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the-bau-quinjet · 4 years ago

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Anything for You

So, I got this idea in my head and I wrote it. This is not the first thing I’ve written, but the first that I finished. And the first that I’m posting. Sorry if it sucks. I hope someone out there likes it. Italics indicate past memories.

Summary: This takes place after Maeve. It sort of starts a month before Spencer goes back to work but then skips a year. Reader is the newest member of the BAU. Spencer lashes out when she tries to help him, but he doesn’t realize how much she can relate to his trauma.

warnings: angst but also a little fluff, typical CM violence (kidnapping, torture, death etc.), dark thoughts about dying, I think that’s it

Word Count: 6218

It is moments like this that make you rethink every decision that lead you here. You are on the jet on the way back to Quantico after a particularly rough case. The team managed to save the most recent victim, but only to discover three more hidden on the unsubs property. And to make it worse, they were children. Everyone on the team keeps shooting you concerned glances, worried that you might break. It’s only fair. You are still the newbie.

You started at the BAU one month ago to the day. Your previous position was a desk job, but you were ready to get back into field after two years of endless paperwork. Not that the entire team knows you had been in the field before. Only Hotch knows. You don’t like to talk about it. You had gone so far as to cut Hotch off to prevent him from bringing it up on your first day.

You are counting down the floors with each beep as the elevator rises to bring you to the floor that houses the Behavioral Analysis Unit. To say you aren’t nervous would be a lie, but that comes with the territory of starting a new job. Especially a job with one of the most elite units of the FBI. It’s hard not to be intimidated.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the all too familiar glass doors that lead to the BAU. When you were trying to decide if switching career paths was the right decision, you found yourself staring at these doors far more than you’d care to admit.

You walk through the doors, immediately heading for Hotch’s office. He told you to meet him there first thing this morning. You knock on the open door to draw his attention.

“Agent L/N, please come in.” He looks up from the file he has open on his desk.

“Agent Hotchner, I would just like to thank you again for the position.” You have to stop yourself before you ramble on about how grateful you are for his taking a chance on you.

“Please, call me Hotch. You’re new ID was just dropped off.” He says, handing you the plastic card to put in your credentials. You take a moment to admire the way your name looks just above the words “Behavioral Analysis Unit” before sliding it into the wallet.

“I wish we had time for a more thorough welcoming, but we just got a case. I’ll introduce you to the team in the conference room.” He rises from his desk, you following behind him to a room already full of profilers. Of course, you already know of them all, but the introductions are nice nonetheless.

“L/N, these are SSAs Emily Prentiss, David Rossi, Derek Morgan, and Jennifer Jureau and our technical analyst Penelope Garcia.” You shake hands with each member of the team as there name is called. “Team, this is SSA Y/N L/N. She transferred from violent crimes-” You know he is going to bring up your previous field work, so you cut him off.

“It’s an honor to meet you all.” You smiled at Hotch, trying your best to get him to move on. Thankfully, you can see in his eye that he understands why you don’t want to relieve your past field experience.

“Actually, that’s not all. Dr. Reid is on leave at the moment, but you’ll meet him when he returns.” You nod, taking a seat next to Derek. “Garcia, you can start now.”

The memory fades and you try to ignore the concerned glances from everyone on the jet. Yes, you were the one to find the children in the back shed, but you have techniques to handle this. You’ve always been good at compartmentalizing. It comes with the territory of undercover work.

You are more concerned with the wellbeing of one Dr. Reid. This is the first case you’ve worked with him, but it still feels like something’s off. Granted, you don’t know why he was on leave or how long it lasted.

After everyone else is asleep, barring Hotch who is too focused on his reports to pay you any attention, you slide down into the seat across from Spencer. He doesn’t even glance up from his book.

“Dr. Reid?” You can tell he’s stopped reading at the sound of your voice, but it takes him a moment to actually look up at you. When he does, you can see the sadness in his eyes.

“L/N. Are you okay?” Of course he would ask you that. You’ve known him for all of 72 hours, but he’s still concerned about you’re wellbeing. The way your heart flutters at the sentiment catches you off guard.

“Oh, um, I’m fine. I actually wanted to check on you.” He looks startled at that, but you just push forward. “I know we only just met, and I have no idea what you’re going through, but I just thought maybe I could help.” You can see the instant you finished talking that it was a mistake. He is clearly not ready to talk about his demons, especially with a near stranger.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ “No, you shouldn’t have.” His words are defensive more than anything. The words of someone who just went through unbelievable pain “You couldn’t possibly help me. Unless, of course, you’ve been kidnapped, tortured, and drugged, shot multiple times, and witnessed the love of your life being murdered in front of you just to name a few. I’m sure you have plenty of experience with that given your work in violent crimes.” The sarcasm is obvious, with violent crimes being a desk job. He mistakes the tears that spring to your eyes as pity rather than understanding. He scoffs, going back to his book while you wander back to your previous seat, trying to control your emotions.

Spencer doesn’t know about your time undercover. He doesn’t know you experienced all of those things. He doesn’t know about the scars that line your torso or the more prevalent scars on your heart. You try not to take it personally. You’ve had years to deal with your trauma. His is clearly newer. You tell yourself over and over that he’s not angry with you, but with the world. You just happened to be the first available outlet.

When the others wake up, they assume your red eyes are due to the case. That you are finally breaking down after a month on the job. They offer words of encouragement and promises to be there if you need to talk. They stress how you aren’t alone. They all know how you feel. You simply nod, gathering your things before heading home. You can’t help but think there is one of them who knows exactly what is going through your head. It’s the first time you’ve cried over Cameron in three months, the last time being the anniversary of his death.

-------

The next year at the BAU flies by. You actually feel like part of the family, knowing you could talk to any member of the team when you need a friend. Well, almost any member of the team. You and Spencer didn’t click the way everyone thought you would. Ever since the conversation on the plane, you hold back when you’re with him. It’s not that you two avoid each other. You’re just more like coworkers than family. You converse when you need to, but don’t seek each other out.

Nobody understands why. Hotch especially thought the two of you would become close. You can see why he would think so. From your brief encounters with Spencer, you can tell he’s been through hell. Hotch was probably hopeful the two of you might bond over shared trauma, act as an anchor for each other to know you aren’t alone. Of course that required you to share your trauma with the team, which definitely has not happened.

It’s not that you don’t trust them. It’s just that the moment hasn’t provided itself yet. First of all, you can’t just casually bring up being kidnapped and tortured for government secrets with your fiancé who was then murdered in front of you. Second of all, something in you says it would crush Spencer. You can tell he clearly still feels bad about what he said to you that day.

You two hadn’t talked about it. It was a year later, and you still hadn’t talked about it. You would think he forgot, but he does have a rather prolific memory. Everything was fine though. Mostly. He still seemed nervous around you. Or maybe you were projecting. There is something about Dr. Reid…

“Y/N, can I talk to you?” You were honestly surprised to hear Spencer’s voice saying those six words. Everyone else had already gone home, even Hotch. You just wanted to finish one more file.

“Of course, what’s up?” You try desperately to sound casual, to pretend like you weren’t just thinking about him. Despite not talking to Spencer all that often, you still have a massive amount of respect for him. Watching him work is incredible. You would expect most people with his intelligence to come off as cocky, but he is somehow still so humble.

“I just wanted to apologize. For what I said on the jet. I was in a bad place, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have said those things, you were just trying to help me, and I threw it back in your face. Also, I’m sorry it took me so long to actually apologize. I just felt so awful, I didn’t know how to bring it up and the longer I waited the more nervous I became and” “Spencer,” he looked startled at the sound of his name. Granted, you normally call him Dr. Reid or Reid when you’re feeling more casual, but still. It’s his name, why is he so surprised you’re using it? “You didn’t do anything wrong. Trust me. You were dealing with an amount of grief nobody should have to go through. I shouldn’t have tried to step in without knowing more about the situation. I’m sorry.” This is your chance. Tell him what happened to you. Come clean about it all.

He just looks so… relieved. As if you had lifted a weight off his shoulder just by telling him you understood he didn’t mean it. Seeing the hope in his eyes, you couldn’t bring yourself to put any of that weight back on him. He had just freed himself, he doesn’t need your problems weighing him back down.

You can tell he still feels bad, but maybe now the two of you can try to move on. Maybe you’ll actually become friends. Telling him that you have indeed been through all of those things would just bring all that guilt back. For some reason, there is nothing you would rather do than protect Spencer Reid from pain.

So, you’ve resigned yourself to never telling anyone unless you absolutely had to. You convinced yourself it was a secret you could take to the grave. Nobody needed to know.

Until one day, they do. And that day happens to be tomorrow.

“Hello, crime fighters. This one is a doozey.” Penelope walked into the round table room and immediately jumped into the case. “Three heterosexual couples in Plano, Texas have been killed. The details are on your tablets. Be warned, it is not a pretty sight. All the victims were tortured. The men all died of blood loss. The women were drowned after multiple non fatal gunshot wounds and other various forms of torture.” You tensed ever so slightly at the description of the crimes. Hotch shot you a concerned glance, but you waved him off with a slight shake of your head. You zoned out for the rest of Garcia’s description, deciding instead to focus on every detail you could learn from the case files on your tablet.

“Wheels up in 20.” Hotch’s voice drew you from your focus on the files. “Y/N?” You looked at him from your seat at the table, realizing everyone else had already left. “If this is too much for you, everyone would understand.” You stand, plastering the fakest smile Hotch has ever seen on your face.

“I appreciate the concern, but there is a job to do. And I intend to do it.” There is no malice behind your words. Only a fierce determination to catch this unsub before he can hurt anyone else.

“Alright, but Y/N, please. Let me know if you need to talk about it. The whole team is here for you.” You features soften into a genuine smile before you respond.

“Thank you, Hotch.” And with that, you exit the room. You grab your go bag, meeting the other agents by the elevator.

The flight to Texas is long enough that the team’s discussion doesn’t prevent everyone from catching up on sleep. While everyone else is resting, preparing to start up again on the ground with fresh eyes, you are pouring over every detail again and again. You just need to know if it’s the same people. The same people who killed your fiancé. The same people who tortured you.

It was a day like any other. You had just gotten to the bar you were working at as a cover. Cameron was working security, you as a bartender. The mission was supposed to be simple.

There was a domestic terrorist cell operating just outside of Plano in Addison, TX. The leader was believed to own the very bar you had gotten a job in. You were supposed to gather intelligence, and report back. You weren’t supposed to engage with the terrorist cell. It was a simple mission.

That day, the day you could never forget, started exactly how you expected it to. The leader was supposed to be meeting with his right hand. You were supposed to learn who or what they were planning to target. You still can’t pinpoint the moment you knew something was wrong.

Everything was normal when you clocked in. Everything was normal when you served you first few customers. Everything as normal when you walked up to the table hosting the meeting and asked if you could get them anything. Everything was normal until it wasn’t.

You remember waking up in a warehouse. Cameron was tied to a chair across from you. He was injured, bleeding from a cut in his side. It didn’t look that bad, but there was so much blood. How could such a small cut produce so much blood?

You had a million questions, but couldn’t form the words to ask them. You’re mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Cameron looked at you as if he knew something you didn’t. You suppose he did, given that he was awake before you. But that’s not what concerned you the most. No, it was the look of pure terror in his eyes. Pure terror, mixed with… resignation? That doesn’t make sense. Why would he be giving up?

Finally gathering enough strength to speak, you mumble “What happened?”

“Y/N… they know who we are. I don’t know how they figured it out, but they did. They are going to hurt me to get to you. You can’t let them, okay? Stay strong. Everything will be fine.” His words are rushed. You have a hard time following them, as if the words drift into the air, only to enter your head in a different order.

Before you have a chance to ask any more questions, you hear a door swing open behind you. You can hear the footsteps, but can’t turn around enough to see who they belong to.

“Do it.” You know that voice. You know you know it, but you can’t place it.

A man appears from your left. He stands in front of you, a mask covering his face so you can only see his eyes. “Let’s have some fun.” You’re ready for him to hit you. Or cut you. Or hurt you in any way. What you’re not ready for is him pulling a knife only to walk over to Cameron.

“No” The word is barely there. You aren’t even sure you said it out loud.

“Y/N, don’t tell them anything. Okay? I’ll be fine.” Cameron is looking at you with pleading eyes. You both know he’s lying.

“Your fiancé here is a liar.” The man sneers, dragging his knife down Cameron’s arm. “He will most certainly not be fine.” With that, the man plunges the knife into Cameron’s stomach. A gut wrenching scream leaves his mouth as the man moves the knife around inside his body. You try to control your reaction, but tears instantly spring to your eyes.

“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave your man alone.” There’s no point. Cameron would never forgive you if you gave up information to the enemy. He’s always been a loyal soldier. Either way, deep down you know he won’t live much longer. He’s lost too much blood. You are going to have to watch the man you love die. He’s going to bleed out in front of you. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

You are shaken back to reality after the jet has landed. You slowly come to, realizing you must have fallen asleep while you were looking at the files. You can’t get the eyes out of your head now. The last time you had a nightmare was 6 months ago. Although, this was more of a memory than the usual nightmares you have.

“Y/N/N? You good?” Morgan is looking at you with concern that hasn’t been there since your first month on the job.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just groggy.” You try to laugh it off, walking past him and jumping into an SUV. You’re supposed to go with Hotch to the precinct to set up, so you can avoid the rest of the team’s questions for now.

You bury your head in the files again, trying to discern if anything feels off or if it is all too similar to be a coincidence.

“Just answer the question. This will all be over.” Cameron is dead. You are staring at his lifeless body as the man tries to torture you to get the answers he wants.

With all the strength you can muster up, you spit at him. “I didn’t break before and I won’t break now. Do what you want to me. You’ll never get your answers.” “Oh everyone’s got a breaking point. I’ll find yours.” With that, he storms passed you and out of the room.

You try to inventory the damage he’s done, but it’s hard because he typically drugs you when he leaves. You’re too disoriented to remember everything. You haven’t heard anything else from the first voice, but you finally realized it was the owner of the bar.

You are just about to drift back into unconsciousness when you hear a loud crash from somewhere in the building. You expect the masked man to come running back into the room, but instead you’re greeted with the face of the terrorist cell leader. He pulls you to your feet, mumbling about how this wasn’t part of the deal.

You don’t have the energy to protest as he pulls you down hallways and through doors. He bursts into a large open room. It smells like chlorine, but your eyes are too fuzzy to figure out why. The lights just got so much brighter, and you can’t see. You keep slipping on the floor. The third time, you fall to the ground. Everything is wet. He’s kicking you now. No, rolling you. It all feels distant. As if it’s not happening to you, but rather you are watching it happen to someone. Like a movie.

You hear the splash before you register the water surrounding you. You’re sinking. It’s actually quite warm. Like a comforting blanket tucking you into bed. The sounds of people yelling fade out as the water covers your head. You feel at peace as everything fades to black.

Suddenly, the peace is gone. You can hear voices. They sound loud, but still distant. Like you are swimming and someone is trying to talk to you from above the water. But the ground is hard now. There’s loud bangs too, but you can’t figure out what they are. There’s no pattern to them, but suddenly they stop. Maybe you’ll never know what they were, oh well. You just want to get back to the peaceful darkness.

Instead, you feel burning in your lungs and a pounding in your head. It feels like someone is punching you in the ribs. No. No. No. Where’s the peace?

All at once, the burning liquid is expelled from your lungs and your eyes fly open. You try to spin around, to see what’s happening, but everything hurts. Your lungs are trying to fill with air. Your eyes are trying to adjust to the lights. You head is begging everything to just stop making noise. Then, darkness. It’s not a peaceful transition this time. It’s sudden, as if someone turned everything off.

“Y/N?” The sound of your name draws you out of the memory again. You turn to see Hotch’s concerned expression. He’s parked the car outside of the station.

You take a few deep breaths before speaking, trying to prepare yourself for what you never wanted to have to do. “I have to tell them.” Hotch nods with a grim expression on his face.

“The team won’t judge you for keeping it a secret. We’ll all be there for you.” He tries to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. He’s too worried about you.

“I know. It’s not me I’m worried about.” For the first time since you met him, Aaron Hotchner looks confused. It’s actually kind of funny. Although, your laughing sounds more delirious than amused.

“Hotch, my first case with Spencer, do you remember it?” You shudder at the memory.

“Of course. It was hard on both of you.” Your smile feels weak, even to you.

“Well, I tried to check on him. I had only just met him, but he looked so sad. I wanted to take his pain away.” You can feel the tears coming, but you can’t figure out why. “He said unless I had been kidnapped, tortured, and drugged, shot multiple times, and witnessed the murder of the love of my life there was nothing I could do to help him.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at Hotch. His worrisome expression will just make you feel worse.

“You didn’t tell him.” The realization is evident in the lilt of his voice. Turning toward him, you try to explain, but he cuts you off. “He was listing trauma you’ve both experienced, and you didn’t tell him.”

“Of course not, he would’ve felt so guilty! He already feels so guilty and he has no idea. We talked it out, you know. We were actually becoming friends, although it was hard to see from an outside perspective.”

“You had me fooled. The two of you barely talk.” Hotch looks incredulous. You’ve never seen so many emotions on his face in one day, let alone one conversation.

“I know. It’s still new. Honestly, it happened yesterday.” Hotch actually chuckles at that. “I think he still feels bad that my first impression was him yelling at me. He’s going to feel so guilty, and I just wanted to keep that pain away from him. He doesn’t need my emotional baggage on top of his own.” You can’t read the expression on his face anymore. You can tell he’s thinking something, though he doesn’t intend to share.

“It’ll all work out in the end, Y/N. Reid is stronger than he looks. He’s been through a lot, but so have you. Let’s go catch this son of a bitch.” And the two of you exit the car as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

Your nerves build waiting for the rest of the team at the station. Spencer and Derek are last to arrive. You were hoping to have a few more minutes to figure out how to tell them all about the worst moments of your life, but alas the time has come.

Hotch clears his throat to get everyone’s attention. The conversations about theories die out as all eyes turn to him. “Y/N has a theory to share.”

That’s one way to put it. Before you can back out, you jump right in.

“The unsub was a for-hire torturer. I think he left the business and started killing for fun. A sadist. He enjoys the psychological torture of killing the one person you love more than anyone.” You can’t bring yourself to say another word. Spencer looks grief stricken. Everyone else is looking at you in confusion, except Hotch who is looking at you with sorrow. You can’t decide which is worse.

“What makes you say that?” Derek is the first one to speak. He clearly doesn’t understand why you came to that conclusion. Plus, he’s probably confused that Hotch had to introduce your theory rather than just include it in the brainstorming.

“Before I worked in violent crimes, I worked in the National Security division. I focused on domestic terrorism. We had a mission go wrong. It was supposed to be a simple, just gathering intel. Something went wrong and two agents were abducted.” You unconsciously decided to depersonalize the story. It’s something Hotch quickly caught on to, but what can he do about it? You just need to get the words out.

“They were a couple. Engaged. The man, he died from three precise wounds to the abdomen. He bled out while his fiancé was forced to watch.” You’re grateful when Emily interrupts.

“Did the woman drown?” The woman. You.

“No. Well, yes. She was dead for 3 minutes when they found her. The cell leader dumped her into a pool in the building she was being held in. They caught him trying to flee the building. When they questioned him about a partner, he said he hired someone to torture the couple to get information. He didn’t know where he went. I think that’s the unsub.”

Instantly, the team is theorizing. You stay quiet, listening. Where could he have hidden for this long? Were there more crimes in other states? Can Garcia look through unsolved double homicides that fit the signature? Before long, Derek asks the question you’ve been dreading.

“Can we interview the agent who survived?” You’re grateful that he’s looking at Hotch when he asks. Spencer, though, his eyes haven’t left you since you started speaking. He knows. You know he knows because you can see the weight bearing down on him. You tear your eyes away from him when Hotch clears his throat to get your attention.

“Y/N, can we interview the agent?” His tone is gentle. Hotch knows what he’s asking. Are you ready to tell them the truth? To share this pain with all of us?

“Yes. You can interview her.” You are visibly tense, but Morgan is just confused about the interaction. Why would Hotch need to ask you for permission? Why does he sound like someone just kicked his puppy?

“Great, when can she get here?” Of course, Morgan would ask the next logical question.

“She’s already here.” Your voice is quiet. He almost doesn’t hear you.

“What? Where?” He knows he’s missing something. It’ll only take him a few more seconds to put it together, but you save him the trouble.

“Right here.” You gesture to yourself, eyes flitting between Spencer’s and the ground. The rest of the team didn’t hear you. They were still working out theories as you, Morgan, Hotch, and Spencer converse in cryptic sentences and brief eye contact. Spencer is frozen in place. Hotch was stressed for you. It’s never easy to share past trauma, let alone when you feel like you don’t have a choice.

The realization hits Morgan so fast he almost falls to the ground. He rushes to you, pulling you into the tightest bear hug you have ever experienced. Morgan has become like an older brother to you. He always jokes about how he would beat up anyone who hurt you. You always joke right back about doing the same for him. He told you about Carl Buford a few months ago. It was also on a case. You would’ve told him everything then, but you didn’t want him to feel like you thought the two were comparable or that his trauma was somehow less important just because you’d been through some bad shit too.

His actions drew the attention of Rossi, JJ, and Emily though. You weren’t an overly emotional person usually. Undercover work made you good at compartmentalizing, so you never really sought out someone to comfort you. The sight of you in tears, wrapped in Morgan’s arms threw them for a loop. You normally waited until you got home to go through your routine to decompress. It was easier that way. But right now, the thought of even looking at Spencer was enough to bring tears to your eyes. You just couldn’t stop thinking about him. It felt weird, to be sharing such an intimate part of your life with everyone and still be thinking about him. You had moved on from it all though. You knew how to deal with it. Of course, you still love Cameron, but you talk about everything in therapy once a week so you won’t break down like this.

You see JJ look to Spencer for an explanation, but he’s too busy looking at you with more pain in his eyes than should be possible. He knows how it feels to see someone you love die right in front of you. He knows how it feels to try and move on from being drugged and tortured. He knows how it feels to be alone in it all. What he doesn’t know is how it feels to try and help someone through that grief only to have your own thrown back in your face. That’s what he did to you. Albeit, unintentionally but he did that. And it is so clear that he feels awful. You wish you could talk to him, but Morgan is pulling you into a different conference room for a cognitive interview that you somehow agreed to in your state of shock.

Hotch explains the situation to Rossi, Emily, and JJ. Spencer’s guilt only pushes further down on him when he hears it all again.

He stares at the room you’re in through the class doors of the conference room. He hasn’t moved in the ten minutes you’ve been gone. He expected JJ to talk to him first, but he was surprised to find Hotch instead.

“Y/N told me in the car that she was scared to share that story.” Hotch starts slow, trying to ease Spencer out of his own head.

“I would be too. It’s a painful memory to relive.” Spencer responds with a familiar tightness in his chest.

“She wasn’t worried about herself though.” Spencer’s head jerks up to meet Hotch’s stare.

“What do you mean? Who else would she be worried for?”

“You.” Hotch says it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You being worried about him when you share your darkest memories.

“Me?” Spencer practically falls out of his chair in an effort to sit up straighter. “Why would she worry about me?” Despite his genius IQ, he can’t fathom why you would worry about him in this scenario. If roles were reversed and he had to tell the story of watching Maeve die, he wouldn’t be worried about you. He slowly comes to the conclusion that he would be worried about you though. Now that he knows you’ve been through something similar, he would worry about you anytime it was brought up. Anytime anything remotely similar was brought up.

“She told me what you said to her on the jet after your first case together.” Spencer falls into himself at the memory, his guilt pushing his shoulders down. “She said you still feel guilty about it. That hearing the things she has been through would push all that guilt back to the surface. More than anything, she wanted to protect you from more pain.” Hotch seems to know more than he’s saying, but Spencer is too shocked to profile him.

“But, I, how would, but…” Spencer is muttering the beginning of every thought running through his head, but he can’t seem to form a complete sentence. “Why?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

Between your cognitive interview and Garcia’s sleuthing, the team find the unsub rather quickly. You stay at the station when the team goes to catch him. You try to protest, but Hotch, Morgan, and Emily stare you down until you concede. Really though, it was the concerned look from Spencer that convinced you to sit down and wait. The case wraps up quickly after that. The masked man ended up being Kyle Beckett. A classic sadist.

It brings you more closure than you would have imagined to know he will be locked up for the rest of his life. You spent a lot of time in therapy trying to cope with the fact that he was never caught. And now, it’s over. You’re also extremely grateful you didn’t have to face him, although you would never admit that you were actually glad to stay behind. They can all tell though. They are profilers after all.

You can’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu at all the stares you’re getting on the jet. It’s as if time itself was rewound to a year ago. You feel like the newbie again. Getting ready to have a heart to heart with Spencer. You’d be blind not to notice the parallels of the two situations when Spencer slides into the seat next to you on the jet after everyone else falls asleep.

The silence is comforting at first, but quickly becomes unbearable.

“Hi” You have a sleepy smile on your face when you say it. You are unbelievably exhausted after everything that happened. Too tired to fully conceal the emotions you know you have been denying. You’re always happy when you talk to him, even if the occurrences are a bit far and few between compared to other members of the team. “You look sad.”

His mouth actually twitches upward at that statement, which you count as a win in your book. “You’ve been through hell on this case, and you’re still worried about me.” You can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s too good at hiding his thoughts inside that big beautiful brain.

“I’ve always worried about you. Ever since I met you. You just looked so sad and I wanted to make it stop.” You aren’t thinking before you speak anymore. Probably why Spencer suddenly looks so surprised.

“Is that why you didn’t want to tell me?” Now it’s your turn to look confused. How did he know that? “I may have talked to Hotch earlier…” It takes longer than you’d care to admit for you to understand what exactly Hotch told him. But still, you’re too tired to be bothered.

“I’m sorry if that was weird for you. It’s just, after we talked about it I thought maybe we could eventually be friends or something. I didn’t want you to be sad again. I know what it feels like to be sad. I also know what it feels like to be sad again when you realize someone else is sad for that same reason.” You must actually be exhausted because it feels like you’re talking in riddles. “Sorry, that doesn’t make sense. I just mean, I didn’t want you to feel bad about it again. I didn’t want you to feel more pain” You’ve started leaning toward him, about ready to pass out.

“You’re incredible. You truly are amazing. I don’t think a day will go by where I don’t feel awful for what I said to you, but maybe with enough time I can make it up to you.”

“I would like that.” You smile brightly as you look into his eyes. They seem sad still, but there is a brightness there that wasn’t there before.

Spencer doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he lets you lay down in his lap as you drift off, the soothing feeling of his hands in your hair lulling you to sleep.

You wake up as the jet touches down. The memories of your conversation with Spencer bring a smile to your face. He looks down smiling when you shift in his lap.

“Thank you” You’re not surprised he still feels like he needs to thank you.

“I would do anything for you Spencer Reid.” You get up to collect your belongings, turning back only when you realize he hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch.

“Spence, let’s go.” Spence. He likes the sound of that. Maybe, just maybe the two of you will be okay.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #spencer #spencer reid one shot #mgg

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justanotherblonde23 · 4 years ago

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An Unexpected Surprise - A Marcus Moreno Story

Author’s Note: So with some encouraging from my friends, I decided to post my writing! I know that technically we don’t know anything about Marcus Moreno, but that superhero dad has been taking up space in my mind rent free all week. I tagged people that I know wanted to read this and a few that I thought might enjoy it. Please let me know what you think! -Kat

Content Warnings: smut, oral (female receiving), P in V

Tags: @autumnleaves1991-blog @dindjarindiaries @frannyzooey @zeldasayer @hdlynnslibrary @jollyrancher87 @bisexual-space-slut @woakiees @scribbledghost @softpedropascal @catfishingmorales

Marcus trudged into the house, it was at least 2 in the morning, and he was absolutely exhausted. He was always exhausted these days; his age was catching up to him. He may be a part of the Heroics, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t getting older. He was balancing heroism, kids, a spouse, and trying to give them some semblance of a normal life. He was ready to retire, be involved in every aspect of the kids’ lives, and see his wife in more than just the middle of the night and before leaving for work. He had given enough of his life to the service of the world; now, it was about time to provide all of himself to his family. Missy, his eldest, was already 11 and getting older every single day. Jules, the baby of the family, was about to turn 5, just about to leave the toddler years behind her. He felt as if he had missed so much of their lives; he didn’t want to miss anymore.

Most of the house lights had been turned off, signaling that most of the inhabitants were fast asleep. He hoped that at least he could get a kiss or two from the woman he loved. Maybe she would still be awake. He made his way up the stairs, checking the kids’ rooms. He planted soft kisses on their foreheads, smiling at their serene expressions. What beautiful little girls he had, he was the luckiest father in the world.

He frowned, opening the door to the master bedroom; the soft glow of artificial light bathed the room in a yellow haze. There she was, his love, sitting in the middle of the bed, clearly wide awake, wearing her glasses and frowning at the hologram in front of her. Someone was working even later than Marcus himself. He took in her form; she still hadn’t noticed him quite yet. She was wearing a silky nightie that hit her upper thigh and a matching robe loosely tied around her. His cock stirred in his pants. Even as spent as he was from the day, the view in front of him made him want to take her to bed and fuck her senseless.

“Dr. Moreno, hard at work, I see,” he teased.

Her eyes shot up, smirking at him. I’m not quite Dr. Moreno yet, Marcus. You’d have to marry me first,” she teased.

“We had a ceremony-” he started.

“And someone still hasn’t mailed the marriage certificate, even though it’s been two months. All you gotta do is bring it to the post office, baby. I’d do it myself, but somebody insisted that he’d be the one to do it.”

Marcus groaned, falling onto the bed beside his wife (that’s what she was to him, even if he didn’t mail the marriage certificate yet). He heard some shuffling and a command for her AI system to file the holograms working on for the night. He’d lived with her for four years now, and he still hadn’t gotten used to all her tech. If he was a hero in name, she was the genius behind every piece of technology in his arsenal, as well as all of the other members of the Heroics. Her superpower was her mind, that gorgeous, intricate, genius mind of hers. Her ability to retain information, learn, critically think, and create was almost impossible to fathom truly. At 33, she had twelve doctorates in various fields, including engineering, physics, nanotechnology, and art history. Her thirst for knowledge and eagerness to invent was unparalleled, even among other enhanced individuals. He would never stop singing her praises; she was a wonder.

“Marcus, baby, do you wanna shower and go to bed? It’s late.”

He sighed, starting to relax into the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair. “Baby, if you keep that up, I’m gonna fall asleep right here and now. I took a shower at HQ before I left, so I’m good.” He opened his eyes when her fingers stilled, looking up at the beautiful woman with the soft smile leaning over him.

“Do you think you can stay up for a little bit longer, honey? I have a surprise for you.”

He sat up, scooting up against the headboard, kicking off his shoes. He felt wide awake now. His wife wasn’t typically one for surprises on any old day. He wracked his mind, trying to make sure that he hadn’t missed her birthday, their dating anniversary, or any other consequential, momentous occasion.

“I didn’t forget a special day, did I? Fuck, amor. I’m so sorry if I did. I’ve been spread so damn thin since the wedding; I’ve been running around like a madman.”

She placed a tiny cream-colored box in his hands, his wife sitting right in front of him, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You didn’t miss anything, Marcus, just open the box. You’ll like it, I promise.”

He nodded, pulling at the perfect bow holding the box closed, carefully opening the lid. For a minute, he just stared at the contents of the box, his eyes wide with shock. Ever so slowly, he picked up a pair of teeny baby booties, placing them in his large palm. He took the second item out, a pregnancy test that digitally read, PREGNANT. His hands began to shake; tears began to overflow, tracking down his cheeks. He looked up, his gaze locked on the woman in front of him.

“Sweetheart, are we-? Are you-? We’re- we’re having a baby?” he managed to choke out.

There was one more item in the box, at the bottom, an ultrasound labeled Baby Moreno. He studied the picture intently, his thumb moving over the little blob on the paper. That was his baby, their baby. They were having a baby.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, “we’re having a baby!”

A giggle made him raise his eyes once again. “That’s what I said, too. I’m about ten weeks along now. You’re going to be a daddy of three, Marcus Moreno.”

He scooped up everything in his lap, dumping it on the nightstand. He quickly grabbed his wife, flipping her so that she was under him. He covered her face in kisses, whispering how beautiful she was, how she was so loved, so treasured, so cherished. How their baby was made of nothing but love, how they were precious cargo, and how he would protect both of them every single day of his life. He kissed down her jaw, down her neck, eliciting breathy moans from the woman underneath him. His kisses went lower and lower until he reached her belly, pulling her nightie up around her waist so that he could get to her bare stomach. He planted dozens of kisses all over her belly, in awe of the life growing in there.

“Hey baby, it’s your daddy,” he cooed softly. “Your mommy and I already love you, little one, and you’ll have two big sisters that I just know will love you too. I can’t wait for you to be here, little baby. I promise I’ll be here for you.”

He looked adoringly at the mother of his youngest child, grinning as if his world had been made complete, and in all honesty, it had been. This baby, this tiny little one growing inside of the woman that he loved most, filled a hole in his heart that he hadn’t even been aware of.

He bit down on his lower lip, smirking while ever so slowly pulling off her panties. He would lavish the woman he loved with every ounce of devotion, adoration, and love he had to offer. A breathless Oh please, Marcus was all he needed to motivate him to continue. He opened her legs up, giving him access to her slit, wet and wanting. He groaned, the sight making his mouth water. If he had it his way, Marcus could spend hours between her thighs. Two fingers lightly toyed with her slit, moving up and down, collecting her slick.

“Look at you, baby, so wet for me, and I’ve barely touched you. If this is what pregnancy does to you, amor, I might have to start keeping better work hours so I can spend my time between your thighs.”

He could see her hips try to follow his fingers, desperate for more than he was giving her. “Marcus, don’t tease, please,” she whined. He chuckled, easily giving in to her pleas. He couldn’t say no to her, not tonight.

He buried his head between her legs, tongue coming out to lick a broad strip all the way to the top of her slit, his nose nudging her clit. She tasted like heaven, making him moan into her core, sending pleasurable shivers up her spine. He speared his tongue into her, getting as deep as he could, fucking her pussy with his tongue while her fingers tangled themselves in his curls. He kept exploring her folds with his tongue, hitting all the spots he knew would make her see stars.

He easily pushed in two fingers, causing her to buck her hips up, matching his pace. He focused his tongue on her clit, alternating between drawing lazy circles and sucking her into his mouth. His fingers hit that sweet spot inside her with every thrust, bringing her closer and closer to her release. Before he knew it, she was cumming around his fingers, squeezing him tight and pulling him deeper. His mouth flooded with the taste that was uniquely hers, prompting him to moan. He could feel himself rock hard in his pants, leaking with his arousal.

He crawled off the bed, swiftly ridding himself of his clothes, placing his glasses safely on the nightstand. He grabbed her glasses as well, placing them next to his own. She had shrugged off her robe and nightie, languidly watching him, her eyes blown wide with desire.

“Marcus, I need you inside of me,” she begged. His large cock rested heavy against his stomach, tip red and leaking. The thought of him inside of her was almost too much. She needed him, and she needed him right now.

He settled over her, catching her lips in a deep, earth-shattering kiss. His tongue explored her mouth, letting her taste herself. Marcus was intoxicating, enthralling, and all she wanted was more. Finally, they broke apart, panting slightly.

“Dr. Moreno, my lovely wife, mother of my child, let me make love to you. Let me show you how happy you make me, sweetheart. I want to make you touch the sky,” he whispered into her ear.

She beamed at him, cradling his cheek gently. “Yes, baby, I’m all yours.” He leaned back in, catching her into another searing kiss. He worked his length up and down her slit, coating himself in her slick, bumping her clit a few times in the process. At last, he began to leisurely enter her, inch by inch. They both groaned when he bottomed out, fully seated inside of her.

“Fuck honey, you’re just so tight, so wet, so warm for me,” he whimpered, moving inside her with slow, deep strokes. He wanted to make this last, to draw out her pleasure. With every thrust, he told her how good she felt, how beautiful she looked underneath him, how her pussy was made for him, how perfect she was. He could’ve gone like that for quite some time, slowly bringing her closer and closer to her high. Only her pleas of more, faster, harder made him speed up.

He grabbed one of her legs, placing it higher on his hip, allowing him to hit deeper inside her. Her hips moved in unison with his own, meeting each thrust into her. He would never get tired of the pretty sounds she made for him when he was fucking her. Those breathy moans she let out, the babbling it all spurred him on. He could tell she was close. She always got so fucking wet and even tighter right before she came. He dropped a hand between them, rubbing hard, tight circles around her clit. Not even a half dozen thrusts later, and she was wailing in ecstasy, clamping down on him like a vice. He wasn’t far behind, spilling himself deep within her, muttering her name over and over like a prayer.

He rolled off of her, panting, taking a minute to catch his breath as he gazed at her blissed-out form. Hair a mess, chest heaving, lips swollen from his kisses to Marcus, she was stunning. He couldn’t think of a moment when she was more gorgeous than right then and there. He could look at her forever, just like this.

Eventually, he got up and grabbed a warm cloth, gently cleaning her off. Turning off the light, he climbed back into bed, pulling her body to his, cradling her close. He let his hand wander, rubbing soothing circles over her belly.

“You’re gonna look so stunning, honey, all round with our baby. I promise I’ll take such good care of you. I’ll do whatever you need.”

He could feel his wife sigh, completely relaxed in his arms. He held her close, basking in her warmth and the love between them. He let his mind wander, thinking of the future, thinking of this baby.

“I’m gonna cut back at work, move more into an advisory role in the Heroics. As your pregnancy progresses, I’ll be able to work from home and take a solid chunk of paternity leave when the baby comes. I’ve given enough of myself to the world. It’s time for me to give everything I can to my family, to you, to the girls, to this baby. I’ll go drop off the marriage certificate tomorrow before I go into HQ to talk about restructuring my job. That way, you’ll officially be Dr. Moreno, even though you’ve already been that to me for a long time.”

She answered him with a happy sigh and kisses to his hand that entwined with hers. “I’d like that, Marcus. It might be selfish, but I want you here, with us. We love you so much; it’s nice when you’re here. It makes our family complete.”

They spent a few more minutes talking about the future, drifting off into deep, dreamless sleep. The thought of tomorrow was full of bright promises, just waiting to be embraced.

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x y/n #we can be heroes #pedro pascal

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phoenix-downer · 4 years ago

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Spring Birthday

After Sora’s return, Naminé’s friends celebrate her birthday with her. While her early days were lonely, her life is very different now, and she treasures each new memory with the people dear to her heart.

~1650 words. Post-Kingdom Hearts III and Melody of Memory. Gen, Friendship, Fluff. Naminé POV. Written for @naminezine, and the banner art is by the lovely @somniumars.

“Naminé, when is your birthday?” Kairi asked over breakfast one day, scones with jam and clotted cream, served with a hot cup of tea for both of them. They liked to visit this cafe together at least once a month. It had outdoor seating, and the weather was finally warm enough again for them to sit outside with light jackets.

Naminé stopped buttering her scone for a moment and frowned. It was a simple enough question, and yet she found herself unsure of what to say.

“Well, I suppose it was the day Sora released his heart to save you,” she said at last. “But as glad as I am to be alive, it feels strange to celebrate that day, considering what happened.”

“I understand,” Kairi said softly. “Are there any other days you can think of?”

Naminé paused once more and thought as Kairi sipped some more of her tea. The only other day she could really think of was…

“The day of my rebirth. It was spring on Radiant Garden. The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming, and the weather was perfect.” She sighed happily at the memory. “I’ll never forget what it felt like to walk outside for the first time in a body of my own.”

“Then why don’t we make that your birthday? I know we technically missed it last year, when we were all searching for Sora, but it’s coming up here soon.”

“Sure, that sounds nice.” Naminé put one more cube of sugar in her tea to get it to just the right sweetness, then added a little more cream and stirred. “I’ve never really thought about having a birthday of my own before.”

“Well, you deserve to have one,” Kairi said with a determined glint in her eye. “You’re your own person. Always have been, always will be.”

The two girls chatted some more as they finished their breakfast, and the subject soon slipped away from Naminé’s mind. It wasn’t until she and Xion were gathering shells together on Destiny Islands a few days later when the topic of birthdays came up again.

“See,” Xion said as she picked up a thalassa shell, “I like these ones the most, with the pink centers and yellow edges.”

“I like them too. Yellow’s one of my favorite colors.”

Yellow was the color of the sun. A hopeful color for a girl that had begun her life in a cage, longing to see the outdoors for herself. For that reason alone it was precious to her.

“You like blue too, right?” Xion said. She placed another thalassa shell in Naminé’s palm, this one with a blue center and yellow edges.

Naminé nodded. “Yes. Blue is the color of the sky… of the waves… all the things I longed to see when I was imprisoned in Castle Oblivion.”

“It suits you, and so does yellow,” Xion said with a smile. “Born from the waves, and reborn during the spring.”

“Xion, when is your birthday?” Naminé suddenly asked. She realized she hadn’t really gotten to celebrate it with her before.

“Oh, my birthday? I figured it should be during the fall. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been drawn to falling leaves, the seasons changing, that kind of thing.” She smiled ruefully. “I suppose because I felt like my time was limited, just like those leaves. Kairi actually asked me about it recently, I think because she wants to—”

Her eyes went wide, then she coughed and craned her neck. “Look, I see some more shells over there!”

Naminé found Xion’s startled reaction rather curious, but she didn’t press her friend. It was just nice to spend time together sharing a hobby they both enjoyed. For a girl who had started life with no friends of her own, Naminé was lucky to have so many now.

The next time she met with her friends, it was for a picnic on Rapunzel’s world, in a clearing in the woods near a small pool. The weather was perfect, sunny with a breeze blowing dandelions and flower petals through the air, and she and Sora and Rapunzel were all cloud gazing after a delicious lunch of sandwiches and cookies and lemonade.

“See that one right there?” Rapunzel said, pointing up at the sky. “It looks like Maximus.”

“It sure does!” Sora put his hand behind his neck and grinned. “The sky’s full of all sorts of interesting clouds today.”

“I wish I had my sketchbook with me,” Naminé said with a sigh. “I’d love to draw all of them.”

“Take a picture with your Gummiphone then,” Sora suggested. “You can always draw it later based off of that.”

“I’d like to, but I’ve run out of room in my sketchbook. I could really use some new pencils, too.”

Sora and Rapunzel exchanged glances, and Sora grinned.

“Naminé, you should come to the castle,” Rapunzel said. “I’d love to show you some of my art supplies. Have you ever tried painting before?”

Naminé shook her head. “No, I haven’t, but I’d love to. Thank you for the invitation.”

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go now!” Sora sat up and sprang to his feet.

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon trying out Rapunzel’s art supplies. Well, more like Rapunzel showed Naminé her things and let her try them out while Sora kept typing away at his Gummiphone. Naminé giggled at how he still typed with one finger, like a bird pecking at grains of rice.

“There we go,” he said all of a sudden, then put his phone in his pocket. “What’d I miss?”

Naminé and Rapunzel both giggled and showed him what they’d made: a painting to hang on the walls of Naminé’s room in Twilight Town. It was of the beautiful woods where they’d had the picnic with dandelions flower petals floating through the air. As soon as she got home, she put it up and gave it a satisfied nod.

The days flew by until at last it was the anniversary of her rebirth. There was a knock on the door late in the afternoon, and when she went to get it, she was surprised to see Riku and Roxas waiting there for her.

“Hey Naminé,” Roxas greeted with a grin. His eyes were playful, like he had a big secret he couldn’t wait to share.

“Come with us, there’s something we’d like to show you,” Riku added, and she ducked back inside to grab a few things before following them through the woods and to the Old Mansion.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” was all Roxas and Riku said, and she followed them inside. She was shocked by how nice the entrance looked, like someone had been in here and cleaned things up—

“Surprise!”

She gasped as she entered the foyer. A huge banner hanging from the stairs read Happy Birthday Naminé, and all her friends were gathered around a large table in the center of the room. The evening light shone through the window behind them, pink and purple and blue, another gorgeous twilight on this world she called home now.

“Happy Birthday Naminé!” her friends all cheered, and she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. So this was what they had been plotting and planning all this time. Roxas grinned and grabbed a camera to take a few shots, and Sora and Riku had some of those confetti poppers that they popped with loud crackling noises.

The seashell decorations were yellow and the star candles were blue on the cake Xion held. Axel lit the candles, and they cast flickering lights and shadows over everyone’s faces.

Kairi leaned close and murmured, “Make a wish, but keep it secret.”

“A secret?” Naminé asked, tilting her head.

“It won’t come true if you tell us,” Ven explained, and Terra nodded.

As Naminé looked at the faces of her friends, what she should wish for became clear. She knew, deep in her heart, what she wanted more than anything.

With that, she blew out the candles, and everyone cheered loudly. Aqua swept the cake out of Xion’s hands so she could cut it properly, and then everyone sat around the table. The cake was delicious, vanilla and lemon, and after everyone was done eating, it was time for Naminé to open her presents.

“Here!” Sora said, his eyes shining as he handed her the first one. “It’s from all of us.”

Naminé’s hands shook as she removed the wrapping paper. She wasn’t used to getting gifts, and it took her some time to free the box. But once she did, she couldn’t have stopped the smile on her face even if she’d wanted to.

“They’re like the paints Rapunzel has! And in all the colors I like too.” She hugged the box to her chest. “Oh, thank you so much everyone, I can’t wait to use these.”

When she was finished unwrapping the rest of her presents, more art supplies and nice jewelry and cute clothes, she thanked her friends for making this such a wonderful birthday night. But there was one last thing that would make it truly perfect.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Naminé said, “let’s make a painting together. So we have something to help us remember tonight.”

Naminé loved drawing on her own, but drawing with her friends was truly wonderful. Everyone brought their own unique spark to the table. And when the painting was finished, it was one huge flowing mosaic of color and life and creativity. Sure, it wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was something truly unique that only they could have made. And that was why it was a work of art. Not because it was perfect or technically skilled, but because it had their hearts poured into it.

Naminé couldn’t have asked for a better way to commemorate her birthday.

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A/N: Thank you so much to the mods for making this project possible and for being so caring and supportive! And thank you to the other contributors, this zine was such a joy and I enjoyed talking to you all. A big thank you too to Somnium for drawing the banner! I really enjoyed working with you!

And thank you for reading!

#kingdom hearts #namine #naminé #naminezine #namine zine #kh fanfiction #phoenix writes #phoenix downer #gen #friendship #fluff #birthday #happy birthday namine #long post

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 years ago

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The Worry

Warnings: The next two chapters will deal with pregnancy, societal pressure around pregnancy, and concerns around pregnancy! I’ve CW’d them for that in the tags!! If you need me to add any additional tags, please let me know. I’m not a doctor. Just, you know. Disclaimer.

Also cursing; canon-typical violence Notes: Angsty and fluffy Summary: You don’t want to give a voice to your panic before you know that anything’s actually wrong.

It’s been a question since before you and Borracho even get married: So when are you two having kids? You just laugh it off when his sisters ask, and his mom, and Gabriel, that one time. When you were dating it was only once in a while - usually when you turned down the offer of a beer because you’d agreed to be the designated driver between the two of you for that night. Nadia or Megan or Isobel would sidle up to you and pat your stomach and waggle their eyebrows, and you’d just laugh and knock their hands away and screech, “I’m driving!” But now that you’re married… Well, it’s almost constant. And it’s not just from his family. You know that the guys have a pool going about whether or not you’ll be pregnant by the end of the year. The website that you guys used to register for wedding gifts is popping into your inbox every other week to set up your baby shower registry.

And you and Borracho have talked about the kids thing before, a few times since the weekend that you looked after Lissie. Thing is, you haven’t talked about it in a while, but you know that Borracho’s thinking about it. He hasn’t been smoking - he’s been using nicotine patches and chewing gum like a fiend. When you ask him about it, he just shrugs and mutters something about, “having to kick the habit some time”. He’s a little moody about it, sure, but you had been very clear when the two of you spoke that you didn’t want cigarette smoke about your child - “Besides,” You’d murmured when you’d talked about it, “It’s not good for you, Benny. And I want you around for a long time.” That fact that he’s doing that sort of signals a ‘soon?’ to you, but you don’t talk about it. You’re not sure you want to. Talking about it would make it real, and making it real might freak you out, and you really, really want to bask in your honeymoon phase for a little while longer. His family is still pretty pushy about it. When you get handed a kid at any family function, or you help of your own volition, you inevitably hear something somewhere behind you about, “practice,” and “it’ll be different when she has her own”. And you know that it’s because they’re excited for you and Borracho, but it’s starting to wear. There’s one day when you’re cleaning popsicle off of Lissie’s chin, and you hear Nadia coo about you looking like a little mother. And you’re so, so tempted to ask if she’d rather you just let her child make a mess. You’re not being a mother, you’re just trying to help. If Borracho were doing this, would he look like a little father to them? But instead you give her a tight smile and turn back to Lissie, and let the baby’s garbled speech make you smile for real. -- That night, you wait until Borracho has fallen asleep before you get up and do a little research. And a little research brings on a lot of worry. -- You still don’t talk about it. The talking will make it feel real. You don’t want to give a voice to your panic before you know that anything’s actually wrong. But the thing is you and Borracho have technically been trying since you got married. You’re not on the pill, you’re both clean, so you haven’t been using condoms. You’ve been tracking your cycle, you know your ovulation window, and while you did think, once after you came back from your honeymoon that you two might be-- Well, your period was just a couple of days late, so it didn’t matter anyway. You didn’t mention it to him. You read an article that tells you that 80% of couples conceive after 6 months of trying; the same article tells you that 90% conceive after a year of trying. You and Borracho have been trying for 8 months and-- nothing. So maybe there’s something wrong? Some irregularity with your ovulation cycle - or maybe he could have a low sperm count, you don’t think he’s ever gotten that checked out. All of this is in your head. It’s not on your mind, it’s just hanging out in the background. Occasionally it drifts to the forefront and you wave it back to its place, along with the worries that if, somehow, you ever managed to have a child, you’d be an awful mother and the kid would hate you. -- Borracho, bless him, waits. He doesn’t ask right away. Whatever it is that’s wrong, he can tell you’re not ready to talk about, and he’s got the feeling that the conversation will make him want a cigarette, anyway, so maybe it’s for the best that he lets you come to him with it. -- Your first anniversary should be sweet. It’s not. It’s actually kind of an ordeal. The guys have been working an art theft case for the last three months and you’ve been so consumed by it that you haven’t even had time to worry about whether or not you can get pregnant because the two of you have been so busy that you’ve hardly had time to have sex. After a particularly hard night, Borracho broke down and bummed a cigarette off of Connors, and you didn’t begrudge him that one. You’d just sat outside of the bar with him and rubbed your hand between his shoulder blades. “I’ll be back on the patches and gum tomorrow,” He’d sworn to you, and you’d just told him that it was alright, and that you loved him, and that you knew that this was hard for him. He’d flicked the cigarette butt away and practically pulled you into his lap, kissing your neck and murmuring that he wanted to marry you all over again. And then Nick had come out and threatened to arrest the both of you for public indecency. But you and Borracho spend most of your first anniversary getting ready for a sting. Nick’s managed to rope you into field work again (much to Borracho’s chagrin). You’re posing as a buyer, and meeting up with the man that had stolen the painting from the Kohn Gallery. None of the guys can do it - this dealer’s been busted by them before, he’ll recognize them right off. You’re the only one whose face he doesn’t know. When you show at the station, the guys let out little mutters; Connors gets out half of a wolf-whistle before Nick punches him in the shoulder. You arch a brow. You’re not sure what it is - the suit you’ve opted to wear, the pointed-toe heels, or the wig. This one isn’t pink, of course - it’s similar to your hair, but it has a loose, styled wave to it. “Why don’t you ever come to the office like this?” Henderson teases, even as Borracho stares him down. “You all never get dressed up for me, why the fuck would I get dressed up for you?” You retort. “She’s got a point. We’re rollin’ out in ten,” Nick adds. Borracho stands from his desk and walks over to yours, watching you reach under the wig to put in your earpiece. “You’re sure you wanna do this?” He asks. “It’ll be fine,” You glance at him. He purses his lips, and you reach out, cupping his chin, then teasing your nails through the goatee there. “Come on, this isn’t my first field op.” “We won’t be in there with you,” Borracho reminds you, though he sounds like he’s much more hung up on that fact than you are. “I know, but you’ll be nearby,” You say, “And the second I confirm the painting is the one you guys have been looking for, you’ll grab the guy and we’ll be set.” Borracho doesn’t look so convinced, but you lean up and peck his lips and murmur, “Relax, Benny.” And you expect hoots and hollers to go up from the guys, but you hear nothing. They’re giving you two this moment. They know what today is; they know how worried Borracho is. And the guys can be dicks sometimes, but you love them. -- Your first anniversary should be sweet. It’s not. It’s kind of an ordeal. You wind up sitting on the back of an ambulance because a bullet grazed your right arm - not deep enough to do real damage or hit anything serious, but bad enough to need stitches. Borracho is leaning against the ambulance, jaw clenched as he stares down at your pointed-toe heels. You’ve tried to engage him, and you’ve tried to get him to look at you, but he just won’t. When you’re leaving, you expect him to bum a cigarette off of Connors, but he doesn’t. Instead you drive home in silence, his hand territorial on your thigh, like the art dealer is in the backseat, like the bullet is hovering near your shoulder, but neither will be able to touch you as long as he is. He waits until you two are in your apartment to draw you into his arms and hold you tight against his chest. You go willingly, and you cuddle against him and hide your wince in his neck as your arm twinges when you take hold of him in turn. Some part of you is tempted to joke, to murmur, “Happy anniversary?”, but you consider how mad you’d be if he did that to you just now, and instead you murmur, “It’s just a scratch.” And maybe that’s not the best thing to have said, either, because his grip tightens on you, and he mumbles, “Scratches don’t need stitches, sweetness.” -- That night, he’s gentle with you, the way you were with him the first time the two of you were together after he’d been shot. He takes his time undressing with you, pushes your hands away from your clothes when you reach to remove them yourself. When you tease and ask him if he wants you to keep the wig on, he shakes his head and covers your body with his, and he nuzzles against your jaw and murmurs, “You,” sweet and desperate, “I just want you.” -- It’s a hiccup. A bump in the road. A reminder that what you two do is dangerous, that anything can happen. Time passes. The wound heals. The worry comes back. -- You wake up with cramps one morning. You go into the bathroom - you confirm it is what you think it is. You tiptoe around your bedroom, pull on sweatpants and head into the kitchen to make coffee. It’s been a year and a half now, and you are worried. Borracho never did say that kids are a deal breaker, but what if they are? What if he’s changed his mind? What if you change your mind? Your vision is blurring with tears as you pour water into the coffeemaker. You can hear Borracho shuffling around in your bedroom, and you let yourself sniffle before you scrub at your eyes. You set your hands on the counter, taking a few steadying breaths as you hear Borracho come out of the bedroom. You hear him pause before he cuddles up behind you, his big, rough, warm hands settling comfortingly on your hips. He presses a kiss to the back of your head, then to the side, then brushes his lips against the shell of your ear. “What’s going on, sweetness?” He murmurs. You should’ve known better; the man knows you better than anyone, you can’t hide from him, not well. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to go this long without saying anything to him. You lean back against his chest and mumble, “I got my period.” It takes him a few moments, but he nods a little, turning and pressing another kiss to your head. “Okay.” “What if-- Benny what if I can’t-- And we can’t--...” Your eyes are welling up with tears again; your voice is wavering, and your throat feels tight with worry. He slides his arms around your waist, soothingly rocking the two of you side to side. “We’ll figure it out, sweetness,” He soothes, “We can talk to a doctor, we can look into adoption-- Anything you want.” “What’ll your family say?” “Hey,” Borracho turns you to face him. He lifts one hand to your chin and tips your head up to look at him. “This isn’t their marriage, this isn’t their decision. It’s ours. We make this choice, you and me.” He reaches up and smooths away a tear when it escapes you. “And if that choice is no kids, then that’s our choice, sweetness.” You can’t stop the tears now; you surge up and bury your face in Borracho’s shoulder and curl into him and mumble that you wanna marry him all over again. -- Your second anniversary is sting-operation and bullet-graze free. The traditional second anniversary gift is cotton. The box you give Borracho contains a cotton shirt that says ‘I’m Going to Be a Daddy!’, and your (cleaned) positive pregnancy test. (You’ve got a matching shirt that says ‘You Can Stop Asking When We’re Having a Baby Now’.)

#The Pool #The Worry #Pregnancy CW #Pregnancy conversations #Concerns around pregnancy #Benny Borracho #Benny Borracho Magalon #Benny Borracho x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho x You #Benny Borracho/You #benny borracho/reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader

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dappersheep · 4 years ago

Text

Food Fantasy: An Analysis on what killed a Golden Goose (2/3)

Welcome back. Before we get started, disclaimers again! I do not own the game or its characters, nor do I claim to know the history and future of the game. What I am entitled to are the thoughts and opinions written within this post. You may or may not agree with the points spoken of here. This post also remains untagged from the main foofan tag. Only my followers will see this.

We are now on the second part, so let's go forward under the cut!

Elex

And here we have our beloved global publisher that most of seem to have Stockholm Syndrome for. Don't lie, at least half of us are still playing this damned game due to sunken cost fallacy, sunken time fallacy and the cute/hot jpegs.

In 2018, everything started out fine. Sure, maybe we had some translation mishaps here and there -coughwe'llgettothatwreckagelatercough- but overall, Elex was running the game fairly well. Rewards were on time, we had active social media and support, and a discord was set up!

Hint: Please note I use quite a bit of sarcasm in most everything I say.

And then somewhere along that road, things got derailed. And I mean it like, we're in the midst of a trainwreck in slow motion and we've only cleared the initial collision and still hurtling forward or backward into a steel wreckage ticking inferno.

Problems started cropping up as early as late 2018, just a few months after the game was launched in July.

⦁ Art contest mishaps. You know when you hold an art contest on Facebook out of all places with its shitty tagging system, you're bound to have entries lost to the void, people forced to register an FB account just to participate (seriously, who even has an FB account that isn't just there to appease family members?) and having to wrestle with figuring out how FB's tagging system works. Add to that the panel of judges happen to be Elex staff who don't have a good eye for good artwork (we actually had a kiddy figure drawing win over a well drawn one during the last contest!) and that they ALSO weren't very good at organizing such contests on FB... well, we had several grievances over that.

⦁ Region blocked FB announcements. Strangely enough, I stopped getting announcements around Father's Day of 2019 while everyone else outside of SEA kept getting updates. Turns out that someone on Elex's staff really didn't like SEA players or was just really bad at fixing the settings for the group and never bothered to revert it back. It didn't matter in the long run though, because...

⦁ Abandoned social media platforms. FooFan Twitter, FooFan Facebook... they all floated slowly into the void and was never heard from again. And this was before the 2020 pandemic.

⦁ Remember what I said about Discord? Yeah, apparently, they opened one up a little too early and the staff in charge of it knew zero about how to setup and mod a discord community, and didn't even have the manpower needed to mod the influx of members that came in! Suffice to say, they had to get help from top players and mods from the FB groups to come in and sort things out because someone kept pinging @ everyone every few seconds other than the usual chaos that comes from a server with no filters and people trying to turn the discord into Global Chat 2.0, minus Russian hours.

⦁ Also in line with the point about abandoned social media platforms, they've also mostly abandoned the discord too and only pop in once in a while to check the bug reports or lost accounts. You have a slightly better chance of response with the in-game support. Only slightly. And there's a running joke with several variations on the main discord that the Owner account of the discord server was manned by an intern-kun who never bothered to pass it on to the next unfortunate soul left to maintain this game.

⦁ Favoritism. Funtoy is also guilty of this but they don't publish the game for Global. If you're a top spender the likes of maxing out your cash rebates within the three months or so and you kept spending even beyond that, Elex could possibly invite you to a funky little club where your voice is more important than say... 99% of the playerbase. On top of that, if you keep spending, you could technically also ask for stuff like getting this frame over that frame, or well.... delay certain features from coming to Global for over a year. Now you can simp AND be heard! (Note: In 2021, it's possible that that club may be dead too, as all things shall be)

⦁ SJW Friendly. I don't know if Funtoy themselves have anything to also do with this particular decision... but it's saying something that after a certain little tiddy tantrum from the community side, Elex decided not to announce anything about a certain event's fate and when asked by it by other parties (not me) they either lie through their teeth, or beat around the bush with a non-answer.

⦁ Partial translations, mistranslations. Now, I understand that a lot of Chinese grammar and semantics are confusing to translate properly into several other languages, but you'd think Elex would have given their translators more context to the character or the mechanic to avoid such mistranslations that later set off gender debates or worded the skill/artifact description a little clearer. That is... unless Elex really is hands-off trying to get to know this IP from the start and only gave it the most bare minimum of English where they can cut costs for it, so people can understand it 'well enough' to throw money at an obviously not beta-read quality game.

⦁ No translations. Yes we do have certain parts of the game that are in Chinese since forever since xx patch. Some characters' voiceline texts are still in chinese, especially during the Pledge scenes. More recent artifacts are also in chinese with no announced translation in sight. And don't get me started on the Food Soul bios, or lack thereof.

⦁ Delayed events. Prime example? We had weeks of minor events/no events and still Elex managed to eff everything up for our second Anniversary in July 2020. We ended up getting the Croissant event in late August with barely any apologies and compensation for the delay... and this likely would have never arrived as 'early' as it did if people hadn't been railing about where our Anniversary event was. As it stands, we are several minor events behind CN, at least a year and a half's worth behind. I know Global had requested heavily for more spaced out events (to save resources, not that it actually worked with all the nerfed rewards we get) compared to CN but this is extremely ridiculous.

⦁ Delayed permanent features. Hm... Guild Wars, Sky Tower, Bar, that Wuchang Fish Showdown... several Quality of Life updates.... that new permanent pool update... Food Souls still missing their JP voice packs... Food Soul Bios... *slowly ticking off more than I have fingers and toes*

⦁ Customer Support is whack. You'd be lucky if you got someone who understood your problem/inquiry right off the bat AND did something about it efficiently. You'd be luckier if they answered you honestly if you were inquiring about event updates or other buggy features or reporting hackers.

⦁ The Great Turkey and Apple Incident of 2020. Well, if you were around for that little SNAFU during the Turkey re-run event, you'd know a percentage of people suddenly got logged out of their accounts and had a baller of a time trying to get their accounts back. You were especially unfortunate if you were playing on an iOS account because even if you did bind it (like a responsible player should be doing), you probably still wouldn't get it back in time to rank properly during Turkey. Some Android players also experienced this, but it wasn't as bad as what the iOS players experienced. And then there was the compensation mishap for that too.

⦁ Hacker-chan and not-so-uwu Hacker-teme. Hacker-chan is a meme. Hacker-chan was a harmless player who regularly topped in Top Showdown every week for a time to send a message to Elex just how easy it is to hack the game in certain rankings and invited Elex to ban them every time, just to test how competent Elex is. In the end, Elex has proven to be incompetent and also glaringly stupid about how their published game works. Hacker-teme is a collective of individuals over time who have cheated the game during important ranking events or in somewhat important permanent battles. If you tried to report a Hacker-teme with evidence to prove it -and trust me, people repeatedly have-, Elex would tell you that they're not cheating and/or lie through their teeth that they're 'investigating the case' and then not do anything about it and let them keep their event ranking and thus get the rewards while someone who actually worked hard/whaled hard to get the spot gets denied. In one case, they believe that if an account has rebate points and the player level is at least around level 80, then the hacker-teme is obviously playing the game fairly. Never mind that their units happened to have low to no artifact nodes opened, and not high in ascension.

And that is the end of the Elex saga. I'm aware there's likely more things about Elex that I've missed, but feel free to add on to this analysis post with your own thoughts.

The last part of this trilogy is probably what many of us are waiting for, for obvious reasons.

#ravings of a madman #food fantasy but not tagged right

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blissfulalchemist · 3 years ago

Note

Hope you don't mind me sending one of these: Catlina - “you remembered?”

Hello there! I do not mind in the slightest! I'm sorry this took a while, but I have it finished for you! I do hope you enjoy though!

She still has about ten minutes before the meal is fully prepared and she’ll wait for another three hours in hopes that Liz will come. She has to come home at some point, Cat thinks leaning against the countertop folding her arms, It’s been almost two weeks. She lets out a slow breath, relaxing her body briefly, the shrill of the doorbell tensing her once more. Her eyes slide slowly towards the front door catching sight of the sleek black car parked in front of her house, Should I really be surprised at this point? She pushes herself off slowly making her way to the front door, pulling the cardigan closer, a soft knock out of time to her walk.

Cat pulls the door open, the first thing she sees are John’s blue eyes darkened by the night. He smiles as she leans against the door, meeting him with a small smile, “Little late for missionary work don’t you think?”

John gives a small shake of his head, “Hilarious,” one of his hands holds a reusable shopping bag as the other gestures inside, “May I come in?”

She stiffened, heart picking up speed, “She might come back John,” Cat glanced back at the stove avoiding his gaze, at least nothing looked to be burning, “She won’t want to see you.”

His smile falters for a split second, “Well I’ll leave if she does show up,” Cat bites her lip, casting her eyes downward, “I just came to see you.”

She perks her head up, giving a small tilt, “You came to see me?” He nods, “Why?”

He shrugs, “Does there have to be a reason,” he asks, face not matching the apathy in his tone, “I figured you could use some company.”

She lets out a sigh, turning away back to the kitchen, “You better keep your promise of leaving if she shows up, John.” Cat leaves the door open, John following behind quickly watching as she moves about the small kitchen. He gives a smirk as he notes her familiar dinner pattern of having a meat, something heavy in carbs, and a vegetable to form a complete meal, he can only assume there’s some kind of dessert lying in wait in the refrigerator.

He takes a seat at the round table, glancing around the room setting the bag on the floor next to him, “I’m surprised you didn’t find a house with a bigger kitchen my Catlina.”

“I didn’t need one,” she replies matter of factly, “Liz and I weren’t getting a lot of visitors so what was the point?”

“Because you could,” she still doesn’t face him head on, which is fine with him as he gets an opportunity to look at his ex-wife for more than just a few rushed minutes, taking in the new details about her. The way the grey in her hair shined through under the lights, how she moves about with more confidence than when he first saw her getting up from that bed seventeen years ago, and the sliver of art peeking out from beneath her shirt on her back making it easy to miss the scarred ends of sin if you didn’t already know of their location. “I made sure you’d have more than enough to get a nice place,” he muses, moving to stand.

Cat brings down the plates, three of them, with a huff, “I thought I made it clear I didn’t like using your money.” Her movements are sharp and short as she puts food on it, gripping the utensils with white knuckles.

“You did,” he sits himself back down as she walks over to him with a plate, “I just wanted to take care of you is all. You and Liz.” Cat gives a small eye roll, working to set the plate down gently rather than drop it like she wishes she could, it's part of her favorite set though.

Her jaw tightens moving to make her own plate, “I don’t need someone to take care of us. I managed just fine.” It’s a lie, his money came in handy when she kept moving hoping for a fresh start for Liz and then again when Cat had a breakdown the week Joseph became a fugitive. She never wants to tell him this though, doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction or the power over her.

“You were the one that asked me for money though,” she splays her hands on the counter, nails digging into the faux granite, “So it seems like you did need me.”

“Only because I was at the last of my options,” she says through gritted teeth, “I set aside my pride for Liz because she needed a place that was safe and as free as one could be with her,” Cat paused, turning to look John up and down trying to hold back the sneer, “genetics. Ones that no one lets her forget once they know.”

His eyes narrow, a hand running through his hair, teeth grinding, “I am aware of her life and how it’s been Catlina, there’s no need to remind me.”

“Never hurts to do so with you.”

John inhales deeply, closing his eyes, “There’s no need to bring this argument up once again, don’t you agree?”

She glares at him a moment more before nodding, finally allowing herself to sit down across from him. Her shoulders fall with an exhale as she settles herself, eyes casting downward, replying softly, “I don’t really feel like arguing with you tonight anyway.”

John lets the quiet loom, waiting for her to take the first bite before making any movement of his own. He shouldn’t have been surprised by how quickly the accusations started with her, her anger did always have its way of festering beneath the surface and John had always been the one that could draw it out. Little by little until it all flooded out and she was no longer the same person he had grown to love and care for. John smirks to himself at the memories of their first few weeks together, “Do you remember those first few weeks and we did nothing but fight all the time?” She glances up at him, “Sorry. When we did nothing but argue.”

“We didn’t fight all the time,” Cat mumbles, pushing the food around on her plate. “I didn’t really like talking to you, I remember that.”

John laughs, “You and I still talked quite a bit,” his teasing tone getting an eye roll from Cat, “and it always seemed to end with you stating an opinion that I didn’t agree with.”

“You know I wasn’t the only one giving opinions,” a smile teases at the corner of her lips, pointing the fork at him, “You baited me into those arguments. Tested my patience.”

“Not like it was hard to do, especially then.” John smiles resting his chin on his hand, “We were so different you and I, like oil and vinegar,” Cat snorts, giving a small shae of her head, “Pretty sure my brothers still wonder how we managed to actually end up falling for each other.”

Cat stiffens at the notion, swallowing the bite in her mouth, “There are people that believe they know how we managed that.” The memories of when she would call out to him in the months following her return to society and the calm responses of the doctors telling her that it was all made up, some side effect of whatever they drugged her with echo on the edge of her hearing. She swallows the memories back, “We did seem to meet up in some kind of middle, I’ll admit, even if it was brief.” Cat can’t even fake a smile as she casts her gaze down, no longer focusing on the plate in front of her. John slides the chair closer to her, reaching out to place his hand gently on hers.

He gives a small smile when she looks up at him, “There’s still time. We can always pick up where we left off,” Cat’s stomach flips, her chest pulling towards him while everything else backs away. He can’t be serious. He knows why we can’t, “After all, we do have a child together, so I doubt we’ll ever fully be out of each other’s life.”

“John,” she warns, looking up, “we’ve talked about this.”

“I’ll be good, don’t worry,” he says softly, “Just hard not to think about, on today of all days.”

Cat frowns, “What do you mean ‘today of all days’?”

He gives a genuine smile, something she forgot he could do, “It’s the day this all started.”

“You remembered,” she gives John a pointed look, arching a brow, “the exact day I finally woke up after the accident?”

“I could tell you the exact date if you’d like but it seems a little irrelevant considering that day passed.”

She opened her mouth ready to argue, closing it as she glanced at the digital clock on the wall the date spelled out for her. “Our wedding,” she whispered, eyes moving slowly to look back at John slowly, unease threatening to climb her spine, “That was today wasn’t it?”

He nods, giving a small hum, “Married seventeen years today.”

“I think illegally in the eyes of the law, technically, but that’s more your department,” Cat looks down to the bag still at his feet, “Is that why you brought that stuff?”

John gives a nonchalant shrug, “Kind of seems silly now, don’t you think? Especially since I was the only one of us to remember,” he laughs softly trying to keep the mood light.

“I used to remember it,” she admits pushing some of the food on her plate, “Used to fixate on that date to a point I’d get upset when it wasn’t.” Cat lets out a slow breath, “Used to convince myself that you would finally come back, would whisk me away from that place and we’d live out our lives happily, because surely my husband, who loved me so deeply and obsessively, wouldn’t just abandon me on our anniversary.”

“Ah,” he hunches, leaning his elbows on the table, “I see.”

“Eventually days started to blur and I worked to actively not think about Montana. Honestly it became too painful to do so and I had Liz to focus on.” She shook her head, “So I’m sorry, I-well I needed to forget that date. Forget the significance of today.”

“I understand,” John attempts a smile that falls quickly, “The first one didn’t go so well for me either. I lost your ring….,” he sighs, “O well the dep-Chance stole it from me. Probably should have taken that as a sign looking back at it all.”

They let the silence fall, each taking small bites finding nothing either could do to lift the disappointment. Cat paused peering closer to the contents John had brought with him, the only thing she could identify with certainty being a bottle of wine. It’s just one night. It doesn’t have to mean anything long term, She bit the inside of her lip, It doesn’t even have to go beyond talking. She swallowed, inhaling deeply, standing to make her way to the cabinets, John watching curiously.

She pulled down two goblets, one a smokey black and the other a deep red, giving them a quick rinse and drying them off before walking back to the table. “Now don’t read too much into this,” she started going back for the wine opener, “but given we were both sort of on good terms with the other at the time of our first anniversary I say that we let ourselves celebrate it late.”

John smirked, arching a brow, “Do you really think that’s a good idea, my Catlina ,” he asked, pulling out the bottle from the bag, taking the opener from her.

“I think it’s the nice and right thing to do,” she smiled giving a shrug, “Besides it might help us get some closure on us.”

He pulled the cork out with ease, eyes widening, watching as she poured their glasses. There was little hesitation to her words, something that he once again should have seen coming, still it did little to ease the sting, “Yeah, it could,” he agreed reluctantly, “We both can use the closure.”

She threw him a smile, going to the fridge once more putting away the remaining dinner, John took a glance at the small purple wrapped box he pulled from his pocket as she announced her idea of celebrating. He took a deep breath sliding it back into place, opting to pull out the small container of chocolate covered fruit before Cat had turned back to him fully, his smile on to its full charm once more. He could let himself enjoy these few hours, let himself believe that there was a chance for them once more. John held up his glass once she sat down, “To celebrating our first and only year of marriage,” Cat laughed, tapping her glass against his before they took their first drink of the night. One night. She could let herself indulge in the fantasy she once, still, craved for just this one night. It didn’t have to mean anything more.

#x: tribulation #salvations two paths #catlina rojas oc #I'll put a banner later cause I can't find what I like at the current moment but I hope you enjoy it still!#getting some post salvations catjohn was interesting to say the least in getting that relationship right

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quarantined-with-bucky · 4 years ago

Text

Crash

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 4,900

Summary: Bucky learns what he likes about life: you

Warnings: Angst, but also fluff

A/N: Mildly inspired by “Crash” by You Me At Six!

...

Wait, where you say you've been? Who you been with? Where you say you're goin'? Who you goin' with?

There was a knock on your apartment door. Plucking yourself off the couch, you trotted towards the door, pulling it open. You were met face to face with Bucky, a smile immediately finding your lips. His visit was a surprise, he hadn’t said anything about stopping by. “Hey,” you greeted, about to stretch out your arms for a hug, stopping immediately when he didn’t return your smile.

Oh. And that’s when you peaked over his shoulder and noticed Steve standing on the street, leaning against the car. “Sorry, doll,” Bucky apologized, offering you his arms for a hug.

You accepted, pulling him close and tucking your face into his chest. “’S okay, Buck.” He told you earlier that he may have to be leaving to go on missions, he couldn’t say exactly when or where. But this took you by surprise; it was the first mission he’d been sent on since he’s met you – since he started dating you.

“So, it looks like I’m going to have to raincheck dinner on Friday,” he mumbled shyly, pulling away, but still holding you firmly at the waist. He awkwardly chuckled, hoping you’d at least find light of the situation in his old charm.

You smiled up at him. “Let me know when you’re back?”

“You’ll be my first stop.” He moved a hand to cradle your jaw, leaning towards you for a goodbye kiss. You obliged, biting your lip and watching him saunter back towards Steve.

Bucky stood next to the man, giving you a stiff wave. “Make sure he comes back in one piece,” you call out to Steve, waving back at the both of them.

Steve laughed, waving back. “Will do, (Y/N).”

You stood frozen in the doorway, leaning against the frame as you watched the boys climb into the truck, pulling away, heading off to wherever the hell they were going.

Wait, keep me in your skin, Keep me in your chest. I'll wait for it to start, I'll wait for it to end.

Bucky sat at the camp sight, the soft light of the fire illuminating the picture before him. He held the edges carefully, the image creased perfectly in the middle from where he’d folded it up to fit in his pocket.

It was a photo of the both of you. You were at the bar, one around the corner from your apartment, that you took him to months ago. It was the night of your friend’s birthday, and you wanted to bring Bucky along to meet a few of your friends. He was nervous at first, not sure if they’d recognize him, if they knew his past, if they’d be scared of him.

However, everyone welcomed him with open arms. They didn’t ask him too many questions, didn’t pester him about his arm. Instead, they told him extremely embarrassing stories from your past. And, damn, it made him laugh; you were blushing like crazy, trying to cut them off after every story – doing so by buying rounds of shots if they promised to stop talking about you.

It ended up not working, everyone growing more and more intoxicated as they continued teasing you. But you found it to be all in good fun, just enjoying you night out with your boyfriend and your friends. You spent the whole night attacked to Bucky’s arm, linking your own two arms around his, his hand resting on your thigh. You buried your face in his shoulder to smother your laughter or after they said something embarrassing about you.

It was one of the best nights he’d had in such a long time; he doesn’t remember laughing for so long or so genuinely in a while. Your friend had secretly snapped this picture of you, sending it to you the next morning. You groaned and rolled over in bed; your few hours of sleep interrupted by your phone buzzing loudly. Bucky handed you your phone, holding back his laughter at your raging hangover. You mumbled an “oh my god” and showed your phone to Bucky, cheeks tinted pink.

It was dark, the bar had been dimly lit where you were sitting. Cups half full, empty shot glasses, and beer glasses littered the sticky table in front of the both of you. Your face was buried in Bucky’s shoulder, unable to conceal the drunk smile taking up your whole face. You held on tightly to his metal arm, the glare of the metal prominent in the photo. Bucky was gazing down at you, a similar grin painting his own lips.

As you tucked yourself into his side to resume sleeping, he took your phone and placed it on the bedside table, but not before sending it to himself.

That was the picture he carried with him on missions. He tucked it away into his breast pocket, hidden underneath his armor-plated vest, right above his heart. He patted atop his armor for safekeeping.

He couldn’t wait to see you when he got home.

Just crash, fall down, I'll wrap my arms around you now. Just crash, it's our time now, To make this work second time around.

It was eight days later when he showed up on your doorstep again. This time, when you opened the door, you were met with a smiling Bucky; he was clean shaven, his hair pulled back behind his head. He was wearing that red Henley you loved so much, and his arms were open wide, waiting for you to run into his arms.

So that’s exactly what you did: hopping off the front stoop into his warm embrace. He caught you, allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist, intertwining your hands behind his neck. The two of you stood on your front steps, embracing each other, kissing each other, for what felt like an hour. Eventually, Bucky made his way into your apartment, plopping down on the small sofa, not taking you off his lap.

That became routine for you two. Whenever he had to leave, you’d spend a whole day holding each other when he came back.

We grew up, We worked and changed our ways. Just like wildfire, Been burning now for days. Tearing down those walls, Nothing's in our way. I said, nothing's in our way.

Time flew by; before you knew it, it was your two-year anniversary. Two years of bliss, two years filled with commitment and trust and love. Despite taking it slow at first, after that first mission, you two became inseparable. Given the fact that he spent a lot of time with the Avengers: working, training, and on missions, you had no choice but to spend every bit of free time together.

You’d spent your fair share of time at the Avengers Tower, spending the night at Bucky’s place, joining him at parties, watching the sunrise on the roof of the skyscraper. But there was something about your place that Bucky felt more comfortable. He was like a giant in your tiny apartment. Meager living room, tiny couch, lined with pillows and blankets; modest kitchen, two small chunks of countertop on either side of the oven, shelves crowded with spices and utensils, pots and pans hanging off the pot rack on the ceiling above the island; crowded bathroom, utilities barely able to fit in the small room, no room to maneuver, shower head just too short for Bucky; humble bedroom, packed bookshelves, clothes strewn about, bed pushed under the one window, narrow enough that you have to sleep half on top of Bucky – not that he minded, except for the fact that his feet hung off the edge.

It made him feel small and safe. He hadn’t felt a home in a long time. He went from the frontlines of World War II to the empty cell of Hydra to a block of ice. He’d spent the majority of his life without comfort. And when he was welcomed to the Avengers, he hadn’t received much either. There were shrouds of hospitality, yes, but something about it lacked an intimate feeling. Vast corridors, high ceilings, large rooms; Bucky decided he wasn’t a fan of minimalism. He much preferred “cottagecore” as you liked to call it.

He loved to garden, taking care of your houseplants almost too much. He’d named all of them, from each viney philodendron to the splaying palm trees. He had an almost aggressive watering schedule. Soon, he began spontaneously bringing you flowers and houseplants – your small apartment turned into a jungle.

It was the morning of your second anniversary when Bucky asked if you wanted to move in together. “Do you mean you want to move in with me?” You clarified smugly, flitting your eyes above the coffee mug currently held to your lips.

He giggled childishly, happily. “Maybe,” he mumbled, drawing out the first syllable. He sipped his tea, mimicking you as you couldn’t contain the smile pulling at your lips.

You sauntered across the kitchen – as in, you took two steps closer to him and you were already chest-to-chest – and tilted your head up to his. He kissed you on the tip of your nose before you could respond, the grin on your face already confirming your answer. “You think you can fit all your clothes in my bedroom,” you teased, eyebrows raised in challenge.

He rolled his eyes, pointing his chin towards the open door of the bedroom. Piles of your clothes and his clothes thrown over chairs, folded on top and in the dresser – he practically lived with you already. “I think my clothes fit just fine in our bedroom.” His tone dropped, as did his face, burying it into the crook of your neck, pressing his lips to the soft skin of your collarbone.

You hummed, setting your mug down on the counter beside you, wrapping your arms around his neck and broad shoulders. You traced the top of his spine on the back of his neck, barely dragging your finger on the surface of his skin; the tickle brought a smile to his lips against your skin. “It seems so.”

And then he moved in. It’s not like he had much, anyway; everything he had technically belonged to Tony. He spent one Saturday bringing over his clothes – in which you graciously shoved into the dresser beside yours – knickknacks – to which you’d decorated throughout the apartment, displaying them on shelves, on the walls, between pots of plants – and boxes of memorabilia. Bucky thought about stealing his king-sized bed, just so he’d be able to fit without curling up into you (also so you’d have more room to roll around), but he wasn’t even sure it would fit through the door. He wouldn’t change anything about it, though. Everything felt like home, it felt like you.

You shared countless memories in that apartment: long nights spent talking instead of sleeping as the New York City traffic blared through your window, endless nights of baking (and burning) desserts, numerous movie nights that half-the-time ended in the two of you having sex on the couch or falling asleep innocently in each other’s arms.

No matter how many times he woke up with cramps in his legs and a sore back from falling asleep on your tiny plush couch, he still couldn’t wait to do it again the next night.

…

“(Y/N),” he whispered your name, face pressed up inches from yours, pillows smushed together and against the wall. Your sleeping eyes fluttered, eyebrows twitching, and bridge of your nose crinkling slightly. Soon, though, you were completely relaxed again, and Bucky almost felt bad waking you up – but not really. “(Y/N),” he murmured a bit louder, this time smoothing your wild hair down against your head, pulling his fingers through the knots.

You hummed, stirring in the bed, inadvertently stretching, pressing your palms against the wall, toes lengthening to the edge of the bed, pulling the bedsheets off you (and Bucky). “’Sup,” you mumble, immediately closing your eyes again, burying your face into your pillow and tucking your hands underneath your chin.

He smiles, gazing down at your tired form, obviously exhausted from the night prior’s festivities. “Baby, wake up,” he almost groans, faux upset that you weren’t giving him attention.

“I’m up,” you hum, not moving – not even opening your eyes.

“Let’s get married.”

You laughed in your pretend sleep, reaching your hand out blindly up his arm and up to his cheek, patting it lightly. It wasn’t the first time he said it; although the other times he had either been extremely intoxicated or sleep talking. “Do you have a ring for me, darling?”

“I do.”

And with that, your eyes popped open, meeting his staring back at you. You then narrowed your eyes at him, crinkling your nose. He was beaming at you with a shit-eating-grin, hand curled under the pillow propping up his head, curled up like a goof. You couldn’t find any words.

“So,” he continued, filling the gap of your shocked silence. “Will you marry me?”

Sitting up in bed, you propped yourself up on your elbow, staring down at him. He quickly took the cue, flipping around and digging his hand around under the bed. He returned facing you, sitting up next to you, sheets pooling at his hips. He held up the box, opening it with his metal hand.

Your breath left your lungs.

“Bucky,” gasped, covering your mouth with your hands, eyes flitting between the ring and his eyes: blue, glossy, and glazed over with passion. “Oh my god, Bucky.” You kept repeating yourself, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

“So…is that a yes?” He chuckled, nervously holding the box, gesturing it towards you.

“Oh my god, yes!” You nearly screamed, tears now fully flowing down your face, holding your hand out for him to place the ring gently on your finger. You then threw your arms around his neck, kissing your fiancé. He smiled through the whole kiss and you felt his heart beating next to yours.

You pulled back to fully look at the rock now sitting on your left hand. “I hope you like it; I had to go through my sister’s daughter, who had to go through a ton of old keepsakes and it took a while so I would’ve gotten it sooner, but – ” he cut himself off, realizing he was rambling when he met your growingly perplexed facial expression. “Anyway, it was my mom’s ring. And my pop saved up forever for it. I know it’s not huge and probably out of style and you deserve a million diamonds – ” he cut himself off again with a deep breath, anxiously scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought it would be nice – but if you don’t like it, you can just tell me and – ”

This time it was you who got him to shut up, leaning forward, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his lips to yours. “Bucky, I love it.” It was beautiful. The diamond was small, still in perfect condition. The gold band was twisted intricately around the stone, newly polished and sparkling in the light shining through the window. What was even more appealing about the ring was the sentiment behind it. There was no two people that Bucky looked up to more than his parents; he often told you stories describing how much they loved each other, how hard his dad worked to finally convince his mom to go on a date with him. He beamed with pride when he spoke of them, recounting their hardships but how that never impacted their love for each other.

There was nothing more he wanted – then or now – than to give pass his mother’s ring along to you. He just happened to be lucky enough that his sister and niece saved it after all this time. He admitted that he could’ve gotten you a new ring, probably through a loan from Tony. Bucky technically didn’t have an income – just Tony’s money. And he did, in fact, offer to buy you the most expensive diamond ring in the world, a ten-carat ring from Antwerp; but that didn’t feel right. This was the only thing that Bucky had actually felt right about in a long time.

…

One month from that day, it was your three-year anniversary.

It happened during dinner – one random Thursday while the two of you sat at the edge of the kitchen counter, enjoying a casual plate of spaghetti.

“What – ” You choked on your mouthful of noodles. Coughing slightly, you sipped some wine, washing the rest of your bite down. Then you repeated yourself firmly: “What?”

“You heard me,” he responded, casually, mouth full of garlic bread.

“Now?” You ask, eyes wide, but unable to stop the smile forming on your lips.

“Yeah, why not?”

You stood from your stool, holding your palms against the island counter on either side of your dinner plate. “You were the one who said you didn’t want to do anything special for our anniversary.” You laughed, completely knocked off guard, mind moving a million miles per hour.

He raised an eyebrow. “You really thought I’d say that without some trick up my sleeve?” And, in fact, you were surprised when Bucky wanted to have a very low-key anniversary – he’d always been one for romantics. “Thought you knew me better than that,” he smirked, throwing a wink your way.

You rolled your eyes and swatted at his arm. “Are you being serious?” You leveled with him, leaning over so you were staring directly into the eyes of the man sitting beside you.

He smiled back kindly at you. “What do you kids say these days? Deadass.”

And you burst out laughing. Maybe you were a bit wine-drunk – but, god, this was something you’d never grow tired of. And that was perfect, considering you had already agreed to spend the rest of your life with him. There, in all honestly, was nothing that made your heart flutter like Bucky being an old man. “Okay,” you then whispered, cupping his jaw in both of your palms. “Let’s elope.”

So that weekend, that’s exactly what the two of you did.

Bucky had “borrowed” one of Tony’s cars – he assured you that he asked to take it for the weekend, but the smile and laugh in his voice told you otherwise. There was no time to question him further – no need, in fact – as he threw your suitcase in the trunk and opened the passenger door to you, ever the gentleman.

It was a short drive to Brooklyn Botanical Garden. You’d taken Bucky’s word for it, a place he remembered from his childhood; it was somewhere his mother used to drag him to and roam around – obviously with time he grew to appreciate not only the memory but also the serenity. He knew that was where he saw the both of you getting married; he knew that seeing you adorned in white surrounded by the beautiful trees and flowers was a sight he would never get tired of imagining.

Now, it was a sight burnt in his memory, holding your hands in his, a simple white gown falling perfectly on your body, veil pulled back that made it seem as though you were surrounded by clouds, the beautiful angel you were, anyway. Your hair was free, moving ever so slightly with the soft breeze; cheeks tinted pink as your skin glowed in the sun that shined before you; a bright grin painted your lips, so genuine that it made small crinkles form around your eyes. God, those eyes – gleaming in the reflection of the bright light before you, sparkling with love and laced with anticipation.

You faced a similar view, Bucky donning a casual grey suit; you insisted that was the one he brought with, a light grey contrasting his dark hair and deep blue eyes. While you had no doubt that seeing Bucky in an all-black suit was one of your all-time favorite looks, this was much more fitting for the occasion. The bright morning sun, the light-colored leaves surrounding your union; black was too harsh. Black, after all, was the color associated with the Winter Soldier. His uniform was black, his mask, his pants, his boots – his whole life was shrouded in darkness. This could not have been more the opposite; it was untraditional color, but so was your wedding and, hell, your whole relationship.

It was you and him, the officiant and the witness. You couldn’t remember either of their names, and you didn’t care, either. The only thing that mattered was Bucky’s eyes staring down at you, your hands held in his large ones, him slipping the wedding band on your finger.

And the kiss: perfect. You didn’t have the words to describe it. One hand found your waist as the other snaked through your hair, holding the back of your neck, guiding your lips up to his. Your arms folded around his neck, allowing you to pull your entire being flush against his body. He gave you two pecks on the lips before pulling away, letting his forehead rest against yours, staring into your eyes, glazed over with tears. His heart was full, it took all of his willpower not to breakout in tears. “I love you,” he whispered.

Your smile never faltered as you repeated those words to your husband.

…

“Buck, I have to get ready for work,” you called to him, yelling over the sound of the shower running.

“I’m almost done,” he responded, peaking his head from behind the curtain.

You stood at the vanity mirror, holding your hairbrush in one hand, flat iron in the other, makeup bag propped skillfully on the corner of the sink, one wrong movement away from spilling all over the floor. The mirror was fogging up ever so slightly; Bucky always insisted on taking the hottest showers possible. You began work on your hair when the water shut off, curtain swinging open, Bucky stepping out to grab a towel.

The two of you were practically pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, your elbow actually jutting out to nick his side as he toweled-off his hair. He laughed, maneuvering so that he stood behind you, his reflection towering over yours in the mirror. “I think we need a bigger place.”

He frowned, holding his hands against your hips. “But I like this place.”

You set the hot instrument on the edge of the sink, turning around in his arms. “I think we’re out of room,” you replied, thinking of the stacked up boxes of wedding gifts everyone sent you; you didn’t have anywhere to set them out or store them, thus everything remained in their boxes stacked up in your living room. Books and clothes lined every wall of your bedroom; you couldn’t fit nearly anything in the bathroom – and, hell, Bucky didn’t even fit without having to crouch under the showerhead.

He smiled down at you as you ran the brush through his freshly washed brown hair. “I guess so,” he mumbled shutting his eyes, reveling in the feeling of you softly brushing out his hair. “Plus, we’re going to be needing some more room to grow.” He peeked open his eyes, shooting a wink in your direction.

You cocked an eyebrow and yelped when his hand tucked against the underside of your thighs, pulling you up against him; you locked your ankles around his back and held onto the back of his neck, droplets of water still rolling down the nape of his neck and down his back, tickling your skin. You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“You’re telling me you want little baby Barnes running around this place? It’s kind of a hazard, (Y/N),” he teased, then pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

You rolled your eyes and pressed your hand against his chest, signaling him to drop you. Once he did, you turned around, back once again against his chest. “House first, then baby.”

“Really?” He gasped, staring at you in the mirror, wrapping your frame in a backwards hug. His eyes lit up, a huge smile creeping on his lips.

“Better get house hunting,” you said, shooing him off to get dressed so you can finally get ready for work.

Crash, fall down. I'll wrap my arms around you now. Just crash, it's our time now, To make this work, second time around.

There was a knock on your front door. You set down the sponge you were washing dishes with, placing the bowl in the drying rack next to you. Wiping your hands on your jeans as you walked over to the freshly painted door. Bucky had painted it a deep forest green before he left. You’d been waiting for ages to find the perfect color, the best shade to match the cozy, rustic – cottagecore – living space the two of you had cultivated together.

Once the door was done, you felt it was finally finished. Everything was so much bigger, but you two made sure to fill it with large, comfy furniture, displaying all of your wedding gifts graciously (and obviously Bucky’s plants). He made you wait outside while he painted the door; he didn’t want you breathing any fumes in that could harm the baby growing newly inside you. You rolled your eyes: “It’s the twenty-first century, Buck. We don’t use lead paint anymore. It’s okay – plus I want to help.” You picked up a paintbrush, reaching towards the paint can.

“(Y/N),” he groaned, grabbing a hold of your wrist, instead holding it up to his chest. “I just don’t want anything to happen. Please,” he pleaded, giving you his best puppy-dog eyes, curling out his bottom lip.

A soft smile pulled at your lips and you quit protesting. “Okay, baby,” you giggled, gazing up into his blue eyes. He pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, blushing hard as he did so, laying a hand to your lower belly. It hadn’t grown much, only three months – hell, it was still the size of a plum (which also happens to be your husband’s favorite fruit) – you weren’t even showing yet, nonetheless he was still so excited, so proud, so in love. And nothing had changed since he met you on day one. He still looked at your with the utmost admiration, a lustrous gloss in his eyes as he stared down at you. You’d only grown more beautiful by the day, to him. You were his to come home to, his to protect, his to love.

You spent the afternoon out front in the garden, pruning bushes, watering flowers, and pulling weeds. You’d detested yardwork – everybody did – but there was something about doing it while you called across the lawn to Bucky, still positioned at the front door, cracking jokes and sharing anecdotes that made it all worth it. You wouldn’t trade this for the world: to be able to do chores with Bucky, even the most menial work, because he enjoyed doing them, just because he got to do them with you.

You walked to the door, kicking a few rogue shoes out of the way, and swung it open.

You were met with the sight of a uniformed chest, straight ahead in your line of sight.

You dropped to your knees, holding your hands to your chest, feeling your heart race. You couldn’t breathe – you were almost feeling yourself for a pulse.

He knelt down and wrapped his arms around you.

It was just the two of you in that moment.

You buried your face into his chest, the tough leather scratching your face. The wetness of your tears smeared across the surface of the material, painting your cheeks. His hand rubbed up and down your back, cooing softly in your ear. You didn’t know if he said anything in that moment, your mind couldn’t register anything coming out of his mouth, your ears clouded with a loud ringing behind your eardrums.

It was a loud, open, ugly sob – you sounded like a toddler throwing a fit; damn, this was quite the tantrum.

You pulled back suddenly, fisting at the chest of his uniform. It startled him; he tore himself away from you quickly. There was no way of knowing what you looked like – eyes red and puffy, cheeks glistening with wet tears smudged along your lips and chin as well. You couldn’t even stop, as you pulled away to look into his blue eyes, your own tears kept flowing, eyebrows knitted together and breath still hitching. He looked tired – exhausted; you didn’t know how long he’d been torn up like this. His face was pale, cheeks red and irritated with tears, blue eyes filled with tears exactly like yours.

“Is he really gone?”

He stared at you for a moment, new, fresh tears flooding in his eyes and down his cheeks. He bit his bottom lip, unable to trust his own voice. But Steve found the strength to muster up two words, the words that made you bury your face into his chest again, crying harder than before:

“I’m sorry.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes #captain america #winter soldier #angst #bucky x you #angsty bucky

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hermadnessmacwrites · 3 years ago

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A Game of Puzzles (Making the Pieces Fit) Chapter 4

Summary: With the war over and Sasuke home again, Sakura is more hopeful for Team 7’s future than she has been in a long time. She’s quickly disappointed to find that nothing in the Village fits quite like it used to—not her old bedroom, not her clothes, and definitely not Team 7. Join Sakura as she scrambles to understand her place in this new team dynamic.

If she has a place there at all.

-OR-

It takes three dorks a painfully long time after moving in together to realize that they all belong together.

It’s the first time Sakura remembers October 10th ever being this...jovial.

The streets are always crowded this time of year, but the laughter seems oddly out of place. Gone are the mournful monochromatic clothes she’s used to. Everything she looks at—the clothes, the storefronts, the people—is so bright she has to work to avoid squinting.

“Oooh, Sakura, look, there’s a dango stand!”

Brightest of all is Naruto. He’s actually wearing less orange than usual, having been convinced into a pair of dark tan pants, but his expression more than makes up for the loss. Each street vendor and colored lantern is taken in with equal amounts of awe. He looks like a kid at his first birthday party, which…

...it’s a painfully accurate description. Sakura tries not to think about it.

“Didn’t you just eat like five bowls of ramen?” she teases. Naruto opens his mouth and closes it, looking for an excuse, but Sakura elbows him lightly in the side. “Just kidding, let’s go grab some. I heard they were going to add a new flavor today, too.”

Naruto’s eyes widen comically. “For me? Really?”

“Of course it’s for you,” Sasuke cuts in from behind them. Walking three across really isn’t possible in these crowds, but, like most genin teams, Team 7 feels most comfortable navigating public spaces in a loose triangle formation. “It’s not like Konoha has anything else to celebrate today, right?”

The pointed question isn’t lost on Naruto, who visibly deflates. Sakura spins to glare at Sasuke and catches a flash of a frown as his gaze drops to the pavement. It’s not Naruto that Sasuke is annoyed with, but that’s exactly who he’s hurting with his bitterness. It doesn’t take much for Naruto to swing to extreme sadness when he’s this happy, which Sasuke knows. She had hoped he would mind his temper today.

“Hey.” Sakura draws Naruto’s hand into hers and gives him her best smile. “Why don’t you take Mr. Killjoy and find a spot to sit for a bit. I’ll bring the dango over, okay?”

Naruto’s smile starts small, but quickly grows as she holds his hand.

“Yeah, I’ll keep him out of trouble,” he agrees, “Could you grab a couple different flavors?”

“As many as I can carry,” she assures him. Sakura sends one last pleading look at Sasuke before they disappear. She’s pretty sure he rolls his eyes at her, which isn’t exactly a promise to behave, but it does mean that he got the message. Probably. Hopefully.

Once Naruto is out of view, Sakura takes a quick second to get her emotions back in check. Sasuke’s right. The Village’s abrupt one eighty in its treatment of Naruto grates her nerves if she lets herself think about it for too long. They’d gone from disdain to reverence in the span of six months. Technically this is a festival celebrating the end of the war, but there’s been a fair amount of Uzumaki branded treats and well-wishes from strangers as well.

At least she had apologized.

A couple deep breaths later, Sakura’s pushing through the crowds towards the stand. There’s a line forming, but the vendor calls Sakura forward as soon as he sees her. Embarrassed, Sakura ducks her head in a small apology to the people in line as she moves past them. She doesn’t want to make more of a scene than she already is, and she really wants to get back to her team as soon as she can.

“Could I get two Hanami dango, a mitarashi dango, and a”—she cranes her neck to get a better look at the name of the new flavor from the poster on the side of the cart—“and one Uzumaki dango, please?”

“Absolutely! Would you like a Team 7 dango as well?”

“Oh!” There’s nothing about a Team 7 dango on the sign. Is that actually a thing? Did he make that up when he saw her? “Um, yes, please. Thank you.”

By the time Sakura’s done counting out her coins, the dango are being shoved towards her. She scrambles to put her money pouch away and grab her sweets without holding up the line any longer. Four of the dango end up in one hand while a white, pink, and orange dango ends up in the other. It takes her a second to realize that this is supposed to be the Team 7 dango. The anger kicks in a second later.

To be fair to the vendor, she’s never actually seen blue dango before. Then again, she’s never seen a red habanero dango before today, and that’s definitely one of the flavors on the Uzumaki stick. Choosing the white dango for Kakashi feels like a dig at Sasuke. Sakura bites the orange dumpling off the stick and chews furiously. There. Now it just looks like a partially eaten Hanami dumpling.

That “Team 7” roll better not be on the actual menu. For the vendor’s sake.

Sakura finds Naruto and Sasuke sitting on top of one of the tables in an eating area, of all places. She has no idea who’s idea that was. It’s an extremely rude thing to do with so many people looking for seats, but Sakura doesn’t really want to be joined by the type of people who are deterred by her teammates’ antics right now.

Naruto spots her first and starts waving wildly—as if she could have missed the pair of them. Sasuke turns to see who has caught Naruto’s attention. When he recognizes her, he pulls one of his legs off the bench and onto the table so she’ll have a place to sit. Naruto follows his lead, pulling both his feet off the bench and into a criss-cross position. So they were trying to deter people from sitting with them.

She’s not even mad.

“One mitarashi dango, one hanami dango, and one Uzumaki dango,” she declares, handing over her loot. Naruto cheers, promptly digging into the hanami stick as soon as it’s in his hand. He’s two dumplings deep before Sakura’s even fully seated.

Sasuke’s eyebrow raises as she nibbles on her own dango. “You got two hanami dango for yourself?”

Busted.

“Uh, one of them is for you?” she tries. At Sasuke’s unimpressed expression, she relents, “Fine. Yes, I got two hanami for myself.” He still looks skeptical for some reason, so she tries for classic misdirection, “You might actually want to try the red dumpling from the Uzumaki dango, though, I’m pretty sure it’s spicy.”

“It is?” Naruto pauses his munching on the mitarashi stick to take a bite of the red dumpling before recoiling immediately. “Ack—it is! Why is it spicy?”

Sakura laughs. “I think the colors represent your family. The orange and yellow are pretty self-explanatory, so the red is probably for your mom. For the Uzumaki hair, I’m guessing. I don’t know why they didn’t choose cherry or something, though—that would have gone better with the rest of the flavors.”

“Her nickname was the ‘Red-hot Habanero,’ so that’s probably it,” Naruto explains, his smile dimming. It’s Sasuke’s turn to glare at her, and she winces, appropriately abashed. She always manages to stick her foot in her mouth when the conversation turns to parents. “Anyway, you should try it, Sasuke. It’s not sweet, like, at all, so I bet you’ll like it.”

Sakura figures the odds are skewed sixty/fourty in favor of Sasuke rejecting the offer, but Sasuke doesn’t actually say anything at all. Instead he bends down and bites the rest of the dumpling right off the stick that Naruto’s holding. Some of the drizzling sauce clings to his lower lip, and his tongue darts out quickly to wipe it clean.

She’s not even the one holding the stick, but Sakura is absolutely certain her heart fucking stutters to a stop at the sight. Poor Naruto looks appropriately shocked. His lips are parted in a gentle “o” of surprise, and his eyes are, dare she say it, looking a little glazed over. He rallies quickly, though, shoving the rest of the Uzumaki stick right under Sasuke’s nose.

“Try the orange one next!”

“Ugh, no.” It’s Sasuke’s turn to recoil. “That one probably is sweet, dumbass.”

"Come on," Naruto wheedles,"Just take a little—wait. Wait, are you saying my mom tastes better than I do?"

"Why do you have to phrase it like that!"

The words are different, but the cadence of her teammates bickering is familiar enough that it quickly fades to the background of her attention. She works through the rest of her "hanami" roll at a leisurely pace, scanning the crowds as she does. There's so much laughter. Even actual festivals haven't been this boisterous for years.

Most of these people weren't on the war front. It's easy to resent them for that—for celebrating the anniversary of such a trying day. Victory is not a reward granted, but a luxury paid for in blood and flesh by the pound. She understands the relief, but is this much pomp and circumstance acceptable? Does a life saved by a black market kidney still deserve celebration?

Sakura doesn't know.

A child screams, high and piercing, shattering through the joyful murmur of the crowd. Her teammates' argument grinds to a halt. Sakura swivels to locate the source, and, in her periphery, she notices the majority of the adults around her do the same. Chakra flares around her as ninja spread their senses in search of a threat.

"Kenta!" a petite woman scolds, bending down, "What did I say about screaming?"

"Not to," the child mumbles. He's small enough that a picnic table nearby obscures him from Sakura's view.

"Unless?" the woman prompts. If Kenta answers, it's too quiet for her to hear.

Everyone in the vicinity, ninja and civilians alike, visibly relaxes. It's sobering to realize how on-edge they all are despite the upbeat atmosphere. Life has not been kind to Konoha's residents.

How self-absorbed of her.

No, the civilians around her didn't watch Neji die. They didn't despair as the Ten-tailed beast appeared in the battle-ground. To say they didn't know fear—didn't know suffering—is terribly short-sighted.

Konoha is a thriving militaristic society. Has been for decades. But having the pointiest sick doesn't ensure safety. Often the wielder becomes a target of others struggling to create their own rags to riches stories.

Or revenge. Pointy sticks are great at poking avengers into action.

Point is, Konoha has been leveled three times in Sakura's short time on this earth. If the civilians don't get to celebrate the peace she fought for, maybe she doesn't get to celebrate the Village they rebuilt.

Food for thought.

Sakura lays her finished dango stick on the table. The untouched dango stick sags in her hand with her increasing disinterest. Her recent train of thought is more than enough to derail her appetite entirely despite the fact that dango is one of her favorite treats.

"You okay?" Naruto asks immediately. He glances at the dango dangling in her grasp pointedly.

Sakura doesn't even have to force the smile. His concern forces its way through the heavy stormcloud of her thoughts like the sunbeam he is. Sweet. Naruto's just so sweet.

"I'm fine.” She fans herself with her free hand. "Just kinda hot, yeah? It's killing my appetite."

Naruto's expression clears immediately. "In that case, let's go get some shaved ice soon! I think I saw a vendor on our way in."

"I did not sign up to wrangle the two of you on a sugar high," Sasuke interjects sourly. Sweet sauce is smeared across his cheekbone, and there might be a crumb of fried dough occluding one nostril. Sakura chokes on a giggle which clearly earns no points from Sasuke. "No more sweets."

Sakura raises her hands in surrender, but Naruto isn't as quick to acquiesce. They start bickering, again, and as Sakura watches a dango skewer slides dangerously close to Sasuke's eye. Idiots. That does explain the out-of-place dough and sticky sauce, though.

The reprimand on her tongue withers at the enthusiastic sparkle in Naruto’s eyes as he advances further and further into Sasuke’s personal space. And Sasuke—brooding, angsty Sasuke—has a smile playing at his lips as he avoids the sticky dessert. He’s making a good show of being annoyed by his teammate’s antics, but if he was really done he’d be slapping the blond away. Angry Sasuke wouldn’t lean back unconcernedly on his only hand like that, and he certainly wouldn’t let Naruto rest his stump on his shoulder as he pesters him.

Bright. It’s so, so bright out today—ridiculously sunny for October—but no amount of sunblock would protect her from their megawatt smiles.

If the fight gets enthusiastic enough to disturb the table, she'll step in, Sakura decides, turning her head to give them a little privacy.

Or the illusion of it, anyway.

Sakura’s not sure how her teammates are able to ignore all the attention they’re attracting. The picnic table they have selected is on the outskirts of the eating area, but they might as well be on center stage. Her skin prickles under the weight of the public’s stares.

Logically, she knows the curious civilians don’t mean any harm. It’s rare that Team 7 is out in the public eye for such an extended period of time. That doesn’t stop the shinobi buried deep beneath her medic persona from sharpening her kunai warily. Sakura doesn't resent the instinct exactly—that's what keeps her alive—but she does try to shake it. The eyes on her aren't dangerous.

Just oppressive.

It’s in pretending to look out across the crowd—and ignoring the alarming number of heads that whip away from her that she does—that she notices them.

A trio of girls sit at two tables away from them at a diagonal. Four older women share the table, but there's enough space between the two to make it clear that they're separate parties. And anyway, the women are laughing, with clenched eyes and wide smiles. The younger ones, though, they're tittering. The sound is sharper than the murmuring of the crowd around them, which is probably why they stood out to her in the first place.

In their mirth, they haven’t noticed Sakura’s attention. One of the girls has a blush dark enough to match the hair of the girl digging an elbow playfully into her side. She can’t see the face of the final member of the trio, but her shoulders shake in obvious laughter under long, black hair. Suddenly the girl’s arms come up in an exaggerated stretch before dropping to her hips so she can make a show of twisting and stretching her back. Not bad for a civilian. Sakura would have almost believed her if not for how quickly she turned back to her friends after a less than sneaky peek at Team 7’s table.

Any amusement she might have held for the girls’ antics slip away immediately. Clearly the trio isn’t looking at Sakura, or they would have noticed her attention. The number of times they’ve all slid glances her direction is too high to be a coincidence, however, which only leaves one option.

The boys.

Now it’s abundantly clear what the brunette is being teased about. It’s been a while since the Academy, but Sakura has sent her share of moonstruck looks a certain Uchiha’s way. She knows what it feels like—what it looks like—to laugh and tease over crushes. Her eyebrows narrow fiercely for all that she tries to keep her expression neutral. The only real question left is: which boy are they looking at?

Four years ago, the answer would have been Sasuke hands down. His sharp features and aloof personality are easily misread as the mysterious persona of at least fifty percent of the love interests in romance novels. Barely dodged war crimes have tamped down the general enthusiasm for Sasuke, though there is always the chance the girl thinks she has a thing for “bad boys.”

Sakura hopes not, for her sake. Sasuke’s particular brand of “rebel with a cause” needs at least three years of serious training and an instruction manual the size of one of her medical textbooks to have any chance of walking away unscathed. Even then nightmares and traumatic events are pretty much a given.

Naruto laughs, loudly, and throws his head back enough to give a clear view of the syrup that drips down his chin. The brunette’s expression softens, and Sakura can hear the lovesick sigh she heaves from twenty feet away. So Naruto is the object of her affection. The realization makes her stomach twist.

There’s a sharp crack, and Sakura’s dango drops to the grass beneath them. She blinks, confused. The bottom half of the stick is still clenched tightly in her fist. It takes longer than it should to notice the splintered edge of the stick and piece together what happened.

“Are you alright?” It’s Sasuke that asks this time.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.” Sakura bends down to grab her dango from the ground. She hadn’t planned on eating it anyway, but the grass coating the dumplings means that’s not an option for later anymore. “I just, ah—”

Before Sakura can come up with an excuse for her ill-timed use of super strength, the tittering behind them grows in volume enough to catch Sasuke’s attention this time. Sakura’s eyes flit to the trio of girls automatically, and they are looking at her now. Great. Even the blushing brunette has joined in the action, so Sakura knows that the laughs are meant for her. She grinds her teeth together. They’re civilians. Sakura can’t go around just laying civilians out because she feels like it.

“That’s enough time in the sun,” Sasuke declares, sliding off of the table top. He shoots a viscous glare over his shoulder. Sakura shouldn’t find so much satisfaction in how rapidly the giggles grind to a halt, but she does. The knots her intestines have tied themselves into loosen enough that she can take aim with a sharp smile of her own.

“Guys…?” Naruto asks. He can tell that something is going on, but doesn’t have enough information to piece the story together as Sasuke did. Blonde eyebrows furrow lightly as he glances from his teammates to the girls’ table.

The brunette has the audacity to sigh again. Every muscle in Sakura’s body tenses for a fight, and she doesn’t even pause to think about how ridiculous her reaction is. It’s not like she has any sort of claim over Naruto. Sasuke is the one who has been messily sharing finger food with him this whole afternoon. If anyone has any right to feel the sudden rage coursing through their body, it’s him. How dare that girl assume she has a chance when Naruto is clearly taken?

Sure enough, Sasuke’s expression has doubled in intensity. Disgust and possessiveness mix in equal measure on his face as his lip curls up and over his teeth. He probably doesn’t even realize what an overprotective boyfriend he looks like, and Sakura can only watch smugly as the girls wilt under his glare. Serves them right.

“We’re getting out of here,” Sasuke declares, firmly. He turns away from the trio before hefting Naruto off the table and over his shoulder in one fluid motion. Naruto squawks in surprise, understandably, but Sasuke’s malice is clearly not directed at him, so he allows himself to be carted away with only token protests. “Let’s go, Sakura.”

The urge to gloat is irresistible. Sakura tosses a taunting wink that the girls are too shell-shocked to react to before falling into her place at her boys’ backs. The rage and, okay, she’ll admit it, jealousy that bubbled up so unexpectedly earlier washes away in the face of her contentment. Maybe neither Sasuke or Naruto are hers in the romantic sense, but they’re hers in all the other ways that matter.

Sakura will guard their backs for as long as they let her with a smile in her heart.

Read the rest of the chapter on ao3

#hermadnessmac writes #Team 7 ot3 #NaruSasuSaku #Team 7 moves in together #A Game of Puzzles (Making the Pieces Fit)#Read on AO3

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crimsonbluemoon · 5 years ago

Note

6, 3, 7 H2OVanoss! You know me heh ( •ॢᴗ•ॢ⋈)

Ahhh Owlbun! So I hope this fits the perimeters of a cute-meet cause I don’t know if it does but I think it does? Idk, its cute, please enjoy this mess of a story. >.> It’s a diff style than I normally do, but….hope it works out!

AU: Coffee shopTrope: Meet cutePrompt: “You had no idea, did you?”

Pairing: H2O Vanoss

If Evan was being honest, he hadn’t expected the chalkboard wall at his coffee shop to make much of a difference. The Owl Cafe was a staple in the community, and he had an okay group of regulars that liked to come in and check out his new blends on the daily. There were ones he knew by name, like the 6 year old girl Momo who loved Brian’s hot chocolate, or the late-night writer Kryoz who always seemed to appear when the place was deserted. Some regulars he didn’t catch names for, so he titled them as he saw fit; Runner man, vlogger teen, cute sweatshirt guy. All had their place in his cafe, which was steady in its sales. He wasn’t rolling in cash, but it was enough to pay Brock and Brian, so he felt that he was doing alright.

The chalkboard had been something of a whim. A friend when he was younger had a wall in his bedroom with chalkboard paint that Evan had always enjoyed drawing on before bed. When he’d bought the cafe two years ago, he hadn’t really remembered the fun times he had scribbling across the bedroom wall. He was too focused on payments and attracting customers to stroll down memory lane. That had changed three months ago when bumping into Lui, the two speaking about their times as a child. The wall came up, of course, and Evan couldn’t let the memory go for days after. Lots of his customers had children, and college kids were always quick to bore when waiting for coffee. So one night, after a really good week at the shop, Evan went out and bought the paint in order to make his wall next to the waiting area a drawing board.

The result was amazing; people loved coming by and adding their own doodles to the wall, filling it with different styles of art or funny sayings. There were always the punks who tried to draw dicks or write derogatory marks, but street justice tended to stop the crimes far quicker than Evan or his friends picked up on them. Evan enjoyed looking at the board at the end of the night, seeing what secrets it held from the customers he served. He tried to guess who drew what, or where each blurb of inspiration writing came from. Was the struggling mother of three the one who drew the calm beach? Did the preppy college girl express her darker thoughts in the corner of the board? Or was that old couple who shared a coffee really sweet enough to write their 70th anniversary with a heart around it? All of the pieces of the board was a collection of minds, hearts, and souls, and the nights didn’t feel complete for the shop owner without gazing at them in appreciation.

His favorite part was the confessions; like an anonymous message board, people left words of secrecy every day. Evan felt it was a safe way for customers to express themselves without having to reveal their identity, and so far he hadn’t gotten any confessions that worried him. Brock always enjoyed reading the romantic ones where someone would claim their love for a friend, an ex, or a person they could never have. Brian’s favorites were the weird claims; he made Evan keep the ‘I like smelling feet’ confession up for three days. Evan couldn’t really say he had a type he sought out, because all of them were fun to read. If anything, he liked taking in the handwriting of the confessions, seeing whose were quaking with fear or more broad with confidence that only anonymity provided.

It was nearly two months into owning the board that a message caught his eye; it didn’t have much color or outlandish design to it, so Evan wasn’t sure why it stuck out to him so much. But the writing just…looked different. Friendly. A little messy but with long enough strokes to show some care went into it. The words only took up a small part of the board.

I come here every day because I think the owner is nice. And maybe cute? I wanted to ask for his name, but I’m too nervous.

Evan blinked in surprise, feeling his face heat up when he read it again. Someone…confessed about him? It was sort of risky, since this was his shop and he could have checked in on the board at any time, but it was also endearing. Someone was too shy to approach Evan, but felt strong enough about him to confess on his wall? He read the line two more times while he cleaned off every other drawing and confession, leaving the words in the middle of the board. Slowly, his eyes dropped down to the basket of chalk at the bottom of the wall, fingers twitching by his side. Despite having it for months, he’d never actually written on it. He left designing the morning greeting to Brock, as he was the artistic one of the three. But now…

He kept the confession where it was, drawing a little circle around it with the red chalk. Then, with block letters bright enough to catch any returning customer’s attention, he wrote out a simple reply.

It’s Evan. Nice to meet you.

He didn’t think about the teasing Brian would rain on him, or how unlikely it was for him to get a response. The confessions were meant to be anonymous, not openers for conversation. So sure that his words would be left unanswered, Evan didn’t look once at the board the following day, trying to keep focused on making his customer’s happy. Any time he wasn’t working, he rushed into the back, trying to stay occupied so he didn’t stare at the wall. The day dragged on forever, but when the final customer was out the door, Evan nearly fell flat on his face vaulting over the counter to move to the board.

“Desperate much, buddy?” Brian’s shout from across the shop went ignored when Evan scanned the wall, looking for any sign of a response. At first, the words around the response were disheartening; nothing connected to what he’d said. The drawings were still cute, and he wanted to read the confessions, but his heart slightly dropped at the sight. Had he scared off the anonymous messenger? He felt his frown start to capture his lips, but then his eye picked up on something. A blue circle had been wrapped around Evan’s words, and a line of chalk was drawn to the left of the board. Curious, his eyes tracked the line. Like thread in a maze, Evan was led to a familiar handwriting.

Your name fits you! I’m…Jonathan. Is that okay?

“Jonathan.” He rolled the name around in his mouth, his smile small when he finished. He knew instantly what his new secret penpal was asking, and he found the red chalk from before in order to scribble out his answer.

That’s totally okay. I bet your name fits you, too, though I’m not sure who you are. Care to give me a hint?

And for the next two weeks, the hints poured out.

I like to wear blue a lot. Luke says it matches my eyes. But I think yours are prettier.

Evan counted seventy three customers with blue eyes who wore blue that day, but it did little to limit his search.

I saw you drop that lady’s coffee on purpose. She deserved it for treating Brock like that. You’re a really good boss.

The incident had been in the morning around rush hour, which probably meant his penpal was at least his age.

You only wear hats when you clean the mocha machine; it really looks good on you.

Except this was something he did at night, so maybe he had different shifts throughout the week?

Whenever little Momo comes in, you always give her the best smile. Sometimes I wish you’d smile at me like that.

Evan’s face hurt from how many smiles he gave out that day, but there had been nobody who hinted at knowing why he’d been grinning so much.

You’re so beautiful. I really want to ask you on a date.

Evan’s face flush red for the rest of the night.

After the days of trying to piece together just who ‘Jonathan’ was, Evan was almost ready to throw in the towel. The little banter between them was fun, and peeks of Jonathan’s personality came out with doodles or smilies at the end of his sentences. He mentioned his friends, his dog, and if Evan closed his eyes, he could almost make out a voice to the words. Everything just felt so familiar about this guy, like he was already seated comfortably in Evan’s life. But he just couldn’t come up with a name, or anything to sink his teeth into.

So, with a shot of courage (Brian may have supplied the alcohol) and nothing to lose, Evan wrote out one final message.

Anything but coffee, and I’ll say yes.

Evan tried not to look at the board, just like the first day, hoping he wouldn’t scare away his crush by staring the wall down. Brock and Brian helped distract him, jokingly picking out old men and toddlers as ‘his secret admirer’ before laughing at the outlandish suggestions. Evan tried to smile and joke with them, but his shaking hands when giving out the orders always proved how nervous he was. Each time a customer came up to him, his back tensed, wondering if it’d be his penpal. But they never were, always asking for sugar or a bag for their half eaten muffin.

When the last minutes of the day ticked away, and just a few regular souls lingered in the cafe, Evan finally broke. He left Brian and Brock behind the counter to walk up to the wall, hands shoved in the pockets of the apron to hide his twitching fingers. Slowly, his eyes scanned the board, trying to find the blue handwriting he’d grown to adore over the couple weeks he’d gotten to see it. But there was nothing; his crush hadn’t replied.

“I scared him away.” Evan sighed and pressed his head to the chalkboard, eyes closing in defeat. His shoulders slumped down, unable to hide his disappointment. He’d just wanted to know who this guy was, because starting to fall for a chalkboard he technically owned was starting to feel a little creepy-

“Um.” An unsure voice made Evan bite back a groan, trying to keep his composure. Even if he was being ghosted by an anonymous customer, it didn’t mean he could ignore his other ones. Pulling back from the wall, Evan turned to catch sight of a familiar face. Cute sweatshirt guy had been a regular for months, always polite but never one to really engage in much conversation with Evan or the others. He always contributed it to the slight stutter in his speech, which only seemed to come out in longer sentences. It was actually kind of late for cute sweatshirt guy to be at the cafe; he’d bought his coffee close to an hour ago, and though he normally left right after, he’d seemed to linger now. He’d been one of the people who’d come up to Evan, looking like he was going to burst out in a confession, only to ask for creamer.

And sugar.

And a new cup.

…And more creamer.

For a coffee he always drank black.

“Wait.” Evan’s breath hitched in his throat as his eyes widened on the blue gaze nervously watching him, fingers curled into the worn down sweatshirt that was identical in color.

“Yeah, I’m-that was me. Jonathan. Who you were-I’m the guy tha–that, um, fuck. Luke said I should’ve just-but the wall was…was our thing.” Jonathan’s face lit up in color at the confession, the nervous laugh that poured out loud and uncontrolled. It echoed from the emptiness of the cafe, and both men jumped when Brian swore and knocked over a stack of cups in surprise. Tagging that as future Evan’s problem, he turned his attention back to Jonathan, who looked ready to let his sweatshirt swallow him whole. The smile he gave only lifted half his mouth, proving he didn’t feel confident. “You had no idea, did you?”

“None,” Evan admitted, hands pulling out of his apron at the defeated look that sunk over Jonathan.

“Right, that’s- I don’t have to ask you on a date if this isn’t what you…if I’m not who you-”

“Ask me!” Evan cut him off fast, not wanting to let Jonathan feel rejected for a second longer. He rushed forward, snagging hands that tugged the end of torn sleeves to entwine their fingers. Blue eyes widened above him, but Evan refused to let his racing heart of reddened cheeks stop him from repeating his confession from before. “Anything but coffee, and I’ll say yes.”

“Dinner? Can I-would you like to get food with me tomorrow?” Like a puppy, Jonathan’s body perked up at the possibility. Evan laughed before lifting their hands to cup Jonathan’s cheeks. He pushed up onto his toes, feeling the slight intake of his customer’s breath before he answered with a kiss.

But just to be safe, he wrote ‘yes’ on the chalkboard the next morning.

#kihoori #H2O Vanoss #H2O Delirious #VanossGaming #OTP boys #<3 #Crimson drabblez

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therewasatale · 5 years ago

Text

Puns and lanterns

On Ao3.

You looked up at the clock hanging on the wall. It was half past eight in the evening, meant you still had half an hour to get to the meeting place. You planned with Sans that you two would meet at the foot of Mount Ebott and from there you two will visit one of the lookouts around it.

Quickly packed everything in your bag, slipping your lighter into the pocket of your blue jacket before starting your way out. When you passed in front of the wardrobe, you stopped to stroke the head of the little black cat resting on your jackets.

"Don't wait for me Spot! I'm coming back late tonight, maybe just tomorrow round dawn!"

You could hear a lazy meow from the cat as a response, just before the door closed behind you.

Surprisingly, the traffic was quiet busy in the city for this part of the day. You had bypassed small groups of people here and there, children's laughter mixed into the air. Although the number of monsters was small so far, the two races lived in peace in the city.

You hurried past a family and with a smile nodded your head towards them.

"Good evening Grillby."

The flame monster gestured and although it was hard to read anything from his face, for a moment you felt like he was giving you a friendly smile. His daughter, who unlike her father, had a greenish flame, waved at you. You returned the gesture before disappearing into the crowd.

You quickened your pace but made sure that your bag and especially its contents are safe on your way. Luckily, the whole event was put on until the end of the summer, so despite the fact that sundown was more than a couple of hours ago the air was still pleasantly warm. The police was there making sure the people weren’t pushing each other and everyone have someplace.

Halfway down the main road, you heard the very familiar sound of a skeleton.

"AND SO ME AND MY BROTHER ARE GOING TO FLY UP THEN! NYEH HEH HEH!"

"I really like it Papyrus!"

"YOURS IS LOVELY TOO, FRISK. LOOK (Y/N) HAS ALSO ARRIVED!"

You waved at the three monster and the children.

"Good evening, everyone."

*heya, (y/n).

You tried to ignore the warmth that flushed across your face and hoped no one would notice your embarrassment.

"GOOD EVENING (Y/N). READY FOR THE FLYING OF THE LAMPS?"

"I think they are called sky lanterns, Papyrus. Good evening, (Y/N)." Toriel nodded her head at you and gently patted Frisk's shoulder. They waved at you standing next their mother. The goat monster held a beautifully crafted pulp lantern in her free hand, which was decorated in all sorts of colors, probably by Frisk.

Looking at the lantern in Papyrus' hand, you were almost certain that it depicted him and Sans.

"Evening everyone. I'm glad to find you here, Miss Toriel." You knelt down and unzipped your bag.

"Come on, Toriel is more than enough." She smiled warmly.

You nodded and pulled out a bowl. "Last time, when Frisk was at my place, they really liked my pear cake. So I threw together some." You handed the plastic food container to the child. "I hope you will find it just as tasty this time too."

Frisk's eyes glinted with hunger, but before snatching the cake away they stopped and looked up at Toriel. She nodded softly, giggling.

"Really kind of you, thank you very much."

"Don’t mention it, I did some for you too Papyrus, Sans, I hope you accept."

"HOW KIND OF YOU, (Y/N). IN RETURN THAT I SHALL MAKE YOU ONE OF MY SPECTACULAR SPHAGETTIS TOMORROW."

*Paps makes the best spaghetti in the world.

"(Y/N), you will have bone appetite for sure." Said Toriel.

Sans chuckled a little. You nodded with a faint smile, but under it, something unpleasant stirred in your soul.

"PLEASE, MISS TORIEL." Papyrus snorted painfully.

You handed Sans the food container and then took out your own lantern from the bag. Yours had eight hearts painted in a circle, seven of us possessed the color of the qualities from which humans were able to gain strength, but one was snow-white like the soul of monsters. In addition, beneath the green heart there was a slightly childishly drawing of a cat with a white spot on its belly. You’ve never been famous for your drawing talent, but you liked it and maybe that was enough.

"I think it's time to go. It will start soon." Toriel patted Frisk's head and they started on their way, Papyrus followed them with big steppes.

At last Sans glanced up at you.

*shall we go too?

You nodded and slid one of your hand into your pocket, searching for your lighter.

It has been almost 500 years since the war ended with the monsters. They reappeared out from nowhere more than a year ago. Fortunately, the primary shock was handled well by the leaders of the city and country. No one wanted more war, and with both sides having that common goal, negotiations soon began.

The first couple of weeks felt like both humans and monsters were walking on eggshells. There were small bumps on the road, like where to place the monsters and the speed of their integration into society. The latter went surprisingly easily, thanks to the technical sophistication of the monsters, and Frisk, who was very helpful for both parties.

They moved into the town next to the mountain a few months ago, and in the meantime you got to know the two skeletons. At first, Papyrus who tried to adopt and bring home a stray cat he found.

You didn’t even know why exactly, but you greeted him and you two started talking. You were soon captivated by the naive and over-the-top kindness of the skeleton, and when you met his brother, the world turned upside down for you. After about two weeks later, not only the two brothers, but Frisk too was your guest, even though before that you had a guest maybe every six months or so. And of course your life became richer with Spot, your cat too.

Soon after the visits, you found yourself thinking about Sans all day, and weeks later you realized that your awakening feelings might not be unrequited. Ever since the monsters entered your life, your world became filled with colour. Maybe that’s how you got the idea for the eight hearts when you were thinking about your sky lantern.

Walking down the path, you glanced down at San's hand and gently reached out to touch his bone-hand. The monster smiled up at you and took your hand.

You felt yourself lucky, and for the first time in your life, really happy. But of course perfection only exist in fairy tales. You looked at Toriel and the unpleasant feeling from before tried to take hold of you, but you didn’t let it. A lovely night, that’s all what you wanted and frustrating thoughts were not needed for that.

"Well, we arrived." Toriel stopped at the edge of the lookout. The mountain was secured after the incident when Frisk disappeared, and after the monsters appeared, several lookouts and resting places were built on it. The huge crate created at the emergence of the monster was covered up with magic.

"IT'S STARTING!" Papyrus excitedly pointed between two trees, above the ground in the air a few slowly rocking lanterns were already ascending lazily toward the stars.

"Come on, I have a lighter," with a soft smile you helped to light the little candle in their lantern and then your own. The flame burned with a green light and the warm air lifted the lantern from your hands.

Around the mountain, hundreds of glowing dots, like yours, headed for the starry sky. In parts of the city, the streetlights were turned off to make the stars and lanterns more visible.

"How beautiful." Toriel took Frisk in his arms and they gazed up at the sky.

"LIKE SMALL COLOURFULL STARS!"

*i have to admit, this kind of anniversary celebration was a really good idea.

You took a deep breath with your hands still in your pockets. As you watched the sky the forest surrounding the mountain slowly filled with the sense of magic, the feeling gently spread through your body. For the first time since long ago, a peaceful feeling enveloped Mount Ebott.

The night of the lanterns was the idea of the city administration. To celebrate a day when humans and monsters finally decided to live side by side in peace again. News outlets and papers made the announcement that there won't be another war with the monsters. It's been exactly a year.

Frisk's softly sniffed, yet the noise was somehow happy instead of sad.

"Oh, my child." Her mother hugged them closer. "Everything alright?"

The child nodded and hugged her back.

"DON'T CRY HUMAN! EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE NOW! IT'S THANK YOU THAT EVERYONE CAN LIVE IN PEACE!"

You handed Frisk a handkerchief, they nodded as a thank and sent a smile to you.

*we sure wouldn't be here without you, kiddo.

You gently patted Sans hand and turned your eyes towards the sky too.

"Look, Frisk," you pointed out the lanterns furthest up the sky. They flared up and then the flames stretched across the sky. Thanks to the many different coloured flames, the spectacle was as of the northern lights have unfolded in the sky. The stars smiled down at you like tiny, shining eyes.

You couldn’t decide if Frisk or Papyrus was more impressed with what you saw. Still, you too wanted to keep the memory of this evening forever in your soul.

Maybe a half hour later most of the families headed home, you saw several sleeping kids hanging around their parents’ necks as they walked down on the side of the mountain. The evening had achieved exactly what they wanted, everyone felt like that the things are going well. Monsters and humans alike.

"It's time we go."

"MY GREATNESS IS SPENT FOR TODAY! BUT JUST FOR TODAY, TOMORROW IS A NEW DAY AND MORE AWESOMENESS WAIT FOR US."

*let's go, Paps.

You glanced at them with a smile. "It was nice to see you all. I'll stay a little longer here, but I wish you all a good night."

"Good night, don't catch a cold." Toriel nodded, holding the sleeping Frisk in her arms and began to walk home.

*sure, come bro, I know a shortcut.

"THIS WILL KEEP YOU WARN, (Y/N). YOU CAN RETURN IT TOMORROW WHEN WE MEET. NYEHEHEHE!" Papyrus suddenly wrapped his scarf around your neck and hurried after Sans.

*you're so cool bro.

With a warm smile, you pulled the scarf in front of your face and giggled a little as you smelled a faint scent of spaghetti.

You felt very, very lucky to have friends like that. You didn’t even notice as you slowly started to stroke the red fabric as you watched the remaining lanterns climbing up to the sky. This evening, even if you only managed to meet them for a short time, was wonderful.

A year ago, you would have watched some series until dawn, and then fallen asleep in front of the screen. To be completely honest, it still happens time to time, but you always have some company for it, either Spot, or Sans. In occasions, even Papyrus and Frisk will join in on the binge watching. This was the reason why you recently bought a bed that was so big it took up most of the space in your bedroom. At least in exchange it can hold three people comfortably when it came to that. It happened so surprisingly, you hardly even realized how much your life had changed.

You sat down on the stone bench built on the edge of the lookout and took out the smallest container from your bag. Just to be sure, since you didn’t know how long you’d be away, you also packed yourself a slice of pie. The pleasant aroma of pear immediately hit your nose as you popped open the top, but at the same time, a twitch of unnerving feeling began to step out from the door you shut it behind. It all made no sense, and yet. You tapped a small rhythm on the plastic, but before you could put it away someone spoke up before you.

*may I join?

You turned towards the direction of the voice and nodded towards the place beside you with a smile.

Sans sat down with his usual grin on his face.

*that scarf looks good on you. not as good as on Papyrus, but you are the second coolest figure who ever wore it.

You placed a kiss on his cheek and chuckled as his eyes flashed up bluish for a few seconds.

*hey.

"Thank you" you offered him the slice of pie "Here, I'll share what little I have with you."

*oh, thank you. As Toriel said, bone appetite.

Snorting you shook your head. You could see as his smile becoming wider.

"Appetite." Even the very last lampions disappeared up in the sky. You didn't even notice that you sighed softly.

*hm? everything is all right?

You nodded, but you couldn’t even convince yourself with that weak response.

*(Y/N)?

His voice was much more serious now, that was enough to make you talk even though you couldn't look at him.

"I just..." you folded your arms in frustration "ah, I'm sorry, Its…I think I'm jealous."

*jealous?

Sans handed you a bite of cake. You looked at the cookie in confusion.

"Sans…" You chuckled gently and placed a kiss on his cheek before you looked into his eyes.

"Well, you know, I'm not as good at puns like you and Toriel, and you two are so comfortable together." You rubbed your neck. "And sometimes I remember what you told me about how you met. How well you two were getting along, even after you have been freed from down there… And, I don't know...I know, I just know." You looked down at him in silence.

In response, the skeleton just set the food aside and leaned gently against you.

In the sky, the last late coming streak of light disappeared and only the stars remained.

*welp, Tori may know a few good jokes, but in the past we couldn't really have anything else to pass the time with

You gently caressed the bones of his hand.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. It's just, ah... stupid, I'm sorry."

Sans hummed slowly, thinking for a while.

*you're really are different, and you may not love my great humor, but you accepted the cat my brother wanted to save, but had no place with us.

"Well, I just wanted to help... and it was about staying with me temporarily, but Spot and I soon get used to each other really quickly."

*you also ate a plate of Papyrus's spaghetti.

"The combination of egg ketchup and bacon was a new flavor in spaghetti, but it turned out quite tasty for me"

*you got along with the kid right away too.

"Frisk is a very kind and intelligent kid who loves fantasy tales, so we had a lot to talk about."

*and it didn't bother you that I slept all night on the couch while Papyrus occupied your bed.

"Okay," you shook your head with a small sigh. "At that night I was just really embarrassed and you two were very cute and I didn’t want to be rude and also you looked very tired. Moving into the city is really exhausting after all. "

*and in addition to these, you even tolerate my horrible jokes, it's a miracle that I didn't end up with you sooner.

You tried to ignore your burning and blushing face, holding a small bite of the pie in front of Sans mouth. He chuckled and accepted and left you a few moments to calm your fiercely beating heart.

"Well...well, um..."

*hm? splendid pie.

"I'm glad, and well," you cleared your throat, "well you can say, we are pear-fect for each other." You looked aside "because the pie... so you mean...pear...I'm so bad at this, I'm sorry."

*damn i love ya so much.

Sans suddenly hugged you tightly and hid his face in your clothes.

You needed a few moments to gather yourself. You gently hugged him back and kissed the top of his skull. You were sure that that your heart was beating so fast that he could feel it clearly.

"I love you too."

For you, the glittering light of the stars was nothing compared to the blue shine of by Sans' heart.

#undertale #undertale fanfiction #sans the skeleton #sans #reader #papyrus #toriel #frisk #sans x reader #undertale imagine #undertale imagines #sans imagine #copper

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swan--writes · 5 years ago

Note

Hey! How about "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me" for the Feb asks?

I did not edit this. At all. Not a single sentence. Heard you were having a rough time though, so I wanted to get this out tonight. I hope you feel better, and if you need to talk you can chat with me!

Warnings: VERY negative self-talk, total despondence, just a really bad day man

Words: ~1,380 (this will probably be the longest request I write this month)

What’s the matter with the clothes I’m wearing?

You held the thick paper with one hand, shading with the other.

Can’t you tell that your tie’s too wide?

The radio played softly in the background. You sat hunched over your wooden kitchen table, the light hitting the page just right through the window.

Maybe I should buy some old tab collars?

“It’s a sign,” came a voice from over your shoulder.

Welcome back to the age of jive.

“What’s a sign?” you murmured. You didn’t look up from the comic strip you were working on. It was your morning warm-up – a pointless little piece about two chairs having an existential debate à la Calvin and Hobbes. Personally, you agreed with the sturdy, elegant armchair, but of course, the folding chair had the final word.

Dewey turned up the radio, then set his briefcase on the bench beside the door. Dewey with a briefcase was still a very…very strange sight, but Peggy and Ned had given it to him for his birthday a few days ago and damnit, he was going to use it whether he liked it or not.

Your boyfriend came to stand before you. “Look at me.” Serenely, you obliged. Shiny oxford shoes, grey pants, scarlet and burnt orange knit vest over a white button down and orange tie, floppy wavy hair. “I look ridiculous. I can’t go out like this, there’s no way.”

Where have you been hidin’ out lately, honey?

Raising an eyebrow, you let go of your pencil and stood. “Well yeah, you gotta tuck your shirt in.” Dewey’s breath went shallow when you straightened, only a few inches from his soft, stunning body. “Where’s your belt?” You lifted your leg over the chair you had been sitting on and hopped away from the table, heading over to the coffee maker.

You can’t dress this trashy till you spend a lot of money.

“Uh, it’s in the bathroom. Always forget it.” You smirked at his breathy tone, loving the affect you had on him. “Um…” Dewey’s feet seemed to carry him toward the bathroom before he had made a decision. Swaying to the music, you poured the rest of the coffee you had made earlier into a travel mug, spooned in some sugar, screwed on the top, and shook it. He always swore he could tell when his coffee was stirred, and apparently it threw off his whole day.

Dewey came back into the kitchen, going to stand where he had been moments earlier. His button down was tucked in now, and he wore a belt. You walked up to him, handed him the travel mug, and loosened his tie.

“You’re trying way too hard, love.”

“Right,” he laughed shakily.

Everybody’s talkin’ ‘bout the new sound…

When you slipped his down out from his collar, you could feel the heat radiating from his neck. You smiled at him sweetly, kissed his cheek, and smacked his hip gently with the tie like you would with a dish towel. “Enjoy the meeting.” He nodded, picked up his briefcase, and rushed through the door before you could do anything else.

Funny, but it’s still rock and roll to me.

You spent the full day drawing comic after comic, writing plotline after plotline, singing along with old song after old song.

Nothing seemed to turn out right. You tried turning off the music, it was too quiet. You tried turning it up, it was too distracting.

Oh, it doesn’t matter what they say in the papers ‘cause it’s always been the same old scene.

You moved with the sunlight. You took breaks, dancing around the living room of the apartment you and Dewey shared.

There’s a new band in town but you can’t get the sound from a story in a magazine…

You doodled aimlessly in the cheap sketchbook Dewey had given you for your anniversary. But nothing you tried helped. Nothing worked. Eight hours and you had not produced a single goddamn worthwhile thing. How – fucking how did this become your job?

Aimed at your average teen.

Eventually, you collapsed onto the couch, your legs hanging over the arm.

That’s how Dewey found you when he came home after music coaching. The plan had been for him to get changed and get a drink with Ned and some other guys they had gone to high school with. The plan had been that you would be at home working all day. The plan went out the third story window and crashed to its rather graphic death the moment he saw you lying half-on the couch, staring at the ceiling with your hands clasped on your abdomen like a corpse.

Ooh, what’s the matter with the crowd I’m seeing?

“Honey, what are you doing?” he asked, not entirely without humor but clearly concerned. You couldn’t see him, he was standing at your feet and you were still staring at the ceiling, but you imagined a creased brow and a nervous smile. You shrugged as best you could with your shoulders pressed into the cushion beneath you.

Don’t you know that they’re out of touch?

“Chillin’. Maxin’, relaxin’. How are the kids?”

“Stuck up little brats.”

Well, should I try to be a straight-A student?

“Talented brats,” you pointed out. He made a playfully indignant noise. “You love those guys.”

“Yeah…” For the first time since Dewey had left that day, you smiled.

If you are, then you think too much.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. It wasn’t often that his tone became this gentle, but when it did you knew you couldn’t brush him off if you tried. Dewey came to sit on the couch. You thought he would sit beside your head, but instead he slipped his soft, strong hands under your head and the center of your shoulders and lifted your head into his lap. He stroked your hair and leaned back, clearly prepared to listen to you.

Don’t you know about the new fashion, honey?

“Nothing I do is good enough,” you rasped, gravity pulling an involuntary tear from the corner of your eye.

All you need are looks and a whole lotta money.

“That’s not true.” You shook your head at Dewey’s insistence. What did he know about visual arts? This was your job, not his. And you were failing. But trying to explain it to him would be too much, and you knew it.

“Forget it,” you said, stretching an arm across your torso. “Can you just scratch my arm?”

It’s the next phase, new wave, dance craze, anyways…

“Uh-uh, not until you talk to me.”

The sigh that escaped you nearly took out a lung tissue sample. Dewey just raised his eyebrows and waited. You forced yourself to speak through your readily tightening throat. “We all have industry standards, and I am falling miserably behind.”

It’s still rock and roll to me.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” you insisted.

“Y’know who else fell behind?” You simply watched him and waited. “Every artist who’s ever lived. Me. This time last year, I was a basement-dwelling trashcan who literally impersonated my best friend so I wouldn’t get kicked out.” His voice was flat but sympathetic, pressing against the doubts crashing through your head and trying to force them behind the dam that had been in place that morning. “So get out all the dumb shit. Trust me, I know it’s in there.”

At that, you had to laugh. You couldn’t help it.

He laughed with you and slowly started scratching your arm soothingly. “I’m serious, let yourself make terrible art! We went to the battle of the bands with a song written by a ten year-old because I couldn’t write anything worthwhile. It’s okay to make bad art–even just art that you think is bad. Just make art, a’right?” Dewey lifted your hand and kissed it.

“But it’s my job,” you protested, voice cracking.

“Technically, teaching was my job, and look how that turned out.

“It turned out perfectly.”

“I almost got arrested, Y/N!”

Everybody’s talkin’ ‘bout the new sound…

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled. He laughed at you and nuzzled the back of your hand.

Funny, but it’s still rock and roll to me.

Buy Me a Coffee?

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ravenbrenna09 · 5 years ago

Text

Unattainable - Chapter Five

AO3

...

You guys know what's coming 😏😏😏

I apologize for such a long wait for this chapter. School started back up this week and I'm TRYING to be a good student/get ahead and keep up on my homework so I won't be completely overwhelmed by homework later on in the semester. I'm going to try and get the remaining chapters written, at least roughly, before the end of this three-day weekend or later this week, but I want to write the best that I can for you guys so I'm not going to stress myself out about it.

But, thank you guys for being patient with me. I'm so glad that all of you are enjoying this story and can't wait to see more.

I love you all. Enjoy!

...

bold = sending; italics = receiving (in terms of texts)

...

“You lost miserably!” Robbe teased, elbowing Jens roughly in the side. His black-haired best friend rolled his eyes, shoving him back in the shoulder as he drew Lucas closer against his body with the harsh winter wind blowing them in the face.

Of the group’s significant others, Lucas had been the only one interested in going to play a round of mini-golf with the rest of the group and Noor had decided to hang out at the apartment, waiting for their arrival. Robbe isn’t sure why Amber hadn’t joined them. Jens’ birthday wasn’t for a couple of weeks but, after Moyo had let it slip about possibly mini-golf, he had exclaimed that he didn’t want to do that on his birthday, he wanted to do it now. So, they had spent the better part of Saturday morning at an indoor, blacklight minigolf place, laughing at the way that their teeth glowed purple and going through a second time when Jens and Moyo tied the first time around.

Though all of them played, Moyo had a higher score of the two (Robbe had technically won the second set).

Lucas drew his arms tighter around Jens’ shoulders, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “Well, you’re my miserable loser.”

Jens laughed, and so did the others, as he turned to press a kiss against Lucas’ lips, gripping his shoulder with one hand as he reached to slap Robbe upside the head with the other. “Thanks, babe.”

“Gross,” Aaron spoke. The comment was light-hearted and he was laughing through it anyways. Both Jens and Lucas shoved him away, causing him to nearly fall over. Of the bunch, Aaron was definitely the most clumsy of them all. “Save it for the bedroom later. This is guys’ night!”

Robbe laughed, moving off to the bench that had long since been claimed as theirs. “As if,” Robbe replied, jumping up to sit on the back of it. Lucas sat between Robbe’s ankles, letting the smaller man drape his arms over his shoulders. “Don’t lie, Aaron. You would have your tongue down Amber’s throat if she was here!”

“It’s true, bro,” Jens replied, hovering on the side of the bench as Aaron flopped down beside Lucas.

Lucas nodded his head, patting his shoulder.

Moyo laughed, nodding his head and wrapping his arm around his chest. “Seriously though, the two of you are physically linked. I’m surprised that she didn’t go with us.”

It’s true. In the four years since Aaron had first started dating Amber, in which the three months before he harbored a seemingly one-sided crush on a girl who refused his affections, the two of them had both grown as people and as a couple. What the rest of them had believed to have only been a high school fascination had quickly grown into something more. Aaron had met most of Amber’s family and vice versa. In all honesty, it was only a matter of time before they went further, taking the next step like Senne and Zoë.

(Unbeknownst to Aaron, they all had a bet going on about when Aaron was going to pop the question. Robbe had his money on next December 20th, which was the anniversary of their first kiss. Moyo was betting on sometime in the summer and Jens was saying next October, back when they went to the beach house. Lucas tried to remain impartial and out of the bet, but Noor had willingly jumped in, saying Valentine’s Day.)

“She wanted to,” Aaron replied.

“Why didn’t she?” Robbe questioned, raising his eyebrows.

“Something is going on with her cousin,” Aaron informed them, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know a lot of the details, but they’ve always been pretty close. She’s pretty worried about him so she wanted to be with him today. She didn’t want to leave him alone so she decided not to come.” Robbe nodded his head and Jens pulled a joint from behind his ear. “But, she did want me to tell you that she’s completely down for another round of mini-golf like next week or whenever her cousin gets better.”

“Hey guys,” Moyo spoke up. The group turned towards Moyo, who was looking off in the distance. There was a slight smile growing on his face, of shock or something completely else. His eyes darted between all of them, before landing on Robbe. “See anything familiar?”

Aaron glanced, letting out an exclamation of “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Jens turned too, his mouth falling open in shock.

Lucas stood up from between his ankles, giving Robbe the freedom to fully turn around.

Across the river, there stood an abandoned building. The building had always stood across the river from their hang out spot and it had always looked the same, remaining static in their otherwise hectic social and school lives. But, it was different now. And, Robbe’s face was plastered on the side of it, inside of a heart-shaped explosion of the brick wall.

Robbe recognized it instantly from the sketch that Sander had shown him in the apartment.

Chernobyl.

Robbe’s breath caught in his throat.

Imagine it on a big wall with these intense colors.

While Robbe had been flattered at the implication of Sander spray-painting his face on the wall for the world to see, kissing him in the middle of his kitchen, he had never expected the blond Instagram artist to actually do such a thing. But, there it was, for the world to see, in all its bright, intense colors and the implications that strung in Robbe’s core.

If Robbe hadn’t known any better, the entire thing read like a confession of love. It felt like an I love you, but the implication was quickly consumed by the image of a brown-haired girl in the club, her lips on his and his hands on her waist as she pulled him into the dance mob.

“Robbe, did you do that?” it was Moyo, pulling him from diving further into his thoughts.

Robbe gave him a look, knowing that it was a joke. Robbe’s art skills were minimal at best. All he could really do was make a really, really good stick figure and a handful of molecules when he needed to. In fact, he could name a handful of things that he could do better than drawing. Skateboarding is the only one among them that he would ever admit to. As if knowing, Moyo grinned at him.

“That’s absolutely insane,” Jens mumbled, glancing at Robbe. He looked like he was about to say something else before he was cut off by one of the others.

“Who do you think did it?” it was Aaron.

“Looks quite sexy,” Lucas admitted.

Jens looked at his boyfriend with an eyebrow raised. “Is there something that I need to know?” Lucas grinned at him, shaking his head, but Jens didn’t seem convinced. Robbe rolled his eyes. Lucas could play Jens like a fiddle and they all knew it.

“It is sexy. I think it’s something in the look, man,” Moyo agreed, holding up his phone in an attempt to take a picture. To his right, Aaron nodded his head. “I got to send it to Noor. She loves dragging me around the city to look at all the spraypainting.”

Jens sent a curious glance towards Robbe.

“We’ve got to get closer. I’m only getting blurry images,” Moyo announced, tugging on Robbe’s shoulder and gesturing for him to follow. “Let’s go.”

…

“Woah!”

It was Noor, moving towards them and staring at the mural with wide eyes and an open mouth.

Robbe was setting on the edge of the pier, blatantly refusing to be in the photo that Moyo, Jens, and Aaron were taking (Lucas was holding the camera, not wanting to be in it either). It was likely going to be on Instagram within the hour, being tagged in the photo was a definite thing that was going to happen, but Robbe couldn’t stop staring at the mural. From across the pier, it didn’t seem as big as it did right now, looming over the group of them and staring out at the river and the skatepark across the way.

But, it was huge.

The mural easily covered the entire wall and Robbe didn’t want to think about how long it had taken in the cold temperatures that had been hanging around lately because it certainly hadn’t been here last week.

Noor glanced towards Robbe, squatting down beside him. “I feel like I don’t have to tell you that Sander did this?”

For a brief moment, he had forgotten that he had told her and Jens about Sander, about everything that had happened between them. It caught him off guard, but then, he let out a sigh, turning back towards the mural which the boys were still admiring. “Yeah, I know,” Robbe replied, waving at Jens who glanced over. “He showed me a sketch and said something about it, but I didn’t think that he would… Wait, how do you know?”

“I recognize the tags,” Noor admitted, gesturing around vaguely. “We used to spray together back when we were at the Academy. Plus, he was there when I was finishing up the mural.”

“He was?” Robbe questioned.

Noor nodded her head as Jens approached the two of them, his hands in his pockets. Aaron, Moyo, and Lucas were talking, looking over the wall still. Noor continued, smiling at the newcomer, “He walked up to us but you had to step away because your mom called.” Robbe nodded his head. He remembered. If that man had really been Sander, he didn’t have a clue at the time, would’ve noticed. But, he did an excellent job of hiding his identity, wearing a black mask and being surrounded by shadows.

“Yeah, I remember,” Robbe mumbled, running a hand through his hair as he stared at his friends.

Jens glanced at Noor, who returned his gaze.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, spit it out guys,” Robbe spoke up.

“How do you feel with the fact that your face is on a gigantic wall across from the skatepark that you always hang out at?” Jens spoke up.

“Self-conscious,” Robbe admitted.

He had never done well in the spotlight, having all eyes focused solely on him. Even if he genuinely had a good time, the vlogs that they did in high school, and for the first couple years of their college career before they rarely got the chance to do them, were mostly to hang out with his friends and have a good time. Plus, the only people who really saw them were their friends and about a thousand other people that they didn’t really know enough for Robbe to feel that self-conscious.

But, this was something different.

It felt like something intimate, something that should only be reserved between Robbe and Sander, but it was on full display, on a wall plastered for the world to see. Despite Sander’s loving touches and gentle words, he seemed to … love so loud that it was deafening and unwavering and unable to question the sincerity of his words. But, Robbe couldn’t stop thinking about Sander’s actions, both with the mural in front of him but also the texts, the girl…

It made Robbe…

“Confused,” Robbe spoke up. Noor glanced at him. “I’m confused…”

“About?” Jens prompted.

“Everything,” Robbe admitted. “Just everything that’s happened between us. One minute, he’s with me and treating me like… like… I don’t know…” Noor patted his shoulder, sitting down on the concrete, and Jens stood still, listening. “And, then, I get a text saying that we’re moving too fast and that we need to take a break. But, less than a week later, he’s kissing a girl in a club.”

“Maybe he’s afraid,” Jens questioned.

“I don’t know,” Robbe admitted, running a hand through his hair again. “I don’t, I really don’t understand what’s going on or even what his feelings for me are. If I don’t even know that, how is any of it going to work?”

“Robbe,” Noor spoke up, wrapping her jacket tighter around his shoulders. She gestured to the wall in front of them. “No matter what happened, I think Sander just told you how he really feels.”

Glancing at the mural, Robbe knew that she was right. He could feel it in his bones, down his spine, as the other boys moved to leave, pulling Robbe with him. However, before he left, he pulled out his phone, taking a picture of the mural and ignoring Moyo’s comments. Once the picture was taken, he shoved the phone back into his pocket before walking off ahead of them, ignoring his friends’ shouts to wait up.

…

earthlingoddity has posted to his story.

Without even hesitating, Robbe pulled it up.

As his friends moved around him, trying to decide on dinner because they hadn’t gotten that far, as Aaron sent a message to Amber about the mural, he pulled the phone to him, hoping to hide what he was doing from his nosy friends. Robbe didn’t know what he was hoping for in terms of the story. Maybe he was hoping for some sort of indication that he had done it, that he had taken so much time to do it, but Robbe didn’t find anything involving the mural.

Honestly, even though he was slightly disappointed, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Spray-painting the side of a building was a crime.

There’s a photo of Sander, a croque hanging from between his mouth, and a caption in white letters.

My cousin knows me so well

Robbe swiped to his messages.

He was going to write to him about the mural, ask Sander what he meant by the mural, to get some clarification. But, Robbe paused, his thumbs hanging above the keys, unable to type even a hey. Robbe locked his screen, shoving his phone in his pocket and burying his face in his hands, running one through his hair.

“Hey,” Noor spoke, pulling things out of the fridge. “Is Amber joining us for dinner?”

“No, she and her cousin are having dinner already,” Aaron replied, glancing up from her phone. “But, she might be coming over later. Or, I might be going over there. It depends.”

“Alright,” Noor replied, nodding her head.

“Dinner for six it is then!” Lucas responded, moving to help her.

“Everyone out of the kitchen,” Noor demanded. The Broerrrs all hurried out of there, wanting to avoid Noor’s cooking frenzy. When she was in control of the kitchen, she tended to be mean and she was not opposed to hitting one of them with a spatula if they got in her way.

…

At the top of the messages with Sander, there was a greeting, a “good morning?” from last Thursday, before he had seen Robbe with Senne in the tuxedo shop. Despite everything that had happened, despite the fact that he knew Robbe had been at the club, he had still made the effort. Though Robbe had been angry, and still slightly angry, though the anger had since melted into confusion, it was touching that Sander still reached out to see how he was doing, to wish him a good morning, even when Robbe had not been responding back.

Below that, the messages that he had finally managed to type out and send about an hour ago were hanging beneath his good morning message from last Thursday.

Hey Sander.

Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you yet

But that wall…

That was the drawing you showed me right?

Could you come by?

Or… I could come over to your place, to talk?

The longer that he stared at it, the longer he felt a little desperate to hear back.

But, in all honesty, Robbe wasn’t even certain that he would hear back from Sander.

Robbe had seen the mural on Saturday afternoon, spent the better part of Saturday night staring at the photo he had taken, at Sander’s public, loud declaration. On Sunday, he had spent the evening at the clinic with his mom, but he didn’t want to trouble her with such things so he kept the photo to himself, keeping it from his mother, and trying to pass off the anticipation and stress as something else, stress about a test, or something anything else, trying to remain present with his mom.

“Promise me that you’ll talk about it when you’re ready,” his mother had spoken, mumbling as he started to leave. She had reached out to take his hand, squeezing it gently. “You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders just become I’m in here. You’ve got Jens and the boys and Zoë and Milan.”

Robbe smiled, kissing her forehead. “I know, Mama,” he replied. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But, I’m going to,” his mother replied, staring up at him from her bed. “You’re my son. I’m always going to worry about you.”

Finally, on Monday, as his brain wandered to Sander in his afternoon class, he finally managed to work up the nerve, opening his laptop and typing out the messages in rapid succession. The anxiousness and anticipation were bubbling in his chest, squeezing him on the inside as he tried to focus on the same paragraph that he’s been trying to read for almost thirty minutes, maybe an hour. Whatever productivity had fostered in his chest last week had vanished, leaving him paralyzed, flat on his back and unable to focus outside of one, singular thought that ran through his mind.

Sander.

The texts.

Robbe ran a hand through his hair, discarding the textbook to the side so he could roll over, burying his face in the sheets. They didn’t smell like Sander, he had never been over here, but, as irrational as it was, Robbe couldn’t help craving his scent right now, wanting to bury his face in the crook of his neck and hold him as tight as could, like he desperately wanted to. He let out a groan, resting his chin on the crook of his arm as he tried to calm his thoughts.

Maybe, Sander was busy.

Maybe, he had a project or a commission that he needed to work on and that was why he hadn’t responded back yet.

But, Robbe might’ve waited too long, trying to figure out what he had wanted for himself, if he was willing to risk giving his heart to someone who had awoken it then stepped back without releasing his heart fully back to his chest. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to reach out, so long to figure out if he was willing to risk it all over again, because Robbe didn’t know if he would be capable of Sander breaking his heart a second time around.

It had taken him days to send the text, to tell Sander that he had seen the mural.

And, at the end of the day, there was only one reason that it all boiled down to why it took him that long to send those six text messages: he was a coward, unable to handle the prospect of Sander rejecting him.

…

“Sander?”

Robbe doesn’t know how he’s there, because he could barely open his eyes and it was hard to tell if they were open or closed, but he could just vaguely see the trusts of platinum-blond hair and the outline of a leather jacket before his lips are on his, his body hovering over him. Robbe clung to him, pulling him against his chest and wrapping his legs around his waist. Sander sunk against him, putting more of his body weight on Robbe, and his long fingers dug into Robbe’s hair, tugging lightly and causing him to sigh into the kiss.

There’s a mischevious smirk on Sander’s face as he pulled back. Robbe doesn’t know quite how he knows that because it’s still hard to tell whether his eyes are open or closed, but he does, and he cranes up to chase his lips, finding them briefly, pressing featherlight kisses against them that should really only be counted as brief brushing of their lips, before Sander was pushing him back against the bed.

Sander’s lips were on his neck, slowly traveling down along his before latching onto his collar bone, as his free hand pushed up his shirt.

Wait, his mind screamed at him. This wasn’t right.

Robbe shot up in his bed, the textbook that had been on his chest falling onto the floor with a loud thump that resounded through his bedroom. There’s movement from across the hall, Jens must still be awake, and Robbe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply, and blindly reaching for his phone as it dinged. Jens.

You okay?

Yeah, just had a bad dream and woke up.

Must’ve fallen asleep with my textbook.

Okay.

Get some sleep.

You too.

Robbe let out a sigh, running his hands through his hair, the dream rushing back to him in an instant. The path of his neck that Dream Sander had followed lit up like a flame, burning beneath his skin. Robbe’s cheeks and chest flushed and he was thankful that the dream hadn’t gone any further or else he might’ve woken up to something else. Yet, at the same time, Robbe had wanted it to be real.

It had been days since Robbe had sent him those messages, asking him to come over and never getting a response back. He still hadn’t heard from Sander and he knew that Sander had seen them, from the bubble of his face beneath the message. If it hadn’t been obvious to him on Monday, it certainly was now as Robbe flopped back on his bed, ignoring the piles of notes that were surrounding him.

Robbe had waited too long.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching his nose, as he rested his phone against his chest.

With each passing day, he was more and more convinced that he should’ve gone straight to Sander’s apartment. He didn’t have a key to get into the front gate, but Robbe was nimble and quick enough (and daring enough) to climb the fence, and if all else failed, he could always ask Nick or Clara to let him in. He should’ve gone up to Sander’s apartment, knocked on the door until he answered or waited until he got home from wherever he had been, because he needed answers and needed to see him, to hold him, to kiss him, to know that it was all real, that painting a gigantic mural of his face meant something and wasn’t something of a thing that he decided to do just because.

He needed to know.

But, because Robbe waited too long, it might’ve been too late for him to get the answers that he needed.

Without thinking, he switched to his messages with Sander, staring down at his own words and the six messages that he used to get it all out. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he should say something else, but three bubbles popped up.

His heart thumped.

The bubbles were there, indicating that Sander was, in fact, trying to figure out something to say, and they stayed there for several minutes, floating above the keyboard, before they disappeared completely. Robbe waited a couple of minutes for the message to come through, but it never did. Whatever it was that Sander had been typing, he had deleted it.

Robbe let out a breath that he didn’t fully realize he was holding, locking his phone and putting it against his chest. As he sunk further into the sheets, trying to relax enough to go back to see before his class in the morning, Robbe’s mind wandered to Sander, which wasn’t that much of a surprise because it frequently did as such lately. But, now, Robbe couldn’t help wondering if Sander was just as conflicted as Robbe was.

…

At the sight of the mural, Robbe let out a sigh.

It was still there, bright and beautiful across the water, but Robbe couldn’t help noticing the number of stares that were focused in his direction. There were the skaters that they would normally see, parents who had brought their children to the playground to run around and scream to their heart’s content, and even the old man that was always feeding the birds seemed to be staring at him now.

“Why are people staring?” Robbe groaned, kicking his skateboard beneath their normal bench and flopping down on it.

Jens picked up his board, laying it across on his lap as he sat down beside him. “I don’t know, Robbe,” Jens admitted, his face impassive and straight. “It might have to do with the fact that there’s a giant mural across the water with your face on it.”

Robbe snatched the joint behind his ear and placed it in his mouth. Jens let out a muffled protest as the smaller one of them pulled out the lighter from his pocket and lit the end of the joint expertly. Robbe inhaled deeply, the smoke filling up his lungs, and he had no protests when Jens snatched the joint, rolling his eyes at his friends. Robbe exhaled, the smoke pouring from his lips.

“Have you heard from him?” Jens questioned.

“Huh?”

“Sander,” Jens clarified, gesturing across the water. “Have you heard back from him yet?”

Robbe shook his head. “No,” Robbe admitted, not liking how sad his own voice sounded. “But, he’s opened the messages and I thought he was responding back on Wednesday. I saw the bubbles pop up like he was texting but he didn’t send anything.” Robbe let out a sigh, burying his face in his hands. “Then, he randomly liked two of my Instagram posts yesterday. I don’t get it, Jens.”

“Which ones?”

Robbe pulled out his phone to show him and Jens scooted closer to see.

The first photo had been a group photo with the guys at Zoë and Senne’s engagement party, before Lucas had been such an intricate part of their flat dynamic, before Noor had dragged Robbe off to the abandoned warehouse. It was weird to think about, Robbe realized, how quickly Lucas had gone from barely being there, sneaking away before Moyo and Aaron woke up, to always being there.

The next photo was one from years ago, back when they were high school and back when Robbe was still firmly in the closet. Robbe in the picture had his mouth wide open with his head tilted back, two beers in his hand. He remembered the dare, vaguely, to try and pour both of them in his mouth without spilling it. The photo captioned right before he failed miserably, spilling it over his chest, and his friends had laughed out loud, teasing him.

“That’s suggestive,” Jens mumbled, handing him the joint.

Robbe scoffed, inhaling. “You’re the one who took the photo.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah,” Robbe replied, shaking his head. Jens looked at him and Robbe stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. “I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this. I don’t understand him and what’s going on anymore.”

“Do you still want to be with him?” Jens questioned. Robbe opened his mouth but quickly closed it, unable to figure out what exactly he wanted to say. He turned around, looking towards the graffiti that was plastered against the side of the warehouse, his face in all those intense, bright colors, as he inhaled another drag. Jens gained his attention by lightly slapping the back of his head. “Do you?”

Robbe let out a sigh, smoke still falling out. “Yeah. I want answers.”

“Then, you’re going to have to make him choose,” Jens spoke up, propping one foot on his knee. “You can’t keep going like this. It’s too painful, he’s going to have to make a decision. Either he talks to you or he doesn’t talk to you anymore. It isn’t good for anyone. No, you know what, tell him that.”

Robbe glanced towards him. “Huh?”

“Text him. Now.”

“What? Why, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Weren’t you just paying attention? He didn’t respond to my last texts asking to meet up. Why would he respond to this one?”

“Because, if he doesn’t, then you have the answer that you need,” Jens spoke. “Robbe, you’ve been constantly waiting for him to respond back and it’s painful and he’s fucking with you. If he doesn’t respond back, then that’s the answer that you need. And, if he doesn’t respond back to you, you deserve someone better in your life, someone that actually tries to be there.”

Robbe let out a sigh, knowing that he was right. Despite all the silence and the no-responses, Robbe wanted Sander as much as he did in his apartment, talking about their favorite actors and parallel universes and eating pizza. It hadn’t changed one bit in the two weeks since it all went down. Jens patted his shoulder. “Pull up your messages.”

Robbe did as told.

“Just tell him: I want clarity,” Jens started. Robbe quickly typed the message, following along with what his best friend was saying. “Either, you choose me or it ends for me here and now.”

I want clarity. Either you choose me. Or it ends for me-

Robbe stopped typing.

Jens noticed, waiting.

“And…” Robbe trailed off. “What if he…”

It was in moments like these that he was thankful that Jens knew him so well.

“If he says that it’s really over?” Jens questioned.

Robbe nodded his head.

Robbe didn’t want that to be an option for him, for either of them. It felt ridiculous to Robbe’s logical mind that he would be feeling this way about someone that he had only been involved with for about a week. But, Robbe couldn’t imagine his life without Sander, both as Sander, kissing him and wrapped up in his arms, and as earthlingoddity, through an Instagram profile, who made him laugh in times where he thought it was impossible and made him wait eagerly for his next piece of art that he wanted to share with his fans.

Without even realizing, the intense crush that Robbe had on the guy behind a famous Instagram profile had become such an important part of his life that he couldn’t picture a point in the future where Sander wasn’t involved.

He wasn’t for sure he could handle the heartbreak if Sander didn’t feel the same way.

Jens gave him a sympathetic look. “Then, it’ll be painful,” Jens replied. “But, it’ll be a lot less painful than this shit going on right now. Come on Robbe,” Jens turned, using his board to gesture to the gigantic mural that was hanging behind him. Robbe turned towards it, taking in the bright colors like it was still the first time that he had seen it all over again. “Someone who does something like this for you… He loves you so much.”

“Yeah,” Robbe mumbled. “But…” he trailed off, remembering a conversation that he had with Milan his first year of uni, back when Robbe got in a relationship with a closeted man and had ended it when he didn’t want to come out to his friends, to anyone. “Does he want to admit that?”

Jens didn’t have an answer, holding out the joint between his fingers to place it in Robbe’s mouth. Robbe opened his mouth to take the joint, inhaling deeply, before letting Jens take the joint away. As he exhaled smoke out of the corner of his mouth, he finished typing out the message and pressed send.

I want clarity. Either you choose me. Or it ends for me here and now.

“It’s sent,” Robbe mumbled, sticking his phone in his pocket. Jens nodded his head. “When are you heading over to the Netherlands?” Robbe questioned, eager to change the subject.

“After this,” Jens replied. “My stuff is already at Lucas’ apartment. I told him that you and I were going to go out for a smoke then I would head that way.” Robbe nodded his head. “Tell me if you hear anything from him okay? Just because Lucas and I are in the Netherlands for the weekend doesn’t mean that you have to give me radio silence.”

Robbe laughed. “I know, Jens,” he replied. “I promise to tell you the latest thing that Noor and I have to stop Moyo and Aaron from doing before they burn down the kitchen curtains and you can laugh and tell us that we should’ve recorded it.”

Jens laughed as Robbe stood up. “Tell Mom hi for me.”

“I will,” Robbe spoke, pulling his board from beneath the stone bench. “You should come with me next week. She’s always asking about you and I’m pretty sure she wants to meet your boyfriend too. You know that you’re the second son she never had.” Jens shook his head as Robbe pushed off, shouting behind him, “Have fun in the Netherlands. Text when you guys get there.”

“I will!”

…

It was past nine by the time that his apartment is insight.

His body was tired, his mind even worse, and he felt ready to crash. It was one of his mother’s off days. She had spent the majority of the visit scribbling into a journal and Robbe had watched her, fascinated with the way that her mind worked. She had been resistant to taking her meds, but the doctor managed to convince her to take them. In their meeting, while his mother was in group therapy, her doctor had told Robbe that she thought that his mother would be able to be home by Valentine’s Day.

Robbe had smiled.

He was thankful.

His mother had been upset for missing Christmas (Robbe had spent the holiday with the boys and later the members of their old flatshare), but she would’ve been extremely upset if she would miss Valentine’s Day as well. Since his father had left them, they had a running tradition of going to a restaurant and spending the evening watching movies. It was always just the two of them. Sometimes, Jens and his little sister and father would join, the five of them lounging on the floor as they bickered and argued over which movie they wanted to watch. But, it always ended up the same way, surrounded by friends and family.

But, at least once Robbe got home, he had the place to himself at least until two.

Jens and Lucas had already arrived in the Netherlands, having arrived home at Lucas’s mother’s house while Robbe was with his mother. Jens had FaceTimed, eager to talk to Robbe’s mom and introduce his boyfriend to his “adoptive” mother, and she had relished in the thought of him thinking of her. As a result, Robbe was also introduced to Lucas’ mother, who had been curious about who they were talking to.

As for his other two (three, technically, four if you counted Amber), Noor had an art gallery showing which was taking place a few towns over. Moyo was with her to support her and they were spending the night in a hotel so they wouldn’t have to race to get on a train late at night. On the other hand, Aaron was going out to have some drinks with some of his uni friends that he had met in his various classes. Robbe wasn’t for sure if Amber was with him, but it was likely that she was. She got along with everyone and Aaron loved having her around.

So, he was alone for the night.

Good, his mind spat at him as he stared down at the opened and the read text message on his phone screen.

I want clarity. Either you choose me. Or it ends for me here and now.

Robbe let out a sigh, lowering his phone as he moved across from the lobby.

How was he going to move on?

At least he could wallow in silence.

As Robbe stepped towards the elevator, the door to the lobby swung open, letting in a light burst of winter cold air, but he didn’t pay attention to it, sticking his phone in his pocket, holding onto it, and reaching to press the up button for the elevator.

“Robbe?”

His breath caught in his throat as he turned to the entrance where the bleach-blond had his head poked in the entrance to the lobby, his eyes trained on Robbe.

Sander.

At the sight of him, Robbe was certain that his heart did gymnastics in his chest and he wanted nothing more than to rush at Sander, kiss him as though his life depended on it, but he stopped himself, watching as Sander stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him. The sound seemed to cut off the rest of the world, the rush of the street outside silenced with the slam of the door, and Sander’s eyes were trained on Robbe as he moved closer, his leather jacket creaking as he walked.

Robbe supposed the obvious question would’ve been how did Sander know to come here and it had taken him a second to remember that the blond had hand-delivered Moyo and Noor’s anniversary gift. Plus, Robbe had mentioned they were roommates. So, he guessed that he didn’t need to ask that question.

Robbe stared up at Sander, who was an arm’s length away, within distance for Robbe to reach out and wrap his arms around. His green eyes were staring at Robbe intensely, looking dark and clouded in the dim light of the lobby at night, and Robbe watched him, trying to figure out what he was going to say or do. Was he going to tell Robbe that he wanted to be with him or had he come to end it once and for all?

Sander’s eyes flickered down, to Robbe’s lips, before he was leaning in, their lips slotting together as easily as breathing. It was gentle and sweet, nothing too heavy or frantic on either end, but Robbe could feel the heat pooling through him like an inferno that was ready to burn him down. Sander’s hand was at his jaw, his fingers in his hair, and Robbe pressed his lips back against his.

But, then, Robbe reached up, his hands fisting in Sander’s black t-shirt and pushed him back.

Robbe had texted him because he wanted clarity, about Sander and his feelings, not because of this.

Sander let out a sigh, his exhale brushing lightly over the skin of Robbe’s face. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Sander understands what Robbe wants.

Glancing at him briefly through his eyelashes, Robbe saw the broken expression on Sander’s face as he leaned against Robbe, his nose pressed against the space between his eyebrows. Sander’s head was heavy on Robbe’s shoulder, gripping onto him tightly, and Robbe let out his own sigh, cursing his own mind and his own uncertainty, but unable to waver. He needed to know.

But, if Sander decided that he had come here to say goodbye to him, give him one final, haunting goodbye kiss, then, at least, Robbe had the moment here, their foreheads pressed together and Sander’s hand on his shoulder, their noses brushing together purposely. Sander’s forehead moved against his, his nose pressing further against Robbe’s and Robbe felt himself mirroring the action.

Inhaling, Robbe opened his eyes fully, training them on Sander’s lips and taking half of a step back. Sander’s eyes were already open, trained on him, but Robbe couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. Not right now. Not until he knew.

“You and I,” Sander whispered, catching Robbe’s attention. Robbe glanced up at him, his brown eyes connecting with Sander’s green ones. “One hundred percent, forever.” Robbe searched his eyes for any sign that this was a lie, like his mind was expecting it to be, but, no matter how much he searched, he couldn’t find any sign. Sander was telling the truth. “In every universe.”

Robbe felt his eyes fall briefly down to Sander’s lips before he glanced back at his bright green eyes. Sander was watching for a sign, his hand still on Robbe’s shoulder. Robbe felt his heart accelerating a little bit as his racing mind caught up with Sander’s declaration. Sander was here, right here right now, choosing to be here with him, and… There was a look in Sander’s eyes as he watched him, half-lidded and cautious, waiting for Robbe to react.

Robbe swallowed, asking the question that had been on his mind for about two weeks now. “Who was the girl, Sander?”

He could’ve scoffed, told Robbe that he had nothing to worry about and dodged the question, but Sander didn’t do any of that. Instead, he stared at him with a broken expression. “Her name was Laura,” Sander replied. “I thought that… if I was kissing someone, it would make it easier to forget that I had hurt you and pushed you away. But, it didn’t. It just made it worse.”

“Why did you?” Robbe whispered. “Push me away?”

“I didn’t want her to hurt you…”

“Laura?” Sander shook his head. “Britt?” Sander shook his head again. “Then, who?” Sander shook his head for a third time, a pained look on his face. Robbe understood the look. His mom used to give it to him all the time. He didn’t want to talk about it and Robbe hoped that Sander knew that he would be there when he wanted to.

“I mean it, Robbe,” Sander spoke up. “You and I. One hundred percent-”

Before Sander could finish, Robbe closed the distance, pressing their lips together like he had wanted to since he saw Sander last Thursday. Now that Robbe had closed the distance, pressed their lips together and clung to his shirt, Sander reached out, gripping tightly on his sides and holding onto his brown jacket, pushing him back towards the wall. Robbe expected to feel his head collide with the tile on the walls, but Sander’s hand was there, stopping it before his hand cupped his face.

Robbe blindly reached for the elevator button, grabbing onto the lapels of Sander’s leather jacket. When it let out a ding, signaling that it had arrived on the first floor, he pushed the blond in the elevator, separating briefly only to make sure that he hit the right floor number before returning to kiss him desperately.

…

The elevator was empty, thankfully, because Robbe would’ve been embarrassed that Sander pressed him flush against the wall and him, slotting one of his legs between Robbe’s two, and attacked his lips as his life depended on it, his hands fisted in Robbe’s hair, pulling just hard enough to be pleasurable. Once they had reached the floor of Robbe’s apartment and the elevator doors opened, Robbe pushed Sander away, only to guide him out of the elevator and down the hallway so he didn’t run them into any corners or persons that were out in the hallway.

By something of a miracle, the hallway was empty too.

There was a bright, smug look on Sander’s face before Robbe connected their lips back together again. Their kiss was becoming more and more frantic with every passing second and Robbe needed to be inside his apartment with Sander, now, or they wouldn’t make it all the way. Robbe searched for his keys in his pockets, never breaking the kiss. Through his eyelashes, he spotted their apartment number and blindly inserted the key into the lock, pushing the door open and shoving Sander inside. Robbe followed, pulling his keys from the lock and slamming the door.

Once the door was locked and Robbe’s keys were discarded somewhere, Sander’s hands dropped lower to his waist, gripping tightly.

Standing in the threshold of their apartment, Robbe reached up, shoving Sander’s jacket off his shoulders. It slipped down easily, down his arms, but got caught on his wrists. “Off,” Robbe mumbled into the kiss before pressing his lips tighter against the other’s. He heard a laugh in Sander’s throat, felt the coldness on his waist as he reached back to fully take it off, and Robbe took it from him, placing it on the empty hook on the far right which had long since been unanimously Robbe’s. “Shoes,” Robbe ordered, lightly, kicking his sneakers off in the direction of the foot rack.

Sander chuckled, stepping back from him. Robbe whined at the loss, but he spotted that Sander was wearing his Docs. As Sander kneeled down, his fingers frantically and crudely moving to undo the laces, his gaze flickered up to Robbe, who was taking off his own jacket. “Bossy Robbe is hot,” Sander spoke, his voice deep and gravelly which was affecting Robbe more than it should’ve been. Once the Docs were completely and placed with the rest of the shoes, Sander was back in Robbe’s arms, kissing him feverously and gripping at his hair again, as the smaller man pushed him back towards his room.

Robbe waited until his bedroom door was fully shut before he shoved his hands beneath the fabric of Sander’s shirt, running his hands over the warm flesh of Sander’s stomach. His roommates weren’t home and it wouldn’t really matter, but it was more of a personal preference for anything else. But, Sander didn’t seem to have the same hesitations, as his hand had been brushing across his abs even in the elevator. His hands were going higher and higher on Robbe’s chest, pulling at the clothes with the other.

Sander separates their heated kiss only to pull the fabric over his head. Once Robbe’s hoodie and shirt pass over his nose, Sander’s lips are back on his again, his hands still pulling the fabric up Robbe’s arms and discarding them somewhere over his shoulder. Robbe gripped tightly at the hem of Sander’s shirt, pulling it up and over his chest, exposing the wolf tattoo to him once again. Robbe reached out to touch it, running his hand down his chest. Once the fabric of his shirt was high enough, Sander ducked out of it and Robbe tossed it aside, feeling the brush of Sander’s tongue dragging along his lip before their lips officially met again, Sander’s tongue slipping into Robbe’s mouth.

Robbe wrapped an arm around Sander, gripping at his shoulder tightly, as he led him towards the bed.

Once they were close enough, Robbe pushed Sander onto the bed and climbed over him, his hands on either side of Sander’s face and his knees on either side of his hips. A glowing smile crossed Sander’s face, the kind that might’ve broken his face in two, and lit up his entire face by several notches. It was one of those smiles that Robbe hoped was reserved only for him and he only had a couple of seconds to stare before Sander was reaching for him, pressing their lips together and dragging him back against the bed and against Sander.

They both gasped when their hips rolled together.

Dragging his mouth away from Sander’s lips, Robbe trailed his lips against his jawline, pressing kisses and biting down on the skin as he went. Robbe pressed a kiss behind Sander’s ear, left a few marks against the flesh of his neck, and bit down on the flesh where his shoulder met his neck. Sander let out a sigh, his fingers working through Robbe’s hair, gripping tightly at the nape of his neck. But, Robbe didn’t stop, pressing kissing down his chest, pressing one against the bump that he had felt that afternoon beneath the tattoo of the wolf (Sander let out a straggled breathed), and briefly traced the ink as he pressed more kisses along the length of his chest.

It’s only when Robbe hooked his fingers on Sander’s belt, moving to undo it, that he paused.

And, Sander noticed.

“What is it?” he questioned, concerned but not sitting up. Robbe let out a sigh, resting his forehead against Sander’s stomach. “Robbe,” Sander spoke, sitting up and forcing Robbe to do the same. The brunet left his fingers on Sander’s belt and settled down on Sander’s thighs. “What is it? We can stop if you want to...”

“No! No, that’s not it,” Robbe replied, shaking his head. “Um, it’s just that… will you be here in the morning?”

For a moment, Sander was quiet. Then, his hands were on either side of Robbe’s face, pulling him to look up at Sander, into his bright green eyes that were looking at him fondly, and heatedly, if such a combination was even possible. “Of course, I will,” Sander replied, pressing a kiss against Robbe’s lips. Robbe leaned into his kiss, his lips moving with Sander’s, and let out a breath of relief. Sander pulled away, pressing a kiss against Robbe’s cheekbone, whispering. “I’ll be here for as long as you want me.”

“And if it’s forever?” Robbe questioned.

There’s a watery look in Sander’s eyes now, their lips barely touching against the other but not kissing, not yet, and Sander smiled, “Then, it’s forever because from now on, it’s just the two of us.” Robbe smiled and Sander kissed him again, his breath hitching sharply as Robbe undid his belt and pulled it from the loops.

...

I hope I managed to portray Robbe’s confused thoughts during this time justice.

#wtfock fic #rosander fic #sobbe fic #rosander #sobbe #robbe x sander #robbe ijzermans #sander driesen #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #vds #van der stoffels (background)#moyo x noor (background)#aaron x amber (background)#if you squint you can see my favorite wtfock crack theory before i reveal it next chapter #enjoy!#i love you all #also sorry it took so long lol

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something-fanfiction-ie · 6 years ago

Text

Daughters To Wed | Four

Pairing: Prince!Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: Okay, so, lots of mentions of blood. Like, L O T S. And Tom gets really drunk. And I think like one curse word?

Word Count: 2 ,461

Summary: You are the daughter of a man infamous for having many children, only to marry them off in an effort to climb the social ladder and gain more riches. You have grown up hating the idea of marriage, only to be married to the Prince of Braydal, and the future King, Thomas Holland. The both of you are very unwilling partners, and that seems to be the only thing you have in common. It isn’t until things start to crumble around you that you realize there might be more to the cold prince than you thought.

| Prologue | One | Two | Three

___

The world froze.

Time no longer existed as Tom felt a warm liquid soak into his clothing. Blood, in pools this large, was less the bright red it was commonly associated with, and more of a blackish color. His heart felt as if it were beating in slow motion as he tried to push himself up from the carriage floor.

The crowd outside the carriage was chaos, as men ushered their wives and children into what they deemed as safe places, people screamed, shoes clattered against cobblestone, and horses reared.

Tom could not focus on anything other than the blood. There was so much blood. Never in his life had he ever seen so much blood. Even, at twelve, when he busted his head on a tree branch goofing around in the woods with Harrison, there had been blood down the side of his face and all over his shirt.

It felt as if the entire bottom of the carriage had been painted in this iron-smelling, black-red substance. His clothing was heavy with the stuff, seeping through the several layers that he wore. The stench of iron was so thick, that he could taste it in his mouth.

This moment, just after the gunshot, these few seconds of the young prince sitting in blood, sliding through it to get himself into a sitting position as the people around him went crazy with hysteria, would haunt his nightmares until the day he died.

Two more gunshots rang loudly over the buzzing of the parade attendees, cutting through the thick cloud muddling Tom’s mind. This time it had been the royal police as they took the shooter to the ground. His hands were secured to his back as a few people weakly cheered.

Meanwhile, Tom had realized that the blood soaking into and through his clothes was your blood. You were splayed out on the floor, staring up at the sky with a blank stare that shook your husband to his very core. It hadn’t even taken a moment from the second he saw you for him to catapult into action.

Shoving his way up to the Coachman’s seat, Tom looked a little bit like a mad man. He was covered in blood, his eyes wild and his hair a mess as he snatched the reins from the unoccupied bench. The coachman had fled to safety beneath the carriage, which was one of the only things that kept Tom from whipping the leather against the mares’ backs and riding back toward the palace.

“GET OUT FROM UNDERNEATH!” Tom screamed, kicking the wooden front and drawing the attention of the scared onlookers. The coachman scrambled out from the side, splayed out on his back next to the curb of the stone roadway. His lips moved in a stutter, but noise didn’t come out until the Prince snapped the reins and began to maneuver his way through the crowd and the stalled parade.

“YOUR HIGHNESS!” He yelled, but Tom didn’t stop.

Even when he got to the palace, the carriage careened into the dirt in front of the steps, kicking up rocks and dust in its violent wake. The horses were still moving when Tom jumped off the side, rolling with the momentum. Jagged rocks scraped through the fabric of his blood soaked clothing. The doors of the palace opened behind him, but he didn’t notice the voices being thrown at his back, all he could think was to get to you.

Scrambling back onto his feet, a task much easier said than done in his state of mind, Tom threw himself against the carriage door and yanked it open.

You were as pale, unblinking, and your chest barely moved as you lay helplessly on the floor. Half clambering into the carriage, Tom pulled you into his arms and tried not look back at the puddle of blood collected where you had been. You let out a small gasp as Tom settled back on the ground, which lit a small hope in his heart.

Just maybe you would be okay.

Maids and butlers and what appeared to be the entire palace staff had flooded outside and gathered around the both of you. Through the ringing in his ears and the cloud over his head, Tom yelled for them to send for a doctor, a nurse, anything!

“Please.” He pleaded, holding you in his arms, clutching you to his chest as if it would keep your soul from leaving your body.

“Please.”

“You, my dear, are very drunk.” Tom looked up into the dark brown eyes of one of his closest friends. He stood in a doorway, the world spinning around him and the only thing to keep him anchored was the wall. Stumbling forward in a drunken stupor, he fell into the long and warm embrace of Lady Coleman.

Zendaya carried his weight with ease, half carrying and half dragging him through the hall to her sitting room. Once there, she gently coaxed him onto a plush velvet green armchair just in front of a well-lit hearth. Heat came out in waves that warmed his chilled bones. He was drenched in rainwater after the long walk from the tavern to Zendaya’s home. It was nights like this that Tom refused guards and fancy clothes and carriages and, apparently, cloaks. One guard followed him the whole night, poor man. Zendaya was almost positive that all the prince’s guard played rock-paper-scissors or drew straws when it came to deciding who would go out with Tom on his bender.

Tom has been out drinking, alone, at a tavern close to his friend’s studio flat just outside of the Capital. Zendaya, while technically married to a wealthy man, lived alone. In all the years Tom and Zendaya have known each other, Tom has never met her husband. Rumor had it that he was a gay man and she had no intention to seriously marry at the time. After the wedding, her husband left to travel the world and she stayed, taking up a career in the arts. She was a wonderful dancer and an even better actress. In fact, Tom and Zendaya had actually met after one of her performances just a few years ago.

At the beginning of their friendship, there had been many rumors that they had become lovers and that the young prince intended to make her his mistress after his wedding. In reality, while Tom was very attracted to her, she was very beautiful, she was also married. There was also the matter of his betrothal, and the small fact that she had made it very clear that she had no need of a man.

“My life is good because my husband is never home, what makes you think I want to ruin that by having you, or any other man, in my bed?” Had been her exact words. So, they stayed friends.

“God, I hope so, I’ve been drinking for hours.” He raked a hand through his wet curls, which were weighed down with water which dripped from the ends. He stared at the flames in the fireplace as they reached for the top of the chimney. Each lick of orange curved and danced in its brick home, moving in such a captivating manner that for a moment, Tom could see why people were so attracted to pyromania.

Zendaya shot him a look, walking to the liquor table tucked into the corner of the room, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. When she walked back over to her very intoxicated friend, she put the glass into his line of sight with a sigh. Snapping to attention, Tom was eye to eye with the glass of water, nodding his appreciation as he took the cup from her outstretched hand.

“You’ve been married less than a month Tom, usually husbands don’t drink themselves into a stupor until the second wedding anniversary.” Zendaya sat in a chair opposite her guest, looking very regal and proper in her cream nightgown and silk floral dressing robes. She had managed to stuff her hair into a sloppy French twist with a hair pin or two before she had rushed to answer the pounding at her front door. Tom’s lips twitched in amusement when he realized that, even in night clothing, Zendaya looked like the royal in this room, and not him.

There was a pause as Tom sipped at his water and Zendaya waited, her ankles crossed and her hands folded neatly into her lap. When Tom set his empty cup on the arm of his chair, he launched into a drunken rant on the inner workings of his month-old marriage. Zendaya tried not to think of how wet he was making her furniture as he complained.

“I cannot stand to be married to her another day! I cannot take it. She has my whole family, and Harrison, and Tessa, wrapped around her finger and I have no idea how. Actually, that’s a lie, I know how she’s done it. She is just as clever as her scheming father!” Tom pointed a drunken finger at nothing in particular. At this point, it felt like he was talking more to himself than to her.

After about an hour of nodding her head and ‘Oh yes, I understand’, Tom had slowed down and looked like he was about to fall over in his seat. Zendaya coaxed him to his feet and basically carried his drunken dead weight into her guest room. It took a lot longer than normal as he poked at paintings and pictures framed on the wall. She tried not to feel too bad when he fell into the door jamb so hard that his shoulder would most definitely be bruised. By the time they made it into the room and over to the bed, Zendaya almost cried with relief. Tom was asleep before his body even hit the mattress. Poking her head outside, she quickly informed the royal guard that Tom would be sleeping in her guest bedroom and he was welcome to come inside to keep watch from there.

The guard followed her inside without any surprise. This was not unusual behavior for the young prince. This was the seventh time Tom had slept in her guest bedroom since the beginning of his marriage. Always drunk, always disheveled, always complaining.

Zendaya waved goodnight to the guard and then found her way to her own bed where she fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, Zendaya was surprised to see Tom still in her home. He stood behind the chair he sat in last night, which was still damp given how utterly soaked Tom had been. The fire in the fireplace was out thanks to her maid who had left just after Zendaya had gone to sleep. She always woke up before the maid, Anne, made it back in the morning. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but it had been raining for the last week and with the rain came a cold.

“You’re up early.” She said as she entered the room.

“As are you.”

“I was not the one absolutely pissed last night, either.” She teased, going to sit in the chair she had jokingly deemed as her ‘Tom-help’ chair given that she always sat in this chair when Tom came to talk to her. No one asked her about it, and she had never told anyone of the nickname she had given the armchair, but it had the name nonetheless.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“As you should be.” Tom tried, and failed, to fix his clothes a bit. While no longer wet, they were wrinkled from drying on his sleeping body over the last few hours. His hair, having also dried while Tom slept, was a mess of wild chestnut curls. And there, on the top of his right cheek was a print of the pillow or his shirt sleeve or something. He looked very childlike and innocent, causing a twisting feeling in Zendaya’s heart.

“I just wanted to apologize. This won’t happen again. Thank you, Zendaya.” Now that Tom had slept, drunkenly ranted, and sobered up, he wasn’t giving away anything. Zendaya stood, giving her prince a quick curtsy just before he turned to leave. The guard stood at her doorway, holding a cloak that she hadn’t seen last night but would have been tremendously useful. He held it out for Tom as he neared the exit, taking the cloak and covering himself with it.

Then, just before he left, Zendaya called out to him. After every visit, she had kept her mouth shut and refused to ask the one question she had been dying to ask. The only thing that had kept her form asking was propriety, but she could no longer keep quiet. Propriety be damned after the seven nights she’d had, housing a drunk prince after he complained about his marriage for an hour or so.

Tom turned around, the hood of his cloak still down, his eyebrows raised in response.

“Why do you really hate her so much?”

The question seemed to take Tom by surprise. All this time he had been telling Zendaya how much he hated you. He had been telling Harrison how much he hated you. He had been telling his family how much he hated you, had been telling himself how much he hated you, and somehow Zendaya had known it was bullshit. For a second, Tom was surprised that there could be any other reason to hate you besides the ones he had already given her. He had hated you since that day he saw you in the meadow with your brother.

And yet, the answer was immediate and painfully honest. It almost stole his breath away as he realized for the first time in a month of marriage, and years of engagement, what he truly felt. Why he chose to be this open with Zendaya but nobody else close to him was beyond any sound logic, but here he was. Laying his heart out for her to see in all it’s odd, complex, and vulnerable glory.

He grabbed the fabric where his hood met the rest of his cloak and looked her dead in the eyes.

“Because I think I love her.” Tom popped the hood over his head and pushed open the door. Zendaya stood in the hallway, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows raised. She almost didn’t believe her own ears. Sure, all this time she knew Tom had been lying about why he hated you, but never had she thought that was the answer. Harrison wouldn’t have been as shocked. He had been saying that Tom secretly loved you since day one. Zendaya, on the other hand, was shocked.

Shocked, but smiling.

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

Text

Pieces of April [6/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

Author’s Note: In which baby gets a name, and Tim is a bit of an arrogant rich boy (and gets called on it).

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Technically, they can both leave.

It’s not as if they can take the baby from the hospital until the paternity test results officially come back. Which is probably a good thing, because Jason’s clearly going to need a little more time for all this to settle, judging by the way he’s sitting in front of the baby’s crib. He’s watching her like he’s waiting for a sign this is all hallucination.

If his brain doesn’t move past ‘reaction mode’ soon, there’s going to be a problem.

Especially since the longer they hang around the hospital, the more likely they are to attract attention, baby or not. Someone’s bound to notice Tim Drake-Wayne wandering about, and that’s usually enough to get Vicki Vale’s attention; she’s never really given up on trying to out him as Red Robin, even after a year of moving about on crutches.

Add an apparently secret relationship and baby to the mix...actually, that’s an important point.

“Short-term or long-term, we can’t just keep calling her ‘the baby’,” he points out, once more breaking the heavy silence while firing off a round of texts to his team.

‘Won’t be back for a few days. Maybe a week or so. Bat drama.’

“I’m not naming her,” Jason says immediately. “That’s how you get attached.”

“I think that only applies to pets,” Tim answers dryly. “Besides, legally, you can’t leave the hospital with her unless she has a name.”

“Legally, I’m dead and this whole situation shouldn’t be happening.” Jason scowls, and when Tim raises an eyebrow at him, he huffs in reluctant agreement. “Fine. Any ideas?”

“You’re asking me?”

He tries not to let his amazement show through the surprise. Tim can’t remember the last time—if ever—that Jason has sought his opinion on anything. He wishes this was a topic he knew more about, so he wasn’t floundering for an answer.

He spares a glance at his phone (Cassie has texted back, ‘when isn’t there bat drama?) and then offers, “We could call her…April. Since it’s, you know, April.”

“Fuck no,” is the immediate response. “That’s so cliché I’m ashamed of you. And considering everything I know about you, it takes a lot to do that.”

“Well, it’s nice to see your winning personality is making a comeback. Must be the shock finally wearing off.”

“There’s no wearing off when it comes to this kind of shock.”

“Well, if you’re able to make snarky comments about name ideas, you’re not in enough shock to—”

He is interrupted by a sudden commotion outside the receiving room. It sounds like the nurse from earlier, arguing with someone—another woman, sounds like—and it’s getting louder and closer.

“—Ma’am, you can’t go in there—”

“Just watch me!”

“—it’s family only—”

“I am family, I don’t care what—”

“—already called security—”

Jason tenses immediately, hand reaching for the sidearm Tim’s been pretending he doesn’t know about, and Tim automatically puts himself between the baby and the door. The infant in question merely shifts and frowns in her sleep but doesn’t wake.

A second later, the door swings open—not hard enough to hit the stopper, thankfully—and an unknown woman enters, tailed by the frustrated looking nurse.

The stranger is petite and young, maybe late twenties or early thirties, and wears a hijab; her eyes are snapping with anger and desperation, fists clenched as she takes in the scene. When her attention falls upon Tim, she appears to startle, the way her ire falters, but it’s back in an instant.

“Why is he permitted to be here?” she demands of the nurse. There’s a hint of an accent in her words, familiar to him only because Damian has a similar way of speaking. She also seems to be overenunciating. “You let a stranger in here just because his family owns the hospital and half the city?”

“That’s really none of your business, ma’am if you could just—”

“No, I can’t just.”

“What’s going on here?” Tim asks coolly, motioning for the nurse to take a step back from the stranger. “And keep it down, the baby’s sleeping.”

Some of the wind is taken from the woman’s sails, eyes flicking to the crib. A fresh flicker of pain pinches her expression, and with an effort she meets Tim’s gaze.

“What’s going on here is that you are not the baby’s father and should not be here,” she replies, quieter but with no less venom. “You barely look old enough to shave, let alone father a child.”

Tim bristles, and there’s a snort that draws their attention, and they look at Jason, who has straightened up and is no longer reaching for his gun. “You’re right about that, at least. Not too sure about everything else.”

The stranger purses her lips, eyes roving over the larger man, and then crosses her arms. “You, however, are exactly her type. You are Jason then.”

What.

“You know me.”

“I know of you. That you existed. Isabel would mention you on occasion.”

Tim perks up at this; finally, they might be able to get some answers.

“You knew Isabel,” Jason says, all his attention on the woman. “Who are you?”

Tim’s already got his phone out, thumb hovering and ready to key in the woman’s information to assess her threat level. She looks like a civilian, but he’s had too many encounters with the League to leave this sort of thing to chance.

“My name is Safiya Amin. I am Isabel’s…I was Isabel’s friend” She swallows as if around a lump in her throat. “I live next door to her. And I’m the one who’s been there for her this whole time. I even drove her here while you, you deadbeat, were nowhere to be found.”

That’s directed at Jason, the woman’s anger returning. However, now that the surprise of her arrival is fading, it’s less intimidating. It has also, seemingly, roused Jason, who is glaring at her and taking a step away from the crib.

“I can’t exactly be around if I don’t know I’m supposed to be,” he snaps back as Tim’s search for the woman’s information starts up. “I’ve known about this for a grand total of two hours.”

The woman—Safiya—seems to have a retort on her tongue, but as his words sink in, she pauses, confused. There’s some rapid thinking going on behind her eyes, and then her lips part in realization.

“She didn’t tell you.”

“No shit.”

The woman’s shoulders slump. “I told her she needed to tell you. That she shouldn’t be doing this on her own. I can only do so much and she… She told me she had, and that you weren’t interested.” She puts her hand to her forhead as if sensing a headache coming on. “That was five months ago. She refused to tell me the details, and I never brought it up again.”

“Months…” Jason repeats.

Several files are popping up on Tim’s phone screen, everything at a glance seemingly normal. Birth certificates, social security number, high school, and university diplomas.

No immediate threat, then, but it’s only an overview. Enough to get rid of our unwanted audience, at any rate.

“I think we have a lot to discuss,” Tim says politely. He turns to the nurse, and the two security guards that have manifested behind her, and frowns. “Is that completely necessary?”

“We weren’t sure if she meant harm,” one of the men mutters.

“Maybe if you’d taken the time to listen to her,” Tim replies icily. “If someone brings another chair for Ms. Amin, then I might not mention this to HR on my way out. There should be better protocols for this sort of thing, especially in a city like Gotham.”

The three staff members are quick to leave then.

Safiya gives him an unimpressed look. “'Might’? Is that how you run your hospital?”

“Technically it’s not my hospital, we just fund it. But I’ve already sent an email about it,” Tim replies, waving his phone.

“Can we get back to the important stuff?” Jason interjects. “Like how apparently Isabel went out of her way for me to not be involved, but somehow I’m still on the hook for an entire human being?”

As if to remind them that she’s there, the baby gives a piercing whine, her little face grimacing as she smacks her lips. Her eyes are still shut, but Tim’s not sure if that actually means she’s asleep or not.

All Safiya’s prickly demeanor vanishes, replaced with a look of such grief Tim finds himself losing any major doubt about her story.

You can’t fake a look like that.

The woman takes a step forward, and then pauses, glancing at Jason, before grudgingly asking, “Can I…?”

Jason’s eyes dart at Tim like he knows the checking up he’s been doing since Safiya showed up, and Tim nods. No actual threat here.

“Yeah, sure,” Jason says, and they watch her move over and pick up the infant with ease.

I wonder if it’s a woman thing, that they just inherently know how to do that.

Safiya holds the baby with care, and the anger fades from her again; tears well in her eyes now. “She is beautiful.”

Tim will take her word for it; all babies kind of look like wrinkled potatoes to him.

Safiya murmurs quietly to the infant, rocking her in her arms. No doubt she could stay here indefinitely doing that, but they don’t have time for that.

Jason appears to think the same, because he asks, “You were close to Isabel, then.”

“I’ve been friends with Isabel since she moved into the building,” Safiya agrees. “She is—was nice. One of the only people there that doesn’t look at me like I’m about to pull a bomb out of thin air.” She glowers at them as if expecting the same look from Tim or Jason, but when none comes, she continues, “We’re both used to keeping odd hours. Her flights come in at any time of day, and I’m a grad student at Gotham University.”

Tim half expects Safiya to keep hold of the baby as she sits, but something pained flickers across her face and she carefully places the infant back in the crib.

“I was there when she learned she was pregnant—or rather, when her boyfriend walked out because he figured out the child wasn’t his,” she says. “Once Isabel decided she was keeping the baby, I helped her out when I could. It’s a lot of work, getting ready for a baby.” She looks like she wants to glare at Jason again but holds back now that she knows it’s not his fault. “She only ever said you were a former passenger. And that she couldn’t take the stress that came with your lifestyle.” Safiya studies him as if that will give her a clue. “I assumed you were a mobster or something.”

This time it’s Tim who snorts.

That’s actually pretty close to the truth.

“And you still barged in here looking for a fight?” Jason asks.

“There aren’t many things left in life to scare me,” she dismisses, which is a bit puzzling. “I’ve been going with her to her birthing classes, and I drove her here when she went into labor. It happened so fast—she’d been having the false contractions for two days, but we thought that’s all it was. She wasn’t due for another two weeks.”

“Where were you when she…?” Tim trails off.

This time, Safiya does glare.

“I had to park the car. I dropped her off at the Emergency and they took her in a wheelchair. By the time I got back and found my way around this awful maze, she had already delivered. It was so fast…” She clenches her fists. “No one would tell me anything. I found a doctor, but he said there were…there were complications. That Isabel had passed.”

There’s a long beat of silence, grief evident on both Safiya’s face, as well as Jason’s.

“I asked after the baby,” Safiya says eventually. “I wanted to know if she was alright, and they said she was fine. In good health. I wanted to see her, and they said I wasn’t family. I could see her through the glass if I wanted, but that was it. And when I tried to see my friend, to say goodbye to her, they told me I had to wait. That the birth father had been contacted.”

Her eyes snap with anger again.

“Because apparently a man not even in her life has more rights to say what happens to my friend than I do. And every time I tried to speak to someone and explain the situation, they passed me off to someone else. They said someone would speak to me with information eventually, but that was hours ago. Apparently, there’s something about me that makes people nervous.”

Sarcasm drips from her words.

“That’s unacceptable,” Tim says. “I’ll look into it personally. If you can remember the names of the people who spoke to you, I can deal with it right away.”

She looks doubtful about this.

“How did you know we were in here?” Jason asks.

“I was watching her through the window, but then the nurse came and removed her. I heard them say the father was here, and so I followed. But then I saw you,” she concludes, indicating Tim, “and thought something wasn’t right. Why are you here?”

A question I’m still asking myself.

“I’m with him,” Tim replies, electing not to go into detail.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything to that.

“You said Isabel was preparing for this,” Jason says. “Was she…did she want to keep the baby?”

“The baby has a name, you know.”

And that’s news.

“Which is?” Jason prompts.

“Isabel decided on Luisa,” Safiya informs them. “After her mother.”

Tim recalls the name from his earlier perusal of Isabel’s file, and that at least makes sense.

“Luisa,” Jason repeats, staring down at the baby.

“Would you happen to have contact information for her relatives?” Tim asks.

“She has none. No brothers or sisters and her parents died when she was young.”

Which is the same story Jason gave him.

“Of course,” Tim sighs. “Well, at least there’s some good news, she’s not entirely alone if she has you, Ms. Amin.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, hope causing him to perk up. “I mean, if you’re here to ask to take her, we could—”

“Hold on a minute,” she interrupts, holding a hand up. “I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions. I’m not—I can’t take her.”

“Why not?” Jason blurts.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Tim asks at the same time.

“I’m here to ensure my friend and her daughter are taken care of properly,” Safiya says, aggrieved. “If I could, I would take her in a heartbeat. But I have health conditions which make caring for an infant…difficult.”

“Health conditions,” he repeats, realizing he only skimmed her records quickly. An oversight, it seems. No matter. “Whatever your situation is, I would be willing to pay for help.”

Jason’s nodding along.

Safiya gives them both an unimpressed look. “It’s not about throwing money at the problem, Mr. Wayne. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Huntington’s five years ago.”

Tim’s heart sinks.

“Life expectancy for that is about ten years,” he says faintly.

No wonder she’s not scared of a potential mobster; she’s living with a death sentence.

Safiya nods. “I’ve been lucky, so far. It has not been aggressive and most of the time I’m still able to function. I can still drive, for example, though based on my last assessment I won’t be able to for much longer. But there are days I’m so fatigued, I can’t muster the energy to get out of bed. It’s true—assuming the courts get over their phobia of letting a single woman of color adopt—that I could take care of her, as long as I had help. But in a few years, I won’t be able to. And then there will be a small girl having to bury another mother. I would not wish that on any child.”

Both Jason and Tim flinch at that; they both know what that’s like.

“I told Isabel I would help however I could on my good days,” Safiya continues. “But I can’t commit to anything more than temporary care.”

Damn. There goes that option.

“Do you know anyone in her circle of friends who might do it?”

“She mentioned some friends more than others. I can give you their names and find you their contact information, but to be honest, outside of our friendship, we didn’t move in the same circles. I only just met a few of them when she had her baby shower last month.”

“She had a baby shower,” Jason repeats, strained. “She really was planning for all of this.”

“Yes,” Safiya confirms and then grows sad. “She was not planning for death. I don’t think she even had funeral plans.” She hesitates. “I would like to make sure her body is treated properly, but the staff here…”

“I’ll make sure they don’t give you any more trouble,” Tim promises. “Out of anyone here, you probably know what she’d want more than we would.”

Safiya purses her lips like she’s holding back saying something, and then tilts her head to consider Jason. “What do you intend to do with Luisa?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air.

“That’s the question of the day,” he replies wearily.

Next Chapter

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Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

#jaytim #jaytim fanfiction #babyfic #accidental baby acquistion #enemies to lovers #tim drake #jason todd #baby!todd #original character #angst #drama

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all-hail-the-witcher · 6 years ago

Text

questionable government spies: chapter 12

well well well

here we meet again

its only been like huuuuuuu one two seven eleven months

jk 4 I think

anyway todayyy is the 1 year anniversary of this series that so many of you seem to enjoy for some reason

I would like to personally thank my physics teacher for not yelling at me for writing this every day last year in her class, twitch for keeping The Secret and especially fizz n mikey for doin the Encourage and also my sister for putting up with my planning sessions and editing my stuff

its gonna get Spicy kids

but not tonight ;)

HERE IS THE MASTERLIST or you can find it under #spy boys

_________

ship: blush, eventual spruce, the usual

words: 1979

warnings: lots of Bad sex jokes, alberts arm muscles, and black lace underwear

editing: yahhh

_________

quick recap: spot is working with al n race to take down The Gang. they just had their first Official Mission at a factory stealing fake snow and used oscars computer to email the person behind the gang. race has a sprained ankle and is very far gone for spot. Albert and Romeo work at medias coffee shop. blink and much are older than everyone by a few years and work as doctors at the fbi hospital.

________

Race pulled his blue scarf tighter around his neck as he hurried along 8th avenue. Curse Manhattan for being so cold and windy. He definitely hadn’t missed this part of living there.

Finally he stopped outside Medda’s coffee shop and dug around in his bag for the copy of Albert’s key that he had made. It was after 6 so Romeo and Albert were likely already beginning to clean up. Quietly, he unlocked the door and snuck inside.

There was whistling coming from the kitchen which Race immediately recognized as Albert and it was being accompanied by the most horrible off key singing that could only be coming from Romeo. Race smiled as he discarded his dance bag and scarf near the door, pulling his black trench coat around himself tightly as he inched in the direction of the kitchen.

He peeped around the corner and was greeted by the sight of Romeo pretending to be Cinderella as Albert acted out Prince Charming - or, at least that’s what it looked like to him - and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He backed up several feet to get a running start and launched himself into the kitchen, thrusting out his arms so his trench coat looked like wings and screamed menacingly before landing in a heap on the floor.

Romeo let out a yelp of surprise and there was the sound of a gun clicking.

“FBI. State your name, and get up slowly with your hands in front of you,” Albert spoke in a well-practiced tone.

Race dramatically flipped up off the floor. “GOTCHA!!” he screamed triumphantly, jumping in circles around his friends.

“Race?” Albert said disbelievingly, withdrawing his gun and putting it back in the holster. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in here? And why can’t you knock like a normal person?”

“I just wanted to see if you still remember the procedure for a 995,” Race smirked as he brushed himself off.

“A 995 is a self reported kidnapping,” Albert sighed. “Sudden entrance of a possible dangerous person is a 741.”

“Same thing,” Race said as he shrugged off his coat.

“It’s not the same thing!” Albert groaned. “They are two very different procedures which you would know if you stuck to- wait a second. Are you wearing dance clothes?”

Race looked down at himself as if noticing his clothes for the first times and Romeo stifled a laugh. “Oh, would you look at that,” he mused, “it would appear that I am.”

“Race,” Albert said, closing his eyes and pinching his nose. “You’ve got a sprained ankle, you shouldn’t be dancing. I told you not to dance today!”

“And I didn’t listen!” Race sang dramatically, doing 5 pirouettes for emphasis. “Really though, I’m fine. I’ll ice it when I get home. But I wasn’t about to pass up having a closing-up-shop dance party with Romeo again.”

“Oh!” Romeo said excitedly, jumping up and down and clapping his hands. “Can we?!”

“Why else am I here, broski?” Race winked, completely missing Albert’s look of complete and utter disapproval in the background.

“To annoy the hell out of us?”

Race considered. “Well, yes that too, but mostly to have a dance party,” he smirked. “Let’s just get out of the kitchen before Medda appears out of thin air and slaps me for being in here.”

“Oh shit, you right, you right,” Romeo said, chasing Race out of the kitchen with a spatula. Albert followed them out a few minutes later, shaking his head and smirking.

“Aright.” Race hopped up on the counter and opened his phone to Spotify, pulling up his and Romeo’s “Trash Pop Playlist” as Albert had so lovingly named it. “Let’s get this party started.”

“Aren’t you going to help us clean?” Albert called from the table he was wiping off.

“Nah man,” Race said, jumping off the counter as Party In The USA began blaring through the shitty bluetooth speaker. “I’m not an employee so therefore it’s not my job. Suck it.”

“Suck it?” Albert asked, his face screwing up in confusion. “What is there to suck?”

“DEEZ NUTS!” Race screamed, launching himself across the room in a single bound and tackling Albert to the floor, effectively using his elbow to pin him down as he stared deeply into his eyes. “You want some?”

Albert blushed furiously as his eyes looked everywhere but at Race. “Um, no….?”

“You sure babe?” Race winked, drawing out his words for extra emphasis. “Nobody can keep their hands off of this bod.”

Albert squirmed under Race’s hold. “I’m ace?”

Race rolled his eyes and crawled off of his friend, reaching down to help Albert up. “Ah yes, you have discovered the one loophole to my apparent charm.” He peeked over Albert’s shoulder and smirked. “Still got a nice ass though, babe.”

Albert slapped him lightly on the shoulder before returning to wiping the tables.

“Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?” Romeo asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up and sing your Miley Cyrus crap,” Albert mumbled as he shot Romeo a look from across the room.

“ITS NOT CRAP!” Race and Romeo screamed at the same time.

Luckily for Albert though, the song changed before he could argue more.

Unluckily for Albert, the next song to play was Power by Justin Bieber.

Extra unluckily for Albert, Race and Romeo had an extremely shitty hip hop dance that went along with this song.

And most unluckily for Albert, the two of them had just jumped up on top of one of the - freshly clean, mind you - tables and begun to perform the nightmare choreography.

Race watched with a smirk as Albert rolled his eyes when he and Romeo reached the chorus. Just to annoy him, he kicked his leg extra hard so that his shoe flew off his foot and landed on the table Albert was cleaning.

“HEY!” Albert yelled, whirling around, his face hot with anger, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips like he was fighting the urge not to laugh. The very look on his face caused Race and Romeo to stare at eachother and double over laughing. “Keep your shoes on you dumbass.”

Against his better judgement, Race jumped down from the table and strode up to Albert, flexing as he could without laughing - which wasn't very hard. “What did you call me bro?” He asked in his best tough guy voice, sticking his chin up for good measure.

“You heard me,” Albert countered, also flexing, although his arm muscles were much more impressive than Race’s - curse his love for benching. “No shoes, no shirt, no service.”

Race flicked his eyes over to where Romeo was still standing on the table. He had pulled out his phone and was definitely recording. Race bit his lip, knowing that this next trick he was about to pull would be forever documented on snapchat and played on an endless repeat until the day he died. Oh well.

“Really now?” And with one aggressive yank he pulled his shirt over his head, causing it to rip a little, which he honestly wasn't even mad about, it just added to the overall effect. “Cause I’ve now got no shirt, no shoes, and I’d still get service.”

“You technically have one shoe still on,” Albert pointed out rather unhelpfully and Romeo scoffed behind the camera.

“Well then, if you're going to be so painfully literal,” Race turned around and did a glorious hitch kick, effectively wailing his other shoe off of his foot and behind the counter somewhere, ignoring the small crash that came with it. “There. No shirt. No shoes. And I’d still get service.”

“You're just quoting that Pitbull song,” Romeo whispered from his spot on the table.

Race flipped him off without taking his eyes off of Albert.

“That’s all you got?” Albert scoffed. Before Race could blink Albert’s shirt was on the floor and he was being thrown back and pinned on one of the table tops. “How’s that for service?” he winked.

“Is that all you got?” Race imitated Albert’s voice from earlier and raised his eyebrows.

Albert opened his mouth as soon as the door banged open and Mush’s booming voice filled their ears.

“Hello kiddos! The voices of reason have arrived and-” out of the corner of his eye Race could see Mush’s eyes flick over to where Albert had him pinned against the table. “-not a moment too soon apparently. Please, for the love of god, what the hell are you two doing? Are we shooting for the cover of Playboy and nobody told me? I would have brought my black lace underwear!”

“Hi Mush,” Romeo waved, still perched on the table.

“You have black lace underwear?” Blink asked, coming in the door behind Mush and shaking out his long dark hair like a dog would, effectively splattering snow and water all over his boyfriend. “Why haven’t I seen it yet?”

“Cause I’m saving it for after the wedding that's why,” Mush said, sticking his tongue out at Blink who rolled his eyes in annoyance as he pulled off his coat.

“YOU'RE ENGAGED?!” Race screeched, pushing Albert off of him as he ran forward to Blink and Mush, not caring that he was still shirtless and shoeless. “Who has the ring? Who proposed? When’s the wedding? Can I be the flower girl, I’ve always wanted to be a flower girl!”

“Whoa! Hold on bean stick!” Mush laughed. “Of course you can be our flower girl, first of all. I was going to ask you today actually.”

“He was,” Blink confirmed, putting his arm around Mush’s waist protectively as Albert and Romeo walked over. “And I proposed to him on our anniversary last month at the diner where we had our first date.”

“Awwwwww,” Race sighed and he saw Albert crack a smile.

“I cried,” Mush volunteered.

“Yes you did baby,” Blink said affectionately, leaning in to kiss his fiancee.

“Ew,” Albert groaned. “Take your pda elsewhere, some of us are trying to have a nice time here.”

“You're literally shirtless,” Blink pointed out and Albert looked down at his chest as if noticing it for the first time.

“Oh. Well…”

“Why don't you tell them what you were up to, hm?” Romeo raised his eyebrows.

“I was teaching Race a lesson in how to properly receive restaurant service,” Albert said confidently.

Blink looked confused at best and Mush looked intrigued. Romeo laughed and Race shook his head, suddenly remembering that he didn't have a shirt on either. Or shoes…

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Albert said. “I have to go get my shirt.”

“Hurry back,” Mush called. “I want to hear all about your field agent adventures. I feel like I haven’t seen you guys since I lectured you on the detriments of blowing up the weapons lab.”

•••

Albert had just finished recounting the time where they had accidentally released 100 five dollar bills into circulation when there was a knock on the window. Race looked up, surprised to see Spot standing on the other side, dressed haphazardly in adidas pants and a tank top despite the cold weather, a wild look in his eyes. He could almost ignore the butterflies swirling in his stomach as he noticed how toned Spot’s arms were. Almost.

Across the table, Albert made eye contact and the two of them rose while Romeo quietly explained to Blink and Mush what was going on.

Albert unlocked the door silently and Spot was on top of them in a second. Before Race or Albert could even get a word out, he was blurting out the reason for his unexpected visit.

“Thank god you guys are here,” he huffed, almost as if he had run there. “We got a response to our email.”

________

ooo a cliff hanger we Stan

DONT YOU GUYS LOVE BLUSH I DO THEYRE GREAT

also my sister said I used the word smirked too many times but I was too lazy to fix it

what do we think is gonna happen next yall

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the taglist

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#spy boys #saphie scribbles #ralbert #spruce #blush #sprace #lkasdgfjkhgsf #I lov this series guys

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