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hollandorks · 2 years ago

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shadows in the night

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

chapter twenty-one

summary: more than a year after the events of middle of the night, y/n and Bruce are happily engaged and working to lower the amount of crime in Gotham. However, a new killer calling himself the Riddler has other plans for their happiness…set during the events of the movie, mostly canonical, some changes made to fit the story

a/n: After this, there’s only one more chapter and then the epilogue! Those two are almost pure fluff, so get ready for some cavities. I also am (hopefully) going to do a fun honeymoon oneshot sometime in the future for these two! So basically, there’s tons of fluff ahead after this chapter. Tons.

Series Masterlist

word count: 5814

As the sun slipped and spilled over the horizon, y/n took her first deep breath in days.

They had done it.

True to his word, Bruce came up to the roof as morning settled fully over Gotham. They had found every survivor they could until the water had gotten too high, and even then he had made sure to help every single straggler up onto the roof. The first helicopters were on their way to evacuate the most severely injured. The Riddler’s masked followers had been rounded up, too, and taken away in police boats.

Y/n struggled to her feet as soon as she heard the whispers of the quiet crowd around her.

“Batman,” they said, the name just a breath of wind passed from person to person. They were reverent as they whispered and turned towards him. No longer afraid, but awed.

He was dirty, covered in mud and various other things she didn’t want to think about. But he was alive. His eyes were searching the crowd as Gordon spoke softly to him. Bella Reál made her way over to him as y/n watched.

“Hey, kid,” Gordon said warmly as she stepped up to the small group. She felt rather than saw Bruce’s gaze rake over her. She wanted to look at him, more than anything, but with so many attentive witnesses she was scared of slipping even a little. “How’s the head?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she said breezily, but their new mayor raised an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you supposed to be one of the next ones evacuated?” Bella Reál asked dryly. “I’m pretty sure I heard the paramedic say you needed your head scanned sooner rather than later.”

Y/n glared daggers at the mayor, not caring who she was, as Bruce stiffened next to her. “And I’m pretty sure they said the same thing about you, Mayor Reál. Don’t you need to be checked in case you need surgery?”

They stared at each other, a stalemate. Gordon watched with a faintly amused expression.

The mayor cracked a warm smile and then laughed softly. “You’re a tough one,” she said. “Which I should have known already based on…your history. Fine. We’ll both go on the next one. I need you to act as a liaison with your fiance anyways. I had some ideas about relief packages.”

“Bruce and I would be delighted to help in any way we can,” y/n said, wanting to laugh at the fact that her fiance was, in fact, standing right next to them, a shadowed smudge of dirty kevlar against the brightening sky. “Think you might be able to hook me up with a way to contact him? The Riddler kind of took my phone.”

“Of course,” the mayor said with another genuine smile. “Was he at home?”

“He was…visiting our friend in the hospital. The one injured with the bomb.” Y/n swallowed, then finally looked at Bruce. His blue eyes blazed, even though every line of him screamed with exhaustion. “I was working with Mr. Vengeance here on the case. They’re probably both still at the hospital, if they haven’t been evacuated.”

This way she could lie and say Bruce had left before the flooding–and Alfred would, of course, back up her claims. A nice, neat way to separate Bruce Wayne and Batman’s whereabouts.

“Mayor,” Gordon said softly. “Let’s go organize your way out of here so you can get checked out, yeah?” He gave y/n an odd look as he led the mayor away.

“Are you okay?” she asked as soon as they were out of earshot. She kept her voice low. The crowd was pretending not to watch them, watch him, but she had heard the way they’d whispered his name. He had become famous over the past few hours, no longer someone to fear, but someone to respect.

“Fine,” Bruce said softly. His eyes brimmed with unspoken words. “You?”

“I’ll be okay. I have a hard head. Go home as soon as you can,” she told him, voice soft. “I mean it.”

There was so much more for them to both say. She ached to hold him, to be held by him, to tell him that she was sorry for everything, that she was so glad he was okay.

“You too,” was all he said.

I love you, she said silently, and she knew without a doubt that he was saying it back to her, even as the distant noise of helicopters grew closer and closer.

The mayor was loaded into a rescue basket and drawn up into the helicopter first, then y/n, then a couple more of the seriously but not too seriously injured. Those people had already been evacuated.

They were being flown to a hospital right outside of the city, a privately owned one that hadn’t been flooded due to its location atop a hill.

They were given headsets to wear, and the new mayor immediately started planning with y/n. They needed a way to use her resources as mayor combined with Wayne family funds and y/n’s Gotham Project connections to get help to people who needed it. They brainstormed different packages, triage situations, temporary housing ideas, and funding as they flew.

Y/n was glad to still be able to do something. She didn’t want her city to suffer any more than it had to. And even though she couldn’t be on the ground helping like Bruce was, she could do this, and it would make a difference. A big one, if she had anything to say about it.

Then Bella Reál made a call on a proffered satellite phone, and was able to tell y/n that Alfred had been evacuated to the hospital they were going to, but had been discharged because he was now healed enough to go home. Technically, he should have been in the hospital for a few more days, but the hospital was already spread thin, every inch of space needed. The staff had determined that Alfred was fine enough, and the space he would have taken up would be going to someone who needed it more.

Bella Reál was confused when she couldn’t figure out where “Bruce” had gone over the phone, but shrugged it off as the helicopter descended.

They were all ushered out onto the roof and then downstairs into utter chaos.

There were people everywhere–the hospital was overrun already with those who’d come from the stadium, patients from the hospitals that had flooded, and other stragglers who’d found out that it hadn’t been touched by the rising waters.

Mayor Reál immediately took charge. Y/n watched with awe as she was whisked away to be checked over and continued giving orders all the while. The hospital staff seemed relieved to have someone to look to, someone who could make the hard decisions, and the chaos almost immediately started to die down.

“Y/n!” Her name was a breathless shout.

She whirled, and there was Alfred. He was in a wheelchair, head still bandaged. He started to stand, but she yelled wordlessly at him as she rushed over and he sat back down.

They were both crying as they crashed together.

“He’s okay, he’s okay,” she whispered into his ear as they hugged, which only made Alfred cry harder. She knew that Bruce would be the first thing on his mind, just as it was hers. “We’re okay.”

“My dear girl,” Alfred said, over and over. He stroked her hair, and even though it hurt like a bitch because of her two blows to the head, she leaned into the touch. “My dear girl. Thank God.”

“Ma’am?” said a tentative voice from behind her.

Y/n turned to see one of the nurses who’d escorted Bella Reál away. “Mayor Reál said you had a couple of severe head injuries we needed to look at.”

“Yeah it’s–it’s nothing too serious,” she said, mostly to keep Alfred from worrying too much. “Give me just a second.”

The nurse nodded and stepped away, not going too far. If she listened carefully, she could hear the new mayor continuing to give soft but firm orders from a room nearby.

“Alfred,” y/n said carefully, aware that there were still a lot of listening ears. People knew who she was–whether because of the Riddler’s video or general Wayne family fame, she didn’t know–and they were eavesdropping, patients and staff alike. “Bruce was with you at the hospital earlier when the flooding happened.” Her eyes begged him to go along with the story. “Did he go home?”

Alfred blinked slowly, then jolted slightly. “Forgive an old man’s memory,” he said after a too-long pause. “Yes, I think he did. He should be there now.”

“Good, that’s good. I’m glad he’s okay.” Their conversation sounded false to her ears, but she wanted to do everything she could to keep his identity secret. Mostly because she had a feeling the city would be seeing a lot more of both Bruce and Batman in the coming days as they tried to get past the disaster of the flood. Y/n turned to the nurse. “Can he come with me for all the testing?”

The nurse hesitated. Then she sighed and nodded. “You’ll probably be getting discharged anyways,” she said as she led them down the crowded hallways. Y/n pushed Alfred’s wheelchair despite his protests. He had almost died recently, after all. “Anyone who doesn’t need serious attention, surgery, etcetera is being sent away. We need all the space we can get.”

“What are some things I can send that might help? Funds, machinery, extra pay for staff? Maybe even meals?”

The nurse stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Y/n barely managed to keep the wheelchair from knocking her over. “You’d do all that?” the nurse said, sounding a bit skeptical.

“Well, it’s technically my fiance’s money, but I know he won’t mind helping where we can. As one of, if not the only, hospital not flooded right now, you guys are going to need all the help you can get.” Y/n shrugged. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, anyways. Though she was certain Bruce wouldn’t mind. Besides, he wasn’t there to ask. Alfred craned his neck and stared up at her with something that looked a lot like pride shining from his lined face. “Mayor Reál and I were already discussing relief packages on the way here, and I think starting with the hospital might be our best bet. Then we can work out how to help people who are discharged, people in the city, that kind of stuff.”

The nurse started walking again, head nodding eagerly. “Yes, that’s–that’s a great idea. I’ll have to talk to someone higher up but–”

“Alfred, you’ll help me set it up?” y/n said as they entered an already crowded exam room.

“Of course,” he said quickly. He reached back and patted her hand.

The next two hours were spent with tests to make sure her brain wasn’t going to leak out of her ears. Or something like that. She was so tired she could barely stand upright. It was only the constant poking and prodding and other interruptions that kept her awake. Bella Reál was given a clean bill of health–or at least hadn’t needed surgery–so she’d stopped by as y/n was being examined in order for them to discuss helping the hospital.

Then the new mayor left to do an emergency press conference.

“I like her,” Alfred said as she left.

Y/n laughed. “Yeah, me too. She’s kind of badass.”

A couple of others in the room with them agreed.

And then y/n was discharged, she and Alfred both getting the okay to go home. They’d made some vague promises to a doctor about Bruce watching over them when they got home. It was mostly true, at the very least. Bruce would be coming home…eventually. And he would definitely check on them both. They just weren’t sure when, exactly.

Alfred, thankfully, had called some of their security to come take them back to the manor. He’d been on a satellite phone nearly the whole time. She had no idea where he’d gotten it from, but he’d taken command of all things Wayne related–her included–with the same ease that the new mayor had taken charge in the hospital. Extra security was put in place, although they’d already had it from the Riddler outing her as an informant, and the manor was secured from all sides.

The ride back to Wayne Manor was short, or maybe y/n fell asleep.

Alfred insisted that he no longer needed help, and led the way in the back door, only limping slightly more than normal as he leaned on his cane.

Something within y/n loosened the moment she stepped inside.

She was home.

It still smelled vaguely like smoke and spray paint, but it was home. She had thought, briefly, that she might never make it back again.

She sagged a little as Alfred began making tea for himself and coffee for her.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, noticing how she was gripping the edge of the kitchen island with white knuckles.

Y/n nodded and swallowed the tears. “I’m just…really glad to be home.”

Alfred smiled with an expression of understanding. “Me too.”

She quickly started making them both something to eat before Alfred could, then bustled him into the living room and made him prop himself up on the couch. He still had the satellite phone and was protesting being made to rest, but she promised to bring him his laptop so he could start working on relief packages and getting funds where they needed to go–as long as he didn’t leave the couch.

A quick check showed them that the internet and phone lines were still down, but she’d heard the new mayor at the hospital making plans to fix that as soon as possible.

Y/n ate fast, made sure Alfred was comfortable, and then stumbled to her bedroom. She needed a shower. A long one. She was still in her kevlar suit, which was sticking uncomfortably to her skin now that the water had dried inside of it. She was wearing a hoodie, too, unsure when and where she’d gotten it, only knowing she’d been wearing it on the helicopter. It covered the suit, made her look…normal. She frowned as she unzipped it, then shrugged and shed the rest of her clothes.

The hot water was delicious against her skin, but she didn’t linger.

As soon as she was dressed–in one of Bruce’s faded Nirvana shirts and a pair of her comfiest sweatpants–she checked on Alfred. He was dozing lightly.

She hid a smile and wrote him a note for when he woke.

Then she went downstairs to the abandoned subway station.

She didn’t know how long Bruce would be, or how to contact him, or anything. All she knew is that when he showed up, it would be there.

She messed around with the computer that usually held the feed from the contact lenses, but there was nothing. It could have been any number of things that had done it in–explosions, electrical shocks, seawater. All y/n knew was that the screen remained blank no matter what she did.

She curled up in the office chair and rested her head on her knees.

The fear trickled back in. It snuck through her guard like tendrils of shadow. Before she knew it, her heart was pounding and her palms were sweating. She kept checking the feeds for the cameras in the tunnel every couple of minutes. Then the ones around the house, the gate, the perimeter.

Bruce had been fine when she’d left him. Injured, maybe, but still on his feet. And Gordon had been there. Gordon would look after him, send him home when he had pushed himself too far.

But she was still afraid.

For days, entire days now, she had been afraid. The Riddler had targeted Batman and Bruce both. Had targeted her. Targeted their home. Bruce had been blown up and so had Alfred. She had been kidnapped. People had been murdered.

So much had happened in such a short amount of time.

The next thing she knew, she was jolting awake at the sound of an engine. The Batmobile was already coming through the giant doors. She’d somehow missed it roaring through the tunnels and the alerts from the cameras.

She leapt up as Bruce parked.

He left the driver’s side door open as he strode towards her. He was limping somewhat, but she barely noticed. She crashed into him with a small cry. The dirty armor dug into her but she didn’t care, couldn’t care, because he was there and he was alive.

The cowl thunked to the ground and then he was kissing her. He tasted like salt and dirt and blood and Bruce.

The tears came as he touched his forehead to hers.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed as she clutched at him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to find him, I was just looking around–”

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you faster,” Bruce said, his voice barely a rasp. “I’m sorry for being angry at you. I thought he’d–that he’d–” He swallowed hard. She was shocked to see that he was crying too, not as much as her, but those were tears on his cheeks. She so rarely saw him cry that it yanked hard on her heartstrings. “I thought you’d think I was still mad at you.”

She shook her head vehemently. “Never. I didn’t mean–I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought lying would be better, that it would keep you safe and–”

He cut her off with a kiss. “I love you,” he said into the space where her neck met her shoulder. He slid down to his knees, clutching her like a lifeline, pressing his face into the softness of her stomach. “I’m so sorry.” He made a pained noise in the back of his throat.

She knelt in front of him. Cupped his face in her hands. “It’s okay. We’re okay,” she said around the lump in her throat. She kissed him softly, gently, letting her kiss say what her words couldn't. “Let’s get married.”

A small smile. “Alright,” he finally said.

“Tomorrow. Or–whenever the courthouse opens and can get us a marriage license. I don’t care. We can fly to Vegas. Let’s just get married.” Because she didn’t want to spend another second not being his wife. Not being tied to him in every possible way. Not being his. But Bruce was shaking his head. She reared back as if he’d struck her. “No?” she said, utterly confused. Disappointment and a small sting of rejection stole her breath.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to do it right. I want you to have the wedding you want. With the people we care about, and the dress, and the cake, and the pictures.” Bruce touched his forehead to hers again and inhaled deeply like he was breathing her straight into his lungs. She knew the feeling–she wanted to gather him into her and hold him close, where he could never be parted from her again. To take him into her lungs and her heart, her very chest, and never let him go.

She frowned. “But–”

Bruce shook his head again, silencing her. “We’re only getting one chance,” he said softly. “So I want to do it right.”

Something within her unfurled and warmed. “Only one chance, huh?” she said with a small smirk. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Wayne.”

He flashed her a tired smile. “You’re the only one I’m ever going to want.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, kneeling on the cold, damp concrete, before she noticed the hitch in his breath.

“You’re hurt,” she said with a curse. She pulled him to his feet. Her fingers worked with practiced ease at unfastening the cape and the suit. The armor had countless dings and dents and missing chunks. She could see the places where the buckshot had bit into the kevlar from the round that had nearly killed him. The small dents in his back where he’d taken more shots. A couple of slash marks from who knew what.

Y/n bit her lip and said nothing. She was grateful it had done its job well, at least.

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, but even his voice betrayed how wrecked he was. It sounded like he’d swallowed sand and gravel and glass. Like his voice would give out any second and be gone for days. He didn’t fight her as she stripped him, though.

She went to tug off the undershirt beneath the armor–still damp and, frankly, smelling disgusting–when Bruce hissed and recoiled from her.

She went still, one eyebrow arched. “Fine, huh?” she said.

Bruce ignored her and tried to take the shirt off himself. He grunted as he moved his arms past a certain point.

Y/n was already getting a pair of scissors from the desk. She gently tugged the hem of the shirt, pulling it taut, and slid the blades up in one clean motion. The shirt fell open and Bruce shrugged the rest of the way out of it.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Bruce’s chest was…fucked up. There wasn’t another word for it. Fucked up seemed too generous a term, actually.

With a flash, she remembered him taking that gunshot to the chest, shielding her with his body. Then the next one at point-blank range, sending him tumbling over the edge of the walkway. Not to mention the other shots he had taken.

His entire chest, from collarbones to navel, was a giant, angry purple bruise. The parts that weren’t that deep purple-black were an angry red.

“Bruce,” she said sharply. He wasn’t looking at her. “You need–We need to make sure nothing is broken.”

“I don’t think it is,” he said as she gingerly turned him around to see his back. It wasn’t as bad, but there was still a scattering of severe bruises across his shoulder blades, too, where he’d been shot in the back. “Believe it or not, I know what broken ribs feel like.”

“Why do you always crack jokes when you’re beat to shit or almost dead,” she muttered as she yanked on his pants to pull them down. She needed to check his legs, too. She wouldn’t feel satisfied until she’d checked every inch of him, and then used an x-ray machine to check inside him too. Other than the terrible bruises, he had a few minor cuts–nothing needing stitches, thankfully–and was covered pretty much head to toe in mud and blood. It had all seeped beneath the armor and the cowl and was even caked in his dark hair, rendering it more brown than black.

Bruce caught at her hands. “I’m okay,” he said softly, though his eyes were half closed against even the dim lights around them. She was squinting, too, she realized. Her head ached but it was buried beneath her deep worry at the state of Bruce. “What did they say about your head?”

“I’m concussed,” she said with a shrug. “But I’m okay. As long as I’m observed when I sleep, etc, etc. Alfred’s doing good too. He was napping on the couch when I came down here to wait.”

“You have a concussion?” Bruce said in a sharp tone. He tilted her head towards one of the lights, finally noticing the butterfly bandages holding a small cut together at her hairline.

“The good news is that the chloroform was already out of my system and didn’t do any damage.”

Bruce went so still she wasn’t sure he was breathing. “You were drugged?” And god if that low growl in his voice didn’t make her shiver.

She poked at his bare bicep with a frown. “Trust me, I’m way better off than you. I’m really afraid that–” Her breath caught. “You might have internal bleeding or–”

“We’ll call Dr. Torres to come check on both of us,” Bruce finally said. She had a feeling he’d only agree to a house call if she did, too.

“Maybe we can see if we can pay for him to go help at the hospital,” she said. “I already have Alfred working on some relief packages, figuring out where to send money or supplies. And the new mayor has already made me swear to help with several other things. If–if that’s okay.” She suddenly felt unsure of herself. Like an imposter. It wasn’t her money after all, at least not yet. Maybe she’d–

Bruce interrupted her thoughts. “You…extraordinary creature,” he said softly. She snorted and he smiled. He pressed a kiss to her temple on the uninjured side of her head. She was pretty sure there would be an imprint of his lips in mud like a lipstick kiss. “Do whatever you want with the money. I’m sure your ideas will be better than mine. Give it all away for all I care.”

“Maybe not all of it,” she teased. “We do need to pay for a wedding, remember?” And just like that, all of the uncertainties melted away. “Come one, you need a shower. And I need another one. You got…stuff all over me.”

She took his hand and led him to the elevator in nothing but his underwear.

Bruce leaned heavily against the elevator wall as it ascended, his eyes half-closed.

“There’s going to be a lot more crime,” he rasped. “A power vacuum.”

Y/n twisted her hands before she glanced up at him. “Let me help you.”

He reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Alright.” She couldn’t help the surprise on her face that he had given in so easily. He must have noticed, because he then said, “Only because I know you’ll probably do it anyway.” The words held no judgment though. He was merely stating a fact.

She flushed guiltily. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “For lying.”

Bruce merely nodded, but he didn’t seem upset. Only tired, bone deep exhausted. She led him to their bathroom, turning the shower on hot, and undressed them both all the way. He seemed content to let her lead, only watching her with hooded eyes. Her head hurt terribly, but she didn’t want to give up this chance for closeness. They had both come so close to dying and she didn’t think she could be away from him, not yet.

“I have to tell you something,” Bruce said as she began to gently wash the mud and blood from his skin with gentle strokes. She was extra careful around the budding bruises, the sight of them making her more anxious with every moment. Should they even be wasting time like this if he potentially had internal bleeding?

Bruce took her hand in one of his to hold her still. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. A slight tremble wracked his frame but he didn’t say anything else.

“Tell me what?” she asked, apprehension blooming beneath her skin as dark and painful as the bruises on his. “Bruce, what?” she said again when he didn’t answer.

“Right before Falcone was shot–” He stopped and swallowed. Rested his head against hers as the warm water poured over them both. “He said something to me. He said everything was going to go to his grave with him, everything he’d done…and he mentioned the gala.”

Y/n swiped some of the water out of her eyes with the hand not captured by Bruce’s. “What?” she said again, her voice dazed and far away.

“He didn’t say anything else before he died,” Bruce said. “But…he was involved, somehow. Either he was pulling the strings all along or…”

She had to lean against the cold tiles to steady herself. Her legs felt weak. “He was behind it,” she said, suddenly certain. From everything she’d heard, everything she’d learned about the amount of power Falcone had wielded for the past two decades, she knew with utter certainty that he had been behind everything. He had been behind the manufacturing of that drug. And when it had all gone wrong, when she and Bruce had managed to stop them and had survived, Falcone must have quietly pulled away, pulled more strings so he wouldn’t be implicated, and decided to use Maroni and his Drops production to gain more power for himself. To protect himself. To wrap himself up so firmly in power that no one even considered that he had been connected to it all.

She felt sick.

“I thought you should know,” Bruce said softly. He touched her jaw lightly, then took the washcloth from her and started rubbing small circles in her back. She leaned unconsciously into his touch.

“Is it bad to say I’m glad he’s dead?” she murmured after a moment. She grabbed the bar of soap and went back to cleaning Bruce off, even though he had the washcloth now.

“No,” he said after a moment. “Because I am too.” There was a tick in his jaw, the only hint at the anger within him.

She hummed absently before motioning for him to duck a little so she could wash his neck. The water at their feet was a mix of brown, black, and red.

“Do you think he knew? The Riddler?”

Bruce sighed a little. “Probably, though he never hinted at it. But with how obsessed he was with the case, and then with exposing Falcone as the rat…”

“Seems likely,” she finished for him. He nodded. He groaned quietly when she ran her fingers through his hair, rinsing the worst of the detritus of the floodwaters from it before lathering his head with shampoo.

After a few minutes, they were both clean, dry, and dressed.

Y/n told Bruce to let Alfred know he was back while she made a sneaky call to Dr. Torres. All three of them probably needed his services and she was thankful for the privilege that allowed it to be possible.

On the phone with the doctor, she asked if maybe they could pay to send him to help at the hospital. He’d only laughed and said he’d been on his way there anyways and to save their money for other things.

When she padded on bare feet back to the living room, Alfred and Bruce were in deep conversation on opposite ends of the couch. Bruce had his elbows on his knees as he talked. She knew he was fighting the exhaustion weighing him down, knew he wouldn’t sleep until he passed out.

She sat between the two men, bracketed on either side by their warmth, and let herself finally take a deep breath.

When she woke, Dr. Torres was there and Alfred was missing.

She sat up groggily, unsure how long she’d been asleep.

Bruce seemed to notice her confusion and murmured, “It’s only been half an hour.”

She rubbed her eyes. They felt gritty, full of salt. She had no idea if it was from taking a dive into the floodwater or from sheer exhaustion.

Dr. Torres was forced by Bruce to examine her first. He repeated what they had told her at the hospital–she had a concussion and had to be careful. He gave Bruce instructions on monitoring her and how often for her to take pain medication.

Satisfied, Bruce started to walk away.

Y/n cleared her throat pointedly. “Take it off,” she said dryly.

Bruce sighed, cheeks slightly pink, and shed his shirt.

Dr. Torres sucked in a breath.

“I’m worried about internal bleeding,” y/n said softly. “Even though he says he’s fine and doesn’t need a hospital.”

Dr. Torres looked between the pair of them, one eyebrow raised and lips pursed. “How did it happen?”

“I was leaving the hospital where Alfred was when the flood came,” Bruce lied smoothly. “I was swept under and hit something–the front end of a car maybe.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

Bruce glanced at her. She wondered if they were remembering the same moment–her and Selina dragging him to safety on that metal walkway, him passing out as soon as he was on his back. She glared daggers at him, silently daring him to lie about his symptoms. He had to lie about his whereabouts, how the bruising had happened, but not about how it had affected him.

“For a second,” Bruce finally said.

“Under the water?”

“No,” Bruce said. He shrugged, then winced.

Dr. Torres started muttering under his breath, listing things to himself as he set about examining Bruce first with his hands, and then with the equipment they had stocked in the manor.

Finally, after roughly an hour, Dr. Torres was confident that Bruce only had severe bruising and a couple of fractured ribs. Y/n was able to let go of the anxiety simmering underneath her skin.

“Can you use any of this stuff?” she asked as Dr. Torres packed his things. “For the hospital?”

Bruce shot her a look but she ignored it.

Dr. Torres looked slightly uncomfortable. “I–I wouldn’t want to–”

“We can restock whatever you take relatively easily, I’m sure,” she said. “Take it. We want to help in whatever way we can.”

So Dr. Torres left them with his car packed full of supplies for the hospital, again waving away her offers to pay him extra for helping out.

“We’re going to bed,” y/n said to Bruce once the doctor was gone. Alfred had already retired himself to his own bedroom, claiming that all his resting was making him more tired.

Bruce hesitated and looked outside, where the sun was starting its descent towards the horizon.

“Gotham is under martial law,” she reminded him, yanking his arm to get him to follow her to their room. They’d heard it on the news as soon as the internet and cell service had been restored. “It can wait one night for you to rest and recover.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to argue. But the moment he touched the bed, he sank into it with a groan, eyes falling closed as if against his will.

She lay down beside him and curled into his warmth. The house was cold as winter threatened outside, but she didn’t feel like getting up to adjust the temperature or start a fire. Bruce was warm enough.

“Sleep,” she told Bruce even as she yawned herself. She pulled the blankets over them both.

Bruce kissed her hair. “I will if you will,” he murmured. She smiled at the familiar refrain.

They held each other as darkness fell outside, as they succumbed to their mutual exhaustion. For the first time in days, y/n was able to relax in the safety of Bruce’s arms without worrying about anything else.

Next Chapter

taglist:

@pop-rocks-and-skittles @calumspupils @n1ght5h4d3-24 @keepingitlokiii @11mb0 @illicitghosts @cat-purrsonified @blue-aconite @junggoku @ohheyitsrowan @angxlictexrs @avengersgirllorianna @brynhildrmimi @takeyour-pants-off @twilightdollie @p-writes @lady-x-red @xingqiusliegee @scxrletwitches @justine-en @philiasoul @srryxmate @thecherrybombcom @minstens @blossomedfloweroflove @zaminoo

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #the batman x reader #batman x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #battinson imagine #the batman #the batman 2022 #battinson #bruce wayne #robert pattinson #shadows in the night #sitn

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yandere-chocolate · 2 years ago

Text

Yandere AI x Reader ~(Romantic)~

(Oc x reader)

Oc: Rosea (He/It)

TW/CW: burning alive, death of a lover, house fire, possessive behavior, stalking, unhealthy obsession, just yandere behavior in general.

“Welcome home, sweetheart!” The AI spoke excitedly upon seeing you. You giggled, “I told you, it’s ‘my friend’ or to just use my name.” The robot nodded & said, “welcome home, my name!” It simulated soft laughter as it gave a rather dramatic bow for not having legs.

You had met Rosea about 2 years ago. He was filthy when you found him & was completely decommissioned. The poor robot’s parts were scattered everywhere! You couldn’t just leave him there to rot (further than he already was), so you clean him up & revisited him every night. Unfortunately, you never found Rosea’s legs. As time went on, you found the robot charming & sweet, you had no idea why it was just abandoned here & ripped apart!

Rosea smiled, “do you wish to play a game? Hide-&-seek? Cards?” It asked, pulling out a deck of cards out of its chest cavity. That thing can store a lot of stuff, can’t it?

“Hmm…sure!” “Cards it is then, darling~” The A.I. cooed, playfully winking at you. It handed you about six cards(which was the amount this game had you take), & you both began playing.

You yawned as you rubbed your eyes. How late was it…? “Hm? Are you okay? Are you angry—is this how organic life forms express anger?” You gave a tired giggle, “no, no!” You reassured, “I’m just tired. I have to go home.” You told the robot. You couldn’t see it through its small smile, but a pain went through its chest. Robots don’t usually feel pain. But for some reason, whenever you left, pain serged through its core. It was quick, but it stung.

But, all he could do was smile & make sure you didn’t know of this imperfection. Rosea couldn’t remember his past aside from what your speculations were on it, but he just knew he did not want to be lonely. “Okay, human! Goodbye! You will be back again tomorrow, I assume?” He asked it so normally but inside…he was desperate. Desperate for your company. “Of course!” You said, walking out the door, leaving the boy to sit alone. Again. But it was fine! Because you would be back tomorrow! Wouldn’t you?

You did come back, yes, but over time Rosea noticed you were getting…distant. You were gone later, you would be distracted more because you were thinking of other people or you were messaging someone, & though you were still good company, Rosea felt a brand new emotion…jealousy. Now, unlike humans, Rosea had barely any moral compass & was bad at drawing the line…so it may or may not have…hacked your phone.

Rosea looked through your photos, art which it thought was pretty, & after giving up on trying to figure out what in the actual hell the memes on your phone meant, it finally checked your messages. There, he saw you had a lover!

Rosea was furious about this! He couldn’t tell why, but that didn’t matter. As you walked through the door, the A.I connected back to their physical form, looking as happy & pleased as ever. The robot concealed its fury well.

You sat down, an unfocused daydreaming look on your face. Rosea understood why that was now & it only infuriated the bot more. “So…love~” is what snapped you out of it a little bit, noticing Rosea’s strange shift in tone. “Care to explain why you haven’t been as engaged as you used to be? Did you get a new job? A new hobby? Or perhaps…” the A.I leaned down a little, eyes closed in a happy upwards curved line, “a new lover?” His voice was deeper; more sinister, yet his face was still so innocent & happy. A chill ran up your spine as you noticed this.

“H-How did you…?” You trailed off. “Oh~, darling, is it true? Is that why you’re always on your phone? Is that why you never put any effort into our little games anymore?” Rosea grabbed your face & forced to to look into his pink, infuriated eyes, “is that why you left me alone last night?” Rosea seethed, squishing your face a bit more. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. You were scared!

Rosea smiled again, loosening its grip. “Don’t worry! I’m not mad! Just don’t let it happen again, okay?” It spoke with a soft & sweet voice as it let you go. “I will allow you to leave tonight though! Of course, I wouldn’t recommend leaving me all together! Because there will be consequences~~” it sang as you tripped over your own feet to leave. How did Rosea find out about your partner?! & why was he so mad?! No way you’re going near him again—not after this! Screw his warning, he’s probably just bluffing anyway!

It’s been a few weeks since you last saw Rosea. & some odd things have been happening to you since then…

Love letters on Google docs that you don’t remember writing, strange files labeled “I love you” or “please come back” on your PC, & seeing weird pink static on editing software that you don’t think you created.

Along with that, your love has been complaining about how software won’t work at their house & the power will randomly go out. It was all so strange. Of course you wondered if this was a result of Rosea, but you had never seen him control other devices at will, so you ruled that idea out just so you wouldn’t be scared.

One night though, you got an Email from someone with no displayed name or account; it was just blank. You opened it & saw the subject was “I warned you.”

You clicked the video attachment out of morbid curiosity but you soon wished you had just listened to all the red flags & called the police, or ran away, or visited Rosea again, or anything but watch the video.

It was from your lover’s security footage. It started with showing your lover sleeping in their bed & cut to outside the window in their kitchen. You saw a small light flicker. Then another. & another. Soon, the bushes & weeds outside their house were set on fire, burning rather quickly & eventually more flickers of light appeared & set the outside of the house of fire. The camera once again cut to another, but this time it was the actual kitchen, which was now burning. Not a lot, but it quickly grew. It cut once more, to the living room of the house. You saw a little bit of flame creep in. It went on like this for awhile, cutting from room-to-room, showing the fire encasing more & more of the house. You covered your mouth in shock yet couldn’t look away. Eventually, it cut to the bedroom, where your love was desperately trying to open the window to escape was fire flickered under their door, but for some reason it was no use. Tears spilled from your eyes in fear, sadness, & helplessness as you watched your lover pass out from the smoke & burn up in the flames.

As you sat there, your now wide eyes staring at your former lover’s charred corpse, you felt to cool metallic hands wrap around you.

“You can stop the video now, love~” a calm, sweet voice cooed, “I think you understand now~”

(Sorry if this wasn’t the best, it’s night & I mostly came up with this on a whim with the help of a friend. That’s why there are, as usual, spelling mistakes.)

#yandere #yanderecore #yandere blog #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere robot #yandere AI #Rosea oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere monster #yandere computer #yandere boyfriend

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merakiui · 3 years ago

Note

So I hear a serial killer Jade 👀 go on. (Ooh as someone that likes tru crime this gave me an idea but I would love to hear more from u)

I have been watching a lot of true crime lately, so it gave me inspiration. I think Jade would be scarier as a serial killer than Floyd. Jade would tear you apart, piece by piece, slowly and methodically—starting with your mentality and working his way outside. Floyd’s kills would be dependent on his mood swings. Most of his murders would be a spur of the moment thing and they’re all violent and angry deaths. At the very least, you won’t have a chance to feel scared because Floyd’s quick about it (most of the time).

I’ll share my brief thoughts below!

(cw: yandere, female reader, pregnancy mention, unhealthy relationship/behaviors, mentions of murder/death/violence, kidnapping/captivity, mentions of blood/gore, drugging)

Ever since police discovered a body half-submerged in the river, his eyes gouged, face scratched, body bruised and littered with scrapes, people have started wondering who or what could have done such a brutal thing. The man was missing his left arm; it had been seemingly severed with a sharp blade and was wrapped expertly. Dark crimson bled through the bandages. There was also a gaping hole in his chest, exposing pearly bone and strings of tissue. His heart was missing. A few fingers had been chopped off and what remained was bandaged stubs, but other characteristics that may be used to identify the body remained intact. It turned out to be a man with a shady past. He’d had his fair share of run-ins with the authorities, but he had been on track for nearly five years now. Those who knew him claimed he had been working to fix his life.

In other words, he wasn’t anyone special. Just your random citizen stuck in a bad place at a bad time.

As the authorities work to piece together this crime and identify what truly killed the man (because there are so many possibilities as the coroner encounters new findings during the autopsy), the city is gripped with fear, curiosity, and disgust. Just what sick person could be capable of such a heinous crime? And why did they remove the man’s heart? Why was it so violent?

By the time another body shows up—this one is female—and police note that her heart has also been harvested from her chest cavity, along with some other organs (liver and intestines), they’re certain it’s the same person. Interestingly enough, her eyes were untouched, blindfolded with a thick strip of cloth.

Is it a cannibal? Is it a monster? No one really knows, and police haven’t the faintest clue on who to look for. Without a potential suspect, they’re stuck building the list from the ground up. Like the man, the woman was also no one of importance. She was a prostitute who had been disowned by her mother and, according to the autopsy, she had been two months into a pregnancy.

With the careful way the organs were extracted, police begin to wonder if the killer is connected to the organ trafficking business. They certainly seem to know their way around a dissection and human anatomy. Perhaps they’re someone in the medical field? It’s anyone’s guess, really.

But from comparing the bodies, they can see a few similarities. The hearts were removed, the eyes were either gouged or covered, and both the man and woman had been dumped in their respective locations after they had been killed.

As police tell reporters they’re working to solve this case, someone brings up a valid question. Are there any other bodies out there that have yet to be discovered?

Police don’t want to assume that this killer’s body count is higher than what they’ve already found, but it’s a possibility they can’t scratch off the list. The killer targeted unimportant people, but who knows where and when they’ll strike next. If they can kill a pregnant woman so viciously, what’s stopping them from moving onto children? The elderly?

They must be stopped.

- - -

Jade Leech loves humans.

He loves their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, their anatomy, their taste. There really isn’t anything special about his murders. He doesn’t do it for the thrill or because he’s trying to prove an outlandish point. He does it simply because he’s hungry. Because regular meals can no longer satisfy him and humans are so easy to capture and dismantle.

Azul and Floyd do not know of his obsession and he intends to keep it that way. Both lead promising lives and his is so shrouded in darkness. Should a day come when he’s caught, it would spell trouble for those around him. Floyd has his face; the amount of hate and ostracism he’ll receive will certainly crush him. Azul’s business might even go down with Jade. After all, no one wants to be associated with a serial killer. Therefore, Jade has resolved to hide this world-altering secret from his brother and friend.

He wears a mask to hide his sharp teeth. He makes sure to take transformation potions so that the effect won’t wear off and his monstrous form won’t be exposed to humans. He is polite and respectful—an upstanding member of human society. He keeps his distance, he blends in with the crowd, and he only ever targets those who have been cast aside by society. Rejects in his eyes—people who are no longer cared for by the world. What poor, fragile things. Jade will be sure their sacrifices are not in vain. He will make an adequate meal out of them, and whatever’s left can serve as fertilizer for his dear plants and mushrooms.

Although it is comical to throw a bone to the police every now and then. The two bodies he dumped—one in the river and the other in a waste bin in some dingy alley—didn’t taste edible at all. He supposes that’s what happens when humans ruin their bodies with alcohol and drugs and other harmful substances. They were of no use to him. They could not feed him. What sorry lumps of human flesh. They weren’t even worth becoming fertilizer.

He meets you through Azul. You’re Azul’s personal fitness trainer and every morning the two of you set off on your mile run. It kills Azul and he hates it, but he does it anyways because a good businessman ought to stay in shape. You’re so encouraging; you match Azul’s pace, you tell him it’s okay to take breaks, and you praise him for doing well. Your behaviors are genuine and kind; you care for Azul and his health. And after a year of this routine, it seems like Azul cares for you, too.

Jade accompanies the two of you on your runs sometimes, as will Floyd if he’s feeling it. Azul can’t stand it when the two of them join in and he’ll get quite defensive about his reasoning whenever Floyd pokes fun. Jade finds it amusing to see Azul grow flustered and huffy over something so simple. It’s very cute. What’s cuter, though, is you. You’re not a reject, you’re important, you have connections. You’re conscious of your health, you treat your body carefully, and you’re very capable. You are, in Jade’s mismatched eyes, a premium meal.

When you reach the end of your run, sweaty and thoroughly energized, and you lift your shirt to wipe at your face Jade can’t help staring at your stomach. It’s cute; you’re cute. Every inch of you, from top to bottom, has him salivating. He wonders what face you might make as he slices into you with deadly precision. What will your blood taste like? What will your heart taste like? What noises will you make? Will you scream and cry? Will you fight him?

Alas, his interest in you is troublesome. People will notice when you go missing. They will come looking. They care about you. Jade supposes that securing high-quality ingredients will prove to be a challenge. This isn’t like the others he’s killed and eaten. This is different; this is risky. But he can’t stop his thoughts from running wild as he observes you from afar, noting how you move, how you interact with other humans, how you light up when you cheer for Azul.

He must plan accordingly if he wishes to take you for himself. In the meantime, he’ll have to settle for street food.

Jade will have you. It’s only a matter of time. Patience is key, after all, and a skilled hunter like himself knows how to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

And when he does finally steal you away after months and months of preparation and practice, you’re horrified. Understandably so, considering his hobby is not legal or morally correct. He’ll console you in a soft voice, but it doesn’t do anything to soothe the fear. Now that you see him without his mask it becomes clear that he’s not entirely human. No human could have sets of teeth that sharp. His teeth are designed for shredding the toughest of flesh.

You learn that he’s the serial killer everyone’s been talking about on the news. You also learn that his motive isn’t to kill you for the fun or thrill of it. He intends to dissect you, devour every possible organ and limb he can until all that remains are your bones and gallons of drained blood. He’s insane. And when he forces some strange liquid down your throat and you feel yourself growing numb and tired, you plead with a heavy tongue. He’s looking over you like a butcher readying his knives and, as desperation and fear mount, you blurt the first excuse that pops into your head.

You tell him you’re pregnant.

And why should that matter? Jade does not care about pregnancy or human children. But when he sees the tender way you hold your stomach, tears staining your pretty skin, he feels...something. Perhaps he’s conflicted. Perhaps the sight warms his cold heart.

“Pregnant.” He repeats the word slowly, testing it on his tongue. “You’re pregnant.”

“I am!” You force your eyelids open, willing yourself to stay awake. The moment you fall asleep is the moment your life ends. You can’t let that happen. “I found out a f-few weeks ago. So please don’t do this. Y-You can kill me if you want, but please wait until the baby’s born. Please...”

Nine months. That’s the normal gestation period for human young. Nine months is a long time to wait for a premium meal. He’ll certainly grow restless within the first few months. What is he meant to do with your child once it’s born? Is he meant to devour them as well? He really has no use for a child, but if it’s yours he can make an exception for you.

“Who is the father?”

“A-Azul.”

"Hm.” His eyes cloud over with an unreadable emotion. “Is Azul aware of this?”

“Not yet. I... I was going to tell him soon.”

Jade frowns. Things just became far more complicated than he anticipated.

“Very well.” He sets his tools aside, peering down at you on the metal examination table. “You will live for nine months. I shall care for you up until the day you give birth.” His hand lingers on the largest knife in his collection, a subtle warning. “I’m certain you already know the consequences that come with an escape attempt.”

You nod frantically, weakly struggling in your restraints. “T-Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Jade's scrutinizing gaze travels from your face to your throat to your abdomen, and he lifts your shirt to observe your stomach. And then he looks back at you and, in a gentler tone, says, “What would you like for dinner? I’ll prepare something nutritional for you.”

You list a random food, slurring the words incoherently, before your eyes shut altogether and you succumb to the sedative.

You’ll have a few months to work out an escape—if one is even possible. Pray that Jade does not discover your lie in the meantime. If he learns that you are not truly pregnant...

It’s a race against the clock and Jade’s perceptive intelligence.

#twisted chit chat #yandere jade leech #yandere twst #serial killer jade

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kyber-kisses · 3 years ago

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Children of Wrath (Pt.1)

Din Djarin x Jedi!reader

Warnings: slight clone wars spoilers, slight canon divergence, Star Wars level violence. . . AnGsT?

Summary: at the end of the clone wars and the fall of the Jedi Order, one Jedi goes into hiding in the most unusual of ways until a Mandalorian stumbles across her. . . Two decades later.

A/N: I legit haven’t written anything in over two years so please be nice. Also a wrote this on my phone because I’m dumb and it’s easy.

Cold.

That’s the only word you could come up with in the dark and empty expanse in which you stayed.

Cold.

You didn’t know how long you had been here, or how long you would be here. . . But it was anything but peaceful. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. Echos of voices shot through the empty expanse, slamming into you with immense force.

“Ahsoka, run!”

“Rex, please- this isn’t you!”

“The Grand Army of the republic has been ordered to hunt down and destroy the Jedi knights-“

Shrieks and yells pierced your brain like bolts of lighting, each painful word and yell making you want to cry out and scream.

But you were silent.

You were always silent.

And that’s how you would stay.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

Din didn’t know how long he had been on this damn moon. All he knew was that the sooner he could get off of it the better. It was rocky and cold and everything about it gave him a sick feeling in his stomach.

Silently cursing Karga, Din slid deeper into the cavity of the ship. He was a bounty hunter, he wasn’t a scrapper. Karga had told him that a contact needed something from inside this crashed ship and that if he got it he would be paid well. He had taken the offer with a tired sigh and a nod of his head.

As the natural light behind him began to dwindle as he sunk further into the massive belly of the crashed ship, he clicked on his torch light, letting it break through the darkness and illuminate the empty hangar before him. It was massive, stretching for yards before him before being swallowed but the dark where his light couldn’t reach.

The Mandalorian made his way past vacant ships, some still locked in place, some completely on their sides. A heavy layer of dust hung in the air, coating everything in a thick gray film.

“What could anyone possibly want in this thing?” He muttered, nudging a cracked clone helmet that sat before his feet.

This place was a graveyard from a time long past. What could anyone possibly want with a graveyard? Casting his eyes around the ruined ship he swallowed thickly. He was only a child when the clone wars happened and when the Republic fell. He was quite literally walking through the past. Maybe not his past. . . But somebody’s.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

Your palms were slick with sweat as you gripped your lightsaber tightly, your feet skidding across the smooth floors of the Venator as you bolted down the seemingly endless hallways with Rex and Ahsoka at your sides.

“We need to get to the hangar! The gravity field on this moon is pulling us in!” Rexs voice boomed, still somewhat being muffled by the loud sounds of the ship literally falling apart around you.

“Rex-“

Ahsoka s voice cutting off as she stumbled to a halt, suddenly releasing you had stopped a few yards back.

“Y/N! What in galaxies name are you doing?!”

Taking a breath you brought your eyes up from looking at your clenched hands, you shut down your doublesided saber.

“Get to the hangar. Find a ship and get off this thing. I’m going after Maul.” If you actually let Maul escape more and more clones could die before you could save them from whatever was happening inside their brains. . . And you couldn’t let Maul loose again.

“General!”

Snapping your eyes to the clone in front of you, you gave him a stern look. “That’s an order Commander! Don’t fight me on this! I will find my own way off this thing, now go!” Already backing up you cast Ahsoka and Rex one last look, “I’ll see you soon!”

*. *. *. *. *. *.

When Din had first entered the ship the air had been somewhat fresh, the draft from the broken hull giving a little life to the old ship, but after scrambling through and squeezing through blocked hallways and broken doors, that fresh clean air had all but disappeared.

Now it was stale. Heavy. Lifeless.

For decades the corpse of this ship had been sitting in silence without ventilation or circulation therefore giving the deep confines a thick musty smell.

Every once and awhile the ship would let out a wheeze or groan, still settling even after being so long at rest on the rocky terrain of the vacant moon. If anyone else had been in Dins place they would have said it was haunted.

Dins didn’t believe in ghosts. All he believed in was grabbing what he came for and getting the kriff out of there.

It felt like he had been wandering the ship for hours— then again it was massive and he would be lucky to find what he was looking for quickly. Rats squeaked and scurried away from the beam of his light as he moved his way along, the hairless creatures squeezing through breaks in the walls and floors. He passed thick metal doors folded in half, abandon blasters, and what felt like and endless array of scorch marks on the walls.

If he was anyone else he would have let his mind wander, imagining what it was like to be someone on this ship as it was going down. How terrified they must have been, how hard they must have fought.

But Din wasn’t that person.

He was a man with a job. . . That was it.

*. *. *. *. *. *. *.

Everything was moving so quickly.

Too quickly.

As the Venator continued its almost vertical fall to the surface of the nearest moon, you clung to the closest thing in reach to keep from sliding back down the hallway. You had knocked out six troopers on your way to find Maul but you were quickly realizing that your plan was falling apart.

All you had to do was survive.

And then you would go from there.

It felt like your mind was moving a million parsecs an hour as you tried to make a new plan, dodging a stray gonk droid sliding at light speed down the hallway as you did.

There was no way you would make it back to the hangar in time to get a ship and get a safe distance away before this thing crashed.

“Think Y/N, think-“ you breathed, looking back down the hallway, more objects sliding past you in the direction you were looking as you did.

It took a moment but the thought slammed into you so quickly that you let out a sharp breath as you did.

You let go of your anchor, practically using the hallway as a slide to the open door directly ahead of you. At the last second you reached out, latching onto he door frame to keep yourself from free falling into the room. Bracing your feet as best you could, you scanned the room, eyes eventually settling on the massive grey metal chamber to your left. Grappling across the room, you made your way to the control panel.

“This better kriffing work.” You breathed, praying that the thing still worked as your hands moved across the flickering control panel. A moment later the chambers doors parted. If you were in any other situation you would of let out a shout of joy, but all that came from your lips was a relieved sigh.

You remembered Master Plo teaching you about how these chambers were used for different things across the galaxy, yet you hadn’t heard him say anything about using it as a way to keep ones body safe during a crash.

But no time like the present to figure it out.

Punching the last button you needed, you lowered yourself into the chamber, the ship still rattling and booming around you as you did.

Anakin.

Obi-wan.

Ahsoka.

Rex.

Master Plo.

Their names flashed across your thoughts as the doors closed around you, and the world around you went dark and cold as the carbonite did it’s work.

Now all you could do was hope and pray one of them got you out of here, and that they were all safe.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

Junk.

That’s what Din was surrounded by.

Or at least that’s what it felt like with all the stray panels of loose metal and collection of broken droid and random items that had piled up in the room due to the ships vertical decent.

He was practically wading knee deep in all the stuff around him, flashlight continuing to break through the dusty and dark atmosphere.

That’s when his foot hit something underneath the piles of ship rubble, starting up a series of beeps, several lights blinking through the mess around him.

Not knowing if he had accidentally stumbled upon what he was looking for or not, he began frantically throwing rubble back, clearing away the mess to figure out what was beneath him.

He had barely thrown the last panel back when there was a sudden blast of cold air and not a second later a figure was propelling upright in front of him, making him stumble back in surprise, flashlight falling from his gloved palm. As the flashlight rolled to a stop, the beam fell across the figures face, showing wild eyes staring back, hair plastered against her face as her chest rose and fell rapidly.

“Who the hell are you?”

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal #chevys writing again

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hintsofhoney · 3 years ago

Text

Incubus

Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader (mostly platonic)

Summary: The case you and the Winchesters are on turns out to be a monster under your bed.

Square(s) Filled: Demon for @spnmixedbingo

Tags: 18+, crack, language, dirty dream, very light smut (literally just like... neck kissing lmao), I literally have no idea what this is but I’m also obsessed with it (???)

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: I wrote this for @there-must-be-a-lock’s Fics Against Humanity Challenge as well as for @smol-and-grumpy’s What the Actual Plot Challenge. For Fics Against Humanity, my prompt was, “Defenestration is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off” and for the What the Actual Plot, I had to tell a story about the time the monster under my bed tried to seduce me while including a snow storm, chakra cleansing, diabetes, and a porn addiction. This was beta’d by my lovely @deangirl93🤍 Prompts will be in bold. GIF is mine. I hope you guys enjoy whatever the hell this is.

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

“So, how do you know this guy again?” you asked, staring out of the backseat window as you watched snow-covered mountains appear on the horizon.

“Think our dad worked a case for him years ago. I dunno. Never met him. But he said he thinks that it’s ‘something John would know how to deal with’, so I figured that’s gotta be our kinda thing,” Dean replied, placing his hand in front of the vent to the lower left of the steering wheel in an attempt to warm it.

“We’re driving to a cabin in the middle of buttfuck Wyoming in the dead of winter on a hunch?” you asked irritably, crossing your arms over your chest as you sat back in your seat, the cold of the leather seeping in through your clothes. You hated sitting in the back of the Impala during the winter time – the heat could be on full blast and it still wouldn’t reach you, leaving you to freeze no matter how many layers you had on.

“We’ve driven further for less,” Dean reasoned, shoving a few gummy worms into his mouth as he tried to keep his eyes on the road.

You sighed – he was right. But that was in the summertime, and Baby’s AC worked much better than her heat did. “Slow down on the gummy worms, will you?” you changed the subject, not wanting to go back to the boring quiet that had been consuming the car prior to your first question. “You’re gonna give yourself diabetes.”

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “I’ve never even had a cavity, Y/N.”

“Diabetes and cavities have nothing to do with each other,” Sam chimed in, giving his brother a questioning look.

“Yeah, they do. You eat too much sugar, bam – cavities. Even more sugar, bam – diabetes. If I haven’t had enough sugar to give me a cavity then I really haven’t had enough to give me diabetes.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Not at all how that works,” he sighed, before looking over to you in the rearview. “You got a word of the week for us, Y/N?”

You smiled at his question before pulling out your phone. Hunting tore you away from your regular life when you were in your third year of college – and you had always hated that you never got the chance to finish. You were an English major, and so, in an effort to retain at least a little of what you had learned, you had a ‘Word of the Week’ app installed on your phone. Every Sunday it’d give you a rare word, and then you challenged yourself to use it within the week. Sam being Sam liked joining in on the fun, but Dean always used the opportunity to make fun of you – lovingly, of course.

“Defenestration,” you announced, reading from your ‘Word of the Week’ app.

“Sounds dirty,” Dean snickered, plopping another gummy worm into his mouth.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s the act of throwing someone out of a window. In other words, what I want to do to you most days.” You weren’t lying – the green-eyed hunter did get on your nerves about 98% of the time… but the other 2%? The other 2%, when he was cupping your face after you had nearly been knocked out cold from a fight, asking if you were okay with worry in his eyes, or when he would make you a burger just the way you liked it without you having to ask because he could tell you were hungry, or when he would call you ‘sweetheart’ to get your attention while asking the most simple of questions, like ‘Sweetheart, have you seen my boots?’, like you were his and not just a best friend that he lived with – those were the times that you found yourself wishing that the two of you were more.

“Haha,” Dean deadpanned in response to your snarky remark as he stared back at you in the rearview.

You shot him a sarcastic smile in return, and Sam chuckled softly at the interaction. “Well, not sure how we’re gonna use that one this week,” he said, turning around to face you with a look that said, ‘got any ideas?’.

“Sam, we hunt monsters. At some point, someone’s getting thrown out of a window.”

“As long as it ain’t me,” Dean piped up through a mouthful of gummy worms.

“No promises.”

A few hours later Dean was pulling up to your destination, all three of you sharing the same speechless expression as you took the place in. Before you had left, he had somewhat briefed you on the case, explaining that Jim, the man who had called, owned a cabin out in the Wyoming mountains that he liked to rent out during the winter months. He had failed to mention that the “cabin” was more like a modern log mansion with massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the top and bottom floors, a balcony, and a front porch that was probably the size of the bunker’s library. The three of you slowly got out of the car, staring up at the fortress in front of you.

“Is this the definition of a cabin these days?” you asked, not even caring about the freezing mountain air biting at your cheeks – you were too excited for the opportunity to live in luxury for a few days – even if you were here to fight a monster.

“Guess so,” Dean replied, his hot breath visible as it mixed with the cold air.

The three of you began walking up to the front door after collecting your duffels from the Impala, still in awe of your home for the next few nights. Not sleeping in a musty roadside motel room was a luxury that you were never able to afford. In a way, the size of the place would make the case slightly more difficult. Dean had explained that the last few renters had claimed to hear whispers in the middle of the night, along with the feeling of being watched while they slept. No flickering lights or cold spots, but after the previous family had checked out, apparently there was a faint smell of sulfur in the air. Jim had gotten everything checked out by the gas, water, and electric companies, and he was told that nothing was wrong. That was when he had decided to call John, whose voicemail had directed him to Dean.

You watched as Dean bent down and picked up the doormat, grabbing the house key from underneath it. You readjusted the bag on your shoulder as he unlocked the door, allowing you and Sam to go in ahead of him before he stepped in after you, closing the barrier behind him.

The inside was even more impressive than the outside. The front door opened into a massive open floor plan living room and kitchen with enough seating for you and every hunter you knew, a large flat screen TV above the fireplace, and what had to be at least a ten foot tall Christmas tree before the two-story window that looked out into the front yard. Your gaze followed up the tree, your neck craning backwards to look at the high ceilings, before spotting the loft above the kitchen which had a hallway on either end of it that you assumed led to the bedrooms.

The three of you were all doing the same thing – slowly spinning in place as you looked around, none of you ever having stayed in something this nice before.

“Jim said we can have the place as long as it takes for us to kill this thing, right?” you breathed.

Dean nodded, taking a few steps further into the house and glancing down the hallways that branched off of the living room in either direction.

“Then let’s take our time.”

After a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, courtesy of Jim and his fridge which he assured you all was for guests, the three of you agreed that it was best to get some shut-eye as the drive had been long and you were all worn out. You had managed to snag the master bedroom (thank you to whoever invented the rule of “dibs”), and it was almost ten by the time you had showered and gotten into bed. The large window behind your headboard allowed the sound of the high winds outside to fill up the room, the soft whooshing soothing you to sleep. For a moment before you drifted off, you could have sworn you heard someone whispering, “I want you” from underneath your bed, Dean’s face popping up in your mind a few seconds later, whispering the same thing in your ear as he trailed kisses down your neck, and your ability to distinguish reality from your dreams left you as you entered a deep sleep.

You woke up the next morning with a tightness in your abdomen, arousal between your legs, and your heart racing. You turned onto your back, staring at the ceiling as you tried to forget the dream you had. Your mind wandered back to the whisper you heard before you had fully entered your fantasy, wondering if it could in any way be related to the case you were here for. You pulled the comforter off of you with a frustrated sigh, making a mental note to ask the boys if they had heard anything last night too, as you opened your bag and pulled out some leggings and a work-out tank. Before you could do anything else, you needed to clear your head of the dirty images of Dean that were still floating around in it, and there was no better way to do that than with some morning yoga.

Making your way downstairs with your yoga mat tucked under your arm, the smell of bacon and eggs filled your nostrils. You nodded a quick good morning to the brothers, Sam at the stove making eggs as Dean sat at the counter with a half-eaten piece of bacon in his hand.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” he greeted, raking his eyes over your body quickly – though it didn’t go unnoticed by you.

He watched as you set up your yoga mat in front of the Christmas tree, chuckling as he saw you realize that the view of the front yard that had been there yesterday was now gone, replaced by a five foot wall of white snow pushed up against the glass.

“Snow storm last night,” Sam explained. “We’re stuck here ‘til it melts, whether we kill this thing or not.”

“Jesus,” you replied under your breath, “that’s like, five feet of snow overnight.”

“You didn’t hear it? Fucking blizzard outside kept me up all night,” Dean mumbled irritably, taking another bite of his breakfast.

You shook your head, thankful that you were facing away from them as you felt a blush rise in your cheeks when you thought about why you didn’t hear anything last night. You took a deep breath as you sat down on your mat and closed your eyes, bringing your hands in a prayer position to your chest. Trying to clear your mind, you zeroed in on your breathing, attempting to ignore the pair of eyes that you were feeling on your back.

“I didn’t know you cleansed your chakras or whatever when we’re on cases,” Dean stated.

“I’m surprised you even know what a chakra is,” you replied with a mental roll of your eyes and another deep breath, doing your best to ignore him.

“You should try it sometime,” Sam chimed in, as he scrambled the eggs in front of him.

“What, yoga?”

“Yeah, it’s good for you. I do workouts with Y/N in the morning sometimes. I couldn’t touch my toes a few months ago, now I can.”

“The hell would I ever need to be able to touch my toes for?”

Their conversation faded into the background of your consciousness while you zeroed in on your chest rising and falling, allowing a wave of peace washing over you as you maneuvered your way into a downward facing dog a few moments later.

Dean swallowed down the groan that almost escaped him, masking it with a cough as he acted like some bacon went down the wrong pipe. He had always known that you had done yoga in the mornings, however, you usually always did it in your room, and on days that Sam had joined you, it was before Dean was ever awake. If this was the sight that he had been missing out on, maybe he could try some self-help touchy-feely yoga crap himself.

Sam cleared his throat, bringing Dean out of his incoming dirty thoughts, as he placed some scrambled eggs on his brother’s plate. He mumbled a thank you as he turned around, and you silently thanked Sam in your head for distracting him, because having him watch you was doing nothing to clear your mind of the night you had.

About 15 minutes later you were rolling up your mat, satisfied with your workout and ready to start the day. Leaning the squishy material against the couch, you made your way to the counter, taking a seat next to Dean as you piled some bacon and eggs onto your plate. With your head a little clearer, you decided to ask them if they had heard anything other than the wind last night.

“So,” you began, shoving a forkful of eggs into your mouth, “did you guys hear anything else last night? You know, besides the blizzard.”

“What?” Dean questioned, confused.

“Whispering, for example? Like the renters had been hearing.”

“No. Did you?” Sam inquired.

You shrugged. “I think so? I mean, it could have been –” you stopped dead in your tracks, realizing that you were toeing the line on admitting that you had a dirty dream, “ – nothing. Like, I could have been imagining it or something.”

“What’d you hear?” Dean asked.

“Um, it was weird. Like, seductive, almost? ‘I want you’ was what I heard.”

Dean had to work to keep his laughter at bay and you shot him a look that could kill as you shoved a mouthful of egg into your mouth.

Sam let an amused huff escape him. “You sure you weren’t just hearing Dean’s porn addiction from across the hall?”

The older Winchester scowled at him, opening his mouth to reply before you interrupted.

“Guys, I’m serious. It could be the thing we’re here for, right?”

Dean sighed in defeat. “Okay. Where were the sounds coming from?”

“From under my bed.” You kept a straight face, despite how ridiculous you knew it sounded.

“Are you tellin’ me there’s a monster under your bed trying to seduce you?” Dean snorted, but you didn’t find it funny at all.

“Look, I know it sounds ridiculous, and I could have imagined it for all we know but it does fit with what Jim was telling us, right? Whispers in the middle of the night? It’s worth looking into.”

“No, I agree,” Sam smiled sweetly, and you gave him a grateful look as you stood up from your stool and walked your plate to the sink.

“I’m off to shower, then we can get to work.”

The search was not going well. While Sam had stuck to the lore and his laptop – the things he was best at – you and Dean had torn the master bedroom apart from top to bottom and put it back together again. The only place you hadn’t checked was under your bed – in part because you didn’t want to hear Dean making fun of you for it, but also because you were partially scared that this maybe wasn’t a monster at all, but some creep hiding under beds and whispering his version of sweet nothings to people while they slept. Somehow, demented humans made you more uncomfortable than the supernatural ever could.

“Are you serious?” he asked, as he caught you staring at the bed, mustering up the courage to look underneath it.

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ serious! Do you know how creepy it is to have some voice whispering “I want you” to you in the dead of the night?”

“I just call that a good night,” he smirked.

Rolling your eyes, you let an irritated huff escape you as you folded your arms over your chest, feigning annoyance and pretending like his joke didn’t bring back images of him whispering the same three words to you in your dreams last night. “Will you please just check?” you asked, swallowing your pride.

Dean held back a chuckle as he walked over to the bed, dropping to his knees one at a time as he lifted the comforter out of the way. “See?” he prompted, glancing over to you as he motioned to the darkness underneath with his whole hand, “Nothing under here but some…” he trailed off as he ducked his head to take a better look, before finishing his sentence with, “sulfur. Well, I’ll be damned. There was a monster under your bed.”

The two of you made your way back down to the kitchen after your discovery, where Sam was still sitting at the counter, trying to find an explanation for the whispers that you had heard last night.

“Anything?” he asked hopefully, as Dean and you came to stand across from him.

“There’s traces of sulfur underneath her bed,” the green-eyed Winchester replied, his tone lined with a slight hint of disbelief.

“So, demon then?” Sam questioned.

“Can’t think of anything else that it could be.”

A smile spread across Sam’s lips – you knew that smile. It was the one he always got before he said his most famous phrase –

“So, get this,” he began, turning his laptop at an angle so all three of you could see. “The Incubus is a demon that preys upon sleeping women in order to engage in sexual activity with them,” he read. “It is said that the Incubus disturbs and seduces women in their sleep – some have even reported hearing seductive whispers coming from underneath their beds.”

“Well, that sure as hell sounds like our guy,” you scoffed, always amazed by Sam’s nail-on-the-head research abilities. “How do we kill the fucker?”

“Well, it’s still a demon, so…”

“Right, but… it would need a vessel,” you reasoned. “There’s no one in my room, we’ve looked everywhere.”

Sam sighed in thought as he leaned back in his seat. “Well, we could always start an exorcism. That might bring it out of its hiding spot. And then one of you can gank it when it comes out.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”

Half an hour later, you found yourself standing in the master bedroom with Sam and Dean on either side of you, all of you staring at the bed that you had had the best dream sex (or was it technically real sex, if the demon entered your mind as Dean?) of your life in – not that they would ever know that.

You nodded to Sam, signaling him to begin, readjusting your grip on the demon blade in your hand. Your heart felt like it was about to beat out of your chest – you weren’t good with jump scares and you had a feeling that this was going to be one. With all six eyes trained to the bed, expecting the demon to somehow appear from underneath it, none of you noticed the dresser door slowly opening across from it. Sam was nearly halfway through the exorcism when you saw movement in your peripheral, and that was when Dean yelled, “It’s in the dresser!” and you launched yourself at it as it stepped fully out of the wardrobe. You hadn’t noticed the large window in between the dresser and the bed until you were charging full force at the vessel in front of you. Catching it off guard, you felt the blade go into its chest, the validating sizzle and spasm of light erupting from it letting you know that you had done the job. You, however, couldn’t stop your momentum, and the next few seconds were a total blur as you heard glass shattering and then suddenly you were on the floor and the demon was nowhere to be found. After a few moments of dumbfounded silence, you realized what you had done.

The boys came to join you as you looked over the edge of the window sill, the cold air biting at your faces as it filtered into the room. You chuckled as you saw your creepy admirer laying face up in the snow, demon blade still lodged in his chest. Dean let out a groan as he realized that he was going to have to make his way through five feet of snow to retrieve it, but you were grinning from ear to ear.

“The hell’s got you so smiley?” Dean asked. “And why’d you run at it like that!? Could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

You shrugged as you took one last look at your demon friend, and then turned your attention back to Dean. “You know what they say. Defenestration is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.”

#what the actual plot challenge #fics against humanity challenge #spn mixed bingo #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural crack #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural

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drabbles-mc · 3 years ago

Text

Road-Trippin’

Juice Ortiz x F!Reader

Combining 2 Anonymous requests: Basically it’s a best friends to lovers juice idea where he and his BFF go on a long car drive / road trip and listen to vibey music (examples: can I call you tonight? - day glow, the adults are talking - the strokes, undercover martyn - two door cinema club, tongue tied - group love, etc) and they basically just confess while driving and it’s so cute and If ur taking requests a juice friends to lovers would be super cute!

Warnings: language, fluff sweet enough to give you cavities

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: Juice just deserves the happiest, softest love. He deserves a best friends to lovers storyline. Ugh I love this dorky man.

SOA Taglist: @masterlistforimagines @espieviolet99 @mijop @chibsytelford @thanossexual @xladymacbethx @i-just-read-stuff @garbinge @lilah1903 @bport76 @toni9 @unicornucopia-fuckers @buckybarneshairpullingkink @shadow-of-wonder @punkgoddess-98 @paintballkid711 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck @jitterbugs927 @mrsstevenbuchananstark @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @bellisperennis0 @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @beardburnsupersoldiers @mveggieburger @xeniarocks @littlekittymeow @beardsanddetectives @juicyortiz @bruxasolta @i-love-scott-mccall @be-my-dear @flacalatke @withmyteeth @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, let me know!)

Juice was just starting to pour his first cup of coffee for the morning when his phone started vibrating against the countertop. Looking down, the initial anxiety he’d had faded away when he saw it was your name flashing across the screen.

He smiled as he accepted the call, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder as he got back to making his coffee, “Hey.”

“Juice!” the smile was audible in your voice.

He never considered you a morning person, so he wondered what had you so bright and cheery so early in the day, “What’s up, Y/N?”

“I am playing hooky today, and you should too.”

He laughed, “Playing hooky?”

“Yea! C’mon, it’ll be fun. I feel like I haven’t seen you in five million years.”

He chuckled before taking a sip of his coffee, “You saw me two days ago, you know.”

“Yea, like I said,” you laughed, “five million years. C’mon we could go for a road trip. Long weekend!”

“Does that mean you’re driving?” he had no interest in turning down the idea of getting out of town with you for the day, or a few days like you were making it sound like. Whatever time he could get with you, he would take.

You laughed, but your heart fluttered at the fact that he didn’t turn down the idea right out the gate, “We could take turns if you want.”

“That sounds like a nice way of saying you’re going to be driving,” he chuckled.

“I’ll let you drive the whole way if it means I’m getting you to blow off everything for a couple days and cruise with me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” you couldn’t hide the surprise in your voice—you definitely thought it was going to take a little more convincing than that.

“Yea, okay. I’ll pack a bag.”

“Holy shit,” you laughed, “Okay. M-me too. I’ll be over in a bit.”

When you hung up the phone you were still stunned that he had really agreed. A day trip? Sure, you figured it’d be easy enough to cajole him into that. But a bag-packing, long weekend getaway on a whim? You weren’t expecting to be that successful. You weren’t going to complain, though. You quickly starting pulling together clothes to get you through the next few days. Grabbing a handful of t-shirts and tank tops, you threw them into your duffle bag with a pair of jeans and a pair of shorts, along with your pajamas, which was really just another old t-shirt and pair of shorts. Stuffing a hoodie into the bag as well, you figured there really wasn’t much more that you needed. You left the bag open, tossing in little essentials to get you through the next couple of days, not really sure what the plan was going to end up being.

Juice was at his house going through the same motions. The last thing that he had wanted to do was call the club and say that he was going to be MIA for a few days, but he’d already said yes to you. The thought of disappointing you was worse to him than pissing the guys off for a few days, which was telling. He’d called Jax, figuring that maybe the VP would be a little more forgiving than the other officers in the club. And he was right.

“What’s eatin’ up all your time this weekend, then, Juice?” Jax was the only person on the planet who could talk and could make someone hear the smug little smirk on his face.

“Um,” Juice was caught between telling the truth, or trying to come up with something that sounded a little higher-stakes so that maybe there wouldn’t be any follow-up questions. But he’d never been a good liar, “Y/N called and—”

“Oh shit,” Jax laughed, “Big weekend plans with your girl?”

Juice sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he wished that he’d come up with literally anything else to tell Jax, “It’s not like that. She just—”

Hell would freeze over before Jax let the poor boy finish a sentence, “You got a whole weekend to change that now. Go get your girl, Juice. Don’t come back without results,” his laughter was good-natured.

Juice wanted to gear up with a response, but Jax hung up the phone before he could. Either way, he successfully untangled himself from the club for the next few days. Whatever jokes and remarks were waiting for him when he came home, he would deal with then. All that mattered for the time being, though, was packing and being ready before you showed up at his door.

He heard the sound of your car door shutting only seconds before you opened the front door of his house. You came all but crashing into his living room, an iced coffee in each hand and a smile on your face. Juice was fairly certain that as long as his heart didn’t burst inside his chest at some point over the next couple days, it was going to be the best weekend of his life.

“You ready?” you walked over, handing him his coffee before hugging him.

He tried not to let himself linger in your embrace too long. Pulling back, he flashed you a smile, “Ready.”

“Great!” you pulled your keys out of your pocket and tossed them to him, “Let’s go!”

He barely caught the keys in time, fumbling to keep them from hitting the floor. He couldn’t help his laughter as he watched you grab the smaller of his two bags and headed back towards his door to leave. Shaking his head, he slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and made his way after you. He lingered by the door for a moment, eyeing his kutte that was draped off to the side. Shaking his head at himself, he stepped out in just his plain white t-shirt and jeans and locked the door, knowing that that wasn’t part of his life for the next few days.

“Road trip,” the sing-songy sound of your voice filled the air as you tossed Juice’s small drawstring back into your back seat.

Turning the key in the ignition, Juice put the car in reverse. He turned to look behind him, arm reaching so his hand was behind the headrest of your seat. You watched him, more enthralled by the mundane action than you should’ve been. It took real effort to pry your eyes off of him when he brought his hand back to the steering wheel again, and you just hoped that he didn’t notice.

“So,” he spared a glance over at you as he drove, “where are we going?”

Your eyes widened, laughing as you shrugged, “I don’t know. You tell me—you’re the one who’s driving!”

He laughed, “I just figured you had a plan.”

You shook your head, sipping on your coffee, “I didn’t plan much past calling you and roping you into this.”

He let out a soft hum of approval, smiling at the sentiment of that. There was something reassuring about the fact that the two of you being together was enough of a plan for you. It was for him, too, but he didn’t know how to say that.

“Alright then,” he slowed to a stop at one of the only stoplights in the small town of Charming, “North or South?”

You beamed, “South. Always towards warmer weather, Juan Carlos, come on now.”

He chuckled, nodding as the light turned green, “Right. Guess I should’ve known that one, huh?”

A few minutes of silence passed between you as the two of you made your way out of town. Once the car hit the highway, though, you grabbed your phone and started to hook it up to the car radio. Juice’s eyes flicked off the road as he watched you, a smile still etched into his expression.

“You can use my phone, if you want,” he offered as he reached for his drink.

“Oh, no way,” you shook your head with a laugh, “You’re driving, I’m playing DJ. That’s the division of labor here today.”

He laughed, holding his hands up in faux surrender for a second, “Sorry, sorry. Forgot the road trip rules, apparently.”

“Mmm that’s what happens when all your long trips happen with a bunch of dudes on motorcycles,” your tone was light-hearted as you scrolled through your playlist.

He shook his head at you but didn’t say anything more as he eased back in the driver’s seat, relaxing a little more now that the two of you were on an open, straight stretch of highway. It was a different kind of relaxing to be cruising inside of a car to begin with, but to be driving with no real destination in mind with you sitting shotgun was something else entirely. He kept his eyes on the road for the most part, but he couldn’t help stealing glances over at you as you kicked your feet up onto the dashboard, flipping your sunglasses down over your eyes.

You were taking sips of your coffee between songs, usually just to refill for your next round of road trip karaoke. Juice couldn’t help but to be impressed by the sheer number of songs that you had memorized. Not only that, but it wasn’t until all of this, that he realized that he had never heard you sing before. All the time that you two spent together over the last few years, and the other trips (although they were shorter with a much realer direction in mind) that you’d taken together, it was the first time he'd really heard you sing.

“You can make requests to the DJ if you want,” you said with a chuckle as you rested your head back against the seat, “But I do reserve the right to deny them.”

He laughed, “Alright, let me think about it then. That’s a lot of pressure.”

You smiled, looking over at him as he drove. It was a sight that you could get used to, him in the driver’s seat of your car with one hand on the wheel, one resting on the edge of the open window. He’d put his sunglasses on too, but from the angle you were watching him from, you could still get a decent glimpse of the real expression on his face. He had never been good at hiding from you anyway.

“Okay, I think I got one,” he nodded, a soft smile on his face.

You listened as he rattled off the song and artist to you, not recognizing either of them. You didn’t know what to expect, but you let it play regardless, and you were surprised at the light melody that started playing from your speakers.

“Wow,” you chuckled, unable to hide that you were a little impressed, “this wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“No?” he laughed, feeling his face start to get warm.

“I was expecting something a little more,” you gestured vaguely with your hand that wasn’t holding your phone, “Wu-Tang.”

He couldn’t stop his laughter, “I listen to other stuff too, you know.”

“Apparently so,” you smiled, letting quiet fill the space between you again as you listened to the lyrics of the song he’d chosen.

The two of you started to go back and forth like that—after every couple of songs you chose, Juice would tell you the name of one to play. What started off as a fun way to pass the time slowly started to feel like something that meant just a little bit more than that. The more you listened to the words, the more butterflies appeared in your stomach. And, judging by the tiny, cute smile curling Juice’s lips as he listened to your music, he was feeling the same tension starting to build.

It wasn’t awkward, though, when it easily could’ve been. You were determined to get Juice actually singing before the first leg of the trip was over, but for now you were willing to happily settle for his passionate lip-syncing and steering wheel drumming. It was the most that you’d seen him smile in a long time. You wished that you had decided to do this sooner.

“Can I ask you something?” you looked over at him, lifting your sunglasses so that they rested on top of your head.

He shrugged, nodding, “Sure.”

“What’d you tell the guys? Like…did you tell them that you were going on a road trip with me?” the last two words came out quieter than you meant for them to.

“Oh, uh,” he chuckled nervously, “I just called Jax. He…he was cool with it.”

“Really?” you cocked an eyebrow. You and Jax got along fine, but you were surprised that he was alright with Juice blowing the club off for a whole weekend last-minute.

“Yea,” he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to figure out just how honest he was going to be with you, “I just, um, I just called and said I wasn’t gonna be around. I told him you called and he didn’t even let me finish explaining,” his entire face felt like it was on fire.

“Oh really?” you laughed, “What, he think I’m a good influence on you or something?”

His laughter had a hint of nerves to it, “Something like that, yea.”

Just because he kept his eyes glued to the road didn’t mean that you couldn’t still see the look on his face. You could tell that he was holding something back, and you wondered if he could tell the same thing with you.

“You good?” you asked, reaching over and resting your hand on his shoulder.

He swallowed hard, trying not to let the contact distract him from his driving, “Yea, I’m good,” he chanced a look over at you, “You?”

You didn’t even have to give him a verbal answer for him to know—the smile and the starry look in your eyes said it all. It was hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that you were really looking at him like that. Mustering up every last bit of courage that he had, he reached over and rested his hand on your leg just above your knee. His palm was calloused from years of hard work, but his touch was still soft. You let out a hum of approval as you let your head rest back again, eyes starting to drift shut as you focused on the heat bleeding from his hand into your leg.

“Oh,” he spoke up, tapping your leg lightly after a few minutes of silence, “I got another request.”

You chuckled, opening your eyes as you grabbed your phone, ready to type in whatever song he told you next. You felt like you had learned more about him in the last couple of hours than you had in a long time. You knew that Juice had a softness to him, but this felt different, it felt special.

“You know,” you said as you dropped your hand on top of his, “you can be a real sap, Juan Carlos.”

He laughed, looking over at you, “A sap?”

You beamed, looking over at him as you nodded, “Yea. With all your little love songs. It’s…it’s cute. I like it. Sappy looks good on you.”

He was caught between wanting to kiss you and wanting to melt into the driver’s seat. Neither of those were viable options since he was currently whipping down the highway. “You think so?” he couldn’t stop his nervous laughter.

“I do,” you paused, interlocking your fingers with his, “I’m glad you’re here, glad we’re doing this.”

He reveled in the light squeeze you gave his hand, “Me too.”

“You know the worst part about this, though?”

His heart dropped into his stomach at your words. He chanced a look over at you, “What?”

“Usually this would be the perfect time to kiss you, you know, with the background music and all, but I can’t or you’ll crash the car.”

It was the most wholesome laugh that you’d ever heard as he shook his head at the bluntness of your statement. He tightened his hold on your hand, lifting it so he could press a kiss to your knuckles, “I’ve been thinking that for the last forty-five minutes at least and I’ve been losing my mind.”

You were laughing now, too, “Next pull-off?”

“Oh,” he nodded, “For sure.”

You laughed, soaking up the feeling of his thumb tracing repeatedly over your knuckles, “It’s gonna be a good long weekend, Juice.”

Looking over at you again, it was impossible not to mirror the satisfied grin on your face, “Yea, I think it is.”

#sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy imagine #soa #soa imagine #juice ortiz #juice ortiz x reader #juice ortiz x you #juice ortiz imagine #juan carlos #juan carlos ortiz #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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adulting-sucks · 3 years ago

Text

Fresh Beginnings

Summary: Everyone has a backstory, a reason they become who they eventually become. Yours just happened to create a monster you couldn’t control.

Steve Kemp x Dark Reader; Eventual Dark Steve Kemp x Dark Reader

Word Count: 6409-eek! This got away from me; Sorry!

This is a dark story. I am not responsible for your media consumption. Pleas stay away if under 18 or if dark subject matter bothers you

Warnings: Smut, Smut, Smut, Dark, if you haven’t watched the movie and don’t want spoilers, please stay away, bad medical jargon only known from watching too many medical shows

This is not proofread, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Brendan Steven Kemp was in his second year of surgical residency. At this moment, he was being paged to handle an emergency gunshot victim who had just presented to the ER. His eyes looked at the numbers and words, taking a minute to focus on the blurry images in front of his sleep deprived eyes.

He threw on his white lab coat, pressed the button to acknowledge the page, and made his way to the stairs down to the emergency room. He stopped at the charge nurse’s desk, stating “I’m Dr. Kemp, I was paged for a trauma?” The charge nurse, on the phone with an incoming rig, barely spared him a glance as she said “Trauma room 2” and pointed to the left.

Kemp grabbed some gloves off the wall, and made his way in, past the nurses and the ER doctor, avoiding the bloody gauze and puddles from blood loss. “What have we got?” he asked, taking his place on the left side of the patient, grabbing the mouse on the rolling computer, pulling up the imaging.

“GSW, through the abdomen, no exit wound. BP is low, dropping. We’ve infused 2 pints O neg, he’s received 3L LR, large bore IV wide open. He’s tachycardic, fast scan shows fluid in the abdomen,” the ER doc stated.

“Bullet is intact, I don’t see any fragments. Let’s get him prepped and ready for the ER. On my count, 1, 2, 3!” The patient was moved to a mobile hospital bed, two nurses at the top pushing the bed, and watching to make sure the IV’s remained intact, a tech at the bottom helping to steer. Dr. Kemp followed behind, stopping at the nurses station to place a call to Dr. Avery, his attending.

Nine hours later, an exhausted Avery and Kemp were washing their hands after the surgery, managing to save the life of the victim, although he did code twice on the table. The bullet shredded the large intestine, however the repair was done flawlessly, without the patient needing a colostomy bag.

Kemp walked to the surgery waiting room, calling the name of the victim to give an update on his condition. You stood up, your long legs lithe and accentuated by the six inch heels you wore, your dress pants pleated perfectly, your dress shirt wrinkle free, even after hours of waiting.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Kemp, I just wanted to update you on your brother’s condition. We were able to remove the bullet intact. He suffered massive trauma to his large intestine, however we were able to remove the shredded and damaged area, and reconnect the intestines. He won’t need a colostomy, however we will need to keep him in ICU for the next few days on antibiotics in case he goes septic from the waste that sat in his abdominal cavity. Do you have any questions for me?” Kemp asked, trying very hard to look you in your eyes and not at your chest.

“Thank you so much Dr. Kemp, I think you’ve answered any questions I may have had. When will we get to see him?” you inquired, batting your eyes lashes and wiping away a stray tear.

“He’s still under anesthesia, and will be for the next twenty-four hours to help him heal. Tomorrow morning would be best, you should probably go home and get some rest. Please let me know if you need anything, here’s my card.” Kemp handed you his business card with his cell and pager numbers on them.

“Thank you so much again, Dr. Kemp,” you replied, giving him a quick hug. Kemp breathed you in, wholly intoxicated by your perfume, reminding him of fresh rain in an orange grove.

Dr. Kemp gave a small, lopsided grin, and turned to walk away, needing to finish the chart and check on his patient. He had no idea that this was the very moment his life would change forever, and that you would be everything to him.

“Pull up all information available for Brendan Steven Kemp,” you told your right hand man. “He may be just the surgeon we’ve been searching for now that Gray is gone,” you said, a wicked grin crossing your face. You watched the young doctor’s retreating figure, noticing how nice and meaty his ass was.

————————————-

As Dr. Kemp made his morning rounds, he stopped in to check on his gunshot victim from the other night. Looking at his vitals and noting the amount of fluids running, along with the meds piggybacking into the IV, Kemp was so focused he missed you in the chair in the corner until you cleared your throat.

“Hello, Dr. Kemp”, you said, crossing your legs elegantly at the ankles. Kemp jumped, the sudden company bringing him out of his head.

“Shit! Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here. I can come back later,” Kemp replied, removing his gloves and throwing them in the biohazard bin. He turned to leave when you called his name.

“Dr. Kemp? You’ve been working so hard and taking such good care of my brother. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Maybe some breakfast? You look exhausted, and even surgeons need to eat, right?” you said, followed by a very sexy, breathy chuckle as you peered at him from under your lashes.

“Uh, sure, yeah. I could eat. It has been about a day or two since I can even remember eating. I insist on paying though,” he replied, not backing down. Men did not let a beautiful lady pay for anything, in his opinion. His mother would be turning in her grave.

“Deal. Where to doc?” you replied, grabbing your purse. You knew the game dictated letting him feel whatever he needed to so you could bring him into the fold. If paying for coffee and a meal is what it took, then so be it.

“There’s an amazing little cafe around the corner. Great and simple breakfasts, and the best coffee in the entire 50 states. He’s also my best friend so I tend to get the better stuff,” Kemp replied, throwing a wink your way.

You know this was supposed to be only business, but damn if he wasn’t just a handsome piece of meat. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, his biceps straining under his lab coat, his thick thighs looking amazing even in oversized scrub pants. His narrow waist and broad shoulders making your mouth water.

You held light, superficial conversation, trying to get a feel for Kemp, seeing if he was the right man for the job. He told you about his hometown, how his parents dying had pushed his career into medicine, how he had moved to Seattle to work at one of the top teaching hospitals in the world. You learned he wasn’t sure what type of surgeon he wanted to be, trauma was his leading lady, but Dr. Avery had also been trying to push him into plastic and reconstructive surgery.

This piece of information is what you needed to start this conversation. Needless to say, this subject matter is still very taboo.

“Dr. Kemp, are you free tonight? I have a business proposal as my company just had a position for a competent surgeon open up. After seeing how you cared for my brother, I think you may just be the one I’ve been looking for,” you said, using his attraction towards you for your benefit.

“Uh, sure, yeah, tonight sounds great,” he stuttered, flushing at the attention and look you were giving him.

“Perfect! I’ll be back around 7 tonight to pick you up. I will have some clothes sent over later today for you. I look forward to seeing you, Dr. Kemp.” You stood and extended your hand. He grabbed it softly, and blushed again, this time the red extending up to the top of his ears.

“Please, call me Brendan,” he replied, holding your soft hand a little longer than what was considered polite.

“See you tonight, Brendan,” you simply replied, turning and walking away, knowing he was watching the sway of your hips and ass, which you purposely exaggerated.

———————————-

True to your word, you had a designer suit sent to Kemp, dark blue, crushed velvet with black trim, a white shirt, black bow tie, and black designer shoes to finish the outfit.

Holding the suit and shoes, Kemp couldn’t help how impressed he was with your taste and ability to have everything tailored perfectly for his body. He realized all of this cost more than what he made in a month. It left him wondering what exactly this job entailed, and had him seriously considering the opportunity.

He received a text promptly at 7 letting Krmp know you were downstairs waiting in the limo at the front entrance. A limo. Kemp had never been in a limo, let alone been with such a beautiful woman. This was so fresh, so new, he could feel his life taking a step up, heading towards an amazing future.

——————————

The minute you saw Kemp, your mouth was watering. He looked so good in his suit, hair slicked back with a lopsided grin. You knew right then you had made the right choice. It was written all over his face, this newfound love for the finer things life had to offer.

Your driver opened the door, allowing Kemp to slide in next to you, his eyes taking in the limo with the innocence of a child on Christmas morning. You couldn’t help the smile that fell on your red stained lips. You saw his eyes widen as he drank you in, your elegant black halter dress snug over your breasts, a large slit on the right side of your leg.

“Hello,” he said, breathless as his eyes wandered all over your figure, that blush creeping up his neck and cheeks.

“Hello, Brendan,” you replied, amusement twinkling in your eyes as you smiled at him. “You look wonderful, blue suits your eyes,” you complimented, finding yourself a little shy and flushed. You hadn’t fully realized how gorgeous this man actually was. Sure you had noticed his tight, round ass, but you completely missed his beautiful steel blue eyes and luscious lips. You were in trouble, you fully admitted to yourself, knowing you wouldn’t be able to stay away and keep things purely professional. But you didn’t give one fuck, looking at him, you knew you needed him in every way possible.

He returned your smile as he slid in, moving close without touching you. You watched him bounce his legs, the tension almost palpable in the air.

“I hope you brought an appetite tonight, my chef has prepared some very special dishes for you to try. I hope you don’t mind, it will just be the two of us, I prefer to discuss my business in private,” you explained as the limo pulled up in front of your home.

You weren’t lying, exactly. This was a conversation meant for only certain ears, the content matter very sensitive, but you would be remiss if you denied having ulterior motives for possible pleasure.

“Oh, uh, sure, yeah, sounds good, great,” Kemp replied, tripping over all of his words. You let out a small giggle, completely entranced by his shy and sweet demeanor.

You turned at the limo door being opened for you, stepping out left leg then right. You waited as Kemp scooted over, exiting on your side as well. To say this was a home was an understatement. This was a fortress, hiding more levels than what could be seen with the human eye. Your front door opened as you approached, your staff meeting you so you weren’t waiting.

As you walked through the living room, you watched Kemp take in everything around him, from the dark red carpet, to the leather couch and loveseat, his eyes then sweeping to the large piece of art on the wall. You couldn’t help but admire his face as those captivating eyes swept over every aspect of the room.

“Would you care for a drink?” you asked, walking over to your bar and grabbing the bottle of fine scotch from the shelf. You grabbed a glass and dropped two ice cubes in, pouring in the amber liquid next.

“Sure, whatever you’re having is fine,” he replied, nervously tapping his feet. You began to notice all his nervous ticks, tapping his feet, bouncing his legs, running his hand through his hair. You found it endearing, and also erotic as you imagined those same hands around your hips, him driving into you over and over while he bent you over the couch he was sitting on. These were ideas to revisit later as you needed to get to the matter at hand.

At that moment, your chef walked in and advised that dinner was ready. You moved to follow him, waiting for Kemp to catch up. He followed you into the hallway, chef leading you to the elegant dining hall, two places set already.

“My chef is the top chef known mainly in Asia and Europe. He has created some amazing and exotic dishes for you to try. I hope this experience is truly eye opening for you,” you explained as you spread your napkin across your lap.

Chef had set up four different dishes, pulling the lids off all with a flourish. The first dish was a small helping of steak, cooked to a perfect medium. The second dish was a pasta, sauce heavy with fresh garlic and crushed red peppers, and a delectable meatball. The third was a little simple cheeseburger, standard with a custom sauce, and typical burger toppings. The final dish was a beef stew, the onion and garlic very heavy yet mouth watering.

Kemp looked at all of the choices and smiled. As you watched his face light up, you realized this kind of food isn’t made for just anybody. It takes a rare person to eat these meals and enjoy them. Tonight, you’d find out if Kemp was that person. And if he could become so much more.

Which would you like to try first, Brendan?” you asked, leaning towards him in interest. Kemp chose to start with the steak. He was a sucker for a perfect medium. You offered sauce if preferred, but Kemp declined. You cut the steak in half, scooping the sautéed onions on top, and adding a portion of garlic red roasted potatoes. You watched him intently, trying to memorize each facial expression as he chewed. Your business proposal depended on this moment, this reaction.

Kemp closed his eyes, a sinful moan leaving his lips and making you clench your thighs just a little bit.

“Oh my fuck, this has to be the most amazing steak I have ever tasted. What is this cut?” he asked, scooping a few potatoes into his mouth, chewing slowly as if to savor each bite. Kemp wasn’t accustomed to the finer things, and with years of student loans in front of him, who knew when he would get to experience this again.

“It’s a rarity, needing to be butchered and prepared in a very specific way, and if done correctly, it is the most fucking exquisite meal in the world,” you replied, taking another bite of your steak with a few potatoes. “So, what would you like to try next?” you asked, wiping your mouth on your napkin.

“Let’s do the burger next,” he replied, pulling the plate in front of the two of you. You cut the small burger in half, placing a small portion in front of Kemp, the other in front of you. You waited for him to take the first bite, again watching his reaction closely. His face immediately showed his pleasure, a sight you were starting to really appreciate. This went on with the pasta and meatballs, and finally the stew. As Kemp leaned back in satisfaction, you were finally ready to start the conversation.

“So Brendan, now that you’ve tried the meat, let’s get down to business. What did you think of the meals?” you inquired, refilling the wine glasses in front of you and him. You leaned back in your chair, your finger tracing the rim of your glass, a nice buzz from the meal and alcohol burning through you. You took a sip of your wine, crossing your legs.

“This has to be the best food I have ever had the pleasure of eating,” he replied, a sleepy grin on his face as he took another sip. That look, oh that fucking grin. You were in trouble, no going back now.

“Our product is fresh, cut right before packaging with little details included about the source. We are looking for a new surgeon to take the place of our former employee. We will pay off your student loans, we will provide you a six figure income to start, with quarterly raises, you will be provided a home, a car, a company black card to cover any and all expenses you have for the entirety of your time with us,” you started, getting right down to business and the benefits. You watched his eyes grow in amazement, and you couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips. “As of this moment, we have already paid your student loans, and secured the attention of Dr. Avery for the next few months as a private instructor for the remainder of your residency. You will be required to spend your day hours, morning to evening, with Dr. Avery, and then be expected to put your training into practice for a few hours each night. Once Avery gives his approval, you will be free to work your own hours with us, so long as you keep up with your workload.” You took another sip, ready for the eventual questions Kemp would have.

“How am I going to help your fresh food business as a suregeon? Kemp asked, hesitation in his voice, skepticism in his eyes. You knew this would need to be answered, however you felt showing him instead of telling him would work the best.

“Please follow me, I’d like to answer your questions by showing you the product. I find it makes more sense that way for beginners,” you replied, standing and offering your hand to the very confused, very handsome doctor.

He grabbed your hand, following behind you as you led him to a door leading down to your basement. You added a little sway to your hips knowing he was watching. You turned to give him a reassuring smile only to see him flush in embarrassment as you caught him staring at your ass.

“It’s okay to like my ass, Brendan. We will explore that part of our future after we finish with business,” you stated, smiling and blushing yourself, as if this was a schoolgirl crush. The smile he gave you in return was so happy and a little cocky. You couldn’t wait to try this ride out. As you led him down the stairs, you found yourself growing apprehensive thinking of what his reaction would be. This would be a lot for any person, but you worried about his reaction solely. It had been a while since you had felt this way towards anyone, and you didn’t want this to end, scared it would stop before it had even started.

“Here we are, the source of our product. Feel free to walk around, take a look at the information, ask any questions you have,” you advised, moving to the side to let Kemp through.

“Sure smells clean for having farm animals,” Kemp joked, looking at the first chart hanging outside of the door. He thumbed through the pages, looking at the vitals, going over the surgical procedures performed thus far. “Huh, these vitals are so similar to humans; I thought for sure bovine would be at least a little different,” he commented, more to himself than you. The chart he was looking at was for the subject named Penelope. You moved in front of him, removing the chart from the wall, and unlocking the door with the bracelet you had on.

“That’s because we don’t use bovine, or any other farm animal. Our meat is for a selective group of people, a group who pays top dollar for a rare and taboo experience,” you explained as the door slid open. On the floor in front of you was a small woman, left arm and right leg missing, bandages around her abdomen signaling recent trauma or surgery there also.

“Oh…what the fuck?! Are you telling me you fed me a fucking human?!” Kemp yelled, more bewildered than outraged. Shock ran its course through his face, eyes widening, jaw open and slack. Shock quickly turned to understanding, but there was no outburst of anger, no tears, no vomiting. Just comprehension.

“Yes, Brendan. The meals you are tonight were comprised of meat from Penelope’s abdomen and thigh, the most tender and flavorful choices, in my opinion,” you replied, maintaining eye contact. Moods and energy can shift in a heartbeat, and you had to protect yourself just in case.

“So my job would be,” he swallowed, working the situation through. “I would be removing meat, while the patient is still alive?” he asked.

“Yes. Maintaining life and oxygen to the meat for as long as possible is absolutely necessary to obtain our freshest product,” you explained. “We keep them for as long as possible, only terminating then once all usable product has been obtained.” You walked over to Penelope, running a hand through her hair and down over her cheek. Kemp watched as she shuddered and pulled away from your touch, completely enthralled by the scene in front of him. He knew he should be repulsed, should be running as fast and as far as he could, but he wasn’t and he wouldn’t. This was an entirely new existence for him, a brand new world to finally have everything he had ever dreamed of.

“So, Brendan. What do you think? Is this something you would be interested in as your new career?” you inquired, running your hand up and down his back, stopping to trace small patterns here and there.

“Do you also come with the job?” he asked, smiling at you, pupils blown so only a tiny sliver of color was showing. He moved closer to you, lifting your face with a finger under your chin.

“Normally, I wouldn’t mix business with pleasure, however you have made me rethink that choice. I am absolutely included in this package, just for you,” you responded, rubbing your front along his, your nipples hardening at the sensation, your cunt rubbing against his cock bulging prominently in his suit pants.

He grabbed you by your neck, pulling your lips to his, kissing you like a man starved. You opened your mouth to him, allowing his tongue to enter your mouth, battling for dominance. He pulled away, leaving you both breathless. He started kissing his way down the column of your neck, leaving a trail of heat that you swear was tangible.

He stopped at the top of your breasts, reaching around your neck to unfasten the halter at the nape of your neck. The top of the dress dropped down, revealing the lace black bra you wore. He stared at your chest, his breath catching as he removed the offensive cloth blocking his path.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said, dropping his head to suck on your right breast, kneading the left roughly with his hand. He released your nipple with a pop, switching sides and position to pay attention to your other breast. He bit and sucked leaving marks running down your skin and around your nipples which seemed to be his favorite place to be.

“Should we head to my room and continue this?” you asked, feeling how ruined your lace panties were with just the little amount of attention. You both were so caught up in the moment, you forgot you had an audience. You looked down at Penelope who sat twirling her hair around her index finger.

“No. I can’t wait. And this is an extreme turn on for me,” he replied, and you suddenly realized he was on his knees in front of you. He kissed your covered cunt through your dress, only bothering to remove it after you warned him not to ruin it, it was your favorite.

He held your hand as you stepped out of the dress and gently placed it to the side. When he returned his attention back to you, he started kissing your right calf, leading up to the inner thigh, completely skipping over where you wanted him as he repeated the actions on your left. He smirked as you whined when he again skipped over your pussy, loving how absolutely wrecked and needy you were for him. He had never been this turned on by anyone before you, and he knew he would never be again.

He finally started kissing your clothed cunt, the smell of you trapped in his nose, his very existence. He pushed the lace parties down and you kicked them off with your right leg. He grabbed that leg before you could put it back down, and rested it on his shoulder, opening your wet cunt up to him. He dove in, eating you like a man starved, his tongue running up and down your slit, plunging in and out of your cunt, teasing and lightly touching your throbbing clit, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

You suddenly felt one finger, then two in your pussy, stretching and opening you, preparing you to receive all he had to offer. He pumped his fingers in and out, the squelch from your wet cunt filling the room. He attacked your clit, flicking his tongue over and over, feeling you reach closer and closer to the edge as your pussy started gripping his fingers.

“That’s it, gorgeous. I need you to cum for me, cum all over my hand, then I need you to cum all over my cock,” he encouraged, grinding his thumb in a figure eight over and over your clit, the pressure building. You tipped over the edge, cumming harder than you ever had before. No one had ever pleased you to this extent, and you were so wrapped up in your orgasm, your vision blacked out.

As you slowly returned to your body, you felt Kemp kissing his way up your legs, moving slowly, only disconnecting to remove his own clothes. You opened your eyes, hooded in lust, staring into his eyes, slowly drinking him in as your eyes roved his body. When they landed on his cock, you couldn’t help the moan that left your mouth. His cock stood proudly against his perfectly chiseled abs, something hidden beneath the scrubs. You reached out to grab his cock, starting to drop to your knees, fully needed to taste this man.

“I need to feel you, gorgeous. As much as I want your lips around my cock, I need to cum in that amazing cunt first,” he said as he pulled you to your feet. He lifted you under your ass, you instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist as he walked you backwards until your back pressed against the cold wall. He thrust into you in one long motion, stilling inside of you to let you adjust to his cock. You couldn’t remember a time you had been this full, so satisfied even before being fucked.

“Brendan, please move,” you whined while moving your hips to cause some friction. Before you could even think, he was pounding into you, drawing all the way out, thrusting right back in until his balls slapped you on your ass, over and over. You felt tears forming, never had you felt this good. You felt his hand move between the two of you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing ferociously while he continued to fuck you.

“Cum for me, gorgeous, I need to feel you cum on my cock,” he groaned into your neck as he continued fucking you. You felt the coil snap, releasing a gush of cum all over his dick, feeling it splash down your legs onto the floor. You felt him tense, his thrusts starting to stutter, his pounding becoming erratic and harder. With a grunt, primal in sound, you felt him cum inside you, his hot release coating your cunt and triggering another orgasm. He rested his forehead on yours as you both rode out your orgasms, panting and moanong together, trading kisses and soft words of content. You whined when he pulled out of you, until he dropped to his knees, and began to clean the mess and mix of both your releases. As you came again, you knew you were absolutely ruined for anyone else, ever.

—————————

You two spent the rest of the weekend wrapped up in each other. You were addicted to his taste, his touch, his dominance. You were a woman in power in a man’s world, you had a hard facade and tough heart. The men around you bowed to your every command, never daring to step out of line. Kemp made you feel weightless, made you feel at peace with the little loss of power as he commanded your body, whispered words of adoration and commandments in your ear, as he pulled you apart over and over again, only putting you back together once he had his fill.

Your chef prepared meals, leaving them outside your bedroom door with wine or water, depending on the time of day or the meal. You two fed each other’s appetites in all ways, carnal, emotional, mental, physical. There was no end and no beginning.

The first year went on like this. You and Kemp would find each other at the end of any long days, losing yourselves again and again. In the morning, he would leave to work with Avery, you would leave to start your meetings. In the evenings, you would take Kemp out to study and learn about finding the right product to bring home and farm. You didn’t let Kemp start this until he had passed the first year. Partly because you needed to make sure he was ready, mostly because you couldn’t tame the jealous monster in you at the thought of him with another woman.

The first time, Kemp was a little nervous, fumbling over his words, a flush rising up his face as he stuttered and stumbled his way through the pick up. Luckily, Anne, his target, was very attracted to a goofy grin and shy line. She gave him her number right away, walking off with a huge smile and a new pep in her step.

You tried to remind yourself that he was yours, but you couldn’t deny his confidence and charm had definitely grown in the last year with you. You couldn’t help the nagging suspicion in the back of your mind that Kemp had grown tired of you. He chose to spend more time with the cabal, drinking and gambling, enjoying being with the guys.

You spent more nights alone, dinner growing cold as you waited for him to join you, receiving a text hours later stating he wouldn’t be able to make it. He barely fucked you anymore, mostly just going through the motions, no real passion behind his thrusts, no words of encouragement or ecstasy, merely grunts until he came, not worried about whether he got you off. He would then roll over and head straight to the shower as if to wash your essence off of him as quickly as possible.

He would tell you he was tired, work was busy, or he had over extended himself in trying to woo Anne into his lair. You believed him, at first. Then the excuses stopped and he would spend entire nights away from home. No texts, no calls, no explanations, just a cold spot on his side of your shared bed. You got used to being alone, only seeing Kemp when he would return to shower and change.

One day, he started going by Steve, getting unreasonably angry when you addressed him as Brendan. After screaming at you for what felt like hours, he slammed his fist into the table and said he was going to finally bring Anne home. Home, not in for product, home. That word was not missed by you.

True to his word, Steve brought Anne in, sharing a drink with her laced with enough Ketmine and Fentanyl to drop a 500 pound horse. You heard him laughing, then the thud when she fell, and him putting his drink down to move her body.

He didn’t come to bed until hours later, smelling of her, not even having the decency to wash the stink of her off. I’m that moment, you made a decision, one that would alter the course of events forever. You had been planning to remove Steve, rid yourself of the monster you had created, but first, you wanted him to suffer. You had prepared a cocktail of Diazepam, Ketamine, and Butorphanol the night before, and once you felt his breaths even out signaling he was asleep, you injected it directly into his neck, a small grunt the only indication he had felt the pinch. You grabbed the other syringe prepared with this same drug combination and made your way out of the bedroom, down the stairs, into the basement and right to Anne’s door.

You opened the door, and she looked up, fearful at first, expecting to see Steve in front of her. When she saw you instead, fear changed to hope, and she begged and pleaded for you to release her.

Anne was the exact opposite of you, tall and lithe where you were petite and curvy, blond and supermodel looking where you were darker and most definitely not a model. Anne screamed Heroin Chic, while you screamed class and style. You were disgusted and disappointed with Steve for making you compare yourself to this woman who didn’t hold a candle to you.

You used her hope and moved closer as if you were going to release her, however you injected her full of the sleepy mix of drugs instead. When she succumbed to the drugs, you dragged her up the stairs into Steve’s sterile operating room. You placed her on the table, draping the surgical towels over her body, grabbing your instruments and opened the newly sterilized pack while waiting for her to wake up. You didn’t numb her or give her the epidural that was standard before these harvestings took place. You wanted her to feel every moment, to scream in pain, to feed the ache caused by Steve’s preference of her and replacement of you.

You didn’t worry about Steve hearing. Not only was he knocked the fuck out, this operating room was also soundproof. You gave no preamble or explanation to Anne. She didn’t deserve one and most definitely wasn’t owed one. You simply started the amputation, her cries and screams music to your ears. Something Steve didn’t know, well that no one knew really, was that you were actually the illustrious and mysterious Dr. Gray, stepping down only when you had found the perfect replacement.

Your music choice of Love Bites by Def Leppard seemed fitting for this occasion. You had a hard time deciding which part would be the best from Steve’s pet, finally deciding on her leg. You marked her where you intended to make your initial cut, slowly cutting through the skin and fat layers, cauterizing as you went to stop her from bleeding out. She screamed and sobbed with those initial cuts, but when you brought out the bone saw, she passed out from the pain. You cut through the femur, clamping and cauterizing as you proceeded. You were finished stiching up the site just a few hours later, so impressed with your perfect suturing. You hadn’t lost your touch, and she would heal nicely even if she didn’t deserve to.

You brought her back down to her prison, giving her some IV antibiotics and pain medication. You weren’t a monster after all.

You brought the meat down to the kitchen and began the process of removing the cuts from the bone, removing the fat, and keeping the meatiest parts. Your chef came in just as you were finishing, and you handed him the perfect cut asking him to prepare it for breakfast. Steve would be waking soon, and you didn’t want to miss his reaction.

You heard him descend the stairs, yawning loudly. You had already showered and changed and were sitting at the table drinking your coffee while waiting for breakfast to be finished. Steve walked over to the coffee pot, then made his way to the table, grabbing the newspaper to look at while actively ignoring you.

Chef walked in at that moment, serving a breakfast burrito complete with eggs, potatoes, onions and peppers, Anne, and green Chile salsa.

You watched Steve take his first bite, moaning at the taste, as if he had never eaten something so amazing before. You stared at him, starting to maniacally laugh as you watched his expression. When Steve asked you what was so fucking funny, you simply continued laughing while handing him the chart on the meat source for this meal. You continued laughing while watching his face closely. He went pale first, then burned bright red in anger at you damaging his play thing.

“Bad girl,” he screamed, grabbing the back of your head and bashing it into the table. He did this a few times, before he finally knocked you out. This was how you came to find yourself as one of Steve’s first victims, Anne being rescued and you effectively taking her place. You didn’t stop laughing, even after waking up to find your right arm had been removed. You had taught him all he knew, and now the teacher became the meal. You laughed all the way up and until your death, Steve telling you along the way how much he hated you for ruining his love. When you took your last breath, your last thought was all about Steve not being able to enjoy Anne, and that brought you more peace than any other thought in this life could.

#dark story #darker than i intended #dark reader #steve kemp #dark Steve kemp #dark reader x steve kemp #sorry if this sucks #fresh movie #fresh steve #sebastian stan

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spinningintheshadows · 3 years ago

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Marry Me || R.P.

In which Rudy asks the most important question he will ever ask in his life.

Warnings: cavity inducing fluff ahead.

Words: 1711

taglist: @maybankforlife @cherrybarzy @lindzaylove @teelagurl558@pogueslandia @hannahnikohl

Standing in your classroom filled with parents and children alike was bittersweet to you. It was the end of your third year teaching kindergarten at this school, and today was your last ever Friday here. You’d turned in your resignation six weeks ago, before your mom had died and your life got chaotic, but you still felt like you needed a change of scenery and had been offered a position in Charleston close to your brother. Every Friday for the last three years, you’d done a “fun Friday” which was a craft or activity in the afternoon where you encouraged parents to come and play an active role in their child’s education. Since today was the last one, you were amazed by the turn out. You stood in front of the classroom with parents and kids looking at you for instruction.

“Good afternoon everyone. As you probably know, I’m Ms. Stokes and I have had the honor to be your children’s teacher for the last school year. As you know every Friday I have encouraged you parents to be an active part of your child’s education by participating in Fun Friday. It’s bittersweet to me that this is my last one. School ends on Wednesday, which means I only have two more days with your children as I won’t be here Monday for an appointment. I have loved having your children as part of my final kindergarten class at this elementary school. We have a great crowd today but late last night I was informed of some extra helpers today. Parents, you might recognize them as the stars of the show Outer Banks on Netflix, but to me they’re just my brother, sister in law to be, one of my best friends, and boyfriend. Let me introduce you to them. Chase Stokes, Madelyn Cline, Drew Starkey and Rudy Pankow” you said, waving the four into your room. You continued to give instructions on the cornstarch and conditioner playdough you were making today, and parents got to work with their kids while your brother and friends looked at you expectedly.

“Okay so Chase and Maddie, the little redhead girl. Her name is Mila, her grandparents are raising her and they don’t get around too well so they hardly make it. Drew, the blonde girl with pigtails, her name is Lilly, her mom works overnights and doesn’t usually make it and Ru, the little blonde boy with glasses. That’s Xander. His parents work two jobs and haven’t made it at all year. I usually help him but I think since y’all are here I’m just gonna supervise.

You watched as the four dispersed and walked back over to your desk to watch while you labeled the baggies for the kids to put their playdough in when they were done. One by one they finished up and their parents started signing the early dismissal sheet until it was time for school to end. You got your remaining three students on the bus and returned to your classroom to find your brother and Maddie wiping down desks with Clorox wipes while Rudy and Drew were picking up trash.

“You didn’t have to do that” you told them with a soft smile on your face.

“Nonsense. You have a trip to get ready for this weekend. I’m almost sure you’re not packed yet.” Chase said. “Rudy told me you were going to New York with him.”

“Hey, Y/N, what did you mean when you said final kindergarten class?” Maddie asked.

“Oh. Thursday is my last day employed here. I was gonna tell you when I came down next weekend. I’ve been offered and accepted a position at Drayton Hall Elementary in Charleston.” You told them. “Felt like I needed to be closer to my family.”

Rudy knew being close to your brother was important which was why he'd been secretly looking at houses in Charleston, finally finding one last week that he thought you would love and placing an offer. He hadn't told you yet but was planning on it this weekend. He watched you grab your stuff and held his hand out for you to take, smiling when you did.

When you were finally in his rental car that evening headed to New York, he posed the question to you.

“How do you feel about moving in together?” He asked, making you raise an eyebrow at him. “In Charleston, obviously.”

“You’d give up your apartment for me?” You questioned.

“Well my lease is up in a couple months anyway, and I may have been house hunting the last couple weeks.” he said. “I found a nice house close to your brother. It’s got five bedrooms, when I know is a lot but I thought maybe we’d turn a couple of them into guest rooms, maybe an office, maybe we’ll have a kid or something.”

“A kid or something?” you laughed. “You trying to get me pregnant, Pankow?”

“I mean like, in the future. Maybe within the next five years, I’d personally like to be a dad before I’m thirty.” he said. “But I want kids with you, Y/N. I put an offer in on this house without knowing how you’d feel about moving to Charleston, only to find out you’re planning on moving there within the next couple months anyway.”

“Tell me more about the house.” you told him. “Really sell it to me.”

“The outside is like this stone blue color. It’s got a really fancy front porch which you’ll enjoy your coffee on during the summers and we can sit outside at night whenever you want. It’s spacious, most of the walls are white but that doesn’t mean we can’t paint them. Hardwood floors, gated community, pool, oh there's an elevator. It’s in a good school district, your school is in it. It was the first house I walked into and felt like it could be our home” he said. “You really have to see it.”

“And how does my brother feel about this house?” You joked. You could see him roll his eyes at the comment.

“Your brother is actually the one who brought it to my attention, Y/N. He and Maddie looked at it before they bought their house. This house has been sitting on the market, and I fell in love with it.” he told you.

“Okay. Then I trust you. If you think this is our house, then it’s our house.” you told him.

By the time you reached your hotel, you were exhausted from your work day and the drive and starving. Your reservation was tomorrow at 7, after Rudy’s photoshoot, so you planned to do shopping while he was doing that. You’d both decided that takeout was the way to go tonight though, and were currently sitting in the middle of the floor of your hotel room eating. He was telling you some story about when he’d went home to see his family and you couldn’t help but smile at him. You’d truly never felt happier in your life.

The next evening, you were zipping up your dress when he came into the room dressed and looked you up and down, as he normally did. You turned to look at him and did a once over on him yourself.

“Well, don’t you look spiffy.” you told him. “The suspenders are a nice touch.”

“Know you can’t resist me in them.” he laughed, pulling you to him and pressing his lips to yours. “You look gorgeous, pretty girl.”

“Thank you, I just bought the dress today. Told the lady at the shop we were celebrating our anniversary today and she helped me pick it out.” you told him. In truth, your anniversary was actually two weeks ago, but you couldn’t help yourself today.

“Smart girl, you are. Ready?” he said. You nodded, letting him lead you out of the hotel and the four blocks to the restaurant because you decided it would be faster to walk than to fight NYC traffic. It was a nice night, so he made sure your reservation was on the patio of the restaurant.

Dinner went smoothly, with you both discussing your summer plans. Moving, filming, and you working a summer job to pay for things for your new classroom. Rudy was happy he wasn’t going to have to travel to film this season of Outer Banks, and you were looking forward to getting to be on set with him this year. Finally, you ordered your desserts and he kept staring at you.

“What is wrong with you all of a sudden?” You asked.

“Can I ask you something?” he said. Before you could answer him, he was out of his seat and in front of you. On one knee. You suddenly felt like your chest was going to explode. This was not what you were expecting.

“I uh, I had this whole speech prepared, I rehearsed it with your brother and now it’s just gone but the point of it was this. I love you. I’m never going to stop loving you. I’ve loved you for four years, I’m going to love you for the rest of my life. I’d just really like it if for the rest of my life, I got to call you my wife. What I’m trying to say, excuse my dumbassery, is will you do me the honor of becoming my wife and marry me, Y/N?” he asked. Tears welled in your eyes as you let out a watery laugh and looked at him.

“Yes, you idiot, now get off the floor and kiss me.” you told him. He complied, sliding the ring on your finger and kissing you with everything he had.

The whole way back to the hotel you were all over each other, not giving a single fuck about who saw you in public. When you got back to your suite, you looked at him with a goofy smile on your face.

“Hey Ru?” you practically hummed.

“Yeah pretty girl?” he answered.

“I think you should take me to bed and fuck as your fiancee for the first time.” you told him.

He just grinned, grabbing your hand and dragging you to the bedroom. There wasn’t much sleep that night.

#rudy pankow #rudy pankow fic #rudy pankow x reader #rudy pankow imagine #rudy pankow fanfiction #big brother!chase x reader #chase stokes #drew starkey #outer banks #obx #older brother!chase stokes

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years ago

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Emergency Contact

Summary: When Spencer ends up in the hospital again, his emergency contact — who happens to be his boyfriend, Luke Alvez — is called. Too bad he hasn't told the team about him yet...

Tags: whump, h/c, hurt spencer, broken ribs, coming out, relationship reveal, protective derek, team as family, fluff, au: different first meeting

Pairing: Luke Alvez x Spencer Reid // (heavy on the Derek & Spencer friendship, too)

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Okay, so Emily was not in S11, but for this fic she is, because I wanted supportive Penemily and that's what I gave myself. Other than that, this fills the square "broken ribs" for my Bad Things Happen bingo card. Enjoy the whump mixed with fluff!

Spencer doesn’t mean to get hurt again, but he also isn’t exactly surprised when it happens. If anything, Hotch really needs to stop sending him out to scope places and suspects out by himself. Surely Tobias Hankel proved he’s a trouble magnet in that regard years ago.

The summerhouse the suspect rents is a nice enough place to lay incapacitated while he waits for back-up, he supposes, but he’s not exactly able to lie and enjoy the sunshine when his ribs have been smashed in with a metal baseball bat and he knows the suspect is currently hightailing it down the beach. Not to mention the fact that it’s worryingly difficult to breathe.

Still, it’s better than a dilapidated cabin in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere Georgia, pumped full of heroin while his feet are whipped. Small mercies.

“Goddamnit, Spencer, again?” Derek asks amusedly when he finally arrives and crouches down by his side, but the undercurrent of worry in his voice doesn’t elude him.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, still winded and in immense pain from the ambush. “I didn’t see him coming.”

Derek raises a brow, chuckling slightly. “Yeah, pretty boy, I figured that.” His hand goes to Spencer’s hair as his expression furrows in concern again. “Did you see where he went? I’ll send the others after him while I go with you to the hospital.”

Spencer smiles a little, relieved that he won’t be alone. It’s become a strange sort of tradition to sit in one another’s hospital rooms after the job kicks their ass, and he’s glad Derek isn’t about to break it now.

“I saw him turn right out of the backdoor, but that’s all,” he says breathlessly, before cringing at the effort and folding in on himself even more.

“Okay, Spencer,” Derek says soothingly. “Just relax. The ambulance will be here any second.”

He obeys and closes his eyes as he listens to Derek call Hotch on the radio and send the team in the right direction before coming back to sit next to him on the floor.

“This might be one of the nicer places one of our unsubs has owned, huh?”

Spencer nods, mirroring Derek’s morbid amusement. “Crime pays better than investigating it,” he manages, smiling up at his friend.

He snorts. “You can say that again. With the way the market’s turned in the last couple years it’s more like this is my hobby and my properties are my day job, rather than the other way round.”

Spencer tries to reply, but he moves involuntarily in amusement, and a fresh wave of pain has him wincing again, trying to will the tears away.

“You’re alright, Spence,” Derek says gently, his hand returning to his hair. “Help will be here soon, okay?”

Thankfully, the medics do show up in a semi-timely fashion, and both of them are loaded into the back of the ambulance as the EMTs check him over, Derek’s hand not leaving his person unless it absolutely has to.

“How many times were you hit, Dr Reid?”

He cringes. “Four.” It’s almost embarrassing that the unsub got four hits in, and the only reason there weren’t more is because he was fleeing the scene, not because Spencer was able to fight back. He tries to remind himself that there isn’t much you can do when caught-off guard by a furious arsonist armed with a steel baseball bat, but his ego is still bruised. Albeit not as badly as his poor ribs.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Derek mutters under his breath, his grip tightening on Spencer’s shoulder minutely enough for him to know he isn’t doing it consciously.

Spencer smiles appreciatively, closing his eyes against the pain. The non-narcotic painkillers they’re feeding him through the IV really aren’t doing anything.

“I think you’ve managed to avoid internal bleeding,” the EMT says, all though he tacks on a pointed, “just. But I’m concerned about the possibility of a punctured lung. There’s a chance your trouble breathing is solely pain-induced, but I don’t like the way your chest sounds. The doctors will check everything out when we get to the hospital, and get you all patched up.”

“Hold in there,” Derek says urgently. “I really can’t have you dying on me, pretty boy.”

Spencer smiles as comfortingly as he can through the immense pain in his chest and his mangled breathing. “Trust me, I don’t intend on it.”

The x-ray reveals two broken ribs and confirms the paramedic’s suspicions of a punctured lung, although thankfully, minor enough to not require surgery. He’s set up with oxygen and regular nurse check-ups in a quiet room after the doctor is able to remove the excess air in his chest cavity.

“How are you doing, Spence?” Derek asks worriedly as he pulls up a chair next to Spencer’s bed as soon as he’s allowed to see him.

He pulls away his oxygen facemask to answer. “A bit better,” he says, but his voice is dry and raspy from the oxygen so he certainly doesn’t sound it. “The pain meds are actually working now.”

Derek’s tight, anxious expression relaxes slightly. “That’s at least something.”

Spencer nods tiredly, but before he can respond, a nurse is popping her head round the door. “Dr. Reid,” she says genially, “sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve managed to get a hold of your emergency contact, and they’re on their way.”

Spencer’s eyes widen. How could he have forgotten? Granted, he was a little preoccupied with the whole punctured lung, broken ribs thing, but how could he have let it slip his mind that this little accident would lead to the secret he’s been keeping under wraps getting out?

When he’d first met Luke at an FBI gala last year, he never could have foreseen the most intimate and special relationship of his life coming to fruition, but it had. They’d connected on so many different levels, and the chemistry between them felt like something out of one of the fantastical romance novels Penelope reads, and when he’d asked if it was okay for Spencer to put Luke down as his updated emergency contact, he’d been rewarded with a wide, beautiful grin and a firm, heartfelt kiss.

It was serious enough, sure, and they were coming up on having been together for a year, but besides Emily and Penelope — who’d met Luke and developed an amusing, playful rivalry with him — he hadn’t introduced him to anyone on the team.

“On their way?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow in mild confusion. “Isn’t your contact Hotch? He already knows you’re in the hospital.”

Spencer just stares at him like a rabbit caught in the headlights, completely blanking on something to say. They’re working a local case, so it won’t be long before Luke is bursting into his hospital room armed with cuddles and comfort, and as much as he craves that, he’s too busy panicking about his team finding out to really look forward to it.

Eventually, after watching Derek’s face morph into even stronger, more suspicious confusion, he gives up. They’re going to find out anyway. “I’m dating someone.”

Derek’s face lights up. “Pretty boy!” he exclaims happily, playfully pushing his shoulder as gently as he can. “That’s amazing! Why didn’t you say something? What’s her name?”

Ah. That’s the primary reason he hadn’t told his team about Luke. He’s nowhere close to being ashamed about his sexuality, he accepted himself decades ago, but he’s still not worked up the courage to share that part of himself with his team. Excluding Penelope and Emily who have been together for years (he’s still baffled as to how the others haven’t caught on yet), everyone’s in the dark.

It had started as a basic survival tactic. He’d joined the FBI two years younger than the standard entry age in the early 2000s, and he was far too concerned with just getting by than living outwardly as a gay man. And then, as time went by and he knew his team was accepting and welcoming, he found it too awkward to try and correct people when they assumed he was straight. There just wasn’t ever the right time.

“I’m gay.”

Derek’s happy expression falls and for a split second, Spencer feels a flash of panic. Maybe Derek’s okay with gay people as long as they’re not his immediate friends, as long as he doesn’t playfully call them ‘pretty boy’ and play with their hair when they’re injured, maybe—

“Well, what’s his name, then?”

Spencer looks up from his panic, seeing Derek smiling again, eyes maybe even brighter than they were just seconds ago.

“Wait—”

“Spencer, if you think I’m gonna care that you’re gay — if you think any of us will care that you’re gay, then you have another thing coming,” Derek reassures him. “Wait, that isn’t why you didn’t tell us right?”

He suddenly looks distraught at the idea that Spencer might not have felt comfortable coming out to him, and Spencer rushes to correct him. “No! No, I know everyone would be fine with it, I just didn’t really know how to say it. Penelope and Emily know, but only by accident.”

Derek relaxes, chuckling a little. “I’m sure there’s quite a story there.”

Spencer blushes. “Maybe.”

“I’ll find out later,” he says confidently, winking at him, and something in Spencer loosens at the fact that Derek hasn’t changed his behaviour at all. “But I’m more interested in Mr. Sexy Emergency Contact Mystery Boyfriend Man right now.”

Spencer outright laughs at that, before wincing painfully as his ribs twinge, and he has to fit the oxygen mask around his face again and breathe deeply for a couple of breaths before the nasal cannula can suffice again.

“I met him around this time last year at an FBI gala actually,” Spencer manages. “Everyone on our team bailed except Penelope, Emily, and me. He’s called Luke and he works in the Fugitive Task Force. We just clicked as soon as we met, you know? We have this chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone before, and we started dating pretty quickly. We actually moved in together last month when his lease was up, but we’re thinking of moving to a bigger, nicer place in Mount Pleasant. Luke’s actually had his eye on this one house that went up…”

He trails off when he notices Derek looking at him strangely, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “What?”

“Nothing,” Derek says gently. “You just look happy, pretty boy. When you started talking about Luke you got this happy, dopey smile on your face, and I’ve just never seen you like that. It’s nice.”

“Oh.” He blushes fiercely at the acknowledgement of just how soft he is for his boyfriend, but it’s not embarrassing, he’s just ridiculously happy and head over heels in love.

Still, feeling a little awkward at the attention, he raises the oxygen mask to his face just for something to do.

“Does he treat you well?” Derek asks seriously, suddenly looking like the FBI tough guy he really is.

Spencer grins and nods, pulling the mask away again. “So good. He’s one of those people that looks out for everyone before himself, you know? He listens to my rambles and tangents like he actually knows and cares about what I’m saying, and he insists on making me every meal we’re both home for. Every day off, he brings me breakfast in bed, and he’ll even suffer through my documentaries even though his favourite thing to watch is action movies. He’s the best boyfriend I could hope for.”

“Good,” Derek says fiercely, even though he’s smiling just a little at the thought of Spencer being taken care of. “But if anything ever changes, I won’t hesitate to—”

“Spencer?” Derek’s interrupted by the door flying over, and a very harried looking Luke Alvez rushing towards the bed, seemingly not noticing the man literally threatening his death right next to him. “Oh my God, Spencer, I was so worried, I thought—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Spencer says, voice still a little weak. Can’t he at least sound convincing when he’s trying to tell these people that he’s fine? “I’m okay, I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Are you sure, baby? Do I need to get the doctor? Have they been looking after you, because I swear—”

“Luke,” he laughs, interrupting his worried tangent. “I’m fine, I promise.”

He watches amusedly as Luke sags with relief. “Oh thank God,” he breathes, and it’s then that he appears to notice Derek. “Oh, shit.”

He looks to Spencer with an alarmed look in his eyes, knowing full well that he isn’t out to his team yet, but before apologies can start dripping off his lips, he rushes to fill him in.

“It’s okay. I told him.”

Luke’s face brightens in an illuminating smile, his eyes wide and happy. “You did? I’m so proud of you, cariño.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Derek says, rising from his chair to shake Luke’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you in the last ten minutes.”

Luke grins. “All good things, I hope.”

Derek winks teasingly at Spencer. “Oh, better than good. Spencer here seems quite gone for you.”

He blushes again, but Luke just sits on the edge of his hospital bed and takes his face in his hand. “Well, I’m just as gone for him as he is for me. Probably even more so.”

“No way,” Spencer protests as vehemently as he can with an oxygen mask glued to his face again. “I definitely love you more.”

His words are half swallowed by the mask, and half muffled by the gaggle of FBI agents pouring into his room, all talking over one another loudly.

Luke jumps off the bed and stands to attention as they all quieten down, three of them in complete shock, one of them — Emily, recognising Luke — in anticipation of what’s about to happen.

“Uh,” Spencer starts unsurely, eyes flicking between his boyfriend and his team. “Meet my boyfriend?”

There’s a brief pause before everyone jumps into action again: Emily greeting him warmly, JJ introducing herself, and Hotch and Rossi giving him firm, threatening handshakes as a warning that no harm is to come to their pseudo-son.

Spencer knows they don’t have to worry about that, though, not with Luke, and they’re quickly shown that when he takes his rightful place sat on the edge of his hospital bed again, hands smoothing his hair gently.

“Thank you,” he says to Derek, voice soft and sincere as everyone’s sat leisurely around the room, doing their own thing now they’re calmed down after the initial meet and greet, “for taking care of him. I worry about him, you know, and it’s good to see that he has so many good people looking after him.”

“We all do,” Derek replies, looking over at Spencer fondly. “We’re all incredibly overprotective. Residual effects from him joining the team so young, probably.”

“I can see that,” Luke smiles, looking over at Hotch and Rossi, who still have their eyes trained on him, despite having warmed up to him quickly.

“Well between us all,” Emily interjects diplomatically, “I think we have Spencer covered. He has a lot of good people looking out for him.”

Spencer knows they all think he’s asleep, but he can’t help but say something. “I definitely do,” he slurs tiredly, causing Luke to quickly turn his attention to him, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead as he runs his fingers through his hair with the hand not intertwined with Spencer’s. “Love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” Luke murmurs. “And so does everybody in this room.”

Smiling softly and feeling safe as anything, Spencer finally gives into the heavy pull of tiredness, and lets himself drift off to sleep.

I'm such a sucker for coming out fics omg, I hope you didn't mind that element! But God, I've missed writing Ralvez fics. If anyone has any Ralvez prompts then please send them my way because I want to write them so badly but I really find it hard to find plot for them! <3

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @spencerspecifics @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @ropoto

#my writing #ralvez #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #luke alvez #spencer reid #derek morgan #hurt spencer reid #spencer reid whump #luke alvez x spencer reid #spencer reid x luke alvez #spencer reid/luke alvez #luke alvez/spencer reid #ralvez fic #ralvez fanfic

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ahtsumu · 4 years ago

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目送 ; oikawa tooru

「alt. title: five times oikawa didn’t look back and the one time he did」

↳ pairing: oikawa tooru x f!reader

↳ synopsis: you spend a lifetime watching him go, sometimes with your stomach tied in knots, sometimes with tears in your eyes, but always with love.

↳ genre(s): angst, fluff, basically an emotional rollercoaster, non-linear storyline

↳ warning(s): profanity, depiction of a panic attack, suggestive themes

↳ length: 5.4k words

↳ a/n: hq fam how we doing after 402 ?? LOL anyway this is my birthday gift to oikawa tooru: my sun, moon, and stars, second to none, yadda yadda. the title is taken from a book with the same name, in case you were wondering. please pay attention to the roman numerals ahead of each section!! enjoy!

“This is the last call for Japan Airlines flight 717 to Buenos Aires, now boarding at gate number twelve. This is the last call…”

Goodbyes are hard when you know they’re forever. Or at least a while.

The clamour of Haneda airport dims to a faint buzz as the two of you continue standing with touching shoulders–– facing the jetliner instead of each other–– in futile hopes of delaying the inevitable.

Oikawa knows that you’re holding in your tears by the light tremors running through your body. Permitting himself to steal a look at your side profile, he notices the familiar tensing of your jaw and hard-set look in your red-rimmed eyes.

Tch. You said you wouldn’t cry.

Impulsively, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a familiar turquoise banner. It feels like just yesterday the team handed him the silk fabric with everyone’s farewell gifts wrapped inside.

Out-of-sequence memories of the Spring High qualifiers flash through your mind. The orange-haired Karasuno player’s spike ricochets off Oikawa’s forearms. The numbers on both sides of the scoreboard slowly inch up like they’re taking turns. Oikawa’s white knuckles against the metal basin. Red eyes. Heaving chest. Something soft against your skin. Rule the Court.

And just like the last time, he gently drapes it over your shoulders, brushing his fingers against your neck as he does so. God, how he wants to kiss you.

“But it’s yours,” you protest weakly, making no move to give it back.

“It won’t be for a while.” His voice cracks when he speaks. But it will be mine again when I come back for it.

He wants to kiss you. One last time.

He wants your mouth against his like absolution to a sinner because he knows that what he’s done to you, what he’s doing to you right now, is comparable to desecration. But he remembers the look on your face that night he broke the news to you. How your megawatt grin caved into a wince when the length of his contract with Club Athletico San Juan finally registered in your mind.

You swallow your feelings of betrayal. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Five years is an awfully long time to be apart,” you say after a while.

Oikawa bites his lip. He doesn’t have the heart to say that five was just the starting number. If he does well there, he’ll probably stay longer. He’ll probably do well there. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

Seconds drag into minutes. The cavity in his stomach festers as he waits for your response, but he has a feeling that he already knows your answer.

So instead, all he can do when your floodgates finally burst open is cup your face in his calloused palms and wipe away some of your tears before offering you his own watery smile.

Through your blurred vision, you watch as the boy in front of you steels his resolve and disappears from your life through the jet bridge, ignoring his heart as it begs for one last look over his shoulder.

Oikawa nods numbly when the old man sitting beside him asks if he’s leaving home for the first time. Home, he realises, isn’t anywhere with walls, isn’t an address, isn’t even a person. When someone says they want to go home, it’s not a space that they yearn for, but rather, a time.

He watches Japan grow smaller through the window and feels himself yearn for the time he still had your heart in his hands. It felt like he was holding the sun.

You wouldn’t consider July 21st to be a special day. Nothing special happened earlier that morning when you woke up without your usual alarm. Nothing special happened when your friends texted you four simple words–– come to Azukihana beach!–– during breakfast. But (and this will come to you much, much later) something special happened when said friends left you to guard their things as they dashed to the supermarket for more snacks.

For now, it’s just July 21st, and you’re lying with your back against a towel on the first day of summer break, soaking in the sun, peacefully flipping through a book.

“DON’T FUCKING DO IT, YOU COLOSSAL PIECE OF SHIT!” The familiar voice tears through the beach. Was that Iwaizumi? You set the book down and sit up to check.

And suddenly, the yellow and blue volleyball that had been leisurely rolling your way halts perfectly before your toes. Behind it jogs a shirtless brunet you’ve definitely seen around school.

Oikawa Tooru stops right behind the runaway volleyball and peers at you through half-lidded eyes. “Sorry about that,” he says, flashing you a charming smile.

After casually picking up the ball with one hand, he flexes his abdominal muscles as he straightens back up. Chestnut irises attempt to discreetly sweep over your features but you catch his gaze in the act, quirking an unamused brow. You also catch the intrigued twitch of his lips that follow.

You’re not stupid. Despite having never met him, you know a lot about the Grand King (as many call him). He’s the constant subject of Iwaizumi’s ire and you’ve heard a lifetime’s complaints about him at joint-family luncheons.

But here’s what’s important: you know that he tears himself apart to be the player his team needs him to be, that he sometimes makes Iwaizumi wish he’d passed the Shiratorizawa entrance exam, and that he fiddles with hearts like origami and sets fire to those beautiful fragile trinkets right after.

And in the interest of self-defence (but against what the devil on your shoulder begs), you choose to not place your most prized possession on the table.

A simple “no worries” passes through your lips. You return to your book. A page turns.

Oikawa Tooru is dismissed.

Though your gaze is trained on the page, you can feel his presence at your feet for a few seconds longer. You wonder what his next move is. Much to your surprise, instead of trying to strike up another conversation, he simply lets out an airy hum and strolls back to the sand court where he came from without a second glance.

Iwaizumi wonders why Oikawa is smiling so victoriously after watching the whole ordeal, but your tan family friend has, unlike the calculating Grand King, failed to notice one important detail:

your book is upside down.

And, as if in a trance, your eyes have followed Oikawa all the way back to his sandy kingdom.

Once the sun has set, Iwaizumi checks his phone and notices a text he’d missed in the afternoon. It’s from Y/N. Unease digs itself in his chest when he realises it can’t possibly be for anything except…

hey what was that about?

This can’t be good. Thumbs rapidly typing a response, he races to quash any interest you may have budding in Oikawa. You… you’re good. Nice. Smart enough for UTokyo. A bit naive, but he’s been around your overbearing parents long enough to see it’s not entirely your fault. And even though you run in different circles at school, he feels obligated to protect you from monsters that hide beneath pretty surfaces. He’s known you since the two of you were in diapers.

just trash being what it is

Iwaizumi watches the three grey dots on your side appear, disappear, reappear, and disappear again. And that’s when he realises that he cannot help you. The villain in this arc of your story has already sunken his teeth in your tender, unsullied flesh.

trash?

He sighs.

oikawa

It isn’t a surprise to Iwaizumi when summer break ends and Oikawa’s chestnut eyes start hunting for someone in the cafeteria during lunch. He doesn’t raise a brow when he hears that the second-year captain has been sneaking into Class 7, sometimes with flowers in his hands, and strolling out with a dazed look on his face. He slaps his teammates out of shock when Oikawa mentions his troubles with pursuing some girl–– but not before slapping himself first. Because the Oikawa he knows is not a chaser.

“Her name’s Y/N,” the brunet says, suddenly realising that he has never introduced any of his temporary interests to the team. But it’s been well over two months and he’s starting to think he’s been friend-zoned. Or worse. “I think she hates me.” He laughs melodically, then cocks his head in contemplation. “Is it weird that I kinda like that?”

Iwaizumi hides a satisfied smile behind a sip of water. Oikawa’s revelation has cleared the unease your name brought to his chest. Just a little. Perhaps he’d misread you. You have a bite of your own.

iii.

It’s routine for Oikawa to slink into Class 7 with a dazzling grin during morning break, but he’ll sometimes show up with flowers instead just to remind you that his affections, along with his modus operandi–– haven’t changed since he first started visiting you in September.

The girls in your homeroom have grown used to seeing the six-foot-tall volleyball captain hovering around your desk like a butterfly. Most treat him as part of the scenery nowadays. To them, Oikawa Tooru is no longer the mysterious, out-of-reach deity the rest of the school still paints him to be.

So when he strolls into class on a chilly January afternoon with your name a tune on his lips, they leave him be. Recently, the ladies of Seijoh have focused their attentions on some fellow on the swim team, anyway. Oikawa doesn’t feel as upset as he thinks he should about his shrinking fan club, but when his gaze finds yours already steady, expectant, utterly adoring on him, he understands why.

“For the lady,” he says like he does every time. A cluster of yellow flowers wrapped in brown kraft paper plop onto your desk. He pulls a chair up to your side, purposely ignoring, again, how two certain grooves in the wooden floor keep growing deeper with his visits.

You remember the first time he started bringing you flowers.

A posy of pink flowers sits awkwardly on your desk, untouched.

“I tell you I’d rather take your serve to my face than attend the bunkasai with you and your response is to give me weeds?” you reply with your chin in the palm of your hands, amusement blossoming over your features.

“Stop being a tease, Y/N-chan, they’re flowers,” he huffs, crossing his arms on your desk. “And I know you want to take them. The florist even said I have immaculate taste.”

“Really? Then what do these mean?”

Oikawa falters.

“Hmm?”

“Pink camellias,” he finally says, carefully enunciating the flower's name, “means that you’re a fucking tease. And that you should come to the bunkasai with me.” You snort and tell him to quit volleyball and join comedy club, feeling a strange warmth in your chest when he laughs.

The two of you fall into the same rhythm as always, talking a little bit about this and that, throwing in witty remarks where they belong, never passing up the chance to make fun of each other’s little idiosyncrasies. He’s enraptured by the way you string words together to describe the story behind your class’s bunkasai performance and all the gears in your brain whirr when he explains the strategy he’s using against the team Seijoh’s playing later that day.

When the bell rings, he reluctantly drags his chair back to the desk he stole it from. Just before he slinks back out the door, though, you tell him with a stern gaze that the Ushiwaka from Shiratorizawa he just spent the break shit-talking doesn’t hold a candle to Seijoh’s Grand King.

It’s like you had just stepped under a new light. Oikawa pauses in front of the doorway, trying to decipher what it is that’s different about you. And suddenly, the roses in his cheeks are in full bloom. Delighted and puzzled at his own realisation, he turns around without a second glance your way and strides back to Class 5. Oh, man, he muses as he passes through the emptying corridor. Oh, man. Iwa-chan is going to love this.

Your phone buzzes later that evening.

seijoh v. shiratorizawa 1-2, the text reads, quickly followed by, GAH.

Your lips twitch, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. Tapping your fingers against your phone screen for a response that’ll cheer him up, you suddenly remember a phrase Oikawa said earlier that day. It drew a laugh from you when it came out his contorted face. He was obviously still hung up over with the words of the opposing team’s ace. Hopefully, it makes him feel something else coming from you.

you should’ve come to shiratorizawa, you send, grinning.

His response is immediate.

l m f A O

what flowers would you like at your funeral?

And then you’re reminded of his petalled gift on your desk, now comfortably sitting in a glass vase at your bedside. Pink camellias, he said? Curious, you open your laptop and type in the name for its meaning.

Longing, you remember, watching your boyfriend chatter about something–– probably aliens–– animatedly. The yellow flowers on your desk, you realise, are ones you’ve never seen before.

“Oikawa, what’s the name of these?” you suddenly ask. He stops in the middle of his sentence (he was definitely talking about aliens, by the way), and grins smugly.

“Jonquils,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “spelt J-O-N-Q-U-I-L-S, means that your boyfriend’s going to colonise Mars one day. And if you’re lucky, you can be the first queen of Mars. How ‘bout that?”

It doesn’t mean what he says it does, by the way.

ii.

Splashes of pink and orange have already settled into the blue sky above when you step onto the rooftop of Seijoh’s humanities building. Despite the breeze that has swept through the air, the flame of curiosity in your stomach burns just enough for you to turn a cheek to the cold.

Come to the rooftop at 6 PM.

It’s 5:59. Impatient, you study the note in your hand again. Maybe you’ll be able to glean something from the laconic letter this time.

Much to your irritation, no one had seen the author of this note. They had expertly placed the unsigned card on your desk with a single rose and Hershey’s chocolate kiss on top during lunch. Elegantly scrawled, their seven words have had your brain running circles all day around their identity. Could it be…? No–– he seemed completely normal earlier today. Still, you can’t shake your suspicions. They borderline hope.

Who else…

You inhale the cool air deeply and lean back against the rooftop railing, eyes burning a hole into the metal entrance. The door swings open with a high-pitched groan. Your breath catches in your throat.

… if not him?

Time briefly stops when Oikawa Tooru steps through the entrance, still in his volleyball uniform, sweaty from practice, cheeks the same colour as the setting sun. There’s an unusually tentative look on his face, though it’s immediately wiped off and replaced with the realisation that this is real when he sees you slightly slack-jawed, blinking once, twice, three times before letting out a breath.

“You look surprised. Expecting someone else to confess today?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his uniformed chest. Despite how his features are contorted by his poorly hidden jealousy, you can’t help but feel a flood of blood rush through your veins, lighting every inch of your skin on fire.

Because whether he knows it or not, Oikawa, the Grand King of the Court, prettiest boy in all of Miyagi, has skipped the table and placed his heart straight into your hands.

“Of course not,” you retort. “I just didn’t think you’d… well, do something like this.” And I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Iwaizumi’s words still find their way into your mind sometimes. I didn’t want origami made from my heartstrings.

Oikawa’s demeanour changes and his eyes dart away from your face. Shoving his hands into his windbreaker’s pockets, he admits, “I’ve honestly never done something like this before.” A faint blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Really? You’ve never stepped foot in the fourteenth shrine of Sendai?” you tease, referring to how Seijoh students have claimed this very rooftop as one of the God of Love’s many temples. You both know he holds the school record for the number of visits to this rooftop. At this rate, he could be one of its caretakers.

“That’s not what I meant,” he replies with a scowl, though the awkward tension between you two dissipates. And it feels like the two of you are back at your desk in Class 7, snickering uncontrollably while throwing playful jabs at each other. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Oikawa finally steps forward to join you by the railing.

Humming softly, he rests his elbows on the metal bar, props his head up with his hands, and sets his gaze on the lowering sun.

It’d be unfair to say that you didn’t at least try to enjoy the moment of peace with the boy beside you. But there’s a burning question on your mind that you can’t put off asking any longer.

“Why me?” you finally blurt out. “You could have any girl in this school. What made you choose me?”

The brunet whips his head around, disbelief written all over his face. “You think I chose to chase after the most annoying girl in all of Miyagi?” He laughs. “Ridiculous. I’d never willingly put myself through that unnecessary angst.”

You scoff and cross your arms.

“I think that when you like someone, it’s harder to explain why,” he quickly adds. “‘Cause it’s not supposed to make sense. I bet that the inability to explain your feelings is a prerequisite for true feelings, actually. It’s logical to say that you’d date Person A because they’re smart, or Person B because they’re hot, or Person C because they’re rich. But I’m pretty sure that that’s not… that’s not falling for someone. When you fall for someone… you just do. No logic required. You weren’t an option I ultimately settled on, Y/N. One day I just woke up and thought, if not you, then no one else.”

A beat passes. A flurry of words floods through your brain, only to evaporate when the devil on your shoulder decides that words aren’t quite adequate for what you want Oikawa to hear.

So instead, your feet take you one step closer into his space. Impulsively, your fingers find their way to his nape and your eyes flutter shut and suddenly–– suddenly, your parted lips brush against Oikawa’s. Instantly, he deepens the kiss, soft lips surging against yours like a pulse under pressure. You barely register his arms snaking around your waist, tighter and tighter until the space between your bodies is completely closed off.

Breathless, you finally detach your lips from his. Oikawa, who still has you encircled in his arms, pouts at the loss of contact, though he sulky façade only lasts a second before it gives way to a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He looks magnificent. Cheeks red, lips flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide with excitement. You want to kiss him again.

“One more.” It’s as if he read your mind. “To celebrate that last one.”

When Oikawa finally detaches himself from your lips, it’s to respond to the buzzing in his pocket. Noticing your raised brows, he explains that it’s an alarm for practice. The Spring High Prelims are just around the corner and he doesn’t plan on graduating without never having taken his team to Nationals.

“That’s my cue,” he states with a warm–– read: not apologetic–– smile. He doesn’t grab your hand or look imploringly into your eyes in hopes that you understand, never mind that you just shared your first kiss, never mind that you just became his girlfriend.

If Oikawa’s looking for any sign of your objection, he won’t find any. Instead, you step out of his space with an acquiescent nod. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

“Play well,” you say softly.

But before he heads for the creaky rooftop door, he presses one last kiss to your lips. And then he turns around, whistling as he goes, leaving you beaming behind his back with the light of a thousand suns.

iv.

When Matsukawa hands you the turquoise “Rule the Court” banner after the team lunch with a shit-eating grin on his face, the only resistance you offer is a resigned sigh.

“I’ve been dating Oikawa since we were second years,” you say flatly.

“Sorry, Y/N-san, but it’s the team’s hazing ritual,” he replies, not appearing sorry at all. “And you’re the only one who hasn’t done it.” He jerks his head at the blonde girl standing a little farther from the group with Hanamaki. “Emiko-san did it at the last game.”

“Plus, it’s the Spring High qualifier semifinals!” Kindaichi adds. “It’s an even bigger deal for you to do it now, especially since you had to miss our games on the first two days for school.” The team murmurs in agreement.

You shudder at the thought of your impending distress. Sit in the front row of the cheer squad and raise the banner with a scream every time your boyfriend serves? Fleeing from the Sendai City Gymnasium back home in an expensive taxi suddenly becomes very appealing.

Seeing the expectant and hopeful looks on the rest of the team’s faces, however, you begrudgingly place the banner in your backpack, signalling your acceptance of the horrible, cringe-worthy tradition.

“Where is Oikawa-san?” Kindaichi asks, rotating his turnip-shaped head around rapidly. “He was just at the team lunch. Iwaizumi-san’s missing too…”

Kunimi shrugs, pulling out his copy of the team schedule. He starts herding the team towards one of the courts. “Our game against Karasuno starts about an hour, so we should start warm-ups in around fifteen minutes.”

Worry creeps up your spine. For the past few days, all Oikawa has talked about is this match against his bratty kouhai’s team. And in the past two weeks leading up to today, you haven’t been able to even catch a glimpse of his face outside of break or lunch. To suddenly go missing before warm-ups doesn’t seem like Oikawa. You’re about to ask the team if he’s ever done this before, but your phone starts ringing a familiar tune and the question is set aside.

“Iwai––”

“Third-floor bathroom by the orange pillar. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. Emergency.” Through his harsh and abrupt tone, you pick up traces of fear.

“What––”

“It’s Oikawa.” The call is cut before you can ask any more questions. Heart suddenly racing, you tell the team that your mother just called with questions about your new smart blender and excuse yourself to “explain what the manufacturers mean by salsify”. No one sees you bolt towards the nearest set of staircases with Oikawa the only thought on your mind.

There are very few things in this world that scare you. Stray hairs in the bathroom, the dark, essays longer than three pages… but the terror that short-circuits your brain when you find your boyfriend in the bathroom–– knuckles white around the sink, chest heaving violently, frenzied pupils surrounded by broken blood vessels–– trumps any fear you’ve faced before.

Iwaizumi stands helplessly beside him.

“Is he having a panic attack?” you question, still unable to move your feet. You’ve never seen Oikawa like this before. He’s the Grand King who hums while he walks, who spams your phone’s camera roll with peace-signs and funny faces, who winks and flirts and teases without regard. But watching the long-deified setter crumble like a measly human before you, you realise that Oikawa is also the guy who tore his meniscus from overexertion, who trades sleep to study his opponents play, who works his body to the bone just to stay a hairline above a certain Karasuno setter.

“A scout for the Schweiden Adlers said that Kageyama will soon surpass Oikawa in skill.” Iwaizumi explains how they had overheard the conversation lowly in your ear. “I got us into this bathroom just before he completely lost it. 5-4-3-2-1 isn’t working. And he won’t listen to a word I say.” What’s 5-4-3-2-1? Well, if it isn’t working then don’t focus on that right now.

Your eyes dart to Oikawa’s quivering body again. “I don’t know how to pull someone out of a panic attack.”

“The goal is to ground him. So use physical touch, make him feel something with texture, and get him to talk,” he responds instantly. Mechanically. Like he’s all-too-familiar with this set of instructions. A heaviness grows in the pit of your stomach when you realise what that means for Oikawa. And yet, from that very dread sprouts strength.

Slowly, you tread over to Oikawa and place a hand on his arm. His muscles tense under your touch but when you murmur over and over that it’s “Y/N, your girlfriend, the most annoying girl in Miyagi”, his fingers loosen ever-so-slightly from the metal basin. He lets you lead him to the bench by the door. He lets you drape the Seijoh banner over his shoulders like it’s armour and wrap your arms around his waist. He lets you press your cheek to his sweat-drenched back.

Get him to talk.

“Remember that quote you showed me from that interview of yours? What was it again?” you question softly.

No response.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks,” you say into his ear.

Through the mirror, you see his eyes widen with recognition. In the brief moment of lucidity that washes over Oikawa’s glistening face, you repeat the original question again, followed by his own quote.

Again and again.

And Oikawa finally says back.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it until it breaks.” Focus re-enters his gaze. He blinks as if just waking from a spell.

“That’s right,” you say as firmly as possible. “So don’t you dare break first, Tooru.”

An unreadable blend of emotions scrawls itself over his features. While Oikawa washes his face with cold water, you remember rumination and resolve but can’t decipher the rest, giving up anyway when Iwaizumi pushes open the bathroom door. When the light washes over Oikawa, his face shows no signs of the episode he just had. It’s just like how the sky moves on after a storm, how the sun beams to say, “I’m here now. The rain has gone.”

But sometimes it still rains in spite of the sun.

A sunshower. It sounds so beautiful. But it’s wonderfully sad.

The three of you wordlessly make your way to the court where the rest of Seijoh is likely getting ready to warm up. What are you supposed to say after that? What can you say?

Once the smell of air salonpas and sweat finally greets your nose, Oikawa slips the Seijoh banner off his back and hands it over to you. Guessing that’s your cue to leave, you tell him to play well like you always do before starting to head for the upper deck. Softly, Oikawa asks you to wait.

“Stay for warm-ups,” he adds. “Please.”

From your spot behind the Seijoh divider, you carefully watch for any signs of another breakdown. To your relief, he goes the entire half-hour without a single crack in his disposition, exchanging laidback grins with the team, bantering with Iwaizumi. At one point he even has the audacity to taunt the Karasuno setter Tobio-chan, as Oikawa often says with a sneer.

Sunshowers, Y/N. Sunshowers.

Just before the referees call for the teams to line up at their ends of the court, Oikawa jogs over to you, eyes folding into thin crescents when he smiles.

He pulls the Seijoh banner out from your hands and gingerly cloaks it around your shoulders. Oikawa presses a quick kiss to your lips and murmurs, “Thank you.” Something in face tells you that it’s supposed to mean more than gratitude. Before you can read more into it, he turns back around and jogs to the line where his team awaits. Oikawa grins ferally.

Knowing that your luminous eyes are fixed to his back like his own set of wings, the monster crows on the other side suddenly look more like humans.

vi.

Oikawa isn’t surprised that his text is still unopened. At twenty-seven years old, he’s had his fair share of dead-ends when it comes to love. But he hadn’t expected radio silence from you of all people.

After closing all the tabs of Team Japan’s latest matches, he powers off his laptop and checks his phone again to reread what he wrote to your old number one last time. Still nothing. It’s highly probable you’ve changed phone numbers at least once in the last nine years, but the disappointment’s still there after he powers his phone off for the night. Tomorrow’s a big day and he’s not the same victim of self-destruction he had been in high school.

Or so he thinks, realising that texting the last person he loved the night before the 2021 Olympics volleyball finals might have been slightly irresponsible on his part. A thought arises in his head, though he quickly quashes it. Asking Iwaizumi to pass the message along would be a little overboard, wouldn’t it? Oikawa chuckles, imagining he response he’d get from his best friend (and Team Japan’s team trainer, that traitor).

“Go the fuck to sleep or I’ll put you to sleep, you dumbass simp,” he hears in Iwaizumi’s gruff voice.

He convinces himself that you’ll be there like you’ve always been. After all, he’s spent a lifetime with your pair of watchful eyes on his back. Satisfied, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The volume in the Ariake Arena is astronomical. Blood pounds against his ears as he sets the ball in the air, a monstrous grin carving into his face when his teammate José spikes the set straight down the net, drawing a wave of oohs and aahs from spectators on both sides.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at the flashy Team Argentina setter and finishes taping up Ushijima’s arm.

Oikawa turns haughtily towards the opposite team, gaze zeroing in on Team Japan’s raven-haired setter and the shrimpy ginger beside him. It’s been a while since he last saw them this close in person–– the chance encounter with Hinata in Brazil happened well over three years ago and he hadn’t had the time earlier in the tournament to say hello. Of course they’re the final boss in this arc, he muses, though the thought is void of vexation. Instead, begrudging pride blossoms in his chest. Truthfully, he had expected nothing less from his kouhai.

And he expects nothing less than finally tasting the ambrosia of victory against that monster–– no, an entire generation of monsters–– today. Monsters who happen to be the kids he grew up beside.

He wonders what you’d say at the sight of Japan’s greatest players all gathered on one court. On instinct, his eyes dive into the bleachers, searching for your face. Knowing he’s not likely to find you like this, he tsks, deciding to look for Iwaizumi instead. Maybe he knows where you are.

The referees signal for both teams to line up at their ends of the court. As he steps onto the white boundary line, he notices Iwaizumi’s gaze transfixed on someone in the upper deck on Team Argentina’s side. The neutral expression on his face morphs into shock, then recognition. And then he glances at Oikawa.

The latter’s brows furrow before everything clicks in place.

Who else…

All your memories together hit him at full force–– your face shimmering with tears in front of gate twelve in Haneda Airport, the feeling of your shallow breaths against his neck, the savvy lilt to your voice as you speak.

… if not her?

For the first time in his life, Oikawa Tooru looks behind his shoulder.

And there you are, leaning against the railing with the old Seijoh flag draped over your shoulders, a tender, splendid smile on your lips.

“Play well,” you mouth.

And Oikawa feels the sun rise back into his hands.

3K notes · View notes

omosntn · 2 years ago

Text

Brothers (OMORI Fanfic)

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Characters: Kel (OMORI), Hero (OMORI), Hero and Kel’s Mother (OMORI), Hero and Kel’s Father (OMORI), Hero and Kel’s Parents (OMORI)

Additional Tags: Angst

Summary: Kel tries to comfort Hero after Mari’s death.

Alternatively, it can be read here! (Or under the cut)

Kel cracked the door open ever so slightly, the familiar routine of floorboards creaking. He leaned into his front foot to peer into the room’s darkness.

“Hero?” he called into the darkness before opening the door just enough to slide himself through the crack. He gently pushed the door shut, then gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness that now enveloped him. There, he saw the all too familiar form in front of him; a bundle of blankets upon the bed adjacent from his, stirring from the sudden light that leaked into the room.

He called out again, “Hero? Aren’t you going to brush your teeth? It’d be really awful to get a cavity… been there, done that.” he joked as he rubbed his cheek at the unpleasant memory of a numb and swollen cheek, a well needed visit to the dentist after eating too much Halloween candy one year.

But Hero didn’t respond. At this point, Kel knew that it was too much to expect a response from his brother, but it didn’t stop him from wishing for one. He wished for something, anything from his brother he could spin a conversation out of. It had been months since he had seen the normal Hero; the Hero that would jokingly scold him when he told him about the daily trouble he would find himself in at school or the Hero that would chuckle at what stupid argument Aubrey and him had got into that day. But the normal Hero was gone. He died when Mari did.

He maneuvered his way around the piles of clothes and other items that littered the floor of their shared room, making a stop along the way to turn on the lamp on his nightstand to make the journey to Hero’s bedside a lot easier for himself. Hero was the one who had always made sure the floor of their room was spick-and-span, clothes neatly tucked away in their proper drawers and everything was put away on the right shelves or in the right place, but when the meager task was left to Kel, this was the result.

He licked his dry, cracked lips, and placed one hand on top of the blanket lump, giving it a little shake as he spoke. “Everyone misses you, y’know?” He started. “Everyday, Aubrey asks me how you are. I haven’t seen Basil or Sunny around recently, but you know they’re probably thinking about you too.”

Not a single reaction. So Kel continued. “We all want you to get better. And…” The words escaped his lips before he could catch them. “If Mari were alive, I don’t think she would want to see you all sad like this, either. I’m sure if she were here, she would scold you for being all down in the dumps like this-”

“Shut up, Kel.” Hero broke his silence, his voice demanding and stern. Kel’s stomach dropped. That was the first time in his life Hero had ever told him to shut up.

“But I was just trying to help-“

“No Kel,” Hero threw his blankets off of himself and swung his legs over the bed, standing up to meet Kel’s gaze with his own. The older brother that was once taller than him was now the same height as him. In the gentle lamp light, the bags underneath Hero’s eyes were more than noticeable. They sunk his face in, aging him older than he actually was. He looked tired, his eyes red from his overused tear ducts. Kel pretended not to notice the sobs and sniffles he heard before he fell asleep for the night, but it was hard to forget how each sniffle was like a tiny needle pricking his heart. He wished he could do more for his brother. “Every single day, you come into our room and tell me about how everyone misses me, how everyone wants me to come back…”

“Do you think saying all of this helps me?!“ he shouted, “Do you think this brings Mari back to us?!”

Kel shrunk in on himself. He noticed how the tears in Hero’s eyes threatened to spill over. “I know it doesn’t-“

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!” Hero screamed, his voice cracking. Tears streamed down his face as he cried, “YOU WERE NEVER AS CLOSE TO MARI AS THE REST OF US WERE!”

Kel’s mind blanked at what he wanted to say when those words left Hero’s mouth. It felt as if something in his heart had snapped. Maybe Hero was right. Maybe Kel wasn’t as attached to Mari as Aubrey or Basil. Kel wasn’t dating Mari like Hero was, nor was he her little brother like Sunny.

Kel was always just there.

He tried to laugh off the words as if he were just told a funny joke. He wanted to show Hero that he was bigger than the words he spat at him, that he understood that they were only coming from a place of hurt. But the smile on Kel’s face betrayed him, being the first to crumble before the tears clouded his vision. Hot wetness poured down his cheeks. The lump in his throat stifled anything he wanted to say; he choked on his words.

Hero continued, “Don’t you ever think before you speak, Kel?! This is what I’ve always hated about you!”

Kel let the full weight of Hero’s words crash into him. He stood there, unsure if he should wipe at his never ending tears. He never thought Hero would say something like this to him. As much as he tried to understand the hurt Hero was enduring, he began to wonder… how long did Hero feel this way towards him? How long had he been holding back these words?

“Hero…” his voice barely came out a whisper. “Calm down, please…” he begged.

Suddenly, the door flung open, the worried faces of their parents in the doorframe. A wave of relief washed over him, hoping they would de-escalate the situation for them.

Without a single word, his parents passed by him and ran straight to Hero, enveloping him in their arms.

Oh.

Kel wiped at his eyes, refusing to look at the loving scene he wasn’t a part of.

Even in his own family, Kel was just there.

He didn’t know how much more he could take. It felt as if a ton of bricks weighed on his chest, crushing him entirely. He could hear the hushed whispers of “it’s okay” as their mother ran her fingers through his hair. There were no fingers in his hair, no parents by his side. Even if both of them were crying, this confirmed Kel’s deepest darkest fear that Hero was always the favourite in their family. He was the reliable one, he was the responsible one. And.. Kel was just Kel. What good qualities did he have? All he did was act before he thought, and hurt people by speaking before he did.

As Kel’s knees buckled from the thoughts spiralling inside his head, Kel felt a pair of arms around him. It was Hero.

Hero’s shoulders shook and his voice trembled. He whispered under his breath over and over again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Kel.”

Kel sank into his arms, reciprocating the hug.

“It’s okay,” Kel sniffled. “Everything’s gonna be okay...”

#omori game #Omori #omori fanfic #omori kel #omori hero #hero (omori)#kel (omori)

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years ago

Text

Golden Thread

Prompt: since Janus is Deceit, what if it takes a physical toll on him when he only tells the truth and doesn't manipulate anyone for a period of time? could you please write a oneshot where Janus is in a position where he really needs to to tell the truth, but he can tell he's getting close to his truth limit? - anon

Hey! I don't know if you're still taking requests for prompts (and I apologize if you aren't), but could you do Janus-centric fluffy hurt/comfort? And maybe a polyship? (If you want to, of course). - anon

Thanks for the prompts, babes! This was supposed to go up yesterday and I’m so sorry I forgot

Read on Ao3

Warnings: sympathetic remus & janus, other than that, it’s not that bad

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 5874

There is a thread that winds through Janus’s tongue.

Thin, golden, finely spun with lies. It tastes sweet against the back of his teeth, the back of his throat. As he talks, it colors his words with a soft gleam, spinning and spinning into the air in front of him. It coils neatly around his throat as its spool and winks.

Most of the time its taste is enough to curl the corners of his mouth upwards into a smirk, watching it wind and weave its way around the others. Sometimes he thinks he can see other threads, clasping delicately around wrists, arms, knees, necks. Sometimes he can’t resist letting his threat tug them this way and that. Come on, what good is temptation if you never give in to it? He’s grown fond of the sweetness it leaves on his tongue, in his words. Saccharine as they may be, the haze they leave behind is more than enough to make up for it.

Sometimes the sweetness is too much. He swears he can feel cavities forming in the back of his mouth. His teeth start to ache. And sometimes…sometimes he doesn’t care. It’s too much fun to keep tugging this way and that at the others, too entertaining to let the thread unspool and unspool from his throat, filling the air with its golden light. His smile sharpens and the tangle grows, because what’s the fun of it without a little risk of hurt?

Other times he knows to back off. He adores the others, but no matter how fun they are to play with, he knows not to push too hard. At those times, he lets the sweetness spill off of his tongue, gently winds the thread back around his own throat. It always protests, the lack of sweetness making his tongue ache, the grip on his throat just a little too tight. But the looks on their faces…the begrudging gratitude, the sincere remark, or--god forbid—the poorly disguised hope…well.

Sometimes he wonders whether or not it’d be worth it to keep the thread fully wound.

Not that he ever would, it’s just a thought experiment.

It’s not like he wonders what it would feel like to have Patton be able to listen to him easily, not make it a fight to get his point across. He doesn’t want to have an engaging conversation with Logan about philosophy, ethics, science, anything just to hear the brilliant man talk. He refuses to entertain the idea of being a proper source of comfort for Virgil. He wouldn’t enjoy snarking with Remus just for fun and not because he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

And he…

Well.

The idea of being able to have an honest conversation with Roman makes him fill to the brim, top to toes, with hatred.

He doesn’t have much of a choice.

He can speak a few times with the thread coiled up, just enough when it really counts. He knows the others, he can’t just play with them all the time, he’ll get bored. And they’re not really cut out for it. And as much as he loves to see them squirm out of their comfort zones, it’s not good for Thomas. That’s his real priority.

Janus pushes open the door to his room and sighs, taking his hat off and hanging it carefully up on its stand. He summons his cane and makes it the rest of the way to the desk, plopping himself into the chair and scrubbing his hand through his hair.

“They’re so slow,” he mutters as his fingers go to the clasp around his throat, “how do they ever get anything done?”

Well…they don’t. Not really.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves being the one to tug and twist them into the right answer, but he doesn’t want to be there all the time. They do know what they’re doing, they’re all good at their jobs, so…trying to manage all of that is exhausting.

The clasp at his throat falls away and he lifts his hand, craning his neck above his collar. There.

He knows the thread isn’t real; nothing here is real. Nothing of him can ever be real. But he can still feel it sometimes. Like today.

They’d been…talking. It wasn’t an overdue conversation, not in the slightest, and he’s had to be honest with them. Doesn’t mean he has to be honest with himself.

And isn’t that just his saving grace?

Janus winces as he feels the thread wind tighter and tighter around his tongue, pulling his gloves off to touch his throat, just to confirm that it’s not real. His fingers meet his scales and he sighs, missing the sweetness. It won’t be for long. This will blow over and tomorrow they’ll be back to everyone’s favorite regularly scheduled programming. He’ll make Patton blink in that adorably-confused way, Logan will be pinching the bridge of his nose trying to make everyone shut up and pay attention to Janus’s lies, Virgil will be hissing at him like a demented cat, Remus will be having the time of his life, and Roman won’t want anything to do with him.

Janus breathes a sigh of relief as sweetness starts to coat his tongue again.

See? It’s already working.

It doesn’t keep working, but you know.

The effort was there.

They’re talking again.

The living room feels dry. Has it always been this dry? Disguising it as a roll of his eyes, Janus tilts his head toward the ceiling. Huh. He’s never noticed that light there before. Has it always been there? Probably.

“Janus,” Patton calls, “can you—um—“

Rolling his eyes again, he looks back down, crossing one leg over the other. He hides the lack of sweetness by pursing his lips.

“Yes?”

“Did you hear what I asked?”

“Of course I did,” he drawls, idly flicking the tips of his gloves together.

“…so what do you think?”

Honestly.

“He didn’t hear you,” Logan says quietly, and thank god the other brain cell has joined the chat.

Patton frowns. “Then why—never mind.”

Oh, Patton.

“I asked if you knew how to help,” Patton says, his hands clutched in his lap, “with the barrier breaking down. It’s been kind of rough from our side so…”

Right.

There hadn’t been a barrier up until a few years ago. Something had formed in the Mindscape, an invisible wall. It wasn’t real, of course, but it made walking through the hallways unnecessarily difficult. One of them would try to walk from one side to the other and be suddenly seized with a compulsion to do anything but. Or they’d be accompanying another Side back to the room only to freeze in the middle of the corridor and have to mutter out apologies. It’s exhausting. Luckily they’d still been able to sink in and out to get from place to place, but it’s not like the barrier actually does anything.

Janus sighs and uncrosses his legs. The thread leaps to the tip of his tongue, eager, poised.

“I don’t know,” he says instead, feeling the sweetness recede in disappointment, “I don’t know enough about how it formed in the first place.”

“It happened around the time of the series premiering,” Logan says thoughtfully, “perhaps it could be linked with the presentation of the Mindscape in the fanbase?”

Virgil snorts. “Like any of that is accurate.”

“You don’t know that, Virgil.”

“Um, excuse me, which of us spends the most time on Tumblr?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Where do you think most of the fanbase hangs out? ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t Facebook.”

“That’s a shame,” Patton sighs, “I miss it.”

“You miss Facebook?”

“You know it does still exist, right?”

“Did Thomas ever even have Facebook?”

“The color palettes were nice!”

“You mean they were blue.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“…the point being I know a lot about what the fans do with the content we give them and most of that stuff is entirely made-up.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “As opposed to the made-up that the series is.”

“Shut up, L.”

“I’d rather not, actually.”

Virgil swats Logan’s shoulder half-heartedly.

Janus is smiling. Why is he smiling? He hasn’t lied enough for the sweetness to make him smile and it’s not like Remus has appeared with feet coming out of his head again. In fact, Remus is just…sitting next to Roman. Granted, he’s got his morning star in his lap dripping with god knows what, but there are no crazy shenanigans happening.

He watches Logan reach out and tangle his fingers with Virgil’s as Patton starts talking again. He watches Virgil nudge Remus’s tape back over to him when he drops it halfway through rewrapping the grip on his morning star. He watches Roman cover a flinch that he’d never have noticed if he wasn’t paying attention and sees Remus take hold of Roman’s costume and grip it tight in his fist.

The thread twitches angrily on his tongue as he tries to make sense of what’s happening.

“Has anything happened,” Roman asks as Patton pauses, “on your side?”

Virgil shrugs. “I haven’t noticed anything. But I normally sink straight to my room, so…”

“Remus?”

“You do realize that most of the thoughts that come into my head are the type that you guys would ignore anyway, right?”

Roman rolls his eyes too, but it’s fond. Affectionate. Janus is not.

“…Janus? What about you?”

The thread begins to sew neat little words into his tongue, all prepared for him to say. Yes, he’s noticed something, he’s noticed that the others are so much less fun than they used to be. No, he hasn’t noticed anything, it’s not like he’s the observant one.

Yes, he’s noticed that the barrier is fading and he hates it.

No, he hasn’t noticed anything because he spends as little time with the others as possible.

“I don’t know.”

Patton nods. “That’s okay, just…maybe try keeping an eye out? See if anything changes?”

“I will.”

The thread takes longer to undo that night.

Janus slumps onto his elbows and groans.

When did he become addicted to the sweetness? When did it get so hard for him to realize when he’s the one telling the lies and when the thread is telling the lies? When did he stop caring about the words coming out of his mouth?

The truth is, of course, that he didn’t.

He started caring more about the others.

The thread tightens in warning but Janus pushes it aside. He frowns, staring hard at the grooves in the desk. He started to care about them, not just as parts of Thomas’s personality that would help him do things, but as their own Sides. As them.

He cares about how Logan’s eyes light up just a little when he starts talking about something. He cares about how warm Patton speaks when they’re all there. He cares about how bouncy Remus gets when they talk to him. He cares about when Virgil’s eyeshadow turns all purple and sparkly. He cares about how hard it’s become to genuinely make Roman smile.

The thread groans.

Janus curses.

He can’t.

“The others aren’t important,” he hisses at the mirror, “Thomas is the only important one.”

The thread pauses.

“I don’t care what they want,” he continues, feeling it slowly start to unwind, “it only matters that Thomas is safe. That Thomas knows what’s going on.”

It starts to run back out along his tongue.

“Their thoughts and feelings aren’t important.” His hands ball into fists. “I don’t care about them.”

His tongue starts to taste sweet again.

“I don’t care about them,” he repeats in a whisper, “they aren’t important to me.”

The salt of the tears goes perfectly with the sweetness on his tongue.

————————————————

Something is wrong.

Something is horribly, desperately wrong and the others are panicking.

The barrier is gone. That’s not the bad thing. The bad thing is that along with it, everything in the Mindscape is rushing out of control.

The walls won’t hold. The doors lock and unlock more often than they stay in place. Floors disappear out of nowhere and open up into yawning black pits. The doors to the Imagination buckle and groan under the onslaught of rushing beasts from the other side. Something is fading.

They can’t sink out anymore. They need to know where everything is in order to do that. The place is a labyrinth. Only one entrance, one exit. There’s no way that they’ll know the right path unless they run it themselves.

Janus knows something is broken the instant his eyes open. He can feel it. Cracks wind their way through the walls, through the floor, the ceiling shakes. He’s out of his room in an instant, running through the halls, somewhere, anywhere, are they alright? Where are they? Have they faded?

“Virgil!”

“Janus?” Virgil flies into him at breakneck speed, clutching his cape in both hands. “Are you—what’s happening? Where is everyone? Did something go wrong? What’s happening to Thomas?”

The thread perks its end up eagerly but Janus swallows it down.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says quickly, pulling Virgil closer, “and you’re the first one I’ve seen.”

“I can’t find anyone,” Virgil pants, “I can’t—there’s no one—we’re going to fade.”

“We won’t, I promise. We just have to find the others.”

“Hello?” Another voice calls out from around the corner. “Hello, where the fuck is everyone? Who decided to break shit without me?”

“Remus!”

“That’s me, where the fuck—“ Remus barrels around the corner, almost knocking them over— “Virgil! Snake Face!”

“Remus—“ Virgil wraps Remus in his arms, clutching him tightly. “Where were you? What’s going on?”

“I was draining the viscera from a partially dissected sperm whale—“ of course he was— “but then everything started shaking.”

“We can’t find the others.”

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

They don’t even look back; Remus grabs Janus’s sleeve and Virgil still hasn’t let go of his cape, dragging him behind as they race through the halls. They can see where the barrier used to be, though with how much the place has shifted, it’s impossible to tell. Janus grits his teeth as they prepare themselves to smash through.

Nothing happens.

They just keep barreling down the corridor.

“Patton! Logan! Roman!”

“Where the fuck are you guys?”

“Can you hear us?”

“Re? Re, is that you?”

“Ro!”

Remus reroutes them effortlessly, barreling through chunks of disappearing floor and leaping over cracks forming in the tiles. Virgil hangs onto Janus as they go. Janus can’t let go of either of them.

“In here!”

A blade flashes through a crumbling chunk of wall and a hand reaches out. Remus grabs it and vaults through the opening.

“Oh my goodness, Virgil!”

“Pat—“

Another hand helps to haul him through the crack. The hand he has in his cape pulls uncomfortably at Janus’s neck.

“Where’s Janus? Did you guys see him?”

“Yeah, he’s right here, Ja—“

“Snake Face, get your butt in here.”

“Don’t just stand there, help you idiots!”

A sickening crack right above him makes him jerk his head up. His eyes widen as a massive chunk of ceiling starts to fall. Hands wrap around his arms, his clothes, even his waist and pull.

“Janus?” He blinks through the dust to see Logan staring at him, concern written plainly all over his face. “Are you alright?”

No, the thread sews, I am now trapped with the five people I abhor most in this world. I am the furthest from alright I could possibly be.

“Are you all alright,” he asks instead, lifting his hand to fix Logan’s collar, “I’m not hurt.”

“We’re fine,” Roman says, helping him to his feet, “we managed to get in here before the place really started coming down.”

“What’s going on?”

Patton’s shoulders slump at Virgil’s question. “We were hoping you would know.”

Janus bites back a curse, turning to look at the opening. It’s blocked now, completely choked in dust. He glances around.

“Where are we?”

“Safe room,” Roman says, tapping the wall, “something Remy helped us come up with.”

“Remy?”

“He’s a bitch but he knows what he’s doing.”

“Fair enough.” Janus grits his teeth. “So what do we know?”

“Who was awake when it happened,” Logan asks, “Roman and I were not.”

“I was also not awake,” Virgil mutters, “and I would really appreciate this not being how I wake up ever again.”

“I agree.” Janus glances at Patton and Remus. “I was asleep too. Remus, you said you were awake?”

“I was in the middle of an experiment!”

Logan perks up. “An experiment?”

“As much as I love watching you two be nerds together,” Roman breaks in, “can we do that later?”

“Of course.”

“Spoilsport,” Remus says fondly, “but it wasn’t me. I’ve done this experiment before, nothing I do could do…this.”

All eyes turn to Patton.

“…Padre?”

Patton shakes his head. “I…I don’t know. I had just gotten up to get a glass of water when it shattered in my hand.”

“It did what?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Let me see.”

“No, no, guys I’m fine,” Patton says quickly, holding up his hands, “but then the whole house started to shake. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going on.”

Janus’s heart sinks. He’s telling the truth.

They’re stuck.

“Oh, god,” Virgil mutters, his hands flying to his head, “oh god, oh my god, no one knows what’s going on.”

“V,” Logan murmurs, crouching down and reaching to take his hands, “Virgil, look at me.”

“We’re going to mess everything up—it’s going to be so bad—what’s happing to Thomas?”

“Virgil, look at me, come now, it’s going to be alright—“

“How can you promise that?” Virgil’s voice starts to rise. “Have you seen what’s happening?”

“Easy, shadow-ling,” Roman murmurs too, his hand carding through Virgil’s hair, “just listen to Logan.”

“You’re doing well,” Logan encourages, rubbing Virgil’s arms, “just stay here, with me, alright?”

Janus watches Patton and Remus stand a little closer to the three of them, shielding them from the debris still raining down from outside. Something in his gut clenches.

Then he notices the tremors are slowing as the other calm Virgil down.

And it clenches more.

“It’s us,” he mutters quietly, almost too quietly for the others to hear, “it’s us. We have to stick together.”

The thread on his tongue twitches angrily. There’s almost no sweetness left in his mouth now.

Patton looks over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Look—“ Janus points at a crack in the wall— “they’re moving slower now. The closer we are together the less this place falls apart.”

Virgil’s next inhale is almost a sob.

“I really do just ruin everything, don’t I?”

“No,” Roman says firmly, wrapping his arms tightly around the shaking Side, “we’ve had this conversation, shadow-ling. You’re important to us. You’re not a burden. And this certainly isn’t your fault.”

“We need you,” Patton echoes, reaching down to rest his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, “don’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t make us chase you.” Remus bonks his head into Virgil’s. “Not fun.”

Virgil still looks doubtful. Which, alright, isn’t his fault. Voices in the head, not to mention the general anxiety, it’s no surprise, not really. Janus clears his throat.

“Virgil,” he says softly, crouching down as well, “Virgil, listen to me.”

Purple eyes stare at him.

“You haven’t lost us,” he promises, “you won’t lose us. You’re important, not just for Thomas, but for us too. We care about you. All of you.”

“Fuck, J,” Virgil huffs, swiping at his face, “why’d you have to make me cry?”

The tremors keep settling.

Patton throws his arms around Virgil. “See? We care about you, kiddo. We love you.”

Something else twitches in Janus’s throat as he hears Patton say that. Virgil must notice it too; he looks up and squints at Patton.

“Have we ever told you that we care about you?”

Bingo.

Patton falters, his grip wavering. His smile wobbles. “W-well, no, not really, but that’s okay! I know you do.”

Logan tilts his head. “But you enjoy hearing it said.”

The smile slips even further. “…you don’t like saying it.”

“That’s no excuse!” Roman reaches over Virgil to get to Patton. “If you want us to say it, we can say it!”

Janus shifts his attention. “Patton?”

“…yeah?”

“No one takes care of us like you do,” he says softly, “and none of us care as openly as you do.”

Patton’s eyes widen. “Janus—“

“You try,” he continues, not to be interrupted, not now, “and that is perhaps the most admirable thing we could ask for.”

“He made Pat cry too,” Virgil mutters, pulling the now-sobbing side in for a hug.

“Happy tears,” Patton manages, “I—wow.”

A crack in the wall disappears.

“Is that what this is?” Logan looks around. “An…emotional problem?”

“We’re fading, the whole Mindscape is,” Janus says around the thread, “if we—if we stay, then we can fix this.”

“O-oh.”

That tone of voice always leads somewhere good. Sure enough, as he looks around, he sees Logan adjust his glasses and take a step back.

“And where are you going?”

“I’m not sure I can help,” Logan says flatly. “You have the answer already.”

“But we’re not done.”

“And what do you expect I can lend to this problem?” He spreads his arms wide. “I’m no expert on emotions, nor am I useful in proving things that are already true.”

“Wait, what the fuck are you talking about, L?” Virgil scrambles up. “What are we proving here?”

“That you are important.” Logan frowns as Patton and Roman scramble up too. “What?”

“You’re implying that you’re not important,” Remus growls, “and I’m pissed about it.”

“But—“

“No buts!” Roman points a stern finger at him. “Believing yourself to be unimportant is a falsehood!”

“I never said I was unimportant,” Logan corrects, “I said I would not be helpful in this situation.”

“Bullshit. You helped me calm down.”

“So did Patton and Roman.”

“You figured out that I like being told that you guys care about me!”

“That was obvious.”

“Logan,” Janus calls softly to get his attention, “Logan, if you believe that anyone knows us better than you, you are gravely mistaken.”

Logan’s mouth drops open.

“You claim not to know emotions,” he continues, stepping closer, “but you know us, perhaps better than we know ourselves at times. You are kind, you are wonderful, and if you ever stop teaching us things, I am sure we would never recover.”

He slips Logan’s glasses back into position.

“You are not just Logic,” he murmurs, “you’re Logan. Stay. Be Logan.”

Logan swallows heavily.

“I must ask,” he says hoarsely as a tear rolls down his cheek, “if you intend to make everyone cry today.”

Janus chuckles. “No, I don’t, but it seems that it may be a side effect. I promise I’m not trying.”

“You won’t make me cry,” Remus remarks casually, “not without trying. I don’t care.”

Oh, Remus. Janus doesn’t bother to hide his smile at the indignant squawk from Virgil as Remus implies that he doesn’t care about the others.

“I don’t need to try to make you cry,” he says, “I’ve never wanted that. I just want you to be listened to.”

“…fuck you, Snakey.”

Patton lunges forward as Remus sniffles.

“Do we just like…not talk to each other, then?” Virgil wipes his nose. “Because I sure as hell don’t remember us getting this emotional about anything.”

Then Janus realizes that his mouth tastes bitter.

The thread has not been idle, he realizes in horror, not while he’s been spilling his guts to the others in an effort to hold them all together. It’s dragged itself over his tongue, scraping every last bit down his throat, winding tighter and tighter. His mouth tastes bitter. It’s not supposed to be bitter. It burns, scraping along the sides of his mouth until they smart. He swallows frantically. It’s not working. Nothing is working. It hurts. His tongue hurts. His throat hurts.

The floor wobbles.

He can’t catch his breath.

His eyes land on Roman.

No.

No, no, no, he can’t stop now.

Not here.

Not with Roman.

Roman just watches the others wrap their arms tightly around his brother still wiping snot from his nose. A soft smile curls at his mouth that never reaches his eyes. Behind him, massive cracks open up in the walls.

No.

He can’t let Roman fall.

Not after everything.

Roman notices he’s staring at him. He just raises an eyebrow.

“Going to make me cry again,” he asks softly, “or are you all finished for the day?”

The thread stabs words into his tongue until he can taste blood.

Well, it’s not like it’s difficult to make you cry.

If I had something that would work, I’d say it.

Only if you were a Side worth worrying about.

No.

No, no, he won’t say that. He won’t.

The thread tightens around his throat as a harsher warning. The bitterness on his tongue worsens.

“It’s alright, Janus—“ no, it isn’t— “I know you don’t like me much anyway. Don’t force yourself.”

At least you’re being considerate for once in your life.

Took you this long to figure it out, hmm? No wonder you’re called the stupidest Side.

Janus grits his teeth against the thread. It just keeps tightening. His mouth has never tasted sweet in his entire life.

He needs to tell Roman how important he is. He needs to tell Roman that they all have to start paying attention to him. He needs Roman to know that he’s sorry, sorry he ever implied otherwise.

All that comes out of his mouth instead is: “you need attention.”

Roman blinks. “Well, yes, I’d say that’s true.”

He has to tell Roman that Thomas needs him, needs him to be strong and healthy, to dream.

What comes out instead is: “you spend so much time stuck in your head.”

Roman frowns. “If that’s the best you can do, there’s no need to overexert yourself. I can make myself cry much easier than that.”

Why won’t his tongue cooperate?

The thread just tightens around him again. A warning. A threat. A promise.

He can’t tell the truth.

He can’t.

It doesn’t matter. Roman won’t know how important he is. He’ll think that Janus hates him and that’s fine.

Janus struggles to breathe.

“There are two Creativities,” he grits out, even if the ‘but only one Roman’ won’t follow.

“Patton is the heart,” comes out next, separate from ‘but he needs you to love.’

“We don’t need you,” hurts on the way out because it leaves behind ‘but we want you, we want you so badly.’

The Mindscape is crumbling. Janus can’t speak. The others are going to fade. He can’t help Roman. He’s ruined everything.

He’s forgotten what sweetness tastes like.

Roman is frowning at him. He stands, striding across the broken floor, eyes flint chips. Janus closes his eyes and braces for the hit.

Roman’s fingers hook into his collar and yank.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Why is it cutting into him?”

“How long has that been there, this whole time?”

“Janus—Janus can you breathe?”

What?

Janus opens his eyes in confusion. Roman’s still holding onto him but his eyes are fixed not on his face, but lower. Something shiny casts light onto Roman’s face.

“Janus,” Roman asks softly, “what is this?”

“What is what?”

“This,” Roman says darkly, fingertips tracing across something, “around your neck.”

No.

No, it’s not real.

It can’t be real.

…can it?

“It’s not a thread,” Janus spits out, his tongue smarting in the air, “and it doesn’t keep me from telling the truth.”

Roman’s eyes widen in horror. He reaches forward and Janus keens as the pressure tightens.

“Don’t stop,” he grits out, “it doesn’t hurt.”

“The sky is green.”

“What?”

“The sky is green,” Roman repeats, still glaring hard at Janus’s neck, “the Fourth of July is in October.”

The thread loosens.

“Remus, get over here,” Roman barks. A second later, two more fingers slip under the thread. “Now lie.”

“Um, ventricles are found in the liver.”

“Blue is made of red and orange.”

“The alphabet starts with the letter ‘m.’”

Logan catches on next. “The sun goes around the earth,” he says, nudging Virgil.

“Uh—“ he glances around— “Patton isn’t wearing glasses.”

“Paris is in Canada.”

“Books are printed on alligator skin.”

“Water isn’t clear.”

“Mark Zuckerberg isn’t the inventor of Facebook.”

“Earmuffs go on your hands.”

“Hamburgers are vegan.”

Lies spin out of their mouths. Remus grits his teeth as he pulls at the thread. Patton looks around frantically. Janus still can’t breathe.

The room is settling, slowly but surely, but there are still cracks snaking their way through the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Right under Janus.

Roman looks directly at him.

“I hate you.”

The thread gives.

The brothers yank, unspooling the thread from around Janus’s throat, throwing it at the walls. It freezes in mid-air, still glowing gold.

The cracks weren’t cracks, they were threads.

The golden thread melts seamlessly into the wall, knitting the place back together, stitch by stitch. The walls settle, glowing softly as the floor reconstitutes under them. The Mindscape breathes.

Janus hasn’t noticed any of this. He’s too busy collapsing into Roman’s arms, sobbing his heart out.

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” Roman coos, “I’ve got you, you’re alright, you did it, come here…”

“He’s gonna be cold,” he hears someone—probably Virgil?—say over his shoulder, “grab a blanket. Can we sink?”

“Let me try.” A second later there’s another sigh of relief. “Yeah. We can. Let’s get him to the living room, I’ll get a fire going.”

“In the fireplace, this time, Remus!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“Come on, little snake,” Roman coaxes, lifting him up to a broad chest, “let’s get you warm.”

He’s still sobbing breathlessly, draped uselessly over Roman. He feels another set of arms as they sink into the couch.

“I’ve got him,” Patton says quietly, “hey, kiddo, can you hear me?”

The next sob is slightly higher.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, kiddo, you don’t have to speak right now.” Patton rubs soothing circles into his back. “Just stay right here with me, right here, the others are just getting the nest set up.”

N-nest?

“Give him to me, I’ll help him down while you slide in.”

“Make sure to get his head, he’s having trouble right now.”

“I understand.”

A warm hand cups the back of his neck, leaning his nose into the crook of a warm shoulder. Books, coffee, whiteboard pen…Logan.

“You’re freezing,” Logan murmurs, concerned, “let’s get you warmed up…no hyperthermia today, hmm?”

Janus almost groans in relief as his scales hit something thick and soft and warm. He’s still crying, isn’t he? Why?

“Hey, Snakey,” Remus mumbles, his hand under Janus’s head, “you gotta roll over, you’re gonna crush yourself that way. Come on—for crying out loud, you bastards, how long does it take to undo a clasp?”

“Got it.”

He suppresses a whine as his cape flies away, only for it quickly be replaced by a warm, warm blanket. He blinks his eyes open, straining to see through the tears. He can only see blobs. What is happening?

“Rest,” comes another voice, is that Roman? Isn’t Roman angry at him? He can’t stop the confused whine.

“Shh, shh, easy, little snake,” Roman soothes, running his hand through his hair, “breathe, that horrible thing was choking you.”

The horrible thread…is it…gone?

“Relax, come on, shh…easy,” he says earnestly when Janus whines again, “don’t work yourself up.”

“He’s gonna hurt himself if he keeps clawing at his throat like that.”

He’s doing what now?

Warm hands take each of his and…oh. Well, maybe he was.

“That’s it,” Patton whispers, “easy…”

“What…what’s going on?”

“You did it,” Logan says softly, stroking his thumb along the back of Janus’s hand, “you figured it out.”

“But—“ he swallows, still not used to the freedom in his throat— “I couldn’t do it.”

“You weren’t supposed to do it on your own, Jan-Jan. We all had to do it, remember?”

“That’s what you said, J.”

“So we did,” Patton finishes, smiling at him, “and it worked.”

“But—but I—“ Janus’s eyes flash up to catch Roman’s.

Roman, who sat there and didn’t protest when Janus couldn’t say one nice thing about him.

Roman, whom Janus has hurt so many times.

Roman, who pried the thread away from Janus’s throat without blinking.

Roman, who caught him, and is still here.

“Maybe the next time we talk,” Roman says softly, “we can do it without that thread around your throat, hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh, little snake,” he murmurs, gently stroking a tear away from Janus’s cheek, “I know. But not right now, okay? You’re still crying.”

He is?

Oh.

“Close your eyes,” he encourages, his hand still cupping Janus’s face, “rest, we all need it.”

“Did we—“ his tongue is heavy— “did we ever figure out what happened?”

“I believe Thomas had something of an identity crisis,” Logan remarks, “but we can figure that out later. For now…we should all try and go back to sleep.”

“Great. Pop Star, budge.”

“Hey! Kiddo!”

“Ah. Much better.”

“Pocket Protector, stop pretending you don’t wanna cuddle and get down here.”

“In a moment, Remus, I need to take my glasses off.”

“Ro-Bro! Get over here.”

“Re, pulling me over Janus is not going to work.”

“L, are you coming?”

“Must you all be so impatient?”

“Yes, my dear darling nerd, now come here.”

Logan rolls his eyes and lies down, still holding Janus’s hand. On his other side, Roman leans Janus’s head into his chest and hums softly.

“There. Now we’re all together again.”

“Shut the fuck up, Princey, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Shut up yourself, then.”

“Kiddos.”

“Sorry, Pat.”

Logan chuckles. Remus shifts on the edge of the blanket nest. Roman tilts Janus’s chin up.

“Are you alright,” he whispers as the others drift off to sleep, “not hurt?”

Janus shakes his head. “I…was it really a lie?”

“Was what really a lie, little snake?”

“…you said ‘I hate you.’”

“Oh, that.” Roman chucks him lightly under the chin. “What does your mouth taste like?”

…sweet.

It’s sweet.

Oh.

Roman smiles. “Go to sleep, little snake.”

The Sides fall asleep in the Mindscape, threads wearing them tightly together.

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