#got em both for cheap. they were babies when i got em as a kid. those two got along with each other so well despite

[aria0fgold]

Got reminded bout my childhood pets, the cutest lil critters ever, my dearest hamsters <3 I will forever love those two. My dearest Champion and beloathed, beloved Annabelle <3

[yeyinde]

past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral. 

It starts in Madrid. 

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers. 

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic. 

A family. Children. 

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat. 

You've never seen your Captain look like this. 

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader. 

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close. 

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance. 

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't. 

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache. 

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush. 

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself. 

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke. 

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end. 

Well, that isn't entirely true. 

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch. 

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch. 

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too. 

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless. 

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on. 

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain. 

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy. 

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head. 

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.  

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response. 

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue. 

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response. 

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad. 

Dangerous, even. 

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different. 

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue. 

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now: 

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there. 

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour. 

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it. 

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting." 

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane. 

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?" 

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love." 

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend. 

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat. 

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning. 

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod. 

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle. 

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar. 

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability. 

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable. 

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns. 

You know because, now, you're always watching him. 

A silly little girl with a crush. 

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?" 

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face. 

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you. 

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over. 

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered. 

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race. 

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same. 

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door. 

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison. 

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you. 

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it. 

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test. 

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it. 

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed. 

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy." 

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent." 

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be. 

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes. 

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together. 

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there. 

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo— 

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes. 

He calls it. Yeah? 

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue. 

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow." 

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir." 

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing." 

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust. 

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir." 

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn. 

"John." 

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting. 

You don't know where it starts. 

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear. 

"Gotta stop this, love." 

The first thought: he knows. 

The second: he knows. 

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad. 

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back. 

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose. 

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke. 

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you. 

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear. 

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them. 

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash. 

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't. 

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back. 

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong. 

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it. 

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda. 

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company. 

Mornings met by the coffee maker. 

No tea, it seems. 

They have tea, sir. 

Not the good kind. 

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British. 

Only that? 

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it. 

But he is. 

Always. 

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission. 

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean. 

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear. 

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it? 

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence. 

This feels inevitable. 

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer? 

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever. 

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you. 

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be. 

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out. 

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot. 

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation. 

But he is. 

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant. 

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts. 

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard. 

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch. 

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting. 

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time. 

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John. 

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering. 

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it. 

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier." 

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean. 

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white. 

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony. 

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core. 

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard. 

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought. 

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips. 

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear. 

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine. 

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you. 

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums. 

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling. 

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss. 

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion. 

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin. 

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling. 

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours. 

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain. 

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes. 

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit. 

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm. 

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue. 

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn. 

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut. 

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid. 

It's always like that with him, you find. 

His warmth bleeds into your palm. 

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers. 

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in. 

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn. 

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue. 

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it. 

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke. 

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now. 

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know." 

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

[deniigi]

So @petrichordiam and I are menaces and giggled over our ideal dinluke flower shop AU for like 4 hrs and then I wrote this.

Title: murderer next door

Summary: Din works as a florist and Luke works as a bookseller and they’re both assassins trying to keep the other off their turf.

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

Two times now, Luke had crashed past that flower shop, and two times now, the fucker inside had taken out his mark. Now all Luke had to say about the whole thing was that it was too bad that he was going to have to kill the guy.

Han told him not to turn back. The mark was dead; the mark was gone. They weren’t fast enough this time, but there would be others.

Luke just couldn’t let it go, though. He had rent to pay, and McFloristApron over there was smashing through all his targets and making that nigh impossible—regardless of how many marks there were in the area.

Luke waited until Han had closed up shop for the night and remained there in the dark with his arm slung over the back of the chair in the backroom, surrounded by books. He rolled his shot of whiskey in its tumbler. The sound against the old wood table offered no comfort.

He stood up and left the glass to get his laptop.

He wasn’t losing to some florist, Han, sorry. Only one family could take innocuous cover on this street, and it was them.

 ---

McFlorist’s name wasn’t listed on the florist’s staff page, but then again, none of the people on that page had names. In fact, the website’s whole vibe was all wedding-chic until you clicked on the ‘staff and contacts’ tab. Then, it may as well have been a line of mugshots.

Luke squinted along the row of increasingly involved headgear until he got to someone with a reasonably-sized neck with no tats. The ladies on either side of him appeared to have sapped all the ink out of McFloristApron. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face and gave a stoic thumbs up to the camera.

Under his picture was the number fifteen.

Damn.

Luke was only making eight per pop. Who the hell was this guy eating up all the feeder fish, huh? Them lower division folks had to eat too, you know.

Well.

‘Lower division’ in a sense of the word. Being two times undercover wasn’t super glamorous, Luke had to say. But when your dad fucked it up for the first family, sometimes you had to take what you could get.

Luke pointed at Fifteen on the screen.

“You and me, pal,” he said. “You and me.”

 --

 Step one was to get paid first.

Luke chased down three marks on the other side of town to pay the rent and the medical bills for now. His hand’s new sleeve felt like a dream. It didn’t overheat like the nylon black one did, and the hand was far less shiny now as a bonus. That had certainly reduced the number of people catching something move out of the corner of their eye.

Was it worth fifty grand?

No.

Was it worth the last nine that Luke had left to pay on it?

Yeah. It was definitely worth the nine.

 ------

 Step two was to go make it clear to Fifteen McFlorist that he and his folks needed to back down in the face of the established guard.

Luke put on his biggest sweater and the thickest glasses he could find. He stole Chewie’s messenger bag with all the pins on it. He slung it over his shoulder and rolled the hems of his jeans up just a smidge too much, then scurried over to the florist’s across the way.

Fifteen was off to the side of the register, fucking around with something in the refrigerator. Luke busily and noisily looked through the wall of foliage on the side of the shop nearest the window. He hummed. He hawed. He made anxious nerd-sounds until a voice asked, “Hi, can I help you?”

Luke glanced out of the corner of his eye and found that Fifteen was standing facing his way now. His mask was gray this time. His apron was orange. His boots were too heavy-looking for florist work.

“I’d love that,” Luke gushed breathlessly. “See, my mom just got engaged and I’m on the way to her house.”

Fifteen lifted his chin slightly.

“What’re her favorites?” he asked tonelessly.

Terrible customer service skills, dude.

“Roses,” Luke said.

“Ours are shit today,” Fifteen said. “How about dahlias?”

Luke didn’t know what those were but sure.

“That sounds great,” he said. “You have any in pink?”

 --------

 He watched Fifteen brutalize some pink, orange, and white flowers into a bouquet wrapped with a silver bow and was sure to smile every time the guy looked up.

“That’ll be $37.59.”

Sir, these are dead flowers. There is no need for that price.

“Can I put it on card?” Luke asked. “How long have you worked here, if you don’t mind me asking? I work just across the way is all.”

Fifteen’s dark gaze flicked up. His hair was covered by a gray beanie two shades darker than the mask.

“At the club?” he asked.

“The bookshop,” Luke corrected him with a shy, but widening smile.

Please be gay. Please be gay. Please be gay. Leia wasn’t going to want to cooperate. She thought it was beneath her to establish boundaries like this.

“Blue paint,” Fifteen said. “Yeah, that place. How long have you been there?”

“My brother-in-law’s place, actually,” Luke said. “I started there last year after I finished college.”

Or, you know, maybe even eight years ago when he’d finished college. No one had to know. Baby faces don’t kiss and tell after all.

“Huh. You must like it there,” Fifteen said.

“It’s fine,” Luke hummed. “You like it here?”

“The kid does.”

“Oh, you’re a father?” Luke asked. “How old?”

“He’s three,” Fifteen said. “Godson. His folks were in an accident; didn’t make it.”

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Luke said. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Fifteen handed him his card back. Luke’s hand didn’t close in time to catch it and it fell onto to the wooden counter.

“Sorry about that,” Luke said, reaching for it with the other hand. His knuckles bumped into Fifteen’s when he went for the card at the same time. They both paused and went for the card again with the same result. Luke laughed.

“Slippery, am I right?” he asked, flattening his fingers on top of the piece of plastic and snatching it away.

“Very,” Fifteen said. “I hope your mom likes them.”

“Me too,” Luke smiled. “I’ll see you around—What was your name?”

“You can call me Armando,” Fifteen said.

“Armando,” Luke sounded out. “It suits you.”

It was a falsie.

“And yours?”

“James.”

“It suits you.”

It didn’t.

“Bye now,” Luke said. “Thanks for your help.”

He let the door fall closed behind him with the tinkle of the bell.

 --------

 He informed Han that “Armando” had a toddler and received only a warning look and a scolding for all his effort. Han told him not to get jealous. If there was a kid in the balance, then Fifteen, for better or worse, was going to have to see each day after the next until there was no longer a kid in the balance.

Luke offered to call CPS and report “Armando” as an assassin.

“You do that and those folks across the street are gonna call the VA and tell them I’m an assassin,” Han said. “Lay low, Luke. Lay low.”

Never.

“Christ. At least until that thing’s yours then.”

Luke glared at his right hand.

“Gimme a double,” he told Han without looking away from it.

 ------------

 It was never easy to hunt in the daylight, but Luke wasn’t here to do easy things. He needed to get Mark No. 1 alone. The man took the train once a week to a gentleman’s club on his lunch break. Luke needed a change of clothes.

He had a rainbow windbreaker, white boots, and fishnets all ready to go.

He got on the same train as the mark and dropped his phone nearby. It clattered loudly and the case came off. Luke swore and squatted to drop it at the same time that two girls next to him decided to become good Samaritans. They crouched with him and one of them caught the phone first. They handed it back with a smile.

“I like your jacket,” she said.

Luke let his face struggle to find a smile at her kindness to him, a sweet little twink trying to find the pride parade that happened two weeks ago.

“Thanks,” he said. “I like your bracelet.”

He stood up. The girls were pleased with themselves. Luke glanced back to find Mark No. 1 turn his head abruptly away.

Come here, Markie.

Do you like what you see?

  Mark No. 1 didn’t make it out of his hotel room. A pity. Luke took the elevator down and huffed and puffed about a cheap date when he passed the front desk. He stopped abruptly and went back to ask the receptionist what the cross street was. She judged his go-go boots.

He told her she wasn’t his type. Her manager gave him the cross street.

Mark No. 2 had different parameters.

 ----------

 Mark No. 2’s parameters involved chasing him through a maze of boiler rooms and dumpsters. He was chump change towards a hand that Luke hadn’t wanted in the first place, but alas. The anger still roared.

Luke cornered him, still in go-go boots—no need to sacrifice style for speed—and watched those pale eyes look every which way as Mark No. 2 realized that there was no getting out of this.

“You got options, friend,” Luke said. “I can bring you in hot or I can bring you in—”

“—cold.”

His head snapped up and he lurched out of the way just as the crack of a bullet exploded in the alley. A car backfired around the corner in a sympathetic cough. Luke stared at the body then twisted around just in time for a thick glove to latch onto the back of his neck.

“Well, look who it is,” Fifteen drawled.

Luke glared out of the corner of his eye.

“Hands off, Armando,” he warned.

“I like your boots.”

“You’re gonna love ‘em when they’re on your dick,” Luke warned.

“Back off, Nayberry.”

Fucking hell, Han. This is why they should have set up boundaries weeks ago.

“I prefer ‘James,’” Luke said sweetly.

The glock levelled at his face didn’t care.

“You took my mark,” Fifteen said.

“Aw, poor baby,” Luke pouted. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you took mine.”

Fifteen’s orange apron was gone. He’d swapped it for an old leather jacket—something he could more easily wipe clean. He should’ve gone for patent leather. The brown really wasn’t working with his grey mask-beanie situation.

“Stay in your lane,” Fifteen warned.

“Only if you stay in yours,” Luke beamed.

Fifteen huffed.

“Bookstore,” he scoffed. “Who’d you give the flowers to?”

Luke tsked.

“Myself, jackass,” he said.

“Do you even have a mom?”

“What the fuck business is that of yours? You even got a kid?”

Fifteen’s stare was deadly—the cooling body before them notwithstanding.

“Take one step near him and we won’t be talkin’ so friendly, yeah?”

Mm. Yeah.

“You owe me four grand,” Luke informed Fifteen as the glock went down and Fifteen left him to go take a pulse.

The man’s back stiffened.

“Four?” he asked. “You took this job for four?”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I got bills, Armando,” he drawled.

“How do you keep that shed open? Have you sold even one book?”

Rude. Luke was a great sales associate. If he actually cared to put his mind to it, he’d be worthy of a promotion to manager.

He pulled the rising legs of his shorts down and adjusted the weapon in his windbreaker. He couldn’t leave the alley the way he’d gone into it. Someone might have seen. He was going to have to take a side street. Hmmm, which one? Choices, choices.

“I’ll give you a Dad’s discount. Gimme two grand, and you can have him,” Luke negotiated as he thought.

“Two.”

Hey, no need for that tone. This was a great deal.

“What’re you gonna do with two?” Fifteen asked, already knelling down to heft the body over his shoulder as proof for payment.

“Buy some more tights,” Luke deadpanned. “Two, final offer.”

Fifteen stood up all the way and gave him a weird look. A long look. His beanie was pulled down low, but Luke got the impression that he was frowning at him.

“Take the four,” he said out of nowhere. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

Luke recoiled a step at first, then recoiled another when the reality of the situation hit him full in the chest.

“Forget it,” he snapped.

He spun around and started to leave.

“Wh—hey. HEY. Where are you goin’?”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ pity,” Luke called ahead of him as he set to climbing the chainlink fence separating him from the adjacent dead-end alley.

“You what?”

“You heard me,” Luke said.

He jumped down. His left hand found his right wrist and squeezed as he walked.

 -------

 The phantom pains kept him up all night, and it was definitely that and not the humiliation that made him call in sick. Han told him to answer his therapist’s emails. Luke told him to go do something useful and hung up. He rolled onto his back on his bed and focused on letting his body relax, his jaw unclench, his joints go limp.

There was sunlight finally streaming through his apartment windows again. It had been months.

Spring was almost here. He just had to hold out a little longer.

 --------

 He came in to work the next day and found an envelope on his chair in the backroom. It was thick.

“McFlorist dropped it off,” he said between aggravated sounds at his spreadsheets.

“Is it tax season already?” Luke asked him as he tried to burn a whole in the center of the envelope with his mind.

“Sure fuckin’ is.”

He stepped forward and snatched up the envelope, then deposited it squarely in Han’s lap. He made an unattractive noise of confusion and alarm.

“For the taxes,” Luke called as he went out to grab his lanyard and name tag. “Gotta keep this place open for another six months at least.”

 ------------

 There were new books in. A new shipment to shelve. Two kids’ displays to set up. And Luke was actually good at this stuff, thanks; he started stacking.

He got peace until he nearly got to the end of the second display, and then what he had was a heart attack. Two liquid brown eyes surrounded by an ocean of ringlets stared up at him from between his knees. The child curled a hand in and out in hello.

Luke jerked himself up to locate the thing’s parents immediately, and promptly found himself in deadly eye-contact with Fifteen.

Armando.

“You were gone yesterday,” Fifteen said flatly.

Luke looked between him and the kid. He was pinned between two enemy parties. How to escape, how to escape.

“Are you sick?”

How to escape. How to escape. How to escape.

“Are you hurt?”

H—what?

“I’m fine, stalker,” Luke snapped with more heat than this present cover allowed. He caught himself and pulled it back. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Thank you for asking. Is this…?”

Fifteen blinked once. The child blinked once as well. It was creepy.

“He’s mine,” Fifteen said. “And apparently the only thing that will get us through the next two hours is a book.”

Dude.

“Kids are kids,” Fifteen said. “You got any books?”

Luke stared at him, then checked the shelves to make sure he hadn’t teleported into another dimension.

You always had to check.

“We’re in a bookstore,” he said.

“He can’t read,” Fifteen said, pointing.

The kid grinned. His teeth were gapped in that toddler sort of way. He was kind of cute.

“You can’t read?” Luke asked him.

“Hi,” Baby said.

Oh no.

Luke loved him.

“How much?” he asked Fifteen.

“Touch him and you’ll be permanently comatose,” Fifteen said.

“Not if I died out of spite,” Luke said.

There was a long pause. Then Fifteen started laughing? Kind of hard?

“Oh my god, that was so unprofessional. I am so sorry,” Luke blurted out.

Fifteen collected himself and shook his head. His little one giggled and reached for Luke’s fingers.

“Boo,” he said.

Luke couldn’t feel the hand, but he could feel all the heart.

“Book?” he asked, crouching down. “Do you want a story?”

“Mmmm.”

“I have the perfect one,” Luke told him. “It’s about a caterpillar. Do you know what a caterpillar is?”

He got a slow, exaggerated head shake back and forth, back and forth. He stood up straight.

“I’m conducting a temporary kidnapping,” he informed Fifteen. “Do I have consent?”

Fifteen looked from him towards the front entrance and mulled over the merits of leaving his kid with his rival assassin. Then he shrugged.

“Consent granted,” he said. “Luke.”

Luke’s heart stopped.

“James,” he said.

“Your name tag says ‘Luke.’”

Well, fuck.

“Luke Nayberry. It suits you.”

Hhhhhhh. This was karma, wasn’t it.

“Thanks,” he gritted out. “And yourself, Armando?”

“Din.”

Woah, look out. Mr. One-Syllable-Cool-Man had entered the building.

“Din, what?” Luke asked as his arm registered tension. Din’s kid had latched onto his fingers and started pulling incessantly with a chubby hand gesturing in the direction of the wall of children’s books.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Din said.

“Fine, go trip then,” Luke said.

He swore that there was a smile under that mask.

 ----------

[miss-choco-chips]

Bird Watchers

It was something like an open secret in Gotham, that even though all it’s heroes were open to help no matter the situation, each one of them had a special affinity to certain matters.

For example, children from all districts knew to yell for Nightwing if they found themselves lost and scared. Small business owners often painted little Oracle symbols on their doorsteps, to warn away possible thieves with the knowledge that Gotham’s cryptic hacker had their eye on them. Working girls would send a quick prayer to the Red Hood before seeing their seediest clients; and as such, knew who to call for if things took a turn for the worst.

And Red Robin… well. His was a very specific bunch.

---.---

Warnings: depression, suicide attempts, overdose comic-typical violence (discussed, not explicit). Hurt-comfort all the way, baby. There’s also one scene, with the redhead, that I copied from the comics.

(it’s almost 2 am, I wrote half of this in one go, don’t @ me for mistakes. I’ll edit tomorrow. Maybe.)

---.---

The first time he stopped a suicide, he had just turned thirteen. The suit still felt wrong, too loose in all the places where Jason’s bigger presence would have been a better fit. Too small, too brainy, not brash enough, not good enough.

He would never think himself worthy, but he was all Batman had. There were no other candidates, not ones he could have thrown the job at without risking Bruce’s identity, so he’d have to make do.

But even so, he had been gaining a little confidence over the past few months. His training with Shiva, and Dick’s and Bruce’s focus on making him as ready for the streets as humanly possible, had ensured he never encountered a situation where he couldn’t handle himself, or get back up in time to avoid any casualties.

Except for right now.

“Hey! Don’t do it, please!”

Yeah, maybe yelling at the man precariously balanced on the edge of a how many feet tall building wasn’t his wisest moment. He’d berate himself later. Now was freak out time.

Said man stumbled for a second before regaining his footing and turning to look at Tim. He couldn’t be more than forty, with a bit of an overgrown beard and tired eyes. He had something clutched in one hand, tanned and calloused from work, the other over his chest, probably due to the scare of having a bat suddenly appearing behind him.

“R-Robin…”, he gasped, shook out of whatever reverie he was going through for a second. “W-what… I mean, why are you…?”

‘Okay, Tim, breath. Can’t call B, he’ll notice, get startled and jump. Can I catch him if he does? My grappling hook is made to withstand more than my weight, but if I can’t handle the strain of swinging us both to safety…’

He couldn't risk it.

“Good evening, Mr…?”

Surprise and good manners made the man automatically answer, “Ed. Ed Harrinson.”

Encouraged, Tim took a tiny teeny step forward. Ed’s entire body shock and he leaned backwards. Tim froze, fear keeping his breathing and heartbeat hostages for the time being, stopping the first and kick starting the second.

“Mr Harrinson, I’d like to ask you to step away from the edge? I’ll call an ambulance for you, and…”

“No!”, the man screamed, suddenly over his surprise, a look of determination trying to masquerade his obvious exhaustion. “If you call an’one, I’ll jump.”

Tim wisely kept the ‘you were gonna do it anyway’ to himself. He nodded slowly, hands emerging from the confines of his cape to show Mr Harrinson the lack of a communication device.

“I won’t, then, but may I come closer? Please?”

It was on the last word, high pitched and wavering, that the man cracked. With wary demeanor, he waved him over, pointing to a patch of rooftop a little far but close enough for Tim to feel comfortable- or as comfortable as he’d get, in these circumstances.

As he approached, he could feel the man analyzing him. The little gasp when he stood by his side didn’t go unnoticed.

“You are… smaller than I imag’ned. Too small for a bat. My boy’s taller than you” he mused, likely to himself, but Tim grasped onto that bit of information and clutched at it with both hands, desperately.

“I’m short compared to my peers, so maybe I’m the same age as your son. How old is he?”, he asked, in his most conversational tone. Fear still had a grasp over both his lungs and heart.

Something in the man’s face shifted.

“He… he just turned fifteen.” Older than Tim, then. Ed continued, “He’s… ”, in a second, the sadness was replaced by pride, “he’s grown up p’tty well, if I say so m’self. A fine young man, that kid. He’ll go places.”

For a beat, Tim tried to imagine his own dad here. As much as he’d hate to see Jack in Mr Harrinson’s place, he couldn't help but wonder if he’d be talking about him the same way Ed spoke about his son.

He… didn’t think so. If on the verge of death, thoughts about his son would probably be the farthest from his dad’s mind.

“You sound like you love him very much. He’s a lucky guy” he said sincerely, a tendril of hopefulness still twisted around his stomach. His hands weren’t shaking any longer, finding solace in the fact that the man in front of him didn’t look like he was about to jump right that second.

Mr Harrinson’s face fell.

“Got served an’ unlucky hand, with an old man like me”, his eyes went back to the abyss, to the empty, poor litten streets below them. “Go ‘way, kid. Leave m’ be. Notta business what I do. Gotta do this f’r my kid.”

Fear came back, full force.

“I- Sorry, but I can’t help but think about your son”, he blurted out, the only bit of information he had about the man was his only tendril of hope. “Someone who loves his child as much as you seem to must be a good father. A father that… would be missed dearly, if lost so young.”

Mr Harrinson looked even more devastated. Tim was doing this all wrong, wasn’t he?

“There’s no other way t’ keep’im safe!'' he yelled, and for a minute Tim thought he had decided to jump then and there. Instead, he dropped to his knees, hands to his head, paper still clutched in one fist. “They’ll get to him if I don’t! Once I’m dead, they’ll just leave’im alone!”

Tim crouched next to him, tentative.

“Who is ‘they’, sir? Maybe I could help…”

Ed was already shaking his head.

“Nay, they said not to go to the bats. Kill my boy, they will, if I do. Seen them offing others for less, so I believe them.”

“Ah, but I’m too short to be a bat, am I not?” he smiled, wobbly at best but sincere. “Besides, who’s gonna tell them you spoke to me? I”, he gestured to his mask, “know how to keep a secret.”

He considered for a beat, before tired shoulders fell, defeated. He offered the slip of paper towards him, unseeing eyes on the street below.

Robin read the note carefully, noting the sloppy penmanship and cheap paper as well as the message itself.

“Mr Harrinson…”

“I know”, he whispered, “I know working for the Black Mask wasn’t my best idea. But m’boy needed to eat, and the landlord was gettin’ impatient. And now, for whatever reason, boss wants me dead. And if I make ‘im dirty his own hands, he’ll dirty ‘em twice and send me with my son for company to the other side. Felix is too young, and he’s good. Can’t let ‘im pay f’ his old man m’stakes, ya hear me?”

Tim thought his words over carefully.

“Mr Harrinson… I don’t think this comes from Black Mask himself”, for one, Blackie wasn’t one to avoid blood on his gloves, nor to send such a shitty note. The man lived for the drama, like most A-listers did, and he’d never forgo the aesthetic of an expensive peachment and beautifully worded threat. Also, if he wanted this man gone, he would have put a bullet in his head the second he clocked in; and if it were revenge he was after, he wouldn't have gotten a warning note but his son’s head sent to him instead.

He folded the paper and put it into one of his multiple pockets, free hand going to the man’s shoulder.

“I know Black Mask’s M.O, mister, and this is not it”, no need to spook him further by describing what it was, though. “Probably just a colleague who wanted your position, or has a grudge for whatever reason. And that, I can help you with. If you work with me on this one, we can both make sure Felix has his Dad making breakfast for him tomorrow morning, and all the days after that. After all”, he smiled, no longer uncertain now that he had firm ground to work with, “your son is going places, and he’ll have to be well fed to reach them, right?”

Mr Harrinson’s smile must have had magical properties, Tim thought. There was no other explanation for the way it returned his breath back to his body.

---.----

The next time he saw a jumper, a few months later, he was slightly more ready for it. Bruce had congratulated him on his work with Mr Harrinson, and the subsequent raid they could make on one of Black Mask’s warehouses thanks to the man’s information, but Tim hadn’t been satisfied until he had read every single mission report on the batcomputer about attempted suicides. And succeed ones, too. Need to know what went well and what didn’t, after all.

So when he saw the fifty-something woman crying on top of a tower in City Hall District, he didn’t almost-crash in his attempt to get there in time. He landed softly, making just enough noise to let her know she wasn’t alone, but careful to not startle her.

“It’s a little cold up here, Lady. If you’d like, I can walk you home?”, he tries for cheeky, despite the cold fear nesting in his stomach like a grumpy, spiteful bird.

The woman, sitting by the edge, turned her head to look at him. The movement called attention to her long, strawberry blonde hair, neatly braided, and her pretty diamond earrings. The face under her perfect make up was gaunt and pale, tear tracks cleaning paths of skin to his trained eye.

Despite him interrupting what probably were very private thoughts, she smiled at his approach, kind and polite. It didn’t reach her eyes, but the intent to put him at ease was generous enough.

“I may be a lady, but any adult worth their salt would insist on walking the young child home, instead of the opposite. Besides”, she patted the rooftop under her,” I live here, so it’s not a long walk at all.”

Tim stepped closer, carefully.

“May I sit?”

“I could use the company for a bit”, she accepted, head turning back to the city below.

They sat there for a few minutes in silence, before Tim’s soft voice broke it again.

“Is there anything I can do to help convince you not to do it? Please?”

The lady smiled. “You are a very sweet boy.”

“That’s… not an answer. Can I at least know why?”

“Won’t it torment you, in the future, if we speak now?”, she asked a question of her own, turning to face him again. Despite her words, there was nothing but kindness in those deep green eyes. “If you don’t know me, I’m just another one who jumped. If we talk, I’m afraid I might stay with you long after I’m gone. You are too young for that kind of weight.”

Tim swallowed. 

“That’s easily solved, Miss;”, Dick’s rule of thumb; if unsure, always call a lady Miss before Mrs “don’t do it.”

She spared him a long, meaningful look, and he slumped over.

“Not my best, I know, but I’m kinda freaking out now?” She wasn’t like Mr Harrinson, no motive he could see, no strand to pull and unravel her pain. “Please, just… why?”

She patted one of the hands gripping his own knee. His other hand rushed over hers, sandwiching her cold, slim fingers between his gloved palms.

“There’s nothing left for me. I have a nice job, live in a pretty side of town, have friends, and still… it feels so empty. So… Meaningless. Why even bother?”

Tim chewed on her words silently. He was way out of his depth. A tangible, physical problem? He could solve those, no biggie.

Depression, though… that was a different giant to tackle. Was he even prepared enough to?

A strong gust of wind made the lady with braided hair shiver. Without thought, Tim unclasped his cape and draped it over her slim shoulders.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, head tilted like a curious woodland animal. Tim felt strongly protective of her, of this kind, sweet lady, who said she had it all, except the one thing that mattered to her.

“I’m used to it”, he shrugged. “This suit is very warm, but cold air often trickles down from the neckline and… well. Gigs of the job and all that.”

The lady tutted, frowning for the first time since Tim arrived.

“That won’t do, young man. You need a scarf. The nights will only get colder from now on.”

He shrugged again.

“I just… don’t have the time to buy one. And I had one, but… There’s these kids who often hang out by the park, and they were so cold, I just couldn't swing by and ignore them. So I gave them my scarf to share between them. I’m just kinda bummed that I don’t have more to make sure they all stay warm.”

The braided haired lady hummed for a second.

“Well… I knit”, she started, carefully. “I don’t have children or grandchildren to give my final products to, so they’ll go to waste after I’m gone. If you’d take them out of my hands, you’ll do me a favor.” 

Tim wanted to say no, unwilling to make this any easier for her, but the chance of getting her away from the edge was enough to quell his voice.

She went and came back within minutes, a big cardboard box balanced over her shaky arms. He rose to help her, meeting the woman halfway through the roof, a good distance away from the abyss.

“This red one would look good with your suit… oh, and the green one, to keep with the theme! Or maybe the yellow one… Shame pink would be such a bad fit for your colors, because that wool is the best I worked with…”

Tim’s hand carefully took said carf out and looked it over. There were about six others in the box.

“I could take this to those kids I mentioned before… It’d still not be enough for all, but more to share between them means less cold.”

She hummed again, looking at the unfinished projects on the bottom of the box.

“If… If you give me a few days…” she muttered. “I mean, I’m in no rush”, a hand vaguely gestured towards the rooftop’s edge. “I could spare a few days finishing those, and you could take them to these kids you spoke about… and maybe, I can help make a few children less cold with this silly hobby of mine.”

Elated beyond words, Tim nodded vigorously, waxing poetry about her work and about just how excited little Ellie would be with this soft, pretty pink scarf.

His patrol route could use a few detours, after all, if that meant keeping Braided Hair Lady away from her roof.

---.----

He was just returning from a late supply run when he bumped into The Cats.

It was in an alleyway, a block off from Mrs Eloise Denvarow (formerly known as Braided Hair Lady). The older woman had caved after three months knowing each other, of Tim passing by her apartment once every other night to pick up her baked goods or knitted masterpieces, to distribute between street kids and working girls, and told him her name. It was said in passing (“Stop with that ‘Lady’ thing, honey. It’s Eloise”), as if lacking importance, when in reality it meant the world to him. Sure, he’d already known, having run a background check on her the minute he came back to the cave after stopping her from jumping, but there was that implicit vow between them, that she wouldn't tell him her name and jump, wouldn’t make him carry its weight on his shoulders forever, so it was… it was a promise, on her end, a reassurance, and Tim wasn’t even embarrassed that he cried in her arms like a baby for ten minutes.

So here he was, a month after that, still riding that high, when the desperate call from below caught his attention.

There were two teens on the dirty ground, nested among cracked bottles and old newspapers. The girl was lying in the boy’s arms, with him screaming for help.

“Robin! Thank fuck!”, he almost sobs, arms visibly tightening around the girl. Tim wants to ask how he knew to call for him, and if the proximity to Mrs Denvarow’s place was luck or not.

But it wasn’t the time to ask.

The girl was pale, which only highlighted the bruises on her face. Someone with a big fist punched her. It doesn't seem likely, considering just how distraught the other kid is, but he checks his hands just in case; fortunately, too small for that kind of damage.

She’s also breathing erratically and, when he puts a gloved hand to her neck, he realizes just how crazy her pulse is. 

Fear Toxin? Except Scarecrow is still in Arkham as far as he knows, and even if he had gotten away recently, he needs time to develop his precious chemicals. Joker’s Venom and Mad’s Hatter drugs don’t have quite this results, and Ivy doesn’t usually attack street girls just for kicks; they are also too far from her usual turf for her to be a viable suspect.

So, that leaves very few choices.

“Overdose?”, he ventures a guess, hand already fumbling through the pockets on his belt.

The other boy sobs harder, nodding while looking down at the girl in his arms. Tim gently takes the girl from him to position her straighter, to help her down the vial he finally found in his belt. It was supposed to help flush out any chemical in a few minutes, tops; they usually used it when a new type of Crazy Criminal Drug made its way to the streets and they didn’t have the time to properly prepare an antidote. It was strong, and vicious in its path to devoid the body of any and all external agents, which was why it wasn’t a preferred method; who’s to say the civilian in need of a flush isn’t in some important medicine? The Big Flush, as Dick calls it, lacked any kind of finesse or discrimination.

But it was their best shot right now, so there goes nothing. 

There’s silence while they watch the girl’s progress. He doesn’t bother asking if he called for an ambulance; they are obviously minors, probably homeless, and even if the Wayne Foundation takes care of children’s hospital fees, they’d avoid it to keep themselves out of the foster system.

But then, the kid kept talking.

“I… I found her near Grant Park. I… I didn’t know what to do, so I dragged her here. She/” and then he breaks again, hands grasping one of hers, as if letting go meant he was giving up on her and he couldn't bear it.

“Grant Park is only five blocks away,” Tim thinks out loud, mind already a mile away “and Moench’s Row illicit night clinic is about the same distance from there as this place. Why did you bring her here?”

“She… Alley… Oh, her name’s Allison, by the way. And I’m Thomas. Tom.” Introductions, miraculously, seem to do the trick here and calm him down. “Nice to meetcha.”

Tim’s not deterred by his toothy grin, but he has to admit he’s kinda cute. Like, stray cat cute.

Huh. Alley, Tom, cat… Yeah, that checks.

“What happened with Allison?” he presses softly, one arm still keeping Alley up and against his chest, the other hand on her pulse point, taking note of the way the heartbeat seems to be stabilizing. The puking fest was gonna start soon.

“She… It was on purpose.” Tom confesses, eyes going clouded for a while. “She tries to not be home, yknow? I met her in kindergarten, and even then she’d try to hide behind the teacher’s desk in hopes they’d forget about her and close the building with her inside. Anyway, we pretty much live on the streets these days, and Alley… she’s very depressed. I convinced her to see someone a while ago, even stol/ I mean, earned the money for it myself”, he’s quick to correct, eyes glancing up to see if he was smooth enough to cover it; which he wasn’t, but Tim was in favor of letting that small one go, “and they gave her a prescription for antidepressants. She’s been kicking it down the road, but she’s gotten a lot worse and I wouldn't lay off her case about it, so she sneaked back home to get some money from her folks to pay for it.”

By the way the kid looks at her bruised face with unmeasurable guilt, Tim knows she didn’t go unnoticed.

“And… I don’t know. We were supposed to meet up by the Commerce Street Highway, but she was late, so I walked around for a bit and… I saw her there, on a bench. She was/ she was still conscious then, and she told me… she said ‘these aren’t what the doc gave me, but they took the pain away all the same’.” Again, Tom chokes on his own emotions. If he had any free hands, he’d try to put one on his shoulder for comfort. “I don’t even know what she took, or where did she get it from!”

Tim has heard whispers of loan sharks and drug dealres camping toghter by the Fashion Distric, just north of Grant Park, so he can make an informed guess as to how that happened. Also, he now knows what he’ll do the rest of the night, once these kids are safe.

When Tom has gotten a grasp of himself, he pushes again.

“So, why did you bring her here?”

He shrugs, a bit abashed.

“Well… I mean, everyone knows about how Mrs Denvarow is the one giving clothes and food away, and that you help her distribute it. Well, not everyone, but… you know, the street kids. We flagged her building with a yellow skull and everything.”

A yellow skull grafitti, Tim’s mind translates, is the street equivalent of a ‘don’t fuck with this place’ sing. A sort of protective sigil. He wonders how he missed it.

“And… This is kind of your thing, right? So I figured you’d be better prepared to deal with it than some overworked clinic that might even not have enough free equipment to help us. Good think I did, too” he gestures at his friend, whose face is now looking flushed; a sign both of growing health, and of the upcoming puke. Tim’s quick to turn her so her back is to his chest, head tilted down just in case.

As if rehearsed, Alley chose that exact second to empty the contents of her now flushed stomach. Tim would need a sample of that, to catch the responsible dealer.

Tom held her hair away from her face while Tim kept her steady, and she blinked bearily at them after it was done, still not completely lucid but a world away from the girl she was ten minutes ago.

“She’ll still need a hospital.'' Tim informs Tom sternly. The boy had taken his friend in his arms again, softly rubbing her back to help with the uncomfortable ache leftover after puking your guts out. “The Moench’s Row clinic should be able to help with any side effect, but she’s safe for now.”

He nods, thanks Tim again and again and politely refuses his help to take her to the clinic. They part ways, both parties probably thinking this would be the last time they saw each other.

Still, their situation sticks with Tim during the rest of his patrol, and he decides to stop by the clinic, just to check on them. His knuckles still ache from the absolute beating he delivered to the ones who gave Alley the money and sold her the drugs, so he’s in better spirits and hopes to spread it to the kids.

Alley is awake when he visits, and her shy, little smile is enough for the rage inside of Tim to die down. The bad guys dealt with, the civilians safe, everything in its proper place.

He sleeps a bit better that night.

---.----

He almost doesn’t see him. 

Actually, he probably wouldn't have, deeply lost into his own head, had the guy been anything other than a redhead. That exact shade of  orangy-brown auburn, that he would have to pick up from his workbench at Titan’s tower after Bart had decided to ‘keep him company’ during his all-nighters. 

It was ironic, how now he would give anything in the world to have those same strands of hair fucking up his experiments, if only for the impish, ‘please-don’t-kill-me-I’m-an-angel’ smile he would receive in exchange.

“Hey”, he greets, landing softly at the man’s right, sitting a few feet away from him, too tired to even stand up on common ground. “What’s happening?”

He shouldn’t be doing this. He really, really shouldn’t. His own mental health was less than stellar, and even thinking about it made him feel worse. He didn’t deserve to feel bad, not when civilians were in the hospital after his latest fuck up, Cass was missing, Cassie barely hanging in there, the family a mess with Damian’s lovely introduction, and… well. Every other person he knew…

Point being, there must be someone else, in a better inner place, that could speak to this guy. But since no one seemed to be patrolling this route, Tim could only hope to stall him long enough for a more capable vigilante to show up.

The guy looks startled, then angry. He has green eyes, he notices, under the glasses. Not sure why that sticks to him.

“What are you doing here? You’re not going to try to stop me, are you? You’re not going to swing down and catch me in mid air or something, are you?”

He seems defensive, but Tim notices a bit of hesitancy. He has worked with less.

(He wishes he had more energy to do more with what little he has)

“No. If I did, what’s to stop you from doing it again later, or tomorrow? I can’t be with you every second.  If you want to do this, you are going to, no matter how much I don’t want you to. And I don’t want you to, just so we are clear.”

The guy still looks suspicious, but he hasn’t taken that last step forward, so… a win?

“I just needed to sit down for a minute. ‘been thinking about all the ways I’ve screwed up lately, and…”

Auburn-hair deflates a little, turning away from Tim to examine the night sky. “Well, that makes two of us.”

The bat signal lights up the night. His newfound companion looks at it, then him. “Do you need to get that?”

“Nah. Batman will, and if he needs help he’ll call me.” Tim shrugs. He needs a coffee-power-up. He needs to sleep. He needs for his loved ones to not be dead.

He needs to see if there’s anything he can do for this guy.

“So, do you want to tell me why you’re doing this? So someone can go to your family and friends to let them know?”

After all, if it was him who did it (and… wasn’t that food for thought?), he’d like Bruce and Dick to know why. To not… to not blame themselves.

Redhead looks annoyed again. Uh. A short fuse, this one.

“Don’t try any psychology, or try to make me feel guilty about hurting anyone… this isn't about anyone but me.”

He shouldn’t say it, but… “That’s pretty naive,  but whatever. Tell me anyway.” He smirks a bit, then “Unless you’re in a hurry or something.”

He hears the guy (he really should ask his name) as he tells his story. A cold, clinical part of his mind recognizes the symptoms described almost unconsciously by the guy as depression. He would know, after all. The other part of him, the part that made him Robin, that made him human, discarded the label; there was much more to this guy than his illness, and he would treat him like it.

“So here I am,” he finishes, now sitting side by side with Tim, both their legs hanging above the bustling city. “Now’s when you tell me how stupid this is. That other people have much bigger problems, there’s hunger and war, and I’m weak because my problems are nothing next to stuff like that.”

Tim thinks of a father, desperately thinking his death would save his son’s life, when in fact it would have only made it worse. He thinks of a woman, so full of love and warmth, looking into the abyss and feeling empty inside. He thinks of a couple of kids, one hanging to life with nails and teeth, the other hanging to her just as fiercely.

He thinks about himself. About looking at a future version of himself, hating what he sees, and deciding to drown the bud before it can even flower. He thinks of sickly green water, of cloning equipment in a laboratory, of a phone falling to the ground after delivering him with more bad news.

He’s still in a bad place, still probably not the most capable person to be doing this, but a part of him is sure this is the right answer. The only answer.

“No. Your problems are worse than anyone else’s, because they are yours. I’ve... felt bad like you have, and some pretty bad things have happened to me.”

Red hair looks as tired as Tim feels, so it’s a surprise that he has enough energy to glance at him worriedly, hand stretching a bit in his direction in a half-formed attempt to comfort.

“You guys make it look so easy, swinging around, having fun… Things get bad for you, too?”

Tim looks down, and smiles. It’s a sad, bitter thing. He thinks about parents lost before ever connecting to them, about a girlfriend going away, a sister lost to the madness of their lives, about two best friends gone, one even dying in his arms. 

He gives no details. Doesn’t talk about it all, just shares a little bit of himself. It’s only fair, after hearing about this guy’s demons. Misery loves company, doesn’t it?

“So what do you do? How do you deal with it?” the guy asks when he’s done, looking at Tim by the corner of his not-very-dry eyes.

Tim forces himself to remember. “One of the things I’ve learned is that it gets bad for everyone sometimes, Superman, Batman… everyone. I remember that I’m not alone, that things do get better. Sometimes on their own, most times when you work at them. And when I have trouble remembering those things, I find people to talk to.”

Most of those were dead, but Tim is hit with the epiphany that not all of them are. He still has people. He still…

“And you’ve got people like that? That you can talk to?” asks the guy, tone both worried and hopeful. Tim stands up, does his best to look calm.

“Yeah. Your folks, and old friend, even a trained counselor you’ve never met before… someone who has a totally different perspective because they’re not as close to your problems as you are. Maybe they give you advice, and that’s great… or maybe they just listen. Sometimes, that’s all you need. Anyway, that’s how I deal with it when things suck. And it works. Want to come down from there and give it a try?”

The guy gets back to his feet, as Tim watches from behind. Having been in this situation before, the fear grabbing a hold of him isn’t new, but it's different. He thinks he's too worn down. It takes the edge off of any emotion. 

Except hope. Hope still hurts like a sharp knife when it’s snatched away. He prays it won’t be, right now.

Green eyes (Jason- that’s who they reminded him of) look down, deep in thought. Then he turns, smiles at Tim. There’s hope in him too.

“Yeah, why not?”

They get down together. He gives him a few numbers and they have breakfast together. The guy promises to call his English teacher, at least. Tim promises himself to call his brother.

At least, he still has Dick.

---.----

He’s been putting off doing his rounds since he came back, he knows. But…

It changed him, a bit. Going around the world, dealing with his grief while staying on his toes, ready to break down one second and having to field off attacks from all sides the next, with the Demon’s honeyed whispers echoing in his ear and mind. 

He’ll never tell anyone, just how tempting it had been. How much he had wanted to reach for that offered hand. To lay his head on someone’s shoulder and let the responsibility bleed from his.

Tim will never tell anyone, but he’ll always know. And it’ll always make him hate himself a little bit more.

So, he’s different now. And he’s scared- that the people he gave hope to, that he talked with, that he could never stop thinking about, even halfway across the world- that they won’t like this new, worn down him.

That Mr Harrinson the Good Father, Braided Hair Lady and her sweaters, the inseparable Stray Cats, the girl with the bright yellow cardigan, the kid with the scarred wrists, the woman with beautiful star-like freckles that she’ll hopefully pass on to her baby, the gentle giant man with calloused hands, the petite but fierce young teen with defiant eyes and dead name, the soft spoken girl with the loudest laugh, auburn-haired boy and his hopeful and sympathetic green eyes… and so, so many more. They all knew him, maybe not at his best, but certainly better than now. The boy that kept them from jumping had been a bright, magical Robin. The teen that came back to their city was dark, weary Red Robin. It felt kinda like he had cheated them, returning this broken version of himself to their doorsteps.

But he had to go check on all of them. Even if Cass (and it was such a relief, that even after he lost everything else, the return of his sister could at least be a speck of light in the mist of misery surrounding him) had promised to do so, there were so many of them… and she couldn't possibly remember everyone, all the time. And if anyone had fallen through the gaps… if anyone had stood on a rooftop, waiting for their Robin to save them, only to think ‘nobody cares’ as he didn’t show up…

Tim gets sick only thinking about it. If it did happen, then he needs to know. He has to carry their names with him, that’s the least he can do for failing them.

So he’ll go check on them… anytime now. Soon. The moment he gathers enough energy to climb back to his feet and get his grapple hook out.

...The city looks full of life, beneath him. Like it feels the return of its Knight. The end of the internal quarrel among it’s vigilantes, that almost tore it all apart. The relief in Nightwing, the hesitant peace in Red Hood, the mellowing of Robin.

(He was feeling poetic tonight, in the worst ways)

Maybe it also feels Red Robin’s emptiness. Maybe that’s why it's so lively down there, like the ground is calling to him, just as it did when Ra’s broke the window with his body.

He thinks... he won’t have to check on anyone, if he jumps. And that way, there will be no name to carry with him to his grave.

“Robin!”

“Stop!”

“Don’t do it, please!”

He startles. Hadn’t even noticed when he got to his feet, nor that one of them was hanging over the abyss. The fact that he wasn’t alone on that rooftop any longer hadn’t even breached his usually perfect spatial awareness.

They didn’t call for him, but the voices sounded distraught, they were close, and he was a former Robin, so he turned around, tired, but with obedience and service too ingrained in him to consider denying help to whoever it was.

It turned out, he wouldn't need to go make his rounds any longer. His rounds had come to him.

There were… too many people on this roof. It was way too crowded.

“Robin!”

It was one voice now, not a mixture of them, so he could identify the one yelling his former alias. Allison broke from the mob of people (and there were more still, filling in from the open rooftop door, like a never-ending stream…) to run to him, looking like she might have just jumped into his arms, if not for Tom clutching her hoodie to stop her a few feet from him. Good move, considering he was still balancing precariously on the edge.

“Alleycat?” he whispered, a little blown. She looked so different (magenta looked amazing on the tips of her hair, and she totally pulled off that lip piercing), but he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. He’d been so relieved, when she first opened them after that dangerous overdose.

“We were so fucking worried, dude”, came from Tomcat just behind her, still gripping her hoodie (still keeping her safe; some things never change).

“I…”

“Where were you?” Maddie, not longer yellow but still wearing a cute cardigan, stepped up too.

“I’m… I’m not Robin”, he blurts out. They… knew it was him?  It… like, obviously there was a new Robin, Damian was (still, but probably not for much longer) smaller than him, but to immediately know that he was…

“Yeah, no shit. I’d know that long hair and noodle limbs of yours anywhere, kid. Known you too long to be fooled. And the new kid’s really trigger happy with that lon’nife of his... You’re still the Robin I prefer, and fuck if I understand the name passing you heroes do” Mr Harrinson spoke from the back of the crowd, one hand clutching his kid’s shoulder, the other arm around…

“Braided Hair Lady?”

Eloise smiles at him, soft and warm as ever, a little shy when his eyes go to the arm hugging her close and back to her. He recognizes some of her handmade scarfs around the necks of plenty of people on the roof. 

“I… wasn’t aware you all knew each other.”

A petite young teen steps forward, walking until they were shoulder-to-shoulder with the Strays.

“Most of us met through the app, and then introduced the others. There’s more, of course, but not everyone could meet here. Samantha’s baby was born just two months ago, so she chose to stay home, but we promised her pictures, so you’ll have to say cheese soon birdboy. Also, I found my name. I’m Cal.”

Allison’s smile broadened and she sneaked an arm around Cal’s waist.

“They are the new Straycat. Calico cat’s are the cutest shit ever, aren’t they?”

Well… Having someone as badass as Cal watching Tom and Alley’s back would sure make Tim feel a lot better about both kids being out in the streets. 

Were they still on the streets? He’d need to find out and fix that, soon.

Then it hit him. “What app?”

Auburn-hair smiled from his place, at the front of the crowd just behind the Cats.

“Felix over there,” he pointed over his shoulder at Mr Harrinson’s son, who smiled shyly at Tim, eyes shining in gratitude and admiration like they always did when Tim did his rounds and checked on his dad, “defended you in a GothamHeroes forum once. Some bratty douchebag was complaining about you landing over his car or something and this kid went for his fucking troath.”

“I was in that chat too,” spoke Tom, smiling a little too savagely for a kid that sweet. “He tore the idiot to shreds, speaking about how you saved his dad’s life and took it upon yourself to make sure he was still okay even weeks after you met. I mentioned how you saved Alley and Mrs Denvarow, we exchanged numbers… then we met Cal during one of our rounds handing out Mrs D’s scarfs and food. They were weary of everyone else, but trusted us because they heard you talk about the clothes and baked goods... And Cal’s friend Gina worked with Samantha on the streets and told them about her story...”

“Soon, it seemed like people personally saved by you were just… popping out of the snow like daisies” Blair laughed, and it was still the loudest, brightest noise. The night seemed a little clearer, the air a little fresher for it. “Felix made his own private chat and added us, and we added everyone else we knew… The word went around about it, and more and more people joined in…”

“It’s really a wonder how you had any time to fight crime, seeing how often you were apparently comforting jumpers on the roofs” Ailbert, still as gigantic and gentle as always, raised a hand from the middle of the group. He had a little girl on his shoulders, probably the baby niece he had taken in after his sister’s death. 

“Then the new kid appeared and Gotham went to hell on a basket, and no one saw you around any longer”, Elijah, wrists no more scarred than the last time he saw him, his arm tangled with Maddie’s, went on. “We were… well, we were a bit confused.”

“Speak for yourself, Cal jumped Red Hood one night, held him at knife point and demanded to know what the fuck happened to our Robin. We were like, zero chill.”

“Sorry, they did what?” Tim was definitely in the twilight zone now. 

“No thoughts, head empty, only murder”

...Tim needed to give Jason a quick call. Also sign Cal up for anger management. And probably, judging by the way both Alley and Tom were looking at them, get one of the adults to give them the talk.

Mrs Eloise smiled at him, and like always it served to calm his nerves. That woman was a different kind of magic than Alfred, but magic indeed. “Anyway, dear, what matters is that we were worried about you. And then this incredible young man, Aaron,” she waved at him, and he winked one of his green eyes in response, “suggested we kept in closer contact with one another, so anyone who spotted you could inform the others.”

Aaron shrugged, his auburn mane of hair bobbing with the movement. “It just seemed like it’d be easier to have an alarm set up, since messaging everyone would take so long… and then someone suggested making a map of Gotham so we could have clearer routes for the kids handing out Mrs Denvarow’s stuff… and someone wanted a shared blackboard to write theories on where the fuck you were with others… and a few demanded a space to share photos, possible sightings or old selfies with you… It kinda spiralled and I thought it’d be less of a chaotic mess if I made an app that could do all of that, instead of all of us using multiple apps for the different fixtures everyone asked for… Since this is Gotham, we also added some Rouge Alarm for whenever a criminal was set loose. It helped keep us safe, and if we knew when crime was happening, we could pay attention to which heroes answered the call…”

“And then, you fought that firefly guy the other day”, Felix said, still by his dad’s side, still looking as awed as ever when looking at tim. “I was in the crowd, and I recognized you within a minute.”

“I don’t really understand technology that well, and the group chat was such a mess that day” Ailbert lamented, but he was still smiling. They all were.

That hit Tim then, hard. 

They all looked so happy to see him. To have him back. They had been waiting for him to be back, banded together to make sure they’d all know when he did.

“You looked so sad the last time we saw you” Blair added softly, sadly. “And… when you saved Aaron, you told him about such sad things…”

Elijah winced “And I heard the Midnighter fell from Wayne Tower a few weeks ago, but then he was never seen around again, and your suit looks kinda similar, so that was probably really you… and, that fall…”

“We were very worried” repeated Eloise, but her eyes didn’t lose their warmth. “But you’re back now, and we can keep track of you and each other now, so it’s all good. It’s wonderful to have you back, love.”

This was an out of body experience.

Something must have shown on his face, because Cal snorted.

“We adore you, you dumbass. You are our hero.”

Alley smiled. “You are our Robin.”

Tim fell into her arms, and away from the roof’s edge. The rest of the crowd was upon them in seconds, all eager to pat his back or joke about the cowl hiding his hair from their hands.

He met eyes with Aaron, over Alley’s shoulder. He looked like the hope Tim had helped plant in his heart all those months ago had flowered, and the petals filled his heart.

(He was feeling poetic tonight, in the best ways)

“You should download the app too, so you always have someone to talk to. Look it up. It’s called BirdWatchers, because we’ll always look up and out for you. Because when we wanted to jump, you lended us your wings to fly instead.”

It was like this fucker wanted Tim to cry.

“Welcome home, Red Robin.”

[hanniiesuckle17]

The Cake

A/n: Sorry this took so long but I'm obsessed with how this turned out. i hope you guys like this little crack fic ahha (this is also not thoroughly edited.)

Requested: @moonlit-han-main

Tag List: @ashisparanoid @mini-meanhoe @leggomylino @hanstagrams @desertofdessert @hoes4hoseok @yangomangos @jeonqqin @geminirules @crscendoforsung @mrsunshine999​ @jisungsjheekies @hannie-squirrel00 @cotccotc​ @kodzu-ken​ @konenichi​ @yangs-jeongin​ @binniebutter​

Warnings: Cussing probably

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Being pregnant is stress enough. Having Changbin as the father while quite possibly the greatest thing that has ever happened to Y/n. It was also the most stressful thing that had every happened to Y/n. Prepping for their gender reveal party is a huge ordeal and all the boys are excited to come and help. However, sometimes there are too many cooks in the kitchen.

Genre: comedy, crack, lil romance, fluff, established relationship!au, future parent!au, Fem Reader, Ft.3RACHA

✧

Changbin’s POV

“Jisung, you know Y/n said no alcohol.” 

I sighed seeing my friend carrying an armful of liquor bottles into the kitchen. He laughed less than gently setting them on the island counter. The apartment I shared with Y/n was rather small and the kitchen was basically open to the living room. The clinking of glass bottles had me rolling my eyes. “No. She said no alcohol for her. Duh. She’s pregnant!”

Jisung’s dark fluffy hair fell in front of his doe eyes, but did not hide the impish smile he wore. The door of the apartment swung open to reveal Chan, a square box in hand.

“Is that it?” I asked eagerly as he set the carton down in the kitchen with us. Feeling cramped in the space, Jisung squeezed past us onto the other side of the counter in the living room. 

Chan nodded and flipped open the lid of the carton to reveal a bright white cake. “Just picked it up from the bakery.”

“And he didn’t tell you what color was inside?”

“Do you think I would have walked in that calmly if I knew the gender of your kid?”

I shrugged, listing my head. “Yeah, that checks out.” Swatting Jisung’s hand away I shut the lid keeping him from tasting Y/n and my gender reveal cake. We had been holding off on knowing the gender and both of us were beginning to grow restless with her due date only a few months away. “Chan can you put it on the cake thingy Y/n bought.”

“It has a name.”

“Do you know what it is?” I asked walking to the other side of the counter. Chan stood, eyes blinking at an abnormal pace. “Cake thingy it is then. Y/n will be here in three hours so we have to finish decorating.” The boys nodded and we set to work about putting up the party decorations. 

An hour later the apartment was filled with colorful balloons and cheap streamers. The boys and I stood looking around at our hard work. The cake sat on the counter looking perfect as ever. The living room was bursting with color and the drinks and snacks were laid out and only partially eaten by Jisung.

“Wow. We did it.” Chan said, standing proudly with his hands on his hips surveying our hard work. It was unbelievable that we actually managed to get everything done and looking perfect with so much time to spare. “Where’s Jisung?” 

I shrugged. “I think he said he was putting the broom back in the kitchen.”

“Hey guys, should we put the cake on the table?” 

We turned around to see Jisung holding the beautifully frosted white cake. The cake that was going to tell us the gender of the baby. “Jisung wait-”

“Woah!”

Everything happened in slow motion. Chan and I both lunged forward. We watched in horror as Jisung disappeared below the kitchen island and the cake was thrown up into the air..The delicatable perfect pastry was turning over in the air, gravity pulling it down. 

SPLAT

Chan froze behind me. My hands latched onto the edge of the island counter, anchoring them in place so as not to strangle the nearest squirrel. Jisung slowly stood up facing us, white frosting in his hair. brown hair. Slowly his eyes traveled down to the mess he created. 

“WAIT! DON’T LOOK DOWN!” I screamed holding out my hands to stop him. My friend’s eyes shot up and he looked at the ceiling. “Nobody....look....at the kitchen floor.” 

“Why can’t we-”

“BECAUSE, CHAN.......if the cake is on the floor....we’ll see what color the cake is.”

Hearing this Jisung covered his eyes with his hands. “Fuck. Guys. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. Like I’m really sorry.” 

I sighed rubbing my forehead, a headache beginning. “Jisung quit you’re blubbering. It’s not going to help.” We now had no cake; the literal centerpiece of the entire party. “Y/n will be here in two hours. We need to clean this mess up now.” 

Chan ran a hand through his hair in stress. The man was going to have gray hair before he was thirty. “How are we supposed to clean if we can’t look at the floor?” My eyes fell onto the kitchen counter. A dish rag hung on the edge of the sink.

“I’ve got an idea.” 

✧

My left hand felt blindy around for the edge of the counter. The other pushed a  mop around the kitchen. The kitchen towel was itchy against my eyes, but I would rather keep my eyes in my head than have them end up in Y/n’s purse if I saw the color of the cake. 

A sudden whack to my ass had me yelping and shooting up from my hunched position. “Ow- what the hell?” My ears picked up the sound of a dust pan falling to the floor. 

“Sorry, I was turning around.” 

“Jisung, my ass is reserved for Y/n. Hands off. Dust pans too.”

Chan chuckled not far away from me. These makeshift blindfolds really were a bitch. “That is something I never thought I would ever hear. Don’t say it again.” 

After a few more minutes of sightless fumbling and cleaning, the three of us sighed. “I think we did it.” Jisung mumbled. “Can I take this off now?”

I nodded, despite my friends lack of ability to see. “Okay. Take em off.”

Pulling off the blindfolds, we were met with a horrifying sight. Every inch of my kitchen- of Y/n’s kitchen, was smeared and stained bright blue. Not only was the frosting on the floor, but it was on the cabinets, the counters, even the walls. 

“It’s.......everywhere...” Chan mumbled, staring at the catastrophe. “How did it get everywhere? I thought we cleaned it!” 

Jisung’s eyes widened. His hand clapped onto my shoulder. “Dude! You’re having a boy!” Both Chan and I looked over at him with a pointed stare. “What? Don’t look at me like that. What the fuck did I do?”

“You’re in deep shit.” Chris laughed looking at the cerulean stained tile. 

My eyes widened, turning to my friend. “Nuh uh. We are in deep shit. Jisung is the one that dropped the cake.”

“And how is that my fault?!” 

“I don’t know! You’re the smart one! Fix this!”

The leader ran his long pale hands through his hair. After pacing through the smeared frosting I was beginning to think we were indeed truly fucked. I began to lose hope until I saw an idea pass through Chan’s dark eyes. “You got an idea?” The youngest asked, swiping his finger along the counter and bringing the blue frosting up to his lips. He nodded, determination set on his face. 

“Call Felix.”

✧

A white blonde head of hair pranced through the door seventeen minutes later carrying a bucket with bleach and two bags of groceries. “You called for a miracle?” The boys smiled and looked at the three of us covered in icing. 

“Yeah, Felix, why’d you show up.” Jisung laughed only to be elbowed in the stomach by Chan. 

“Felix....help,” I pleaded. The boy shoved the bucket into Jisung’s arms and peeked into the kitchen looking over the disaster we created. He whistled, brows raising in surprise. “We have an hour and a half. Can you do it?”

His head tilted and a deep chuckle bubbled up in his chest. “Of course I can.” the boys and I let out a sigh of relief. “Chan, you and father-to-be deep clean the kitchen. Jisung, you and I will take care of the cake.” We all just stared at Felix as he barked out orders. “LET’S MOVE BOYS! LET’S GO, GO, GO!”

Scrambling, the four of us raced to fix the calamity before Y/n could come home and ever find out that we not only found out the gender of our child early, but quite possibly permanently stained her nice kitchen turquoise. 

The short time we had soon fizzled into nothing and the sound of keys turning in the lock of the front door had every  body in the apartment rushing to cover up the last bits of our mishap. 

Y/n walked in with a smile. The four of us rushed to appear as if nothing had ever happened. Chan launched himself onto the couch. Jisung admired one of our one posters that was hanging framed in the living room. Felix pretended to be inspecting our Vitamix that he gave us last Christmas as he always did when he came over to see if it had been used yet. 

I greet her with a hug, kissing her cheek. “Hi, Binnie!” Pulling away she looked around the apartment at the boys who were less than nonchalant, her eyes particularly falling on Jisung. Felix waved to her from the kitchen. “Oh- Lix! I thought you weren’t coming until the party started?” 

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d...drop...by.” He smirked and I glared at him from behind my pregnant fiancee. 

“Well, you’re always welcome!” She looked around the at the decorations and we all held our breath as she entered the kitchen. Y/n’s eyes lit up as her eyes landed on the cake. It looked almost exactly like the one Jisung had dropped only hours before. “Is this the cake? It looks so good! No one peeked right?” 

“No, no.”

“Not me.”

“I don’t even know what a cake is.”

“We would never.”

Giving us all weird eyes, Y/n chuckled and put a glass cover over the cake display. “The party will start soon. Thank you guys so much for helping out!” Letting loose a shaky breath I watched her wander into the bedroom to change for the soon coming party. 

“I think we got away with it guys. Not a word.”

✧

The party was in full swing. Friends and family mingled in our apartment and gifts for the baby and us were being stacked by the door. Chan was on Jisung detail keeping him far away from Cake 2.0. 

“Hey, everyone, it’s time to cut the cake!” The crowd cheered and gather around Y/n and I as we stood behind the cake Felix made with the minuscule help from Jisung. Nervously, I handed Y/n the knife and cast a wary glance towards the four other boys who were obviously sweating. The blade cut through the airy confection with ease.

“Ummm......Changbin.....”

“Yes?”

Her brows rose and she dumped the cut piece of cake on a plate. “Do you mind telling me why this cake has green filling, babe?” Y/n watched me blink, completely frozen in place. “Is there an alien or Shrek growing in my belly? Changbin what the hell?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Felix slap Jisung upside the head. “What did you do? I gave you the food coloring!” He whispered clearing exasperated. 

“I put it in the cake mix, just like you said!” 

Felix groaned and held his head in his hands. “Dude! I told you to put the coloring in the whipped filling! That was yellow cake batter! You mix blue and yellow you get fucking green! You made Changbin have a Shrek baby!”

The two continued to bicker while Y/n turned to me with a furious look in her eyes. “What did you do....”

“Jisungdroppedthecakeitwasn’tmyfaultthenweallputonblindfoldssowewouldn’tseewhatcoloritwasonthefloorandthefrostinggoteverywheresowecalledFelixandhewaslikethebleachfairyandheandJisungmadeanothercakeandI’msosorrybabyIloveyou.” I sputtered at top speed. 

She just blinked, trying to process my words. “I don’t even know...how to even comphrend what’s going on. Honestly at this point I’m not even sure I’m not growing a Shrek in my belly.”

I smiled leaning down and kissing Y/n’s soft lips. “No,” She looked up at me with soft eyes, anger slowly leaving. “That’s our son.” 

“He still might turn out to be Shrek.”

“Shut up, Jisung.”

✧

Masterlist

[jackrrabbit]

Unprofessional [pt. 1] /// Yandere Tendou x f!Reader

Summary: The new hire you’re supposed to be training at your office job is a little too attached for his own good…or yours. [Part 2]

A/N: Someone requested yandere Tendou and I was like !!! However when I wrote it, it turned out kinda long so I split it into 2 parts; I’ll answer the req when I post part 2. Anyway I’m obsessed with the concept of salaryman Tendou, please enjoy!

Tags/warnings: yandere, timeskip (Tendou is 22-23 in this), workplace/office setting, liberal use of “senpai”, alcohol, Tendou’s crackhead energy is toned down a little bit because of the setting [In part 2: smut, 18+]

You don’t really like Tendou when you first meet him.

Your first impression when your boss introduces the new employee is that he’s all talk and no substance. He’s been hired fresh out of university, and he’s got the stink of a former frat boy all over him—that baseless enthusiasm, chaotic goodwill and arrogance mixed together. That might have been your type when you were still sucking down cheap keg beer from red solo cups, but you’re two years into your career as a real grown-up adult now, and the cockiness that radiates off Tendou in waves is just…annoying.

Unfortunately, when your boss tells you to take the newbie under your wing, train him, and be his mentor, it’s not a request. It’s a demand. So you decide to suck it up. If you’re going to have to spend every second at the office with Tendou trailing after you like a baby duck, you may as well get used to him.

After a few weeks, you have to admit he’s not that bad. Sure, he’s not the best at respecting personal space, but how can you blame him? When he looms over you to reach for a file above your head for the nth time and traps you between his body and the cabinet, you finally lose your patience and snap at him to give you some space, but he looks so surprised and apologizes so sincerely that you can’t help forgiving him. You feel a little bad, even, when he explains that he’s never worked in an office before so he’s not used to all the rules that he’s expected to follow in a professional environment.

You can’t really fault him for that, especially when you’re the one who’s supposed to be teaching him these things. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean anything,” you tell him, and he perks up so quickly that you feel even worse for chewing him out in the first place.

The thing is, Tendou doesn’t really stop getting close to you once you chastise him. It just bothers you less. The dozenth time his hand lingers over yours while you’re passing him a document or he picks an invisible thread off your blouse or sits a little too close when you’re riding in the back of a taxi to a client meeting, you start convincing yourself that you’re overreacting. He’s probably not being that much more pushy than your other coworkers—you’re just more aware of him because you don’t know him as well.

And it doesn’t help that he’s tall, towering over you and pretty much everyone else in the office. The cheap suits he cycles through can’t quite conceal the hard lines of muscle underneath—oh, whoops. Now you’re the one crossing boundaries. Tendou is so big that you’re just…more conscious of his presence, right?

This is drilled into you one night after a marathon overtime session when you’re carrying a tall stack of boxes back to the archives. Maybe it’s because you’ve been at work for 11 hours, but the files feel like they’re filled with rocks, not paper. Your muscles are this close to giving out when Tendou appears out of nowhere to pluck the files out of your arms. “Here. Gimme, gimme, I’ll take ‘em.”

The way he carries the heavy boxes so effortlessly makes you kind of embarrassed at how much you’d struggled with them. “You’re pretty strong, hm,” you say absently. Oops, was that inappropriate? You don’t want him thinking you’re hitting on him or something.

“Oh—yeah I guess?” Tendou’s laugh (the one that used to grate on your nerves) sounds like he’s pleased with himself. “I go to the gym a lot.”

“Wish I could find the time. Or the discipline,” you reply as he replaces the file box in the archive room.

“Wow, senpai is calling me disciplined. My heart is pounding.”

His tone is sarcastic enough that you don’t think twice about the second part of his statement. “Don’t get too full of yourself. If you have the energy to go to the gym, you should spend that time double checking your expense reports before you submit them.”

“Ouch.” Tendou holds his hand over his heart in mock betrayal. “Targeting my weak points, how ruthless. But seriously, working out is second nature to me. Been doin it since I was a kid so it doesn’t take any kinda discipline.”

“Oh? Did you play sports or something?”

“Yeah…” Tendou’s voice trails off and when you pause from your task of organizing the files to look up at him, he’s staring directly at you. “…Used to play volleyball. Grade school through college.”

The way he’s looking at you, searching your face for something you can’t identify, makes you think this is more important than it seems. You tip your head to the side, waiting for him to continue.

“Our team in high school was pretty good,” he says slowly.

“That’s cool,” you say, turning back to the paperwork. “Did you ever play Shiratorizawa? They’re my old high school—I think their volleyball team went to nationals back in the day. I was never into sports though.”

A moment passes, and you frown. Did you say something wrong? But just before you’re about to change the subject, Tendou starts laughing. “Shiratorizawa? No, I don’t think I ever played them.”

Your laugh joins his a second late, although you don’t know why he thinks it’s funny in the first place. In the echo of your voices, you can hear how quiet it is in the archives. There’s something here you’re missing, but you’re not sure what.

Luckily enough, the somewhat awkward atmosphere doesn’t carry over to the next day. When you get into the office, Tendou is his usual clingy self, distracting you from your own work to ask you to teach him something and pulling you away when you’re talking to your coworkers so you can double check his emails before he sends them. If anything, he’s more attached than usual—when you go to a contract renewal negotiation with a client he insists on tagging along, so you let him after making him promise not to get in the way.

Of course he doesn’t keep his promise, but you end up appreciating his intrusion more than you could have predicted. The client is stubborn and rude until Tendou chimes in (much to your dismay, at first) with an offer to add on some oddly specific perks to the contract. You’re already practicing your apology speech to the boss in anticipation of losing the client, but to your amazement he agrees to Tendou’s terms and the deal is sealed, along with a healthy bonus for you.

You’re on cloud nine, practically skipping out of the building with Tendou at your side as you fantasize about what you’re going to do with the bonus after you split it with him. A weekend vacation out of the city? An online shopping spree? Some fancy dinners at five-star restaurants? Knowing you, the money will end up going straight to your savings, but you still can’t contain your giddiness. “How did you know he wanted that add-on? Seriously, I had no idea!”

“A guess! I’m good at reading people.” Tendou’s just as elated as you, pumping his fist and whooping like a kid as soon as you’re away from the client’s earshot. “Woohoo! Yay! Our first sale together!”

“A guess? You risked that huge contract on a guess?” You roll your eyes but you’re too excited to be mad at him. “Anyway, you don’t have to say ‘our’ first sale, I know it was all you. I’ll tell the boss you’re doing a good job.”

“No way, it’s ours! Both of us. Me and senpai.” Tendou’s hand reaches down and his fingers lace with yours, squeezing so tight his knuckles go pale.

The thrill of your success flickers as nervousness sets in. Is he holding your hand? “Tendou—“

“Senpaiiiii~” he says in sing-song, swinging your hand as you walk to meet the taxi and ignoring your meek attempts to pull away. “Didn’t I do a good job?”

“Y-Yeah. Good job, Tendou.”

Work friends. The two of you are work friends. Your boss passes all comments to Tendou through you (mostly things about how he’s good with clients and charismatic but needs to stop making minor errors on paperwork). When one of you is sick, your coworkers ask the other to pass on their good wishes. Tendou fits into his role at the office seamlessly, and you can’t say you don’t appreciate the fact that all of his good work is reflecting well on you.

So when his birthday rolls around two months after he’s hired, it’s up to you to plan the office drinking party (only after he complains to you about how he doesn’t have any friends since moving to Tokyo). You have the date you got from Facebook—May 20th—circled in red pen on your private calendar along with a little doodle of a birthday cake.

“What’s that?” asks one of your coworkers, pointing to the circle, as you flip through your agenda a week before the event.

“Tendou’s turning 23,” you tell him. “It’s a Friday, so some of us are going to go to a restaurant and drink a little. You’re coming, right?”

“Oh…yeah.” Your coworker scratches his head and clears his throat. “You guys are pretty close, huh. Um, I actually wanted to ask—you’re not together, are you?”

A chill runs up your spine. “Together? Who said that?” If this rumor gets around to your boss it’ll kill your career. These things always look worse for the woman than for the man. God, it was probably something Tendou said without thinking, he’s always talking about you and someone could easily misinterpret all that praise…

“Well, if you’re dating—“

“We’re not dating,” you say quickly. “We do a lot of work together because I’m training him, but it’s not like that.”

“Really?” Your coworker straightens and smiles. “Cause I was actually thinking of asking if you wanted to go out this weekend—“

“Senpai? Can you help me with this draft?”

Damnit, it’s Tendou getting in the way at the absolute worst time—especially considering he just had to come up behind you and put his hand on your shoulder. Seriously, how many times do you have to tell him to stop doing that when you’re talking to someone else? You’re not sure whether to be irritated at him for cutting your coworker off, concerned that the other man won’t believe what you said about you and Tendou having a strictly professional relationship, or relieved that you don’t have to give an answer to what sounds like an offer for a date.

You cast an apologetic glance at your coworker and make your way over to Tendou’s desk, hoping against hope that the interruption doesn’t look too suspicious. You’d die if word got around to your boss that you were dating your mentee.

///

You’ve got this office drinking party thing down to an art. Step one is to load up on greasy appetizers that’ll increase your alcohol tolerance, step two is to drink plenty of water, and step three is to pour yourself a single drink early and take small sips.

There’s a step four, too: make sure no one else’s glass get’s below the 1/4 mark. Your boss and coworkers are a lot less receptive to how little you’re drinking when they’re all nice and tipsy. It’s a system you’ve perfected over the years, one that allows you to have fun with people from the office without risking making an ass out of yourself or getting a hangover (which, at 25, is a lot more unpleasant than it used to be).

You can’t count the number of times you’ve witnessed the awkward drunken escapades of your fellows, which range from the endearing (your boss crying over how much he loves his wife) to the awkward (coworker makeout sessions) to the potentially criminal (bar fights. So many bar fights). You’re happy to remain a neutral observer, and tonight is no exception.

The only problem is that Tendou hasn’t yet mastered the art of drinking lightly when you’re around people you work with, so now, at the end of his party, he’s (for lack of a better word) trashed. His cheek is mashed flat to the restaurant table like it’s glued there and his head is surrounded by progressive rings of bottles and cans. It’s some kind of miracle that he hasn’t yet gone to the bathroom to get sick.

“Sorry Tendou,” you sigh. “I should have been keeping a better eye on you.” You had no idea he’d get so drunk so quickly. Aren’t tall guys supposed to have high tolerance or something?

“Sssshenpaii,” Tendou slurs, hoisting his head off the table with that looks like Herculean effort. “I liiiike when…when ya look at me…”

“Ha, ha,” you say sarcastically.

Tendou’s head whips around. “Where’d everyone go?”

“They all left—now it’s time for us to go home too. Come on, I’ll help you get to the taxi.” You pay the bill (oof, there goes your petty cash for the week) and pull on Tendou’s shirt sleeve to get him to stand up. Luckily he’s just sober enough to realize what you want him to do and he follows you out to the street with an arm draped over your shoulders to steady his meandering footsteps.

The real trouble comes when the two of you are seated comfortably in the cab and the driver asks for Tendou’s address, which, apparently, he can’t remember. You do the sensible thing and look through his phone, but his own contact card provides no hint to where he lives in Tokyo, only a phone number, email, and address in Sendai which has to be his parents’ house—

Wait.

Tendou’s from Sendai?

You’re from Sendai. You didn’t know he was too. What a coincidence that both of you moved to Tokyo from Sendai. You’ve mentioned your hometown to him a couple times—how come he never told you he’s from the same place? You’re only two years older than him; maybe you’ve run across him in Sendai before the two of you started working together.

Now that you think about it, his face has always been kind of familiar…you thought it was just ‘one of those faces’, but…?

This isn’t the time to wonder, though. You poke Tendou gently in the side, careful not to jar him enough to risk any stomach upset. “Tendou? Do you remember what street you live on?”

After a long pause Tendou names a street, but it’s your company’s address which isn’t located anywhere near a residential district. When you tell him to think harder, he grimaces, lips pulling back to bare his teeth. “Don’ wanna go home…lemme sleep over at senpai’s house.”

“What? You can’t stay at my place.”

“Why noooot? ‘m tired,” he drawls, eyes closing as his head droops onto your shoulder in the back of the cab.

“It’s—it’s inappropriate—wait, no-no-no-no don’t fall asleep,” you tell him desperately but it’s already too late. A light snore filters out of him and you curse. “Tendou—“

“Address?” the cab driver barks insistently, giving you the stink eye in the rearview mirror.

Shit. Well, it is his birthday, you have a pull-out couch, and it’s not like anyone from the office is around to see you going home together. Tomorrow morning you’ll just have to give him a lecture about professional boundaries and make him promise not to breathe a word of this to your boss.

You give your own address to the cab driver. Tendou sleeps peacefully on your shoulder throughout the entire drive, rousing only when you whisper his name in his ear outside your building (which is a miracle, because you know without a doubt that you’re not capable of carrying him). When you get up to your apartment, you deposit him on the sofa bed and tell him not to look through your stuff while you brush your teeth.

Obviously, he doesn’t listen to you. When you emerge from the bathroom, Tendou is standing in the middle of your living room and turning the pages of an old photo album of yours.

“Hey, give me that.” You try to pull it away from him, but he doesn’t let go and his grip is stronger than yours, so the album remains firmly in his hands. “If you’re sober enough to mess with my things, you should go home.”

“This is senpai, right?” Tendou says, pointing to one of the photos.

Despite your exasperation, you lean in to take a look. It’s a picture from high school with you and some friends, all of you wearing your Shiratorizawa uniforms and grinning cheekily at whoever took the picture. Your fingers are cocked up in a peace sign. “Yeah? That’s me.”

“So cute…senpai is really cute…” Tendou’s long finger trails over the edge of your face though the filmy plastic covering the photo.

“Um…you need to get to sleep,” you say nervously, pulling a little harder on the album.

He doesn’t budge, instead just flipping back in the album to older pictures from when you were little until he stops at a photo of you and your younger brother in grade school. Against your better judgement, you frown and look closer to try and pick up whatever caught his interest in this particular image.

“How old…?” he asks.

“I don’t know, 10 or 11 maybe?”

Tendou nods. “When I met senpai…you were this old, yeah.”

“Jeez, you’re really drunk. We met two months ago, remember? I was on the interview board.”

“Yeah.” Tendou’s gaze is glued to the photo. “I was so sad, ‘cause senpai doesn’t remember me. But also really happy to see you after such a long time…I thought it was a dream…”

“Hm? I don’t get it.”

Tendou finally looks up from the picture and meets your wary gaze with those wide red eyes. God, you used to think his face was so creepy—lately you find his zealousness endearing, almost childlike, but right now? It’s making your feet itch how much you want to step away from him. “I was really hoping you would remember on your own, but I guess I’ll have to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“How me an’ senpai met…”

Are you imagining it, or does his voice sound a lot less slurred than it did just 20 minutes ago? “You’re not making any sense.”

“Shh, just listen…your little brother played volleyball when you were kids, didn’t he?”

How did he know that? You nod hesitantly.

“Yeah…he was in my grade. He was a bad kid, y’know that? Always saying mean things to me.”

It’s true. Your brother’s always had a mean streak in him.

“He used to call me a monster. ‘Cause, y’know—“ Tendou taps a finger against his face. “Guess I look weird. And my name, too. So he said he didn’t wanna play with me. Demons can’t play on human teams. Every day, saying cruel things. I really hated him.”

Monster. Volleyball. Your little brother. Tendou Satori like the mind-reading spirits from folklore. Something’s coming to mind, a memory you haven’t thought about in years—no, decades.

Your little brother making fun of another kid. A tall kid with red hair in a bowl cut.

“I-I remember,” you stammer. “I came to his practice one time and you were there, right? That bowl cut kid was you. I got mad at him for calling you names and I yelled at him. That’s when we met?”

“Correct!” Tendou’s beaming like you just told him he won the lottery instead of recalling a random fifteen-year-old memory. “You made him let me play! I got to get on the court, and block him, and see his beaten face looking up at me. All because of senpai.”

You can play this off, you think to yourself. Tell him you’re sorry for how your brother treated him. Ask him why he never told you that the two of you have met before. Say something. Anything. But your mouth is too dry to let you speak.

“And, you know…” Tendou’s voice softens and a light blush dusts his cheeks. “I thought you were so cool. I couldn’t believe you were related to that jerk. Can I…tell you a secret?”

No. Deep down you know what he’s going to say, and you don’t want to hear it.

Tendou’s hand comes up to comb through your hair, gently pulling through the delicate strands next to your face and tucking them back so he can lean in and whisper into your ear (even though there’s no one else around). “I like you, senpai.”

Stop it. Stop it. Your blood feels cold in your veins.

“I’ve liked you ever since then. I used to wish we were in the same grade so I could be your friend and talk to you every day. Whenever we were in different schools I missed seeing you in the halls and hearing your voice when you spoke to other people.”

“Stop...stop talking,” you whisper, but Tendou continues like he didn’t hear you.

“Why’d you have to go all the way to Tokyo for college? In my third year at Shiratorizawa I studied for your school’s entrance exam forever, but I didn’t get in. Was too busy with volleyball, I guess.” He pauses. “Oh, by the way, I went to Shiratorizawa. I lied about that, sorry. But—seriously, d’you have any idea how hard it was for me when you were away at university? Not seeing the person I love for six years?”

Love, he said. You feel nauseous. “Tendou, you don’t—“

“Let me finish, okay senpai? You don’t know how much I’ve been through. Always having to respect your ‘personal space’—“ he frames the phrase in mocking air quotes— “when I need to touch you so bad I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

And then he’s hugging you into his chest, crushing your torso into his. You struggle and try to get him to let you go, but Tendou is so much stronger than you.

“You’re not that different from your brother after all, are you?” he hums into your hair. “You’ve been torturing me. You know how you lean over my desk when you show me something on my computer? I can…see down your shirt when you do that. And I smell your perfume. I spent two hours at the mall trying all the different perfumes so I could find the right one…thought my nose was gonna stop working! But don’t laugh—“

You’re not laughing.

“—the salesgirl looked at me funny but I got it eventually. Chance Eau Fraiche, right? I can’t believe how expensive that stuff is, what is it made of gold? It was worth it though! I saw this news article about how smelling things in your sleep can trigger memories, so I tried spraying your perfume on my pillow before I go to bed and now I get to see you at work and when I’m dreaming—”

“STOP IT!” Your slap echoes across the room with a resounding crack. You’ve never hit anyone before in your life, but your aim is good enough to leave Tendou staring with a shocked expression off to the side and a bright red mark on his face. His arms fall down from you and you back away from him, clutching your hand to your chest. “You need to get out. You’re drunk and you’re not thinking clearly. We...we can talk about this tomorrow, but right now you have to go.”

Your heart is beating like hummingbird wings, sending a flush up to your face that you know is visible. Tendou ghosts his hand over his cheek and is quiet for a long moment. “I wanted to do this the right way,” he says finally.

“What?”

“I tried. But you’re so obsessed with professionalism. You refused to see me like that,” he sighs. “You’re too responsible. Although it’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Please listen to me...” The psychological anxiety of this revelation is stirring up a primal fight or flight instinct, and you start backing up.

“I really wanted to treat you gently. You deserve to be treated well…”

“Tendou, wait.” How far are you from your bedroom? You don’t want to resort to hiding from him, but you’d feel a lot better with a locked door between you and him.

“…but senpai, I’ve waited so long. And it’s my birthday.”

Your hands scrabble for the doorknob, only—oh. He’s not just stronger than you, he’s faster too.

➠ [Part 2]

[vintagedolan]

dark

warning: this fic/blurb is, as the title suggests, dark. it’s supposed to be unsettling, but I can’t really give warnings without spoiling the whole thing. if that’s not your thing (think like, criminal minds, crime show type stuff), please please please skip this one! i love you!

word count: 4.9k

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Grayson pulled you closer to him in the dark, uneasy and confused. 

And then, it clicked.

“Why do you have pants on?” He whined, hand moving over the running shorts you’d left on before you climbed into bed. It was true that you usually just slept in panties, but you hadn’t thought much about it, too excited to get into bed and get cozy after your shower. 

“I was cold, didn’t wanna take em off,” you explained, putting your phone on do not disturb and sitting it on the little bedside table that Gray had built for you. You rolled over into his arms, his left hand sliding down over your ass.

“I can warm you up,” he mumbled, using his grip to press your entire body up against his, pulling you over so you were almost laying entirely on top of him. It was true - he was always warm, tanned skin radiating a heat that could cure your cold fingers when you reached out for him in the middle of the night. He’d let you do it every time, even if they felt like ice cubes and made him flinch.

His hand moved again, up over your ass to your back, and then his finger dipped under the band of your shorts, seeking out more skin. He grumbled a bit when the fabric tightened against his hands the further he reached over you.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re too tight,” he pouted. “My hands don’t fit.”

“Maybe your hands are just too big.” 

“Maybe you’ve just got too much cake.” 

You planted a hand on his chest, sitting up and giving him the most incredulous look your tired eyes could muster. He stuck his bottom lip out at you, tired eyes pleading. 

“Take em off.”

“Considering you actually just used the word cake to refer to my ass in a sentence? Access denied,” you teased, ducking back down to curl up against him and closing your eyes. His chest rose with a sigh.

“Can I at least have a kiss?”

You smiled but stayed still just to see what he would do. He waited for a moment, and then you felt him shift underneath you.

“Hey. Hey you. I know you aren’t asleep yet.” He poked at your side and you held it together until he actually started tickling. When you broke you giggled against him, lifting your head up and pressing your lips to his. He hummed against you, lips chasing yours for a moment as you shifted and got closer to him. He squeezed your ass as best he could, pulling back a tiny bit.

“Hits different when you’re in underwear.” He answered your unasked question with a shrug, and even with just the moonlight coming through the blinds you knew he saw your eyes roll. 

“I’ll just be over here-” you tried to roll away, but his hand caught the back of your head before you got far.

“Ah ah, don’t think so. You know I’m kidding.” He kissed you again before you could protest, not that you were going to. It felt too good to be in his arms for you to ever complain, and you melted into him, safe and content. You kissed lazily for a while, little mumbles of “missed you today” and “love you” the only things causing your lips to leave each others. Eventually, with a few last minute stolen kisses and a few more pressed to your forehead, you settled in.

The two of you fell asleep the same way every night, ever since the first time you’d found yourself staying over; him on his back, arm wrapped around your shoulders, lips on your forehead, you cuddled up against his side, leg over his waist. You’d drift as you slept, sometimes waking up to get back into each other’s arms. But no matter how far away you got, you were always touching somehow. Sometimes it was just your hands, sometimes one leg tangled with yours.

But when you woke up that night, it was his arm, thrown over your waist, heavy and warm. 

You blinked a few times, trying to get your bearings in the dark, reaching over for your phone. 

3:12 in the morning. 

You huffed out an annoyed breath, unsure of why your body had woken you up. Grayson stirred a bit, sensing you moving in his sleep. You reached over, playing with his hair to keep him soothed. 

Mouth dry, you waited until he started snoring again to coax his arm off of you and get out of bed. Any other night you probably would have just rolled back over, tucked yourself under Grayson’s arm and tried to go straight back to sleep. But you were so thirsty, you knew that you didn’t have a hope of getting back to sleep without at least a glass of water. 

So you headed out of the room as quietly as you could, making sure the door didn’t squeak.

You were glad that the construction was over and you were back in the house - it was easier to navigate in the dark. Still, you let your fingers run along the wall so you made sure that you weren’t going to run into anything as you made your way through the house.

The kitchen was better lit than the hallway most nights, simply because of the security lights outside that lit up the backyard. 

That was the first sign that you should have noticed. 

But you weren’t awake enough to notice, to realize that you shouldn’t have had to reach over and flick the light switch to get to the cabinet.

You should have just stayed in bed.

For a split second, you thought maybe it was Ethan, up late, unable to sleep.

You were wrong.

The man was standing by the bookshelf that Grayson had made when the lights flooded the room. He had a bag with him, a large backpack that matched his black hoodie. He turned to you, eyes wide as he realized you were there.

It all happened very quickly after that.

You must have screamed, but you didn’t hear it. Still, you knew you must of, or he wouldn’t have run towards you instead of out the door. Before you could move he was right in front of you, breath hot and horrendous in your face as he grabbed you and covered your mouth with his hand.

“Where do they keep their watches?”

You’d seen enough crime shows, binged through episodes of criminal minds, seen so many ‘un-subs’ that surely, surely you knew what to do. But there, staring one in the face? Your mind went blank, blind panic taking over as you realized that this was real, this could be it.

Your first instinct was to tell him, tell him exactly where the watches were in Grayson’s closet, the second drawer down on the right. That’s what you’d always been taught. Give them what they want and get the hell out of there. 

But then you thought about Grayson, Grayson in his room, entirely unaware of what was going on. The love of your life, vulnerable in his white sheets, sleeping peacefully like you’d left him just moments ago. There was no way in hell that you were going to put him in danger. You’d rather die.

“I said where do they keep their watches?” He repeated, his hold on your arm tightening as he pulled his hand back just enough for you to talk.

“Fuck you,” you spat, trying to wrestle yourself out of his grip. He was stronger than he looked, and the effort was futile. 

“Hey!” wasn’t what you were expecting to hear, but he could have said anything and the same relief would have washed over you. It was unmistakeable, and close. 

Grayson was awake.

You turned to look at him, beg for him to help you but you were yanked suddenly, spun around. His hold changed, moved from your arm to around your shoulders, across your chest. And then you realized why he’d pulled you over to the other end of the kitchen, what he was reaching for.

The knife block. 

“Come any closer and I’ll kill her right now,” the man threatened, and between the new feeling of cold metal against your neck and the panic in Grayson’s eyes you knew you both had to take him at his word.

“Okay, okay, no one’s coming closer. Just don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt her.” He was begging like you’d never heard him before, a raw fear in his voice that broke you at your deepest level. 

You thought about moving, trying to fight him off somehow. Grayson could take him down no problem if you got out of the way, that much was obvious. But the knife complicated things - you knew how sharp they were just based off of Ethan’s stitches. 

Oh god. Ethan. You felt a pang of guilt that you hadn’t thought about him yet, and you prayed his deep sleeping wasn’t too deep tonight.

Somehow, it seemed that Grayson was on the same wavelength. You’d been keeping your eyes on him the whole time, but you missed when they flickered to the hallway behind you. Little did you know, Ethan had woken up to the voices, come out quietly, seen everything. Now all Grayson had to do was stall until his brother could get the security from the end of the driveway to the house. 

“Get your watches. I want your watches, and I know which ones you have. Don’t bring me the cheap shit.” The man spoke up again, voice demanding.

“You can have whatever you want, but I’m not getting anything if you don’t let her go.” Grayson’s feet were set, his voice stern. 

“Get the watches. I’m the one with the knife here, and you won’t be the one paying if you don’t do what I fucking say.” 

“You hurt her and I’ll fucking kill you.” Grayson’s negotiating facade cracked for a moment, eyes burning in anger. He took one step forward, unable to stop himself. 

Your neck was wet. 

For a minute you thought you were crying, but you felt the sting, realized what had happened. The blood trickled down from where the man had pushed the tip of the blade in just enough to break skin.

“Back. Up.” He snarled.

You panicked, starting to writhe, desperate to get away from him. The knife cut in a bit further and you gasped at the pain.

“Baby don’t! Stop, stop don’t,” Grayson panicked, holding his hands up and taking a step back, eyes never leaving yours. “Okay, okay you win, I’ll get the watches, I’ll get them!”

“Grayson don’t.” Don’t leave me please don’t leave me.

“Shut up.” The knife moved again and you fought the urge to squeeze your eyes shut - if anything was going to happen, you wanted Grayson to be the last thing you saw.

I love you you mouthed to him, feeling the blade move against your skin as you spoke. 

The sound of the door busting open was enough to make all three of you jump. 

“HANDS! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!” 

Suddenly the kitchen was very crowded - Ethan was there with the two security guards that worked nights for the boys - James, and Deandre, all of their eyes wide, bodies tense. You felt small surrounded by so many tall men - intimidated instead of relieved. 

“Drop the knife and show me your hands. NOW.” Deandre demanded, gun drawn and pointed.

The man hesitated, cursed under his breath. It felt like an eternity before the knife clattered to the floor, too loud against the wood. It left a scratch there that you’d find three months later. 

His arms released, rising up above his head in surrender. Immediately, another set of hands was on you, strong and firm and warm. Grayson pulled you harder than he ever had, moved you so fast you could barely register what was happening until he had you pressed up against his back. He’d put himself in front of you, standing tall and strong. You took in your first deep breath as you clung to the back of his shirt, your adrenaline pumping, heartbeat in your ears as James pulled the mans hands behind his back into makeshift handcuffs and led him outside. 

As soon as he was out of eye sight Grayson spun, arms wrapping around you.

“Oh god. Oh god, I’m so sorry angel I’m so sorry, I love you so much.” The words barely registered to your ears he said them so fast, hot tears falling against your skin as he pressed himself to you. 

“Ouch.” 

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he’d pressed up against your cut on your throat, causing it to sting. The pain was the only thing you could process, your mind foggy. 

Grayson pulled back, unwilling to let go of you entirely but far enough for you to see the sadness in his eyes. “Ethan, go get something for her neck, just grab whatever we have.”

“The cops are outside, maybe we should wait-”

“I don’t give a fuck about the cops bro, just get me some damn gauze or something. Please.” 

You watched Ethan walk away, or at least, you tried to - he was blurry, his form swaying around in your vision. Your heart was beating too loud, your head felt funny. You reached up to your neck, hand coming away wet and cold with blood.

“I think I’m - I don’t feel so good.”

Next thing you knew, there was something hard against your back, and too many voices.

“Y/N? Y/N can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me.” It was a different voice, not the one you wanted to hear.

“Gr-Grayson.” You croaked it out.

“I’m right here baby, I’m here.” You forced your eyes open, searching for where his voice was coming from - he sounded too sad, and your fingers twitched, anxious to find him, to comfort him. When you blinked enough to actually see, there were three faces above you, contrasted against the lights and the white of the ceiling. Ethan, Grayson and another face, all three with the same look of concern painted across them hovered over you as you realized where you were. The kitchen floor.

“What happened?” 

“You passed out on us,” Ethan answered, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It’s your bodies defense mechanism. Too much going on at once,” the third face said. You looked down, saw the patch on his shirt. Paramedic.

“It’s not cause of the blood? She didn’t lose too much?” Grayson spoke up then, and your eyes went back to him, frowning.

“No, the cut on her neck is superficial. Neck wounds just bleed a lot initially but it’s already stopped. We’ll get you bandaged up, get you some water and you should be good as new!” 

Good as new. You weren’t sure how you were ever going to be good again, especially when you saw the look on Grayson’s face. He was as easy to read as your favorite novel - angry, livid actually, unable to process anything other than the rage you knew was building up inside him the longer he sat there. 

“Can I sit up?” 

“Yeah, just stay sitting for a bit and we’ll take it in stages okay? Fellas, can one of you get some water for her?” 

“Yeah, I got it,” Ethan patted your knee before he got up from where he was crouching, heading to the fridge. You started to sit up, body still unsteady. The paramedic helped you, moved you slightly to position you against the cabinets.

“The police are gonna need pictures of your neck, for evidence. I need to take them before we bandage you up.” 

He wasn’t asking. 

You felt sick to your stomach as you nodded, turning your head slightly to the side to expose your neck as he fumbled for his camera. 

The only thing that kept you from crying right then and there was Ethan coming back down onto the floor and pressing the cup of water into your hands. 

“Drink it bup, you’ll feel better.” You waited until the paramedic was done to bring the cup to your lips. The water was cold, nice against your dry throat, the whole reason you’d even gotten involved in the nightmare in the first place. You gulped it down, passing the glass back to E.

“More?”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you.” Your voice felt robotic, unattached as you kept your eyes on Grayson as the paramedic wiped your neck off and put a bandage on that felt large and sticky with antiseptic. You didn’t care- you were just waiting for what you knew was about to happen.

All it took was James reappearing in the room for him to explode.

“What the fuck happened! You realize how much we pay you two fucks, and somebody got past you, and inside the fucking house. Explain yourselves. Now.” His voice was booming as he passed you, headed straight for James, hands in fists.

“Gray, gray easy, easy,” Ethan cautioned, rising quickly to cut his brother off, getting chest to chest as he continued to yell over his shoulder.

“You see her? You see her right? You let that happen you useless fucking idiots-”

“Grayson. Stop.” 

Something about the tone of Ethan’s voice pulled him out of it just enough for him to stop seeing red, to speak at a normal volume.

“I wanna know what the fuck happened. How the fuck he got in.”

“So do I. But I’ll handle it, okay? You’ve got other things to focus on right now. More important things. Take care of her, I’ll handle it.” 

I’m right here, you wanted to say, but instead you grabbed onto the counter above you, pulled yourself up to your feet. The paramedic stayed close until you got your bearings, offering you a small smile of encouragement. 

Grayson turned then, looked, really saw you for the first time since you’d passed out. The guilt was so blatant on his face that you knew he would be crying if he wasn’t trying to keep it together for you. 

He turned away from Ethan, walked towards you slowly, not wanting to startle you.

“I-I-” you tried to find words, but your brain was still fuzzy. 

“It’s okay baby. Just tell me what you need. Tell me what to do to make it better.” 

You looked around, past him, watched the cops unpacking the backpack onto the coffee table - the play button, a few vinyls. 

“I need to get out of here. I don’t wanna be here right now.” You were proud of yourself for getting cohesive sentences out, even if they did make Grayson’s face drop. 

“Okay. We’ll go, we’ll go right now. E, can you call Nick and ask if we can stay? He’s closest.” 

Ethan nodded, immediately pulling out his phone.

“Let’s get you a new shirt.” Grayson wrapped his arm around your waist, led you out of the kitchen and back towards his room. His hold was so firm that he practically sat you down on the bed, only leaving you so he could go get you something to change into.

You didn’t realize until he moved that he’d sat you directly in front of the mirror. Bad move.

You didn’t look like yourself. Your eyes were too wide, still frazzled. Shoulder too stiff, muscles all tense. But all that was commonplace when you saw the blood. It was a darker red than you expected, soaked into Grayson’s WZRD shirt that you’d slept in. Some of it had even gotten on your shorts. The cut was bandaged, but you still brought a hand up to it, gently running your fingers over where you could feel it was. 

Grayson interrupted your gaze, moving in front of you and crouching down so you didn’t have to look up, like he might do with a child. You didn’t mind - it was nice to feel bigger, more powerful. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not really. Just feels weird.” 

“Do you want a t-shirt or a hoodie? I grabbed both.”

“Hoodie.” You didn’t care if it was 80 degrees outside - you felt comfortable in them, felt less exposed. Safer. 

He didn’t question it, just reached forward for the hem of your, his, ruined shirt, pulling it as gently as he could over your head.

It got worse. You hadn’t thought about the fact that the paramedic had wiped your neck off. Your chest, your skin that had been hidden underneath the fabric was stained an angry red, and you couldn’t help but gasp at the sight. You barely recognized yourself.

Grayson followed your eyes, seeing what you saw, immediately moving to block your view of your reflection.

“Hey, shh shh, it’s okay. I’ll get you cleaned up, it’s okay. I’m gonna get a washcloth.” He stood up, went to move away from you and the panic that rose in your throat made you feel like you were choking. As quickly as you could you shot a hand out, caught his arm, held on as he turned back to you.

“Please don’t leave me by myself.” It came out as a whimper, involuntary, weak. But you didn’t care. The thought of being alone was too much to handle, even if he was just behind the bathroom door. 

“I won’t baby, I promise. You wanna come with me?” 

You nodded, keeping your hold on his arm. It felt nice, like an anchor, reminding you that Grayson was there and if Grayson was there you were safe. So you held on while he got the washcloth, wet it in the sink, cleaned you off. When he pulled his cudi hoodie over your head you got your arms through as quickly as you could, reaching back out for him. He held your hand while he moved around the room, packing an overnight bag for the two fo you. It helped you to keep breathing steadily, even when he led you out the bedroom door, past the kitchen counter - he was careful to block your view of the blood on the floor. When you got to the door, Ethan was there, brows furrowed as he watched the cops mull around outside, checking to see how the security system had been breached.

He paused, looking at you, lips moving as he tried to start talking, hesitating, stumbling over his words. 

You let go of Grayson for a moment, closing the distance and wrapping your arms around E.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into his chest, glad to feel him there and whole and unharmed. 

He squeezed you against him, resting his cheek on top of your head. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Try to get some rest, don’t worry about anything here okay? Either of you,” he looked up at Grayson, letting you go. “Take the tesla, the porsche is blocked in.” He passed his brother the keys, giving him one of those twin looks that you couldn’t read. Grayson nodded, wrapping an arm around you again.

“I don’t know if he’s still out there. Just - just don’t look, okay?”

You did as he said, burying your face in his chest before he opened the door. He practically carried you to the car, guiding each step you took until you got to the door, climbing in. He ran around the side to get in the driver’s seat, immediately reaching back over for you once he got back in. 

You felt lighter as soon as the car cleared the gates, and you curled up against Grayson as best you could, wrapping both arms around his right one, resting your cheek on his bicep, careful not to press on your neck. The last thing you wanted was for it to start bleeding even more. 

The drive to Nick’s went faster without the usual traffic - you were there in less than ten minutes, walking up to his apartment door. He answered almost immediately. 

“C’mon in guys,” he stepped aside, letting you and Grayson pass. “I grabbed some extra blankets and pillows for the bed. It’s a twin, I haven’t had a chance to get anything bigger yet, and I can get you anything else you guys need, like chargers or-”

“Thank you Nick. It means a lot, truly. We just need to get some sleep is all,” Grayson cut him off gently, practically holding you up against his side with how tight he had you pressed to him. 

“Yeah right, of course. Well if you need anything, you know where I’ll be. Glad you guys are okay.” 

“Thanks man.” 

Grayson led you to the right, into a small room that was definitely meant to be an office and not a bedroom. The twin bed was pressed up against the far corner, the extra pillows and blankets stacked up at the end. Grayson dropped the bag by the wall, moved towards the bed and started to arrange it with his free hand.

It didn’t make sense why it happened then. Why everything came crashing down at that moment, watching him shuffle around pillows to make the bed the way he knew you liked it. 

Alas, you fell to pieces, the weight of everything that had happened suddenly sinking it. Just how close you’d been to being seriously hurt, killed, how much danger the love of your life had been in. 

He was startled by the sobs that started to rip from your lungs, but he caught you anyways, arms winding around your waist as he sat the both of you down on the edge of the bed, you on his lap.

“It’s okay baby, you’re safe. You’re safe it’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.” He repeated it over and over, rocking you back and forth. The thought of him being hurt had your mind spinning, and you reached down, caught the bottom of the shirt you didn’t remember him putting on, tugging it up in a bid to get to his skin, to get closer to him. He let you do it even if he didn’t understand what you needed, desperate to help you in any way that he could. 

Once he was shirtless you pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his neck, his chest, anywhere you could reach, letting your brain accept that he was okay, that he was safe. You hadn’t realized how much of the weight had been because you were worried about him, what could have happened, what almost happened. Each kiss settled you even more, your tears ceasing as he held you. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you whispered against his collarbone when you finally found your voice, leaning back so you could kiss his lips. He kissed you back, but you could feel his confusion at your words.

“I think I’m the one that’s supposed to be saying that right now. I’m so sorry. I should have checked the camera before we went to bed, hired more security. I just never thought -”

You cut him off again with a kiss. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.” 

“It is though. My lifestyle, putting shit about my life online, that’s why he chose our house, why all of that happened.”

“Baby stop. It’s okay. We’re okay now.” 

He was quiet then, hands moving up to your face, thumbs tracing over your cheeks. It relaxed you slightly, calming your body in a way that only his touch could.

“Seeing you... like that.” He couldn’t make himself say it. “I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

“I’m glad it was me and not you.” You didn’t skip a beat, bringing a hand up over his when he cringed at your words.

“Angel please, please don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth. I’d do it again if I had to.” 

He tilted your face up. “Look at me. You aren’t ever going to have to do anything like that. No one is going to hurt you, ever again. I won’t let it happen. Okay? That’s a fucking promise.”

“That sounds nice.” You rested your cheek in his palm, just watching him look at you for a few moments, comfortable silence filling the room.

“You tired?” He asked eventually, noticing your drooping eyelids as the rest of the adrenaline finally made it’s way out of your system. You nodded against him, holding on as he stood the two of you up so he could pull the covers back. 

While you were pretty sure Grayson outgrew a twin size bed when he was 12, you were thankful for it that night. He not so subtlety moved you over so you were by the wall, his body broad enough that you couldn’t even see the door as you curled up in his arms, let him press you against him as close as he could get. He’d put himself between you and the outside world, any danger that could possibly ever come your way - and he did it every night after that too, made himself a shield of sorts even back in your room at the house. 

He never drifted from you in his sleep again.

read part two here

[trillian-anders]

3,643 miles

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, smut (& exhibitionism), wee bit of angst

word count: 9.1k

description: established relationship; you’d met in college, both education majors. you really love bucky barnes, and nearing your five year anniversary when he proposes you go on a coast-to-coast road trip on summer vacation. you seem skeptical and unsure, but he assures you it’s worth it. 

New York City, New York – Mile 0

You hadn’t been serious. Not entirely anyway. Months ago, when you said to Bucky, half asleep, “We should go on a road trip, just you and me.” You remember his raspy voice in reply,

“Oh yeah?” His fingers slowly trailing down your bare spine as you slipped off into sleep.

“Yeah.”

It was something you’d almost forgotten all about until he brought it up five months later.

“Hey, do you think we should rent a car or just take mine?” You were chewing on a pen cap, going over the essays you needed to grade by Monday, a glass of wine by your side. He was sitting across from you, laptop open and a notebook full of different scribbles.

“For what?” You ask, taking a sip of your wine.

“Our road trip.” Like you’d forgotten, like it was something you’d already decided on. You shake your head, confused.

“What road trip?” His brow furrows.

“You said you wanted to go on a road trip.”

“When?” He was silent for a moment, staring at you like you had two heads.

“Christmas… when we were going to bed, you said you wanted to go on a road trip.” He explains simply, “Just the two of us.” You shake your head again.

“I was drunk on Christmas.” As if it explains it away, “We don’t really have the funds to take a road trip across the country, how long would that even take?” Typing a few things into your search bar you sigh, “Two to three months?”

“They went like everywhere,” He defends, “We are just going straight across.”

“I don’t know Bucky…” You sat back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“I’ve been doing the math.” He comes to your side of the table squatting down at your side, “We have more than twice of what we would need in savings, we still have enough to put down on a house next summer.” A kiss to your hand and some puppy dog eyes. “And we will be back in time for Steve’s wedding.” A kiss to your wrist, “C’mon baby, we’re still young, and pretty soon we won’t have time to do stuff like this. We never get to do anything this adventurous, come on.” You sigh, he’s right.

For the last five years you two had been together you were both working full-time jobs and in college. When school ended and you both got jobs you stayed in the shitty studio apartment you’d gotten when you first moved in together on the cheap to save every penny you could towards getting a nice house in the suburbs, something you both desperately wanted whenever the subject of marriage and kids rolled about. Which seemed to be more common lately, more so with both of your parents than with each other.

“You’re not getting any younger.” From both your Mom and his. His younger sister was just starting college and nowhere near continuing the Barnes bloodline, so his Mom was especially needy with you as far as wanting grandchildren. Something you and Bucky had briefly talked about but hadn’t made any real serious strides towards having. Your implant was good for another couple years and it wasn’t a real concern.

“Okay,” You agreed, “We should probably take your car to save some money.” A rental for even a month would be way too much. Bucky grinned, kissing you, again and again.

“It’s going to be so fun.” A kiss. “Really is.” Another kiss. His hand slipping to palm at your breast.

“Bucky I have to grade these essays.” He shrugs.

“Grade ‘em tomorrow.” A tweak of your nipple, his mouth sinking down to your neck, a well-practiced weak spot that never failed to make you shiver.

“Bucky.” You whined, fingers coming to grip his shoulders.

“C’mon baby.” You were weak for it. Played right into his hands and he knew it. You were such a sucker.

…

The last day of classes came faster than you thought, the morning after, bright and early you were getting ready to hit the road. Bucky had let you over plan a little if only to satisfy yourself and solidify the fact that you wanted to go on this trip. Almost 4,000 miles. The road ahead of your seemed daunting but he liked to remind you,

“We have all summer; we don’t need to rush.” Which means if you need to stop for the night, then you needed to stop for the night, but the goal was to drive as close to each major destination as you could before looking for a room at a nearby hotel or motel. Whatever seemed more convenient. You’d packed one large suitcase between the two of you and a bag of snacks and drinks for the times where you couldn’t reach a gas station or got uncontrollably snacky and bored.

“Please don’t forget to water our plants.” You begged the blond. Steve seemed a little done with it.

“I won’t forget to water the plants.” He was going to forget, he was beautiful, but endlessly forgetful. You sigh, stepping into his open arms and hugging him. “You guys be careful, if you run into any trouble just give me a call.”

“We’re going to be fine.” Bucky took his friend into a hug after you released him, “We’ll let you know when we get to DC.” The first stop on the trip.

“Have fun! Try not to kill each other!” You roll your eyes, slipping into the passenger seat and plugging your phone in, getting the GPS set up. Bucky slipped into the driver’s seat, grasping your hand and laying a kiss on your palm.

“You ready baby?” You smile excitedly,

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Your little notebook in your lap. A polaroid camera for the aesthetic. A picture developing on your lap that you’d gotten Steve to take of the two of you in front of the car before leaving. The first stretch wasn’t very long. Just about four hours with mild traffic, but you knew with it would be closer to six, but once you were out of the North East the roads would open up at least for a little while.

You hit traffic trying to get out of the city almost immediately which is why you liked Bucky driving. Driving in the city was always stressful and you rarely ever had to do it, you’d never gotten that NYC aggression and seeing as he learned how to drive on these streets you let him take the first leg. You’d switch with him most likely somewhere in New Jersey, probably before you hit Delaware.

“Aren’t you excited?” He asks you. You had to admit, seeing him so giddy and excited about something further enforced the excitement you had been feeling about this trip. You’d never been anywhere further than the North East, once you broke free of DC you’d be in uncharted territory and it did excite you.

“Of course, I am.” You smiled at him, he leaned over the center console to kiss you, a loving sweet kiss interrupted by a loud honk from the man behind you, the light was green.

Washington, DC – Mile 233

“Okay, smile.” Bucky snapped a picture of you standing in front of the National Mall, the Washington Monument tall in the background. The day stayed bright and sunny. With the plan of hitting a museum before dinner, the two of you arrived around lunch time, stopping to grab some food before parking the car and walking around on foot.

You’d snapped a couple pictures of him on your phone while he’d been talking to his Mother during lunch, which you scrolled through while you walked to the next destination. The Smithsonian. The Natural History museum that had currently been doing an exhibit on the late Stan Lee. Something Bucky was excited about.

Copies of old prints. Videos of Stan Lee himself, Jack Kirby, and Steve Ditko. A bunch of first editions in plexiglass containers. His favorite, however, was the character his parents named him after. A life replica of the suit he wears in the comics on display. You took a couple pictures of him with it, sending them onto the group chat you had with him and his family.

His hand was in yours walking through more exhibits, both of you aimlessly walking up to different displays and stopped at the little gift shop for Bucky to look at some exclusive merch they had for the Stan Lee exhibit, including a paperback book about Stan Lee and a large exhibit book with detailed explanations about everything you’d just seen.

“Did you want to drive tonight?” Bucky asked while you were grabbing coffee, “Or do you want to find a room?” You playfully shove him, he playfully shoves you back.

Later your back would find the soft hotel mattress, giggling and a little drunk from the multiple drinks had at dinner. The hum of his lips against yours, fingers plucking on your strings, gentle moans and a hand pressed against the headboard as it smacks against the wall in a steady rhythm.

It was nice. This vacation was nice. And much needed after wrangling teenagers all day.

“I love you so much.” You moan against his mouth, the grind of his hips against yours making your eyes roll in the back of your head. His fingers laced in yours.

You knew that you and Bucky had a good relationship. It’s always been stable and nice and good. You love him and you know he loves you. You’ve never had to question that. Your last relationship, seemed like so long ago now, wasn’t that great. Time never made for each other, a great lack of communication, just being young adults and drinking too much at parties and screaming at each other in the car.

When you met Bucky it was an instant attraction. He was charming, sweet. He’d brought you snacks in the library and helped you study for your history exams. Currently, he was still slowly working towards his Doctorate, wanting to eventually teach at the college you’d both attended. But back then you’d moved in together almost instantly. Not just because the relationship came so easily, but because of finances as well.

Money was a little less tight when someone was sharing the bills with you.

Yeah, you had your arguments. Someone leaves their dishes next to the sink instead of in it. Someone keeps putting off taking out the trash. Someone doesn’t make the bed in the morning. Someone leaves their dirty socks next to the hamper than inside it. But they were small things. Things you could both try to do better. And you have.

Another thing all together was the sex.

You were never someone who said the sex had to be good right away. It takes time to learn someone’s body and really figure out what someone likes and what they don’t like. And while the sex has definitely improved over the years, he knew how to make you cum in less than two minutes and was very proud of that fact, your first sexual experience with each other had his head under your skirt in a dark corner of the school library like you were a Victorian royal canoodling with a servant.

You were red about it for days, thinking about how hard you came on his tongue almost caught by another student looking for records for their thesis. The grin on his face for a week afterward as he enjoyed the hastily decided exhibitionism.

It grew from there.

Bucky loved the fear of getting caught, it was one of his favorite things. You couldn’t even really remember everywhere the two of you had sex of some kind. And when you’d had your second pregnancy scare you decided to get the little implant you still have now.

“I love you so fucking much.” That grind. You loved it and he knew it. He would have your knees hooked over his arms, resting in his elbows, he would be deep, brushing your cervix and grinding his hips against yours, pubic bone grinding on your clit. Your nerve endings on fire. “So fucking wet.” Around him. You could feel his cock throb inside of you and you knew how badly he wanted to move, but he wanted you to beg him for it more.

And you would.

Always.

Your leg was over his thigh at breakfast. Sitting at the bar top of the little diner. “So I think today will just be driving.” Over a piece of toast, “I think it’s like… 10 or 11 hours.” So you’d probably get there just in time to get some sleep. He nods, taking a bite out of his omelet, his thumb brushing your thigh. You were scrolling through your phone. His fingers playing with the hem of your shorts.

“Do you want to drive first?” He asks, “Or do you want me to?”

 Nashville, TN – Mile 890

The road to Nashville cut through the mountains. Music blasting and windows down, you snapped pictures as Bucky traversed the winding roads that were mostly empty aside from shipment trucks and the occasional other car also travelling to some unknown destination. It was gorgeous out there.

“Could you imagine living out here?” You asked him as you spot a cabin mixed in among the trees on the side of the mountain not too far in the distance. He had his sunglasses on, his hair a little grown out and longer than he usually kept it was whipping around his face.

“Absolutely not.” He laughed. The city boy, through and through, you’d really struggled over deciding where you’d like to buy a house when the two of you decided to actually start saving. He wanted to buy an apartment first, but then a debate of what would be more realistic, what would give them enough living space for what they would be paying. There was a period of time where all you looked at were the pretty brownstones you knew you couldn’t afford, but once the two of you reeled it in and really looked you decided to move closer to where Bucky would be working as a professor.

“It’s bad enough you have me moving to New Jersey.” He laughs. But it was all a jest, he wanted to work for Rutgers in New Brunswick. It was where both of you went to college, after all.

“We should go camping.” You take a picture as you cross a bridge, capturing the rippling mountain water.

“You would hate camping.” He shakes his head, “You went to summer camp for a week in fifth grade and told me it was the worst experience of your life.” You sit back in your seat glaring at him.

“Maybe it would be different now that I’m an adult,” You offer, “And the only reason why it was horrible in the first place is because night one the girls said the cabin was haunted and then I just couldn’t sleep for the rest of the week.” Those little bitches. Bucky full belly laughs, the haunting of the girl was also on top of you getting a UTI and seeing a family of bears roam about outside one day so you couldn’t go outside.

“We are not going camping.” You huff but don’t answer because you know he was right; you’d hate camping.

…

“I don’t even remember the last time we had McDonald’s.” You say while dipping three fries into your small dipping cup of sauce.

“After finals.” It wasn’t as good as you remember it being, but you’d also gotten a salad to split as well. Not being able to quite justify eating strictly burgers and fries. Bucky’s memory was a steel trap, unlike his blond best friend. Bucky could easily recall events, almost in striking detail which really sucks when you promised to go do something and wanted to act like you forgot, he could tell you exactly when you said it.

Like drunk on Christmas when you say you should take a road trip, although this wasn’t a half bad idea.

“You got a 20-piece nugget.” He continues, “You ranted for the entire night about how they only gave you three sauces for 20 nuggets.” A history major who had great memory recall. Tests were very easy for him. The bastard. You used to be so jealous.

“Sounds like something I would do.” You laugh.

Nashville was dark when you’d arrived. Downtown thriving with noise and pedestrians as you drove around, tired, while Bucky looked at local hotels. You’d found a decent one for cheap not too far from where you’d been driving and as soon as that hotel room door shut you slipped into bed. Waking slightly when Bucky slipped into bed behind you, pulling you into his chest. The little wet strands of his hair tickling your cheek as he pressed a kiss there, falling back under.

The Parthenon. A life size replica of the one in Greece. A polaroid or two there. Nashville was gorgeous. Aside from the main city were little outlying towns with walkable shopping and a ton of little restaurants and local coffee shops.

You take a sip of your iced coffee, giving Bucky an odd look as he looks at a wall of cowboy boots. “You’re not buying those.” He turns and gives you a playful glare. “Babe, they’re $300, no. You would never wear them.”

“Maybe I’m going to make them a staple of my closet.” He shrugs, “That’s what that girl you watch says right, make something a staple and work your other clothes around it?”

“She doesn’t mean $300 cowboy boots.” You laugh. “You’re never going to wear those.”

“I could though.”

“But you won’t.”

You’d gone and enjoyed the city, hit a couple breweries and had bar food before doing a little tour of the Grand Ole Opry and walked around the Opry Mills Mall before grabbing dinner. The restaurant had line dancing and pretty decent barbecue. But the one drink they had, some sort of peach and whiskey, went down a little too smooth. And poor Bucky who hadn’t drank quite as much, was propping you up on his shoulder as you stumble down the street back to your hotel.

“We should go to an actual bar,” You whine. “I’m not tired.” You stumble, his arm wrapping around your waist a little tighter.

“You are tired,” He laughs, “Your bedtime was two hours ago.” You stick your tongue out at him but try to keep step. You’re sure he slowed down from his usual long strides for you.

“We are on vacation,” Another whine, “We can stay out late.”

“Baby everything is closing,” He tries to reason, “It’s 2 am.” You gaze around the area you’re in. Stragglers, barely anyone around. It was a weeknight after all.

“But I don’t wanna go back to the room.” He gives you a look, stopping in the street and backing you up against the wall, capturing your mouth against his, his hips grinding against yours. “Bucky…” A whine against his mouth.

“You don’t want to go back to the room right?” It was a darker corner, the streetlight not quite reaching. His fingers unbuttoned your shorts, slipping his fingers into your panties to stroke at your clit. A moan muffled into his mouth. You could feel how hard he was on your thigh. Your mind frazzled and swimming in alcohol still, hand gripping his wrist as his fingers prod your opening, thumb continuing to move in tight practiced circles on your clit. Your legs were trembling as his face pulled away from yours. His forehead resting against yours, eyes connected. “You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you baby?”

Fuck. “Yes.” A whine for a different reason this time, his fingers entering you and immediately stroking your g-spot. Your thighs clamping around his hand as you cum, your loud moan muffled by him capturing your mouth. He worked you through your aftershocks before pulling you tightly into his body, massaging the back of your neck, licking your taste off his fingers.

“C’mon baby,” He kisses you again, “Let’s go to bed.”

New Orleans, LA – Mile 1,422

Your head was pounding, eyes closed with a water bottle pressed to your skull. The music soft in the background while Bucky, bless him, offered to take the first leg of the driving. The eight-hour drive that you were sure would take about nine. He was an angel running into the gas station while you pumped the gas to grab you water and medicine for your headache. While not at all laughing about how you fell flat on your ass into the hotel room and begging him to kiss what was now a bruise on your hip and left ass cheek.

“I can’t believe I drank that much.” You groan, taking a sip of your water.

“I can’t believe you drank that much.” Humor in his voice. The asshole. You napped for the first hour or two, before Bucky began to get antsy. Shifting in his seat, trying to stretch his legs out.

“I can drive.” You mumble, coming out of your nap. “I just need my sunglasses.” His hands tightened on the wheel,

“I could probably go another hour or so.” He says. You roll your eyes,

“Next gas station, we’ll switch.” A sip from your water bottle, “You’re obviously uncomfortable.”  He grumbles under his breath, but does it anyway, stepping from the car somewhere in Alabama. He stretches and you swear you could hear a couple pops in his spine. After grabbing a couple snacks and some coffee from the gas station you were back on your way, feeling a little more alive than you had previously.

The music a little louder, Bucky pulled out the book he’d gotten at the Smithsonian, the windows cracked. You made it back on the road and towards your destination still 7 hours long.

When you’d been planning this road trip Bucky decided to make a bunch of playlists on his phone, each supposedly for a different kind of mood, but they all sounded quite the same to you. All but one which was just labeled ‘XXX’ and had such hits as ‘Pony’ by Ginuwine and ‘Sex with Me’ by Rihanna. Which is strange because you’d never had a sex playlist normally, but suddenly he thinks you need one to play on speaker on his phone next to the bed in hotel rooms.

The one he had playing originally was something mellow, without lyrics. Thoughtful to your raging hangover, but you needed something to focus on. Something you could sing, badly to, but sing to keep yourself from going crazy on a stretch of highway you felt like you’d been on forever. Which you kind of were. It was one straight highway for the entire 533 miles it would take to get you from Nashville to New Orleans. That little pitstop just dipping you off the exit and then putting your right back on.

It was brain numbing honestly and you tried to go as long as possible before switching back. Bucky had fallen asleep sometime an hour or so after you started driving, book folded over his thumb and seat tilted back.

You felt bad. You kept him up so late last night and then he’d let you sleep in while he got ready. Bringing you breakfast and coffee and waking you up slowly. You thought back to him in the hotel room, the soft kisses and whispers. He’d gotten you in the shower with the bribe of giving you a massage after, which he did. You glance at him in the rearview, his arm thrown over his eyes. You could go a little longer.

The first thing the two of you did getting into New Orleans was stop for a drive thru daiquiri before finding what hotel you’d be staying in for the night.

Bags down you sip on the strawberry liquor slush, sinking into the sheets of the hotel room. “Take it easy.” Bucky laughs, stealing it from you and taking a sip. “Don’t want a repeat of last night.” You stick your tongue out at him and he leans over and kisses you, your fingers moving to tug on his belt loop, pulling him over to the bed. Sitting up you continue to kiss him, beginning to palm him through his jeans.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Mumbled against his lips as you begin to work on his belt. “I really appreciate it.” Looking up at him through your lashes as you free him from his briefs. His breath catches as your cool tongue licks the tip, mouth stained red. Wide and flat against his head. Tapping it on your tongue before circling around the tip and sucking it into your mouth, his fingers twisting in your hair, not pushing but just holding.

You drip spit down on his cock, using your hand to spread it down his length before sucking him back in your mouth, beginning to bob your head to meet your stroking hand. Your other hand moving below to fondle his balls.

You watch his head fall back, a gasp as his fingers tighten in your hair. You feel the spongey tip of him brush the back of your throat, holding yourself there for a moment before pulling off and stroking him root to tip. He bent over meeting your mouth, kiss passionate and lusty. When you part you sink your mouth back onto him, moaning.

His hips gently thrust into your face, you know he’s getting close, his breaths coming out in short pants, the barely there thrust of his hips when he’s craving more friction you oblige to, speeding up your movements and you gently tug on his balls.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum baby.” His head tossing back and a groan as he begins to empty himself into your mouth. You work him through his aftershocks, his hips giving one true thrust right at the end before you swallow. His mouth meeting yours in a satisfied hum.

You went to the French Quarter for dinner. A place with a live jazz band and good food. The atmosphere unmatched. The French Quarter was much less of a drunken mess than Bourbon Street itself, that beast to be tackled a different night. You had a little bit of a pregame with those daquiri slushes before dinner. Buzzed and comfortably riding it throughout. You’d sipped on a rum and coke while listening to the jazz. Just enjoying the night. Tired from driving but satiated from the food. Your hand rubbing your belly you were so full.

“I love you.” His fingers twisting in the stray hairs that fell from your clip. You smile at him, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his lips.

“I love you too.”

You stayed mostly sober while he drank on Bourbon Street. You let him sing horrible karaoke at Cat’s Meow and drug him away from his forced politeness with about six other woman and at least five men. And you let him lean on you and babble while you waited for the uber back to your hotel.

“You’re so fuckin—hiccup—pretty.” Wet on your ear, slobbering and you laugh. “Like so fuckin pretty.” His mouth sloppy on your cheek.

“You’re going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.” And it would be your turn to take care of him.

That day had been really nice, a little rainy but you’d gotten beignets and coffee at Café Du Monde and bought a pack of the beignet mix and coffee cup to bring home. You’d seen the Madame LaLaurie house which you were sure you’d be talking to Peggy about later, you’d walked around Jackson Square in the light drizzle and even made your way to walk around Audubon Park. You’d been surprised when Bucky said he wanted to go drink on Bourbon Street seeing as you’d been up for a while, but you obliged and now you were rubbing his back as he told you he was nauseous, his arms wrapped around the toilet bowl.

“I don’t feel good.” He blubbers.

“I know baby.” The tile was cold, hard, and uncomfortable. He gagged. And you sigh, wondering if you should just help him throw up so he would feel better. But he finally vomited. You got him cleaned up, helped him brush his teeth. Fed him some water and helped him out of his clothes. His arms wrapped around your waist as he sat on the edge of the bed. Mumbling words you couldn’t understand as you tried to pull his shirt off. His pants long discarded.

“C’mon baby.” You tug on the shirt stuck in his armpits. His arms weakly lift from your body, letting you lift the shirt off him and laying him under the covers. His fingers twisting in your shirt, “I’ll be right back.” In the bathroom you quickly wipe up the toilet, flushing the extra mess and grabbed the trash can, bringing it out to his side of the bed and resting it on the floor near his head, his arm hanging off the bed and already snoring.

The next day when you were eating breakfast, he drank heartily on a Bloody Mary, trying to get the hair of the dog and feel more alive.

“I can’t believe you let me drink that much.” A groan over fried green tomatoes. You roll your eyes,

“I didn’t… the guys buying you shots when my back was turned did.” It was a laugh really, how Bucky wouldn’t realize someone was flirting with him. So out of touch from being in a relationship, Bucky had been quite the charmer when you first met but had a really hard time noticing when someone else was flirting altogether. A marvel, but it’s true.

“But they were so nice.” He reasoned making you laugh.

“They really were.”

San Antonio, TX – Mile 1,965

Another 543 miles, which 541 were spent on the same road. Honestly it was probably the worst part. Driving in mostly a straight line for hours with long stretches of road in between each stop. But that’s how this part of the country was. It was hotter down here for sure, or maybe just because you were getting deeper into summer.

San Antionio was sweltering, you could feel your shirt sticking to your back as you took in the air conditioning of the hotel lobby you were currently in. The electronic keycard slipped across the counter to Bucky while you waited a step behind before shifting your bag back on and following him to the elevator.

The hotel was a lot like every other hotel, but the only thing you were really worried about now was the shower. Bags dropped and the small toiletry case in hand you slipped into the shower, letting the water run a little cold to cool you off before turning it a little higher to be more comfortable. You can hear Bucky enter the bathroom, the shower curtain being pulled back as he entered behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and dragging you back into his body. Just holding you for a minute.

“Are you okay?” He asked. Pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Yeah, I think I just need some alone time.” You hadn’t talked much during the drive from New Orleans to San Antonio. You were used to getting time apart from each other. Not that you didn’t like spending time with him, but sometimes you just wanted to be alone and right now you were getting that itch. He hums, his arms tightening for a moment more before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“After the shower, why don’t you take a nap before dinner, hmm?” He reached over grabbing the soap, “I’ll go grab us dinner and bring it back,” beginning to wash, “We can eat in the room tonight, sleep in tomorrow?”

“That would be nice.” You’d finished your shower, slipped into comfortable clothes and flipped through the local channels on the tv, finding something for background noise as Bucky left the room.

You would get like this sometimes.

Bucky was always a little more adventurous. Back in college you probably wouldn’t have done half the things you did if it weren’t for him. He was far more outgoing; he had more friends. He was always dragging you out of first your dorm, and then your shared apartment. He didn’t need the alone time like you did and at first he was a little hurt by it.

Like you didn’t want to spend time with him, and it wasn’t that. You just needed a little bit of time to yourself to just be on your own and decompress a little. But he kind of knew when you needed it now. When you got a little quiet. When you needed a little space. And he found himself enjoying the time that you spend apart. You were sure he was enjoying his little walk,

“I get to kind of quiet myself a little bit.” He told you, “I always feel like I’m going all the time.” There were often times where you’d spend time together in the same room just not talking, a comfortable silence as you watched tv and he graded papers or just laying in bed reading next to each other. You felt like you didn’t deserve him sometimes.

He always catered to your social anxiety and your stress and you try to do the most you can for him, but there’s always that fear of it not being enough. Like maybe you’d wake up one day and he’d decide that it just wasn’t a good fit anymore.

What would you even do then?

A quick nap, only thirty minutes or so. Then you lay there a little bit, listening to the tv ramble on some sitcom you didn’t recognize. You hear Bucky come in, a paper bag of food in his arms, your eyes meet his and he smiles.

You didn’t deserve him.

“I found this food truck,” He sets down the two glass bottles of soda on the little table in the room. “The guy who runs it, his family used to own a restaurant here in San Antonio, but they were shoved out of business by this fucking corporate bastard who wanted the space for fucking condominiums, kept raising his fucking rent until he couldn’t afford it anymore.” A kiss to your lips, “How was your nap?”

“That’s terrible.” Your hand on his back as you sit at the table, him across from you. “It was good, I think I needed that.” He starts laying out the food. Tacos, empanadas, a little container of radish and limes. Extra cilantro. Little sauce cups of spicy salsa. A hot container of grilled peppers and cactus. A small container of extra rice. “This looks really good, thank you.”

He brings your hand up to his lips, kissing it. “Are you okay?” He asked, biting into the empanada sprinkled with queso fresco. You nod, massaging his arm before digging into the tacos.

“Yeah baby, I’m okay.”

You had to see the Alamo, obviously. The big limestone building that was pivotal in the Texas Revolution and was now a history museum. But you were more excited for the river walk. Not far from your hotel a bunch of small restaurants and shops, very touristy and brightly lit, but beautiful on the San Antonio River. Tomorrow would be the Japanese Tea Garden and the Natural Bridge Caverns, but you always liked a relatively easy day right after travelling.

You found yourself really looking at him for the first time in a long time. The little wrinkles by his eyes when he smiles that weren’t there five years ago. How often he licked his lips. How often he caught you looking at him. You were sure you looked lovesick. You found yourself resting your head on his shoulder a lot. Your hand in his as you walked around, the steady motion of his thumb moving across your hand a soothing balm for your growing anxiety.

“What’s going on?” He’d ask you later. “You’ve been really affectionate today.” His hands around your waist in the elevator heading up to the hotel room.

“I just love you, that’s all.” His hands moving to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You meet his kiss, humming against his lips. The elevator doors ding and you walk to your room,

“I just want to sleep.” You hear him sigh behind you as you begin to get changed.

“No, what’s wrong?” Sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at you as you changed into your sleep shorts and tank top. His hand reaching out to yours and dragging you into his lap, your legs on either side of his, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “C’mon baby talk to me.” You felt silly.

“I just… feel like I don’t deserve you.” A laugh in his chest that made you feel dumb.

“I’m sorry baby,” His arms squeezing you a little tighter, “I didn’t mean to laugh.” His fingers tracing your spine. “I feel like I don’t deserve you sometimes, you’re always so patient with me. You pack my lunch for me every day.” He laughs, “You do cute things like bring me coffee when I’m studying or make me those amazing chocolate peanut butter cookies during finals. You know I love you,” He pulled back, your face coming from resting on his shoulder, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “I think we both like to take care of each other, there’s nothing wrong with that baby, you always take care of me so I try really hard to take care of you.”

“How are you so perfect?” A hum as you meet his lips, soft and sweet.

“How are you so perfect?” He falls back against the bed, dragging you down with him, his hand still rubbing your back. You softly kiss him and close your eyes, finding comfort in laying on his chest. “I think this trip was a really good idea.”

Four Corners Monument – Mile 2,936

“How could you have not checked that we were low on gas?” You were trying to not be angry. You were really trying not to be angry, but when there’s desert on either side of you it’s kind of hard not to be. It was sweltering and no gas also meant no AC.

“I checked our gas at the last stop,” Bucky was in the same boat, hands on his hips, “I think— “he sighs, “Maybe the gas gauge is broken.” You groan in frustration, stepping away from the car and pulling out your phone.

“Can you get a signal?” To call his AAA. A moment or two of him on the phone, before he hung up and turned to you.

“They said about two hours.” You huff, sitting down in the passenger seat, door open and arms crossed. You’d woken up extra early to make this 15-hour drive. You kicked at the hard ground with the sole of your sneaker, trying to calm down while Bucky paced a little.

“I knew we should have rented a car.” You glare at him from your seat.

“If you wanted to rent a car why would you ask me if we should take your car or not?” He didn’t answer. “Don’t blame me for this.” A sigh,

“I’m blaming myself.” A kick to his tire, “I’ve had this car for ten years now, we shouldn’t have taken it.” You worry your bottom lip, checking the time on your phone.

“If you knew we shouldn’t have taken it, why did we?” You didn’t mean for this to turn into an argument. But it somehow turned into a screaming match on the abandoned stretch of road. Not even over important things, things so insignificant like how he’d been taking his shoes off in the car and the stink of that or how you smacked your gum out of boredom. The heat leading the two of you to just explode for no good reason.

Two long strides, that is what was between the two of you. That’s all it took for him to grab you tightly and crush you against his chest, mashing your lips together. You moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair for a harsh tug. Your back hit the side of the car, his fingers fumbling with the button of your shorts, tugging them open and roughly dipping his fingers into the wet heat between your thighs. Two fingers circling your opening before slipping inside and stroking your walls, thumb rapid on your clit.

Your hands fumble with his belt, your legs already shaking as you stroke his length, hot and hard in your hand. He removes his fingers from your now aching sex, “I need you so bad.” Shorts and panties shifted down on your hips, stuck on your knees, he turns you around pressing you to the car, feet kicking your legs open and you could feel his tip prod your entrance.

With one thrust he was home, his hips slapping against yours furiously, your hand drifting own between your thighs to strum on your clit, the pleasure growing. His hand rips yours away, replacing it with his.

“God you’re so fucking good.” Hot on you ear, “So fucking good baby.” That stretch and burn of him, on top of the practiced fingers on your clit brought you over almost immediately. A moan ripping from your lungs, as your clit became overbearingly sensitive. Your hand met his between your legs, trying to stop the steady motions, but he wouldn’t. His other hand left your hip and wrapped around your throat, dragging your back to his chest. “You’re gonna cum for me again.”

You were a mess, whining as two of his fingers slipped into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue, eyes rolling back in your head as you felt yourself gush around his cock. His hips giving a half a dozen sloppy thrusts before he moaned into your neck, emptying himself inside you. You catch your breath against him before your mind unscrambles and you realize that you’ve got cum dripping down your thighs in the middle of the desert.

“I think we needed that.” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek before wiping his cum off your thighs with a tissue, bundling it up and tossing it into the plastic bag you’d been using for trash and tying it.

You snort, buttoning your shorts, “Always the romantic.” He grins, taking a sip out of a water bottle before passing it to you.

“It’s warm.” He warns. You scrunch your nose, taking a sip of the warm water, sweat dripping down your back.

“How much longer?” He checks his phone and looks at you with a defeated expression.

“An hour.” You had to change your shorts.

…

“This is it?” Just a pavilion, one on each side of the square and the little circular concrete stepping area and a large plaque on the ground. He’s laughing, the stress of everything that just happened ending in this.

“You can be in four states at once.” You shrug.

Grand Canyon Village, AZ – Mile 3,165

It was busy and a little crowded at the Grand Canyon. Which was kind of to be expected. A lot of people taking pictures with their families and couples taking pictures much like you’d been planning to. But the view.

It took your breath away.

You’d seen different environments on this trip that before you’d never been exposed to. The North East was heavily wooded, and everything was tightly packed together. Having lived in New Jersey and then NYC it was very much the same. You marveled at the mountains on your way to Nashville and when you first hit actual desert you pulled the car over to take a real look. The swamps and muggy weather in New Orleans you hadn’t gotten enough time to explore, but the first time seeing Spanish Moss was unreal.

But this was something else entirely.

Bucky caged you in against the metal gate keeping you from getting to the edge, his chest to your back and rested his head on your shoulder. “This is incredible.” He agreed.

You snapped a picture on your polaroid.

And probably about a dozen pictures of the two of you together. A nice couple from Idaho even took a picture on his phone and one on the polaroid and in return you took their picture and gifted them a polaroid of themselves.

You’d left around dinner time. Ordering in and spending the night in the room after shoving your laundry in the hotel laundry room.

“We’re only eight hours away.” You grin. “Eight more hours until we are at the Pacific.” It feels unreal that you’re almost to the opposite end of the country, but whenever you pulled up the map on your phone that’s where it showed you.

Driving had been getting a little more difficult the closer you got to your destination. You were just itching to just get there already and you were not excited for the drive tomorrow. You hadn’t touched the bed yet, still covered in a thin layer of dust, you could feel it between your toes, but the hunger led you towards eating the sandwich and salad combo from the shop the two of you ordered from before getting into the actual shower.

You sigh, fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair. His mouth attached to your clit in a gentle suck. One hand drifting up to play with your nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Your hips grind against his face. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Almost, almost. His hand was fisting his cock the heat of it making your toes curl, cumming on his tongue. A few more quick tugs had him spilling over the tile. The best thing about hotel bathrooms was the water never went cold. Still hot and steamy as he pressed a kiss to your hip before standing. You bury your face in his neck, wrapping your arms around him as he pulled you close.

A soft rock side to side under the stream.

God you fucking love him.

Driving was honestly a hassle. You couldn’t go more than two hours without wanting to switch or stop, which as you grew closer and closer to California you began to see more houses and more people on the road around you.

His hand on your thigh as you finally crossed the California border, feeling a little more positive about finally getting to the end of the road before having to turn around.

Anaheim, CA – Mile 3,643

You read about California traffic, but it was unreal in person. The car hadn’t moved in a good five minutes you’re sure. How is this even possible? The gridlock because you’d taken an extra hour at lunch and gotten to California around rush hour.

“That was a mistake.” You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “We should have just hit a drive thru.” He rubbed your thigh affectionately.

“Doesn’t matter now,” He laughs, “We’ll get there.” You know he’s right, but you still feel a little string of irritation with yourself for not just pushing through a little more. “Are you excited?” He’s grinning, a squeeze on your leg.

“I’m very excited.” And you were. There was so much you wanted to see in California. And you both specifically set aside money to spend a day or two at Disneyland having gone to Disney World with both of your families before. Your Mom being a little obsessed, you were going to have to bring her back something for sure.

You had to get In-N-Out. That was a given. You’d almost stopped for it back in Tuscon but reasoned that you had to wait until California. “This is so good.” Bucky picked up some fries you had to order ‘animal-style’ just because it was an option. And it was so good.

“This was worth it.” Over a mouth of burger. Bucky nods,

“So worth it.”

Your toes dipped into the ocean. A hot and beautiful day. Bucky sat back a couple feet laid out on a blanket. You look back on him, propped up on his elbow, smiling at you. The water was warm, and it was unreal that it wasn’t actually green. At the Jersey shore the water is green from all the algae. But not here. It was actually blue.

His arms wrap around your waist, walking you both deeper into the water. The waves rocking gently over your bodies. The sun hot on your skin.

“This was so worth it.” Your legs around his waist in the water, his finger’s toying with your swimsuit bottoms. “Don’t.” Stern. It makes him laugh.

“Don’t what?” Fingers brushing on your labia through your swim bottoms.

“Bucky…” A harder press directly against your clit. Your eyes looking on the shore. “Stop.” Dragging yourself away from him you made him laugh harder, treading water to get back onto the sand, tossing a playful glare over your shoulder. “Pervert.”

A polaroid of the gate, Disneyland.

“The castle is small.” He says. Main Street similar to Disney World itself, but the castle was noticeably smaller than Cinderella’s castle in Orlando. But it was just as magical and just as expensive. You split a hand dipped corn dog and ate dole whip in the afternoon between rides.

It was a fun, but tiring day and left you both a little sunburnt on your nose and cheeks. You’d slept in the next day, barely able to pull yourself out of bed and your legs were sore from walking about ten miles yesterday. You UberEats breakfast to the room, well… lunch. And watched the weather forecast while trying to decide what to do that day, settling down on going to the Santa Monica pier seeing as the day was already half gone.

Bucky began acting a little strange halfway through your stay in California. He seemed anxious and more fidgety than usual. But every time you asked him about it, he shrugged it off as having too much caffeine or just being really excited to be going to go see the Hollywood sign or stopping by the Cecil Hotel, “Just to see it.”

It wasn’t until the night before you were going to start making your way back did you discover the reason why.

Sitting on the trunk of his car, facing the ocean. The food truck where you’d just had fish tacos and chips with guac off to your right, the only real light as you watched the sun set. He offered to go to the other food truck nearby and grab some ice cream. Homemade stuff boasted by the chalkboard sign on the side of the truck.

With his return and the comfortable quiet that came with watching the sun set over the ocean, you feel him shift to your side, fumbling with something before slipping off the trunk, his back to you.

“Bucky?” You watched him take a deep breath and turn, in his hand was a ring box.

…

Bucky had thought about proposing a million times.

Every time you’d bring him coffee at the library. Every time you’d turn down the bed before the two of you went to sleep. He’d almost proposed Christmas, but you’d wanted to drink so he held off.

When you brought up this road trip he started thinking about it, really. And decided that he would do it sometime during this trip.

He kept trying to figure out when he wanted to do it. That night of amazing sex in DC. The night you were babbling and drunk in Nashville. Maybe when he looked at you in that jazz club, your face lit up by the stage lights in New Orleans. He’d almost proposed in San Antonio when you were sweet and needy.  

He thought about it during your argument heading towards the Four Corners Monument but changed his mind. And at the Grand Canyon there were just too many people around. But here it was just the two of you, your car farther away from the crowd gathered by the food trucks. You’d just watched the sun set over the ocean. He knew it was now, he had to do it.

He wanted to do it.

“I had a whole thing… planned out.” He stumbles over his words, “I’ve thought about this every day for years now, I think. And I just… you’re the love of my life. You’re the only person I want to spend it with, and I know we haven’t talked a lot about getting married and I’m ruining this, but… This trip has really confirmed everything I already knew that I felt and I don’t think there’s any better time to ask…

Will you marry me?”

…

The ring felt strange on your finger but was easily ignored as your fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair. The windows in the car were cracked to keep them from steaming up, a practice well versed by both of your exhibitionist tendencies. The goal was to make it back to the hotel, but this abandoned stretch of highway would do just fine.

On his lap in the backseat you grind your hips against his, aching for it. Fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shorts and feeling his hands squeeze your bare ass while you work them down past his knees. A hover to adjust before sinking down.

Wet but not completely prepared, the stretch and burn a little intense. His mouth moving passionately against yours as one hand slipped between you and starting carefully stroking your clit. Your hands meet the head rest, using it as leverage to raise and lower yourself on his dick. His hips slip down on the seat a little to help you, thrusting up to meet your hips.

“I’m not gonna last,” He moans against your mouth. You start to gush around him, whimpering as you grow closer and closer to release. His hand that had been on your waist coming to tangle in your hair and tug, those practiced fingers of his between your legs finally bringing you over. He was quick to follow. Panting as you remain in his lap, feeling him soften, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you in tightly to his chest. Soft and loving,

“This was a really good idea.”

[thejudgingtrash]

The Nymph

(Absolutely not proofread)

“Why red velvet?” Percy had asked.

“Good question. It’s just a simple chocolate cupcake but enhanced with red food dye? I don’t know why that’s a thing, but people seem to love it.” She lamely explained.

“Okay. Can we do a blue velvet version instead?”

Annabeth questioningly looked up to him. Percy shrugged. “It would remind me of the ocean. And I love the ocean.”

“Sure, why not? Let me just check the fitting food coloring.” Grover had said before turning to Google and Amazon for help.

Now everything was spread onto the kitchen table. Sugar, softened butter, eggs, milk, flour, cocoa powder, the blue food dye and cream cheese, three bowls, measurement tools, a spatula and an electric hand mixer. “Well our arsenal is looking quite good!” Annabeth commented before gasping loudly. She had remembered something.

“Wait a minute!” The blonde stormed out of the kitchen and marched back in after two minutes. “Grover, look what I’ve found!” The sight of the device made Grover’s dark brown eyes widen.

“Shut the fuck up! Are you serious?! You were throwing fits because you thought you lost that damned thing at school!”

“I know and I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Pretty sure my mom misplaced it and put it away and simply forgot about it. It still works surprisingly! But all of our old stuff is still here! The music, the playlists, the photos-”

“Not the photos,” Grover winced.

“Yes, the photos! Even the old links from terrible Twilight fanfiction are still saved in Safari! Even the horrible smutty ones! Man, 2010 was really rough.”

Annabeth had found her old iPod Touch when she was decluttering a box of hers to give to Percy. The two had emptied out the contents and the silver and black device fell onto the floor. The screech that Annabeth had let out left a ringing sensation in Percy’s ear. Annabeth had continently grabbed her speakers.

“This is going to be horrible,” Grover warned Percy. “Oh please, after having the pleasure of Annabeth yelling into straight into my ear I’m up for some good music.”

“Yelling into your ear? Do I want to know what you were doing?” His eyes went back and forth between his friends. Percy just shot him a look. Dude, seriously no.

“I’ve apologized! And get your mind out of the gutter, Grover!” Annabeth spat through clenched teeth.

Grover raised his hands in defense. “Easy! I’m thinking in the innocent direction unlike you, Chase.” The wink and the amused expression angered Annabeth even more.

“Let’s just try this out?” Percy suggested and pointed at the iPod. Annabeth had explained that it was essentially like a phone just without the texting or calling functions. When Percy stated that it was just a waste of money if phones could do the same operations plus more, Annabeth merely agreed. She had been a kid when she bought it with the first money that she had saved from helping out in the bookstore.

“Alright shuffle mode. Let’s see what you’ve got for us.” Cheap FL Studio beats blared through the kitchen.

“Baby you know that I miss you, I wanna get with you tonight but I cannot baby girl and that's the issue, girl you know I miss you…”

“Not Soulja!” Annabeth visibly cringed and Percy looked in awe as Grover danced to the beat and sang parts of the lyrics of Kiss Me Thru The Phone. Grover had at least a nice voice.

“The fact that at some point we unironically liked Soulja Boy.” Annabeth shook her head. Memories of Thalia, Luke and her doing the superman dance came to her mind and made her immediately wince. Especially when she fell flat on the nose and nearly broke it to her friends amusement.

“Well I still unironically like his classics,” Grover laughed.

Annabeth crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Well that just simply means that you have a terrible taste in my music.”

“Or it’s just the polar opposite, my dear Miss Chase and you’re stuck with the boring stuff,” Grover exclaimed as he went on to measure the dry ingredients. Annabeth simply snorted and shook her head.

The next song blurted out from the speakers. “All your ladies pop your pus-”

“NO!” Annabeth dumped the flour on the scale, screamed out in embarrassment and ran to her iPod to change the song.

“YES!” Grover yelled and bopped his head to the beat and vulgar lyrics.

Percy laughed at the ridiculous antics of his friends. Annabeth buried her face into the palm of her hands. Her hands muffled her long-gated no. The next song was Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes. Something less wild.

“I don’t know what’s worse than this.”

“The Kidz Bop version of Pokerface that was the only version you were allowed to listen to because your mom heard the lyrics and the let 'em hit me part and was like not in my Christian household?” Grover reminded her. She whacked the laughing Grover again.

“Damn woman! Attack the other dude apart from me!” Grover whined.

“I would if Percy would spout the same bullshit as you!”

“Alright, no more violence for tonight!” The Greek decided and moved on to the wet ingredients of the baking process.

“Dude. You’ve known Annabeth for more than long enough. Escalating is the thing she does best.”

“GROVER!” the blonde screamed. Before she could make a move onto him, the cook had already formed a better plan.

“Oh please!” Grover grabbed a little bit of the flour and chucked the powder in Annabeth’s direction. It full on hit her chest. It looked like an explosion on her dark red t-shirt.

“Oh. Now it’s on!” Annabeth growled and grabbed a hand full of flour. She hit Grover’s black t-shirt.

“Uh… guys would you perhaps stop?” Both Annabeth and Grover chucked their load of flour at Percy before focusing on each other again.

“Are you fucking serious?” They hit his face, his chest and parts of the window behind him.

His friends had a laughing fit and continued tossing the powder around. Percy decided to grab a fist full of the ingredient as well. It was not a playfight. It was not neat and nice. It was not a battle; it was a full-blown war in the kitchen. The counters, the table, the walls, even the ceiling were victims of their childish antics.

Grover had the decency of covering the bowl full of wet ingredients with a towel to prevent more of disaster. A ducking Percy only enraged his blonde friend further.

“Oh no, Annabeth wait!” he commanded. Annabeth was prepared for the next throw but put her arm down in a questioning motion. He walked up to her. His hands reached out to her.

Annabeth’s breaths were shallow. His hands carefully brushed her curls away as they had been flour bombed. His fingers accidentally crossed her neck. The tiny fine hairs stood up and goosebumps spread through her skin. The touch was a shock. It was concentrated heat; it was a mighty flame. Was she that touch deprived? She must admit it had been too long that a guy cared for her. No Annabeth, you will not fall for a guy who does the bare minimum. But his eyes had that beautiful almost unnatural sea green color. And the beauty mark on his left cheek shifted as he spoke softly to her to inform her about the powdery clumps. Her mouth parted and her heart pumped faster. She could almost hear the vessels exploding. No Annabeth, you have standards.

That smile that broke out on his handsome face made her knees wobbly. What standards? She asked herself.

“Everything fine?” Percy tilted his head as he got no response from her.

“W-what? Oh yes, thank you!” She cleared her throat and got a lump out of her hair.

The situation only worsened as the door got opened and five laughing women entered the room. “What the hell has happened in here?!”

Not proofread. Sorry about that. Yeah… here is the beginning of the story. And this is straight up somewhere in the middle of the second chapter. How we got here? You don’t know, but I do 🤷🏽‍♀️😁✌🏽 regardless I’m not going to finish this fic anytime soon, it’s massive and there are others that are more pressing. Ask me in a year or two 🤐 sorry lads

[aesthbaby]

You’re going to be okay pt. 2

Summary: Reader and Emily meet as ghosts in a hospital after a case

Pairings: Reader x Emily Prentiss (not pronoun specific)

Prompt: Reader and Emily as ghosts haunting the same place (School, hospital, house, whatever). Reader has been dead for a few years and helps Emily deal. They end up liking each other and maybe have ghost fun all over the place. ;)

Warnings: Cursing | sexual references | death 

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist

Part One

"Mmm, I don't think this is the best idea Em."  You hum while chewing on your thumb, a nasty habit you picked up in Elementary school.

"Come on it'll be fun. Let loose a bit Angel." A nickname Emily gave you, it started as more of a joke but over time it stuck. She hardly ever calls you by your actual name. In reality, you're actually okay with the name, it shows that she feels comfortable around you and you think it's flattering.  Its as if your her savior or something, but not in a cult leader-god complex fashion. You took care of her for months while also teaching her everything and anything you can about the spirit world. Emily is suspiciously good at her job, she takes the kids and elderly, you take everything in between. There's something poetic about being good with both elders and babies, the beginning of life, and the end. You're better with teens because you died younger than Emily did and can relate to the trauma of an early, unfinished death. Adults can usually figure it out on their own but it's nice to have a hand to hold as someone to fill in the blanks.

Emily had never seen someone go into the darkness until a few weeks ago; you always managed to keep her away from it. You were making sure a man who sold laced drugs to teens got to the place he was meant to be. At first, he seemed to have a kind heart so when he confessed his crimes you were shocked, to say the least. He'd mix different over the counters and cheap street knockoffs in order to make more for less. Then he would sell them to the local high school kids but use the money to take care of his mom, grandma, and the local community center. Its an ethical gray area, that's for sure, but I guess you could say he meant well. Luckily none of the teens who bought drugs from him died, but that doesn't excuse what he did. During this whole fiasco, Emily was supposed to be taking an older woman to the garden before her transitioning; unknowingly to you she was around the corner listening in. When you were taking him you didn't notice her until he was gone. There was more curiosity on her face than fear so you tried to give her the bare minimum amount of information. The Agent was damn stubborn, she'd never let you off the hook with something unless you gave her information in exchange. Your arrangement was beneficial to both of you, in a way you liked teasing Emily and she liked pulling the information out of you. It reminded her of her work in the FBI. It also kept you from having to tell her everything you knew and kept things interesting between you two. 

"No Emily." You tell her, you hate saying 'no' to her because she looks absolutely adorable when she fakes a pout. 

"Emily Prentiss does not pout." Even while saying that she looks like she's pouting. She defends herself after being told 'no' when she asked you to teach her Thermokinesis. (To control the temperature of the physical world.) Gotta love her.

Though eventually, you did teach her, that is beside the point. Wait no let's go back to that, why didn't anyone warn me about how convincing this woman can be? She can talk me into almost anything and I'd comply happily. If she wasn't so drop-dead gorgeous maybe I could resist her. I bet unsubs were scared shitless of her. Your thoughts are interrupted by a nudge at your side. Oh not this again... "Emily I swear to-" you can't even get the words out through her incessant tickling. "Stop!" you laugh loudly while she continues her ministrations. "Okay- Em- okay we can do it!" She lets you go but you both continue laughing. "Only if you promise not to get carried away."

She puts her hand on her heart and says sincerely, "I promise." Then her seriousness switches back to playfulness. "Now come on," she grabs your hand and starts dragging you to roof. "I understand your reasoning behind not letting me do this very often but I wanted to show you what I've taught myself."

When you get to the roof there’s an empty space with X’s on the everywhere made out of pens and pencils. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“As you may know, I’m not very good at Object Manipulation. Yet!” She stands between a blue pen and a red one while you sit on a random electrical box. You immediately jump up when you feel a jilt underneath. Gotta stop sitting near that stuff. I’m the person who helps the dead, not the one that kills them. Emily used to make the mistake of getting too close to patient monitors, making them flat line or speed up. It freaked the new nurses out but they checked on the patients and chopped it up to being outdated. When a ghost is present, nearby electronics tend to act up. I guess Emily didn’t get the memo in Ghost School. To be fair I am not the most qualified teacher. “Are you okay?” she goes to check on you but you wave her off.

“I’m fine, just uncomfortable,” you say while rubbing her backside.

“Come here,” she beacons “I can make it feel better.” Her devious smile comes out to play, easily drawing you towards her. She wraps her arms around your waist and pulls you flush against her. Her hands slowly trail down your back but before they can reach your ass she’s gone. The warmth and tingly feeling is gone. “Miss me already?” you whip around to see her standing on one of the Exes. Her smile is cocky as hell to say the least.“That was impressive, I’ll admit.” you stride to her but she teleports again. “Oh come on Angel, you walked right into that one.” She says from above you. Now she’s standing on top of the entrance, a level above where you’re standing.

“Very amusing Agent,” You flash right in front of her, startling her in the process. You quickly wrap an arm around her so she doesn’t fall. “But I can do better.” She stares into your eyes like she wants to say something.

“Prove it.” She challenges. You lean down to barely graze her lips, before you meet in the middle you flash behind her; gripping her hips possessively.

You lean into her ear, “Who do you answer to?” A light shiver runs down her spine.

She turns around so she can peer into your eyes. She trails an index finger across your bottom lip. “I belong to no one.”

“Not even me?” you ask with a punctuating grip to her hip.

“No.” she whispers while inching closer to your lips. “Not even you, Angel.” You’re so close it feels like you’re breathing in the same air with no regard to anything around you. “Would you like to kiss me?”

You take her to the library, its small but there’s hardly anyone here so it’ll do. When you arrive you have Emily bent over a table with her ass flushed to your front. “I want to see you writhe underneath me.” You pure into her ear.

She flashes so quickly you couldn’t stop her. Now you’re the one bent over a fucking table. “You first.” she growls while pinning your hip down. She leans in so close to your ear you can feel her cool breath. 

 “What are you going to do, Agent?” Calling her by the title has always been a tease, its amazing that in all the time she’s been here you’ve never...you know.

“Whatever I want with you.” You roll your hips back on to her and feel her knead your ass in return. “If I had a strap I’d fuck you with it.” She growls in your ear; her animalistic tone is the biggest turn on. Just the sound of her voice alone makes you squirm underneath her.

But of course you can’t let her win that easily so you focus your energy on the top of the bookshelf. “You can’t always get what you want, Agent.” You’re sitting on top of the wood shelf with your legs crossed; as regal as you were when you were alive. Emily looks baffled but entertained by the empty space in front of her. “Enough of your teasing, we have things to do.” You say as you hop down from the shelf and begin to walk out. You turn to see that she’s not following you so you call out to her. “Come along Prentiss.”

There was once a time where you would call her ‘Princess’ instead of Prentiss because of the way she’d demand to know everything and anything like she was royalty. Her attitude came off as a bit standoffish and bitchy in the beginning but that was just you being territorial. As you both settled into your routine and got to know each other you realized she’s a very closed off person and wouldn’t talk about her life from before. She’s uber smart and remains professional yet empathetic with all of the ghosts she encounters. She’s such a calm person that it shocked you by how upset the nickname made her. She didn’t flat out yell at you but it was evident that it upset her so you reasonably left the situation alone. She felt bad so she explained that one of her teammates used to call her that, she later let it slip that the guy was her partner. You obviously felt bad so now you just call her- “Agent!” You look over your shoulder to see Emily dragging her feet. “Get a move on, we don’t have time!”

“Ghosts always have time.” She mumbles while speeding up. “Can’t we just, I don’t know? Flash there?”

“No.” You slow down to let her catch up. “You need to learn to walk before you run and I don’t need you accidentally flashin’ into the nurse’s lockerooms again.”

She rolls her eyes. “That was one time.”

“And the time you ended up in the kitchen. You need to walk around and see the place for yourself before you keep ‘flashin’ between different places.”

“Right,” she mumbles “Hey where are we going anyway?”

“To meet someone.” You casually say but notice she’s stopped, promptly.

“To meet someone?” she repeats, a little shocked. “Meet who?”  

“Nope,” you pull her by the arm “No stopping, we’re crunched for time.” Before she can stop again or argue, you link your arms.”This is not the time to pout or second doubt me, Emily.”

She scuffs, “I do not pout.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t pout in the traditional children sense. Happy?”

“No. Not until I know where we’re going or who we’re meeting.” She stops again, reeling you back in the process.

You turn to her and say, “A friend.”

“Is this one of your angelic friends?” She asks as you practically drag her along.

“Angelic frie- Never mind we’re here.” You have her standing in the back of the ICU, the quietest of all the wings. “I only know like two, three angels tops.”

She laughs a little at that, “Angel...” she trails “Who is that?”

You turn to where she’s looking and see a beautiful darkened figure with their back to you. “Mazikeen!” You shout with excitement me when she turns around. You run to her and she automatically catches you. Hey sharp fanged smile is just as stunning as the last time you saw it.

“How’s my favorite human?” The brunette asks with her sultry South American accent.

“Good! How’s my favorite demon?” She just smiles even wider at your excitement until her eyes fall on Emily.

“Who’s the hottie?”

“Maze,” You tilt your head in disapproval. “Play nice.” She sets you down and struts over to Emily. Em looks confused yet curious so you don’t interrupt the demon from doing whatever she’s doing. 

“Oh I always play nice with the pretty ones.”

She examines Emily with shear interest, when she moves to touch her hair Emily steps back. “Y/n...is there something you’d care to explain?”

“Emily, meet my friend Mazikeen,”

“But you can call me Maze.” She winks.

“Maze, this is Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss.”

“Is she,” she covers the side of her mouth and points to Em. “Dead?”

You mimic her ridiculous gesture and whisper, “Very.” You walk to them and give your demon another hug. “I missed you, Maze.”

“I missed you too y/n/n. Why didn’t you introduce me to her sooner? We could’ve had a thre-”

“Maze!”

“Right...well, mom says hi and I’m not going to be here very long. I just gotta grab a few people and I’ll be out but of course...” She wraps her arms around your waist, “I wanted to stop by and say hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper. “You know I love you but...” You look over to Em.

“You’ve found another...” She strokes your left cheek with the back of her cold hand. “Its okay, I’m not mad. We both knew I was never made for love.” She takes a glance over her shoulder to an intrigued Emily. “She’s pretty, brave, and smart. You’ve outdone yourself little human.” She makes a full 180 to look at the agent. “Take care of Casper for me.”

“Uhm do I look like a friendly ghost to you?” You gesture down to your perfect silhouette.

Maze grins at that before turning back to Em. “Hurt them and there will be hell to pay.” She snarls but Emily doesn’t faultier.

“I’m not the one that left.” She replies and the demon laughs at that.

“Left?” She looks back to me and bursts into a cackle with her fangs out. “Whatever you say. I have work to do anyway, so do you.” She starts to walk down the hall of the ICU and says, “Goodbye human, you still look as good as ever.” She blows a kiss at you before rounding the corner. You’re stuck in your spot because shit that kind of hurt. 

You feel Emily’s hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Its fine.” You turn to her. “She was never meant for relationships anyway.” At her expressionless face you continue. “Maze is a sex demon, we met a little while after I died. I kept seeing her in the hall but only in flashes. At first I thought she was a Wanderer or something but then I confronted her and she reluctantly told me who she was. We used to have fun  together.” She just nods with an understanding expression and really, her silent facial expression speaks volumes. “Ghosts can’t feel a lot of things but sexual gratification is one of the exceptions.” This is where you shed a tear despite what you just said. Emily pulls you in for one of her gentle, yet meaningful hug. “Emily, I’m so sorry.”

She pulls you back to look into your eyes. “Why? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I should’ve told you about her sooner. I wanted you two to meet because I thought you were alike in many ways but I wasn’t expecting the jealous attitude. She’s never been like that before.”

‘Maybe its because she sees us having something she can’t have with you. Is what Emily wants to say but instead she says, “You didn’t have to tell me if you didn’t want to. I know I pressure you into revealing a lot of information to me but if I had know it negatively affects you I would-”

You interrupt her rambling with a soft kiss to her lips. You pull back to see her neutral facial expression. Shit. Sensing your internal panic she quickly explains, “No no I’m not upset, just surprised. That’s all.” There’s that wicked smile. “I always thought I’d be the one making the first move.” She takes a big step forward and captures your lip between her’s. Her hand reaches around the back of your head and pulls you closer so you put your arm around her waist and do the same. It felt different that what you and maze used to have, spiritual perception of emotions isn’t the same and humans but that doesn’t mean you’re as numb as people think. And with Emily, you actually feel something for once. Something true. ‘Alive’ isn’t the proper word for it but it feels close enough. It feels so fucking good to the point where you don’t want to come up for air but ultimately you have to. “Breathe.” She laughs.

You press your forehead to her’s, “Why, when all I need is you?”

She laughs at that, something she didn’t do much of when you first met. “You are unbelievably cliche.”

After this movie like exchange you end up laying in the middle of the Green Yard; Emily on the bottom and you wrapped in her arms. Since you can’t exactly ‘nap’ you just lay there and take in the good feeling Emily’s arms provide you. Whenever Francis is around you’ll have to ask him about this feeling because you know good and well ghosts can’t feel love. Then what the hell do I call this wonderful feeling?

“Y/n?” Em looks up from a book I gave her. Its taken her a while to learn how to hold anything over an ounce.

“Hmm?” You turn your attention to her, she looks as beautiful as always.

“What do ghosts feel?”

“What do you mean, Em?” You take a seat across from her.

“Do we have emotions or feelings?”

“Well, what do you feel?” You ask softly.

“I don’t know?”

“Remember the time I banned you from leaving the inpatient wing?”

“Yeah...it completely sucked.” She huffs.

“And how did that make you feel?” You trail.

“Mildly irritated.” She immediately answers without realizing so you politely stare until it finally dawns on her. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens into an o-shape.

“Exactly.”

You look up at the goddess that’s holding you captive. “Emily?” You call from under her arm.

“Hmm?”

“What are you feeling?” You ask softly.

“What do you mean, Angel?”

“Emotionally I mean.” You explain with an eerie feeling of deja vu.

“Remember the first time I showed you I could transport? I did it without any help and I surprisingly did it correctly.” She jokes.

“Yeah I remember.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Happy.” You smile at the cute memory.

“That’s how I’m feeling right now. As happy as you were that day, if not more.”

You twist so you can look at her. “I really like you Emily Prentiss.” You lean up to give her a chaste kiss on her sharp jawline.

“I like you too y/n.” She presses a dominating kiss to your lips that makes yours look like child’s play.

sorry for any typos. I hate proof reading

[violetwolfraven]

If you’re still taking requests maybe 1+4 for Sprace?

Canon-era in general

And

Soulmate AU

I am always taking requests, my dude. Anyway here we go! This is mostly in the musicalverse but if I reference a few movieverse characters as older Newsies during Race’s childhood...😏 Also there are a couple of ocs in here, and it gets a bit angsty towards the end. Enjoy!

Tw: Underage drinking, a couple of side characters are mentioned to have died, and homophobia is kind of implied, I guess?

...

Race had grown up knowing that he liked boys, and that didn’t really match up with what people said love was supposed to be, but that was just how Race was.

And it wasn’t like it was hurting anyone, was it? Being only a little kid, Race was too young to actually do anything, and if he sometimes paid attention to the way a friend looked really cute when he’d just woken up, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he had to or even could act on those little crushes.

It was like Manhattan’s leader, Waffles, said. He called it ‘puppy love’ when Jack snuck glances at a girl his age on the street or Crutchie shyly gave one a flower when he handed her mother a pape. Nobody actually acted on these things.

Little baby crushes when you were a kid meant nothing, and that meant that Race would outgrow this and start liking girls in time to meet his soulmate, right? Because soulmates meant a boy with a girl, and nothing else, right?

At least, that was what he thought, until he and Jack walked into an alley when Race was 8 and Jack was 10 and found a couple of older boys kissing—which Race was pretty sure you were only supposed to do with someone you loved.

Snitch and Itey jumped apart, staring at the younger boys in shock. Then they each grabbed one and dragged them into the Lodging House bathroom to tell them that Race and Jack could not tell anyone.

Race was too scared to speak (Snitch and Itey were significantly bigger than him) but Jack stepped in front of him and demanded to know why.

That was when Itey sighed, said that maybe it would be better if Waffles explained this, and gone to get their leader.

Race hadn’t really believed it at first when Waffles sat them down and carefully explained that Itey and Snitch were soulmates.

“That ain’t possible,” Jack argued, “They’s both boys.”

“Yeah,” Waffles said, “And maybe it’s a cruel trick of fate or a mistake or whatever the church thinks, but here with the Manhattan Newsies? We don’t care. Okay? We’s a family. We don’t turn on Itey and Snitch for somethin’ they can’t control.”

“Why would we turn on them?” Race asked, confused. That was what this was; confusing.

Waffles sighed, “Look, among family, it’s okay. We don’t care who your soulmate is. But the rest of the world does, okay? Adults don’t know nothin’. They think boys lovin’ boys and girls lovin’ girls is wrong.”

“Would Itey and Snitch get hurt if adults found out?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, kiddo, they would. And that’s why you can’t tell no one, okay, boys? Nobody outside the house finds out and no new kids either ‘till we know we can trust ‘em. Okay?”

“Okay,” they both said, and though, like most people, Itey and Snitch kept their soulmarks covered, as it was something intensely personal and none of anybody’s business, from there, Race started realizing that he should have seen something between them a long time ago.

It was fairly obvious, in how they shared a bed, snuck off occasionally, and sometimes let touches of reassurance or affection linger a bit longer than they probably should.

Race started noticing how the other older kids covered for them. How Skittery would knock something over, allowing them to slip out together under the excuse of not wanting to help him clean it up. How Boots would make a joke to draw attention to himself if they started getting too obvious. How Waffles would take on any new kid thinking of selling with them, himself, so they had an excuse to keep being just the two of them.

It was... nice, in a mushy kind of way that they had that support. And Race didn’t really think seriously about kissing his crushes yet, but he did wonder if he would have that if he did.

Race’s soulmark—the first name of his soulmate that appeared on his wrist on his 10th birthday—was Sean.

It was a boy’s name. That scared Race a little.

But every time he saw the older Manhattan kids go out of their way to make sure nobody noticed Itey and Snitch, he got a little less scared, but still a bit confused

He stopped being scared, at least mostly, when Jack came to him, nervously confessing that he liked girls and boys, and his soulmark said a boy’s name; David. There was something less scary about being different when you didn’t have to be alone in it.

Of course, among the Newsies, finding your soulmate was always a little complicated, because damn near everybody had nicknames. Honestly, Race‘s soulmate could be almost any of his friends for all he knew, but he liked to think he didn’t. He liked to think he’d know immediately if he found him.

Race was 10 when he started selling at Sheepshead, having a deal with a Brooklyn girl, Palomino. She got to use his cuteness for easy sales, and in return, she taught him to weaponize just the right combination of friendliness, flirtation, and annoyance to get people do to pretty much whatever he wanted.

Race asked her when he was 11 what she thought about soulmates, particularly same-sex soulmates. He wanted her opinion because while Palomino was kind of an asshole, there was one thing she was really good at, and that was survival.

And Race wasn’t sure what he thought about the fact that his soulmate was a boy yet, but he knew that just living as someone like that, you had to be careful to survive.

‘Mino just shrugged, “Love is unreliable, Racer. It never does what you want it to and more often than not, it’s a liability. Soulmates ain’t an exception just cause they’s supposed to be together.”

“What about boys lovin’ other boys and girls lovin’ other girls?”

“The fuck did I just say? Love’s a liability. Feelin’s get ya hurt—even more so if those feelin’s is illegal.”

Race struggled to get what he was really asking across, “But if it’s illegal... does that make it wrong?”

‘Mino’s face softened infinitesimally. No one who didn’t know her would even recognize it as softening.

“What did I teach ya, kid? Long as ya don’t get caught, nothin’s illegal. Whether ya love girls or boys or both ain’t my business—it’s still stupid. Now, come on. If we place our bets right, we can both go home with some extra dough.”

Yeah... Race never mastered the whole ‘winning bet-placing’ thing. He never accepted Palomino’s offers to teach him to pickpocket, either, though there were winters where he wished he did.

And he never believed her when she said love was stupid. Because Palomino might have a cynical, angry outlook on life, but Race didn’t. Whenever he asked Waffles or Jack or any of the kids back home in Manhattan, they always said love and soulmates were good things.

Of course, it wasn’t like her opinion mattered anymore. After that winter when Race was 11, he never saw his old mentor again.

Sure, Race didn’t know anything about love besides the platonic bond he had with friends, but he still believed in it with how he saw pairs of his friends fall into it more and more as he got older. Love and soulmates made people happy. That much, he could tell.

Race was 16, Jack was Manhattan’s leader, and he’d been selling at Sheepshead for years when he learned that it wasn’t always that simple.

He and his friend Spot were a little drunk, probably, because Spot had gotten hurt in a fight and hadn’t wanted to drink his cheap booze to dull the pain alone.

Race had met him when he was 12 and Spot was 13, not long after Spot became King of Brooklyn. In the last 4 years, they’d become close friends. He was Race’s best friend, to be honest, besides maybe Albert. Of course, Jack and Crutchie didn’t count because they were more Race’s brothers.

And if Spot was like, really attractive, that didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in Race. Race didn’t even know if he was interested in boys, period. It was just never something they talked about.

Spot didn’t seem like a Sean, anyway.

“Hey, Spot, buddy, do you ever think about... like... soulmates?” Race asked, trying not to slur his words.

Spot laughed kinda tiredly, “Sometimes. Why?”

“Just ‘cause...” Race tried to think despite his mind being fuzzy, “What do ya think about ‘em?”

Spot just shrugged, “Love’s a liability. Soulmates ain’t an exception.”

“Ooh, I see you’s usin’ Palomino’s philosophy.”

They both laughed.

Was it just the booze making Race slow, or were Spot’s eyes lingering on his lips as he put his cigar in his mouth?

“Oh, Palomino,” he muttered, “That bitch. I ain’t thought about her in a while.”

“That ain’t nice—she’s dead, Spottie.”

“Yeah, which means she ain’t here to care what I say ‘bout her.”

Race’s laugh sounded drunk even to him, “She tried to teach me to pickpocket.”

“She did teach me to pickpocket.”

“Spot, you son of a bitch, you actually let her teach ya to steal?”

“She taught all the younger Brooklyn kids when I was little. She was older and smarter than me, so’s I kinda did whatever she told me. I don’t steal nowadays though, if I can help it. Ain’t worth the trouble with the bulls.”

“She was pretty smart,” Race admitted, “I dunno if she was right ‘bout soulmates, though.”

Spot looked away from Race’s face, taking another swig of alcohol, “She was.”

Race took another sip of his own drink, a bit disappointed, for some reason, “How do ya know?”

“Because Waffles was hers and they both knew it and it just hurt ‘em both.”

“Oh,” Race looked at the floor, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” Spot laughed, “One pair of Newsies actually landed right side up and it was the one where both of ‘em died.”

“That ain’t funny, Spot.”

Race hadn’t thought about ‘Mino in a while, either. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought about Waffles, and that made him sad because they both deserved to be remembered and—

“Hey, hey, Racer, it’s okay. Don’t cry. That was stupid of me.”

Race remembered to hug Spot gently as his friend embraced him. They were drinking for a reason, so Race avoided touching Spot’s ribs. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his neck.

Spot didn’t hug often, but when he did, it felt special. It felt warm and safe, like home.

“I’m sorry, Race, I just... they actually wound up as a girl and a boy and they wasn’t together, but they should’ve been and... I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

“I ain’t gonna cry.”

Spot pulled away enough to look him in the eye to make sure he wasn’t lying.

Race couldn’t say he was sorry that Spot kept holding onto him. Their faces were very close together.

“Do ya really think love is stupid, Spottie?”

Spot shrugged, “Everyone I know what’s in it gets hurt. I mean... you’s seen what it does to Cowboy and Mouth, right? Knowin’ all it would take is one bad person findin’ out ‘bout them.”

“But they makes each other happy,” Race pointed out, “Ain’t that what’s really important?”

“I dunno, just seems easier not to have to worry ‘bout it. Soulmates is just another person who can hurt you or be used against you, and besides— just cause the universe says you’s supposed to be in love don’t mean ya have to. I sure don’t give a damn about whoever mine is.”

Race smiled, tapping the piece of cloth Spot used to cover his soulmark, “What’s the harm in your best friend knowin’, then?”

“Why?” Spot teased, “Hopin’ it’s you?”

“I’m fairly certain it ain’t,” Race said, “We’s known each other for years. If we was soulmates, we’d’ve found out by now. Still, ya never have shown me your mark.”

“You haven’t shown me yours, either.”

“Fair.”

Race thought about it for a second.

“What if we showed ‘em at the same time? I mean, ain’t no harm in it, right? Only one of my close friend’s Marks I ain’t seen is yours.”

“Yeah,” Spot muttered, “Same for me, I guess. Showin’ ‘em at the same time sounds fair.”

“Course it is,” Race let go of him, still staying sitting pretty close, and untied the strip of cloth from his own wrist, “Ready?”

Spot untied his, “Set.”

“Go.”

They showed their soulmarks at the same time. By the time of day, it was almost too dark for Race to read the text on his friend’s wrist.

Almost.

Anthony.

“Shit,” Race mumbled under his breath, “Oh my God.”

Spot was still silent, just staring in shock at the name on Race’s wrist.

Any chance of it being a different Anthony was gone, now, by the look on his face.

“Spot...”

Spot finally looked him in the eye, and Race could see pain there, but also some kind of... relief.

Race knew exactly how he felt. He’d somehow... well, he hadn’t expected it, but it wasn’t surprising, either.

He was glad it was Spot. He was glad it was someone he already knew. Someone he already... already loved.

Race dared to lean a little closer, knowing Spot would read his intentions and pull away if he wanted to.

He didn’t pull away, though his deep breath was shaky.

Their faces were close enough that Race could smell what they’d been drinking on Spot’s breath.

He didn’t see any signs of him not wanting it, so Race leaned forward enough to kiss Spot as softly as he knew how.

For a second, he thought maybe Spot was kissing him back, and then hands were on his shoulders, gently pushing him away.

When Race opened his eyes, his soulmate had an extremely pained look on his face, and he was already grabbing his strip of cloth to cover his wrist again.

“I’m—“

“Don’t be sorry, Race,” he said quietly, “Just... go. You’s gonna have to run for it or you’ll miss the last carriage to hitch a ride home.”

A small part of Race was hurt and angry and wanted to argue that, no, they needed to talk about this and they needed to talk about it now.

But Spot looked agonized enough as it was, and the larger part of Race didn’t want to cause him any more pain.

He stood up and walked all the way back home.

[wwwafflewrites]

Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

Chemical Attraction

Dean flashed you a cheesy grin. "You did good out there tonight. Proud of you." His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, but he still seemed mostly sober.

He was checking out the group of women up at the front of the bar, who wore more revealing clothing than you dared.

You envied their confidence. Sometimes you wished you had the grit to do that stuff.

Dean didn't fake reluctance to leave you or Sam. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it. When he finished his drink, he made his move, leaving the table, and you and Sam with it.

The younger Winchester smiled at you awkwardly. You could tell he wanted to leave as well—he and some girl at the bar had been making googly eyes at each other since he walked in—but was conflicted on leaving you.

"Sam," you said impatiently. "That girl has been giving you the eyes since we walked in. And don't think I don't see you sending them back. If you don't get up now, I'll push you over there."

You were glad that women weren't assuming you and Sam—or Dean—were together; it made everything much less complicated. Both of the Winchesters were way out of your league. You were more likely the sister they never had.

He was a little surprised, and a little amused by your attitude. "Oh, really?"

"Don't test me," you joked.

He laughed, collecting his jacket and walking away.

Your deluding smile fell from your face once you were alone. Bars were usually their choice of festivity, but they mostly just made you uncomfortable.

You were now alone, as both of the boys hit on some chicks and snuck off to get laid. You were used to it. It wasn’t your ideal celebration, but if it made them happy, you'd bear it. You supposed they just assumed your interests matched theirs. Even if all you wanted to do was go home and sleep.

Anyway, the faster the Winchesters both left with broads, the faster you could leave. It was just that simple.

You sipped your whiskey that Dean had paid for. It was strong, and hard to swallow, but in small portions it was tolerable. You appreciated the gift, even if it wasn't your preferred drink. Dean had a big heart, and you wouldn’t ruin your sweet moments with him because you were feeling picky.

You let your mind wander to a darker place.

You were still coming to terms with hunter life. And from what you've gathered, it was cruel, unfair, and thankless.

The Winchesters didn’t sugarcoat it, either. Everything that society looked down upon—the suspiciously cult-ish tattoos, borderline or over-the-line alcoholism (a line you were uncertain where Dean fell), and cheap clothing with leather jackets—was a signature of a hunter’s life. Not to mention the trigger-happy hands, suspicious glares, and their off-putting, dark looks.

It opened your eyes.

That "gothic" girl you saw in your neighborhood? That might have looked like a satanic tattoo, but it was actually an anti-possession tattoo that she got because she was terrified of the demons that wanted to kill her. And those knives in her pocket and backpack? That was for her safety, and probably yours, too.

Or that shady alcoholic up the street? Werewolves brutally murdered his friends, and he has to live with the survivor's guilt. He drinks while obsessively researching how to hunt them down. Though he'll likely die of a failing liver before ever taking on the pack.

The point was…

Looks weren’t always transparent.

And, well, you were everything hunters weren't.

Your pain tolerance was pathetic, for one. Tattoos? Big nope. You hated all things needles, and despite tattoos looking cool, you liked to avoid pain, thanks.

Second, your wardrobe. As if that wasn't blatantly obvious.

And, last, you were a hopeless lightweight. A few shots and you were tipsy. Dean thought it was hilarious.

Still, you drank your whiskey, feeling guilty that you hated it.

You were tired. It was dark out, and you could already feel the whiskey in your system. You just wanted to go home.

So the last thing you expected that night was for a guy to hit on you. You, feeling unlike yourself—and very drunk—warily flirted back.

He was charming. Thing was, with your buzzing vision, all you noticed were his eyes and handsome smile. You didn’t notice the more important things, like, say… the roofies dissolving in your drink.

Too bad you hadn’t—because you wouldn't have let him breathe down your neck like he had been… or breathe at all, for that matter.

Your words slurred, and you leaned into him when he stood. "Hey, hey, h-hey, mister. Wheeere ya' goin' off to?"

You were smashed.

You didn’t feel too hot, either. You were practically dangling off his shoulders as he helped you from your chair, and your stomach churned. "I don' feel so guud…" you slurred, keeling over to vomit on the pavement. Huh. You were outside?

You made out two shapes that looked dubiously like him. Albeit one may have very well been a trash can. "Yeeuur kindouf prr...retty."

He snickered, though you weren't sure what was so funny. "Just let it sink in," he said. "It's okay, babe."

What was he talking about? You frowned, troubled. "Doe… don'ttt… calmeh that."

There was only a muddy sense of direction. You fizzled in and out of consciousness, and your memory escaped you.

You were completely at this man's mercy.

///

You woke up feeling like hell. The lights… the sounds…it was all too loud.

Your head felt like a crushed soda can. You turned—inch by inch—trying to get a view of the entire room, tied up—which, yeah, was a big red flag—and leaned awkwardly against the wall. When you finally saw behind you, you met the eyes of multiple other women in your same predicament.

The previous evening was a haze. Your mind was still catching up with the present, much less the past.

Something in the shadows of the room moved, and you watched as two figures loomed over an unconscious woman covered in dark, bloody bites around her neck and chest.

"Vamps," you spat. But it came more like "vamffptss" through your gag with a few lisp-y expletives.

They spun around, smiling to themselves. A vampire crouched down to your level, taunting you, "Ah, so there is more to her than a pretty face! Who would have known? Are you a hunter, babe?"

A memory clicked as he said that. You might say it rang a bell—an alarm bell, anyway—but you couldn't place it. His voice was bouncing around in your head and it was hard to focus.

"Sssgrew you."

He stood, gave you a smirk, and drove his foot into your abdomen. Hard.

"Wow. I mean, you were a little feisty at the bar, but I never would have envisioned you'd have so much kick." He winked at you, then turned back to his goonies. "Alright. Ship 'em. Mark the pretty ones. They'll be worth more."

You puffed, still recovering from the harsh blow, as a skinny redhead yanked you up by the ropes. He was watching you like one looks in a microwave at their meal.

You thrashed. It was a weak move, hardly knocking him back on his heels, but it was also a minor triumph.

Then said vampire punched your throat, and all smugness disappeared.

The lead vamp turned to see the commotion and erupted, "Are you kidding me? Christ—get the gag off her, will you?!" When the others looked at him in alarm and skepticism, he barked, "She’s no use to us dead! Do you want her suffocating?"

Carrot Top worked the gag from your aching jaw, and you just laid there, winded, like a dead dog.

The Lead Vamp grabbed the shirt collar of your redhead attacker. "Hey, maybe don't punch 'em in the throat next time. They're gonna squirm a little—it's what they do. So ignore it."

"Yessir'."

"Good. And, hey, guys—bag the ugly ones. I got a client for them."

You coughed, propping yourself up by the elbow. You were concerned. Am I ugly?

The redhead vamp kicked you down by your arm, hissing, "Not you. We got a special guy for you. Likes the fighters."

You were so tired and weak and helpless. Couldn't do anything but lay there. You could only watch as the other vamps manhandled poor, terrified women.

"Leeches," you said, earning you a foot to the face.

"Do yourself a favor and shut up."

It was hard to not comply. As your head lolled, you spat blood at his feet. You would not go down easy.

He hauled you up, and his punch cracked like a whip.

You stared at his bloody knuckles, feeling your own arms twitch. The ropes were loose. You wondered briefly if you could even run—

Another strike had your vision swimming with stars.

"Hey. I got a question—huff—" You said, taking the punches like a champ and distracting him. "Has anyone ever told you—uff—that you look like—guh—Strawberry Shortcake?"

The ropes worked off your wrists and when he swung, you ducked—or fell, more like—away from his swing. Breathless, you pulled yourself to your feet to run.

The adrenaline was really the only thing keeping you going. Thing was, adrenaline didn't give you accuracy, it just gave you strength. And little that strength was.

And, woah, was the ground spinning. You gagged as you watched the hallway sway. You were not in any shape to run, but you sure as hell tried to. You stumbled down the hallway, your knees giving out multiple times before you couldn’t pick yourself up again.

The vamp's yell echoed down the hallway. "You're not a hunter anymore, little lamb! You're the hunted!" It probably wouldn't take much for him to follow the sound of your hummingbird heart.

That was enough encouragement to get anyone on their toes. Even someone who was shaking like a leaf.

Whatever roofie they'd given you, it was enhanced. Everything was so hot and bright and loud. You wished the world could just be quiet. Your heart was beating so loud you could feel it in your teeth.

You clambered to the exit, reaching for the doors to push them open.

Just then, a hand pitched you backward, pulling down on your shoulder. You yelled out, petrified.

"It's me, it's just me," Dean whispered quickly, easing you through the door, around the corner, and to where Baby was parked.

Your heart was still jack hammering in your chest as he pulled you in for a hug. You were high as a kite on adrenaline.

"Been looking all over for you." The pitch in his voice was more stressed than usual. You were like a little sister to him.

You leaned into his embrace. It was warm and solid and safe. And it was exactly what you needed to ground yourself.

"He drugged me," you blurted. "He drugged me. I couldn’t—he just—"

He paled. "Did he touch you?" When you paused, his expression darkened. "I'll rip his lungs out. I'll kill every single one of them. I'll—"

"He didn't touch me," you interrupted. "Not like that." You rested your forehead against his chest.

"Thank god."

"But I think they would've." You practically melted as he smoothed your hair down. "They're human trafficking. Selling women as blood bags."

Dean turned to Sam, who was leaned up against the Impala, and nodded at him. Sam took that as his cue to go ahead without Dean. "I got Sammy on it right now. You sure you're alright?"

His arms around you were the only thing keeping you standing. "Just tired. And my head really hurts." Gunshots went off behind you, and you flinched. Your ears were still sensitive.

"Sounds like nothing a little sleep can't fix." Dean patted your back and opened the back of the Impala.

You crawled in and fell asleep before Dean could even pull out of the parking lot.

"Let's get you home," he breathed.

[popculturebuffet]

Mickey and the Roadster Racers: “Mickey’s Perfecto Day” and “Daisy’s Grande Goal” review or “I think i’m going out of my headcold”

Saludos Amigos!  I”ve been sick, and as such have had no energy or state of mind to continue my look at every apperance of the CABs in the us, concluding with a look at every episode of legend of the three caballeros. 

And today’s stop is one i’m only passingly familiar with: Mickey and the Roadster Racers. MATRR.. wait really that’s what it spells?

No Larry the Cable guy on this blog thank you.  Anyways, Roadster Racers is surprisingly complicated for such a simple show. For starters it’s the successor to “Mickey Mouse’s Club House” another CGI Disney Junior show, Disney’s equivalent to Nick Jr because their clever like that. And to continue the theme of ripping off other properties, the show was Disney’s stab at following the big fake interactivity craze started by Dora the Explorer. And it’s annoying as that sounds with a lot of pasues and an annoying recurring hot dog song that’s obnoxiously catchy. It was mostly just slice of life shenanigans with the mickey mouse crew and when retoolling it they decided to drop the now dated fake interactivity, turn up the slice of life and add some of those nitro burning funny cars vroom vroom. IN a sense genral g rated soft boiled mickey shenanigans with a racing theme. 

Not a terrible series but not terribly intresting hence why i’ve never covered it. It’s a bland inoffesnsive cartoon for toddlers. Enough effort is put in for me not to hate it, as even a toddler show can have effort, but not enoguh so that I really care. I’ve seen better, i’ve seen worse. The only intresting things are the racing gimmick and the fact that as said gimmick diminished they switched names to “Mickey’s mixed up adventures” in season 3. Hence the complicated part as it’s not counted as it’s own series but unlike other disney title changes they aren’t just slapping another label under the logo like the marvel shows. This is  a full on retool. But it still has the same cast and prodcution crew and is counted as part of mickey mouse. Point is it’s weird and not relevant since our boys didn’t show up in that season. Oh and as a final note I learned while writing this/ there’s a THIRD Mickey Mouse Disney Junior Series, Mickey Mouse Funhouse, coming next year. 

But with so little to cover I ended up throwing in a freebie. See normally I charge the same for 11 minute and 20+ minute shows. It’s fair as most 11 minute shows these days pack in as much character as the ones that use the full half hour. It’s just a diffrence in tactics is all. But here I felt obligated to do at LEAST two diffrent, but cabs related, 11 minutes here, so if I had nothing to talk about I could pad it out and If I had everyhting to talk about.. eh I still tried to do the right thing. I regret nothing. But yeah i’m sick, this series is eh, let’s gooooo. 

Mickey’s Perfecto Day So Mickey and Friends are preparing to drive to spain.

No i’m not making a joke. Wish I was would be one of my best but no, Mickey and Friends are just.. casually going to drive to Spain. To explain why this hurts my head a map, on which i’ve drawn the route they’d have to take to get to spain from, let’s say Calisota, the fictional state where Mouseton, Duckburg, New Quackmore, and thus probably Hot Dog Hills, the show’s setting, reside. 

This is a crue map, they oculd’ve gone down through mexico or central america.. but the point is THEY DROVE ACROSS THE OCEAN. And I genuinely do not know if their cars can do that but apparently they can. So either the writer didn’t know where Spain was or didn’t care and either way it’s bad. LIke at least give their cars a plane or boat mode. Go full DKR up in this bitch, give em diffrent racing vehicles. But it wouldn’t be as aggrivvating or bizzare if they MENTIONED how they were driving to spain, like maybe Donald’s car that’s also an old boat and goofy’s that’s a tub have aquamodes and can tow the rest. I get 5 year olds don’t care about this.. but still? I guess? Also MIckey is either the sorcerer supreme or jesus at this point. He can cross oceans by car, astral project, cross into other dimensions.. the only thing missing is raising the dead and  he already did that in the 30′s. 

So as for why the sorcerer supreme and his buddies are going all the way to Spain, Donald has a concert with the three caballeros and this time they all remember him as a memmber and Daisy’s a huge fan. Which is sweet. Then we hear donald duck talk and...

Yeah, Daniel Ross is not the best Donald. Now I will cut the guy some slack here: He’s a voice actor more known for doing bit parts who just got the role in 2016, since racers aired in 2017 and animation lead time and all that. He’s not going to be nearly as good as Tony or Clarence out of the gate. Even Tony wasn’t. He also had a valid reason for picking up the role as Tony likely had two series in production at that time, Rise of the Three Cablleros and Ducktales, and thus had to split his time between both. And having Chris Diamaptolus do mickey in the new shorts instead of his usual voice actor Bret Iwane despite Iwane not being in any serious danger of dying soon has worked out super. So having multiple actors isn’t the problem. Hell after the tragic loss of Russi taylor and with how bad the world is, having an understudy in mind for such an important role is a grim but understandable necicisty. While I belivie tony can go on for decades, he’s only human. 

So my issue is not on Donald’s voice being diffrent or new.. it’s that it’s not very good and the second episode featuerd here shows Daniel Ross really hasn’t improved despite now having worked as the character for a while.I can forgive taking some time to grow in but being this sloppy after a full season is just unacceptable. He’s BETTER but he’s still just not very good and doing the bear minimum. I don’t doubt he’s a good va in other rolls, I don’t want to hate on the guy, but I can hate on aperfomance when it’s bad and it’s not good here. It’s just not. Not in either episode not in any way shape or form. It just feels like a lazy donald duck impression. Disney can do better and Ross can hopefully find better work in the future. But for now this just hangs like a wet fart on his resume. 

Moving on, thankfully, we have our three stories split pretty evenly and all stock plots. “Horay”.  Mickey and Minnie: Mickey tries to have a “perfecto” day, hence the title with Minnie, but instead gives her a rose a baby bull likes.. or maybe it’s SUPPOSED to be full grown but while Mickey and Minnie treat him like a grown bull and react to him like one.. the boy dosen’t look at all, even in the series style, like an adult bull. he looks like a calf. Mickey.. is initimdated by a small child whose horns aren’t sharp enough to hurt him. 

It’s just REALLY distracting and takes me out of the plot which itself is as bland as plain toast and twice as dry. They flee him till the end where Minnie figures out the rose thing at the concert and they make an ew friend. NOt TERRIBLE but not great.  Goofy and Cuckoo Loca: Okay first off who and what is a cuckoo loca? Well she’s a wind up bird that lives in Daisy’s Cuckoo Clock and makes sarcastic comments in a brooklyn accent because nikka futtterman voices her. Still makes more sense than driving to spain. She’s not a bad addition to the cast.. not even that weird as most kids based franchises have an adorable animal sidekick to market. Goofy wants to try some “flamingo dancing” while in spain, with Loca going along to make sure he dosen’t die somehow.. which would be unjustifable for anyone but goofy. Also.. Flamingo Dancing...

But yeah Goofy goes up against ... world famous flamingo dancer horace horsecollar?!

Now apparently this is a common thing for him in this series, apparently, but still it feels like if one of those weird variant ninja turtle figures from the 80′s was a plot point in an episode. Like if we actually had an episode based around birthday magician raph. 

It feels just as odd and out of place for down to earth if showy horace to suddenly be the best flaminco dancer in spain, despite being very much white coded, as it does for the angriest ninja turtle to be pulling a rabbit out of kids hats. Now Rise of the TMNT raph I could totally see as a party magician but any other? He’d probably break his wand over some kids head. 

Goofy ends up winning anyway because he’s stupid, though Flamingo dancing should be a real thing even if this joke is bad and it shoudl feel bad. What an ODD subplot Okay one more then i’m free of this prison. 

The Three Cablleros Plus Daisy:  Okay finally we get to what I came here for. The Three Caballeros! And..they look a tad off. Not terrible but clearly the animators weren’t as skilled with non duck beaks as both of them look ready to do this to donald. 

While Panchito’s color varies. Sometime’s it’s a deep brownish crimson, sometimes it’s poop brown and there’s no classy way to put it. When he’s in this cheap cgi, he looks like a shit chicken. This gets to a larger issue though... the animation here is not great. It’s not TERRIBLE.. but it’s pretty freaking sub par for disney. And i’ve SEEN their other cgi shows around the same time due to having a young niece and nephew. Sherieff Callie, Doc McStuffins, MIles from Tommorowland, and after this T.O.T.S. and Rocketeer. I’m not saying these are masterpieces of the genre, but they have more effort in botht he animation and writing put in. Here it just feels like they do the bear minimum which feels really fucking wrong. These chracters deserve better and have thankfully gotten better. YOu can make a show for preschoolers that’s cutsey and harmless and still have it at least be creative god dammit. It’s why I don’t like covering this show. It just feels so.. lifeless. They try a bit here and there but outside of cuckoo, there’s nothing really new or intresting to really make kids love these characters and it bothers me. it bothers me a lot. 

Moving on thank god, the plot is bare bones as is the boys characterization. So far at least their character has been pretty consitent across all mediums. i’ts something I haven’t really touched on but their seen as world traveler’, Panchito being a Gaucho and Jose being such a ladies man this will probably happen to him eventually. 

I swear to god that was the only part of this movie I can remember. I’m  better off that way. But yeah without Panchito’s pep or Jose’s smooth talking ways, there’s just nothing for disney junior to work with so their just.. friends to donald who are nice to daisy. Which is very nice to see, but isn’t very intresting or gives me a lot to talk about. Donald eats a food that’s too hot, continues to talk poorly, and Daisy has to fill in. He gets back in at time and they sing probably the most forgetable cabs song yet. It’s.. not much honestly.  This was worth covering for completions sake but it dosen’t really add much. If nothing else it at least made me realize so far each mile of the ride has added something fresh to the characters: The original was the foundation, rosa gave them depth and made them feel like real people, and house of mouse made them feel like a big deal to other characters and made donald’s history as a cabllero part of his legacy as it should be. Each one so far has felt like it added.. this one just made me realize that and that is all. It builds on nothing adds nothing and there’s really nothing here other than MAYBE the brown/crimson design for panchito that carries over from the looks of it. The next two versions build on what rosa, the movie and to a lesser extent the house of mouse built. This one adds nothing. This plot is just.. inconqueintal. not bad for kids to know about them but even then it feels like a disapointing introduction. I fondly remember hte cabs episodes of house of mouse and even on rewatch they mostly held up despite some weak parts. This .. this will just be forgotten and I only hope legend and ducktales have done a better job keeping my boys alive in kids minds. God i’m depressed. Well at least this is over right.. right? 

Daisy’s Grande Goal

Okay as I said I was doing two, and rather than do this episode’s paired episode I decided on Season 2′s “Supercharged: Daisy’s Grande Goal”.. and cut the supercharged out of the title for the most part because why would you put the sutitle in your actual title. And only in some episodes. But yeah this season had a new gimmick, SUPERCHARGING... which basically means our heroes roadsters can go into super sayian tron super sayian mode and go real fast. They look real nice though and it has it’s own neat theme tune so there’s that. Otherwise the only other change is the animation which improves greatly. Seriously look at that shot above. That’s quality lin line with the ohter disney juinor shows. It’s still not as CREATIVE, but it’s not as slipshod as it started and I have to give them credit on that. 

So our heroes are in Brazil.. and as far as I can tell they drove there again.. but the diffrence is 1) you can actually DRIVE to brazil and 2) they have super fast super cars now, meaning even if the super charge mode has a timer, it can help with the commute. It’s also one of the boys actual home countries this time. I mean the episode isn’t built around the cabs.. but neither was the last one. Seriously I almost missed that: it’s three unrleated plots and really you could’ve just lenethed the bull and goofy plots a bit and left donald and daisy out. If your not going to use the cabs right hten don’t use them at all. Here though their used BETTER.. still not in the lead unforunately but at least them being on the brazilian soccer team makes sense as jose is from brazil and while panchito is it he’s his best friend, sometimes lover and always there when he needs him. So spending some time in brazil to play soccer/football isn’t a stretch. But that’s about it for their involvment: they say a few lines, are part of the brazilian team our heroes face, and we get Not-Donald saying “No Way Jose”.,,,

Sadly I can’t leave but the main plot is about Daisy’s Cousnt Almonda. She was in the previous episode which I did not watch but I do like both there being a valid reason why our heroes are here, and connection between episodes. While this season isn’t MUCH better.. it’s still better by some metric.  The plot is very basic: Almonda always wins at soccer ever since she and Daisy were kids, and it’s your basic “hero gets overcompetitive to finally win plot and learns to just have fun and to use teamwork heart of the cards and all that” It goes how you’d expect with Daisy hogging the ball and causing disasters and then a ten car pileup before cucoo yells at her, she realizes she was bad and also realizes Almonda had to practice hard to beat her, and ends up beating her through teamwork and you get it. IT’s not much But yeah ten car pile up.. that’s where it is intresting and rediculous as their playing soccer with cars. Which given i’ve always been an advocate for card games on motor cycles, seriously it’s not more rediculous than Yugioh was before that: in the anime and manga before 5ds we had table hockey but the puck is ice with nitrocylcrine in it, a battle with an escaped convict involving vodka and only using one finger, a chinese puzzel box that devoured souls, a dueling monkey, a whole hogwarts style school for dueling, duel spirits, our heroes childhood creations coming to life to help him, our hero merging with his androgynous childhood friend to fight the light of all evils, and on top of all of that, kaiba building a giant murder theme park soley to kill yugi and, even with how rich is he is, not even going to prison for the two months he’d get for that. My point is Yugioh is fricking weird and I love it so and card games on mortocyles is awesome.  Soccer with cars is alright. The teams are mickey, minnie, daisy and donald, for the US and Almonda, Jose, Panchito and.. Pancho Pete for the Brazilian team. Pete’s cousin. He apparenlty has a lot of em. Eh as long as we don’t get petkeem the african dream we’re fine. 

Why why did I make this. Why. But yeah it’s fine, not the best action ever adn the supercharge segments as I said look nice but as I also said ther’es just not a lot here. Daisy’s cousin is intresting, but likely more in the other segment. Here she’s more of a plot device to make daisy into an asshole for the episode so the plot can happen. There’s just not a lot to talk about> Hence me doing two of these. I will say it’s a better episode than the other one: it felt like more actually happened, it was more cohesive, had way more enerjgy and it had billy beagle... the series resident overexcited and loveable announcer voiced by the far from loveable jay leno of stealing conan’s job he gave him and last man standing, for some reason, fame. 

Overall these episodes are.. eh. The first one is kind of a mess, the second one is slightly better but these clearly werne’t meant for adults, let alone older kids and it shows. But I found some material here and made a horrifying combination of a terrible racist wwe gimmick and pete so.. I win/ I guess. I dunno, until next time, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. 

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Second Rule (standalone)

Summary: Everyone knew the first rule of Underfell; 'Kill or Be Killed'.

The second rule, 'Don't Get Involved', was less well known but Grillby always followed it scrupulously, anyway.

Until today.

Tags: Underfell Grillby, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, Violence, Baby Bones, Hurt/Comfort, Child Abandonment, Childhood Trauma, Protectiveness

Read it on AO3

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Read it here!

~~*~~

The first rule of Underfell was kill or be killed. Everyone had that shit either beaten into them by the time they could toddle or they were too dead for it to matter much.

The second rule wasn’t talked about as much, but just because no one wore a shirt advertising it didn’t mean that a Monster didn’t have to pick up on it pretty fucking quickly. Don’t get involved, that was the rule, and those that didn’t learn it, well, whatever kin they had probably needed to invest in a new broom and a dustpan.

Don’t get involved. That was the word, simple and concise and Grillby was usually pretty fucking good at it. He kept to it his entire life, grunging out a living in New Home and once he had the G saved up to get out of that garbage scow, he headed off to Snowdin. Same shitty clientele and it was always miserably fucking cold, but at least you could breathe without coughing back out a mouthful of polluted air and dust. Still a shithole even if it were a slightly upgraded shithole, not exactly the kind of place he’d dreamed about as kid.

Didn’t matter. Reality was no place for dreams and Grillby was keeping it real. He ran his place, kept an eye on the tabs, and kept to himself. That was his rule and he kept to it scrupulously.

Until today.

His first mistake was looking at all. What he should’ve done was kept going forward, head back to the bar with his groceries and started his regular morning prep work. His thoughts were already slicing potatoes to soak for fries, polishing drinking glasses, cleaning up any leftover splinters from the furniture that got wrecked in last night’s fight. Same as any other day, but he still kept his hearing hot, listening for any asshole who thought his XP looked extra tempting this fine fucking cold morning. It was automatic after years of living in new Home. Half of Snowdin would take out anyone directly responsible for losing them their only bar and the other half would take bets on it, but that wouldn’t do Grillby much good if he were dead. That was the only reason he heard it, coming from the alleyway between the Bun Bakery and the hotel.

“leave my brother alone!” Childishly high and filled with fear coupled to fury. From the coarse laughter that followed, whoever they were talking to wasn’t much impressed.

Grillby didn’t do more than glance down the alley, catching sight of three of the Bun family standing in a semi-circle, looming close to the alley wall and that was where his gaze stalled. The Monsters they surrounded were huddled close to the ground and from the striped shirts it was a couple of kids, one of them curling protectively over the other where they were lying crumpled on the ground. Next to them were the remains of a couple of cinnamon bunnies, mashed to crumbs like they’d been stomped on.

Out here in the sticks, a striped shirt wasn’t sacred so much as it was a warning that someone bigger and angrier might come looking for a little revenge, but neither of those filthy scrags looked like they had a single G to their name, much less a parent or older brother. A kid had as much XP as anyone and if their kin weren’t gonna look after them, then the world would take care of them in its own way. That was the fucking rule, kill or be killed, but they were kids, fuck, a couple of kids…

Grillby sighed and set his bag down at the entrance to the alley in a dry place out of the slush of snow, ramping up the internal furnace of his soul until his flames glowed deep purple. “Hey,” he called, and the Buns whipped around to face him, scarred faces twisting in surprise and irritation.

“What do you want, Grillby,” said the tallest of the three. Jono was a regular patron of his, big and not too dumb, all things considered. His cousins were a couple of dim bulbs, suited for drinking and XP fodder when they finally drank too much one night and staggered off to their deaths, but for now they were very much alive, standing as hulking statues behind Jono.

Grillby only shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. Didn’t need ‘em to literally fire off an attack. “Just seeing what’s going on.” He tipped his head towards the kids, who were cringing against the alley wall, their gazes flicking warily between them. “Takes three of you to handle some single digit XP?”

“Piss off,” Jono growled. “Ain’t no business of yours.”

“You so sure about that?” Grillby asked softly. The words were coolly said, as much as a fire Monster could manage in a place called Snowdin. “You've got an awfully big tab at my place for you to be thinking you can tell me what to do.”

That was a decent tweak to the balls and Jono faltered. They both damn well knew if Grillby called in his tab, he wouldn’t be able to pay it and the guard had no sympathy for those who couldn’t pay their debts. They wouldn’t give two shits if Grillby handled the problem himself and added Jono’s dust to the jarred collection sitting at the back of the bar as a reminder that debts were made to be paid.

Jono was a little too pissed to give in that easily. Fury burned in his eyes, twisted his face into an ugly sneer. He swung around and snarled, “These little brats stole from our place!”

That anger gave birth to violence. He aimed a kick at the bigger kid and the smaller one lunged in, crying out as it connected with his ribs instead of his brother’s prone body. A hasty Check showed his HP was getting dangerously low, kid probably already took a hit or two before Grillby showed up and damned if he’d ever seen anything like that before. Any sibling loyalty was pretty few and far between these days, hell, Jono was more likely to dust his brother himself than to keep anyone else from smacking him around. Grillby’s own little brother was snuffed years ago back in New Home when Grillby was a kid himself, fuck, those bright orange flames reduced to ash because he’d—

Stole from their place, right, the Bakery. The smashed cinnamon bunnies told the tale; little thieves trying to sneak off with shit that wasn’t theirs…exactly as Grillby had at their ages, only they’d gotten caught. Stupid kids, hungry kids, ah, fuck.

Memory blurred around reality and Grillby sighed inwardly as Jono reached down to grab up the smaller kid, probably to finish this off and before he could Grillby said hastily, “Let me take care of the problem. Call it a favor.”

At the word ‘favor’, Jono’s long ears perked up. He paused and gave Grillby a calculating, appraising look, weighing revenge against resources. “And if I do? What else do I get out of it?”

Say what you would about Jono, he was always on the lookout for a deal. Grillby considered it, ran a few mental numbers. “I’ll owe you a favor and I’ll knock fifteen percent off your tab.”

“Twenty,” he countered and Grillby kept back a bitter smile. He probably would’ve gone up to twenty-five, fucking idiot that he was, don’t get involved, that was all he had to do, and instead he’d waded right into the shit. Twenty was still a hard pill to swallow and that on top of owing this shitbag a favor.

“Deal,” Grillby said. Maybe he’d get lucky and Jono would get himself dusted before he could call his favor in.

Jono nodded curtly, gesturing at his cousins to follow him. “They’re yours.” He chuckled raucously as they slunk away back to the bakery, calling back, “Have fun.”

Grillby ignored that and crouched down to get a good look at what he was working with here. Huh. He hadn’t seen a skeleton Monster in fucking years, not since he was a kid himself. These two looked like they’d seen some rough times. The bigger kid had a nasty crack running through one of his sockets, obviously an old injury, the jagged edges looked healed over. The smaller kid was sporting plenty of fresh bruises from Jono’s little love taps and had a couple cracks of his own. Both of them were dressed in rags and filthy. This close Grillby could smell the stink of unwashed bodies and clothes even over the reek of the nearby garbage cans.

Tears were running from the younger kid’s sockets, the droplets of bright, unusual crimson gathering at his chin like a bouquet. Didn’t stop him from stubbornly standing in front of his brother despite the bigger kid trying feebly to push him back. A check of that kid made Grillby frown, how the fuck was the big kid even alive with a max of one HP? Well, now, this was getting kinda interesting.

But it wasn’t his business, never had been. He could still leave them here. Let them get back to scrounging out a living, plenty of overflowing trash cans in this alley for them to dig through. Might find a bag a chisps with some crumbs still in it or even the remains of a half-eaten burger from his place. He’d bought them some time and not cheaply, either. They’d either pull through or eventually someone would put them out of their misery. He could walk out of here with rule number two still tucked in his back pocket, a little bent, but unbroken.

Grillby looked at the filthy, wretched little urchins in the gutter and sighed aloud. “C’mon, kids, let’s go.”

He reached for them and the smaller skeleton bared some impressively sharp chompers, snapping at Grillby’s outstretched hand like one of the local pups. “I won’t let you hurt my brother!”

Yeah, that was enough of that. Grillby set a burning finger in the middle of the kid’s sternum and shoved, sending him sprawling back into the slush. “Gonna have to get a little bigger if you’re looking to play bodyguard and you ain’t gonna get the chance if you don’t come with me.”

“why, so you can get some cheap xp?” the bigger kid rasped out. He crawled painfully over to his brother and tried to help him to his feet. Neither of ‘em were making much progress but they were sure damn well trying.

“Unnamed Angel save me from today’s saints,” Grillby muttered under his breath, then louder, “Actually, I was gonna feed you, you ungrateful fucking brats. You can either come with me or stay here, but if you’re staying the only thing that’s happening is someone gets to shovel you off the sidewalk tomorrow. I’m betting there’s no one else out there to sprinkle your dust. Stay or go, it’s your call. Hurry up and make it.”

The brothers turned to look at each other and something about that stare, the unspoken communication, made Grillby’s magic perk up and crawl unpleasantly up his back. Weird fucking kids and he almost pulled the offer back, almost turned and walked right back out of the alley and the kids could have his abandoned groceries while he got the hell out of dodge. But before he could take so much as a step, both kids turned back to him, two pairs of crimson eye lights meeting his own gaze as the bigger kid announced, “we’ll go with you. for now.”

“Thank fuck,” Grillby muttered. Time was wasting and he wanted outta here before any other Buns came by looking for a deal. He stood and then got to watch with sour amusement as the little kid tried to help his brother to his feet. They got about halfway there then they both lost their balance, falling into a clattering heap back into the dirty snow. “Fuck’s sake, hold still.”

The bigger kid was shivering, that low HP of his probably made the cold even more miserable for him than it was for Grillby. He stripped off his jacket, hissing at the chill, wrapped both kids in it and scooped them up, telling himself that at least this way he didn’t have to touch their grimy bones. They wriggled in his arms and he almost dropped the little brats, but somehow they managed to settle, both of them peeking out from the depths of the coat.

“Comfortable?” Grillby asked dryly. They said nothing and he shrugged mentally, walking back out of the alley and snagging his groceries on the way. He didn’t linger, heading back to the bar with long, fast strides. Wherever these kids came from, they were his problem for a little while at least, and he’d feel better when they were safely inside. “You got names?”

“Yes.” One word in unison and not a cent more. It should have been irritating but Grillby found he was fighting the urge to laugh. That was the kind of shit Blaze would have pulled back in the day, when he and Grillby were living on the street…but Grillby snuffed that thought brutally.

Little brats, eh, he’d get some names out of them eventually. He carried them back to his place, already thinking of how he was gonna get the little brats in a bathtub without giving himself water rash. Rustle up something for them to wear that was better than the rags barely covering their bones and get some food for them, hm, burgers might be a little much on achingly empty souls eager for something to convert to magic, but soup might work or maybe some pasta. He’d figure out something.

Don’t get involved, that was the rule, and he'd always stuck to it. But if he was going to break the fucking thing, Grillby was gonna smash it good.

Fuck it. He'd never given a good shit about rules, anyway.

-finis

[theangriestpea]

Road Bumps | Sweet Pea

Summary: After finding out that his girlfriend is pregnant, Sweet Pea decides to take her away from the dangers of Riverdale for a little while. Missing scene to where Sweet Pea was during the end of season 3 and beginning of season 4 <ao3> 

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader 

Rating: Teen+

Word Count: 2.7k+

Warnings: Teen pregnancy 

A/N: This was requested by the amazing @sweetsfuckingpea​! I hope you enjoy it, mom! When trying to think of motivation for Sweet Pea to leave Riverdale, pregnancy was the only thing I could come up with??? Probably because I currently have baby fever. x.x And I mean....who wouldn’t want babies that looked like Jordan Connor? 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You asked for the millionth time as you sat across from Sweet Pea at a small dinner in a rural part of Pennsylvania. “With all that’s going on in Riverdale-”

“That’s exactly why we needed to leave.” He said seriously. “There’s too much drama there right now. We need to get away for awhile. Especially with the condition you’re in. I’m not risking your lives by staying in a town infested with mysterious seizures and drugged up rival gangsters.”

You let out a sigh, picking at your basket of fries. You hadn’t had much appetite the past couple of weeks. “My condition is exactly why we shouldn’t be travelling the countryside right now. We should be saving money! I told you I could have just taken out a loan and gotten it taken care of…”

Sweet Pea reached out, putting a steady hand on top of your shaking one. “Y/N, I know this is hard but we agreed not to do that. If you’ve changed your mind then I’ll support you, but I don’t want you to do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”

You withdrew your hand from his and hid it on your lap. “I don’t know what I want. It all just happened so fast. I haven’t had time to process anything.”

He sighed, wishing you would stop pulling away from him constantly. He went back to eating his food slowly. “Coming out here will give you time to think about it. Plus you told me countless times how you always wanted to road trip coast to coast. This might be your last chance for a while.”

A small smile formed on your lips, “you’re right, thank you, babe.” You leaned in for a quick kiss before going back to eating.

A week prior Sweet Pea had insisted that the two of you go on a road trip. Even though it was towards the end of Junior year, he said it wouldn’t matter since most of the time neither of you went to school anyway. You could always retake it the following year which didn’t seem so bad right now.

After many nights of not-so-careful screwing, you had wound up pregnant with only one possibility for the father. Sweet Pea was taking it amazingly well. You had expected him to punch a wall or make you leave or demand you get an abortion, but he did none of those things. Instead he sat in stunned silence for what felt like hours.

Eventually, when he did speak, he asked what you wanted to do. You didn’t know as you were still wrapping your head around the whole thing. You had suffered from a bad seizure months before and there was still no real explanation as to what caused it. Plus with increasing tensions mounting between the serpents and the gargoyles, Sweet Pea felt that Riverdale was no longer a safe place for you. Either of you. He wanted nothing more to protect you until you came to a decision.

You kept in contact with your friends back home as little as possible. It was too soon to tell them what was going on. Rumors flew by so quickly in the small town that you didn’t want to be known as the highschooler that got knocked up by a serpent. There were worse things to be said about you, sure, but it was still a sensitive subject. You weren’t even showing yet but who knew how long that would last.

“How does this spot look, princess?” Sweet Pea asked as he walked around a clearing in the small wooded area you had parked near. You had been camping out most nights, enjoying the sounds of nature with nothing to keep you warm but your boyfriend and your shared sleeping bag. It was nice, peaceful, and much less stressful than home.

You looked around, “are you sure there’s no bears around here? You know Archie got attacked by one once. He almost died.”

Sweet Pea rolled his eyes, “I’ve got my 12 gauge if there is one, come on, is this the place for tonight or what?”

Your eyes met his and you smiled lightly, “Sure. The ground is even at least and there’s that stream nearby.”

He came up to you and pulled you into a tight embrace, his head resting on top of yours. “Ready to get started or do you need to rest?”

You pushed him away gently, rolling your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Sweets, not disabled. Let’s go ahead and get started.”

That night, after everything was set, Sweet Pea had scoped out a local bar to go to. Naturally  he had his leather serpent jacket on while you went with something a bit more classic. Skinny jeans and a low cut t-shirt. Nothing too risque as you didn’t pack anything too revealing to wear. It’s not like you had planned on going bar hopping any time soon since you couldn’t drink.

But currently you were in a food desert and really the only place to grab a bite was the bar about twenty minutes away from your campsite. It was remote enough that neither of you thought anyone would mess with your tent, deciding to keep a majority of your possessions locked in the saddle bags of his motorcycle.

You arrived at the bar, noticing the plethora of bikes parked out front. Naturally your anxiety started to rise. If they saw Sweet Pea as some kind of rival then things could get ugly. “Maybe you should take your jacket off.” You murmured to him, already seeing a few passing by bikers give him a tentative look over.

“A serpent never sheds his skin.” Sweet Pea said faithfully, “It’ll be fine, baby girl. No one is going to mess with us.” He got off of his bike and put an arm around you, leading you inside the small bar. “Just worry about whether or not the food here is any good.” He joked.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him while you walked. He led you to a back corner and placed you at a booth there. “Stay here, I’m going to get some menus, okay? Stop looking at me like that, nothing is going to happen.” He said, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze in an attempt to reassure you before he left to go to the bar.

He disappeared behind a sea of bodies, while the bar wasn’t super crowded, the dim lighting made it hard to see far away. You huffed and pulled out your phone, trying to quell your anxiety by mindlessly scrolling through social media. He had wanted to hustle some pool as well to get you both some extra cash.

Someone sat down next to you, “Back already?” You asked, eyes not looking up from the screen.

“No, sweet thing, I’m just arriving.” A voice said smoothly. Your head shot up to see a somewhat thin biker sitting next to you. You immediately moved as far away from his as possible, which wasn’t much in the small booth.

“My boyfriend is coming back, you should leave.” You said, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“That kid wearing the snake? No, you look like you could use a real man.” He said, breath reeking of cheap beer and tooth decay. It nearly made you gag.

“I’m seventeen.” You replied, hoping the fact that you were underage would get him to go away. Unfortunately it only seemed to make him more interested.

He smirked, “Good, I like ‘em young.”

A scared look crossed your face, your heart sinking deep down into your chest until you saw a hand with a tattooed thumb grab the intruder by the shoulder. “I don’t believe the teenager is interested in your pathetic ass.” Sweet Pea seethed, ripping the man out from behind the table. He stumbled forward, catching himself before straightening up.

“Southside Serpent, huh? More like Southside Street Rat.” The man said, looking up at Sweet Pea. His inhibition from the alcohol made the much taller boy’s large frame unfrightening.

Sweet Pea quickly grabbed the man by the collar of his old t-shirt, yanking him up onto his toes. “Want to say that again?” He asked, voice low and even but nevertheless filled the rage. “Or do you want to hit on my girl some more?”

“Fuck off man, this is my territory. Not yours.” He said, eyeing the guys around him.

Sweet Pea looked at the men coming towards him, “You guys really want to defend a pedophile? Be my guest, I’ll take you all on.”

“Sweet Pea…” You mumbled, trying to get him to calm down and not make the situation worse. Especially since he was alone in a sea of bikers.

He glanced at you and you could tell he couldn’t really see you through his anger. When he saw red it was literally all he saw.

“Put him down, kid.” A much older, bearded man said as he parted the crowd. The man looked down at you, “was he bothering you, miss?”

“Y-yes.” You stammered, terrified of what may happen. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach and it did not go unnoticed by the newcomer.

“And you’re a minor?” He probed and you could only nod your head in response, your voice no longer worker. The man turned to Sweet Pea, “then I’ll deal with him. We don’t take kindly to our guys trying to mess around with teenagers.”

Sweet Pea stared at the old biker, contemplating whether or not he should comply. He let out a large breath out of his nose as he set the offender down. Multiple guys grabbed him before he could make a break for it. They pulled him away and back through a back door.

“Sorry about him, son. I have suspected his...tendencies for a while now but had no proof. Sit down, you and your bird’s food is on the house.” He patted Sweet Pea’s shoulder before signalling for the crowd to disperse.

You felt like you were going to faint as Sweet Pea sat down next to you. “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” You croaked to him as you tried to regulate your breathing.

Sweet Pea was still very much upset, now unable to take his feelings out on anyone. “You okay?” He said, his voice not matching the words. They sounded much too rough.

You put a gentle hand on his bicep, trailing it downward in an attempt to soothe him. “I’m fine, you got here right in time. My hero.” The last part was a joke in an attempt to make him smile. It didn’t work until you gave him a light peck on the cheek. “I’ll have to make it up to you tonight.” You whispered into his ear, knowing the thought of a reward later would make him cool down.

His cracked smile grew and he put an arm around your shoulders. “Oh yeah? You owe me big time.” He teased, hand dipping down to brush against your side. “I got us free food.”

“Pretty sure, I got us free food. But okay, you win.” You said with a light giggle, kissing him once more.

“I love you.” He said, seeming out of nowhere. You looked up to see his eyes burning with emotion that you didn’t quite recognize. “I never loved anyone the way I love you.”

A blush spread hot across your face. “Not even Josie?” The question came out in a mumble. You had always been a bit insecure when it came to his feelings for her. After all, he was still getting over her when you two decided to start hooking up. It had been difficult at first because he was obviously still in pain over the rejection, but eventually he moved on when you showed him that you were more than happy to be his full-time girl.

Sweet Pea pressed a light kiss to your forehead, “not even Josie.” He added softly, knowing how much of a sore spot it was for you. “That was just a dumb crush. You’re...different. You always have been but I just ignored it, not thinking you felt that way.”

You buried your head into his shoulder, clearly embarrassed. “You’re an idiot. I’ve loved you since Freshman year.”

“What? Really?” He asked, clearly surprised as he tried to pull you away from him but you had latched onto him much too tightly. He wanted nothing more than to look into your eyes and see that what you were saying was the truth.

“Oh yeah, I fell pretty hard after you beat up the Ghoulies that were trying to jump me.” You said softly into his jacket, enjoy the smell of him and the leather mixing.

Sweet Pea couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. There was no way you could have taken on all five Ghoulies that had cornered you but you looked like you were bound to try with a heavy textbook in your hand as a makeshift weapon. “You were so cute. Looking like a bunny trying to fight off some strung out wolves.”

“Idiot.” Was all you could say, trying to mask how mortified you felt knowing that you didn’t look intimating in the slightest. “You came in swinging like a giraffe out of hell. Ready to kick ass and take names for seconds.”

He rested his head on top of yours, his grip on you tightening as his body trembled with silent laughter. “Yeah, had to defend that cute little bun. She was way too innocent to let her get devoured by some mangy mutts.”

“So you wanted to devour me instead?” You asked jokingly and he only laughed more.

“You got me.” He murmured softly into your hair and you swear you had never felt more at peace in your entire life then you did in that very moment.

Over the course of the next few months, Sweet Pea took you all the way to the west coast. You stopped at kitschy little tourist traps and adorable mom and pop places. He hustled pool, darts, really any bar game he was good at just to get you some spending money. Eventually you started to forget about Riverdale entirely. In fact, it had been weeks since the town even crossed your mind.

Until you got a phone call from Toni. You had just arrived in the outskirts of western Indiana when you decided to answer. It was the fifth time she had called you that day, and you knew that it had to have been important. Sweet Pea’s phone was turned off for this very reason, he didn’t want anyone bothering him.

What she had to say left you feeling cold. Jughead Jones was dead and they could just make it to his funeral if they started driving tonight. Sweet Pea said nothing. He was eerily quiet as he packed up everything and hopped back onto his bike with you behind him. And he drove, only stopping when he absolutely needed to sleep. Distantly you wondered what everyone would say about your protruding stomach. You were only a month shy of being full term. That was why you both had started heading back. And now everyone would know and there would be no escape. Not again. You weren’t ready but you had to be. There was no other option.

After a rough night in a motel, Sweet Pea finally noticed your distress. His mind had been preoccupied on the serpents for obvious reasons. “Hey, Y/N, come here.” He whispered and you moved closer to him. He enveloped you in his arms and breathed you in, almost as if it would be the last time you’d get to be alone together. “Everything is going to be alright. We’ll get through his just like we’ve gotten through everything else that has been thrown at us. Remember when we thought there was a bear and it was really just a stray cat going through our garbage? This is just like that. It’s just a cat. Not a terrifying bear, okay?”

You let out a low sight, “yeah...okay.”

“Do you trust me?” He asked, his voice so serious that it worried you.

“Of course.” You muttered back, not understanding what he was getting at.

He smiled softly, “Then trust me to get us through this.” He kissed you once more before finally getting up to get ready for the last leg of the drive. You’d be in Riverdale by late afternoon and your road trip would unfortunately be over.

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[friendlylocalwhumper]

emory breaks lux’s trust | painful regaining of trust

content warning for referenced past child abuse, referenced drug abuse.

The nightmares come. Late in the night, after Lux has wrapped himself around Emory, both exhausted and relieved.

The nightmares come, not for Lux, but for Emory.

Lux wakes, confused and frowning, to register movement under the covers. Emory is twisting, trying to curl up. All of his movements are bogged down by sleep, as if his limbs are too heavy to drag.

He’s crying. The kind of crying that comes only in sleep, quiet and open-mouthed. The saddest sound in the world. Emory keens in misery. Lux has never heard him talk about anything that would cause a nightmare like this, no loss, no memory of being hurt. It’s new and heartbreaking.

A few minutes pass, where Emory cries into the pillow, and Lux gathers himself. Checks with himself to make sure he can do this so soon after his trust was broken. He can’t reach out and pull Emory together if his own heart is still broken, if he’s paranoid about being hurt again.

But he thinks he’s okay. He thinks he can deal with this. He can ask Emory to open up about it, and listen, and show that he cares.

“Em. Em, -mmh? It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay.” One hand comes up from between them to rub Emory’s arm over the covers. His boyfriend shudders, the faint sobs eroding him steadily even in sleep. “I’m right here. What’s wrong, Em? Why you crying?”

He expected Emory to wake up and focus. He didn’t expect to get an answer, right out of still-asleep Emory, his guard down.

“...-ey, -ef’ me,” Mumbles Emory, a distinct pout in his voice. “‘lone.”

“Huh? What, Em?” Lux inches closer, tucking his chin over Emory’s shoulder to be close enough to hear.

“Lef’ me. They… and… don’ remember, nothin’ bu’ her, han’s… singin’...”

Lux’s heart aches. Emory was left by someone, someone he loved, can barely remember? Did that really happen, or is it part of the dream? He shouldn’t be listening to this. It’s like going in someone’s head without them even knowing it.

“Wake up, Em,” He mutters, shoving at Emory’s shoulder hard enough to succeed on the first try. He can’t risk failing and hearing more that Emory doesn’t know he’s sharing.

With a shaky, wet gasp, Emory jerks awake, nearly knocking his elbow against Lux’s chin. “Sorry - did I? - f-fuck, I’m sorry, Lux.”

“No, you didn’t - didn’t do anything. It’s okay. You okay?”

The covers pull and twist as Emory pushes himself back to sit up against the pillows. He grimaces and flips the pillow over when he finds the spot soaked by his tears. “Um. Yeah. I’m fi-ine.” A wince tugs on his features when the crack in his voice breaks the one words he wants to be convincing on. His legs fold, knees coming up near his chest. Lux has sat that way countless times before, when he was so upset that he needed to fold up just to feel a bit more guarded, more safe.

The warlock worries at his lip. This is going to be tough. “Do you, do you wanna talk about it? You were having a nightmare. Seemed… really sad.”

It takes a couple seconds for Emory to center himself enough to answer, running a hand over his face, slowing his jagged breaths. Lux would wait for hours if that’s what it took.

When his answer comes, his voice is low and hurting. It feels like he’s handing his heart over to Lux in the dark. “It was about… I have these, these memories. Fuzzy, out of focus. Hands. A ring, with the color faded off, like it was old and cheap. How she smelled. The way he’d talk to me, talk to her. Don’t remember his voice, really, just that it was deep.”

Lux nods, confused but patient. “Who were they?”

Eyes wandering with the shared memories, Emory shakes his head. Crosses his arms, looks up at the shapeless dark where their ceiling holds steady. “The uh, the people who… I was their kid.” A pang of hurt strikes the last word, in the halting explanation that avoids granting any affection to the people he can barely remember.

“Your mom and dad?”

He shakes his head again. “No. They gave up that right, to be that, when they. Did what they did.”

The warlock bites the inside of his cheek and nods. He thinks, just for a second, about how he still calls the man who terrorized him Dad, and whether that means anything. Whether he owed his dad any love, any respect. Then he shifts closer to Emory. “What did they do, Em?”

The tender question makes Emory tense. Lux knows it’s not anger, not directed at him - it’s old, old hurt. “They, um. It’s fucked up.”

“Parents are fucked up sometimes.”

Emory nods. It’s one gesture, finally, that shows he feels like he’s on the same page as Lux. Not fully disconnected. His eyes are open, still, and Lux thinks about how closing his eyes to remember would require trust. With a hurt buried this deep, it makes sense that Emory can’t fully trust anyone with it. And maybe, if he closed his eyes, he would see it, would remember more, and he’s not ready to.

“You can tell me,” Offers Lux, setting one hand on the mattress between them, palm up. Emory doesn’t have to take it, just know it’s there. Emory considers it, then gives another little shake of his head.

“...I just remember the, some stuff about them. Like I said. Fuzzy images. I don’t remember them being… you know, rough, or loud. Feels like they cared about me. But I was, like, four. I didn’t know anything.” A frustrated huff escapes him, his face scrunching up in a second of intense emotion before it smooths out again. He’s keeping himself well under control. “But Gramps. He was around. He says they… had problems. Took shit. And they ran out of money. Couldn’t get more, wanted it bad. So one of ‘em… he thinks it was my mom, she was strung out bad, around then… I guess, just… I remember getting picked up, put in a car. My dad saying goodbye. He had a, a funny way of doing it. A song, or something.” Another tumultuous breath, and Emory presses on. “Anyway. They sold me.”

Lux wilts, heart aching. “S-, sold you? To someone bad?”

Emory shrugs up one shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe just someone who wanted a kid. Maybe someone who was gonna chop me up or some shit. I don’t know. But Gramps found out, he came and got me. Bought me back. Couple thousand, for a little kid, I guess. I didn’t get hurt or anything. But he never let my, uh - never let them see me again. I think they died a few years later, or something. Never tried to get me back. Gramps stopped talking about them.” There’s no betrayal in his voice, at being protected like that, at not getting answers. “I guess they got that high they were looking for.”

In the silence after the confession, Emory feels. Lux watches as the indiscernible emotions cross his face, make his arms tense up, force him to shake his head and sigh and look anywhere but his boyfriend’s eyes.

“How’s it make you feel? When you think about it?” Lux asks. It’s tearing at Emory in some way, that much is clear. Anger? Betrayal? Grief?

“Makes me - makes my skin crawl. Makes me feel… ashamed. Like it’s embarrassing. I can’t stand it.”

Lux blinks. “You were four. Why would you be embarrassed? It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but. Like. Ghh.” A hand runs over his face as Emory continues to struggle. “How bad was I? Like, how bad of a kid do you have to be, for your own mom and dad to get rid of you? Not just, like, give me to some other family, or Gramps, but sell me? Was I - was I really loud? Did I break something important? Was I just, not cute enough? Fucking ugly baby, or something?”

“Em, that’s not-”

“And what’s that whole thing, about moms doing anything for their kids? Lifting a car off their baby if it’s in danger? It’s like, an instinct, how come mine didn’t have that? I remember, I was crying, Lux, when they handed me over, I was confused, I - and they didn’t come back to get me, ever. Gramps says I wouldn’t stop crying for days. Kept crying mama, mama. Fucking stupid kid.”

“Stop, Em,” Lux forces out, sad and nervous and, most intensely, angry for him. Emory shuts up instantly. He takes Lux saying stop even more seriously, now. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know why they did it. I’m really sorry that they did. You weren’t stupid, though. You were little and you just wanted to be loved. And, and… that’s why you get upset, now, when it seems like somebody doesn’t want you. Why you just need to lay down with me and hear that I love you.”

A tense nod. “Guess so. Yeah. Like some dumb lost kid that’ll latch onto the first thing it sees.”

Hurt twists Lux’s stomach. “You don’t mean that.”

Emory curls forward, forehead pressed to his knees, a sigh slipping out of him. “No. I don’t. You’re not, I’m not just clinging to you, I love you. And you help me a lot. I love you, for more than just helping with it. I just… there’s a voice in my head, that tells me I’m that kid, and no one wants me. And if I lose one of the, the couple of people who actually like me… I don’t know. I’m just scared of it. I try not to… I never wanted to tell you. It’s dumb, it’s just… really old junk, and I never even got hurt. I don’t have scars or anything. And it sucks to talk about. You know?”

“I know. You feel like it makes you weak, and you didn’t want me to see that.”

Emory hesitates, then leans to the side, tipping against Lux and letting himself be held by light, careful arms. “I don’t, I just want… you ma-ake me feel so wanted.”

“I, I do?”

“Yeah. And, sometimes I just wanna stay in bed, holding you or, getting held by you, and never get up.”

Bolstered in a mournful, humbled way, Lux scratches gently across Emory’s scalp, letting him rock with hitching breaths and hide against his chest. “Love you so much, Em, I’d do that, one day, if you wanted to. Just stay home together and be close. Even, um. After what happened. You don’t have to pull away and be scared to ask for, for closeness. I still wanna be close to you. Still want you.”

Emory gets smaller, curled up tighter, quailing under Lux’s gentle earnest words. He doesn’t reply, where he hides against Lux’s shirt, but he doesn’t have to. He’s already shared more words than he’s ever been comfortable with.

“‘f you wanna sleep, Em, I’ll protect you. Keep the nightmares away. Wake you up with cuddles, if you sound sad.”

“Ye-eah?” Emory turns to lie more comfortably in Lux’s lap, tugging on the covers to get under them again. “You can?”

“‘Course. You do it for me, all the time. Go ahead, maybe - maybe this time you’ll dream about me instead.”

The man in his lap nods, sighs. Lux keeps rubbing his back until he’s breathing deeply again, curled up and hiding but wanted, heard, loved.