#he's never going to forgive himself for this

[starcrossedxwriter]

Still Standing Part 1 (Smoke x Black Reader)

Warnings: attempted assault, depictions of violence

A/N: idk how this became two parts yall 😭 I need self control. But this is just everything I love about Smoke in one fic lol enjoy!

***

With enough focus, Smoke could filter out every distraction except his target. And tonight? His target was you. His wife. Who had no business in a place like this by yourself. He made a note to chastise you about that after you cussed him out for his near decade disappearing act. He braced himself for that the entire train ride.

Eight years.

And now analyzing you from a distance, his body felt every painstaking moment of every single moment without you.

He supposed if you were going to be tending bar anywhere, it was safest at your Aunt Hattie’s, where he would have trusted your brothers to maintain a watchful eye. Though, at the moment, their eyes were doing more wandering than watching.

You could handle your own, you always could. He just wished every problem was not always on you. His eyes followed your movements as you charmed every patron with a smile that held all the warmth of the Delta. You continued to be the town’s favorite amongst the Williams family. Your wit, your charm, your grandmama’s healing gifts were traits every person in the town gravitated toward, shielding you from the troubles your brothers got into.

Grace shared that you still worked out of the house he built for you, off the beaten path. How you spent most of your time taking care of everyone in town without slowing down or caring for yourself. He imagined that was why you were even here now. Eight years ago, you barely liked to step foot into Hatties unless you could hold onto him. But now, you worked the bar as if you’d done it your entire life.

That dazzling smile that made him fight for every sunrise to get back to you, the gentle and sensual sway of your hips that made him want to grab hold of your ass and hold you against him, your sweet giggle that somehow rose above the jazz melody straight to his ear. A sound that had long started to fade in his mind. But now, it felt like the first stroke of warmth against his heart since he last saw you.

Mere moments back in you proximity caused all his safeguards to crumble into pure ash. The true extent of his everlasting love for you filled his being, a rush of everything he pushed deeply inside to survive in Chicago. He felt the burning flame in his heart he forced himself to reduce to a simmer, the rushing waterfall he slowed with a fortified dam.

Mere moments back in you proximity caused all his safeguards to crumble into pure ash. The true extent of his everlasting love for you filled his being, a rush of everything he pushed deeply inside to survive in Chicago. He felt the burning flame in his heart he forced himself to reduce to a simmer, the rushing waterfall he slowed with a fortified dam.

“Just go n talk to her, nigga. Know you want to. Sulkin’ over here like you scared or some shit,” Stack muttered, both their hats dipped low enough to further obscure their identity and presence.

“Ain’t never been scared,” Smoke muttered back. Which was a half truth. He had been scared in his life, but it was too long ago to remember.

His inability to approach you yet had little to do with fear. He knew there would be anger, resentment. And it would be righteous. He would accept his licks like a man, apologize for abandoning you as he did, do whatever it took to earn your trust again.

But what you two shared? He had to believe there would be forgiveness once you said your piece. A belief only solidified by the ring dangling from your neck as you leaned over. His mother’s ring.

More than anything, he wanted to simply watch you. See if the you that danced through his dreams every single night was still… you.

His hand twitched toward his revolver more than once as niggas’ hands touched your body, even just to shove a few coins into your hands or shift around you. He was always ready to move but he found that he did not need to. You artfully dodged touches that lingered beyond acceptability, letting the men who vied for your attention down with the perfect balance of kindness and finality.

He was surprised at how long he and Stack were able to go unnoticed in the dim corner. The few who recognized them kept it to themselves, giving the twins a wide berth. The poor lighting provided the perfect cover. He could study you and you did not seem to know he was there. But you were always the perceptive sort, could always sense his presence somehow. So he was not shocked that, every once in a while, he noticed your eyes lingering amongst the crowd as if you were searching for someone but could not find them.

Occasionally, your honey smooth voice caught his ear again, healing some of the wounds he gained while away. All the intricacies and oddities he fell in love with at 14. seeing you brought it all rushing back into sharper focus.

He still remembered the moment he realized he was in love with you. Decades ago but it was as fresh as if it were yesterday in his mind.

Stack’s body had been a heavy weight to support all the way to Mama Mabel’s. But his father had done a number on him and the little bit of ointment and bandages he had left wouldn’t cut it this time. And it was far faster to take him to her than run there and back. And… it got them away from him.

So he walked a mile with his arm around Stack’s back, heaving his weight along as his feet tried to maintain his own weight.

“I can walk, Elijah.”

Smoke did not let go of his hold, knowing his brother just didn’t want anyone to see him like this.

He glanced up at Mama Mabel’s porch, unsurprised to find Miss Evie sweeping. She only looked at them once, noting the panicked look on his face, before immediately discarding her task.

“Mama! Twins here.” She called over her shoulder before rushing out of the shade to help him the last few feet. “Let me help you, boy.”

“I got em.”

“Yo pa?”

“Passed out. Drank so much, he won’t wake up till tomorrow.” His voice was matter of fact, no emotion. He didn’t know if he even had any left these days. “Worst day so far.”

She nodded, grabbing Stack’s other arm, though Elijah was reluctant to yield any of his weight to her.

He had him. He always did.

She helped Elias lay down on the cot in Mama Mabel’s shop, the sharp smells of her brews hitting his nose. He looked down at his brother, his usual slick smile diminished, his thin body bruised and bloodied from their father’s blows.

“Ran outta what I gave you already?” Mama Mabel emerged from her back room. However, when she took in Elias’ state, she simply bowed her head, cursing under her breath. She threw the damp towel in her hand to her daughter who took charge of dapping the sweat from the walk off his brow.

“Some men don’t deserve the blessin’ of life. Ole drunk,” Miss Evie muttered to her mother in irritation, quiet enough that Elijah shouldn’t have heard them. But he did.

“Hush now, girl. Sayin’ that in front of them.”

But it wasn’t something he didn’t think about every single day himself when he laid down at night.

“Yall gon’ stay here tonight.”

Elijah immediately shook his head. “We don’t wanna be no burden. Just didn’t have enough to bandage him up.”

“Well I’ll bandage him up n you’ll stay the night.”

He opened his mouth to argue but corrected himself. He knew arguing with Mama Mabel was futile.

He leaned against the wall in the corner, his body relaxing ever so slightly with every cut and bruise she tended to with such care. Some minute part of him envied receiving that, the healing touch of a mother. He did not know what that felt like anymore, what it felt like to be cared for. He supposed he would never know either.

The only thing guaranteed in life was suffering and the end. He didn’t expect much else.

“Go out there for me n see what’s takin’ that gal so long. Head always in the damn clouds when I need her workin’,” She called over to the teen watching her every move with precision.

He glanced out the open back window, a young woman kneeling in the soul of their garden with a woven basket by her side. The wind swayed the plaits falling down her back as she faced away from the house. Y/N kneeling in front of her garden with a basket.

He glanced back at Elias before she waved him along.

“He safe with us. Promise. Helpin’ Y/N will help me help him.”

And with that, he trudged out the back door and toward the garden where you sat.

Your voice reached him first, the soft humming you used to occupy yourself in the peace of your garden. It was soft, like a sweet melody. He liked it. So he did not interrupt at first, he just stood a few feet behind you, watching.

Your humming ceased as you sensed the silent presence of another. “I know, Granny. Movin’ too slow, I’m comin’” You turned, dusting off your knees. “Oh. E-Elijah. S-sorry, thought you were my...”

Your words fell off awkwardly as you teetered on your heels. His face twisted up in surprise. No one could truly tell them apart unless they were side by side. When they were separate, it always took a few minutes for someone to know who was who.

“Elias stay showin those teeth of his, always talkin. He easy to spot. Everythin’ alright? You ok?”

“Mama Mabel asked me to come check on you. See what’s takin’ so long.”

His eyes focused on your near empty basket, you shyly grinned, your eyes glancing at him with a childlike guilt in them.

“I was doin’ it. Promise. But I noticed some weeds n… Granny say I spend too much time tendin’ to the garden when I should be pickin’. Head always in the clouds. But I told her, “ain’t that where all the spirits and ancestors you teachin’ me bout are?’ Mama popped me in the mouth for that one.”

His lips curled into a rare half smile, which made your smile grow even brighter.

Shit.

Your smile felt like pure exhilaration. He considered it to be the most beautiful thing he had laid eyes on and there was God-given beauty all across the Delta. But it all paled in comparison to your sweet smile that held the warmth of the Sun.

“So you do smile… never thought I’d see the day. You should do it more,” you offered, your voice quieter as if the thought was more for yourself than him. Umm yea, tell her I’ll pick it up. Be in soon.”

He glanced around before rolling up his sleeves and dropping to his knees to help her.

“Oh you ain’t gotta-“

“I know. But then you can tend to your garden n I can pick for you. Mama Mabel won’t know the difference.”

Your smile became softer as if you were not used to help. But he knew the young people in any house were the help, there was no rest for able bodies.

“Thank you, Elijah.”

You quietly hummed This Little Light of Mine as you two worked, you taking care of the roots and soil while Elijah picked what you directed.

“How you doin?”

“Elias needed Mama.”

“Didn’t ask about Elias… know yo daddy, know how he doin if you brought him here. I asked about you.”

Elijah found that he still did not know how to answer that. So he lamely just answered, “Well, he ain’t hit me.”

“Don’t mean he ain’t hurtin’ you. Makin’ you watch it. Don’t mean you ain’t wounded or hurt just cause he the one in there. Hearts hurt just like a black eye. Just can’t see it n it don’t heal as fast.”

His movements stilled, your words an emotional gut punch he had not expected while gardening. He tried not to think about it, when their father hit them. The emotional agony it caused to watch Elias be subjected to the brunt of their father’s drunken rage. Some was due to his smart mouth, though it still never seemed to warrant the vitriol his father directed toward Elias. But Elijah knew that his father also recognized one unfortunate truth. Punches had no effect on Elijah. He offered no reaction, no anything. But hurting his brother did. So Elias often bore the brunt of their punishments.

And he hated his father for it.

“I have somethin’ that’ll help?”

“Don’t know if anythin’ help except…”

Your mother’s words cycled through his mind, a sentiment he felt more often than not when his father hit them. To just end his sorry existence so they could be free of him.

“Try. For me?” You asked, sweetly. “You gave me a smile… can’t give me one more thing?”

I want to give you the world, a small voice whispered in his head. An uncomfortable warmth spread in his chest and his stomach that had nothing to do with the sweltering Delta heat.

“Besides, can’t make you feel worse if it don’t work.”

Your eyes remained on his, inviting him to break a few rules with you, as your feet moved backward toward your family’s live oak tree in the distance. He didn’t immediately follow, torn between his intrigue with this perfect angel who captivated his being with one smile and his desire to stay close to his brother.

“Don’t worry. We ain’t goin’ far. Somethin’ happens, we can still hear them callin. Trust me, Elijah.”

His name on your lips sounded like every beautiful thing, the river bank by their shack, the sunrise on a new day, the calm of a rain storm sweeping the horizon. He’d pray for every sunrise to hear you say his name again.

And with that, you took off running toward the giant tree off in the distance. And he immediately took off after you, abandoning his task of helping you pick herbs faster.

Your running turned into a race as he caught up to you in seconds. Your laughter blended with the wind whipping past his ears, the sweetest melody he had ever heard. He only felt this relaxed, this free when he and Stack ran to the river to escape their father. Just pure exhilaration and freedom for a brief moment.

It had always been the rarest, fleeting air. One he thought he could only feel with his brother, his other half. But he could feel it here with you.

You both needed a moment to catch your breath once you were under the cool shade of your family tree, generations buried in the soul surrounding it.

“Granny brings me out here. Says healers need a place to heal themselves, release the pain we confront every day. Started makin’ me come out here when she started trainin’ me. It’s a good spot to feel it all.”

He glanced around. “What do you do?”

You shrugged as your body leaned against one of the low sweeping branches. “Whatever you wanna do. Cry, scream, just sit. Whatever feels like what you need. Whatever fills your spirit so you can take care of him n yourself tomorrow.”

You slid down onto the soft soil, your skirt billowing out into the grass, closed your eyes. He did not know if he believed this would accomplish anything but he also didn’t want to walk away. Not from you.

He plopped down unceremoniously next to you, both your backs pressed against the tree.

He remembered just sitting there, staring at your house in the distance. He didn’t even realize how you both unconsciously shifted closer and closer to each other until your small shoulder brushed against his.

He watched you mutter prayers under your breath, caught his and his brother’s names in your prayer for safety and protection. Then quiet. Stillness.

You slouched a bit so you could rest your head on his shoulder.

His entire body tensed beneath you. Not from fear but something else he couldn’t recognize. Like the action stole his breath away. The tenderness you offered was so unlike all he knew, all he remembered in his life. The last woman to hold him tenderly died shortly after giving birth to them. And then touch became a danger to combat, not a comfort to lean into.

You seemed to not even realize what you’d done, immediately popping up, a guilty look on your face.

“Sorry. Touch is… important to me. But I should know it ain’t for everybody.”

“Nah nah… it was… fine,” he offered lamely. “My shoulder’s all yours if you need it. Want it.”

You grinned, resting your head back where it was. Something in him settled again with your weight against him.

“A smile and your shoulder? I think that means we friends now.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “Ain’t too good at friends.”

“I gotta feelin’ you’d be good to me.”

His head rested on yours and you just sat, in utter silence. Elijah sniffled as he felt a tear fall as he sat. He tried to lift his arm to whisk it away discreetly but you rested a hand on his arm.

“Nobody gon see you out here. N no one will hear it from me. Rest, Elijah. Let em fall if you need it. I’m here.”

And there, under the weighing branches of your tree, he rested. He allowed himself to feel all the pain he bottled up day after day to survive in their corner of the world, to survive in his own home.

It hit him in peaks and every time he felt himself wanting to clam up, close himself off again, you just grabbed his hand. And when he heard your sniffles, saw your tears, he just returned the favor.

He didn’t know how much time passed, he found that with you, he didn’t care about the time. And you only moved when you both heard your mama calling for dinner.

You both sighed, a sadness at the end of your quiet moment feeling like more of a sharp pain than anything else. He didn’t want this to end. But he needed to check on Elias.

“Granny’s gon’ kill me,” you muttered as you scooped up the only half filled basket Elijah discarded once you were back in the yard.

And while she didn’t kill you, thankfully in Elijah’s opinion, she did cuss you seven times to Sunday for wasting an afternoon and taking your time when there was work to do. And after dinner, instead of getting to go to sleep, you were tasked with cleaning up her shop and restocking her brews when she finished them - whatever time that would be. Since “you already rested enough for the day.”

You were quiet the rest of the day, forlorn and despondent through dinner, so you didn’t say much to him as night fell and everyone in the house prepared to rest.

Everyone except you two.

When your grandma finally went to sleep herself, leaving you to your task that would take the rest of the night, Elijah finally came inside from the porch. Your back was to the door but you sensed him yet again, how your hand stilled over the giant pot of whatever your grandmother brewed.

“Sorry. Don’t mean to get you in trouble, takin’ care of me.”

You shook your head and abandoned your task to close the space between them. Peace. It disappeared when they left their spot under the tree. But he felt it when you were close.

“Don’t. Knew what trouble I was bringing myself when I did it. But if it helped you, it was worth it.” She paused, chewing her lip as she timidly asked. “Did it? Help?”

He found himself nodding. “It did. You got a gift, Y/N.”

“Good. Then one night of lost sleep ain’t a thing. Now you go to sleep, brought that out for you.” She pointed toward a small cot and pillow situated beside his brothers. “I’ll keep an eye on em.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

He slid into bed as he tried to quiet the litany of confusing thoughts racing through his head. He had never felt this way before. But when he should be worried about his slumbering brother or determine how to free them from their father, there was only one thing at the center of the tornado in his head.

You.

“I’ll be good to you, Y/N. A good friend to you, I promise.”

The words were so quiet, he was not confident you heard him. But then he heard the faintest sniffle, saw hastily turn to wipe away a falling tear before turning back to him with a smile that said more than words ever could.

“And I’ll be good to you, Elijah. I promise. Get some sleep.”

He chuckled, turning over so he wouldn’t get distracted by examining you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

But even as he buried himself in his pillow on his cot, one that smelled so perfectly of you, he knew that he didn’t want to be your friend. He wanted to be so much more.

His love sick walk down memory lane ended as swiftly as it sparked when he noticed a man lingering at the bar chatting with you, even after finishing his drink.

He tilted his head slightly toward Stack. His brother never forgot a face.

“You don’t remember that nigga? Red. Grew up down the road, Ms. Sally took him in after his mama died. Daddy probably dead now too. Damn drunk. Ran off Nawlins the first chance he got. You know half the niggas in town had a thing for Y/N."

Smoke studied the terrain, realizing that he could not shoot this man across a crowded barn, though that was the simplest option. But he always knew that patience and opportunity were the key to strike. Never too early, never too late. Besides, Red knew exactly whose you were. And only a man desperate to meet their maker would touch what belonged to Smoke Moore.

Stack let out a deadly chuckle as Red grabbed your hand unexpectedly, your face twisting up in shock for the briefest second before you smiled and discreetly tore your hand from his grasp.

“You gon’ take care of that?” Stack asked, gesturing toward you.

Smoke let his discreet loading of his revolver answer that question for him. The man clearly had a death wish. Smoke was more than happy to ensure it came true.

“Shame. Liked that Red. Never knew what was good for him tho,” Stack mumbled.

He continued to watch, waiting for his moment to strike, to remind everyone in the room who Smoke Moore was when you yelled something over your shoulder in your aunt’s direction and stepped from behind the bar.

You still didn’t see him, even as you navigated the sweaty, teeming dance floor to reach the back storage room. Smoke did not even try to hide in the shadows this time, you were just that preoccupied with your own thoughts. So preoccupied he realized that you didn’t notice how Red waited long enough to drink his shot before following after you.

Smoke knew what that meant. What that always meant. Smoke was not even the jealous twin. But Red made a choice. To make you visibly uncomfortable. To pursue his woman in front of half the town. He toyed, briefly, with the idea that you and Red were… more. And that this was simply part of that. But then he realized that he did not particularly care. Whether or not this was your choice was fairly irrelevant to him.

If this man was courting you, he’d kill him.

If this man was trying to cause you harm, he’d kill him.

Mercy was your tool… but it had never been his. he had considered just shooting Red in the hand to prove a point originally. However, now? The die had been cast.

He had a reminder to issue: whatever happened while he was gone was over. He was back and no one would touch what belonged to him and live to tell the tale.

He cocked his gun before moving in your direction. He had been gone too long and people had clearly forgotten who the fuck he was.

Judge.

Jury.

But most importantly… Executioner.

***

“Come on, sweetness. Gimme a smile.”

“Done smillin’ for you, Red. Get on so I can get a payin’ customer up here.”

You had grown weary from Red’s tired advances long ago. He tried, week after week, coming to your home with ailments and aches just so you would patch him up. Since his wife ran off with another man a few years back, you tried to be there for him. After all, you were, unfortunately, the town’s expert on disappearing spouses. You understood the depths of his grief, to lose the person you loved because their spirit demanded something else of them. Whether for love, greed, power, or something more righteous. The one left behind was left broken and alone all the same.

But Red mistook your kindness for affection. And sadness, desperation, and liquor were an unfortunate combination. The more he drank, the more relentless he became. Hattie helped remind some folks whose last name you carried but some… like Red were often too drunk to listen or care.

And on Saturdays at Hattie’s, he was his drunkest.

“But I’m your favorite customer, ain’t I, Y/N?”

You ain’t

“It’s bad for business to have favorites,” you offered with an awkward smile.

“Get me another,” he demanded.

You knew it would be a long night if you were already about to pour his fifth glass. He already smelled like someone swapped his blood out with a bottle of what you were pouring.

“N while you at it, tell me, why aint you spoken for?”

You used your apron to quickly dab the beads of sweat off your forehead before you grabbed a glass.

“You know damn well I’m spoken for, Red.”

He threw his head back in exuberant laughter.

You knew one person who would not find it as hilarious. Your husband. Wherever in the world he might be right now.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Though only you and his brother knew him as Elijah. Everyone else? Smoke. And his chilling reputation far out lasted his presence in their small town. Seven years later and most still get a bit more jumpy when someone mentions the twins.

While you never agreed with his way, you could not deny it served you well. For the most part, no one caused you trouble. Why would anyone want to be on your list of grievances should Smoke ever come back into town?

You always prayed he would return but you knew it was foolish to hope for it. You whispered his name along the evening breeze in your nightly prayers, merely hopeful for that moment that your comfort reached him in his corner of the world.

While you were not waiting on his return, you also had not “moved on.” You tried, Lord knows you tried. You thought it would heal you, satisfy you to be close to someone again. But the high it gave you was impermanent. It vanished from your grasp like literal smoke.

Because of Smoke.

It was a crushing discovery to realize that the itch you needed to scratch would never be satiated by anyone else.

Your need was to be healed. And only one person could do that. Because Smoke was the first man in your life who tended to you first and foremost.

You spent your days since childhood caring for everyone else. It was your calling and you were grateful to the ancestors for it. But it left no time for you. But in Smoke’s arms? He cared for you, allowed you to feel all the pain and pleasure of the world, allowed you to fall apart and be vulnerable. His touch methodically healed the aches, pains, and sufferings that no one else saw.

And that’s what you desired, craved in the loneliness of the night. Not a warm body or a tryst in Red’s barn. Not fucking that was over before it began for you. You yearned for the other half of your heart. To be tended to and loved on. And the man who had your heart was hundreds of miles away. So you grieved that part of your life. If it could not be that, if it couldn’t be him… it was not worth giving more of your spirit.

And you made peace with what was lost when he left. You were heavy hearted, broken, but you found it difficult to even conjure up rage toward him after a few days. Because you understood that he would never choose you and the quiet life you desired over him.

You knew Elijah loved you with everything. That was never in question. But if you were half of his heart, Stack was the other half of his soul. One could not survive, not fully, without the other. And Stack needed more than their town could offer. And Smoke needed Stack.

Despite your fear that you’d laid eyes on him for the last time, you made no effort to share that with your neighbors or stop being Smoke’s woman. A woman without a man was one without protection, you knew that much. So you relied on whatever kept you safe: your prayers and his threats. You counted both as help, both as a blessing.

“By who? One of them crazy Moore twins? Haven’t seen that nigga or the other one twin here no where to speak for nobody. Seems like you free to do what you want. You could give me a dance, sweetness.”

His hand grasped yours as you pushed the glass his way. His grip was firm so it took you a moment before you could rip your hand out of his embrace.

“Well I ain’t seen him round neither but I’m still spoken for. If you knew what was good for you, you’ll take that drink ’n get the hell on, Red,” you warned, your voice losing some of its sweetness.

“Need a couple more bottles, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to turn around to recognize the sharp voice of your aunt, Hattie Mae.

Your grandfather opened this joint twenty years ago and it was still standing. "Weathered and worn but still standing," he'd say. Your aunt took over when he died and you started helping her a few months ago after she hurt herself. Your brothers were useless at the bar and Hattie said it helps to have a pretty face serving up the drinks. So you helped out where you could on the weekends. You always found Hattie’s to be overwhelming, preferring to stay glued to Smoke’s arm when you went together. But you found peace behind the bar, being able to watch the hustle and bustle from afar. The extra money did not hurt.

You’d typically demand one of your brothers carry the heavy bottles for your aunt but you’d welcome any excuse to escape Red’s leering eye.

“I got it, Auntie Mae.”

You used the walk to dry your hands, both were sweaty and clammy from the heat of the Delta mixed with all the bodies and dancing.

You pushed through your exhaustion, the aches and pains in your limbs more pronounced without the distractions of people and music. You had been feeling it more lately as you leaned for a moment against a shelf. You were just like this joint. Weathered and worn. Sadder than you once were. But you were still standing too. Was there any other choice?

You balanced four bottles in your arms before determining that it was your limit. However, you almost dropped every last one of them when you turned to find Red waiting in the door frame.

“God almighty, Red! You scared me! You gon’ stand there blockin’ the door or let me get these back out to Hattie?”

He was as immobile as a tree as you tried to go around him. He did not answer you or speak, the silence putting you on edge. You loved a man like that, whose silence was a weapon, his greatest tool. You gravitated toward his silence.

But Red was not him. His silence unsettled you, forced your eyes to search for a path that would lead you away from him.

“Red. This ain’t funny. Get outta my way. You know how Hattie gets. I gotta get back to the bar.”

“Lord knows I’ve been thinkin’ bout you ever since my wife left.”

You typically didn’t feel fear. There was no need with generations of ancestors watching over you. But as his hand closed the door and the screech of the latch hit your ear. You felt it like a tiny seed sprouting in your belly.

Fear.

You immediately retreated as he advanced.

“I’m married, Red. You too. ’N you drunk as a skunk. Now let me outta here.”

“My wife gone, your husband been gone. Dead in a ditch somewhere knowin’ that nigga. You got the entire town ‘fraid to dance withchu cause of him? But see… I ain’t afraid of no dead man, Y/N. Aint scared of no ghost story. Don’t act like you don’t want me too, sweetheart.”

“Red… I d-don’t want you o-or anyone. We can forget about this tomorrow, just let me go.”

“After I waited years for this? Nahhh, baby. Ain’t ever lettin’ you go now. You’re mine. Helpin’ me night after night. Checkin’ on me after that bitch ran off. You’re the light of my days, sweetheart.”

This could only be described as irony in its cruelest form. A forced reflection on your own naiveté, you supposed. You remembered something you said to your husband once, early in your courtship, when he asked you why you never called him Smoke.

“Because everyone else needs you to be Smoke. Here I… just want you to be Elijah.”

And he bowed his head, shaking it as his hand gripped the meat of your thigh.

“You need Smoke too, baby. No one is ever gon’ hurt my family. I’m here to protect you. You need him. Everybody do.”

Elijah had always been… heavy. Weighed down by all the things he had done, from such a young age, to protect the people he loved. And as much as you adored being loved by him, you did not want to be another person who burdened his soul with more. More suffering, more pain. His life was in service of keeping everyone else safe. And he cared nothing of the cost to his soul to do so. But you cared because you knew it would only get heavier.

“Stack need Smoke. The fools you run with need Smoke. Hell, this town might even need Smoke. But me? I don’t need Smoke. I need Elijah, the boy who picked herbs for me. The one who holds me close to his chest durin’ storms. Smoke is… He ain’t the Elijah I know.”

But as your back pressed against the rough wood panels, Red’s body boxing you in, you realized, for the first time, you needed Smoke.

Not the threat of him.

Him. And all his silent fury.

And every bit of trouble that came along with him to get out of this.

“R-Red, I was just tryin’ to help. Just tryin’-”

He grabbed your chin roughly, the shock causing every bottle in your arms to crash down at your feet. The sharp scent of liquor swarmed you both like a cloud as the liquid seeped into your shoes and splattered along the bottom of your dress.

His other hand gripped your wrist as he kissed you roughly.

“S-Stop! R-Red.”

“I bet you just need a good fuckin’. Been years since that sorry nigga left, left this good pussy. Nigga should’ve known better than to leave a sweet pussy like this unclaimed. Think it’s my turn now. Bet I can fuck you bett-”

Your eardrums could have exploded from the cacophony of pure noise cutting of Red’s drunken ranting.

Your head spun as you tried to locate the sudden shrill scream filling the tiny storage room. You did not even realize Red was no longer pressing his weight against you until you saw him clutching his knee, on the floor as crimson blood slid down his leg.

You clutched your chest for a moment, your heart pounding loudly in your ears, your eyes trained on Red’s writhing frame in a giant puddle of moonshine. Your brain felt sluggish and slow, several steps behind whatever just happened. You forced your eyes away from Red to understand. Did you need to protect yourself? Was the threat to you too? Who even shot him? That was one answer your vision could find immediately. However, your survey ended within a millisecond, your eyes landing on him.

“Smoke.” A grateful sob of relief escaped as your body sagged into the wall.

His eyes softened at the sound of your voice, the mixture of fear, panic, gratitude, and pure love.

“Y/N. Y/N!” His voice snapped you out of the chaos of the last few minutes.

He focused you. A light in dense fog.

His voice softened once your eyes flickered to his.

“You good, baby. We got you. Step over here to Stack.”

Another version of him stepped from around the corner. He pulled his hat off his head and tipped it toward you, a deadly smirk painted on his lips.

Stack.

Your brain sought to obey him, to listen to the man you loved. But your legs did not feel strong enough to move, strong enough to carry you the few steps across the room to him and Stack.

How did this happen?

How were they even here?

Why were they here?

So you simply stared at him, not fully believing they were real. Your eyes clouded with everything flooding you that demanded to be made sense of before you could move forward. There was no calm in this, leaving you paralyzed.

“Nigga just shook her up. He ain’t goin’ no where. Give her a second.”

“We ain’t got a second.” Smoke turned his attention back to you. “Y/N. Darlin’. I need you to move.”

A command. The softness in his tone disappeared as he snapped you out of your stupor. Your feet moved instinctively, scurrying around Red to reach Stack. You felt Smoke’s hand brush your hip as you got behind him. The touch simply communicated what your body and soul instinctively knew: you were safe.

Stack put a protective arm around your waist as soon as you were in his reach.

“She good, Smoke.”

“Take her. Wait outside.”

You pushed against Stack’s arm trying to drag you along as his words settled in your brain. While you were grateful Red was unable to carry out whatever plot his drunk mind concocted, you did not want him murdered for it.

In fact, you considered being shot in the kneecap a satisfactory punishment for what Red attempted, what he would not even likely remember doing in the morning. He learned his lesson and now would live with a limp for the rest of his life to show for it. Wasn’t that enough?

“W-wait, wait, wait, Smoke. He got your point. I’m okay. Let him go.”

But even as you spoke those words, you knew they did not shift his position. The murderous glimmer in his eye, his coldness, reminded you while Elijah softened for you, Smoke was not a man who bent nor one who could be softened. His decision was cast and Red’s death was as certain as sunrise the next morning. But you would not be you if you did not try. Would not be the woman he loved if you did not ask him to try something different.

You tried to push Stack’s arm off you to go to Smoke’s side but he refused to loosen his grip.

“Smoke, h-he’s just a lonely ole drunk. You gave em a limp. That's enough."

Stack chuckled. "Niggas get a limp for stealin'. This shit tho? Puttin' his hands on you?" he shook his head. "Every nigga in here know what that means."

"But it ain’t worth it. He ain't worth it. Trust me, he's just drunk... harmless. He won't bother me again."

“I am! Harmless, Smoke. You know I ain’t mean nothin’ by it. I'll leave the bitch alone for good, I swear 'fore God.”

Stack's head fell back as his barking laugh ricocheted around the room. Smoke still had not said a single word. Just fired his warning shot.

“I told you that nigga ain’t know what was good for him, Smoke. Let’s go, Y/N.”

His arm tightened around your waist to drag you out the door, clearly tired of the man’s pleas which were only serving to make his end more painful.

“Let me go, Stack!”

“So he can shoot me too? Nah girl. Unlike this nigga, I like bein’ able to fuckin' walk. Can't be a pimp like me with no a damn limp. This grown men’s business now n I know you don’t wanna see this shit. Let’s go.”

You glared at him, raising an eyebrow in a challenge, still refusing to make this easy on him.

Stack glanced at his brother for a brief moment, their silent conversation passing before Stack turned back to you.

He leaned over, whispering in your ear, “Ain’t nothin’ you say gon’ change what’s about to happen. He was dead the moment he laid a hand on you. Accept that shit, aight? Ain’t no sense in feelin’ guilty bout it either. Ain’t the first man he threw to bottom of the Mississippi for you, won’t be the last. Now come on. If it’ll help, saw some flowers on the way in. You can pick some for his homegoing’,” he offered the last bit sarcastically.

He could never hold a serious moment for long.

But you heard the empathy hiding in his harshness. A reminder that as crazy as he was, Stack still understood you and he understood Smoke, and the chasm that sometimes existed when you were confronted with the violence they perpetuated. Particularly in your name.

You spent your life attempting to mend what violence broke, what it destroyed, what often felt like inevitabilities. But you could not stop this. And he knew that as soon as he glanced at his brother. And in your heart, he knew you knew it too. And like his brother, he was trying to protect you, in his own slick talking way, absolve you from the guilt he already knew was rushing to your shores.

That was the Elias you grew up with. And as much as you two bickered like true siblings, you knew there was nothing Stack would not do for you because you loved his brother and his brother loved you.

Your eyes settled on Smoke’s profile, his eyes trained on the invisible line connecting the barrel of his gun to the space between Red’s eyes. He tore them away for one moment to look at you. Your eyes communicated a fear you’d never admit in front of Stack. You accepted Red’s fate but there was another fear, one that made it impossible to stop resisting Stack’s force.

“I’m right behind you, darlin’. I promise. Get out or he'll drag you out.”

You didn’t speak, a shaky exhale communicating everything you needed him to know. You were grateful that you had not had to ask, that he simply saw what truly ailed you. More than trying to save the life of a man who did not deserve your mercy, you were terrified to let him out of your sight. You feared that if you stepped out of this room, even for a moment, he’d disappear like smoke in the air for another eight years.

Uninterested in being hauled over the shoulder of the second most infamous man in town, you acquiesced to Stack’s firm hand on your waist, allowing him to push you out the door.

“Red, I’d say enjoy your last moments but I know my brother and… I think he gon’ enjoy ‘em a hell of a lot more than you.”

However, before he closed the door, you heard Smoke’s low voice.

“Just so we clear, this me speakin’.”

“N-No, no, no, no! Smo-”

Stack dragged you just far enough away to not to hear what you knew came next.

***

Stay tuned for part two!

A/N: No tags because it was a fight to get this up and I'm exhausted LOL but there is a part two with reader and Smoke's private reunion when they get home. Hope you enjoyed it! Drop a comment and let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in part 2!

[bloggerspam]

This fic seriously blew up in a way that kind of scares me. I didn't expect so many people to like my silly little fic---I see and read all of your comments, but I simply am too anxious/frankly scared of the sheer amount of them to actually respond.

Forgive me, truly. Hopefully the fic lives up to the hype!

===

Truth be told, Jazz didn't think Ellie would make it this far.

She honestly didn't think Danny would make it this far either, not that she'd ever tell him that because it'd either crush him or make him mad.

She thought that maybe, at a push, Ellie would accidentally phase through something (she's still getting the hang of it) whilst playing with Dad.

She even thought that maybe Danny would be seen putting stuff into his body (he's always been so mad that Ellie is better at it, and adamantly uses himself as a purse in retaliation).

She didn't think that they'd catch out another family member's powers. much less an entirely new cousin.

Admittedly, she's kind of proud of her siblings—proud of herself, even.

Mom had assured her a thousand times that nobody would notice, and to be fair to her nobody noticed Ellie until Baby Jon got involved.

She wonders if Conner or Baby Jon would notice if Dan joined them (he's still on probation though, so it might not be for a long while if ever in their lifetime, which is a shame).

The fact that Uncle Clark (because it must have been Uncle Clark, Aunt Lois would never have thrown her sons into the deep end this way) thought the same way makes Jazz cringe at the Walker Family Genes.

Perhaps, instead of calling it Fenton Luck, it should be re-dubbed as Walker Luck.

"So you're both metas," Ellie hums, bringing Jazz back to the present, "But Jon only got his recently?"

"Uh huh." Baby Jon confirms, munching on the food that Jazz sent Danny to grab for the group. "Got them just after the last reunion."

"That doesn't explain your supposed brother's sudden appearance." Danny points out, biting into a mini pie himself, Jazz sits back to let her siblings do the questioning, pulling out her phone to a specific text conversation as she keeps half an eye on the kids.

"I'm not an affair baby," Conner reminds them, dejectedly sipping his juicebox, "But Clark donated to a sperm bank once, and long story short, the Kents took me in to save me from a bad situation about four years ago."

"That's another thing that bothers me," Danny points a crumby finger at Conner, "You call Aunt Lois 'Mom' so naturally but you call Uncle Clark by his name. Why?"

"Clar—Dad didn't really react well to my existence." Conner grumbles, "He thought someone, ugh, I don't really know what he thought, but it wasn't great."

"Dad was a butthead for sure." Baby Jon chimes in, "But Uncle Bruce beat him up a little bit, and then tattled to Mom."

"Uncle Bruce?" Jazz daintily pops a grape into her mouth, the crispy juice flooding her senses as she ponders. This all seems plausible, but something about it is…off. Plus, if Uncle Clark really was that bad she's going to have words with him. She shoots off another text. "Uncle Bruce from Iowa, or the Uncle Bruce from the Big Apple?"

"Uncle Bruce as in my best friend's dad." Baby Jon clarifies, toothy smile a little messy around the edges with crumbs. "Uncle Bruce is Dad's best friend in the whole world, and his son Damian is my best friend in the whole world too."

"Anyway, me and dear old Dad are better now, but old habits die hard, y'know?" Conner grumbles, juicebox making loud crackling noises as the juice comes to an end. "Enough about us, what about you guys?"

"What about us?" Ellie tilts her head, mouth full of fudge. Jazz puts her phone down, grabbing a napkin to wipe a smudge of chocolate off her cheek. "We're metas."

"But Cousin Danny said it was a new development." Baby Jon argues, "I didn't even know the Walker Family had meta-genes—Ma said they didn't."

"There's bound to be at least a couple, big family like this. Dad has the meta-gene." Jazz pipes in, shrugging when Baby Jon looks over at her. "I mean, you've seen him,"

"I have not." Conner deadpans, making Ellie and Jazz giggle.

"Dad's like an off brand Kool-aid Man." Danny rolls his eyes, flopping back into the grass. "I got my powers three years ago."

"What?!" Baby Jon looks affronted, "That means I've had my powers longer than you!"

"And I'm still better at controlling my powers than you are." Danny agrees, smugly haughty in tone. "What's that feel like?"

Jazz has to smother her laugh—Danny does have an unusual ease with his powers. The hardest part for him has always been remembering what powers he has access to. Danny's always been like this with the littler cousins, and it always makes her laugh.

Before Baby Jon can retort anything else Ellie interjects by flopping over onto Danny, making him oof.

"I hate to say it, but big brother is just that good." Ellie huffs. digging her elbow into Danny's stomach as if in retaliation. "I got my powers just after him, and I still have trouble with my powers."

"You're not that bad." Danny feigns hurt, twisting and rolling around until he's got her in a headlock. "You just keep forgetting where the bar is."

That, and she only just got some stability in her genetic make up. With Mom and Dad helping with some ethical, wholesome science Ellie was finally able to stabilize the ecto in her chemical make up. She's been having a rough go, getting used to her powers and staying more human this past year.

"Crazy coincidental that you both got your powers so close to each other." Conner hums, watching Ellie and Danny wrestle with a weird kind of fascination. He looks over to Baby Jon, awkwardly patting him on the head twice. "Don't worry, you'll get the hang of hiding your powers."

"If Uncle Clark can't teach you, I'm sure your brother can." Danny smirks, down at Baby Jon. "He's not as good as me, but…"

"Wha—" Conner's head whips to stare at Danny, "I'm not—I didn't—"

"Danny." Jazz scolds, shooting her brother a look. "We do not out people!"

"I'm informing him that I know so he knows to do better." Danny sticks his nose up, "I am not outing him, I'm trying to help."

"You mean you were being competitive." Jazz rolls her eyes. "Pretending to be better at hiding your meta-status when you voluntarily used your powers to nab Ellie and Baby Jon is certainly a very interesting way to try and help."

"I'm just sayin'." Danny singsongs, smartassed-ly pointing out, "It's not like you didn't notice, and Ellie would have found out eventually."

Conner whips his gaze to her now, as if to silently ask if this is true. Jazz has no choice but to smile sheepishly at him in response—clearly he at least has some kind of advanced hearing if he was able to direct Jazz to the others so quickly.

Conner slumps in defeat as his little brother laughs at him. He wordlessly pushes Baby Jon into the grass in response, which starts another scuffle that Ellie inexplicably joins in on.

"How did you get your powers anyway, Baby Jon?" Danny asks once they've all settled once more. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

"I just grew into mine!" Baby Jon smiles, "But thanks for worryin'. What about you?"

"Got em on a dare." Danny brushes off, plopping Ellie into his lap so he can play with her hair again, "Barely even noticed."

Jazz hits him on the back of the head. "Do not."

Danny grumbles, but says nothing. She's going to have to have a big boy conversation with him about being so blase about his death, mark her words.

"Danny had to go to the hospital." Ellie informs them, patting Danny on the leg. Jazz bites the inside of her cheek against the surge of grief that almost overwhelms her. "I got my powers because I'm—"

"Because of very private circumstances." Jazz interjects, firmly. Ellie's jaw shuts with a clack, burying her face into Danny's chest. Danny pats her hair soothingly, and Jazz rubs her back to apologize for cutting her off. "We're not particularly hiding it from the family, but things could get messy back home if someone found out."

"Are you from a small town or something? Dealing with meta-prejudice?" Conner asks, eyeing Ellie with a look Jazz doesn't like. It reeks of sympathy, the kind that you know first hand. Perhaps the bad situation Conner escaped from was meta-status related…She's definitely going to have to probe Uncle Clark later, or perhaps ask Aunt Lois about Conner's previous home.

"Wasn't it in Illinois?" Baby Jon hums, tilting into his brother. Conner doesn't seem to be used to contact, which concerns her—though it's a relief that he seems caring of his little brother. She watches as he hesitatingly wraps an arm around Baby Jon, as if unused to it despite the supposed four years with the Kents.

"Pennsylvania." Jazz gently corrects, reaching over to pet Danny's hair. "Don't worry, it's nothing serious. It's just a hassle."

Amity Park accepted Ellie's existence with little trouble, chalking it up to the Drs. Fenton's quirky natures to adopt some random cousin from one of Dad's late siblings.

But if Danny and Ellie's so-called meta status became public they'd have to be very careful to only show specific powers unrelated to their ghost sides.

There's also the matter of the GIW, and that entire…thing.

"If you say so." Conner eyes the siblings, crushing Baby Jon closer as if imagining worst case scenarios. "But if you need help, I know someone who works for the Justice League."

"Uncle Bruce funds the Justice League's space tower thing." Baby Jon explains, which is interesting but ultimately irrelevant—it's not like the Justice League did anything about the GIW before.

Though she can't really blame them, as far as she knows Amity Park never filed a complaint and it's not like the Justice League can be everywhere. Besides, Danny's got a handle on the ghost situation, and Mom and Dad are doing…something about the GIW with Vlad.

"It's fine." Danny waves them off, scoffing at the very idea. He's become very unimpressed with the JL lately, Martian Manhunter not-withstanding. "We can handle it."

Conner looks like he has something to say about that, but before he can get another word out a commotion of familiar voices nearby catches their attention.

"Oh no." Jazz and Danny say in unison, looking at each other and hurriedly getting up. Danny scoops Ellie up, holding her like a sack of potatoes and following after Jazz as she rushes towards the noise. Ellie simply lets him, going limp and brushing off the grass on Danny's shirt where she can reach.

"What? What's happening?" Conner jumps up, frantically looking around for a threat. Baby Jon grabs him by the sleeve and drags him to try and catch up.

"Ancients, they really just tossed you into the deep end huh?" Danny grumbles, giving a disapproving glance down at Baby Jon. Their little cousin sheepishly smiles back up, which Danny responds with a roll of his eyes. "Just so you know, this reaction would'a been another reason to be caught out."

"Dad said he got it!" Baby Jon tries to defend, but doesn't bother explaining the situation to his older brother.

"Well he clearly didn't!" Conner practically yells, hooking an arm around his brother's waist and catching up with her and her siblings. "So will someone please explain what the hell has you guys—"

Conner cuts himself off as they round the corner, a familiar (to Jazz and Danny) scene greeting them just behind the little gathering of trees that line the edge of the backyard.

Mom and Uncle Clark are, as usual, yelling at each other.

Aunt Lois looks very done, one hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose. Great Aunt Martha is fixing Aunt Lois's hair and clothes, patting down her own hair once her daughter-in-law's all sorted. There's a basket of more mini pies on the grass next to their feet.

"Uncle Clark and Mom have had Grade-A Wagyu Beef with each other since they were kids." Ellie stage whispers to Conner, before bidding Danny to let her down. He does so easily, placing her between himself and Conner, who has also put Jon down to his other side.

"Oh you've always been like this! Golden Boy Clark Kent, can't do no wrong so he never thinks things through!" Mom is yelling, throwing her hands up in utter disgust.

"Me? You're the one who ruined prom with your experiments—" Uncle Clark has his arms crossed defensively, leaning down to meet Mom's height, "Mad Maddie Walker back at it again with her shenanigans, never lettin' sleepin' dogs lie, always gotta poke the hornet's nest!"

"Oh please, you should thank me for that prom disaster, what with that god awful suit Aunt Martha got you." Mom leans around Uncle Clark, smiling sheepishly at Great Aunt Martha. "No offense, Auntie."

"None taken, dear." Great Aunt Martha laughs gently, as Uncle Clark yells indignantly at the same time, "It was a nice suit!"

"It was periwinkle blue with ruffles, Clark. You're god damned lucky my experiment got you and you still fit Pa's suits." Mom scoffs, turning back to Uncle Clark with a sneer.

"I had to pay full price for that rental, had to use up all my Summer wages!" Uncle Clark retorts, but Mom isn't having it.

"And you should be thankin' me, like I said! Got that Lana girl all up in your business now didn't I?"

Aunt Lois snorts then, which makes Uncle Clark glow red. "You leave Lana outta this Maddie, and you weren't no better, sneakin' off with the Miller's boy, you think nobody knew?"

Mom sputters, turning red herself. "You were two states away, how did you know about that!"

"Distance didn't stop you from ruinin' my prom now did it!" They're in each other's faces now, which is comical considering the height difference,

Jazz decides that enough is enough. "Mom, you promised you would behave!"

"Jazz!" Mom jolts, backing away with a sweet smile and ignoring her scolding per usual. "Honey, what are you doin' all the way over here?"

"We heard the commotion, Mom." Jazz rolls her eyes. "What did Uncle Clark supposedly do this time?"

"Your Uncle Clark here," Mom's smile suddenly looks razor sharp. "is apparently Superman."

The silence that follows is very very loud, much louder than Uncle Clark and Mom bickering, much louder than the crowd on the other side of the row of houses where the rest of their giant family is still partying it up.

Aunt Lois face palms, the slap of it jolting every one back into breathing. Great Aunt Martha sighs gustily, hand pressed to her cheek

"Fuck," Conner finally says, breathing the curse out before saying louder, "Fuck, they're right, I get it from you—Batman's going to kick your ass."

A chorus of voices overlap each other in varying tones to yell out in unison:

"Language!"

Cousins, Clones and Conning the Family

Family Reunion AU, where cousins Maddie and Clark try to smuggle their clone children into the family reunion that happens every 5 years and pretend they've been there the whole time.

Spoiler alert, one of them does significantly better than the other. Mainly Kid POV, and also on AO3! Multichapter. ===

The problem with big family reunions, Danny thinks, is how utterly fucking lost Danny is all the gosh dang time.

"Well now, you're Maddie's son now ain'tcha? How old is you now?" The woman standing before him guffaws, ruffling his hair. He lets it, trying desperately to remember the speadsheet Jazz created for the family and (obviously) failing to recall this woman's name.

Agatha? Selene? Riri? No, Aunt Riri is over there—

"Yes ma'am," Danny smiles up at the unnamed aunt, accent going a little twangy like it always does at these functions, "I'll be hittin' 17 in a coupl'a months or so."

"My, my, you youngin's sure grow like weeds!" The aunt coos, gesturing to a height by her hip, "You used to be this tall last time I saw ya, betcha don't r'member me now do ya?"

It's a trap. If he says he doesn't remember, which is expected at reunions such as these that happen every 5 years or longer, she'll start going on and on about the stories she has of the family. Danny would have to stand here and demure and laugh at these cousins he doesn't really remember too well, but know enough to know that she's gotten them all mixed up.

"Pshaw," Danny doesn't react when a whisper breathes the answer into his ear, "I'd never forget a pretty lady like you, Aunt Helena!"

It works like a charm.

The second he's out of her clutches, he feels around for a cold spot. There, trailing just behind him, is Ellie. She's not invisible anymore, so he tucks her under his arm and bee-lines it towards the metaphorical kid's table.

"Thanks, Ellie. Weren't you supposed to stay with Dad?" Danny leads them around, trying to avoid any other mishaps. "Did Jazz send you?"

"She made me flashcards!" Ellie smirks up at him, ignoring his other question and pulling a corner of an index card out from the palm of her hand. She's always been better than him at manipulating the ecto in her body, for obvious reasons. Danny's not bitter about it at all.

"Damn, all I got was a presentation." Danny grumbles. Jazz and Dad somehow know every single one of their family members, which is ludicrous when even Mom doesn't know despite it being her side of the family.

He still can't really believe how big his family actually is, but he supposes that's natural. He only sees them once every couple of years, the only relative they see even on a remotely regular basis is Aunt Alicia, who has no kids and refuses (rightfully so) to remarry.

Danny's fine with that, he gets the best of both worlds after all. Cozy holiday stays with Aunt Alicia and he has places to stay all over the country if he really needs it, no questions asked.

Plus, crazy as they can be, these reunions have always felt like a big country festival for Danny.

"She likes me better." Ellie snickers, tugging him back to avoid Uncle Charlie's drunken stumbling.

"Everyone likes you better," Danny rolls his eyes, pushing Ellie's head down and ducking to avoid a stray kid's toy flying overhead, "I like you better."

As if somehow knowing Danny's being self deprecating again, Jazz shows up to smack him on the head. "I like both of you equally in special ways."

Danny makes a disgruntled noise, grumbling as he rubs his head, "Mooooom, Jazz is therapizing me again!"

Even though he was only half joking, Mom does show up specifically to laugh at him. "Honey, your father and I love all our children equally!"

"It's a secret," Dad says from behind Jazz, kids climbing all over him, "But Ellie's the favorite!"

"Jack!" Mom yells at the same time Jazz screams, "Dad!"

Ellie dissolves into giggles, making everyone but Dad helplessly laugh. It's good to see Ellie laugh, she does it a lot but it still doesn't feel like it's enough. Danny picks her up, giggling mess and all, and tosses her at Dad.

She lands, as expected, straight into the pile of children who scream and accept her easily.

"Nice." Jazz chuckles, this time patting him gently on his head in approval. Danny shrugs, dusting his hands off and heading back towards salvation: the food.

He and Jazz mingle a bit, exchanging greetings and school updates with the Aunts and Uncles they occasionally bump into, making their way slowly through and keeping an eye out for the other cousins.

Eventually, Jazz gets nabbed by Cousin Dermot just as Danny reaches the table, tossing a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth and chewing with glee. The locals of the family usually something potluck style—and though Dad's genes are strong and the Fentons can't cook, the bulk of the Walker family definitely can.

In fact—Great Aunt Martha said she was going to bring some mini pies right?

Danny spies a pile of them in the middle of the large table and reaches for one, only to bump into the spikes of black fingerless gloves.

The gloves are, of course, attached to someone else.

It's a boy, around Danny's age, in a spiked leather jacket (matching the gloves) and white tee shirt with ripped jeans. He's got the tiniest John Lennon sunglasses and piercings everywhere—it makes Danny squint at him, with how much the sun keeps catching on everything—the spikes, the piercings, the metal arms of the sunglasses, is this dude also wearing lipgloss?

Danny's not judging, a guy can appreciate proper hydration to avoid chapped lips or even just for the aesthetic, but it doesn't help with the glare.

"Sorry, my bad." Right, okay, city slicker then. Not that Danny's much of a country boy or anything. "Did my spikes get you?"

Maybe Cousin Jenny brought a plus one? Danny eyes the guys jeans—they look tight. Was Cousin Mark into guys? Is this dude a guy or possibly a masculine girl? Ack. Stupid sun frying his brain.

"It's okay," Danny says, blinking away and tossing mini pie to the other person. "Aunt Martha's pies are worth the minor injury. You comin' in with one of the cousins?"

"Uh, yeah." Citypunk looks at Danny nervously, "I mean, I am one of the cousins." The guy bites his lips, shrugging, "Uh, one of the Kents, actually. Ma's real proud of the pies."

Danny blinks.

"…You're not Jon." Danny says, very carefully and slowly.

"…No…" Stranger Danger draws his vowels out, "I'm Conner. His, uh, older brother? Can't blame ya for being confused though!"

"…You can't." Danny agrees, because out of the two them, Danny definitely isn't to blame for the confusion.

"Yeah, lots of cousins, and all," Curiouser and Curiouser beams at Danny, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck, "Plus, I know Jon's more sociable at these things."

"Right, he really is rambunctious, that guy." Danny nods, as if that's the problem, and not the fact that Danny knows every single cousin his age. Big as his family might be, Danny's generation came out the smallest. Cousin Jenny and Cousin Mark are the only two his age.

With Ellie and Jazz each being four years younger and older than Danny, and the other cousins being well beyond those ages in gaps, there is no way this guy is a cousin.

"Don't worry," Punk'd laughs self deprecatingly, "I know he's the favorite. even if Mom won't admit it."

Danny feels a vein throb in his right temple.

He's unsure if he should slowly back away or get up in the guy's face. It's just—now that Danny thinks about it, if wedding crashing is a thing, does that mean family reunion crashing is a thing too?

What's the protocol here? Should he fight this guy for having the audacity to use Great Aunt Martha's name in vein?

Wait, no, that's Jesus.

Is Great Aunt Martha Catholic? ...Is that the one with Jesus, or was that Christianity?

Wait, Danny, you knuckle head, Uncle Clark was adopted. Conner could be adopted too! Even though he looks exactly like that Uncle Clark when he was younger…

"Is this your first time at a reunion?" Danny ventures, "We only have 'em—"

"Every 5 years, yeah." Conner huffs, "Nah, I just used to hide with Ma in the kitchens."

Okay, clearly Great Aunt Martha isn't in on this, because Danny used to hide with Great Aunt Martha in the kitchens. Danny's about to lose his shit on this guy—or maybe sic Ellie on him. Whichever is worse.

"Oh yeah? That's must have been cozy." Danny grits out, taking a deep breath so his eyes don't flash.

"Yeah, it was!" Conner beams shyly. though all Danny sees is a smug smirk. "She's real nice-like, I'm sure you know. Real lucky to have her for a Grandma."

"Real lucky." Danny agrees, because Great Aunt Martha really was one of the better Great Aunts. Though most of the Walker Kin were hardy and tough, in that badass kind of way. Mom really liked Great Aunt Martha's lessons on bull wranglin' back when they were younger. "Speakin' of, she ain't here?"

"Nah," Conner makes a sad little pout. "She hadta stop by Auntie Agatha's for an emergency. She left two days ago, so she's runnin' a little behind. Cl—Dad went to go pick her up."

Danny squints at the possible imposter. That sounded like he was going to call Uncle Clark by his name, which makes things confusing for Danny. Guy will call Aunt Lois Mom but he won't call Uncle Clark Dad easily?  Maybe he's a kid Aunt Lois had before marrying Uncle Clark? But Aunt Lois would never hide a kid, and Great Aunt Martha would never let her treat a kid like that. That's not even taking into account that this kid looks way too much like Uncle Clark for it to be a fucking coincidence. Plus, Danny knew about Aunt Aggie's emergency and how she might not be making it to this year's reunion—this gives Conner's story credibility.

But Danny knows that the best way to lie is with truths, even if the truths are confusing.

So what the hell is going on? Is Clockwork fucking with him? Did an alternate timeline get switched with his?

It wouldn't be the first time, but Clockwork at least had the decency to let him know at least.

"What the—" Danny blinks, as Conner picks up a very familiar, eye-searingly green colored post it note that was stuck to the plate under a mini pie. "Is this yours?"

"Yeah," Danny huffs. taking the note and rolling his eyes as lies roll off his tongue, "Sorry, y'know how it goes with Jazz."

"Oh, yeah." And Danny has to give it Conner, he at least rolls with the punches real quick, "I heard about it but didn't ever uh, see it in action."

"Really?" Danny feigns surprise, head pulsing in irritation at the words all is as it should be written in purple pen. There's no mocking smiley face, but Danny feels it in the ink anyway. "Thought she got all the cousins at the last reunion."

Conner chuckles nervously, "Oh, yeah—Guess I'm just, easy to miss you know?"

"Uh huh…" Danny eyes the guy and his piercings and very distinct style, from the tip of his clearly styled hair and needlessly ostentatious big black studded boots. "…Right."

Conner laughs, wincing. "These're new. High school debut."

"…You're a freshman?" Danny tilts his head, squinting.

"Junior." Conner automatically corrects, before stiffening. "…I just wanted to reinvent myself for Junior Prom."

"Right." Danny repeats, drawing out the vowels and finally giving up. He can tell Conner already knows what Danny is going to ask, and is trying to exit this conversation post-haste.

Fortunately for Conner and unfortunately for Danny, Jazz comes barreling in, almost knocking the former out in the process as she grips the latter's biceps tightly with her eyes wide and nervous.

Unfortunately for Conner and fortunately for Danny, though the look in Jazz's eyes thoroughly distracts the latter and gives the former a window to escape, Jazz's hissed out words end up keeping Conner rooted to the floor.

"Baby Jon has powers!" Jazz hisses as she moves Danny away from the possible imposter a couple feet. Even though she says it low enough for only Danny to hear, Conner's wide eyes as he whips his gaze towards them suggests that Jon's not the only one with powers.

And then words actually register along with that thought.

Danny hisses out the first thing he thinks of. "Since when?? I thought he took after Aunt Lois!"

"Since now," Jazz gruffs, switching her grip to drag Danny away, "and I need you to do something about it!"

"What?" Danny doesn't struggle, going along even as he eyes Conner who seems to be following them at a distance. "Why?"

Jazz pushes him towards the kid's area, rushing out a frantic "He's in the bounce house with Ellie!"

Danny freezes, or tries to even as Jazz keeps tugging him along, before shaking off her hand and booking it towards the bounce house.

Once the bounce house (a castle) comes into view, Danny clocks several things in succession:

One: Ellie and Jon are thankfully the only ones in the bounce house right now.

Two: Ellie and Jon are laughing, and through the mesh Danny can see Ellie watching Jon jump way too high to be considered normal.

And three: The bounce house is about to fucking tip over.

There's a gaggle of Aunts herding the younger cousins towards the food that's dense enough for cover, but sparse enough for Danny to dash through.

Between one blink and the next, he disappears.

[bullet-prooflove]

Nadine: Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @gabsgabsvaz @fadeinsol

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications

Three Days (NSFW) - Jack spends three days making you his.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

The Go Bag - Your relationship with Jack takes a turn when you discover another go bag in his car.

Every year on the anniversary of Maria’s death, Jack has dinner with her sister Nadine. It’s a tradition that’s been going on for well over a decade, ever since they lost her in the car accident.

This year though, this year he forgets.

He’s been seeing you for six months and it’s been a whirlwind of laughter, fun and romance. His life is sunnier, brighter and he knows that’s because he’s starting to let go, to forgive himself.

When he gets that text from Nadine summoning him to the restaurant, something in this chest sinks because Maria’s sister, she will never let him forget the role he played in his wife’s death.

“This’ll be the last time.” He promises you as you lie on your stomach on his couch, wearing nothing but his Bob Dylan t-shirt, flicking through a medical journal on his tablet.

“Jack, I’m not asking for that.” You remind him, setting the tablet down as you look up at him.

“I know but I need it to be. I can’t keep reliving the past not while I’m trying to step into the future.” He tells you as his lips brush your temple. “Wish me luck ok?”

“You won’t need it.” You say, capturing his mouth with yours and Jack seriously entertains the idea of stripping off his clothes and taking you right here on the couch. He groans as you pull away, tapping the tip of his nose with your fingertip. “You are procrastinating.”

He is because dinner with Nadine…

It’s not just complicated, its fucked up in a way he can’t begin to describe.

When he sees Nadine at the bar of the restaurant, it’s clear she’s come to play. She’s wearing a black form fitting dress he recognises from Maria’s wardrobe, the one she used to wear to all their anniversaries. Her hair is loose, falling across her features in sultry waves and her mouth is painted with a slash of red. His heart stops when her eyes flicker up to meet his, his breath catching because from this distance, she could be Maria.

And that’s exactly the point.

The way she walks towards him it’s Maria’s walk. The hair flip, the hand on the hip, even the way she purses her lips, they’re all Maria’s mannerisms. It’s sends a horrified shiver running down his spine because it feels like he’s being haunted, like the moment he decides to move on his dead wife’s ghost appears to drag him back into the grave he was buried in with her.

“This is seven shades of fucked up.” He tells Nadine, his voice raw and gravelly. “You cannot do this, you cannot turn up here looking like her-”

“You wanted Maria.” She says gesturing to the dress. “Isn’t that what you said last time? You would give anything for one last meal, one last kiss, one last time…”

“You are not her Nadine!” He snaps, running his hand through his unruly burnished silver curls. “You will never be her! You need to stop with all this bullshit.”

“This bullshit?” She questions. “This isn’t bullshit Jack, this is me trying to help you move on after a decade mourning for my sister. She is gone but you are still here, I am still here-”

“Nadine…” He says, his whiskey eyes glittering with vitriol. “Whatever competition you were in with Maria it was over the day she died, I am not some prize you can pick up now that she’s gone. I’m not the dress you’re wearing, or the necklace you inherited, or the literal dead woman’s shoes you’ve stepped into. I am a person, one who is still trying to put themselves back together again, who is trying to develop a healthy relationship-”

“You’re seeing someone?” Her head snaps up and those eyes, they burn like coals in the darkest depths of hell.

“Yea.” He says frankly. “I am and she’s good for me, she’s so fucking good for me…”

She slaps him then. Hard, across the face. Red hot heat blossoms in his cheek as he stares at her, his hand pressing against it.

“I hope she looks at you one day and I hope she sees how broken you truly are Jack. I hope she sees every fucked up little thing about you and she gets in that car-”

“Don’t say it.” He snarls. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“-I hope she ends up the same way as Maria, I hope you keep on losing that thing you love because that is what you deserve Jack, it’s what you reap. Death, destruction, heart break and the sooner you throw yourself off that roof, the better the whole world is going to be without you.”

It feels like he’s been stabbed, not once but multiple times, the knife breaking through his skin, carving out his insides as his blood drips onto the floor beneath his feet. He may have not killed Maria but the ferocity of the argument they’d had about him re-enlisting, it had put her in that car that night.

“I can’t stand to look at you right now.” She had said snatching up the keys. “You’re just so fucking frustrating. You don’t understand what it’s like when you leave everyone else behind.”

He does now. He understands what it’s like to be the one sitting at home, waiting for your wife only to discover she was so pissed off she drove right through a stop sign, totalling her car. He’s the one who had to make the choice to turn off her life support, who had to explain to Cici that even though her body was still there SHE was gone.

You’re half asleep when he gets in later on, curled up in his sheets, your face tucked into his pillow. He’d stuck around for a few drinks, trying to erase Nadine’s words after she stormed out of the restaurant. The bite of them, it’s still embedded in his skin, clinging to him like an wanted spirit.

He lies down beside you with a sigh and you snuggle in close, tucking yourself against him, your fingertips ghosting over the dusting of freckles dotted across his cheek.

“You deserve better than this.” He whispers into the darkness. “You deserve better than me.”

“Do you really believe that?” You ask him, your nose trailing lightly along his. “Or is that what someone has told you?”

“I…” He begins, trying to make sense of the thoughts, the feelings that keep surging up inside him. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”

“Well, I will tell you what I know.” You say propping your head up on the pillow. “I think these last few months you’ve been happy and tonight you hung out with someone who doesn’t want that and it’s messed you a little.”

“Nadine...” He confesses, his voice breaking. “She said the world would be better off without me and sometimes, sometimes I think that’s true.”

“That’s not true.” You whisper, your fingers combing through his burnished silver curls. “Nadine’s just trapped in her own grief spiral and she’s trying to drag you in it with her. There is no way this world would be a better place without you, not with all the good you do.”

Your lips brush over his features, tiny little rays of sunshine kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose as you cradle his face between your hands.

“Think of all the people that need you. Where would Robby be without his best friend to keep him from losing his shit? And Cici, she needs her dad Jack, you’re the only stable person who has ever been there for her.”

“And you?” He questions quietly. “Do you need me as much as I need you?”

“I need you Jack.” You whisper, your mouth grazing his. “I need you like I need the air in my lungs to breathe.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[bbokicidal]

[SKZ] Being their stylist

Could you imagine? God, I'd die.

Notes: I've heard rumor that you've gotta be married to be an idol stylist because,, obviously they don't want dating shit happening but we are DISREGARDING THAT HERE. i couldn't find the recolored vers. of seungmin & innie so... oh well ig. Genre: Fluff Pairing: OT8 x NB!Reader Warnings: Extra fluffy cuteness I guess

Chan:

Sits so patiently and tells you to take your time

You're his favorite stylist. He loves when you're the one who does his makeup so sometimes he requests specifically you

You're just so gentle with him and it feels like he's really being pampered

He loves the way you make his eyes so smokey for stage looks

Keeps his posture good in an effort to impress you

Does that little :] face with his eyes closed because you're just so pleasant to him

Minho:

Falls asleep every time you do his hair

You tell him to keep his head up only to figure out he's sleeping so soundly and you just don't have the heart to wake him when he's on such a tight schedule lately

Jeongin has a LOT of pictures of you bending at funny angles to style Minho's hair while his head is tipped back or to the side

(And one of you pretending to kiss his cheek as he's mid-waking up)

He wakes up feeling so pretty every time you style him

Sleeps with his mouth open like an idiot (me too)

Changbin:

Likes to make you laugh while you style him in outfits

He poses each time you put him in a new jacket and maybe it's just an excuse to flex in front of you oops who said that

He's giggling right alongside you until he accidentally rips a shirt open

The buttons fly right off and he screams, covering his bare chest as you burst into laughter at how silly he sounded and how he scrambled to cover himself up

You get him a new shirt but he's extra careful after that and his ears are beet red

He'll never forgive himself for embarrassing himself in front of you

But he's also an idiot and will forget about it, and probably does it again the next day because he can't help himself

Hyunjin:

Likes to ask what you're doing while you do it

Has not a CLUE what you're talking about when it comes to makeup but listens intently anyways because it's interesting

Any form of art is interesting to him and that includes makeup !

His brows furrow and he nods and he stares at you while you talk which can sometimes be intimidating

Also kind of sucks at sitting through makeup because he's so talkative with the boys

He's also very loud but he tones it down when he talks to you and uses a softer voice with you

Is very happy to listen to you explain makeup to him but also ,,, tell him what contour is again?

Jisung:

He likes to give you complete freedom when it comes to his outfits

Put whatever you want on him; mens, womens, any clothing you think would look good

You were the one who put him in that grey cropped long sleeve a while ago and people went CRAZY so since then he's trusted you with everything

He loves the outfits you make!!

And the ones you wear because he totally checks you out ALL the damn time!!

Sometimes he even asks if he can take pieces home so he can incorporate them into his daily wear and if he does, he tags you in his insta pics - to which you have to tell him 'I didn't make this, tag the brand!!!' and he just laughs

Felix:

Please tell him makeup tips, he's so curious and he wants to start doing his own makeup too

Sometimes he does, for airports and stuff. But that's just a cushion and some powder

Tell him what color eyeshadows look pretty with his eyes, tell him how blush placement changes the shape of his face and the tone of his look

He's going to be asking questions and, if he has access to one, looking at the details up close in a handheld mirror he keeps hold of

It's intimidating to be honest but he's so smiley and chatty with you that your nerves fade away pretty quickly

He also just thinks you're really really gorgeous so he might use it as an excuse to look up at you more. He's examining the makeup you're wearing, that's all !!

Seungmin:

He's got this horrible habit of staring at you through the mirror while you do his hair

He loves the haircut, don't get him wrong, but it looks like he's feeling everything BUT that because of the way he sort of glares

Well - not glares. He just has this RBF that is untouched by anyone else in the world

If you look at him, he looks away and scrolls on his phone, but shortly after he's back to staring

You're just really attractive is all. And he likes your hair, too - so maybe some day he'll take inspiration from that if you allow him

Also the type to fall asleep while you cut his hair because the spray bottle and little scissor cutting sounds are just so soothing

Jeongin:

Is very compliant when you do his makeup

He sits still, he's patient, he only turns his head away when he knows you're changing something up on the table

He keeps his head up and knows when to close his eyes, when to look up, when to part his lips for balm and tint

Very well behaved, one might say

But it's because when you're doing the other's makeup, he's paying close attention. He's always watching you and trying to find ways to impress you without actually making it obvious that that's what he's trying to do

He starts bringing you your favorite snack because he notices it sitting on your makeup table while on tour

He likes to talk to you while you do his makeup but he's a little bit shy about it - he's not openly chatty like Felix or Hyunin

And the day he calls you his favorite stylist you swear your heart almost explodes

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix @hwangjoanna @skzophreniic

@silly250

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

and that’s how it works; that’s how you get the girl

ft; haruka sakura, hayate suo, umemiya hajime

synopsis ; how did they get the girl?

cw ; violence (idek if this is needed since it's wbk but ykw screw it), fem!reader, swearing, use of (y/n), first time writing for wbk so tell me if this is shit

now playing ; how you get the girl - taylor swift

haruka sakura

haruka sakura got the girl by standing outside of your apartment in the rain for an entire hour because you got mad at him.

actually, he had gotten mad at you first. you doted on him and took care of him excessively while he was injured after a fight, and you refused to go home despite the fact that it was getting late and dark out. sakura knew that your apartment was only a few hours away, but he didn't see why you would be wasting your time on taking care of him when he could do it perfectly fine himself.

“you're pissing me off. i already said, i can just sleep this thing off. you're bothering me right now; go away. you're being annoying.” sakura cringed as the words replayed over and over again in his mind. when he first said it, he didn't think too much of it. but now? geez, if you had said those same things back to him, he would probably be having a way worse reaction than you.

you’ve been giving him the silent treatment for thirty-seven hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirteen seconds. not that he was counting. nope, he definitely wasn't counting. definitely not. he's probably checked his phone a thousand times today already, just waiting for a single text message from you; but none was found.

maybe he thought that this was a genuinely bright idea, because suo and nirei certainly didn't. maybe he really was just that desperate to see you again and for you to forgive him. maybe he's just plain stupid. yeah, probably the last one, but right after school ended, he stormed to your apartment complex as quickly as he could, ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door a multitude of times.

no response.

he knew you were in there; you always went straight back to your apartment right after school. “hey, i know you're in there. let me in.” he barely managed a slightly convincing calm voice, but he was panicking inside. he really didn't want you to ignore him forever. he really didn't want you to leave him. not when you meant so much to him.

it began to rain rather quickly. first, it was just a few droplets landing on his hair and gliding down his nose. but soon enough, his entire body was drenched in rain. he sneezed a few times, but his feet never once left it's location of standing in front of your apartment.

this was unlike him. he shouldn't be doing this. he would never do this for anyone else, so why you? his fists clenched as he heard the first clap of thunder; he should go back. but his legs refused to move, his heart refused to leave you. he glared down at his feet as if they were the reason for your anger at him.

“sakura?”

his eyes darted up, golden and gray-blue eyes meeting yours. “oh, hey,” he said dumbly, hands brushing the imaginary crumbs on his wet shirt. you both stood there awkwardly for a few moments, only the sound of rain hitting the concrete breaking the silence.

“how long have you been standing there?” you asked, a crease forming between your brows. sakura shrugged, as if he didn't spend the last hour contemplating his life and relationship with you.

“an hour.” i would've been willing to wait longer though, he thought. your eyes widened, mouth agape. you took his arm, attempting to take him inside, but sakura refused to budge.

“sorry, i was taking a nap! jeez, just come in already!” you exclaimed, trying to pull him inside with all of your body strength.

but sakura couldn't just come in. he knew himself well enough to he wouldn't feel the weight on his shoulders lift until he truly said what he needed to.

“i--i'm sorry.” his voice was slightly shaky. he probably didn't know how to properly apologize. “i didn't mean to make you upset or anything. i was just not used to it.” there. he should feel better now, right? but for some reason, the tension only weight down on him even harder. what more was there to say? he already apologized, he didn't need to--

“i love you.”

his tongue slipped before he could even control himself, and his entire face burned beet red as he practically jumped up. he didn't intend to say that, so why did his mind react faster than his body did? but you only laughed, hugging his rain-soaked torso with a blush yourself.

“i love you too.”

suo hayato

suo hayato got the girl by never judging you or being mean to you whenever you were being a clumsy idiot.

you were never particularly gifted when it came to reflexes; your hip always bumped into desk corners which left bruises, you almost stubbed your toes which had you crying out in pain, and you almost always trip or have some pretty damn close calls to tripping whenever there was some sort of object in front of you.

because of this, ever since childhood, your classmates quickly learned to avoid you. who knew if you would trip over them and break a bone and then claim that it was their fault? they didn't want to risk it.

and you did everything just to get better. you took classes, you learned online. you really were willing to do anything and everything just to stop being so damn clumsy. but it would never help; you continued to fall flat on your face multiple times.

people made fun of you. they mocked you. they made rumors about you. all because you were uncoordinated.

you've admired suo for a while. when he first came to furin and was out on patrol, you noticed how calm he was. how graceful he was even when it came to something as trivial as walking or talking. he never seemed to get too emotional, he never even got mad. not even when you slipped and fell on him.

he didn't fall down with you, but you practically slammed head first into his chest. you didn't think you could be any more embarrassed in your entire life; your face was on fire and crimson red. suo managed to grasp both of your shoulders so he wouldn't collapse with you, but you face was still in his chest. god, this was so fucking embarrassing.

“i'msosorryididn'tmeantoi'msososososososososorry--”

“it's fine. are you okay?”

did time just stop turning?

wait. he wasn't judging you, he wasn't brushing off his clothes in disgust, he wasn't looking at you with an awkward and embarrassed smile, he wasn't shoving you off, he wasn't doing anything nasty at all.

with two small sentences and one small action, your simple admiration of suo turned began to fall. you both literally and metaphorically fell for him; for this guy who you knew next to nothing about other than his personality, name, and age.

even after the incident, whenever he was out on patrol, suo always greeted you with a smile and wave. sometimes, he would even come over and talk to you for a bit. god, he was literally perfect. he moved on from the incident this quickly?

one day, one fateful day, one beautiful day, you asked suo for his number, and the best part? he gave it to you. he doesn't use his phone in front of other people, so he typed his number and name into your phone, and even gave himself a cute and funny contact photo.

he. touched. your. phone. what did you ever do to get so lucky? you must've been a saint in your past life to have so much happiness in your life.

“i literally love you,” you blabbered the moment he handed your phone back. you clasped a hand over your mouth right after, shocked at what you just say. “uh, platonically! platonically!” you exclaimed, waving your hand back and forth and front and back like a mantra.

but suo only laughed. “it's okay. the feeling's mutual. just not platonically.”

you were falling for him all over again.

hajime umemiya

hajime umemiya got the girl by being an absolute, yearning, pining, whipped, down bad, stupidly in love simp.

the funniest part to everyone was the fact that he didn't even try to hide it. everyone could tell that he was absolutely in love with you. you were an employee at cafe pothos with kotoha, and you were always helping kotoha out, especially when she was new there a few years ago.

teaching her all of the recipes--including your secret ones--, cleaning up messes that she was supposed to clean, cleaning her up and helping her with injuries whenever she got hurt…umemiya saw it all. he saw it so much that he didn't even have to interact with you or talk to you a single time to fall in love with you before even officially meeting you.

when he did officially meet you for the first time, he was so starry eyed and smiley that it seemed to the bypassers that umemiya was about to propose to you or ask you out on a date or something.

“hi! i'm umemiya, furin first year and kotoha's older brother!” he exclaimed, taking your hand and shaking it feverishly, grinning like a child on his first day of school. “it's so great to finally meet you!”

“yeah, you too.” you replied, smiling at him. “i've heard a lot about you from kotoha, umemiya. it's nice to meet you.”

it really spiraled from there. your apartment always had some sort of snack on your doorstep, along with a handwritten note to you from umemiya. whenever his vegetables bloomed, you were always the first person to receive them.

carrying things for you, calling you all night, talking to you whenever he sees you--no matter how inconvenient the time--, carrying you bridal style all the time; everyone was convinced that you were both secretly dating but were just refusing to tell them.

of course, you were aware of umemiya's feelings for you, and you returned his feelings. you really did adore him. you just didn't want to start dating in high school, so you held your feelings back and relished in his affection while trying to drop hints that you liked him back.

if you could make this last forever, you would. just you and him. no one else. no one asking when you were going to get married or how many kids you were going to have or what your plan for the future was going to be. you couldn't stop time or slow it down, of course. you would if you could though.

“umemiya! guess what, guess what?!” you exclaimed, practically bouncing to the rooftop of furin. you didn't even go to school there, but it was practically your second home because of how often you came here. your phone held high in your hand, you sat down in front of umemiya, who was planting tomatoes.

“what happened? is it good? are you happy?” umemiya asked, his gleaming like a puppy's. you held your phone in front of him, a beam paving into your face.

“i got into the university of tokyo! can you belive it? it's the most prestigious university in japan! i studied for so long for this, oh my gosh, i can't believe it, i really got in!” you were practically glowing with happiness, and your energy radiated to umemiya, who seemed just as elated as you were.

“i'm so proud of you! all of those late night study sessions really paid off!” umemiya obviously didn't do much other than emotional support during the late night calls. he was in furin for more reasons other than the fact that he was a great fighter and charismatic leader.

he suddenly froze, coming to a quick realization. “so then…you'll be leaving makochi then? you're going to go to tokyo soon, right?” he still smiled, although the glimmer in his eye was a bit dimmer now. umemiya wasn't going to college, but you were. so he won't see you for four years?

“yeah. but i'll always visit for holidays and breaks and all! and i'll make sure to text you and call you as much as i can.” you remarked, quickly sensing the slight change in atmosphere. “and i'll leave a bunch of my stuff here for you and kotoha to keep. plus, i'm leaving in a few months, so we still have time.”

umemiya nodded, though you could still sense his drop in mood. sighing and shaking your head with a smile, you cupped his face. “here,” you leaned in, and umemiya's eyes widened as his entire face flushed bright tomato red.

you just kissed him.

you pulled away just as quickly though, grinning. “that should be enough for you to hold onto, right?”

that was enough for umemiya to cling onto for an entire lifetime.

[larluce]

Ooooh, I love this!

Well, first I would justify WHY Merlin got pregnant. I know mpreg generally doesn't care about logic, but I personally prefer it when fics don't use the excuse "Merlin has magic" as the only explanation for being able to bare children.

So in my mind, the story would go like this: Arthur discovers Merlin's magic and they’ve been distanced from one another since then. Merlin still serves Arthur, but there's no banter between them anymore. For once Merlin acts like the perfect servant, just does as he's told and speaks when asked. And Arthur hates it.

Arthur is still hurting for the lies and the betrayal, but he also misses Merlin deeply. Arthur is so distraught, he ends up getting drunk in a tavern like he never did before and Merlin is the one who has to get him out of there. Due to this they have a heart to heart conversation. There are yells, there are tears and finally forgiveness. Their relationship begins to heal from then, slowly but surely.

Is in the process of healing when that night happens. They made it a rutine to speak alone at night in Arthur's chambers to talk things through, the good and the bad of the things Merlin has done. They always had a bit of wine to endure heavy conversations, but that night they drink a bit too much, so it happens. First a kiss, then 2 kisses, and then suddenly, their clothes are gone and they are making love. The next day, when they wake up naked next to each other in Arthur's bed, they decide to act like nothing happened.

What they didn't know, is that that night was a special one, when the planets aligned with the full moon. The druids from more than one comunnity were doing a ritual, praying to the goddess of fertility and to Emrys, the god of magic itself, that magic may be reborn in Camelot again and flourish.

And that’s how Merlin ended up pregnant with Arthur's baby.

So yes, when Merlin first tells Arthur, he doesn't react well due to that talk he had with his father about what happened to his mother, distrusting Merlin again, but also because they hadn't completely restore their relationship by that point.

Merlin is hurt that Arthur thinks he planned this, that Merlin tricked him into getting him pregnant. He doesn’t even know how it happened! But no matter what he says, Arthur doesn’t believe him.

Merlin thought they were making progress, but it seems he was wrong. His word, his loyalty to Arthur, everything he's done meant nothing to his prince after all. And this knowlegde destroys him.

So Merlin decides to do something drastic: abort. He prepares himself the potion to do it and with tears in his eyes he drinks it.

When Arthur goes to Gaius's chambers to look for Merlin after realising how cruel he had been for accussing Merlin of something so horrible, he finds the worst image he could have seen: Merlin lying on the floor, unconcious and with a growing stain of blood between his legs. Arthur loses it, picks Merlin up and calls for help, desperate. Gaius, fortunately, arrives in time and treats Merlin the best he can and stables him. When Gaius figures out what Merlin tried to do and tells Arthur, the prince can't feel more guilty and devasted.

Arthur: (tears rolling down his eyes, holding Merlin's hand while he lies still unconcious on bed) The baby... Is the baby...?

Gaius: Merlin may have wanted to abort, but his magic didn't. It protected the baby, so it's still alive, but...

Arthur: What?

Gaius: Now his pregnancy is more delicate than ever. Merlin will have to stay in bed and do minimal effort during all his pregnancy and...(his voice breaks) he might not survive childbirth.

Arthur: (breaks down crying)

Merlin: (opens his eyes weakly) Arthur.

Arthur: Merlin! (Leans and holds his hand more tightly)

Merlin: (smiles weakly) It’s okay, Arthur. I got rid of it. You won't have to worry about it anymore.

Arthur: (cries harder)

Arthur apologises over and over again and of course Merlin forgives him, because is Merlin, but the damage is done that's something Arthur will never forgive himself.

Time passes. Arthur visits Merlin everyday during his pregnancy and takes care of him. As Merlin's belly grows, so does his hapiness, but also his fear. He loves this baby with all his being already and the idea of being a father, but the possibility of losing Merlin during childbirth is terrifying. He can't lose Merlin. Is this how his father felt when his mother was pregnant with him?

Is when he compares himself to his father that Arthur realises he loves Merlin. He's been in love with his manservant this whole time. Arthur never felt more stupid.

Then. I don't know. I guess Uther would find out at some point and try to kill Merlin and "that evil creature" he has on his belly. And chaos would ensue.

I saw this meme and the first thing that came to my mind was that I need a fanfic based on this meme. Not just an casual Mpreg merthur story but one were Uther has an actual serious talk about dangers of magic with Arthur and as a example he tells the story of how he's mother got pregnant and died because of magic. He's warns Arthur so that he won't make a similar mistake of trusting magic just like in the meme AND then few weeks later he discovers that he got his manservant pregnant because of one time fucking they did when drunk and went to pretending they were just friends. Imagine the consequences omg.

Like Artur feeling betrayed by Merlin, realising he disappointed his father, Merlin being scared for his life, being accused of tricking Arthur and getting pregnant because of his evil sorcerer plan, hiding it from everyone, not knowing that he could actually get pregnant in the first place he is horrified.

I think it would be interesting if Arthur knew that Merlin has magic before it, fully trusting that he is a goodhearted person, keeping his secret safe. Then he has that talk with Uther and after that Merlin tell him about the pregnancy and Arthur's mind goes back to this talk. He 'realises' that he had been tricked by a sorcerer and Merlin beags him, swears this was an accident.

The potential for heavy angst is immaculate...

[cheralith]

— party for you.

yukimiya kenyu — it's your birthday and your best friend has yet to show up to your party, his promise to you hanging on a thin line. (wc : 3.6k)

contains : gn!reader, no pronouns used, best friend!yukimiya, aged-up characters (20s), implied mutual pining, angst with comfort, fluff (unedited as of 04/27) a/n : happy birthday to my beloved yukki <33 wrote this piece with a slight twist as my gift to him ahaha. also very much inspired by "party 4 u" by charli xcx after i kept seeing all those scenarios from tiktok, esp since i'll be seeing her in concert soon !!!

There’s a tightness in your throat that you swallow down when you hear the phone start to ring, the steady and monotonous rhythm of ringback tone calling out with an echo. The hums are paced, in no rush to get to their destination, unlike the seconds that tick by as you stare at the clock.

It’s 5:23 pm. Yukimiya was supposed to be here nearly an hour ago to help you set up your birthday party that’s starting in thirty-seven minutes. 

Your nail goes between your teeth, an anxious gnawing starting to begin to try to raise your inhibition. Some of your friends that came early to also aid with setting up laugh and chatter about in the other room, ignorant to your apprehension that you thinly veil with a warbled smile. 

You blame yourself—your birthday fell on a weekend this year and you wanted to take the most advantage of everyone’s day off and have all the people filled with love to give you surrounding you on the day that you often felt most anxious on. An approval of sorts, you think, this urge to seek out that you truly were valued in others’ lives if they were willing to come celebrate with you.

But quantity doesn’t always equal quality. A good plethora of your friends and relatives have gathered in your apartment to celebrate your birthday, and while you cherish them for being here, there’s still that little crevice of yearning waiting to be filled by his presence.

Something is wrong with the camera, they say. 

“For some reason, there’s this weird glare that just won’t go away,” the photographer says despondently to Yukimiya, who fights the urge to contort his face in irritation.

He lets out a heavy sigh, something that bleeds urgency in a quieter manner to the photographer and pinches his forehead. On a normal day, he wouldn’t have minded this disposition at all—some of his payout for this shoot was by the hour anyway and he wouldn’t have minded spending a few extra hours considering all he had to do was stand there and look pretty.

But it’s your birthday today. And this is an event he can’t afford to miss. 

Being a rising celebrity is difficult—both of you understood that when he signed with his entertainment agency. But Yukimiya had made a promise to you years ago that you’ll still be of utmost priority despite his job, never wanting to thin your relationship even in the slightest despite knowing the possible restraints it might falter against. 

He has his fair share of last-minute rain checks, none of which he’s proud of, but none of the events that he had to bail out on were as heavy as your birthday—and Yukimiya wouldn’t forgive himself if he had to miss out on it today simply because the team was incompetent and unprepared. 

“I had to leave an hour ago,” Yukimiya says, pointing to the clock that currently reads 5:40 pm. Twenty minutes until your party starts. Forty minutes of his absence so far. “I’m sorry, but can we please quicken up the pace? I have somewhere to be after this.”

The photographer sneers at him. “Well we can’t exactly have a photoshoot with a camera, now can we?”

Yukimiya frowns deeply, but says nothing so as to not irritate him any further and to lengthen the excessive time. He excuses himself haughtily, going into the corridor of the building and pulling out his phone.

—(Y/N)🧡 (4:36 pm) : lmk when u get here! be safe on ur way! —(Y/N)🧡 (4:55 pm) : meguru brought party poppers haha —(Y/N)🧡 (5:07 pm) : hi just wanted to check up rq? is the shoot taking long again :(? —(Y/N)🧡 (5:29 pm) : checking up again? everything ok? —(Y/N)🧡 (5:43 pm) : checking in again, call me back if u can plz!

Missed Calls (2) from (Y/N) 🧡

Yukimiya bites his lip at the notifications, guilt seeping into him. The message he had sent to you after your first check-up text glares a red text on his screen, an exclamation point almost taunting him.

kenyu ! 👓 (4:44 pm) : I think the shoot might take some time again! I’ll try and be there ASAP, ETA 5:30? ( ! ) Not Delivered

He attempts a call, but the line shortly fuses, indicating his cellular service wasn’t going to do him justice in this time of need. With a waning patience, the grip he tortures his phone nearly crushes it and all he can do is just stare at the ticking time on his phone, praying that this will be over soon. 

It’s 6:45 pm and Yukimiya has yet to show up, let alone text or call you back about his whereabouts. The majority of the party guests have shown up, presenting you with smiles and presents and hugs, but none of them measure up to the familiar warmth of your best friend who’s absence fills in his place. 

It should be a fun event. Your apartment is scattered with party decorations, two large balloons indicating your new age bouncing around in your living room with your gifts and cake on the kitchen counter. Everyone is chatting and laughing about, bubbly and ready to party.

Everyone but you. 

You fix up a mask of gratitude, slapping it on whenever someone comes by and talks with you about life and all its other nonsenses. But the moment you’re left alone again, reality settles in you again. 

Sneaking yourself into your bedroom, you reread Yukimiya’s long birthday text that he had sent you at exactly midnight to ground yourself, trying to affirm to yourself that there’s no way that he would do a no-call no-show on your birthday out of all days, but you can’t help but feel a prick of tears in your eyes when you reread the last line of his text, biting your lip. 

—kenyu ! 👓 (12:00 am) : … As your best friend, I’ll be there for you, forever and always. I can’t wait to see you, happy birthday! 🧡🎉

Yukimiya is a good, honest man. You know that better than anyone. But you can’t help but feel doubt finding its way into your chest when you reread his final words of the text over and over again, it doing the exact opposite of what you wanted in the first place.

You close your eyes, resting your forehead against the closed door that blocks you from the liveliness of the party. 

The camera is back up and running, but Yukimiya thinks his luck is thinning by the minute, considering that people are now scrambling to try and find a replacement bulb for one of the lights that fused out just when they were starting to restart. 

Everyone is clearly irritated, but Yukimiya thinks that he’s on the leaderboard for who has it worst. He fists his hair in his hand again as he slumps over in his seat, the No Service in the upper right hand corner of his phone still lingering on his screen. 

It’s 9:01 pm and he’s still at the photoshoot, three hours past the start of your party. Everyone has taken notice of his evident absence, since many of your party guests knew you two were practically glued at the hip. His eyes heavy with exhaustion go to read over the messages people have sent him in the past few hours, a worry embedded in each text.

—Isagi (6:02 pm) : Yukki, are u still coming to the party? —Reo (7:24 pm) : Hey, Yukimiya. Not to scare you, but I think you’re worrying (Y/N). Do you need me to send an Uber to come pick you up? —Karasu (8:12 pm) : yukki, (y/n) is getting kinda stressed rn since you’re still not here. let us know if you’re still coming or not. —Kurona (8:44 pm) : We r about to cut the cake. I’ll save you a slice. Slice 🦈 —Nagi (8:54 pm) : whre u at lol :x

All of his replies have refused to send to his frustration, that dastardly red text under each of them making him grind his jaw. He’s been at this set for much too long—a few hours more than normal. He’s tired, his eyes heave, and all he wants to do is just come back to you and celebrate your birthday. 

“Yukki, start getting ready!” the photographer calls, making him lift his head up. “We’ve managed to find a bulb, retouch with makeup and meet me back here in five.”

He swallows dryly, stretching his aching limbs as he gets up from his chair. 

“How much longer do you think this will take?” he asks again for the nth time, making sure that his fatigue is visible to gather up some sympathy. “I’m really sorry, but I have an important event to go to tonight and I’m already more than an hour late.”

The photographer sighs and puts his hand on his hip. “Is it a funeral?”

Yukimiya blinks. “No.”

“Is it a sick relative in the hospital?” the photographer asks again.

Yukimiya shakes his head.

“Do you have an appointment or somethin’’?” 

Again, Yukimiya says no. 

“Okay well, then I don’t understand what’s up with this sudden urgency,” the photographer mutters. “You know, most people would really do anything to be in your position for as long as possible. You’re not even doing anything and yet you’re still getting paid, so what’s the deal?”

“I have a life outside of my job,” Yukimiya argues, his composure starting to falter. “I was supposed to be here for only three hours and we agreed I’d leave at 4:30. It’s ten past nine at this point.”

“What exactly can you have that is more important than being the face of Versace’s new cologne?” the photographer presses as he adjusts the camera, pressing all of Yukimiya’s buttons unconsciously. “Your ad will be all over the world, you’ll be collecting cash left and right! Opening new doors to endless opportunities! Tell me, Yukimiya… is there genuinely somewhere you have to be that’s more important than this?”

Yukimiya stares at the photographer for a moment, his words echoing in his mind, as if to tease him to consider them. But his stubbornness pushes through, as it always does, and he shakes his head. 

“My best friend’s birthday party is today,” he states lowly. “And I made a promise I’d be there.”

The photographer goes to glance at him from his peripheral vision before barking out a scornful laugh, one that makes some of the crew members and other models chuckle as well behind their hands. 

The photographer ceases his laughter eventually, despite heaving every once in a while. “Yukki, we’re grown adults. I’m sure not missing one party every once in a while would be too bad.”

Yukimiya’s amber hues darken suddenly at the photographer’s statement, disliking his tone and mockery. Was it so wrong to every now and then celebrate a person’s life? Especially if that singular person had changed their own for the better?

The photographer takes notice of Yukimiya’s expression, scoffing. “Don’t start giving me attitude now.”

“I’m not,” he attempts to excuse, despite the vein in his temple throbbing.

The photographer stills for a moment, examining his model’s stiff form, hands fidgeting with his phone. He looks at the window for a moment, taking account of the inky blue black that takes over the sky, then to the clock, then back to Yukimiya, whose glower is still evident. 

“Fine then. You’re a grown adult,” the photographer states with a sardonic tone. “I’ll let you decide. You can either stay here, do your job, and change your life for the better… or you can scurry off to your friend’s little birthday and we can choose another model who’ll actually appreciate the opportunity.”

Yukimiya tenses suddenly at the offering. The photographer had a point—this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that his agency had offered him. To be the face of a brand new cologne from a well-known fashion house meant that you had reached a height in his career, one that could possibly land him new brand deals or modelling chances. 

He’s sure it’ll do well in sales too, considering that his most recent drama he starred in had gained a massive amount of viewers that now know him by not only his face, but his name, a flock of admiration following him wherever he went. Yukimiya Kenyu, model and now an amateur actor.

He reflects back to you, suddenly. Your kind face flashes in his mind, your even kinder words echoing in his ears. About how you’ll always support him from the sidelines, that you’ll be there for him as his career skyrockets. You’ve always been there to support him in whatever decision he made to advance himself in the entertainment industry, always congratulating him with a large smile as he’d show off his newest photoshoot or point out an ad he was in. He had a habit of doing this—reflecting back to you during times like these, something to keep him grounded. 

Apprehension fills his nerves, another swallow running down his dry throat. Yukimiya glances at the prop cologne bottle nestled on a nearby table and picks it up. He lifts his phone up, staring at the date that announces itself on his lockscreen, with the little reminder of your birthday underneath. 

Then he looks back to the photographer, who patiently awaits his response.

Yukimiya clutches the bottle in his hand a little tighter.

The last of the party guests had left some time ago, the remnants of the party still ghosting about your apartment that you decide will clean up tomorrow, your body exhausted from all the emotions you had felt today. 

It’s 11:35 pm. Yukimiya hadn’t shown up to your birthday party. 

You reread your messages that you had sent him over the course of the party, each one of them still rather mild, but always just a slight bit tenser than the previous to indicate your worry. None of them have received a response. You’ve given him an extra three calls that went amiss and even left a voicemail with a tight, shaky voice to make him aware that it was okay for him to stay back and do his job… but just at the very least, let you know.

And yet, you still received no response.

The one person that you wanted to be there for your party had completely left you in the dark. You want to cry, merely due out of confusion and frustration, but you’re so tired you’re not sure you even have the energy to do so. They’ll just be saved for tomorrow, you think. 

You feel selfish for feeling like this—you were still surrounded by people that were equally as excited to celebrate with you, new memories being made for tonight, but the bitter aftertaste of Yukimiya’s absence has yet to dissolve on your tongue. He was your best friend after all, so for him to not show up without warning, especially considering he had promised to do so, made your chest ache. 

But you’re tired. Your eyes are heavy with sleep. You figure that your questions will be answered tomorrow. 

You shuffle yourself into the duvet of your bed, ready to completely knock out and recharge yourself from the happenings of today, when suddenly—your doorbell rings. 

With nerves electrifying, and your body shoots up at the sudden sound singing in your apartment at the odd hour. You pause, just simply staying in bed for a bit, before the doorbell rings again—twice this time, almost desperate. 

Caution prevails within you and you’re nothing less than suspicious as you creep outside your bedroom and into the main room of your apartment where the entrance is. It’s damn near midnight, and you’re not expecting anyone to arrive at this hour other than sinister things. 

The doorbell rings again, the chime tolling almost hauntingly so. The person outside is stubborn, whoever they are, and they don’t seem to be leaving soon unless they get a response. You tiptoe towards the entrance as softly as possible, avoiding the creakier parts of the floorboard to make your presence known. 

The rapid knock the outsider raps against your door makes you nearly shriek with fright when you’re just about to peer your eye into the peephole, the sudden sound making you paralyzed in your position, but a familiar voice suddenly melts away at your frozen limbs.

Yukimiya’s voice calls out your name from the other side. 

“I-It’s Kenyu! Can you open up, please?” 

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you open the door, your desperation to see him overtaking your common sense. The door swings open and Yukimiya reveals himself in a rather disheveled manner. His hazelnut hair is messy, stressed strands straying over. There’s a light mist of sweat on his forehead, and his clothes are wrinkled. He’s even panting.

But in his arms are a large bouquet of neatly arranged flowers, two gift bags stuffed to the brim with wrapping paper of your favorite color, and a small cake in a clear plastic container that he somehow hasn't messed up in the slightest despite all the items he’s carrying. 

All of them are a visible display of effort in his typical Yukimiya-esque fashion.

You take a step back a bit, still startled.

“Kenyu,” you start dryly, “w-what is—”

“I’m sorry,” he splutters, chest still heaving. “I’m… I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to bail on you. I swear to God, I didn’t—but the team was being inefficient, they were holding me kinda hostage, m-my messages weren’t sending—”

At his last words, your eyes widen, the heaviness in them dissipating. 

“—then my train got delayed and I tried to take a cab, but there was traffic, and then I couldn’t find a bakery that was open this hour for the cake, and then—”

“Kenyu,” you say softly, cutting through his rambling with a gentle cease. Yukimiya blinks, pausing and looking at you wondrously. 

You take a step back, welcoming him in. “Come inside, first.”

You find that there have been a plethora of obstacles that Yukimiya had to go through to get to you today as he sets down his many gifts, one of them being that the building the shoot was in had terrible service proven by the mass amount of texts he had tried to send you hours earlier. You find your gaze softening at his waterfall of unsent replies as you scroll, the ache in your heart fixing itself up as the reality of the situation settles in. 

“They got so mad when I left,” he weakly chuckles when you return his phone back to him. “There goes that gig, I guess. My manager’s gonna be so pissed.”

Time stops for a bit.

“Wait, what?” you shake your head, looking up at him with widened eyes. “You didn’t finish the shoot?” 

Yukimiya, still with a grin on his lips, shakes his head. Your jaw nearly unhinges itself at the shock, and you scramble to say something but he beats you to it, pressing a finger to your lips. 

“I know what you’re going to say. Something about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” he says. “But… I swore to you I’d be here for your birthday, and my promise to you goes deeper than the one with my agency.”

His words cease your own attempt to rise up in your throat, succumbing you to a stunned silence as he tenderly places the candles on the small cake. You can only watch as he strikes a match, gently lighting up the wicks of the candles that gleam brightly amidst the dim glow of your kitchen light.

Years ago, when he had gotten upgraded to a professional entertainment agency from his modelling one, you had nervously explained to him over one dinner that you were scared that he might drift away from you as he climbed the stairs of stardom. You and him were best friends after all, and had stuck by each others’ sides for years on end, and you figured that there would be no point in your life that you would imagine yourself without him—the very image of it frightened you.

But Yukimiya had sworn to you, your pinkies intertwined as he wiped away some tears, that there’d be no lifetime where he’d leave you behind. That regardless of what happens, he’ll make sure you’re still there with him. He’s still there with you.

He holds the cake up to you, admiring how the marigold from the candles glimmers on your face as you stare at the cake. 

Yukimiya turns to the microwave’s clock, a soft smile on his lips as he reads the time.

It’s freshly 11:59 pm, and Yukimiya is now here with you on your birthday with less than a minute to spare. 

“We’ve still got some time,” he murmurs tenderly, fondness in his eyes that illuminate from the candles. “Happy birthday. Make a wish.”

Your eyes close, veiling you from the way that Yukimiya looks at you so dearly from across, taking the time to admire all your best features. He mouths a specific eight-letter word silently to you just before your eyes open again, his hushed proclamation to you kept hidden for himself—just until he’s ready to announce it to you, full and true.

You take a deep breath… and blow the candles out. Just five seconds shy of midnight.

It’s a few years later; you’re both older and wiser. Your lives are still just as intertwined as they had been, unwilling to untangle themselves anytime soon, even with your differences. Your career has flourished kindly, and Yukimiya’s own has just started to peak after his hit drama. 

And yet, despite all the ads you’ve passed by of him modelling, despite all the headlines that shine his name proudly, despite all the articles about him being a rising star… he’s still here for you, with you.

And he always will be.

a/n : thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are the best way to support creators you enjoy, and leaving one will always be noticed and appreciated ♡ !!

[soulrox]

Flowing Blood - Demon Twin AU

DPxDC #28

This got away from me...was meant to be a small thing to get outta my head, then 4k words later it's still not done, but I cannot figure out an actual end, so it's just ends abruptly. Be warned, it's long

"Only one heir is needed. Fight to the death to get rid of the spare."

Swords clash against one another. A fierce duel where neither combatant wants to win. Both fighters back away from each other. Identical childish (7yrs) faces mirror each other. Sky blue eyes lock with forest green ones. Eyes that scream in pain for what must be done. The victor was known to them before their blades first touched.

Danyal thinking to himself: I love and care for Dami. I always do all the tasks for the league, killing any and all, so that Dami never has to bloody his hands. Dami's an artist, a creator; he shouldn't have to do this. I can not harm my little brother. I love him. I have protected him from things I hope he never knows. How can grandfather expect me to harm Dami. I cannot ever hurt him. There is only one way this goes. I'm sorry Damian, please forgive me.

Damian thinking to himself: I know I have always been protected by Danyal. I know that Danyal has been harmed before in my place. I know that I have never killed. Grandfather expects me to die, as I am the weaker one. No, not weak, never weak. Danyal has always told me my talents are to create, so why should I ever have to bloody myself? I cannot hurt Danyal, but I know he cannot harm me. There's only one way this goes. I'm sorry Danyal, please forgive me.

Damian gets a hit in. His sword is plunged through Danyal's chest. The duo huddle into each other in a facsimile of a hug. Danyal whispers into Damian's ear "It's fine, I'm fine, you're fine, I'm sorry, Dami. Forgive me. I'm so sorry, I forgive you. I love you. I-I Forgive You." The presumably final words ever to be spoken by Danyal Al Ghul.

Damian stayed stoic as well as he could with his brother's blood on his hands. His dead brother by his own hands. Oh, how much in that moment, Damian wishes he could cut off his hands.

Danyal's body gets carted away, all traces he ever existed erased. Except for the sword now owned by Damian, an engraving of stars upon the hilt. While Damian's sword with a pencil and paint brush carved in the hilt gets thrown in the pit with Danyal, neither surfacing forever to be apart of the pit.

Fast forward, Damian's lived with Wayne's since 10

Bruce decided that for Damian's 14th birthday, he would organize a surprise for him. A section of the Gotham museum to hold and showcase his artistic ability. Damian is an artist. Anything and everything is his medium. Many, many sketch books get filled by him. Most (all) of which the rest of the family has never seen. Painting is the one outlet that Damian rarely uses. Or does so in secret. As canvases are harder to hide than books.

Bruce ropes in the rest of his kids to help. The kids help because if it goes good, they'll add their name to the gift. They end up going through all of Damian's works to find items to showcase. (None of them even once think how going through his art will not make him happy)

Several sketch books are seemingly filled with self-portraits. The family, upon seeing the endless self-portraits, starts thinking that Damian might be way more self-absorbed than they ever imagined. Several who noticed are confused as to why the eyes are always greener than blue. Everything changes when Cass stumbles upon a very well-hidden canvas.

Two identical young boys wearing league clothes, smiling softly, only distinguished by their eye colors. The one on the right with crystal clear blue eyes is depicted with tears rolling down his face, while his right arm holds up a sword, with blood dripping down the blade, hitting the ground. His left hand rests by his side with bloody fingertips. The one on the left with forest green eyes has his left arm raised, also holding a sword. But his sword seems to be made of blood; the blood flows down his arm, connecting to a bloody chest wound. His right hand rests by his side, dripping in blood. A hauntingly beautiful painting with so much agony and pain seen in every brush stroke. Signed by Damian. - The title on the back calls it "I'm Sorry Dear Brother"

[danikamariewrites]

marrying mob!az please 🩷 loving your writing so much 🩷

Note: thank you anon! Today is the last day of headcanon bingo. Thank you for playing along and celebrating 3k with me 🫶🏻 I appreciate you all so much

Warnings: none

When Azriel decided to propose he called a meeting while you were out

Who was in that meeting? Only the most important people. Cassian, Rhys, Mor and Feyre

Their opinions mattered most when it came to how he proposed and what kind of ring he should get you

Once Azriel told the group he’s proposing they all started screaming and jumping for joy

Cassian tackled Azriel

Mor, Feyre, and Rhys just held hands and spun around in a circle

Complete chaos, all Azriel’s fault

He was starting to regret asking them for help

Once order was restored Mor and Cassian tried to take over on ring design

Everything was overwhelming Az until Feyre, calm and helpful Feyre, shushed them. “I think this is my area of expertise.” And she was correct

That afternoon Feyre guided Azriel to this small jewelry shop. Az was confused at first. He wants to get you a nice expensive ring. Not something from here

“I see your scowl and I’m asking you to trust me on this. I know y/n, Azriel.” He took a deep breath and held the door open for her

He was so wrong about the shop. Each ring was handmade and custom. The jewels expensive and only made with the best silver and gold. Feyre was a huge help. Reminding Azriel what metal you wear and helping him design a piece of art you can wear forever

5 agonizing weeks later when the ring was done Azriel rushed to pick it up

He didn’t know if he should wait and plan the perfect moment or if she should just get on one knee now

Azriel was very nervous he’d misplace the ring and he would never forgive himself

That’s when the perfect idea hit him. Dinner in the gardens, just the two of you, and he’d propose that night

You truly had no idea Azriel was proposing

He did a good job at hiding it from you

Cassian and Rhys almost ruined it. And Azriel’s money was on Mor and Cassian not being able to keep their mouths shut, not Rhys

You’d never seen Azriel so nervous in the moments before he got down on one knee

You were crying as you said yes. Once Az slipped the ring in your finger (a perfect fit) the two of you wouldn’t let go of each other

A few weeks later wedding planning was in full swing

You had a wedding planner, decided on your date, destination, and venue

All that was left were the small details even though there was no such thing as

Azriel was committed to doing everything with you

Picking the napkins and seating, cake tasting, and if he could go dress shopping with you he would

On the day of your wedding Azriel sent a pair of earrings to the bridal suite that match the stone in your ring along with a note telling you how much he loves you

You do your vows in private after the ceremony

The vows Azriel has for you are for your ears only

The two of you dance all night

You can’t stand being away from your husband for more than 2 minutes of you drift away to greet a guest or get a drink

Azriel can’t keep his hands off you and keeps calling you ‘my beautiful wife’ and watches you blush like crazy

After the ceremony and party you two go home and in the morning head straight for the jet for your honeymoon

Married life is perfect with Azriel

It’s like you guys brought the honeymoon home

Azriel has been happy no matter what news he’s given at work

It’s ok, if something goes wrong he can just go hug and kiss his wife and it’ll be all better

He spends more time out of his office just so he can say ‘I’m going to go see my wife’

You two go on walks just to get out of the house during the day and he loves hearing you talk more than ever now

You’ve always yapped at him but there’s something different about it now

When you two go to an event Azriel loves introducing you as his wife

And you love telling people ‘oh, my husband is looking for me. Excuse me’ or ‘my husband loves that’ or ‘my husband is the same way’

You swear you fell more in love with each other ever since you got married

[al3xand3r245]

I would like to consider myself a pretty normal person. Oh, i hadn't started off that way. Attempted murder of your parents at ten years old is a pretty black mark on your record. Still, it had been enough for the cops to be called, CPS to get involved, and soon I was on the road to recovery. People tend to forgive children subject to mental torture. I am aware of my eccentricity, i am aware that i am not a pleasant person to be around. I try play the game as well as possible. I have a day job, i have hobbies.

I even have a somewhat popular youtube channel. It's mostly a place to air my thoughts, focusing on the morbid and disturbing. True crime, horror. It's natural i'd find it attractive. Don't worry, I would never actually hurt someone, i can promise you that. So imagine my surprise when, doing some surface level research for a video on dopplegangers, i find out that the earth bet version of me is a serial killer.

It's a bit of a kick to the face, in all honesty. I may be skeptical of playing the game of respectability, but i do play it. I pretend to have manners, to be polite. Fake it to you make it. It just... bothers me. In a way i can't describe. If i were to have superpowers, that instead of being a hero, i'd resort to butchering anyone i came across.

Everyone likes to think they'd be a hero. That if they were given a chance, they'd be one of the angels. I surprised myself, thinking i'd do that as well. Sure, maybe my empathy is dulled, but altruism isn't the only reason to help people. I though i may appreciate the attention, the acclaim. I suppose being a serial killer at least grant you infamy.

He calls himself Jack Slash, my doppleganger. I have to admit, there is something there. A stupid name that people are obligated to respect, due to the sheer body count he carries. He kills people.

Does it scare me a little i know why? I understand, in a way. A want to watch the world burn. I didn't think i would do it. I didn't think he would do it? Given the opportunity. I was born before the split. I'm nearly forty. I always knew i had a copy. I just assumed he was essentially the same as me. That if he were cape, he would at least on the side of the angels. He isn't, of course.

It's frustrating. Again, I at least try. I try to fit into polite society, try to move past what was done to me. I went through hell, but that doesn't mean i'm going to snap and consign others to it. Barring exceptions. I was ten, the courts agreed I wasn't culpable.

This guy didn't try. He got his power, and decided that he was going to hurt as many people as possible. Because he could. Because no one could stop him.

I sometimes wished I had a power. It's an infantile daydream many have. To right wrongs, to fight crime. To have respect, to be applauded. I didn't know exactly why i wanted it. I assumed it was for one of those reasons.

I now know why i wanted one. I even know how i would use it.

I really wish i didn't know.

ok new funniest earth aleph situation. niche video essayist Jacob Black finds out with horror about the fact that his alternate universe self is Jack Fucking Slash.

Imagine watching a 2 hour video where a man grapples with the fact that in a very slightly different universe he became The Fucking Joker.

[22ayla21]

The Titan's Curse

The price of immortality is always steep, especially when you have to watch your loved ones grow old and pass away.

Mydei couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when time seemed to stop touching him. It flowed around him, while he... remained still. The reflection in the mirror changed so slowly it was as if carved from stone. Scars vanished, his hair never lost its color, and his heart beat with an unchanging rhythm, no matter how many years went by.

At first, he took it as a gift. Then – as a blessing. And later, he understood: it was a reckoning. For strength. For the victory that had made him something more than human. His body had grown stronger, his soul filled with the power of the world and the heavens. And now he knew for sure: he was repeating Nikador's path.

The one who had once been a hero. The one who had been the Strife Titan. And the one who had eventually gone mad.

But there was still time. Time to love.

His wife laughed in the garden, scooping up their youngest daughter, who was reaching for the flowers. His son boasted of his successes, and his middle child – of her victories in the arena. The house hummed with living, simple, human sounds.

He absorbed each one of them.

He memorized the scent of her hair when she fell asleep on his chest after the day. The sight of her hands – with fine wrinkles from water, but still strong. His daughter's furrowed brow after a loss and his son's gaze, full of respect that Mydei considered undeserved.

Years flew by swiftly. For everyone – except him.

First, she was gone. Not in battle. Not from a wound. Just... one day she didn't wake up.

He held her hand until the very end. And then for many hours more. Not believing. Not letting go.

And then – the children. One after another. They lived long, happy lives. Each became a parent. Each left something good behind. And each, dying, asked him: "Live. For us."

He lived.

Grandchildren grew up and then grew old. He helped them. With building houses, with working the fields, with protection. And then he buried them. Again and again. He erected new graves next to the old ones. He knew them by name. By dates. By the voices that echoed in his head more often than the voices of those who remained.

Great-grandchildren... Over time, they began to look at him with unease. Some revered him. Some feared him. He understood. He was a stranger to them. Immortal. Strange. Unchanging.

His beloved granddaughter once whispered:

"Grandfather, you smell of old times. Like you're a page from a book that can no longer be opened."

He smiled. But didn't show how it wounded him.

And then... he was alone. The entire lineage – on cold stones. Names, dates, withered flowers. Mydei came every day, placed his palm on the gravestones. He could still hear their voices. He tried to talk to them, as if they could answer.

But the silence grew deeper. And the loneliness squeezed his throat tighter and tighter.

He stopped going out. He found himself talking to himself more and more often. He thought he heard his wife's voice. Or his daughter's laughter in the garden. Or his son calling him to training.

They came to him... only in dreams.

And then the nightmares began.

He saw his hands covered in cracks, his face crumbling in the mirror, the sky groaning with unknown sounds. He heard laughter turning into screams. He felt something alien, cold, rebellious, growing in his chest.

Strife. The curse.

He screamed into the void. Called her name. Begged for forgiveness. For staying. For being alive. For not being able to bring them back.

With each passing day, reality became more and more ghostly. He sat in the empty house and talked to shadows. Wrote letters to nowhere. Sewed clothes that no one would wear.

He broke.

He became what Nikador had once been – a being who had outlived his humanity. A titan without a home. Without a family. Without reason.

And only sometimes, in the stillness of the night, through the haze of longing, he remembered:

Her hands. Her eyes. Her words: "You are my lion. Even if you ever become a god – remember who taught you to love."

He fell to his knees before the grave, gasping for breath with tears.

He wanted to die. But he couldn't. His curse was to live.

And in this infinity, in this madness, only one bright, warm spark flickered – love.

And so Mydei... still loved. Even plunged into madness.

[callme-holly]

Hi!! I love your fics sm and was wondering if you could do a Dallas x reader where they get into a big argument or something else angst but then a happy ending? Thank you in advance 💕

𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 - 𝐃.𝐖 headcanons + imagine

a/n: im loving all this angst atm. tysm for the request!!

Dallas has an incredibly bad temper, and while he cares about you more than he cares about other people, it doesn’t mean you don’t get under his skin, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re exempt from his anger. 

When you zwei do argue, it's loud and quick and sometimes can get a little rough. He won’t ever lay a hand on you, but the words exchanged are heated and cut deeper than any blade ever could.

He won’t back down until you do and likes to have the upper hand. He won’t ever admit, he’s wrong, no matter the argument.

Your fights are usually over stupid, little things that really don’t matter in the big picture. At some point, you probably both forget whatever it is you were fighting about and just find random things to dig at instead. 

He always storms out afterwards, often leaving for hours at a time before dragging himself back. He doesn’t apologise—not with words—but you can tell he regrets it from the way he actually comes home to you. 

When you forgive him, he’ll try and act like it never happened, brushing it under the rug and carrying on with life like usual.

The door slammed so hard that the whole house seemed to rattle, the windows shaking in their frames, everything shuddering like a kitten in the snow. The sound reverberated off the walls, and you turned to glare at Dallas; another reason for you to yell.

“Do you have to do that?” You snapped, stepping towards him, and he scoffed, towering over you.

“Do what, doll?” His tone was condescending, a cutting remark that wasn’t meant to sweeten you up.

“Slam things! Act rough all the time!” Your voice was just as harsh as his own, matching it in volume, the bite behind your words dangerous. “I’m sick of it, Dal!”

Dallas shook his head in response, brushing past you, shoulder bumping yours as he passed. The action was careless, done in a way that was meant to be infuriating. “You signed up for this! If you’re that sick of it, fucking leave!” 

“Maybe I will!”

Your words hung in the air like a death sentence; they brought a sense of dread over Dallas, a feeling that was unfamiliar and sickening. Dread pooled in his stomach, twisting and churning, but he refused to show it. 

Instead, he remained deathly silent, back turned to you, not giving you the satisfaction of the hit. “Fine.” He snapped. “Go. See if I give a damn, man.” 

The finality in his words hit you like a freight train, unrelenting and holding no remorse. You were left staring at his back, waiting helplessly for him to turn and look at you, to apologise… But you knew he wouldn’t. 

He never did. 

So instead, you shuffled to sit down on the edge of the bed, bringing your knees to your chest, ignoring the burn in your throat. Your gaze never left him; he paced, cursed, and hit the wall with a force that made you flinch.

And then… he sat down on the floor beside you, leaning ever so slightly into your legs. 

It wasn’t a sorry, at least not a verbal one, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. It was the best you were going to get of him showing the rawer side of him, the “apologetic” side. 

Your fingers threaded into his blonde strands, nails scratching along his scalp, revelling in the way he relaxed under your touch. 

And when he pulled away just enough to kiss you, it was rough, filled with a thousand things neither of you needed to voice to understand. It was like an unspoken promise; he wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were you.

At least not yet. 

[yasuumiu]

𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬, his heart whole; ᘓ ݂ ໋ . 🍎

SYNOPSIS. his entire life, he’s never looked away from you. how do you not see this; how can you not know? what must he do to make you see?

WORD COUNT. 3.2k | WARNINGS. cunnilingus, use of pet names, angst.

𓏲  .⋆ﾟ. ͘ ࣭⠀⸰ absolutely devastated by this pixelated man, and cannot form any coherent thoughts except this. enjoy 🤍

This is what it will be like from now on, he thinks. Me here, and her over there, far away from me, a place I can never reach. Two lines parallel to each other, where before was one.

Fine by him. If he gets to look over you, after you, the separation is bearable. Distinguishable, like an arm losing feeling over time when all its life it’s known otherwise, like his arm—the hand relaxes the unconscious fist, its fingers flexing once, his jaw clenching at the numbness of the movement; he clearly remembers, not too long ago—he wants to remember, he wants—but bearable.

Your necklace scrapes against his chest, the constant reminder, the gift that haunts, the promise he can never break. And still, you—you, you, you—beyond the glass, laughing away with these so-called friends you haven’t seen in a while, not a care in the world about what time it is, about the unanswered calls on your phone, about Caleb—

(He does not let this thought fester like all the others, he will keep this to himself, he will do this for you.) (One of them is a man, don’t move, stay, she’ll get mad, she’ll demand fucking space again—how do you know him, where did you meet, who is he, what does he want—well, what every man wants, what everyone will want if he’s not there to keep you safe—how can you be so naive, so blind—and you dare order him away?)

You’re all grown up now, and so sure of everything, aren’t you, pip-squeak?

He’s sick to his stomach. Even after all these years, the countless sleepless nights tossing and turning, insomnia beating on his skull like a well versed drum, the relentless self-training; teaching himself how to physically turn away from you, all the appropriate responses, but forbidden to cross the Invisible Line, the line that was kept in place for your sake, your selfish convenience; how to keep himself stock-still, to pretend to be normal for you, to not reply instinctually to what he feels for you, how he feels—it all threatens to obliterate him as soon as he loses even an ounce of control.

Shove it down. Shove.It.Down. You’re used to it. You cannot fail now. You cannot fail.

Caleb straightens, his resolve absolute, his purpose unshaken. It’s pitiful, he’s well aware, but it’s all he has left. You’re all he has left. The body holding together knows.

He scorched the earth to find all your missing pieces, slowly reassembling how he knew you before, without thinking you might’ve changed in the time between then and after. And it doesn’t matter. He never once looks away from you. He does it all very, very diligently. And if something is wrong, if he did do something wrong—will you please consider forgiving him? You see, he’s tired. He’s been doing this for a really long time. Over and over with no end in sight.

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

Never faltering.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten. I’ll remind you. I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

You won’t be alone anymore. I’ll always be by your side.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten . . . It’s okay.

I’m Caleb.

I forget things too. Everything, sometimes.

You’re the only thing that brings him back. The anchor that pulls him in. His very own navigation system. He doesn’t go anywhere without you. He can’t.

He hides, instead. Watches from afar. That way, you never part from him, and he can keep an eye on you, just how it’s always been. He keeps his hands very close to himself, and he doesn’t dare want any more than he’s allowed to. What happened a few minutes ago—it’s erased, discarded somewhere deep within him, somewhere he’d have to die to reach.

The coffee shop’s door opens, and the sun comes out, burning. You don’t notice him, not at first. This way, he gets to see you happy a little while longer. The friendly way you say your goodbyes, the soft wave of your hand, your mouth, how it pulls at the corners, how the clouds have moved, how concepts like redemption and salvation become a little more real, a little more possible for someone like him.

Do you know—the Heavens come down for you? And him, forever the snake, forever the apple given, slithering towards the Garden of Eden, condemned to entice but never taste, the original sin, punished to come close but not close enough, exiled, accursed.

He fills with desire, he prays. He speaks your name very quietly, and he hopes, and he waits.

When your eyes meet his own, it’s the Chronorift Catastrophe all over again. Massive stars die, their cores collapsing, the gravity immense, the density so high not even light can escape it. Black holes are born out of his Evol—the world caves in on itself. You blink and it happens again. Caleb has no control over it. Over himself, over this unspoken thing between you that’s been happening ever since creation.

Reprogram. Reprogram.

The man hugs you, unaware. Caleb can’t fault him, funnily enough, though it takes everything he fucking has not to answer to the nasty tightening of familiar jealousy inside his chest. Lightning courses through his veins, fingers begging to destroy, to bleed, to make an even bigger mess of things.

No.

He refuses adamantly, and moves his head to the side, severing all contact with you and your dangerous gaze, choosing to bite his tongue until he tastes copper, and ground himself to the cement underneath his boots.

He wants to grab you and shake you and demand. He doesn’t suppose you know what that means. He doesn’t know either. He knows so little about you these days, it seems. Much less about himself, and all this distance you’ve put between you. The unfairness isn’t lost on him. What is he doing here, waiting like this, when you’ve so easily moved on? If he had never glimpsed into that little window of your life today, would he have even known?

That there’s no value to his life anymore? That he signed it all away for the safety of a girl that puts her life in danger so easily, so recklessly, at every possible turn? What will it take to make you realize the evil lurking two steps behind at all times, and what if he’s not there when it decides— What does he have to do?

What more? What else?

Anger. Tap into it. It’s safer. It’s what you have. Copious fucking amounts of it.

He doesn’t see the way you don’t react to the man’s advances. How you hesitate after that. How sorry you are.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Caleb deflects. Puts on that see-through smile you hate the most, his amethyst eyes glinting with secrets and artificial sweetness. It’s getting harder to pretend, much harder to play the convincing role and keep the circus going. He attempts it anyway, even with the look you’re giving him. Against it.

“Not long,” he lies, and motions for you to follow. “It’s late. Did your phone die, or something?”

You lie too. “Yeah, sorry, were you calling? Forgot to charge it, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

Then, “How’d you know where I was, anyway?”

He doesn’t reply. You huff and slow down your steps. Caleb shuts his eyes tight for a second, breathing deeply, fighting multiple urges. This is already going terribly. He was only supposed to pick you up and bring you home. Ask if you had fun and deliver you to your room, where you were to stay for the rest of the night. It’s never easy with you. It will never be.

“Caleb.”

“Pip-squeak.”

“Answer me.”

He swallows with difficulty and resumes walking, fists at his sides. He doesn’t hear your footsteps trailing, but he does not stop. You’ve been stubborn all your life, but so has he. There is nothing wrong with having a way to know where you are. It is his job. His top priority. You can’t possibly be mad, especially with the way you’ve been acting. He can’t have you venture too far off by yourself. Not when he’s so close . . .

“Get in the car,” he says firmly, opening the door for you.

There’s fire crackling in your eyes. He’s seen it a million times. He’s wished to light himself on it, hand outstretched, a willing sacrifice for you. What will you say now, if he offered that same hand? Would you recognize the wrongness of it? Would you stomp your foot how you did when you were little, the whole world at your beck and call because he made it be so? Would you carry him back like he did?

“Is that the Colonel’s order?” your voice is full of the same emotion that governs him. It pierces through all defenses and lands straight through his heart. A clean shot.

He finds the damn thing still beating.

Caleb sighs and leans against the door of his vehicle, arms crossing one over the other. You mimic his stance. He smirks at you, feigning amusement, terrified inside.

“You already know the answer, sweetheart.”

“I want to hear you say it,” you retort, and he can’t stand the disappointment in your voice.

He ignores the very prominent tug of pure shame, and puts the fleet’s officer cap of indifference on for a little longer. “What do you want me to say?”

“That this is insane! That it cannot possibly go on.” You move faster than he anticipates, your small hands shoving at him with all your might yet failing to move even an inch of him. You try anyway. Again and again, until your eyes are wet, and your cheeks red with fury. He lets you, does nothing to stop you.

Not even when there’s people passing by, their accusatory glances messing with his already quickening temper. You can do whatever you want to him, but he cannot let you tarnish your reputation as a hunter for something as trivial as this. He won’t accept it.

“I’m taking you home. You can be mad all you want there.”

The silence that ensues makes him wish for a second death. A slow, painful one. One he can never come back from.

Because he’s responsible for this mistrust, this suspicion you won’t seem to shake off. He caused it, it’s his fault, his fault, his fault—

No matter how hard he tries to fix it. It’s beyond repair.

You’re leaving.

First thing in the morning. This was clearly a mistake, you tell him while slamming your suitcase open on his floor. He watches you do so, disgusted with despair. I’m not sure what I was thinking, clothes on his bed, shoes by his front entrance, your brush on his sink, your hand tearing apart whatever semblance of a man he scrambled to come up with to appease you.

My Caleb is gone.

He lunges towards you, your gasp the only indication of fear; he knew, of course he knew. You were afraid of this new version of him. The version that somehow commands an entire fleet, goes on classified missions that go against everything you’ve worked for as a Hunter, and keeps secrets from the same someone he used to sing lullabies to during bad summer storms. The version that would lock her inside a stranger’s room, inside a stranger’s house.

But really, wasn’t he always like this? The signs were there all along. He’d locked you in the attic before. He’d kept you there all day, knowing very well how you’d react, how you’d run to him after the coincidental rescue, declare him the hero. This darkness has been inside him for a long time. You’ve just been very good at looking the other way, very good at taking, not so very good at giving. Are you, pip-squeak?

When I don’t fit your definition of who ‘Caleb’ is, you simply shun me away and wipe your hands clean of me. I’m the one stuck here. Astute. Unable to move. Unable to let you go.

It ends here.

Your wrist is impossibly small as his fingers wrap around it, yanking, pulling you against his feverish body. You fight but only for a moment, his other hand coming to rest right above your mouth, rendering you mute, eyes wide, expecting, calculating.

“Will I do it?” He muses, violet eyes boring into yours, his desire palpable, his want a thousand knives, all double sided, honed for the perfect kill. You breathe deeply, trying to calm down that beating heart he so envies. Caleb leans further, hovering over you like a nightmare. “Will you let me, (Y/N)?”

You shake your head slightly, your brows furrowing with poignant emotion. Sadness. Towards what? Him? He can’t help but chuckle at the clueless girl in front of him. How he fought to stay the kindhearted boy from your childhood, at least in your eyes. He would’ve kept with the facade all his years, if it meant you’d always look at him with that proud expression he remembers from his college days. If it was truly up to him, you would’ve never seen him like this.

Alas, it was never up to him. Not once. Not ever.

“I must be pretty fucking pathetic to you, isn’t that right?”

Your gaze shatters and drops. Caleb presses on, fed up with himself, the self-loathing successfully managing to escape that dark pit at the bottom of his soul.

“What game are we playing now, pip-squeak? How do I win it?” He tilts your chin up, forcing your attention back on him. “Hmm?”

Seeing you cry will never get easier for him. It will always stab at him from the inside out, memories cataclysmic, and him, defenseless, useless, responsible, because—because—

“There was never any game, Caleb,” you breathe out, shakily. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Amethyst eyes lose the eternal fight, fall closed. His hands move, over your neck, hesitating there, tightening on your shoulders, bringing you close, holding you to him. Even like this. At least you’re here. Even like this.

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Say it again.”

He feels your ribs, their inhale, then the defeat—your head against his uniform-clad chest, your ear pressing closer, trying to listen for something that hasn’t worked right in a long time.

“Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb . . .” In the dead of night, he’s resurrected. “Come back to me,” a whisper of singular light that pierces through him, pierces through him, pierces through him.

It hurts. His love is not a good love, it is a violent one. A miserable existence, created from pain, from insatiable greed, from gut-wrenching need.

He kisses you. Grabs your face and walks you backwards to the nearest wall, his fingers buried deep in your hair, clenching, his mouth over yours, claiming, searching, your breath his own, your voice his own, your body, your body—

“You’re mine,” he rasps, drowning in you, lips trailing a path down, down, to your throat, where he sucks, where he marks. “You’ve always been, you’ll always be.”

“I don’t need you to—”

Caleb chuckles darkly. “You don’t need me? Is that what you think?” His feeling hand crawls over your flaming skin, reaching between you, under your skirt, your thigh, the inside of it, the place he’s been dreaming about, touching there. You cry out, surprised, aroused. “Tell me exactly what you don’t need, honey. Don’t leave nothing out.”

You say nothing, embarrassment flushing your pretty face in pinks. He wipes your tears very patiently, and slowly gets on one knee, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you, and isn’t that a sort of christening as well?

A man demolished, over six feet who-the-fuck-cares, commanding officer of nothing, exiled from his land, turned away from his home. He lost you, and then found you, and now again, this impossible story of repetition that shall never end, like the nightmares, like the torment.

He hugs your legs and rests his forehead on your soft mound. You stand very still, he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. This makes no sense to you. But to him—to him—

You’re sacred. You’re the war that’s raging on. The war he’s fighting for. The country he protects, the nation he serves.

“We’re too old for games, pip-squeak,” he ignores the ball forming in his throat, his burning eyes. “I’m tired.”

Caleb feels your digits digging into his scalp, running through his ragged hair, pulling at the ends, alleviating the pain. He swallows as to not cry out his hunger. The ache, though, it persists, and what to do with it?

It gnaws at him, little by little, every single day.

“It’s different now,” you say. “We’re different.”

He sinks his nose into your warm cunt, and inhales. Your knees buckle, but he holds you, he steadies you against the wall, he’s got you. You try to push, but he grabs your hand, interlocks your fingers with his. You try to speak, but he’s already pushing your underwear to the side, tongue daring to taste.

“Caleb.”

Moaning his name, he’s never heard of anything more beautiful. He wishes you never stop, wishes it more than anything. He almost breaks down right there. This is never going to happen again.

Is he dreaming? Is this a dream?

If it is—

“Don’t leave me,” he guides your leg over his shoulder, and doesn’t dare look up to see your face. You’re willing in his hands and you’re muttering his name. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. “My God, I’ll never forget this—”

You’re so compliant, he could do anything he wanted with you. All the fight had left your body. Was it even there to begin with? He knew you felt it too, he knew—then why condemn you both? Then why deny it?

Caleb didn’t stop believing once. There was no doubt in his mind.

“Please, I can’t,” you sigh, your words jumbled, blurring into one another, while his tongue sucks your clit into his mouth. The reaction he elicits out of you has him rock hard and leaking instantly. “Please, please, please, please. Caleb, I—oh my God—”

He works you up until the edge, feels your thighs shaking, feels the urgency of your fingers pulling. When you’re almost there, he moves away—your slick dripping, his chin glistening—and gets up, in all his height, gaze locking into yours.

You haven’t let go of his hand. He can’t feel a fucking thing.

A new wave of anger suddenly washing over him, he leans down and bites your lip. Your yelp gratifies the hankering inside him. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he only means for you to experience an ounce of what he does every time his body denies him your delicate touch.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he whispers into the dark. “I never thought it possible, only a dream,” he brings you closer once again, hugging you to him as if he could somehow absorb you in on himself.

He senses the change in your demeanor immediately. This shy girl standing in front of him is nothing like the tough Hunter he witnessed infiltrating his fleet single-handedly. For you to be different with him, alone—he feels normal again, if just for a second.

“Have you . . . done this before?” You ask.

Caleb can’t help but laugh. “How could I?” He replies, incredulous. “There’s never been anyone else for me.

“You occupy every single fucking part of me, sweetheart.”

[writing-for-marvel]

Bucky stood in front of you, holding two mugs of coffee, disbelief etched across his features. “Well this is a first. She doesn’t normally do that.”

There is something so damn soft about a love interests pet loving reader from the start 🥰🥰

Bucky’s mouth twitched a little despite himself.

Hehehe he’s falling for her sense of humour, I love it

“I spent half my life with Steve…” Bucky whispered, so softly that you could hardly hear him. “And the other half… not knowing him, or what he meant to me. The brainwashing… it took everything from me. And then by the time I got it back, there was Thanos and the Blip and I didn’t exist for five years and then he was just… gone.”

I’ll never forgive them for Steve’s ending 😭😭😭 he’d never leave Bucky like that and you can’t convince me otherwise!!

He looked down with surprise but for once he didn’t pull away, letting his fingers gently close around yours, savoring the quiet moment of connection. Neither of you spoke, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable, the kind that was more meaningful than words could convey.

Oh my babies!!! I love the slow burn with them, when you get just these little sweet moments that show the feelings that are starting to develop 🥺🥺

You blinked at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. Taking a moment, you let his words sink him. “I guess I just don’t want to feel like I’m letting them down. Or... like I’m still stuck in the same place while they’re moving forward.”

You exhaled sharply, folding your arms across your chest. “Because... because it’s exhausting, alright? The constant questions, the pitying looks, the subtle digs. ‘Oh, you’re still single?’ ‘Maybe you’re being too picky’. Like there’s something wrong with me because I can’t find a suitable partner.”

I feel this sooooo bad, watching so many other people move forward in their lives and I feel like I’m just barely keeping my head above water all by myself

I adored this chapter!! Them being so vulnerable and open with each other, and turns out they have a fair amount in common when it comes to their insecurities of being alone. I know we’ve got a long way to go in their slow burn, but this was such a perfect glimpse into why they are so perfect for each other 🥰🥰

7: THE CAT’S APPROVAL

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Summary: Bucky invites you to his apartment for the first time, but it’s not just his approval you’re worried about— it’s Alpine’s. To your relief, the notoriously picky feline curls up in your lap, and even Bucky is taken aback. The two of you settle in for a quiet night, sharing coffee, memories, and vulnerabilities.

Warnings: Discussions of grief/loss, Steve Rogers mention, mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, light angst, introspection, and emotional vulnerability, fake dating shenanigans turning into real feelings, soft Bucky & affectionate Alpine

Word Count: 3339

“8 PM. MY PLACE. DON’T MAKE ME TEXT YOU.”

“YOU KNOW I’LL MAKE YOU.”

For the first time Bucky agreed to a meeting in his apartment. You were burning with curiosity to see inside. In the past, you’d barely gotten a glimpse inside before he would slam the door shut, so to have finally gained an invitation felt like a big win. Or at least it would have done if you weren’t feeling so anxious.

Bucky opened the door and you stepped inside and the voice inside your head piped up again. You tried to ignore it, looking around at the sparsely furnished living room, but it was getting louder than ever. This time it wasn’t about Bucky, in fact you’d actually started feeling quite comfortable around him— no, this was about Alpine. The small white cat’s approval felt like it carried an absurd amount of importance in your mind, even though you couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was because Bucky clearly adored her, or maybe it was because it was easier to think about impressing a cat than the man standing a few feet away. Either way, you took a deep breath and tried to steady your nerves.

“So,” you said, toeing off your shoes and padding across the room to the couch. “We’ve been dating for, what, six months now? Taking it slow, keeping it caszh. Have we said ‘I love you’ yet?”

Bucky shot you a deadpan look from behind his kitchen island. “Probably not.”

You grinned, making yourself comfortable and then leaned over the back to the couch to talk to him. “Come on, you’re a big ‘ole softie inside. I bet you’d be the first one to say it, too.”

He muttered something, but you couldn’t quite catch it over the sound of his coffee maker. You were just settling back into the couch cushions when you caught the soft patter of paws. You turned your head in time to see Alpine pounce onto the coffee table.

“Hi, Alpine,” you whispered, nervously.

To your shock and Bucky’s— judging by the way he froze on the other side of kitchen island— Alpine made a beeline straight for you. She pranced up onto the couch and into your lap with grace, kneading your thighs with her tiny paws. After a few moments, she curled up and let out a contented purr, promptly falling asleep.

Bucky stood in front of you, holding two mugs of coffee, disbelief etched across his features. “Well this is a first. She doesn’t normally do that.”

“Do what?” you asked innocently as you stroked Alpine’s back.

“I’ve seen her— normally she tries to scratch your eye out if people try to pick her up. She doesn’t trust people… not like that.” He tried to point at Alpine in your lap but only succeeded in making the coffee slosh round and spill over the edges. “Shit,” he mumbled before trying to wipe the streaks of coffee on the side of the mug with his sleeve before setting it on the table beside you.

Bucky sat down beside you, his eyes flicking between you and Alpine, as though trying to find an explanation for his cat’s behavior. A silence fell between you and you suddenly felt compelled to fill it. 

“So, how did you meet Sam?”

The question had sounded so innocent in your head. What Bucky said next was unexpected.

“I didn’t meet Sam,” Bucky started, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into his steaming mug. “He was just there… with Steve. Like a shadow I couldn't shake.” Bucky huffed a small laugh. “One minute, I’m waking up with my arm in a vice, Steve’s giving me the third degree, and Sam’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, looking at me like I killed his dog.”

You watched Bucky intently— Alpine still sleeping soundly in your lap— sensing that there was more to the story.

“Steve trusted him so… I was just supposed to. But the thing about Sam is that he doesn't hold back and he wasn’t afraid to tell me what he thought of me— which, spoiler, wasn’t much.”

“Sounds about right,” you snorted.

Bucky’s mouth twitched a little despite himself. “Then the next thing I know, we’re on the run. Steve’s dragging me around, trying to keep me out of trouble, and there’s Sam, tagging along like he’s somehow part of the package deal. He wasn’t thrilled about it. Neither was I. We didn’t exactly hit it off.”

“I mean, I can see his point of view.”

“Ever tried squeezing into a car with someone who thinks you’re a ticking time bomb? Let’s just say he wasn’t shy about letting me know where I stood.”

You giggled softly, trying to avoid moving and disturbing Alpine’s slumber.

Bucky softened a little as he went on. “But… he had Steve’s back, and that meant he had mine too. Even if he didn’t trust me, he showed up. Things got pretty messy and… he didn’t hesitate to fight for us. Even if he was really annoying.”

“Were you jealous that Steve had another friend?” you asked, a teasing smile on your lips.

Bucky froze, his mug of coffee at his lips, effectively hiding the change in his expression. He made a show of taking a sip before he answered you. “No,” he said flatly, not meeting your gaze.

“Uh-huh,” you drawled, leaning closer. “You weren’t just the tiniest bit jealous that someone else was playing sidekick to your best friend?”

Bucky scowled, but there was no real menace in his face. “I was… cautious. He wasn’t the kind of guy who I’d expect Steve to run with.” He paused for a moment, taking a deep contemplative breath. “Steve was my family,” he said quietly. “For a long time, he was the only family I had. So yeah, maybe it was… weird. Watching him find someone else to have his back. But…”

“But?”

“Sam’s a good guy. And… as much as I hate to admit it, Steve made the right call. He’s loyal. And stubborn. And…” His lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “He annoys the hell out of me. But he’s earned his place.”

You grinned. “Sounds like you actually like him.”

“Don’t push it,” Bucky muttered, but the shy smile and warmth in his voice betrayed his real feelings.

You looked down at Alpine, not at Bucky when you said your next words. They were quiet and careful. “How come you never talk about Steve?”

For a short time only Alpine’s soft snores filled the silence, the rise and fall of her little body grounding you while you waited for Bucky to respond. You glanced over at him and caught the way his jaw clenched as he stared at the television, his mind lost to the past. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said at last, his voice low, almost reluctant. “It’s that I don’t know how to.”

You remained silent, giving him the space to share further if he wanted.

“I spent half my life with Steve…” Bucky whispered, so softly that you could hardly hear him. “And the other half… not knowing him, or what he meant to me. The brainwashing… it took everything from me. And then by the time I got it back, there was Thanos and the Blip and I didn’t exist for five years and then he was just… gone.”

You could see his metal hand resting on his knee, the light reflecting off the gold as he clenched it into a fist. “Now when I think about him, the memories… they don’t… they aren’t what they used to be. And now he’s not here to remind me of what’s real and what I’m missing.”

Your chest ached at his words, but you didn’t interrupt. You just kept stroking Alpine’s fur, having something to focus on to stop your eyes welling with tears.

“I don’t talk about Steve because it hurts,” Bucky said finally, his voice rough around the edges. “And I’m scared that if I start, I won’t stop. That all the good parts of him will get lost in… everything else.”

You nodded, your chest tight with sadness for him. But despite this, you were burning with curiosity. The most you had heard was that Steve Rogers had retired, handing over the mantle of Captain America. There were hundreds of theories online about the whereabouts of Steve Rogers, including one absurd theory suggesting that he now lived on the moon. But the way Bucky spoke about him made you wonder if he was someone even further away…

“It’s okay, Bucky. You don’t have to talk about him if you’re not ready.”

This time he turned to you, his eyes glistening softly. “It’s not about being ready. It’s about…”

“Holding onto what you have?” you guessed astutely.

He blinked at you, surprised, before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to do it, but you leaned towards him— slowly, tentatively, you reached over and took his hand— his vibranium palm, closest to you. The metal felt cool against your skin and for a moment you worried that you had crossed a line

He looked down with surprise but for once he didn’t pull away, letting his fingers gently close around yours, savoring the quiet moment of connection. Neither of you spoke, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable, the kind that was more meaningful than words could convey.

He exhaled, a slow steadying breath, and the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. “Thanks,” he said softly, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

“Steve was lucky to have you,” you said just as quietly.

Bucky couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at the edges of his mouth. “I think it was the other way around.”

Before either of you could say more, Alpine stirred from her spot on your lap and stretched lazily, back arching before she stepped off you. You watched as she ambled toward Bucky, her fluffy tail swaying gracefully. She walked straight into his arms, her blue eyes fixed on his face, as though she could see everything he was trying so hard to hide.

“What’s up, girl?” he murmured.

Alpine didn’t answer, of course. She simply hopped up onto his lap, kneading his chest with her tiny paws before curling against him, her head nuzzled into the crook of his arm. It caught him off guard, but slowly he sighed and relaxed again, letting his right hand sink into her silky white fur. His movements were careful, almost uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure that he deserved her affection, but was grateful for it, all the same.

“She’s got good instincts,” you smiled, watching the way Alpine nestled into him, comforting him in her own way.

“You sure? I mean she fell asleep on you. That’s questionable survival skills, right there.”

You huffed a laugh, mock indignation betrayed by your smile. You didn’t take him too seriously, especially as he hadn’t let go of your hand.

Suddenly, Bucky cleared his throat, shifting in his seat so he could hold Alpine more comfortably. Reluctantly, you slipped your hand out of his but took the opportunity to curl your legs under you and shuffle closer to him. He watched you intently, surprised that you weren’t trying to run away from him. He cleared his throat, eager to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Yeah, I think that’s enough about me. What about you? Shouldn’t I know how you met your friends?”

“They’re the best,” you smiled as you thought of them. “So, Hanna and I met in middle school— we were on the track team together. And Aditi, I’ve known her even longer. We used to go to the same summer camp every year. She finally moved closer to us, and by high school, the three of us were inseparable.”

“Must’ve been nice,” Bucky said quietly.

“It was,” you agreed. “Things changed a little when Hanna and Aditi started dating, though. I mean, I was happy for them—they’re perfect together—but sometimes it made me feel a little... left out, I guess. Like they had this deeper connection that I couldn’t be part of. But they always tried to include me. They’re good people.”

“That’s gotta feel weird, though,” Bucky said, his voice thoughtful. “Being close to people and still feeling... I don’t know. Separate.”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “It’s not like they’ve ever pushed me away or anything. Things just… shifted. They became this ‘unit’ and I wasn’t sure where I fit anymore.”

Bucky tilted his head, his brows knitting together. He watched how you opened your mouth slightly and he could tell there was something else you were thinking about saying, so he stayed silent, giving you the opportunity to express yourself.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m alone… always will be.”

“What about your family?”

“My parents died really soon after I was born. My grandmother raised me but she… passed away a few years ago. I really miss her,” you said sadly.

Bucky looked like he wanted to reach out to you, but he didn’t have the confidence to move, so instead he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

You took a deep, steadying breath. “That’s why Aditi and Hanna are so important to me. They’re the only people I have right now. They’ve always been there for me, even when I felt like I was intruding, like I didn’t belong. But I think that was more in my head than anything they ever did. They never stopped trying to include me, even when I was being stubborn about it.”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Sounds like they care about you.”

“They do. They’re the kind of friends who’ll drop everything if I need them. And I’d do the same for them. That’s why this whole wedding thing has me all stressed out. I don’t want them to think I’m a complete disaster.”

Bucky snorted at that, shaking his head. “I think they already know you’re a disaster.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly, rolling your eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he added, a teasing glint in his eye, “if they’ve stuck with you this long, a little wedding drama isn’t gonna scare them off.”

“What if they’re disappointed in me?” you asked hesitantly.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading as he caught the shift in your tone. “Why would they be disappointed?”

You shrugged, though the weight of the thought pressed hard against your chest. “I don’t know. I guess... I feel like I haven’t figured everything out yet. They’re getting married, starting this whole new chapter together, and here I am, dragging them into this ridiculous lie because I couldn’t just show up alone.”

He watched you closely. “They love you, right?”

“Of course,” you said without missing a beat. “They’re my best friends.”

“Then they won’t care about any of that,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly. “Look, I don’t know them, but from the way you talk about them, it doesn’t seem like they’re the type to judge you by whether you’ve got your life all neatly packaged up. And if they did? Well, then they wouldn’t deserve to have you in theirs.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. Taking a moment, you let his words sink him. “I guess I just don’t want to feel like I’m letting them down. Or... like I’m still stuck in the same place while they’re moving forward.”

“Maybe it’s not about keeping up. Maybe it’s about showing up.”

“Hmm,” you hummed. “You’re not a dumb as you look, Barnes.”

Bucky shook his head at you, going back to scratching Alpine behind her ears and a silence fell between you as you thought about your current situation and your friends’ reaction.

“Do you think I should come clean?”

The question lingered in the air between you. For a moment, Bucky didn’t answer, but you could see the muscles in his jaw working over time. When he finally spoke but his tone was cold, too casual. “I think you should do whatever makes this easier for you.”

You frowned, not missing the unease in his expression. “That’s not really an answer, Barnes.”

He shrugged, clearly not eager to push further. But then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “Well, why did you feel like you had to lie to them in the first place?”

You shifted, uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. “It’s not like I planned this,” you said slowly. “It just sorta... happened. One little comment, then another, and suddenly, I’m the one with this perfect boyfriend no one’s ever met.”

Bucky tilted his head, studying you. “Okay, but why?”

You exhaled sharply, folding your arms across your chest. “Because... because it’s exhausting, alright? The constant questions, the pitying looks, the subtle digs. ‘Oh, you’re still single?’ ‘Maybe you’re being too picky’. Like there’s something wrong with me because I can’t find a suitable partner.”

His blue eyes softened. “So, you lied to avoid feeling like a loser.”

“Basically,” you muttered, feeling more ashamed now that you’d said it out loud. “It was easier than admitting I’m still figuring things out. Being with Leonard… what he was like… I—”

You missed the way Bucky’s expression darkened, his fist clenched when you mentioned Leonard’s name. He said nothing, letting you continue.

“I spent so much time trying to make it work with him,” you continued, feeling your voice falter slightly. “I ignored so many red flags, everything was always his way or the highway. He always made me feel like I was… less than. And for some reason, I kept excusing his behavior. He made me feel like he was being all honorable by putting up with all my flaws. 

“And then— when it was over, I just…” you shrugged, “I don’t know. I guess I was trying to convince myself that everything was back under my control… when it wasn’t. I’m still figuring out who I am without him around, and sometimes I feel like I’m failing at it. And I didn’t want anyone to see that. Not even Hanna and Aditi.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened further, but this time it wasn’t from anger— it was understanding. His eyes dropped to the floor for a moment as he processed your words, his mind clearly elsewhere, in a time and place far darker than yours. Alpine burrowed further into his chest, sensing the change in him.

“I get it,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. “Having someone—  something— makes you feel like you’re not in control of your own choices, your own thoughts. Like you’re a puppet and someone else’s pulling the strings.”

His vibranium fingers twitched as if trying to push away the memory, but he was still lost in it.

“And you’re right,” he went on after a beat, his voice growing softer. “It’s easy to try to convince yourself you’re fine, that you have everything under control. Even easier to convince the people around you. But the truth is… sometimes it’s not okay. And you’re left trying to piece everything back together and you don’t even know where to start.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling a strange sense of connection you hadn’t expected.

“Yeah,” you agreed, your voice cracking slightly. “I guess I just wanted to feel normal. Which is why I did it. Like, do you know what it’s like having these perfect best friends? With their perfect lives? And constantly feeling like a failure when you stand next to them? Like they have each other and it’s beautiful and incredible and you’re just standing outside of it… alone.”

Bucky turned over and looked you directly in the eyes and with a deadpan face said, “Sweetheart, both my best friends are Captain America.”

You looked back at him for a moment before you both burst out laughing, much to poor Alpine’s chagrin.

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[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odd Pt. 19

I was going to wait to post this, but I'm bored at work (literally where I wrote this whole chapter, I really just be sitting here all day) and decided fuck it we ball. This one is mostly a gap builder for the start of the trilogy. We all needed a break from constant pain. Enjoy!

XIX: It’s Tactless, It’s a Test

It took me a year to really understand and forgive what happened with Burdock. 

I never really blamed Haymitch, if I was being honest. I mostly blamed myself. Put in my husband’s shoes, I would have done the same thing. 

Besides, it was my body that betrayed me. My womb couldn't carry a child. If things were different, if I wasn’t so broken, maybe in some way Burdock would still be alive. 

Haymitch drank more after his passing, and I spent more time trying my best to make sure Katniss and Prim didn’t struggle too much. I owed them more, the fear that one day the girls might find out the cause of the mining accident kept me up more nights that I’d like to admit. Burdock's death took a heavy toll on Astrid, breaking something quintessential inside of her. She went comatose, refusing to do anything but sit in bed and stare. The small amount the Everdeen’s got from his death was hardly enough to sustain the kids for a few months, let alone a full year. With barely any income, Katniss resorted to using the skills her father gave her to hunt game, selling and trading at the Hob. 

Every week when food was dropped off in Victor’s Village, I took half and put it aside, cooking meals for the girls. Katniss could hunt like her father, but she wasn’t the best at putting it all together into a meal. She’d gotten especially good after meeting Hazelle’s son, Gale, who taught her more about setting traps and checking them. 

It took about 6 months for someone in the Capitol to notice that we were going through our food faster than usual. After that we got less and less, enough for two people and no more or less. 

I would go to the Hob with her when she traded, picking up liquor for Haymitch and shooting daggers when people would try and pull a fast one on Katniss. Eventually it came time for her to take out tesserae, which would have made her father turn in his grave. 

I walked her to her first reaping, holding her and Prim close to my side while Astrid followed behind, head down and face blank. I left a kiss on Katniss’s head, reassuring her as best I could before leading her mother and sister to the viewers section. I held Prim tight to me and gripped Astrid’s hand as they called out the tributes, heaving a sigh of relief that Katniss wasn’t chosen. 

Haymitch chose to distance himself completely from the Everdeen’s, refusing to ask about them when I returned from my daily check in’s. I would just sigh, handing him another glass of alcohol and collapsing into his side, letting him pull my legs over his lap while he took long sips. I held the girls closer than ever, arguing that if they were as near to me as possible, it would be harder for Snow to get them alone and hurt them. 

We didn’t make much small talk anymore, letting silence overtake us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and there wasn’t animosity behind it, we just didn’t have much to say. The constant fear and deaths had taken their toll, leaving both of us numb and flayed open. We still found each other in gentle touches, sweet kisses and featherlight hands. 

More times than not, when the pain got too much, we’d find ourselves tumbling into bed, soft touches breathing enough life in the both of us to stabilize the loss we’d endured. 

I still loved Haymitch, that would never change. He was my world, along with the girls. If I didn’t love him as fiercely as I did, I would have joined the others to their graves years ago. I knew if I was gone, he would completely go off the deep end, and I would never let that happen. 

It took the arrival and subsequent winner of the 70th games to throw Snow onto our tracks again. 

Annie Cresta, a wide eyed girl from District 4, would be the beginning of the end for us. 

We had received the letter a few months after she won. Haymitch had been given a fair warning from Mags the last time we were in the Capitol for her Victory Tour party. Annie had gone off the deep end, madness setting in and twisting her mind. She wasn’t satisfying Capitol citizens, none of them wanting a girl five seconds away from combusting in their bed. Finnick had tried everything to pick up her slack, but they had grown slightly tired of him, needing something new to look at. The winners before between Annie and Finnick had all been careers, which while beautiful to look at, gave the same depth everytime. The people wanted someone with an edge, someone different from the usual overly primed tributes. 

So the next best choice was us. 

We were already required to do annual check in’s with Cesar, the Capitol fawning over our great love story, ignoring the hurt that was permanently etched into our eyes. Finally, with extreme protest from Haymitch that I attempted to quell, the train came for me. He thrashed against peacekeepers, screaming my name until his throat went horse as Effie guided me to my room, promising my husband that she would not let me leave her sight while I was there. 

Effie was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. She stood beside me as they wheeled me into the surgical room, and she was there when I woke up, calling nurses for morphling and making sure ice chips were at the ready. 

“They said it wasn’t as bad as they expected, especially for someone that was so young, and without access to proper medical procedures. There was some scar tissue they cleared out, among other things, but they are confident you will be healthy enough to have more children.” Effie explained, grinning and petting my head. I tried to hold back tears, a few escaping and slipping down my face silently. She must have thought they were from joy, rather than the absolute dread that hit my stomach. 

I was hauled back to Haymitch within the day, keeled over in pain as he met us at the train station. Within seconds of seeing me, he was wrapping an arm around my back and under my knee, carrying me back to our home without another word to Effie. 

He had set me in the bed as gently as possible, running his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth like a mother hen. Every groan from me had him running downstairs, fetching tea, crackers, soup and morphling. 

A few days after, still in a haze of drugs, he’d leaned in and shed a few tears. 

“My brave girl, what have they done to you?” He’d whispered, sobs barely contained. I could barely answer him, instead squeezing his hand to try and bring him comfort. 

“You don’t deserve this life, caring for a drunk and two broken kids who lost their father. You should never have had to deal with this absolute shit hand you were dealt. I sure as hell don’t deserve you– and I’m so fucking selfish for loving you like I do… needing you like I do. I’ve failed you, brought you straight into my fucked up world and asked you to stay. Any apology I give you will never be enough.” My chest tightened as I listened to him, his voice so broken, so full of grief it threatened to turn him inside out. 

I had just squeezed harder, attempting to speak. 

“I– I lo— I love you.” Was all I managed to get out, which seemed to soothe his cries, if only for a second. 

Things became settled between us after that. Haymitch managed to put the drink down for an hour longer than usual, choosing to use that time instead to make love to me. A baby announcement was expected, and by winter of that year, it had arrived. 

Haymitch and I were hauled to live in our apartment at the Capitol the moment a positive pregnancy test reached President Snow’s desk. It was January, which meant that for the first time I would be in the Capitol with my husband for the reaping and games. 

Haymitch, of course, did not let me leave our apartment unless he was glued to my side. 

The pinpad was locked to everyone but us, leaving me with hours of watching shitty movies while he met with the tributes, attended events, and sat in the common room with the rest of the mentors while the cannons went off. 

District 12 was out of the running within minutes, and Haymitch was right back up to coddle me. 

He was a doting husband, which seemed to leave a pang in my chest for all I had missed out on when pregnant with Wiley. He made sure to get whatever I was craving, rubbed my back and feet three times a day, took me on walks, and held me close whenever my emotions got the better of me, intently listening to all my fears. 

“What if they are reaped? 

“What if I almost bleed out again?” 

“How can I be a good mother if I couldn’t even protect my first child? How could Wiley ever forgive me for having another?” 

He shushed me through it all, validating my fears while also reminding me he was here to bear them with me. 

“If they’re reaped, I will do everything I can to bring them back. I’ll bribe a gamemaker, offer my head on a silver platter to sponsors. They’ll make it out.” 

“We are in the Capitol, the epicenter of medical advancements. No one will let you bleed out. They’ll give you good drugs, and when you wake up you’ll be perfectly fine, and I’ll be right beside you holding your hand.”

“You are the best mother, not only were you the greatest mother to Wiley, but look how well you care for Katniss and Prim. Wiley was young, but he was smarter than we give him credit for. He knew you did the best with what you could, Y/N, and he adored you for it. He’s watching over his sibling, and he’s going to make sure they’re okay.”

Our girl was born in the fall, our sweet Twyla. 

She resembled Haymitch the most, facial features a mirror to his. The only thing she shared with me was my hair color, soft tufts already coming in, taking on the shape of her father’s waves. They’d cut her out of me, not willing to risk another hemorrhaging situation. I begged for Haymitch to be present, which was allowed, though not without protest from the nurses. In 12, the fathers were often not able to be present due to work, but if by some chance they were home, it was expected that they stay firmly seated next to their wives, offering as much support as possible. 

It seems that was not the case in the Capitol. 

Haymitch had chosen her name while I slept, something I told him I’d prefer. Twyla was gentle, like the lull of our cigarettes under the stars. It was kind and sweet, sparkling in the darkness of the night. It was completely our little girl. 

I woke up from surgery to find him rocking her in his arms, unable to tear his eyes away from her sleeping face. For a man who’d never wanted children, he was completely wrapped around her finger from the moment she took her first cry. 

We headed back three nights later, coming home to an elaborate crib carved in the shape of a swan, bright pink walls with confetti and balloons. Effie Trinket and her prep team had put things together while we were gone, brimming with excitement to show us the horror of our daughter’s bedroom. 

The moment she left, I looked at Haymitch, Twyla sleeping in my arms. 

“Go to the hob and do whatever you can to find purple paint.” 

He laughed, something I felt like I hadn’t heard in years, before whisking away and spending most of the day bartering through can after can until he found the perfect shade of violet. 

We repainted, even going so far as to add white stars in certain places, making the bedroom into a night sky, the swan rocking our girl to sleep. 

Twyla grew with the cameras in her face as minimally as possible. She was the darling child of the Capitol, but she was still kept as private as we could possibly keep her. They would never know the true date she took her first step, what foods she liked or didn’t like, her favorite stuffed animal or the time of night she woke screaming for someone to hold her. 

She turned 3 the year Katniss turned 16, the year Prim turned 12. 

Both girls had met Twyla, played with her in my old house while I patched up their clothes. Haymitch wanted her to have minimal time with other people, begging me not to bring her to the hob when I went. 

“Haymitch, we can’t just keep her captive here all her life. She needs to experience life, other people.” 

He shook his head, arms across his chest, peering down into the crib. 

“She meets enough people when Cesar shoves that goddamn camera in her face.” He grumbled. I placed a hand on his shoulder, soothing circles traced with my finger. 

“Baby, normal people. People like you and I.” He rolled his eyes, giving me a pointed stare. 

“Ain’t no one like us, sweetpea. What we’ve been through, no one else has had the pleasure.” It was my turn to grumble at him, rolling my own eyes back. 

If there was one thing we couldn’t argue about, it was Twyla’s attendance at the reaping. 

I’d made a stack cake for Haymitch the night before, putting it in the fridge to take out that morning. Twyla had cooed and giggled, swiping the frosting and stealing a lick with her grubby toddler hands. She was bolder than Wiley had been, which made my heart clench so tight it knocked the wind out of me. 

I missed my boy everyday of my life, but especially while watching my girl grow up. 

Haymitch sleepily entered the kitchen, a grin breaking out on his face at Twyla’s greeting. 

“Papa! Papa look!” her smile was mostly gums, pointing rapidly at the cake. He scooped her up, holding her close and bouncing her in his arms. 

“That for me, baby doll?” he grinned at her, tickling her tummy and causing a fit of squeals. 

I brought the cake to the table, setting it down and pulling Haymitch and Twyla to my side, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then hers. 

“Happy birthday, baby.” 

We’d gotten better about celebrating it over the last two years, Haymitch wanting to connote reaping day to happier memories while he still could.  She was emotionally intune, sensitive to when either of her parents were feeling particularly broken. She’d make grabby hands at us when we stared too long away from her, caught in a web of memories. Our baby had made it a habit to plant her hands on our cheeks, peering into our eyes before flopping her head straight into our chests, nuzzling in with soft breaths against our skin. 

We all ate a slice of cake before getting ready to head to the square. Haymitch would have to go onstage, and I would take Twyla with me to pick up Prim, Katniss and Astrid. We parted ways, a chaste but sweet kiss shared between us, a promise that we would say goodbyes before he left for the Capitol later. 

I met the Everdeen’s at their house, Prim fiddling with her dress while Katniss chased her, trying to get her to “tuck in that tail, little duck.” 

Astrid lit up at the sight of Twyla, reaching out for her. She’d been gradually doing better, but still was nowhere near where she was before Burdock had passed. My girl giggled at her, playing with a strand of blonde hair. 

I took Prim and Katniss’s hand, squeezing tight and giving them a tight smile. Katniss and I had talked Prim through what to expect on reaping day, preparing her for what it was like to be in the pool of prospective tributes. 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we? Afterwards, we can sneak some of Haymitch’s cake for dinner.” I said, watching my girls sneak a smile to each other, Katniss’s eyes grateful as we headed to the dreaded square. 

[jude457]

Sensitive Content Warning

Expanding a little on my ask, I have another Dead Dove: Do Not Eat WIP in the works that reimagines how the unmasking scene between Inho and Gihun could go.

After the rebellion, Inho finds himself trapped. The VIPs are furious, and they demand a price. They want to make an example of Gihun, break him in ways far worse than death. They want to degrade him, make him a symbol of their power. Inho can see what they plan to do, and it makes his stomach turn. The VIPs don’t just want to kill Gihun, they want to destroy him, strip him of every last ounce of dignity before he dies.

But Inho can’t let that happen. He can’t let Gihun be reduced to a toy for their twisted amusement, a puppet in their game. Inho knows he’s been the one holding the strings up until now, but this—this is different. In his desperation, Inho offers a twisted solution. Instead of letting the VIPs kill Gihun outright, he suggests keeping him alive—but not as a player. No, Gihun could be useful to the games in a new way. There’s value in him, more than just another expendable body. There’s more to Gihun than just being another casualty. Inho doesn’t care about the implications; all he cares about is keeping Gihun close, making sure he doesn’t vanish from his grasp.

The VIPs are intrigued by the idea. But, as always, nothing comes for free in their world. They listen, but their calculation is sharp. One of them leans forward, his voice laced with a cold amusement. The question comes, sharp and direct: “Are you willing to take his place, then?”

Inho’s heart lurches, and his breath catches in his throat. Inho knows that in this moment, the only way to keep Gihun alive is to give up everything. His body will be the cost, his submission the price. There’s no turning back now, no escaping the consequences. He agrees, without hesitation. His words come out hoarse through the modulator, but resolute: he will do anything to keep Gihun alive, even if it means surrendering everything.

The VIPs move quickly, with their usual cold efficiency. Inho feels their hands on him before he has a chance to react. The mask is ripped from his face, the sensation of its removal more painful than he expects. It’s not just the sudden exposure to the room, the stripping away of the identity he’s built. It’s the feeling of being completely unprotected—fragile in a way he never allows himself to be.

Being unmasked is unbearable, but it’s nothing compared to the devastation of seeing Gihun’s reaction. The confusion that flickers in his eyes, followed by the betrayal that comes crashing down, is more than Inho can take. He doesn’t even have time to explain, to justify, or to make Gihun understand the reasons behind his actions. It’s all too much—too late.

Inho’s heart sinks as the VIPs force him to his knees, pulling him further into the role they want him to play. They strip him of his dignity, piece by piece, pulling him out of the carefully crafted armor he’s hidden behind for so long. They make quick work of it, their hands unbuckling his belt and unfastening his clothing, and Inho can feel himself being exposed in every possible way. The chill of the air bites at his skin as they remove his final layer, forcing him into a raw, vulnerable state.

He can’t look at Gihun. He knows what lies in those eyes—the anger, the betrayal, the absolute destruction of the bond they once shared. But more than that, there’s another fear that roots him to the spot, making it impossible for him to face the man he has wronged. Inho is ashamed, not just because Gihun will never forgive him, but because of what Gihun will see if he looks into his eyes.

Inho doesn’t want Gihun to see him like this. Bent over, utterly exposed; ready to be taken like a dog in heat. For a brief moment, Inho considers closing his eyes, hoping that if he can shut out the world, the pain might ease. The silence in the room is deafening, and just when Inho thinks he might break under the pressure, one of the VIPs steps forward. Without hesitation, the man grabs a fistful of Inho’s hair, yanking his head up with brutal force.

“Look at him,” the VIP sneers, his grip tightening as Inho’s head is forced back. “Look into his eyes. You’ve made him suffer. You owe him this much.”

And Inho does. He has no choice.

Their eyes meet—locked in a moment so crushing it nearly stops his breath.

He expects rage. He expects disgust. He expects the look of someone who finally sees the monster behind the curtain. But instead, what he sees in Gihun’s eyes is something far more unbearable.

Pity.

It flickers there, through the confusion and devastation—so faint, so fragile, but unmistakably present. Inho can barely process it. Even now, after everything, Gihun looks at him not with hatred, but with something gentler. Something that reaches into the hollow parts of Inho he thought he’d sealed off long ago.

And that mercy—that goodness—cuts deeper than any blade.

Then the pain hits.

Blinding, unrelenting.

There was no warning, no time to brace, no effort to dull what was coming. Inho’s body lurches forward from the force of it, the violence of being used without care or consent, of being treated like an object. The agony is immediate, sharp, and it does not stop.

He tries to breathe through it, tries to steel himself, but there’s no space for composure now—only the sheer reality of what he’s enduring.

Inho is crying before he realizes it. Not just from the pain—which is consuming—but from what Gihun sees. What Gihun is forced to witness. And somehow, impossibly, Gihun is still watching. Still seeing him. Not the Frontman. Not the traitor. Just… Inho.

And that, more than anything, undoes him.

He doesn’t look away.

Neither does Gihun.

Somewhere behind him, another VIP shifts, the sound deliberate, cruelly anticipatory. Another round is coming. More pain. More humiliation.

Inho’s vision blurs. His body shakes. Something deep inside him fractures, maybe for good.

And still—Gihun is there.

Watching.

Seeing.

Forgiving?

Or maybe just enduring, in his own way.

Inho doesn’t know.

He just knows this isn’t the end.

Not yet.

But what’s waiting on the other side of this—if anything—is a question neither of them can answer.

Not now. Not like this.