulls himself higher. And then, a dark head of hair pops into view, followed by a face full of freckles, cheeks pink from exertion. He pulls himself up beside you and leans heavily against the trunk, catching his breath. You hide a smile and let your gaze lift to the stars, watching as the Ark blinks across the sky. Bellamy lets out a breath, and then, “You couldn’t have picked a lower branch?”

You breathe out a laugh, and glance over at him, watching as his eyes scan your face. You blush and look back up. “Better view up here.”

“You’re fond of the sky.”

You smile, and turn to look at him. “Because of my dad. He used to teach me the constellations, tell me all the stories, answer every question I had. It was our thing. Everything else was Clarke’s thing. But this,” you glance at the sky again, “This was all mine.”

You sigh, look down and pick at your nails. You can still feel Bellamy’s gaze heavy on your face. “I spent my entire life eclipsed by her. Weird to think that now she’s all I have left.”

You feel tears start to well up in your eyes, and Bellamy shifts closer, putting his hand on your knee. “I thought I wanted her dead. But now that she is…” You glance at him, remembering his mom. “I know that’s selfish. Your mom was taken from you and I wished mine away. But I was so angry. Angry that she turned in my father, angry that she took the only person that really understood me. Because, despite being a twin, I knew they favored her more. Clarke was better behaved, so she was chosen to see the Ark, be in the open. Clarke got the best grades, top choice for an apprenticeship, the undying favor of our mother. And I got a mother that always seemed ashamed of her secret.”

You fall silent, letting the anger squish out the sadness, until none of it remains. Bellamy takes a breath and his voice is quiet when he says, “You’re allowed to feel conflicted, you know. She was your mom, who, despite everything, kept you a secret until you were born because she didn’t want to give you up. And she gave up your father, for whatever her reasons were, and you’re allowed to be angry about that too. But don’t let that anger poison you and your relationship with your sister.” His voice drops softer, “Trust me.”

You look over at him, and his hand squeezes your knee. “You are not Clarke, and that is a good thing. You always talk about how bright she shines, but the stars don’t light up the darkness like the moon can. The stars don’t control the tide. The stars are important, but the moon is our guiding light.”

You feel tears squeeze your throat for a different reason, but you swallow them back down, whispering a quiet, “Thank you.”

He nods and you both fall into silence, shifting your gaze from Bellamy, to the guiding light that sits high in the sky.

next chapter

#bellamy blake x reader #bellamy x reader #bellamy blake fanfiction #bellamy blake x you #the 100 #the 100 fanfiction #bellamy blake x y/n

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tremendoussaladtyrant · 5 years ago

Text

Party Girl - Chapter 2 - JJ x Reader

Chapter 1 here

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: Swearing, underaged drinking (basically the same as the actual show).

Synopsis: JJ x reader where reader feels trapped in her upper class world and meets JJ at a party before having her life turned on it’s head.

I feel like this was just a means to a end to get JJ and (Y/N) to do something more interesting together so I promise the next chapter will be a bit more exciting. This was just a filler chapter so I swear it will get more interesting next time.

The sand fells nice against your feet as you dig your toes into the beach floor. Your head is slightly buzzed but not from alcohol, instead it is aching from the absence of it. You’d taken pain killers to try and soothe your killer hang over but they hadn’t seemed to help much – you have always suffered from the worst of hang overs even when you only get barely drunk. Sighing frustrated you throw your body back into the sand, the reminiscence of the high tide leaving the back of your head slightly wet.

Your parents hadn’t dug into you about last night like you thought they would. Instead when you had gotten out of the waiting room, they had looked concerned. You had immediately written this off as a façade, playing the part of whatever story they had spun to get you off the hook with no charges and no record of the incident. They had probably bought the police’s silence but you didn’t want to know – money really can defy all legal expectations. When you had got home, you mother had fussed over you, even going as far as to bring you a hot drink once you were safely tucked into bed. Blake seemed to have disappeared since the incident, you hadn’t seen him at breakfast and had therefore had to eat your food alone, both your parents being at work.

Your brother being missing and both of your friends not responding to your messages, you feel extremely lonely and what could have been a nice day has turned into you lying in the sand over thinking. The only other person at the beach is someone out surfing and whoever it is, is far to far out to hear you. The desolation of the beach only adds to your lonely feeling.

You continue to dig your feet into the sand and just wallow in self-pity, the sun working on your ever-darkening tan. Suddenly you hear a yell and you bolt up, looking out to the sea which is where you think the noise came from. You see the surfer go under and you stand up quickly, focusing on the spot where he went under and waiting for him to come up. When he doesn’t come up straight away, panicking you discard your stuff and run into the waves.

The sea feels foreign around your body – you hadn’t been swimming in it since the loss of your scuba lessons – and you push forward, until you can no longer stand in the water. Swimming also feels strange but your body has not forgotten the movement, if anything it feels kind of nice to start swimming again aside from your concern for the surfer. You’re not as strong as you used to be and battling the ocean doesn’t come easily, the waves don’t bite at you because the weather out is nice but they are still big and hard to push through. Your only about half way towards where the boy went under when a wave comes crashing down on top of you, holding your breath and closing your eyes you fight back a scream. When you resurface your flushed and panting, eyes stinging from the salt in the water when you open them.

You resist the urge to go back to the shore and push on until you get to where the persons surf board is. The first thing you see is a blond mop of soaking wet hair, the boy is holding onto his board for dear life and cursing rapidly.

“Hey, are you okay – JJ?” You exclaim in surprise as the boy turns around and makes his face visible to you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He says giving you a weird look.

“I saw you go down and – you know what you can stop being so rude. I’m sorry I tried to save your-”

“You know what forget it. Leave the talking for later, I think I’ve cut my foot.” Your demeanour immediately softens as you look at him in worry.

“Is it bad?” You ask, still paddling around in the water to keep yourself afloat.

“Well I don’t know, princess. Maybe you can swim down, have a look and tell me.” He says sarcastically.

“I’ll ignore your attitude because your injured.” He scoffs at your comment before proceeding to wince in pain. “Let’s get you back to the beach and I’ll take a look at it.”

“Since when were you a doctor? Are you going to dress up in a nurses-”

“Let’s go, JJ” You say sternly, rolling your eyes at his idiotic comment.

You both paddle back to the shore quickly, JJ complaining all the way. You throw yourselves onto the sand, panting and laying on the beach.

“Let me have a look at your foot,” you say moving over to the boy and lifting his foot up slightly so you can get a better look.

“Ouch, that hurts!” He cries in protest to your movement of it.

“Stop whining, you big baby,” You reply, having barely even touched the wound. Taking your shirt off to reveal your bikini top you begin to tie it around JJ’s foot.

“It’s a pretty nasty cut.” You thorough your brows as you look at it more carefully.

“No shit Sherlock, I could have told you that.”

“Why are you so rude to me?” You place his foot back on the ground and look him in the eyes. He turns away from your gaze.

“Cause you’re a kook, duh.” He doesn’t look you in the eyes as he says this but you can hear the malice behind the words.

“Just because I have money doesn’t mean I’m a nasty person.” His comments annoy you and you raise a brow at him.

“Is this really the time to be doing this? Arguing I mean.”

“Well I’m not helping you until you drop the attitude.”

“Fine, I’ll fix this myself.” He says spitefully and tries to get up before falling back down into the sand with a huff.

“Right, right.” You say sarcastically, rolling your eyes at his attempt.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Just help me please.” He huffs out.

“Awe, now was that really that hard?” You tease as you help him up, his right arm draped around your shoulder. He huffs at you but you can tell that it isn’t full of malice or annoyance like before. “Frick that’s really bleeding, is your house close? Where can I take you?”

“Not my house,” JJ says quickly; almost too quickly.

“If not there then where? You know what, we can just go to the corner shop. They will have bandages and… yeah” You stress.

“What about my board?” JJ stops limping along, bringing you to a halt as well.

“Are you really worried about your surf board at a time like this?”

“Have you any idea how much that shit costs?” JJ says indignantly.

“I’ll come back for it later. Now move it soldier, we have a cut to wrap up.”

“What if it is gone?” JJ questions as you try and pull him forward.

“Then I’ll buy you a new one, now come on.” Sulkily he starts walking again and you aren’t walking for long until you reach the shop. It is just a little store selling all essentials, but you know that there are medical supplies behind the counter.

“You can’t come in like that,” you help JJ onto a low wall and leave him to sit there.

“Be quick, Princess. I’m not getting any younger here.” You begin to slowly walk towards the shop, mocking JJ. You smile back at him, he rolls his eyes jokily at you, a smile gracing his lips. You decide that he looks a lot nicer when he smiles. Remembering the serious nature of the situation at hand, you pick up your pace and push open the door to the shop. You hear the bell tinkle above your head.

You think through what you are going to need to buy. Wrapping for the cut and something to clean it with. What if it needs stitches? You curse lowly, deciding to cross that bridge if you come to it. Walking to the counter of the shop you order cotton-pads, a bottle of antiseptic, some wrapping to replace the shirt you tied around his foot earlier and spotting a packet of pain killers you pick them up as well as some water. As you pay, the shop assistant gives you a strange look, but you ignore it and declining the plastic bag ( yes, (Y/N) saving the environment) you leave the shop to return to JJ who is sitting where you left him, untying your shirt from around his foot.

“Hey, you couldn’t have waited until I got back to do that?” You question him, placing the things down on the ground next to him.

“You sure took your sweet time and I was bored.” JJ whines in defence, throwing the shirt on the ground at his feet.

“Oi, that’s my shirt. Treat it with a bit of respect.” You say in mock shock, grabbing the pain killers and water and handing them to him. He chugs the water, before opening the packet of pain killers and popping two pills out and swallowing them as well.

“I doubt you will be able to wear that shirt again anyway.” He passes you the bottle of water back which is now only half full.

“I’m going to poor some of this on your foot to get the blood away.” You gesture to the water bottle as you say this and he nods, watching as you kneel down and, cradling his foot in your lap, you poor some of the water onto it.

“Fuck,” he says before turning red, embarrassed.

“You know it is alright to say that it hurts, right?” You continue clearing the blood away, taking some of the cotton-pads out of the packet to soak up the residue.

“It doesn’t hurt.” JJ huffs, not looking you in the eye.

“Sure, sure.” You place the used cotton pad on the ground next to you. “It doesn’t look too deep; it is just big.” He doesn’t reply and you pick up the bottle of antiseptic and poor some of it onto a cotton pad. “This is going to sting a little bit.”

As you rub at JJ’s foot with the cotton pad, you see him squeeze his eyes closed in pain and flinch with every dab of the cotton pad.

“Nearly done, JJ” Your concerned but knowing it needs to be done, you push on, cleaning his cut. “There all done.”

“Oh, thank god.” He smiles lightly at you.

“You can’t tell me that didn’t hurt.” You say as you start to bandage him foot.

“Only a little bit,” he says teasingly and you scoff letting yourself laugh slightly. You secure the bandage before patting his leg lightly and standing up. It is only then that you notice neither you or JJ are wearing any shoes. You remember your bag with your shoes and phone in it, left back at the beach and your lips curls in worry.

“What are you thinking about?” JJ questions you, looking up at your face from where he is perched on the wall.

“I left my phone at the beach; I’ll be lucky if someone hasn’t stolen it.”

“Do you want to go back and get it now? I need my surf board so we could go together,” JJ suggests and you can’t help but notice how much nicer he is being; you are thankful for it.

“I mean my car is parked close to the beach, so we could go get our things and then I could give you a lift home.”

“I can walk,” JJ says stubbornly.

“Oh, stop being stubborn. You’ll only make your foot worse.”

You and JJ make your way back to the beach, JJ limping slightly but no longer needing to be supported by you.

“Come on old man,” you say jokingly to JJ as he lags behind a little bit. He smiles slightly and picks up his pace despite the protests of his foot.

When you get to the beach, you can’t see your bag, nor JJ’s surf board.

“For fucks sake,” JJ says under his breath, looking around the beach for any sign of the thief.

You kick the sand, annoyed, wondering how you are going to explain this to your parents. “I guess I owe you a new surf-board then.” You say to JJ trying to cheer him up.

“I thought you were joking about that; you really don’t have to.”

“No, a deal is a deal. Besides money isn’t a problem for me.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Oh, come on. I know a woman who runs a surf shop on the main land. The least you can let me do is get you a discount.” You say, turning around to face JJ. “I need to go there to get a new phone before my parents find out and you need to get a surf board. You can protect me from all the creeps there and I can get you that discount. It’s a win, win.”

“Okay, fine.” JJ says and you can’t help but feel a bit happy that he is going to accompany you. It is nice for you to be around someone so genuine. “Can we go get my stuff, it’s a bit over that way.” He points to the right and you nod, following him down the beach.

His things are well hidden in a little corner of the beach. He just has a zip up hoodie, a shirt and some shoes there. He picks up the shirt and throws it on, covering his bare chest. You hadn’t really taken any time to admire his figure before hand but as he puts his shirt on you can’t help but stare at his bare chest.

“See something you like?” JJ grins.

“Shut-up,” you choke out, face flaming red in embarrassment. JJ just laughs before chucking you his hoodie. You look at him questioningly.

“Put it on, it’s not like you have a shirt to wear anymore.” You smile gratefully at him and putting the things you bought earlier down you put it on. Once it is on you both set off to your car, you leading the way.

The drive to JJ’s friend’s house – which is where he asked you to take him – is relatively short so not much is said. When you pull into the drive way of a little wooden house, you park your car and JJ gets out. You get out after him.

“When do you want to go to the mainland,” you question referring to the trip to get your new phone and JJ a surf-board. “I can’t exactly give you my number, so if we are going to do it, we need to sort it out now.”

“Right, are you free Wednesday?” You nod. “Meet me at the docks, Wednesday at 3.”

“Alright, deal. You better be there; I know where your staying now so you can’t back out.” You reply jokingly and he laughs.

“I’ll be there.”

“JJ,” someone yells from inside the house. The boy from the fight comes through the front door. “Dude, who’s this and what the hell happened to your foot?”

“Surfing man, I fell oof my board and cut it somehow. She fixed it up and brought me here.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m (Y/N).” You introduce yourself to the boy.

“John. B, aren’t you Blakes little sister?” Both JJ and John. B look at you imploringly.

“Um, yeah.” You say rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. “I best be going though, before my parents start wondering where I am.”

“See you then,” John B says waving nonchalantly.

“Thanks for the lift, (Y/N).”

You give JJ a wave before getting in your car and driving yourself home, still wearing his hoodie.

@tangledinsparkles @maybebanks

#jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #obx #john b #outer banks #outer banks imagine #outer banks imagines #jj x reade #jj maybank fanfiction #outer banks fanfiction #jj x oc #jj maybanks obx #jj+x+reader

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